poem. With respect to its _execution_, the justice of Dr. Hurd’s
censure cannot be controverted. That his sentiments are frequently
far-fetched and affected, and his expression quaint and obscure, is
but too obviously apparent; and these faults, together with the want
of harmony in versification, will sufficiently account for the neglect
into which the work is fallen, though interesting in its story, and
thick sown with beauties. Readers who take up a book merely for the
indolent amusement of a leisure hour, cannot endure the labour of
unharbouring a fine thought from the cover of perplexed expression. The
_pleasure_ arising from a flowing line, or a rounded period, is more
engaging to them, because more easily enjoyed, than that from a sublime
or witty conception. The author’s faulty _execution_, however, arose
from a source directly contrary to the “dread of imitation.” Imitation
itself led him to it; for almost all the models of polite literature
existing in his own country, and indeed in the other polished nations
of Europe, were characterized by the very same vitiation of taste.
Among our own writers, it is sufficient to instance Donne, Suckling and
Cowley, for this constant affectation of wit and uncommon sentiment,
and for a consequent obscurity of expression. Yet all these, and Sir
W. D’avenant, perhaps, in a more eminent degree than the rest, had
for great occasions, above the temptation of trifling, a majestic and
nervous simplicity, both of sentiment and expression; which, with our
more refined taste and language, we have never been able to equal.
I should now hope that the reader would set out with me upon a nearer
inspection of this poem, with the general _idea_ of its being the work
of an elevated genius, pregnant with a rich store of free and noble
sentiment, fashioned by an intimate commerce with the great world, and
boldly pursuing an original, but not an unskilful plan.
The measure chosen for this poem is that which we now almost confine
to elegy. This choice does not appear very judicious; for, although
our elegiac stanza possesses a strength and fulness which renders it
not unsuitable to heroic subjects, yet, in a piece of considerable
length, every returning measure must become tiresome from its frequent
repetitions. And this is not the worst effect of returning stanzas, in
a long work. The necessity of comprizing a sentence within the limits
of the measure is the tyranny of Procrustes to thought. For the sake
of a disagreeable uniformity, expression must constantly be cramped
or extended. In general, the latter expedient will be practised, as
the easiest; and thus both sentiment and language will be enfeebled by
unmeaning expletives. This, indeed, in some measure, is the effect of
rhyme couplets; and still more of the Latin hexameter and pentameter.
In our author, a redundancy of thought, running out into parentheses,
seems to have been produced, or at least encouraged by the measure.
But I think he has generally preserved a force and majesty of
expression.
It would have been highly injudicious for one who has rejected all
poetical machinery, to have begun his poem with the ancient form of
invoking a Muse. Indeed, in all modern writers this invocation appears
little better than an unmeaning ceremony, practised by rote from
ancient custom; and very properly makes a part of the _receipt for an
epic poem_ humourously laid down after the exact model of mechanical
imitation, in the Spectator. Our author, with simple and unaffected
dignity, thus opens at once into his subject:
Of all the Lombards, by their trophies known,
Who sought fame soon, and had her favour long,
King ARIBERT best seem’d to fill the throne,
And bred most business for heroick song.
This conquering monarch, we are soon acquainted, was blest with an only
child, the heroine of the story,
Recorded RHODALIND! whose high renown
Who miss in books not luckily have read;
Or vex’d with living beauties of their own
Have shunn’d the wise records of lovers dead.
Descriptions of female beauty have engaged the powers of poets in
every age, who have exhausted all nature for imagery to heighten their
painting; yet the picture has ever been extremely faint and inadequate.
Our poet judiciously confines his description of Rhodalind to the
qualities of her mind, contenting himself with general praises, though
in the high-flown gallantry of the times, of her personal charms.
Her looks like empire shew’d, great above pride;
Since pride ill counterfeits excessive height:
But Nature publish’d what she fain would hide,
Who for her deeds, not beauty, lov’d the light.
To make her lowly mind’s appearance less,
She us’d some outward greatness for disguise;
Esteem’d as pride the cloyst’ral lowliness,
And thought them proud who even the proud despise.
...
Oppressors big with pride, when she appear’d,
Blush’d, and believ’d their greatness counterfeit;
The lowly thought they them in vain had fear’d;
Found virtue harmless, and nought else so great.
Her mind (scarce to her feeble sex a-kin)
Did as her birth, her right to empire show;
Seem’d careless outward, when employ’d within;
Her speech, like lovers watch’d, was kind and low.
The court of Aribert could not want men of high rank and
accomplishments to pay their devotions at such a shrine. Among these,
“OSWALD the great, and greater GONDIBERT” moved in the most exalted
sphere of renown. These noble personages are characterized and
contrasted with so masterly a hand, that it would be an injury not to
transcribe the whole.
In courts, prince Oswald costly was and gay,
Finer than near vain kings their fav’rites are!
Outshin’d bright fav’rites on their nuptial day;
Yet were his eyes dark with ambitious care.
Duke Gondibert was still more gravely clad,
But yet his looks familiar were, and clear;
As if with ill to others never sad,
Nor tow’rds himself could others practise fear.
The Prince could, porpoise-like, in tempests play,
And in court storms on ship-wreck’d greatness feed;
Not frighted with their fate when cast away,
But to their glorious hazards durst succeed.
The Duke would lasting calms to courts assure,
As pleasant gardens we defend from winds;
For he who bus’ness would from storms procure,
Soon his affairs above his manage finds.
Oswald in throngs the abject people sought
With humble looks; who still too late will know
They are ambition’s quarry, and soon caught
When the aspiring eagle stoops so low.
The Duke did these by steady virtue gain;
Which they in action more than precept taste;
Deeds shew the good, and those who goodness feign
By such ev’n through their vizards are outfac’t.
Oswald in war was worthily renown’d;
Though gay in courts, coarsely in camps could live;
Judg’d danger soon, and first was in it found;
Could toil to gain what he with ease did give.
Yet toils and dangers through ambition lov’d,
Which does in war the name of virtue own:
But quits that name when from the war remov’d,
As rivers theirs when from their channels gone.
The Duke (as restless as his fame in war)
With martial toil could Oswald weary make,
And calmly do what he with rage did dare,
And give so much as he might deign to take.
Him as their founder cities did adore;
The court he knew to steer in storms of state;
In fields, a battle lost he could restore,
And after force the victors to their fate.
Of these great rivals, Gondibert was he whom the king had destined for
his son-in-law, and the heir of his throne; and Rhodalind too, in the
privacy of her own breast, had made the same choice. This is related
in a manner little inferior to Shakespear’s famous description of
concealed love.
Yet sadly it is sung, that she in shades,
Mildly as mourning doves, love’s sorrows felt;
Whilst in her secret tears, her freshness fades,
As roses silently in lymbecks melt.
Gondibert, however, though of a nature by no means unsusceptible of
the tender passion, had not as yet felt it for a particular object;
and Oswald, who stood forth as the public suitor to the princess, was
incited by no other motive than ambition. Not Rhodalind herself (says
the poet)
Could he affect, but shining in her throne.
His cause was powerfully pleaded with the princess by his sister
Gartha, with whom we are next brought acquainted. A bold, full,
majestic beauty; and a corresponding mind, high, restless, and
aspiring, are her distinguishing features. The prince and duke were
urged on to ambitious pursuits by their respective armies, which, just
returned from conquest, lay encamped, the one at Brescia, and the other
at Bergamo. That of Gondibert was composed of hardy youth whom he had
selected from his father’s camp, and educated in martial discipline
under his own inspection. Temperance, chastity, vigilance, humanity,
and all the high virtues of chivalry, remarkably distinguish these
young soldiers from those of later times. Beauty, indeed, commanded no
less regard amongst them than in a modern camp; but it was an object
of passion, and not of appetite; and was the powerful engine in their
education which inspired them with noble and exalted sentiments. This
is an idea on which our author, true to the principles of chivalry,
very frequently enlarges, and always with peculiar force and dignity.
In the present instance it is thus finely expressed:
But, though the Duke taught rigid discipline,
He let them beauty thus at distance know;
As priests discover some more sacred shrine,
Which none must touch, yet all to it may bow.
When thus, as suitors, mourning virgins pass
Thro’ their clean camp, themselves in form they draw,
That they with martial reverence may grace
Beauty, the stranger, which they seldom saw.
They vayl’d their ensigns as it by did move,
Whilst inward, as from native conscience, all
Worship’d the poet’s darling godhead, Love;
Which grave philosophers did Nature call.
Indeed, the influence of this passion in its purest and most exalted
state during the course of education, is a subject that might, perhaps,
shine as much in the hands of a moralist as of a poet.
The soldiers of Oswald were his father’s brave veterans, in whose arms
he had been bred. The story thus opened, and our attention awakened to
the expectation of important events, the first canto is closed.
The second canto introduces us to a solemn annual hunting, held by Duke
Gondibert in commemoration of a great victory gained on this day by his
grandsire. His train was adorned by many gallant and noble persons, the
friends of his family, and commanders in his army. The hunting, which
is described with much poetical spirit, terminates in a combat. As
Gondibert and his party are returning weary homeward, an ancient ranger
hastily brings the tidings that Oswald, who had lain in ambush with a
body of chosen horse, is advancing upon them. The Duke, rejecting all
counsels of flight, prepares to receive his foes; and with an account
of their principal leaders, and the order of their march, the canto
concludes.
A parley between the chiefs now succeeds, in which the character of
each is well preserved. Oswald warmly accuses his rival for usurping
his claims on the princess and the kingdom. Gondibert defends himself
with temper, and disavows all ambitious designs. The other disdains
accommodation; and the conference ends in a generous agreement to
decide their differences in single fight.
When every thing is prepared for the combat, Hubert, the brother of
Oswald, steps forth with a general challenge to the opposite party.
This is instantly accepted, and serves for a prelude to so many others,
that a general engagement seems likely to ensue; when Oswald reproves
their disobedient ardour: and, upon Hubert’s insisting to share his
fate from the rights of brotherhood, it is at length decided that three
persons of each party should enter the lists along with their generals.
The duel then comes on, in the fourth canto; in which Oswald, Hubert,
Paradine and Dargonet, are severally matched with Gondibert; Hurgonil,
the lover of Orna, the Duke’s sister; and Arnold and Hugo, generous
rivals in Laura. Descriptions of battle are so frequent in epic poetry,
that scarcely any circumstances of variety are left to diversify them.
Homer and his imitators have attempted novelty in the multiplicity
of their combats by every possible variation of weapon, posture, and
wound. They considered the human body with anatomical nicety; and dwelt
with a savage pleasure upon every idea of pain and horror that studied
butchery could excite. I shall leave it to the professed admirers of
antiquity to determine under what head of poetical beauty such objects
are to be ranged. The terrible is certainly a principal source of the
sublime; but a slaughter-house or a surgery would not seem proper
studies for a poet. D’avenant has drawn little from them. His battles
are rendered interesting chiefly by the character and situation of
the combatants. When Arnold, the favoured lover of Laura, is slain by
Paradine, Hugo, who had overthrown his antagonist, springs to avenge
his rival, with these truly gallant expressions:
Vain conqueror, said Hugo then, return!
Instead of laurel, which the victor wears,
Go gather cypress for thy brother’s urn,
And learn of me to water it with tears.
Thy brother lost his life attempting mine;
Which cannot for Lord Arnold’s loss suffice:
I must revenge, unlucky Paradine!
The blood his death will draw from Laura’s eyes.
We rivals were in Laura; but, tho’ she
My griefs derided, his with sighs approv’d,
Yet I, in love’s exact integrity,
Must take thy life for killing him she lov’d.
His generosity, however, was fatal both to his foe and himself.
Hubert, disabled by a wound in his arm, is dishonoured by receiving his
life from his conqueror; upon which occasion the poet thus beautifully
apostrophises:
O Honour, frail as life, thy fellow flower!
Cherish’d, and watch’d, and hum’rously esteem’d,
Then worn for short adornments of an hour;
And is, when lost, no more than life redeem’d.
The two chiefs are still left closely engaging; and when Hurgonil
approaches to assist his lord, he is warmly commanded to retire. At
length, after many mutual wounds, Oswald falls.
The death of the Prince at the same time takes off all restraint from
his party, and incites them to revenge. Led by the wounded Hubert, old
Vasco, and Borgio, they attack the hunters, who, besides the fatigue of
the chace, are represented as somewhat inferior in number. A furious
battle, the subject of the fifth canto, now ensues. Gondibert shines
forth in all the splendor of a hero. By his prowess his friends are
rescued, and the opposite leaders overthrown in various separate
encounters; and by his military skill the brave veterans of Oswald are
defeated. The whole description of the battle is warm and animated.
In Gondibert’s generous lamentation over the fallen, every heart must
sympathize with the following pathetic tribute to the rival lovers:
Brave Arnold and his rival strait remove,
Where Laura shall bestrew their hallow’d ground;
Protectors both, and ornaments of love;
This said, his eyes out wept his widest wound.
Tell her now these, love’s faithful saints, are gone,
The beauty they ador’d she ought to hide;
for vainly will love’s miracles be shewn,
Since lover’s faith with these brave rivals dy’d.
Say little Hugo never more shall mourn,
In noble numbers, her unkind disdain;
Who now, not seeing beauty, feels no scorn;
And wanting pleasure, is exempt from pain.
When she with flowers Lord Arnold’s grave shall strew,
And hears why Hugo’s life was thrown away,
She on that rival’s hearse will drop a few,
Which merits all that April gives to May.
The Duke now draws off his remaining friends towards Bergamo: but on
the journey, overcome by fatigue and loss of blood, he falls into a
deadly swoon. His attendants, amidst their anxiety and confusion upon
this event, are surprised, in the sixth canto, with the approach of a
squadron of horse. This, however, proves to be a friendly body, led
by old Ulfin, who, after recovering the Duke by a cordial, declares
himself to have been a page to his grandsire, and gives a noble
relation of the character and exploits of his great master. The rumour
of Oswald’s attack brought him to the relief of Gondibert; and we
have a description, which will be thought too much bordering upon the
ludicrous, of the strange confusion among his maimed veterans, who
in their haste had seized upon each other’s artificial limbs. This
unsightly troop, with the deficiencies of hands, arms, legs and eyes,
can scarcely, with all the poet’s art, be rendered a respectable
object. Such instances of faulty judgment are frequent in the writings
of an age which was characterized by vigour of imagination rather than
correctness of taste. Ulfin leads the Duke to the house of the sage
Astragon, where, with the approach of night, the canto and the first
book conclude.
In the beginning of the second book, the poet carries us with Hurgonil
and Tybalt and their noble dead, to Verona. The distant turrets first
appearing, and then the great objects opening, one by one; the river,
the palace, the temple, and the amphitheatre of Flaminius, form a
landscape truly noble and picturesque. The view of the temple gives
occasion to one of those elevated religious sentiments which dignify
this poem.
This to soothe heaven the bloody Clephes built;
As if heaven’s king so soft and easy were,
So meanly hous’d in heaven, and kind to guilt,
That he would be a tyrant’s tenant here.
We have then a lively description of a city morning; with the various
and uncertain rumours of the late event, among the people. The rest of
the canto is employed in a debate, rather tedious, though intermixed
with fine sentiments, concerning the propriety of granting funeral
rites to those who had perished in the quarrel.
The progress of the fatal news is traced in the next canto. Aribert
appears sitting in council in all the regal dignity. Tybalt relates
the story. The king, in a majestic speech, complains of the toils and
cares of empire, and predicts the baneful consequences likely to ensue.
A more interesting scene is then disclosed, in which Tybalt declares
the melancholy events of the combat to Rhodalind and the other ladies
of the court. Great art is shewn in the delicate ambiguity by which
they are prepared to receive the tidings. Laura is overpowered by her
loss; and, calling on Arnold’s name, is conveyed away by her female
attendants. This tender scene of sorrow is finely contrasted by the
abrupt entrance of Gartha, in all the wild pomp of mingled rage and
grief.
No sooner was the pity’d Laura gone,
But Oswald’s sister, Gartha the renown’d,
Enters as if the world was overthrown,
Or in the tears of the afflicted drown’d.
Unconquer’d as her beauty was her mind,
Which wanted not a spark of Oswald’s fire;
Ambition lov’d, but ne’er to love was kind;
Vex’d thrones did more than quiet shades desire.
Her garments now in loose neglect she wore,
As suited to her wild dishevell’d hair.
In the fury of her passion she breaks out into execrations against the
innocent.
Blasted be all your beauties, Rhodalind!
Till you a shame and terror be to sight;
Unwing’d be Love, and slow as he is blind,
Who with your looks poison’d my brother’s sight!
At length she mounts her chariot, and flies with the wings of revenge
to the veteran camp at Brescia. The terror impressed on the people by
her hasty departure is imaged with great sublimity.
She seem’d their city’s Genius as she pass’d,
Who, by their sins expell’d, would ne’er return.
The third canto brings us to Brescia, where Hubert’s arrival with the
dead body of Oswald excites every emotion of surprize, grief and fury
in the breasts of the brave veterans. They spend the night in this
storm of contending passions; and at day-break assemble round the tent
of Hubert, who by a noble harangue gives additional fire to their
revenge. They instantly arm, and demand to be led to Bergamo; when
Gartha arrives. She turns their vengeance against the court, where she
represents the triumph of Gondibert’s faction, and the dishonour cast
upon their own. The rage discovered in her countenance, overpowering
the symptoms of grief, is painted with amazing grandeur in the
following simile:
The Sun did thus to threat’ned nature show
His anger red, whilst guilt look’d pale in all,
When clouds of floods did hang about his brow;
And then shrunk back to let that anger fall.
This tempest is, however, allayed in the next canto by the arrival of
the wife Hermegild; who, though grown aged in war and politics, is
possessed with a youthful passion for Gartha. He solemnly binds his
services to their party, for the reward of Gartha’s love; but persuades
them to submit to more cautious and pacific measures. Gartha returns
with him to the court; and the funeral of Oswald with Roman rites,
“Which yet the world’s last law had not forbid,” is described in the
remaining part of the canto.
From scenes of rage and tumult the poet then leads us to the quiet
shades of philosophy in the house of Astragon. This change is not
better calculated for the reader’s relief, than for a display of
the richness and elevation of the writer’s mind. That the friend of
Hobbes should despise the learned lumber of the schools will not be
thought extraordinary; but that he should distinctly mark out such
plans of acquiring knowledge as have since been pursued with the
greatest success, may well be deemed a remarkable proof of high and
comprehensive genius. In Astragon’s domain is a retired building,
upon which is written in large letters, GREAT NATURE’S OFFICE.
Here sit certain venerable sages, stiled _Nature’s Registers_,
busied in recording what is brought them by a throng called their
_Intelligencers_. These men are diversly employed in exploring the
haunts of beasts, of birds, and of fishes, and collecting observations
of their manners, their prey, their increase, and every circumstance
of their œconomy. Near this place is NATURE’S NURSERY, stocked with
every species of plants, of which the several properties and virtues
are diligently examined. Is it not striking to find, in the _house of
Astragon_ so exact a model of the _school of Linnæus_?
We are next led to the CABINET OF DEATH; a receptacle for skeletons and
anatomical curiosities of every kind: and from thence, by a pleasing
analogy, to the library, or, as it is termed, the MONUMENT OF BANISH’D
MINDS. The feelings of his guests on entering this room are thus
described:
Where, when they thought they saw in well-sought books
Th’ assembled souls of all that men held wise,
It bred such awful rev’rence in their looks
As if they saw the bury’d writers rise.
The poet then goes through a particular survey of the authors,
distinguished into their several periods, countries, and professions;
in which he exhibits a great extent of learning, and, much more to
his honour, a sound and liberal judgment of what is truly valuable in
learning. Of this, his account of the polemic divines will be thought
no unfavourable specimen.
About this sacred little book did stand
Unwieldy volumes, and in number great;
And long it was since any reader’s hand
Had reached them from their unfrequented seat.
For a deep dust (which time does softly shed,
Where only time does come) their covers bear;
On which grave spiders streets of webs had spread,
Subtle, and slight, as the grave writers were.
In these heaven’s holy fire does vainly burn,
Nor warms, nor lights, but is in sparkles spent;
Where froward authors with disputes have torn
The garment seamless as the firmament.
If the subjects of this canto appear more noble and elevated than those
which usually employ the episodes of heroic poetry, that of the ensuing
one must strike with still superior dignity. Having acquainted us with
the philosophy of his admired sage, the poet now, by a beautiful kind
of allegory, instructs us in his religion. Astragon had dedicated
three temples, to PRAYER, to PENITENCE, and to PRAISE. The _Temple
of Prayer_ is described as a building quite plain, open, and without
bells; since nothing should tempt or summon to an office to which
our own wants invite us. The duty of _Penitence_ being a severity
unpleasing to nature, its _temple_ is contrived, by its solemn and
uncommon appearance, to catch the sense. It is a vast building of black
marble, hung with black, and furnished with that “dim religious light”
which poets have so finely employed to excite kindred ideas of gloom
and melancholy: but none, I think, have painted it with such strength
of colouring as our author: