xercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial; Ife, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the fetial founding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Loofe were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O music! sphere-descended maid, Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid, Why, Goddefs, why to us denied? Lay't thou thy ancient lyre aside? As in that lov'd Athenian bower, You learn'd an all-commanding power: Thy mimic foul, O Nymph endear'd, Can well recall what then it heard. Where is thy native simple heart, Devote to virtue, fancy, art? Arise, as in that elder time, Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! Thy wonders, in that god-like age, Fill thy recording sifter's page— 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail, Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age; Ev'n all at once together found Cæcilia's mingled world of sound— O! bid our vain endeavours cease, Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state! Confirm the tales her sons relate.

We shall conclude this section, and these examples, with Gray's Progress of Poetry, which, in spite of the severity of Johnson's criticism, certainly ranks high among the odes which pretend to sublimity. The first stanza, when examined by the frigid rules of grammatical criticism, is certainly not faultless; but its faults will be overlooked by every reader who has any portion of the author's favour:

I. 1.

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take; The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

Thro' Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep again, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks and nodding groves rebeelow to the roar.

Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the fullest cares, And frantic passions, hear thy soft controul. On Thracia's hills the lord of war Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of flumber lie The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay: O'er Idalia's velvet green The rosy-crowned loves are seen. On Cytherea's day, With antic sports, and blue-ey'd pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now purling, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet; To brisk notes, in cadence beating, Glance their many twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their queen's approach declare; Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young desire, and purple light of love.

Man's feeble race what ills await? Labour, and penury, the racks of pain, Disease, and sorrow's weeping train, And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of love. Say, has he given in vain the heav'nly muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky; Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.

In climes beyond the solar road, Where flaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom, To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddefs roves, Glory pursues, and generous flame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown the Ægean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus leaves, Or where Maeander's amber waves In ling'ring lab'thins creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish Mute, but to the voice of anguish! Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breath'd around; Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant power, And coward vice that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They fought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

Far from the sun, and summer-gale, In thy green lap was nature's * darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd. This pencil take (the said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine o'er thee golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

Nor second he †, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Clos'd his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's lefs presumptuous ear, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-refounding pace.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-ey'd fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more— Oh! Lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air: Yet off before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.

Sect. III. Of the Elegy.

The Elegy is a mournful and plaintive, but yet sweet and engaging kind of poem. It was first invented to bewail Part II.

Elegy—bewail the death of a friend; and afterwards used to express the complaints of lovers, or any other melancholy subject. In process of time, not only matters of grief, but joy, wishes, prayers, expostulations, reproaches, admonitions, and almost every other subject, were admitted into elegy; however, funeral lamentations and affairs of love seem most agreeable to its character, which is gentleness and tenderness.

The plaintive elegy, in mournful state, Dithnevel'd weeps the stern decrees of fate: Now paints the lover's torments and delights; Now the nymph flatters, threatens, or invites. But he, who would these passions well express, Must more of love than poetry possess. I hate those lifeless writers whole fore'd fire In a cold style describes a hot desire; Who sigh by rule, and, raging in cold blood, Their flaggish muse spur to an am'rous mood. Their ecstasies intrepidly they feign; And always pine, and fondly hug their chain; Adore their prison, and their fullnings blest; Make sense and reason quarrel as they please. 'Twas not of old in this affected tone, That smooth Tibullus made his am'rous moan; Or tender Ovid, in melodious strains, Of love's dear art the pleasing rules explains. You, who in elegy would justly write, Consult your heart; let that alone entitle.

[From the French of Delpreux.]

Soames.

The plan of an elegy, as indeed of all other poems, ought to be made before a line is written; or else the author will ramble in the dark, and his verses have no dependence on each other. No epigrammatic points or conceits, none of those fine things which most people are so fond of in every sort of poem, can be allowed in this, but must give place to nobler beauties, those of nature and the passion. Elegy rejects whatever is facetious, satirical, or majestic, and is content to be plain, decent, and unaffected; yet in this humble state is the sweetest and engaging, elegant and attractive. This poem is adorned with frequent commendations, complaints, exclamations, addresses to things or persons, short and proper digressions, allusions, comparisons, propositors or feigned persons, and sometimes with short descriptions. The diction ought to be free from any harshness; neat, easy, perspicuous, expressive of the manners, tender, and pathetic; and the numbers should be smooth and flowing, and captivate the ear with their uniform sweetness and delicacy.

Of elegies on the subject of death, that by Mr Gray, written in a country churchyard, is one of the best that has appeared in our language, and may be justly esteemed a masterpiece. But being so generally known, it would be superfluous to insert it here.

On the subject of love, we shall give an example from the elegies of Mr Hammond.

Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, And view their fields with waving plenty crown'd, Whom neigh'ring foes in constant terror hold, And trumpets break their flumbers, never found: While, calmly poor, I trifle life away, Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, But cheaply blest I'll scorn each vain desire.

Vol. XVII. Part I.

With timely care I'll sow my little field, And plant my orchard with its master's hand; Nor blush to spread the lay, the hook to wield, Or range my fleaves along the sunny land. If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, I meet a strolling kid or bleating lamb, Under my arm I'll bring the wand'rer home, And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, And clap a fearful mitre to my breast? Or lull'd to slumber by the beating rain, Secure and happy sink at last to rest. Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride, By shady rivers indolently stray, And, with my Delia walking side by side, Hear how they murmur, as they glide away. What joy to wind along the cool retreat, To stop and gaze on Delia as I go! To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, And teach my lovely scholar all I know! Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream, In silent happiness I rest unknown; Content with what I am, not what I seem, I live for Delia and myself alone. Ah foolish man! who, thus of her polish'd, Could float and wander with ambition's wind, And, if his outward trappings spoke him blest, Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind. With her I scorn the idle breath of praise, Nor trust to happiness that's not our own; The smile of fortune might suspicion raise, But here I know that I am lov'd alone.

Stanhope, in wisdom as in wit divine, May rise and plead Britannia's glorious cause, With steady rein his eager wit confine, While manly sense the deep attention draws. Let Stanhope speak his lilting country's wrong, My humble voice shall please one partial maid; For her alone I pen my tender song, Securely fitting in his friendly shade.

Stanhope shall come, and grace his rural friend; Delia shall wonder at her noble guest, With blushing awe the riper fruit commend, And for her husband's patron call the best. Her's be the care of all my little train, While I with tender indolence am blest, The favourite subject of her gentle reign, By love alone distinguished from the rest. For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough, In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock, For her a goatherd climb the mountain's brow, And sleep extended on the naked rock. Ah! what avails to press the stately bed, And far from her midst tattle's grandeur weep, By marble-fountains lay the pensive head, And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep!

Delia alone can please and never tire, Exceed the pain of thought in true delight; With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, And equal rapture glows thro' ev'ry night, Beauty and worth in her alike contend To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd. On her I'll gaze when others are loves o'er, And dying press her with my clay-cold hand— Thou weep't already, as I were no more, Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand. Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare, Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill: Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair; Tho' I am dead, my soul shall love thee still. Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed, Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart! Oh leave me, Delia! ere thou see me dead, These weeping friends will do thy mournful part. Let them, extended on the decent bier, Convey the corpse in melancholy state, Thro' all the village spread the tender tear, While pitying maids our wondrous love relate.

Sect. IV. Of the Pastoral.

This poem takes its name from the Latin word pastor, a "shepherd;" the subject of it being something in the pastoral or rural life; and the persons, interlocutors, introduced in it, either shepherds or other rustic.

These poems are frequently called eclogues, which signifies "selected or choice pieces;" though some account for this name in a different manner. They are also called bucolicks, from βοοκλικός, "a herdman."

This kind of poem, when happily executed, gives great delight; nor is it a wonder, since innocence and simplicity generally please: to which let us add, that the scenes of pastorals are usually laid in the country, where both poet and painter have abundant matter for the exercise of genius, such as enchanting prospects, purling streams, shady groves, enamelled meads, flowery lawns, rural amusements, the bleating of flocks, and the music of birds; which is of all melody the most sweet and pleasing, and calls to our mind the wisdom and taste of Alexander, who, on being importuned to hear a man that imitated the notes of the nightingale, and was thought a great curiosity, replied, that he had had the happiness of hearing the nightingale herself.

The character of the pastoral consists in simplicity, brevity, and delicacy; the two first render an eclogue natural, and the last delightful. With respect to nature, indeed, we are to consider, that as a pastoral is an image of the ancient times of innocence and undefining plains, we are not to describe shepherds as they really are at this day, but as they may be conceived then to have been, when the best of men, and even princes, followed the employment. For this reason, an air of piety should run through the whole poem; which is visible in the writings of antiquity.

To make it natural with respect to the present age, some knowledge in rural affairs should be discovered, and that in such a manner as if it was done by chance rather than by design; lest by too much pains to seem natural, that simplicity be destroyed from whence arises the delight; for what is so engaging in this kind of poetry proceeds not so much from the idea of a country life itself, as in exposing only the best part of a shepherd's life, and concealing the misfortunes and miseries which sometimes attend it. Besides, the subject must contain some particular beauty in itself, and each eclogue present a scene or prospect to our view enriched with variety:

which variety is in a great measure obtained by frequent comparisons drawn from the most agreeable objects of the country; by interrogations to things inanimate; by florid and beautiful digressions; and by elegant turns on the words, which render the numbers more sweet and pleasing. To this let us add, that the connections must be negligent, the narrations and descriptions short, and the periods concise.

Riddles, parables, proverbs, antique phrases, and superstitious fables, are fit materials to be intermixed with this kind of poem. They are here, when properly applied, very ornamental; and the more so, as they give our modern compositions the air of the ancient manner of writing.

The style of the pastoral ought to be humble, yet stately, pure; neat, but not florid; easy, and yet lively: and the numbers should be smooth and flowing.

This poem in general should be short, and ought never much to exceed 100 lines; for we are to consider that the ancients made these sort of compositions their amusement, and not their business: but however short they are, every eclogue must contain a plot or fable, which must be simple and one; but yet so managed as to admit of short digressions. Virgil has always observed this.—We shall give the plot or argument of his first pastoral as an example. Meliboeus, an unfortunate shepherd, is introduced with Tityrus, one in more fortunate circumstances; the former addresses the complaint of his sufferings and banishment to the latter, who enjoys his flocks and fields in the midst of the public calamity, and therefore expresses his gratitude to the benefactor from whom this favour flowed: but Meliboeus accuses fortune, civil wars, and bids adieu to his native country. This is therefore a dialogue.

But we are to observe, that the poet is not always obliged to make his eclogue allegorical, and to have real persons represented by the fictitious characters introduced; but is in this respect entirely at his own liberty.

Nor does the nature of the poem require it to be always carried on by way of dialogue; for a shepherd may with propriety sing the praises of his love, complain of her inconstancy, lament her absence, her death, &c. and address himself to groves, hills, rivers, and such like rural objects, even when alone.

We shall now give an example from each of those authors who have eminently distinguished themselves by this manner of writing, and introduce them in the order of time in which they were written.

Theocritus, who was the father or inventor of this kind of poetry, has been deservedly esteemed by the best critics; and by some, whose judgment we cannot dispute, preferred to all other pastoral writers, with perhaps the single exception of the tender and delicate Geffner. We shall insert his third idyllium, not because it is the best, but because it is within our compass.

To Amaryllis, lovely nymph, I speed, Meanwhile my goats upon the mountains feed. O Tityrus, tend them with affiduous care, Lead them to crystal springs and pastures fair, And of the ridgling's butting horns beware. Sweet Amaryllis, have you then forgot Our secret pleasures in the conscious grot, Part II.

POETRY.

Pastoral. Where in my folding arms you lay reclin'd? Bleft was the shepherd, for the nymph was kind. I whom you call'd your Dear, your Love, so late, Say, am I now the object of your hate? Say, is my form displeasing to your sight? This cruel love will surely kill me quite. Lo! ten large apples, tempting to the view, Pluck'd from your favourite tree, where late they grew. Accept this boon, 'tis all my present store; To-morrow will produce as many more. Meanwhile these heart-confusing pains remove, And give me gentle pity for my love. Oh! was I made by some transforming power A bee to buzz in your sequester'd bow'r! To pierce your ivy shade with murmuring sound, And the light leaves that compass you around. I know thee, Love, and to my sorrow find, A god thou art, but of the savage kind; A lion's sire fuckled the fell child, And with his brothers nurst him in the wild; On me his scorching flames incessant prey, Glow in my bones, and melt my soul away. Ah, nymph, whose eyes destructive glances dart, Fair is your face, but flinty is your heart: With kisses kind this rage of love appease; For me, fond swain! ev'n empty kisses please. Your scorn distracts me, and will make me tear The flow'ry crown I wore for you to wear, Where roses mingle with the ivy-wreath, And fragrant herbs ambrosial odours breathe. Ah me! what pangs I feel; and yet the fair Nor less my sorrows nor will hear my pray'r. I'll doff my garments, since I needs must die, And from you rock that points its summit high, Where patient Alpis snares the finny fry. I'll leap, and, though perchance I rise again, You'll laugh to see me plunging in the main. By a prophetic poppy-leaf I found Your chang'd affection, for it gave no found, Though in my hand struck hollow as it lay, But quickly wither'd like your love away. An old witch brought sad tidings to my ears, She who tells fortunes with the sieve and sheers For leaping barley in my fields of late, She told me, I should love, and you should hate! For you my care a milk-white goat supply'd. Two wanton kids run frisking at her side; Which oft the nut-brown maid, Erithacus, Has begg'd and paid before-hand with a kiss; And since you thus my ardent passion flight, Her's they shall be before to-morrow night. My right eye itches; may it lucky prove, Perhaps I soon shall see the nymph I love; Beneath you pine I'll sing distinct and clear, Perhaps the fair my tender notes shall hear; Perhaps may pity my melodious moan; She is not metamorphos'd into stone. Hippomenes, provok'd by noble strife, To win a mistress, or to lose his life, Threw golden fruit in Atalanta's way: The bright temptation caus'd the nymph to stay; She look'd, the languish'd, all her soul took fire, She plung'd into the gulf of deep desire. To Pyle from Othrys sage Melampus came, He drove the lowing herd, yet won the dame; Fair Pero blest his brother Bias' arms, And in a virtuous race diffus'd unfading charms. Adonis fed his cattle on the plain, And sea-born Venus lov'd the rural swain; She mourn'd him wounded in the fatal chase, Nor dead disunited him from her warm embrace. Though young Endymion was by Cynthia blest, I envy nothing but his lasting rest. Jasion flamb'ring on the Cretan plain