LYRIC POETRY.
It is entirely in keeping with the solid and terrestrial character of
Restoration literature in general, that no description of poetry should
manifest so grievous a lapse from the standard of the preceding age as
the lyrical. The decline of the drama has attracted more attention,
partly from the violent contrast of two schools which had hardly one
principle or one method in common, partly because our own age had but
imperfectly realized the exceeding wealth in song of the Elizabethan and
Jacobean periods, until Mr. Arthur Bullen showed what unsuspected
treasures of poetry were hidden in old music books. Whatever else an
Elizabethan or Jacobean lyric may be, it is almost certain to be
melodious. The average Restoration lyric is correct enough in scansion,
but the melody is conventional, poor and thin. Here and there, and
especially in Dryden, we are surprised by a fine exception; but as a
rule the Restoration song is deficient alike in the simple spontaneity
which inspired such pieces as _Come live with me and be my love_, and in
the more intricate harmonies of its predecessors. It was as though a
blight had suddenly fallen upon the nation, and men's ears had become
incapable of distinguishing between sweetness and smoothness. So,
indeed, they had as respected the music of verse; but how little
technical music, whether vocal or instrumental, was neglected, even in
private circles, we may learn from Pepys's _Diary_, and it is a
remarkable proof how little this music and the music of poetry have to
do with each other, that this age of degeneracy in the one produced the
greatest of all English masters, Purcell, in the other; while the still
more hopelessly unmelodious age of the first Georges was the age of
Handel. Poetry makes melody, not melody poetry; and the only explanation
is, that the age preceding that of the Restoration was poetical, and the
Restoration age was prosaic. It could not well have been otherwise if,
as all critics agree, the special literary mission of the Restoration
period was to prune the luxuriance of English prose, and by introducing
conciseness, perspicuity, and logical order, to render it a fit
instrument for narrative, reasoning, and the despatch of business.
Such lyric as the age possessed is almost entirely comprehended in
Dryden; for Marvell, of whom we must nevertheless speak, belongs in
spirit to a former age. The songs in Dryden's plays, to be mentioned
shortly, prove that he was by no means destitute of spontaneous lyrical
feeling; but he no doubt succeeded best when, having first penetrated
himself with a theme sufficiently stirring to generate the enthusiastic
mood which finds its natural expression in song, he sat down to frame a
fitting accompaniment by the aid of all the resources of metrical art.
The principal examples of this lyrical magnificence which he has given
us are the elegy on Anne Killigrew and the two odes on St. Cecilia's
Day. Of the first of these two latter, Johnson says that 'it is lost in
the splendour of the second,' and such is the fact; but had Dryden
produced no other lyric, he would still have ranked as a fine lyrical
poet. Of the second ode, better known as _Alexander's Feast_, it is
needless to say anything, for all readers of poetry have it by heart,
and all recognize its claim to rank among the greatest odes in the
language--the greatest, perhaps, until Wordsworth and Shelley wrote, and
little, if at all, behind even them. Johnson, indeed, prefers the
memorial ode on Anne Killigrew, and if all the stanzas equalled the
first he would be right; but this is impossible; as he himself remarks,
'An imperial crown cannot be one continued diamond.' The inevitable
falling off, nevertheless, would have been less apparent if Dryden had
shown more judgment in the selection of his topics, or at least more
tact in handling them. The morals of the age were, indeed, bad enough,
as he well knew who had helped to make them so; but such frank treatment
of a disagreeable theme jars exceedingly with an ode devoted to the
celebration of chastity and virtue. Notwithstanding this flaw, the
entire ode deserves Mr. Saintsbury's eulogy, 'As a piece of concerted
music in verse it has not a superior.' The hyperbolical praise of Anne
Killigrew's now forgotten poems is explained, and in some measure
excused, by the fact that it was written to be prefixed to them. The
first stanza, appropriate to thousands beside its ostensible subject,
appeals to the general human heart, and indicates the high-water mark of
Restoration poetry:
'Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest,
Whose palms, new-plucked from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest:
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll'st above us in thy wandering race,
Or in procession fixed and regular
Mov'st with the heavens' majestic pace;
Or, called to more superior bliss,
Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.
Hear then a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse
In no ignoble verse;
But such as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first fruits of Poesy were given,
To make thyself a welcome inmate there
While yet a young probationer
And candidate of heaven.'
The poet who so excelled in majestic artificial harmonies was also the
one poet of his day who could occasionally sing as the bird sings.
Dryden has never received sufficient praise for his songs, inasmuch as
these are mostly hidden away in his dramas, and not always adapted for
quotation. The following, with a manifest political meaning, is a good
example of his simple ease and melody:
'A choir of bright beauties in spring did appear
To choose a May-lady to govern the year;
All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green;
The garland was given, and Phyllis was queen:
But Phyllis refused it, and sighing did say,
I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.
'While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore,
The Graces are vanished, and Love is no more:
The soft God of Pleasure that warmed our desires,
Has broken his bow and extinguished his fires;
And vows that himself and his mother will mourn
Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.
'Forbear your addresses and court us no more,
For we will perform what the Deity swore;
But if you dare think of deserving our charms,
Away with your sheep-hooks, and take to your arms;
Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn
When Pan and his son and fair Syrinx return.'
The following song is from _The Mock Astrologer_:
'You charmed me not with that fair face,
Though it was all divine;
To be another's is the grace
That makes me wish you mine.
The gods and fortune take their part
Who like young monarchs fight,
And boldly dare invade that heart
Which is another's right.
First, mad with hope, we undertake
To pull up every bar;
But, once possessed, we feebly make
A dull defensive war.
Now every friend is turned a foe,
In hope to get our store:
And passion makes us cowards grow
Which made us brave before.'
The Muse who could mourn to such purpose for Anne Killigrew might have
been expected to soar high in celebrating and lamenting Charles II.,
parts of whose history and character certainly lent themselves to
poetry. Whether from haste, indifference, or whatever reason, Dryden was
clearly unable to penetrate himself with the subject, and it is perhaps
to his honour that his composition should so little simulate an
inspiration he was evidently far from feeling. The choice of subjects is
judicious, but the treatment is in general inanimate and perfunctory,
except when the poet is going to say something absurd, and then his
motto is _Pecca fortiter_. There is, perhaps, nothing nearer burlesque
in all Dryden's rhyming plays than this couplet:
'Ere a prince is to perfection brought,
He costs Omnipotence a second thought.'
The poet is also weighted by having to flatter Charles and his successor
at the same time. The concluding lines, however, eulogizing James's care
for the navy, will always echo in the heart of Britain:
'Behold even the remoter shores
A conquering navy proudly spread:
The British cannon formidably roars,
While, starting from his oozy bed,
The asserted Ocean rears his reverend head
To view and recognize his ancient Lord again,
And with a willing hand restores
The fasces of the main.'
This latter fine phrase had occurred already in _Astraea Redux_ and
_Annus Mirabilis_.
Andrew Marvell, though unequal, is an excellent lyric poet. His best
song, _Where the remote Bermudas ride_, is such a household word that we
select a less known piece:
'Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the summer night,
Her matchless songs does meditate;
'Ye country comets, that portend
No war nor prince's funeral,
Shining unto no other end
Than to presage the grass's fall;
'Ye glowworms, whose officious flame
To wandering mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,
And after foolish fires do stray;
'Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come;
For she my mind hath so displaced,
That I shall never find my home.'
In fancy as in melody this and Marvell's other gems belong to the age of
Charles I. Apart from Dryden, the Restoration has little to show beside
three songs of genuine inspiration in the plays of Crowne, to be
mentioned in his place as a middling dramatist; Sir Charles Sedley's
charming verses to Chloris; others, mostly from the same hand Motteux,
and, strange to say, the Dryasdust Rymer, which have found a harbour in
Mr. Arthur Bullen's _Musa Proterva_; a few songs of Rochester's and
Aphra Behn's; some few carols in Mr. Ebsworth's collections; and the
elegant and animated _To all you ladies now at land_ of Charles
Sackville, Earl of Dorset (1637-1706), less known for his occasional
verses, these excepted, than as the arbiter of taste and the benefactor
of needy men of letters.
It was but natural that the lyrists, like the dramatists, should
endeavour to make up in bombastic extravagance for their deficiencies in
simplicity and truth to nature. An appropriate instrument was at hand in
the Pindaric ode, the miscreation of a true poet, Cowley. So little were
the genuine characteristics of Pindaric versification then understood
even by scholars, that it is no wonder that Cowley should have conceived
them to be equivalent to absolute irregularity. His own compositions are
not within our province; but it may be remarked that they are
distinguished from the Pindarics of Charles II.'s time by the
preponderance of what was then called wit, which we should describe as a
perverse ingenuity in discovering superficial resemblances between
dissimilar things. It is impossible not to admire in a measure some of
the feats of this kind performed by Cowley, Crashaw, and Donne; but
common sense intimates that the real criterion of the merit of a
comparison is its justice. The movement, nevertheless, had considerable
significance as indicating the exhaustion of the old forms of poetry. It
had triumphed in Italy and in Spain in the persons of Marino and
Gongora, with most disastrous effects on the literature of those
countries. Fortunate it was for England that this fashion arrived late,
and before it could take much root was dislodged by the saner methods of
France. Pindarics, however, went on existing, but with comparatively
little wit, and even less poetry. Sprat, of whom we shall have to speak
as the historian of the Royal Society, was perhaps the most conspicuous
practitioner. The following lines on Prometheus are a bright example of
his amalgam of poetry and wit:
'Along he brought the sparkling coal
From some celestial chimney[6] stole;
Quickly the plundered stars he left,
And as he hastened down,
With the robbed flames his hands still shone,
And seemed as if they were burnt for the theft.'
Congreve is equally absurd in his personification of Sleep:
'An ancient sigh he sits upon,
Whose memory of sound is long since gone,
And purposely annihilated for his throne.'
This poet, nevertheless, who, as pointed out by Dr. Johnson and Mr.
Gosse, has the critical merit of having given the English Pindaric a
regular structure, was capable of much better things. The opening of the
ode which yields the above choice _morceau_ (_To Mrs. Arabella Hunt,
Singing_) is in a fine strain of poetry:
'Let all be hushed, each softest motion cease,
Be every loud tumultuous thought at peace,
And every ruder gasp of breath
Be calm, as in the arms of death:
And then, most fickle, most uneasy part,
Thou restless wanderer, my heart,
Be still; gently, ah gently, leave,
Thou busy, idle thing, to heave:
Stir not a pulse; and let my blood,
That turbulent unruly flood,
Be softly staid:
Let me be all, but my attention, dead.
Go, rest, unnecessary springs of life,
Leave your officious toil and strife;
For I would hear her voice, and try
If it be possible to die.'
FOOTNOTES:
[6] It should be noted that this word is not so absurd as it may appear
to the modern reader. Chimney (Fr. _cheminee_) here means the fireplace,
not the flue. 'The mantle of the _chimney_ in his hall.'--WALTON, _Life
of George Herbert_.