ith a kind of grandeur; and he breaks the clods, and tosses about the dung, with an air of gracefulness. Of the different ways of conveying the same truth to the mind, he takes that which is pleasantest; and this chief- ly distinguishes poetry from prose, and renders Virgil's rules of husbandry more delightful and valuable than any other.
These poems, which are esteemed the most perfect of the author's works, are, perhaps, the best that can be propofed for the young student's imitation in this man- ner of writing; for the whole of his Georgics is wrought up with wonderful art, and decorated with all the flowers of poetry.
IV. Of those poems which give precepts for the re- creations and pleasures of a country life, we have seve- ral in our own language that are justly admired. As the most considerable of those diversions, however, are finely treated by Mr Gay in his Rural Sports, we parti- cularly refer to that poem.
We should here treat of those preceptive poems that teach the art of poetry itself, of which there are many that deserve particular attention; but we have antici- pated our design, and rendered any farther notice of them in a manner useless, by the observations we have made in the course of this treatise. We ought how- ever to remark, that Horace was the only poet among the ancients who wrote precepts for poetry in verse; at least his epistle to the Pisos is the only piece of the kind that has been handed down to us; and that is so perfect, it seems almost to have precluded the necessity of any other. Among the moderns we have several that are justly admired; as Boileau, Pope, &c.
Poets who write in the preceptive manner should take care to choose such subjects as are worthy of their muse, and of consequence to all mankind; for to bestow both parts and pains to teach people trifles that are un- worthy of their attention, is to the last degree ridicu- lous.
Among poems of the useful and interesting kind, Dr Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health deserves particu- lar recommendation, as well in consideration of the subject, as of the elegant and masterly manner in which he has treated it; for he has made those things, which are in their own nature dry and unentertaining, perfect- ly agreeable and pleasing, by adhering to the rules ob- served by Virgil and others, in the conduct of these poems.
With regard to the style or drefs of these poems, its proper it should be so rich as to hide the nakedness of the style. subject, and the barrenness of the precepts should be lost in the lustre of the language. "It ought to a- bound in the most bold and forcible metaphors, the most glowing and picturesque epithets; it ought to be elevated and enlivened by pomp of numbers and ma- jesty of words, and by every figure that can lift a lan- guage above the vulgar and current expressions." One may add, that in no kind of poetry (not even in the sublime ode) is beauty of expression so much to be re- garded as in this. For the epic writer should be very cautious of indulging himself in too florid a manner of expression, Didactic expression, especially in the dramatic parts of his fable, where he introduces dialogue: and the writer of tragedy cannot fall into so nauseous and unnatural an affectation, as to put laboured descriptions, pompous epithets, studied phrases, and high-flown metaphors, into the mouths of his characters. But as the didactic poet speaks in his own person, it is necessary and proper for him to use a brighter colouring of style, and to be more studious of ornament. And this is agreeable to an admirable precept of Aristotle, which no writer should ever forget,—“That diction ought most to be laboured in the inactive, that is, the descriptive, parts of a poem, in which the opinions, manners, and passions of men are not represented; for too glaring an expression obscures the manners and the sentiments.”
We have already observed that anything in nature may be the subject of this poem. Some things however will appear to more advantage than others, as they give a greater latitude to genius, and admit of more poetical ornaments. Natural history and philosophy are copious subjects. Precepts in these might be decorated with all the flowers in poetry; and, as Dr Trapp observes, how can poetry be better employed, or more agreeably to its nature and dignity, than in celebrating the works of the great Creator, and describing the nature and generation of animals, vegetables, and minerals; the revolutions of the heavenly bodies; the motions of the earth; the flux and reflux of the sea; the cause of thunder, lightning, and other meteors; the attraction of the magnet; the gravitation, cohesion, and repulsion of matter; the impulsive motion of light; the slow progression of sounds; and other amazing phenomena of nature? Most of the arts and sciences are also proper subjects for this poem; and none are more so than its two sister arts, painting and music. In the former, particularly, there is room for the most entertaining precepts concerning the disposal of colours; the arrangement of lights and shades; the secret attractives of beauty; the various ideas which make up the one; the distinguishing between the attitudes proper to either sex, and every passion; the representing prospects of buildings, battles, or the country; and lastly, concerning the nature of imitation, and the power of painting. What a boundless field of invention is here? What room for description, comparison, and poetical fable? How easy the transition, at any time, from the draught to the original, from the shadow to the substance? and from hence, what noble excursions may be made into history, into panegyric upon the greatest beauties or heroes of the past or present age?
Sect. VI. Of the Epistle.
This species of writing, if we are permitted to lay down rules from the examples of our best poets, admits of great latitude, and solicits ornament and decoration; yet the poet is still to consider, that the true character of the epistle is ease and elegance; nothing therefore should be forced or unnatural, laboured, or affected, but every part of the composition should breathe an easy, polite, and unconstrained freedom.
It is suitable to every subject; for as the epistle takes place of discourse, and is intended as a sort of distant conversation, all the affairs of life and researches into nature may be introduced. Those, however, which are fraught with compliment or condolence, that contain a description of places, or are full of pertinent remarks, and in a familiar and humorous way describe the manners, vices, and follies of mankind, are the best; because they are most suitable to the true character of epistolary writing, and (but fines set apart) are the usual subjects upon which our letters are employed.
All farther rules and directions are unnecessary; for this kind of writing is better learned by example and practice than by precept. We shall, therefore, in conformity to our plan, select a few epistles for the reader’s imitation; which, as this method of writing has of late much prevailed, may be best taken, perhaps, from our modern poets.
The following letter from Mr Addison to Lord Halifax, contains an elegant description of the curiosities and places about Rome, together with such reflections on the ineffable blessings of liberty as must give pleasure to every Briton, especially when he sees them thus placed in direct opposition to the baneful influence of slavery and oppression, which are ever to be seen among the miserable inhabitants of those countries.
While you, my lord, the rural shades admire, And from Britannia’s public polls retire, Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please; For their advantage sacrifice your ease; Me into foreign realms fruitful of immortal lays, Where the soft season and inviting clime Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme. For wherefo’er I turn my ravish’d eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise, Poetic fields encompass me around, And still I seem to tread on classic ground; For here the muse so oft her harp has strung, That not a mountain rears its head unsung, Renown’d in verse each shady thicket grows, And ev’ry stream in heav’nly numbers flows. How am I pleas’d to search the hills and woods For rising springs and celebrated floods; To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course, And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source; To see the Mincia draw its wat’ry store Through the long windings of a fruitful shore, And hoary Albula’s infected tide O’er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide! Fir’d with a thousand raptures, I survey Eridanus thro’ flow’ry meadows stray, The king of floods! that, rolling o’er the plains, The towering Alps of half their moisture drains, And, proudly swoln with a whole winter’s snows, Diffuses wealth and plenty where he flows. Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng, I look for streams immortaliz’d in song, That lost in silence and oblivion lie, (Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry) Yet run for ever by the muse’s skill, And in the smooth description murmur still. Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire, And the fam’d river’s empty shores admire, That, destitute of strength, derives its course From thirsty urns, and an unfruitful source;
Epistle
Examples in epistolary poetry from Addison. Yet hung so often in poetic lays, With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys; So high the deathless muse exalts her theme! Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream, That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd, And unobserv'd in wild meanders play'd; Till, by your lines, and Naflau's word renown'd, Its rising billows through the world resound, Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce, Or where the fame of an immortal verse.
Oh cou'd the muse my ravish'd breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine, And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!
See how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coasts of Britain's stormy ille, Or when transplanted and preserv'd with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtles bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baiae's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seas lavish all their pride: Blooms, and fruits, and flow'rs together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies.
Immortal glories in my mind revive, And in my soul a thousand passions strive, When Rome's exalted beauties I decry Magnificent in piles of ruin lie. An amphitheatre's amazing height Here fills my eye with terror and delight, That on its public shows unpeopled Rome, And held uncrowded nations in its womb: Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies; And here the proud triumphal arches rise, Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd, Their base degenerate progeny upbraid: Whole rivers here forfake the fields below, And wond'ring at their height thro' airy channels flow.
Still to new scenes my wand'ring muse retires; And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires; Where the smooth chisel all its force has thrown, And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone. In solemn silence, a majestic band, Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand, Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown, And emperors in Parian marble frown: While the bright dames, to whom they humbly su'd, Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdue'd.
Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse, And show th' immortal labours in my verse, Where from the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with life his blended colours glow. From theme to theme with secret pleasure tost, Amidst the soft variety I'm loft.
Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound With circling notes and labyrinths of sound; Here domes and temples rise in distant views, And opening palaces invite my muse.
How has kind heav'n adorn'd the happy land, And scatter'd blessings with a wafeful hand! But what avail her unexhausted flores, Her blooming mountains, and her sunny flores, With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart, The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains? The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The red'ning orange and the swelling grain: Joyful he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines: Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst, And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst.
O liberty, thou godlike heav'nly bright, Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight! Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train; Eas'd of her load, subjection grows more light, And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.
Thee, godlike thee, Britannia's ille adores; How has she oft exhaust'd all her flores, How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountain may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant foil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine, Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine: 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's ille, And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile.
Others with towering piles may plead the fight, And in their proud aspiring domes delight; A nicer touch to the stretch'd'd canvas give, Or teach their animated rocks to live: 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, And hold in balance each contending state, To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war, And answer her afflicted neighbour's pray'r. The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms, Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms: Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease, And all the northern world lies hush'd in peace.
Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head, And fain her godlike sons would disunite By foreign gold, or by domestic spite; But strives in vain to conquer or divide, Whom Naflau's arms defend and counsell's guide.
Fir'd with the name, which I so oft have found The distant climes and distant tongues resound, I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, That longs to launch into a bolder strain. But I've already troubled you too long, Nor dare attempt a more advent'rous song: My humble verse demands a softer theme, A painted meadow, or a purling stream; Unfit for heroes; whom immortal lays, And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, should praise. There is a fine spirit of freedom, and love of liberty, displayed in the following letter from Lord Lyttleton to Mr Pope; and the message from the shade of Virgil, which is truly poetical, and justly preceptive, may prove an useful lesson to future bards.
From Rome, 1730.
Immortal bard! for whom each muse has wove The fairest garlands of the Aonian grove; Preferr'd, our drooping genius to restore, When Addison and Congreve are no more; After so many stars extinct in night, The darken'd age's last remaining light! To thee from Latin realms this verse is writ, Inspir'd by memory of ancient wit: For now no more these climes their influence boast, Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost; From tyrants, and from priests, the muses fly, Daughters of reason and of liberty.
Nor Baiae now nor Umbria's plains they love, Nor on the banks of Nar or Mincia rove; To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire, And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire. So in the shades, where cheer'd with summer rays Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays, Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain Of gloomy winter's inauspicious reign, No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love, But mournful silence saddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state Has felt the worst severity of fate: Not that barbarian hands her fauces broke, And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke; Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown, Her cities desert, and her fields unown; But that her ancient spirits is decay'd, That sacred wisdom from her bounds is fled, That there the source of science flows no more, Whence its rich streams supply'd the world before.
Illustrious names! that once in Latium shined, Born to instruct and to command mankind; Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was rais'd, And poets, who those chiefs sublimely prais'd! Oft I the traces you have left explore, Your ashes visit, and your urns adore; Oft kifs, with lips devout, some mould'ring stone, With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown; Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see, Than all the pomp of modern luxury.
As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strow'd, While with th' inspiring muse my bosom glowed, Crown'd with eternal bays, my ravish'd eyes Beheld the poet's awful form arise: Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid These grateful rites to my attentive shade, When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air, To Pope this message from his master bear.
Great bard, whose numbers I myself inspir'd, To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre, If high exalted on the throne of wit, Near me and Homer thou aspire to fit, No more let meaner satire dim the rays That flow majestic from thy noble bays. In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray: But than that thorny, that unpleasing way;
Nor, when each soft engaging muse is thine, Addresses the least attractive of the nine. Of thee more worthy were the talk to raise A lasting column to thy country's praise, To sing the land, which yet alone can boast That liberty corrupted Rome has loit; Where science in the arms of peace is laid, And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade. Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung, Such was the people whose exploits I sung; Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd, With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd, Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway, But pleas'd a mild Augustus to obey. If these commands submissive thou receive, Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live; Envy to black Cocytus shall retire, And howl with furies in tormenting fire; Approving time shall consecrate thy lays, And join the patriot's to the poet's praise.
The following letter from Mr Philips to the earl of Dorset is entirely descriptive; but is one of those descriptions which will be ever read with delight.