AN EPISTLE,

78AN EPISTLE,ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS EDITION OF SHAKESPEARE’S WORKS.

Sir,While, own’d by you, with smiles the Muse surveysThe expected triumph of her sweetest lays:While, stretch’d at ease, she boasts your guardian aid,Secure, and happy in her sylvan shade:Excuse her fears, who scarce a verse bestows,In just remembrance of the debt she owes;With conscious, &c.While, born to bring the Muse’s happier daysA patriot’s hand protects a poet’s lays,While nursed by you she sees her myrtles bloom,Green and unwither’d o’er his honour’d tomb;Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell5What secret transports in her bosom swell:With conscious awe she hears the critic’s fame,And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare’s name.Long slighted Fancy with a mother’s careWept o’er his works, and felt the last despair:Torn from her head, she saw the roses fall,By all deserted, though admired by all:Hard was the lot those injured strains endured,Unown’d by Science, and by years obscured:1079And “Oh!” she cried, “shall Science still resignWhate’er is Nature’s, and whate’er is mine?Shall Taste and Art but show a cold regard,And scornful Pride reject the unletter’d bard?Ye myrtled nymphs, who own my gentle reign,Tune the sweet lyre, and grace my airy train,If, where ye rove, your searching eyes have knownOne perfect mind, which judgment calls its own;There every breast its fondest hopes must bend,And every Muse with tears await her friend.”’Twas then fair Isis from her stream arose,In kind compassion of her sister’s woes.’Twas then she promised to the mourning maidThe immortal honours which thy hands have paid:“My best loved son,” she said, “shall yet restoreThy ruin’d sweets, and Fancy weep no more.”Each rising art by slow gradation moves;Toil builds, &c.Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess’dA fix’d despair in every tuneful breast.Not with more grief the afflicted swains appear,When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;When lingering frosts the ruin’d seats invade15Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play’d.Each rising art by just gradation moves,Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves:The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,And graced with noblest pomp her earliest stage.20Preserved through time, the speaking scenes impartEach changeful wish of Phædra’s tortured heart;80Or paint the curse that mark’d the Theban’s[54]reign,A bed incestuous, and a father slain.Line after line our pitying eyes o’erflow,With kind concern our pitying eyes o’erflow,25Trace the sad tale, and own another’s woe.To Rome removed, with equal power to please,To Rome removed, with wit secure to please,The comic Sisters kept their native ease:With jealous fear, declining Greece beheldHer own Menander’s art almost excell’d;30But every Muse essay’d to raise in vainSome labour’d rival of her tragic strain:Ilissus’ laurels, though transferr’d with toil,Droop’d their fair leaves, nor knew the unfriendly soil.As Arts expired, resistless Dulness rose;35When Rome herself, her envied glories dead,No more imperial, stoop’d her conquer’d head;Luxuriant Florence chose a softer theme,While all was peace, by Arno’s silver stream.With sweeter notes the Etrurian vales complain’d,And arts reviving told a Cosmo reign’d.Their wanton lyres the bards of Provence strung,Sweet flow’d the lays, but love was all they sung.The gay, &c.Goths, Priests, or Vandals,––all were Learning’s foes.81Till Julius[55]first recall’d each exiled maid,And Cosmo own’d them in the Etrurian shade:Then, deeply skill’d in love’s engaging theme,The soft Provençal pass’d to Arno’s stream:40With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung;Sweet flow’d the lays––but love was all he sung.The gay description could not fail to move,For, led by nature, all are friends to love.But Heaven, still rising in its works, decreedBut Heaven, still various in its works, decreed45The perfect boast of time should last succeed.The beauteous union must appear at length,Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength:One greater Muse Eliza’s reign adorn,And e’en a Shakespeare to her fame be born!50Yet ah! so bright her morning’s opening ray,In vain our Britain hoped an equal day!No second growth the western isle could bear,At once exhausted with too rich a year.Too nicely Jonson knew the critic’s part;55Nature in him was almost lost in art.Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came,The next in order, as the next in name;With pleased attention, ’midst his scenes we findEach glowing thought that warms the female mind;6082Each melting sigh, and every tender tear;The lover’s wishes, and the virgin’s fear.His every strain the Loves and Graces own;His every strain[56]the Smiles and Graces own;But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone:Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand65The unrival’d picture of his early hand.With[57]gradual steps and slow, exacter FranceSaw Art’s fair empire o’er her shores advance:By length of toil a bright perfection knew,Correctly bold, and just in all she drew:70Till late Corneille from epick Lucan broughtThe full expression, and the Roman thought:Till late Corneille, with Lucan’s[58]spirit fired,Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired:And classic judgment gain’d to sweet RacineThe temperate strength of Maro’s chaster line.But wilder far the British laurel spread,75And wreaths less artful crown our poet’s head.83Yet he alone to every scene could giveThe historian’s truth, and bid the manners live.Waked at his call I view, with glad surprise,Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.80There Henry’s trumpets spread their loud alarms,And laurel’d Conquest waits her hero’s arms.Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh,Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die!Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring85No beam of comfort to the guilty king:The time[59]shall come when Glo’ster’s heart shall bleed,In life’s last hours, with horror of the deed;When dreary visions shall at last presentThy vengeful image in the midnight tent:90Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear,Blunt the weak sword, and break the oppressive spear!Where’er we turn, by Fancy charm’d, we findSome sweet illusion of the cheated mind.Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove95With humbler nature, in the rural grove;Where swains contented own the quiet scene,And twilight fairies tread the circled green:Dress’d by her hand, the woods and valleys smile,And Spring diffusive decks the enchanted isle.10084O, blest in all that genius gives to charm,Whose morals mend us, and whose passions warm!Oft let my youth attend thy various page,Where rich invention rules the unbounded stage:There every scene the poet’s warmth may raise,And melting music find the softest lays:O, might the Muse with equal ease persuadeExpressive Picture to adopt thine aid!Some powerful Raphael should again appear,And arts consenting fix their empire here.O, more than all in powerful genius blest,Come, take thine empire o’er the willing breast!Whate’er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal!There every thought the poet’s warmth may raise,105There native music dwells in all the lays.O might some verse with happiest skill persuadeExpressive Picture to adopt thine aid!What wondrous draughts might rise from every page!What other Raphaels charm a distant age!110Methinks e’en now I view some fair design,Where breathing Nature lives in every line;Chaste and subdued, the modest colours lie,In fair proportion to the approving eye:And see where Anthony lamenting stands,In fixt distress, and spreads his pleading hands:O’er the pale corse the warrior seems to bend,Methinks e’en now I view some free design,Where breathing Nature lives in every line:85Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay,Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.And see where Anthony,[60]in tears approved,115Guards the pale relics of the chief he loved:O’er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend,Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder’d friend!Still as they press, he calls on all around,Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.120But who[61]is he, whose brows exalted bearA rage impatient, and a fiercer air?E’en now his thoughts with eager vengeance doomThe last sad ruin of ungrateful Rome.Till, slow advancing o’er the tented plain,In sable weeds, appear the kindred train:The frantic mother leads their wild despair,Beats her swoln breast, and rends her silver hair;And see, he yields! the tears unbidden start,And conscious nature claims the unwilling heart!O’er all the man conflicting passions rise;A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?Awake to all that injured worth can feel,On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel;Yet shall not war’s insatiate fury fall125(So heaven ordains it) on the destined wall.See the fond mother, ’midst the plaintive train,Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!86Touch’d to the soul, in vain he strives to hideThe son’s affection, in the Roman’s pride:130O’er all the man conflicting passions rise;Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.Thus generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring,135Spread the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:Those sibyl leaves, the sport of every wind,(For poets ever were a careless kind,)By thee disposed, no farther toil demand,But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.140So spread o’er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown,E’en Homer’s numbers charm’d by parts alone.Their own Ulysses scarce had wander’d more,By winds and waters cast on every shore:When, raised by fate, some former Hanmer join’d145Each beauteous image of the tuneful mind;Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claimA fond alliance with the Poet’s name.

Sir,

While, own’d by you, with smiles the Muse surveysThe expected triumph of her sweetest lays:While, stretch’d at ease, she boasts your guardian aid,Secure, and happy in her sylvan shade:Excuse her fears, who scarce a verse bestows,In just remembrance of the debt she owes;With conscious, &c.

While, own’d by you, with smiles the Muse surveys

The expected triumph of her sweetest lays:

While, stretch’d at ease, she boasts your guardian aid,

Secure, and happy in her sylvan shade:

Excuse her fears, who scarce a verse bestows,

In just remembrance of the debt she owes;

With conscious, &c.

A patriot’s hand protects a poet’s lays,

While nursed by you she sees her myrtles bloom,

Green and unwither’d o’er his honour’d tomb;

Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell5

What secret transports in her bosom swell:

With conscious awe she hears the critic’s fame,

And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare’s name.

Long slighted Fancy with a mother’s careWept o’er his works, and felt the last despair:Torn from her head, she saw the roses fall,By all deserted, though admired by all:

Long slighted Fancy with a mother’s care

Wept o’er his works, and felt the last despair:

Torn from her head, she saw the roses fall,

By all deserted, though admired by all:

Hard was the lot those injured strains endured,

Unown’d by Science, and by years obscured:10

And “Oh!” she cried, “shall Science still resignWhate’er is Nature’s, and whate’er is mine?Shall Taste and Art but show a cold regard,And scornful Pride reject the unletter’d bard?Ye myrtled nymphs, who own my gentle reign,Tune the sweet lyre, and grace my airy train,If, where ye rove, your searching eyes have knownOne perfect mind, which judgment calls its own;There every breast its fondest hopes must bend,And every Muse with tears await her friend.”’Twas then fair Isis from her stream arose,In kind compassion of her sister’s woes.’Twas then she promised to the mourning maidThe immortal honours which thy hands have paid:“My best loved son,” she said, “shall yet restoreThy ruin’d sweets, and Fancy weep no more.”Each rising art by slow gradation moves;Toil builds, &c.

And “Oh!” she cried, “shall Science still resign

Whate’er is Nature’s, and whate’er is mine?

Shall Taste and Art but show a cold regard,

And scornful Pride reject the unletter’d bard?

Ye myrtled nymphs, who own my gentle reign,

Tune the sweet lyre, and grace my airy train,

If, where ye rove, your searching eyes have known

One perfect mind, which judgment calls its own;

There every breast its fondest hopes must bend,

And every Muse with tears await her friend.”

’Twas then fair Isis from her stream arose,

In kind compassion of her sister’s woes.

’Twas then she promised to the mourning maid

The immortal honours which thy hands have paid:

“My best loved son,” she said, “shall yet restore

Thy ruin’d sweets, and Fancy weep no more.”

Each rising art by slow gradation moves;

Toil builds, &c.

Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess’d

A fix’d despair in every tuneful breast.

Not with more grief the afflicted swains appear,

When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;

When lingering frosts the ruin’d seats invade15

Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play’d.

Each rising art by just gradation moves,Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves:The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,And graced with noblest pomp her earliest stage.20Preserved through time, the speaking scenes impartEach changeful wish of Phædra’s tortured heart;80Or paint the curse that mark’d the Theban’s[54]reign,A bed incestuous, and a father slain.Line after line our pitying eyes o’erflow,With kind concern our pitying eyes o’erflow,25Trace the sad tale, and own another’s woe.

Each rising art by just gradation moves,

Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves:

The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,

And graced with noblest pomp her earliest stage.20

Preserved through time, the speaking scenes impart

Each changeful wish of Phædra’s tortured heart;

Or paint the curse that mark’d the Theban’s[54]reign,

A bed incestuous, and a father slain.

Line after line our pitying eyes o’erflow,

With kind concern our pitying eyes o’erflow,25

Trace the sad tale, and own another’s woe.

To Rome removed, with equal power to please,To Rome removed, with wit secure to please,The comic Sisters kept their native ease:With jealous fear, declining Greece beheldHer own Menander’s art almost excell’d;30But every Muse essay’d to raise in vainSome labour’d rival of her tragic strain:Ilissus’ laurels, though transferr’d with toil,Droop’d their fair leaves, nor knew the unfriendly soil.As Arts expired, resistless Dulness rose;35When Rome herself, her envied glories dead,No more imperial, stoop’d her conquer’d head;Luxuriant Florence chose a softer theme,While all was peace, by Arno’s silver stream.With sweeter notes the Etrurian vales complain’d,And arts reviving told a Cosmo reign’d.Their wanton lyres the bards of Provence strung,Sweet flow’d the lays, but love was all they sung.The gay, &c.Goths, Priests, or Vandals,––all were Learning’s foes.81Till Julius[55]first recall’d each exiled maid,And Cosmo own’d them in the Etrurian shade:Then, deeply skill’d in love’s engaging theme,The soft Provençal pass’d to Arno’s stream:40With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung;Sweet flow’d the lays––but love was all he sung.The gay description could not fail to move,For, led by nature, all are friends to love.

To Rome removed, with equal power to please,

To Rome removed, with wit secure to please,

The comic Sisters kept their native ease:

With jealous fear, declining Greece beheld

Her own Menander’s art almost excell’d;30

But every Muse essay’d to raise in vain

Some labour’d rival of her tragic strain:

Ilissus’ laurels, though transferr’d with toil,

Droop’d their fair leaves, nor knew the unfriendly soil.

As Arts expired, resistless Dulness rose;35

When Rome herself, her envied glories dead,No more imperial, stoop’d her conquer’d head;Luxuriant Florence chose a softer theme,While all was peace, by Arno’s silver stream.With sweeter notes the Etrurian vales complain’d,And arts reviving told a Cosmo reign’d.Their wanton lyres the bards of Provence strung,Sweet flow’d the lays, but love was all they sung.The gay, &c.

When Rome herself, her envied glories dead,

No more imperial, stoop’d her conquer’d head;

Luxuriant Florence chose a softer theme,

While all was peace, by Arno’s silver stream.

With sweeter notes the Etrurian vales complain’d,

And arts reviving told a Cosmo reign’d.

Their wanton lyres the bards of Provence strung,

Sweet flow’d the lays, but love was all they sung.

The gay, &c.

Goths, Priests, or Vandals,––all were Learning’s foes.

Till Julius[55]first recall’d each exiled maid,

And Cosmo own’d them in the Etrurian shade:

Then, deeply skill’d in love’s engaging theme,

The soft Provençal pass’d to Arno’s stream:40

With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung;

Sweet flow’d the lays––but love was all he sung.

The gay description could not fail to move,

For, led by nature, all are friends to love.

But Heaven, still rising in its works, decreedBut Heaven, still various in its works, decreed45The perfect boast of time should last succeed.The beauteous union must appear at length,Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength:One greater Muse Eliza’s reign adorn,And e’en a Shakespeare to her fame be born!50

But Heaven, still rising in its works, decreed

But Heaven, still various in its works, decreed45

The perfect boast of time should last succeed.

The beauteous union must appear at length,

Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength:

One greater Muse Eliza’s reign adorn,

And e’en a Shakespeare to her fame be born!50

Yet ah! so bright her morning’s opening ray,In vain our Britain hoped an equal day!No second growth the western isle could bear,At once exhausted with too rich a year.Too nicely Jonson knew the critic’s part;55Nature in him was almost lost in art.Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came,The next in order, as the next in name;With pleased attention, ’midst his scenes we findEach glowing thought that warms the female mind;6082Each melting sigh, and every tender tear;The lover’s wishes, and the virgin’s fear.His every strain the Loves and Graces own;His every strain[56]the Smiles and Graces own;But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone:Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand65The unrival’d picture of his early hand.

Yet ah! so bright her morning’s opening ray,

In vain our Britain hoped an equal day!

No second growth the western isle could bear,

At once exhausted with too rich a year.

Too nicely Jonson knew the critic’s part;55

Nature in him was almost lost in art.

Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came,

The next in order, as the next in name;

With pleased attention, ’midst his scenes we find

Each glowing thought that warms the female mind;60

Each melting sigh, and every tender tear;

The lover’s wishes, and the virgin’s fear.

His every strain the Loves and Graces own;

His every strain[56]the Smiles and Graces own;

But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone:

Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand65

The unrival’d picture of his early hand.

With[57]gradual steps and slow, exacter FranceSaw Art’s fair empire o’er her shores advance:By length of toil a bright perfection knew,Correctly bold, and just in all she drew:70Till late Corneille from epick Lucan broughtThe full expression, and the Roman thought:Till late Corneille, with Lucan’s[58]spirit fired,Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired:And classic judgment gain’d to sweet RacineThe temperate strength of Maro’s chaster line.

With[57]gradual steps and slow, exacter France

Saw Art’s fair empire o’er her shores advance:

By length of toil a bright perfection knew,

Correctly bold, and just in all she drew:70

Till late Corneille from epick Lucan broughtThe full expression, and the Roman thought:

Till late Corneille from epick Lucan brought

The full expression, and the Roman thought:

Till late Corneille, with Lucan’s[58]spirit fired,

Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired:

And classic judgment gain’d to sweet Racine

The temperate strength of Maro’s chaster line.

But wilder far the British laurel spread,75And wreaths less artful crown our poet’s head.83Yet he alone to every scene could giveThe historian’s truth, and bid the manners live.Waked at his call I view, with glad surprise,Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.80There Henry’s trumpets spread their loud alarms,And laurel’d Conquest waits her hero’s arms.Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh,Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die!Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring85No beam of comfort to the guilty king:The time[59]shall come when Glo’ster’s heart shall bleed,In life’s last hours, with horror of the deed;When dreary visions shall at last presentThy vengeful image in the midnight tent:90Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear,Blunt the weak sword, and break the oppressive spear!

But wilder far the British laurel spread,75

And wreaths less artful crown our poet’s head.

Yet he alone to every scene could give

The historian’s truth, and bid the manners live.

Waked at his call I view, with glad surprise,

Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.80

There Henry’s trumpets spread their loud alarms,

And laurel’d Conquest waits her hero’s arms.

Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh,

Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die!

Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring85

No beam of comfort to the guilty king:

The time[59]shall come when Glo’ster’s heart shall bleed,

In life’s last hours, with horror of the deed;

When dreary visions shall at last present

Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:90

Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear,

Blunt the weak sword, and break the oppressive spear!

Where’er we turn, by Fancy charm’d, we findSome sweet illusion of the cheated mind.Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove95With humbler nature, in the rural grove;Where swains contented own the quiet scene,And twilight fairies tread the circled green:Dress’d by her hand, the woods and valleys smile,And Spring diffusive decks the enchanted isle.100

Where’er we turn, by Fancy charm’d, we find

Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind.

Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove95

With humbler nature, in the rural grove;

Where swains contented own the quiet scene,

And twilight fairies tread the circled green:

Dress’d by her hand, the woods and valleys smile,

And Spring diffusive decks the enchanted isle.100

84O, blest in all that genius gives to charm,Whose morals mend us, and whose passions warm!Oft let my youth attend thy various page,Where rich invention rules the unbounded stage:There every scene the poet’s warmth may raise,And melting music find the softest lays:O, might the Muse with equal ease persuadeExpressive Picture to adopt thine aid!Some powerful Raphael should again appear,And arts consenting fix their empire here.O, more than all in powerful genius blest,Come, take thine empire o’er the willing breast!Whate’er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal!There every thought the poet’s warmth may raise,105There native music dwells in all the lays.O might some verse with happiest skill persuadeExpressive Picture to adopt thine aid!What wondrous draughts might rise from every page!What other Raphaels charm a distant age!110

O, blest in all that genius gives to charm,Whose morals mend us, and whose passions warm!Oft let my youth attend thy various page,Where rich invention rules the unbounded stage:There every scene the poet’s warmth may raise,And melting music find the softest lays:O, might the Muse with equal ease persuadeExpressive Picture to adopt thine aid!Some powerful Raphael should again appear,And arts consenting fix their empire here.

O, blest in all that genius gives to charm,

Whose morals mend us, and whose passions warm!

Oft let my youth attend thy various page,

Where rich invention rules the unbounded stage:

There every scene the poet’s warmth may raise,

And melting music find the softest lays:

O, might the Muse with equal ease persuade

Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid!

Some powerful Raphael should again appear,

And arts consenting fix their empire here.

O, more than all in powerful genius blest,

Come, take thine empire o’er the willing breast!

Whate’er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,

Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal!

There every thought the poet’s warmth may raise,105

There native music dwells in all the lays.

O might some verse with happiest skill persuade

Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid!

What wondrous draughts might rise from every page!

What other Raphaels charm a distant age!110

Methinks e’en now I view some fair design,Where breathing Nature lives in every line;Chaste and subdued, the modest colours lie,In fair proportion to the approving eye:And see where Anthony lamenting stands,In fixt distress, and spreads his pleading hands:O’er the pale corse the warrior seems to bend,Methinks e’en now I view some free design,Where breathing Nature lives in every line:85Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay,Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.And see where Anthony,[60]in tears approved,115Guards the pale relics of the chief he loved:O’er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend,Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder’d friend!Still as they press, he calls on all around,Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.120

Methinks e’en now I view some fair design,

Where breathing Nature lives in every line;

Chaste and subdued, the modest colours lie,

In fair proportion to the approving eye:

And see where Anthony lamenting stands,

In fixt distress, and spreads his pleading hands:

O’er the pale corse the warrior seems to bend,

Methinks e’en now I view some free design,

Where breathing Nature lives in every line:

Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay,

Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.

And see where Anthony,[60]in tears approved,115

Guards the pale relics of the chief he loved:

O’er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend,

Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder’d friend!

Still as they press, he calls on all around,

Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.120

But who[61]is he, whose brows exalted bearA rage impatient, and a fiercer air?E’en now his thoughts with eager vengeance doomThe last sad ruin of ungrateful Rome.Till, slow advancing o’er the tented plain,In sable weeds, appear the kindred train:The frantic mother leads their wild despair,Beats her swoln breast, and rends her silver hair;And see, he yields! the tears unbidden start,And conscious nature claims the unwilling heart!O’er all the man conflicting passions rise;A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?Awake to all that injured worth can feel,On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel;Yet shall not war’s insatiate fury fall125(So heaven ordains it) on the destined wall.See the fond mother, ’midst the plaintive train,Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!86Touch’d to the soul, in vain he strives to hideThe son’s affection, in the Roman’s pride:130O’er all the man conflicting passions rise;Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.

But who[61]is he, whose brows exalted bear

A rage impatient, and a fiercer air?E’en now his thoughts with eager vengeance doomThe last sad ruin of ungrateful Rome.Till, slow advancing o’er the tented plain,In sable weeds, appear the kindred train:The frantic mother leads their wild despair,Beats her swoln breast, and rends her silver hair;And see, he yields! the tears unbidden start,And conscious nature claims the unwilling heart!O’er all the man conflicting passions rise;

A rage impatient, and a fiercer air?

E’en now his thoughts with eager vengeance doom

The last sad ruin of ungrateful Rome.

Till, slow advancing o’er the tented plain,

In sable weeds, appear the kindred train:

The frantic mother leads their wild despair,

Beats her swoln breast, and rends her silver hair;

And see, he yields! the tears unbidden start,

And conscious nature claims the unwilling heart!

O’er all the man conflicting passions rise;

A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?

Awake to all that injured worth can feel,

On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel;

Yet shall not war’s insatiate fury fall125

(So heaven ordains it) on the destined wall.

See the fond mother, ’midst the plaintive train,

Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!

Touch’d to the soul, in vain he strives to hide

The son’s affection, in the Roman’s pride:130

O’er all the man conflicting passions rise;

Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.

Thus generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring,135Spread the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:Those sibyl leaves, the sport of every wind,(For poets ever were a careless kind,)By thee disposed, no farther toil demand,But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.140

Thus generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,

The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;

Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring,135

Spread the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:

Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:

Those sibyl leaves, the sport of every wind,

(For poets ever were a careless kind,)

By thee disposed, no farther toil demand,

But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.140

So spread o’er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown,E’en Homer’s numbers charm’d by parts alone.Their own Ulysses scarce had wander’d more,By winds and waters cast on every shore:When, raised by fate, some former Hanmer join’d145Each beauteous image of the tuneful mind;Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claimA fond alliance with the Poet’s name.

So spread o’er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown,

E’en Homer’s numbers charm’d by parts alone.

Their own Ulysses scarce had wander’d more,

By winds and waters cast on every shore:

When, raised by fate, some former Hanmer join’d145

Each beauteous image of the tuneful mind;

Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;

And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim

A fond alliance with the Poet’s name.

Oxford, Dec. 3,1743.

87DIRGE IN CYMBELINE,SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

To fair Pastora’s grassy tombTo fair Fidele’s grassy tombSoft maids and village hinds shall bringEach opening sweet of earliest bloom,And rifle all the breathing spring.No wailing ghost shall dare appear5To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;But shepherd swains assemble here,But shepherd lads assemble here,And melting virgins own their love.No wither’d witch shall here be seen;No goblins lead their nightly crew:10But female fays shall haunt the green,The female fays shall haunt the green,And dress thy bed with pearly dew!And dress thy grave with pearly dew!88The redbreast oft, at evening hours,Shall kindly lend his little aid,With hoary moss, and gather’d flowers,15To deck the ground where thou art laid.When chiding winds, and beating rain,In tempest shake the sylvan cell;Or ’midst the flocks, on every plain,When howling winds, and beating rain,In tempests shake the sylvan cell;Or ’midst the chase, on every plain,The tender thought on thee shall dwell;20Each lovely scene shall thee restore;Each lonely scene shall thee restore;For thee the tear be duly shed;Beloved till life could charm no more,Beloved till life can charm no more,And mourn’d till Pity’s self be dead.

To fair Pastora’s grassy tombTo fair Fidele’s grassy tombSoft maids and village hinds shall bringEach opening sweet of earliest bloom,And rifle all the breathing spring.

To fair Pastora’s grassy tomb

To fair Fidele’s grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear5To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;But shepherd swains assemble here,But shepherd lads assemble here,And melting virgins own their love.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear5

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;

But shepherd swains assemble here,

But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither’d witch shall here be seen;No goblins lead their nightly crew:10But female fays shall haunt the green,The female fays shall haunt the green,And dress thy bed with pearly dew!And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

No wither’d witch shall here be seen;

No goblins lead their nightly crew:10

But female fays shall haunt the green,

The female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy bed with pearly dew!

And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

88The redbreast oft, at evening hours,Shall kindly lend his little aid,With hoary moss, and gather’d flowers,15To deck the ground where thou art laid.

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,

Shall kindly lend his little aid,

With hoary moss, and gather’d flowers,15

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When chiding winds, and beating rain,In tempest shake the sylvan cell;Or ’midst the flocks, on every plain,When howling winds, and beating rain,In tempests shake the sylvan cell;Or ’midst the chase, on every plain,The tender thought on thee shall dwell;20

When chiding winds, and beating rain,In tempest shake the sylvan cell;Or ’midst the flocks, on every plain,

When chiding winds, and beating rain,

In tempest shake the sylvan cell;

Or ’midst the flocks, on every plain,

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the sylvan cell;

Or ’midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell;20

Each lovely scene shall thee restore;Each lonely scene shall thee restore;For thee the tear be duly shed;Beloved till life could charm no more,Beloved till life can charm no more,And mourn’d till Pity’s self be dead.

Each lovely scene shall thee restore;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;

For thee the tear be duly shed;

Beloved till life could charm no more,

Beloved till life can charm no more,

And mourn’d till Pity’s self be dead.

89VERSESWRITTEN ON A PAPER WHICH CONTAINED A PIECE OF BRIDE-CAKE, GIVEN TO THE AUTHOR BY A LADY.

Ye curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes,By search profane shall find this hallow’d cake,With virtue’s awe forbear the sacred prize,Nor dare a theft, for love and pity’s sake!This precious relic, form’d by magic power,5Beneath her shepherd’s haunted pillow laid,Was meant by love to charm the silent hour,The secret present of a matchless maid.The Cyprian queen, at Hymen’s fond request,Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art;10Fears, sighs, and wishes of the enamour’d breast,And pains that please, are mix’d in every part.With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought,From Paphian hills, and fair Cythera’s isle;And temper’d sweet with these the melting thought,15The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile.90Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent,Denials mild, and firm unalter’d truth;Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent,And meeting ardours, and exulting youth.20Sleep, wayward God! hath sworn, while these remain,With flattering dreams to dry his nightly tear,And cheerful Hope, so oft invoked in vain,With fairy songs shall soothe his pensive ear.If, bound by vows to Friendship’s gentle side,25And fond of soul, thou hop’st an equal grace,If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,O, much entreated, leave this fatal place!Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn’d my plaintive day,Consents at length to bring me short delight,30Thy careless steps may scare her doves away,And Grief with raven note usurp the night.

Ye curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes,By search profane shall find this hallow’d cake,With virtue’s awe forbear the sacred prize,Nor dare a theft, for love and pity’s sake!

Ye curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes,

By search profane shall find this hallow’d cake,

With virtue’s awe forbear the sacred prize,

Nor dare a theft, for love and pity’s sake!

This precious relic, form’d by magic power,5Beneath her shepherd’s haunted pillow laid,Was meant by love to charm the silent hour,The secret present of a matchless maid.

This precious relic, form’d by magic power,5

Beneath her shepherd’s haunted pillow laid,

Was meant by love to charm the silent hour,

The secret present of a matchless maid.

The Cyprian queen, at Hymen’s fond request,Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art;10Fears, sighs, and wishes of the enamour’d breast,And pains that please, are mix’d in every part.

The Cyprian queen, at Hymen’s fond request,

Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art;10

Fears, sighs, and wishes of the enamour’d breast,

And pains that please, are mix’d in every part.

With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought,From Paphian hills, and fair Cythera’s isle;And temper’d sweet with these the melting thought,15The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile.

With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought,

From Paphian hills, and fair Cythera’s isle;

And temper’d sweet with these the melting thought,15

The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile.

90Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent,Denials mild, and firm unalter’d truth;Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent,And meeting ardours, and exulting youth.20

Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent,

Denials mild, and firm unalter’d truth;

Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent,

And meeting ardours, and exulting youth.20

Sleep, wayward God! hath sworn, while these remain,With flattering dreams to dry his nightly tear,And cheerful Hope, so oft invoked in vain,With fairy songs shall soothe his pensive ear.

Sleep, wayward God! hath sworn, while these remain,

With flattering dreams to dry his nightly tear,

And cheerful Hope, so oft invoked in vain,

With fairy songs shall soothe his pensive ear.

If, bound by vows to Friendship’s gentle side,25And fond of soul, thou hop’st an equal grace,If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,O, much entreated, leave this fatal place!

If, bound by vows to Friendship’s gentle side,25

And fond of soul, thou hop’st an equal grace,

If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,

O, much entreated, leave this fatal place!

Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn’d my plaintive day,Consents at length to bring me short delight,30Thy careless steps may scare her doves away,And Grief with raven note usurp the night.

Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn’d my plaintive day,

Consents at length to bring me short delight,30

Thy careless steps may scare her doves away,

And Grief with raven note usurp the night.

91TO MISS AURELIA C–––R,ON HER WEEPING AT HER SISTER’S WEDDING.

Cease, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn,Lament not Hannah’s happy state;You may be happy in your turn,And seize the treasure you regret.With Love united Hymen stands,5And softly whispers to your charms,“Meet but your lover in my bands,You’ll find your sister in his arms.”

Cease, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn,Lament not Hannah’s happy state;You may be happy in your turn,And seize the treasure you regret.

Cease, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn,

Lament not Hannah’s happy state;

You may be happy in your turn,

And seize the treasure you regret.

With Love united Hymen stands,5And softly whispers to your charms,“Meet but your lover in my bands,You’ll find your sister in his arms.”

With Love united Hymen stands,5

And softly whispers to your charms,

“Meet but your lover in my bands,

You’ll find your sister in his arms.”

SONNET.

When Phœbe form’d a wanton smile,My soul! it reach’d not here:Strange, that thy peace, thou trembler, fliesBefore a rising tear!From ’midst the drops, my love is born,5That o’er those eyelids rove:Thus issued from a teeming waveThe fabled queen of love.

When Phœbe form’d a wanton smile,

My soul! it reach’d not here:

Strange, that thy peace, thou trembler, flies

Before a rising tear!

From ’midst the drops, my love is born,5

That o’er those eyelids rove:

Thus issued from a teeming wave

The fabled queen of love.

92SONG.THE SENTIMENTS BORROWED FROM SHAKESPEARE.[62]

Young Damon of the vale is dead,Ye lowland hamlets, moan;Ye lowly hamlets, moan;A dewy turf lies o’er his head,And at his feet a stone.His shroud, which Death’s cold damps destroy,5Of snow-white threads was made:All mourn’d to see so sweet a boyIn earth for ever laid.Pale pansies o’er his corpse were placed,Which, pluck’d before their time,10Bestrew’d the boy, like him to wasteAnd wither in their prime.93But will he ne’er return, whose tongueCould tune the rural lay?Ah, no! his bell of peace is rung,15His lips are cold as clay.They bore him out at twilight hour,The youth who loved so well:Ah, me! how many a true love showerOf kind remembrance fell!20Each maid was woe––but Lucy chief,Her grief o’er all was tried;Within his grave she dropp’d in grief,And o’er her loved one died.

Young Damon of the vale is dead,Ye lowland hamlets, moan;Ye lowly hamlets, moan;A dewy turf lies o’er his head,And at his feet a stone.

Young Damon of the vale is dead,

Ye lowland hamlets, moan;

Ye lowly hamlets, moan;

A dewy turf lies o’er his head,

And at his feet a stone.

His shroud, which Death’s cold damps destroy,5Of snow-white threads was made:All mourn’d to see so sweet a boyIn earth for ever laid.

His shroud, which Death’s cold damps destroy,5

Of snow-white threads was made:

All mourn’d to see so sweet a boy

In earth for ever laid.

Pale pansies o’er his corpse were placed,Which, pluck’d before their time,10Bestrew’d the boy, like him to wasteAnd wither in their prime.

Pale pansies o’er his corpse were placed,

Which, pluck’d before their time,10

Bestrew’d the boy, like him to waste

And wither in their prime.

93But will he ne’er return, whose tongueCould tune the rural lay?Ah, no! his bell of peace is rung,15His lips are cold as clay.

But will he ne’er return, whose tongue

Could tune the rural lay?

Ah, no! his bell of peace is rung,15

His lips are cold as clay.

They bore him out at twilight hour,The youth who loved so well:Ah, me! how many a true love showerOf kind remembrance fell!20

They bore him out at twilight hour,

The youth who loved so well:

Ah, me! how many a true love shower

Of kind remembrance fell!20

Each maid was woe––but Lucy chief,Her grief o’er all was tried;Within his grave she dropp’d in grief,And o’er her loved one died.

Each maid was woe––but Lucy chief,

Her grief o’er all was tried;

Within his grave she dropp’d in grief,

And o’er her loved one died.

94ON OUR LATE TASTE IN MUSIC.[63]

–––Quid vocis modulamen inane juvabatVerborum sensusque vacans numerique loquacis?Milton.

–––Quid vocis modulamen inane juvabat

Verborum sensusque vacans numerique loquacis?

Milton.

Britons! away with the degenerate pack!Waft, western winds! the foreign spoilers back!Enough has been in wild amusements spent,Let British verse and harmony content!No music once could charm you like your own,5Then tuneful Robinson,[64]and Tofts were known;Then Purcell touched the strings, while numbers hungAttentive to the sounds––and blest the song!E’en gentle Weldon taught us manly notes,Beyond the enervate thrills of Roman throats!10Notes, foreign luxury could ne’er inspire,That animate the soul, and swell the lyre!That mend, and not emasculate our hearts,And teach the love of freedom and of arts.95Nor yet, while guardian Phœbus gilds our isle,15Does heaven averse await the muses’ toil;Cherish but once our worth of native race,The sister-arts shall soon display their face!Even half discouraged through the gloom they strive,Smile at neglect, and o’er oblivion live.20See Handel, careless of a foreign fame,Fix on our shore, and boast a Briton’s name:While, placed marmoric in the vocal grove,[65]He guides the measures listening throngs approve.Mark silence at the voice of Arne confess’d,25Soft as the sweet enchantress rules the breast;As when transported Venice lent an ear,Camilla’s charms to view, and accents hear![66]So while she varies the impassion’d song,Alternate motions on the bosom throng!30As heavenly Milton[67]guides her magic voice,And virtue thus convey’d allures the choice.Discard soft nonsense in a slavish tongue,The strain insipid, and the thought unknown;From truth and nature form the unerring test;35Be what is manly, chaste, and good the best!’Tis not to ape the songsters of the groves,Through all the quiverings of their wanton loves;’Tis not the enfeebled thrill, or warbled shake,The heart can strengthen, or the soul awake!4096But where the force of energy is foundWhen the sense rises on the wings of sound;When reason, with the charms of music twined,Through the enraptured ear informs the mind;Bids generous love or soft compassion glow,45And forms a tuneful Paradise below!Oh Britons! if the honour still you boast,No longer purchase follies at such cost!No longer let unmeaning sounds inviteTo visionary scenes of false delight:50When, shame to sense! we see the hero’s rageLisp’d on the tongue, and danced along the stage!Or hear in eunuch sounds a hero squeak,While kingdoms rise or fall upon a shake!Let them at home to slavery’s painted train,55With siren art, repeat the pleasing strain:While we, like wise Ulysses, close our earTo songs which liberty forbids to hear!Keep, guardian gales, the infectious guests away,To charm where priests direct, and slaves obey.60Madrid, or wanton Rome, be their delight;There they may warble as their poets write.The temper of our isle, though cold, is clear;And such our genius, noble though severe.Our Shakespeare scorn’d the trifling rules of art,65But knew to conquer and surprise the heart!In magic chains the captive thought to bind,And fathom all the depths of human kind!Too long, our shame, the prostituted herdOur sense have bubbled, and our wealth have shared.7097Too long the favourites of our vulgar greatHave bask’d in luxury, and lived in state!In Tuscan wilds now let them villas rear[68]Ennobled by the charity we spare.There let them warble in the tainted breeze,75Or sing like widow’d orphans to the trees:There let them chant their incoherent dreams,Where howls Charybdis, and where Scylla screams!Or where Avernus, from his darksome round,May echo to the winds the blasted sound!80As fair Alcyone,[69]with anguish press’d,Broods o’er the British main with tuneful breast,Beneath the white-brow’d cliff protected sings,Or skims the azure plain with painted wings!Grateful, like her, to nature, and as just,85In our domestic blessings let us trust;Keep for our sons fair learning’s honour’d prize,Till the world own the worth they now despise!

Britons! away with the degenerate pack!

Waft, western winds! the foreign spoilers back!

Enough has been in wild amusements spent,

Let British verse and harmony content!

No music once could charm you like your own,5

Then tuneful Robinson,[64]and Tofts were known;

Then Purcell touched the strings, while numbers hung

Attentive to the sounds––and blest the song!

E’en gentle Weldon taught us manly notes,

Beyond the enervate thrills of Roman throats!10

Notes, foreign luxury could ne’er inspire,

That animate the soul, and swell the lyre!

That mend, and not emasculate our hearts,

And teach the love of freedom and of arts.

Nor yet, while guardian Phœbus gilds our isle,15

Does heaven averse await the muses’ toil;

Cherish but once our worth of native race,

The sister-arts shall soon display their face!

Even half discouraged through the gloom they strive,

Smile at neglect, and o’er oblivion live.20

See Handel, careless of a foreign fame,

Fix on our shore, and boast a Briton’s name:

While, placed marmoric in the vocal grove,[65]

He guides the measures listening throngs approve.

Mark silence at the voice of Arne confess’d,25

Soft as the sweet enchantress rules the breast;

As when transported Venice lent an ear,

Camilla’s charms to view, and accents hear![66]

So while she varies the impassion’d song,

Alternate motions on the bosom throng!30

As heavenly Milton[67]guides her magic voice,

And virtue thus convey’d allures the choice.

Discard soft nonsense in a slavish tongue,

The strain insipid, and the thought unknown;

From truth and nature form the unerring test;35

Be what is manly, chaste, and good the best!

’Tis not to ape the songsters of the groves,

Through all the quiverings of their wanton loves;

’Tis not the enfeebled thrill, or warbled shake,

The heart can strengthen, or the soul awake!40

But where the force of energy is found

When the sense rises on the wings of sound;

When reason, with the charms of music twined,

Through the enraptured ear informs the mind;

Bids generous love or soft compassion glow,45

And forms a tuneful Paradise below!

Oh Britons! if the honour still you boast,

No longer purchase follies at such cost!

No longer let unmeaning sounds invite

To visionary scenes of false delight:50

When, shame to sense! we see the hero’s rage

Lisp’d on the tongue, and danced along the stage!

Or hear in eunuch sounds a hero squeak,

While kingdoms rise or fall upon a shake!

Let them at home to slavery’s painted train,55

With siren art, repeat the pleasing strain:

While we, like wise Ulysses, close our ear

To songs which liberty forbids to hear!

Keep, guardian gales, the infectious guests away,

To charm where priests direct, and slaves obey.60

Madrid, or wanton Rome, be their delight;

There they may warble as their poets write.

The temper of our isle, though cold, is clear;

And such our genius, noble though severe.

Our Shakespeare scorn’d the trifling rules of art,65

But knew to conquer and surprise the heart!

In magic chains the captive thought to bind,

And fathom all the depths of human kind!

Too long, our shame, the prostituted herd

Our sense have bubbled, and our wealth have shared.70

Too long the favourites of our vulgar great

Have bask’d in luxury, and lived in state!

In Tuscan wilds now let them villas rear[68]

Ennobled by the charity we spare.

There let them warble in the tainted breeze,75

Or sing like widow’d orphans to the trees:

There let them chant their incoherent dreams,

Where howls Charybdis, and where Scylla screams!

Or where Avernus, from his darksome round,

May echo to the winds the blasted sound!80

As fair Alcyone,[69]with anguish press’d,

Broods o’er the British main with tuneful breast,

Beneath the white-brow’d cliff protected sings,

Or skims the azure plain with painted wings!

Grateful, like her, to nature, and as just,85

In our domestic blessings let us trust;

Keep for our sons fair learning’s honour’d prize,

Till the world own the worth they now despise!

OBSERVATIONS ON THE ORIENTAL ECLOGUES AND ODES.BY DR. LANGHORNE.

OBSERVATIONS ON THE ORIENTAL ECLOGUES.

The genius of the pastoral, as well as of every other respectable species of poetry, had its origin in the east, and from thence was transplanted by the muses of Greece; but whether from the continent of the Lesser Asia, or from Egypt, which, about the era of the Grecian pastoral, was the hospitable nurse of letters, it is not easy to determine. From the subjects, and the manner of Theocritus, one would incline to the latter opinion, while the history of Bion is in favour of the former.

However, though it should still remain a doubt through what channel the pastoral traveled westward, there is not the least shadow of uncertainty concerning its oriental origin.

In those ages which, guided by sacred chronology, from a comparative view of time, we call the early ages, it appears, from the most authentic historians, that the chiefs of the people employed102themselves in rural exercises, and that astronomers and legislators were at the same time shepherds. Thus Strabo informs us, that the history of the creation was communicated to the Egyptians by a Chaldean shepherd.

From these circumstances it is evident, not only that such shepherds were capable of all the dignity and elegance peculiar to poetry, but that whatever poetry they attempted would be of the pastoral kind; would take its subjects from those scenes of rural simplicity in which they were conversant, and, as it was the offspring of harmony and nature, would employ the powers it derived from the former, to celebrate the beauty and benevolence of the latter.

Accordingly we find that the most ancient poems treat of agriculture, astronomy, and other objects within the rural and natural systems.

What constitutes the difference between the georgic and the pastoral, is love and the colloquial or dramatic form of composition peculiar to the latter; this form of composition is sometimes dispensed with, and love and rural imagery alone are thought sufficient to distinguish the pastoral. The tender passion, however, seems to be essential to this species of poetry, and is hardly ever excluded from those pieces that were intended to come under this denomination: even in those eclogues of the Amœbean kind, whose only purport is a trial of skill between contending shepherds,103love has its usual share, and the praises of their respective mistresses are the general subjects of the competitors.

It is to be lamented, that scarce any oriental compositions of this kind have survived the ravages of ignorance, tyranny, and time; we cannot doubt that many such have been extant, possibly as far down as that fatal period, never to be mentioned in the world of letters without horror, when the glorious monuments of human ingenuity perished in the ashes of the Alexandrian library.

Those ingenious Greeks, whom we call the parents of pastoral poetry, were, probably, no more than imitators, of imitators that derived their harmony from higher and remoter sources, and kindled their poetical fires at those then unextinguished lamps which burned within the tombs of oriental genius.

It is evident that Homer has availed himself of those magnificent images and descriptions so frequently to be met with in the books of the Old Testament; and why may not Theocritus, Moschus, and Bion have found their archetypes in other eastern writers, whose names have perished with their works? yet, though it may not be illiberal to admit such a supposition, it would certainly be invidious to conclude, what the malignity of cavillers alone could suggest with regard to Homer, that they destroyed the sources from104which they borrowed, and, as it is fabled of the young of the pelican, drained their supporters to death.

As the Septuagint translation of the Old Testament was performed at the request, and under the patronage, of Ptolemy Philadelphus, it were not to be wondered if Theocritus, who was entertained at that prince’s court, had borrowed some part of his pastoral imagery from the poetical passages of those books. I think it can hardly be doubted that the Sicilian poet had in his eye certain expressions of the prophet Isaiah, when he wrote the following lines:

Νυν ια μεν φορεοιτε βατοι, φορεοιτε δ’ ακανθαι.Ἁ δε καλα Ναρκισσος επ’ αρκευθοισι κομασαι;Παντα δ’ εναλλα γενοιτο, και ἁ πιτυς οχνας ενεικαι–––και τως κυνας ὡλαφος ἑλκοι.Let vexing brambles the blue violet bear,On the rude thorn Narcissus dress his hair,All, all reversed––The pine with pears be crown’d,And the bold deer shall drag the trembling hound.

Νυν ια μεν φορεοιτε βατοι, φορεοιτε δ’ ακανθαι.Ἁ δε καλα Ναρκισσος επ’ αρκευθοισι κομασαι;Παντα δ’ εναλλα γενοιτο, και ἁ πιτυς οχνας ενεικαι–––και τως κυνας ὡλαφος ἑλκοι.

Νυν ια μεν φορεοιτε βατοι, φορεοιτε δ’ ακανθαι.

Ἁ δε καλα Ναρκισσος επ’ αρκευθοισι κομασαι;

Παντα δ’ εναλλα γενοιτο, και ἁ πιτυς οχνας ενεικαι

–––και τως κυνας ὡλαφος ἑλκοι.

Let vexing brambles the blue violet bear,On the rude thorn Narcissus dress his hair,All, all reversed––The pine with pears be crown’d,And the bold deer shall drag the trembling hound.

Let vexing brambles the blue violet bear,

On the rude thorn Narcissus dress his hair,

All, all reversed––The pine with pears be crown’d,

And the bold deer shall drag the trembling hound.

The cause, indeed, of these phenomena is very different in the Greek from what it is in the Hebrew poet; the former employing them on the death, the latter on the birth, of an important person: but the marks of imitation are nevertheless obvious.

It might, however, be expected, that if Theocritus had borrowed at all from the sacred writers, the celebrated pastoral epithalamium of Solomon,105so much within his own walk of poetry, would not certainly have escaped his notice. His epithalamium on the marriage of Helena, moreover, gave him an open field for imitation; therefore, if he has any obligations to the royal bard, we may expect to find them there. The very opening of the poem is in the spirit of the Hebrew song:

Ουτω δη πρωιζα κατεδραθες, ω φιλε γαμβρε;

The colour of imitation is still stronger in the following passage:

Αως αντελλοισα καλον διεφαινε προσωπον,Ποτνια νυξ ἁτε, λευκον εαρ χειμωνος ανεντος;Hωδε και ἁ χρυσεα Ἑλενα διεφαινετ’ εν αμιν,Πιειρα μεγαλα ἁτ’ ανεδραμε κοσμος αρουρα.Hη καπω κυπαρισσος, η ἁρματι Θεσσαλος ἱππος.

Αως αντελλοισα καλον διεφαινε προσωπον,

Ποτνια νυξ ἁτε, λευκον εαρ χειμωνος ανεντος;

Hωδε και ἁ χρυσεα Ἑλενα διεφαινετ’ εν αμιν,

Πιειρα μεγαλα ἁτ’ ανεδραμε κοσμος αρουρα.

Hη καπω κυπαρισσος, η ἁρματι Θεσσαλος ἱππος.

This description of Helen is infinitely above the style and figure of the Sicilian pastoral: “She is like the rising of the golden morning, when the night departeth, and when the winter is over and gone. She resembleth the cypress in the garden, the horse in the chariots of Thessaly.” These figures plainly declare their origin; and others, equally imitative, might be pointed out in the same idyllium.

This beautiful and luxuriant marriage pastoral of Solomon is the only perfect form of the oriental eclogue that has survived the ruins of time; a happiness for which it is, probably, more indebted106to its sacred character than to its intrinsic merit. Not that it is by any means destitute of poetical excellence: like all the eastern poetry, it is bold, wild, and unconnected in its figures, allusions, and parts, and has all that graceful and magnificent daring which characterizes its metaphorical and comparative imagery.

In consequence of these peculiarities, so ill adapted to the frigid genius of the north, Mr. Collins could make but little use of it as a precedent for his Oriental Eclogues; and even in his third eclogue, where the subject is of a similar nature, he has chosen rather to follow the mode of the Doric and the Latian pastoral.

The scenery and subjects then of the foregoing eclogues alone are oriental; the style and colouring are purely European; and, for this reason, the author’s preface, in which he intimates that he had the originals from a merchant who traded to the east, is omitted, as being now altogether superfluous.[70]

With regard to the merit of these eclogues, it may justly be asserted, that in simplicity of description and expression, in delicacy and softness of numbers, and in natural and unaffected tenderness, they are not to be equaled by any thing of the pastoral kind in the English language.

107ECLOGUE I.

This eclogue, which is entitled Selim, or the Shepherd’s Moral, as there is nothing dramatic in the subject, may be thought the least entertaining of the four: but it is by no means the least valuable. The moral precepts which the intelligent shepherd delivers to his fellow-swains, and the virgins their companions, are such as would infallibly promote the happiness of the pastoral life.

In impersonating the private virtues, the poet has observed great propriety, and has formed their genealogy with the most perfect judgment, when he represents them as the daughters of truth and wisdom.

The characteristics of modesty and chastity are extremely happy andpeinturesque:

“Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are clear,To lead the train, sweet Modesty, appear;With thee be Chastity, of all afraid,Distrusting all, a wise, suspicious maid;Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew;A silken veil conceals her from the view.”

“Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are clear,

To lead the train, sweet Modesty, appear;

With thee be Chastity, of all afraid,

Distrusting all, a wise, suspicious maid;

Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew;

A silken veil conceals her from the view.”

108

The two similes borrowed from rural objects are not only much in character, but perfectly natural and expressive. There is, notwithstanding, this defect in the former, that it wants a peculiar propriety; for purity of thought may as well be applied to chastity as to modesty; and from this instance, as well as from a thousand more, we may see the necessity of distinguishing, in characteristic poetry, every object by marks and attributes peculiarly its own.

It cannot be objected to this eclogue, that it wants both those essential criteria of the pastoral, love and the drama; for though it partakes not of the latter, the former still retains an interest in it, and that too very material, as it professedly consults the virtue and happiness of the lover, while it informs what are the qualities

–––that must lead to love.

109ECLOGUE II.

All the advantages that any species of poetry can derive from the novelty of the subject and scenery, this eclogue possesses. The route of a camel-driver is a scene that scarce could exist in the imagination of a European, and of its attendant distresses he could have no idea.––These are very happily and minutely painted by our descriptive poet. What sublime simplicity of expression! what nervous plainness in the opening of the poem!

“In silent horror o’er the boundless wasteThe driver Hassan with his camels past.”

“In silent horror o’er the boundless waste

The driver Hassan with his camels past.”

The magic pencil of the poet brings the whole scene before us at once, as it were by enchantment; and in this single couplet we feel all the effect that arises from the terrible wildness of a region unenlivened by the habitations of men. The verses that describe so minutely the camel-driver’s little provisions have a touching influence on the imagination, and prepare the reader to110enter more feelingly into his future apprehensions of distress:

“Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst assuage,When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage!”

“Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst assuage,

When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage!”

It is difficult to say whether his apostrophe to the “mute companions of his toils” is more to be admired for the elegance and beauty of the poetical imagery, or for the tenderness and humanity of the sentiment. He who can read it without being affected, will do his heart no injustice if he concludes it to be destitute of sensibility:

“Ye mute companions of my toils, that bearIn all my griefs a more than equal share!Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,Or moss-crown’d fountains mitigate the day,In vain ye hope the green delights to know,Which plains more blest, or verdant vales, bestow:Here rocks alone and tasteless sands are found,And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around.”

“Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear

In all my griefs a more than equal share!

Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,

Or moss-crown’d fountains mitigate the day,

In vain ye hope the green delights to know,

Which plains more blest, or verdant vales, bestow:

Here rocks alone and tasteless sands are found,

And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around.”

Yet in these beautiful lines there is a slight error, which writers of the greatest genius very frequently fall into.––It will be needless to observe to the accurate reader, that in the fifth and sixth verses there is a verbal pleonasm where the poet speaks of thegreendelights ofverdantvales. There is an oversight of the same kind in the Manners, an Ode, where the poet says,

“–––Seine’s blue nymphs deploreIn watchet weeds–––.”

“–––Seine’s blue nymphs deplore

In watchet weeds–––.”

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