easily impressed with new ideas; extremely tenacious of the old; with
difficulty warmed; and as slowly cooling again.--How unsuited then to
our national character is that species of poetry which rises upon us
with unexpected flights! Where we must hastily catch the thought, or it
flies from us; and, in short, where the Reader must largely partake of
the Poet's enthusiasm, in order to taste his beauties. To carry the
parallel a little farther; the Greek Poet wrote in a language the most
proper that can be imagined for this species of composition; lofty,
harmonious, and never needing rhyme to heighten the numbers. But, for
us, several unsuccessful experiments seem to prove that the English
cannot have Odes in blank Verse; while, on the other hand, a natural
imperfection attends those which are composed in irregular rhymes:--the
similar sound often recurring where it is not expected, and not being
found where it is, creates no small confusion to the Reader,--who, as we
have not seldom observed, beginning in all the solemnity of poetic
elocution, is by frequent disappointments of the rhyme, at last obliged
to drawl out the uncomplying numbers into disagreeable prose.
It is, by no means, our design to detract from the merit of our Author's
present attempt: we would only intimate, that an English Poet,--one whom
the Muse has _mark'd for her own_, could produce a more luxuriant bloom
of flowers, by cultivating such as are natives of the soil, than by
endeavouring to force the exotics of another climate: or, to speak
without a metaphor, such a genius as Mr. Gray might give greater
pleasure, and acquire a larger portion of fame, if, instead of being an
imitator, he did justice to his talents, and ventured to be more an
original. These two Odes, it must be confessed, breath[e] much of the
spirit of Pindar, but then they have caught the seeming obscurity, the
sudden transition, and hazardous epithet, of his mighty master; all
which, though evidently intended for beauties, will, probably, be
regarded as blemishes, by the generality of his Readers. In short, they
are in some measure, a representation of what Pindar now appears to be,
though perhaps, not what he appeared to the States of Greece, when they
rivalled each other in his applause, and when Pan himself was seen
dancing to his melody.
In conformity to the antients, these Odes consist of the _Strophe_,
_Antistrophe_, and _Epode_, which, in each Ode, are thrice repeated. The
Strophes have a correspondent resemblance in their str[u]cture and
numbers: and the Antistrophe and Epode also bear the same similitude.
The Poet seems, in the first Ode particularly, to design the Epode as a
complete air to the Strophe and Antistrophe, which have more the
appearance of Recitative. There was a necessity for these divisions
among the antients, for they served as directions to the dancer and
musician; but we see no reason why they should be continued among the
moderns; for, instead of assisting, they will but perplex the Musician,
as our music requires a more frequent transition from the Air to the
Recitative than could agree with the simplicity of the antients.
The first of these Poems celebrates the Lyric Muse. It seems the most
laboured performance of the two, but yet we think its merit is not equal
to that of the second. It seems to want that regularity of plan upon
which the second is founded; and though it abounds with images that
strike, yet, unlike the second, it contains none that are affecting.
In the second Antistrophe the Bard thus marks the progress of Poetry.
II. [2.]
In climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom
To cheer the shivering natives dull abode
And oft beneath the od'rous shade
Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,
In loose numbers wildly sweet
Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and generous shame,
Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.
There is great spirit in the irregularity of the numbers towards the
conclusion of the foregoing stanza.
[II, 3, and III, 2, of _The Progress of Poesy_ are quoted without
comment.]
The second 'Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward
the first, when he compleated the conquest of that country, ordered all
the Bards that fell into his hands to be put to death.' The Author seems
to have taken the hint of this subject from the fifteenth Ode of the
first book of Horace. Our Poet introduces the only surviving Bard of
that country in concert with the spirits of his murdered brethren, as
prophetically denouncing woes upon the Conqueror and his posterity. The
circumstances of grief and horror in which the Bard is represented,
those of terror in the preparation of the votive web, and the mystic
obscurity with which the prophecies are delivered, will give as much
pleasure to those who relish this species of composition, as anything
that has hitherto appeared in our language, the Odes of Dryden himself
not excepted.
[I, 2, I, 3, part of II, 1, and the conclusion of _The Bard_ are
quoted]--_The Monthly Review_.
[Footnote F: The best Odes of Pindar are said to be those which have
been destroyed by time; and even they were seldom recited among the
Greeks, without the adventitious ornaments of music and dancing. Our
Lyric Odes are seldom set off with these advantages, which, trifling as
they seem, have alone given immortality to the works of Quinault.]
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
_The Traveller, or a Prospect of Society. A Poem_. _Inscribed to the
Rev. Mr._ Henry Goldsmith. _By_ OLIVER GOLDSMITH, _M.B. 4to. Pr. 1s.
6d_. Newbery.
The author has, in an elegant dedication to his brother, a country
clergyman, given the design of his poem:--'Without espousing the cause
of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have
endeavoured to shew, that there may be equal happiness in other states,
though differently governed from our own; that each state has a peculiar
principle of happiness; and that this principle in each state,
particularly in our own, may be carried to a mischievous excess.'
That he may illustrate and enforce this important position, the author
places himself on a summit of the Alps, and, turning his eyes around, in
all directions, upon the different regions that lie before him,
compares, not merely their situation or policy, but those social and
domestic manners which, after a very few deductions, make the sum total
of human life.
'Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanded to the skies.
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell'd fond turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.--
Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend;
And, plac'd on high above the storm's career,
Look downward where an hundred realms appear;
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extended wide,
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
When thus creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store 'twere thankless to repine.
'Twere affectation all, and school-taught pride,
To spurn the splendid things by heaven supply'd.
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man;
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.'
The author already appears, by his numbers, to be a versifier; and by
his scenery, to be a poet; it therefore only remains that his sentiments
discover him to be a just estimator of comparative happiness.
The goods of life are either given by nature, or procured by ourselves.
Nature has distributed her gifts in very different proportions, yet all
her children are content; but the acquisitions of art are such as
terminate in good or evil, as they are differently regulated or
combined.
'Yet, where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly asserts that country for his own,
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And live-long nights of revelry and ease;
The naked Negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his Gods for all the good they gave.--
Nature, a mother kind alike, to all,
Still grants her bliss at Labour's earnest call;
And though rough rocks or gloomy summits frown,
These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down.
From Art more various are the blessings sent;
Wealth, splendours, honor, liberty, content:
Yet these each other's power so strong contest,
That either seems destructive of the rest.
Hence every state, to one lov'd blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.
Each to the favourite happiness attends,
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends;
Till, carried to excess in each domain,
This favourite good begets peculiar pain.'
This is the position which he conducts through Italy, Swisserland,
France, Holland, and England; and which he endeavours to confirm by
remarking the manners of every country.
Having censured the degeneracy of the modern Italians, he proceeds thus:
'My soul turn from them, turn we to survey
Where rougher climes a nobler race display,
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread;
No product here the barren hills afford,
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword.
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter lingering chills the lap of May;
No Zephyr fondly soothes the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.
Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small,
He sees his little lot, the lot of all;
See no contiguous palace rear its head
To shame the meanness of his humble shed;
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal
To make him loath his vegetable meal;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.'
But having found that the rural life of a Swiss has its evils as well as
comforts, he turns to France.
'To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
We turn; and France displays her bright domain.
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease,
Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please.--
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear,
For honour forms the social temper here.--
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise;
They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem,
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.'
Yet France has its evils:
'For praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought,
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Leans all for pleasure on another's breast.--
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.'
Having then passed through Holland, he arrives in England, where,
'Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,
With daring aims, irregularly great,
I see the lords of human kind pass by,
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand.'
With the inconveniences that harrass [_sic_] the sons of freedom, this
extract shall be concluded.
'That independence Britons prize too high,
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie;
See, though by circling deeps together held,
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd;
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar,
Represt ambition struggles round her shore,
Whilst, over-wrought, the general system feels
Its motions stopt, or phrenzy fires the wheels.
Nor this the worst. As social bonds decay,
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway,
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe.
Hence all obedience bows to these alone,
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown;
Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms,
That land of scholars, and that nurse of arms;
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,
And monarchs toil, and poets pant for fame;
One sink of level avarice shall lie,
And scholars, soldiers, kings unhonor'd die.'
Such is the poem, on which we now congratulate the public, as on a
production to which, since the death of Pope, it will not be easy to
find any thing equal.--_The Critical Review_.
WILLIAM COWPER
_Poems by William Cowper, of the Inner Temple, Esq._ _8vo. 5s._ Johnson.
These Poems are written, as we learn from the title-page, by Mr. Cowper
of the Inner Temple, who seems to be a man of a sober and religious turn
of mind, with a benevolent heart, and a serious wish to inculcate the
precepts of morality; he is not, however, possessed of any superior
abilities, or powers of genius, requisite to so arduous an undertaking;
his verses are, in general, weak and languid, and have neither novelty,
spirit, or animation, to recommend them; that mediocrity so severely
condemned by Horace,
Non Dii non homines, &c.
pervades the whole; and, whilst the author avoids every thing that is
ridiculous or contemptible, he, at the same time, never rises to any
thing that we can commend or admire. He says what is incontrovertible,
and what has already been said over and over, with much gravity, but
says nothing new, sprightly, or entertaining; travelling on in a plain,
level, flat road, with great composure, almost through the whole long,
and rather tedious volume, which is little better than a dull sermon, in
very indifferent verse, on Truth, the Progress of Error, Charity, and
some other grave subjects. If this author had followed the advice given
by Caraccioli,[G] and which he has chosen for one of the mottos
prefixed to these Poems, he would have clothed his indisputable truths
in some becoming _disguise_, and rendered his work much more agreeable.
In its present state, we cannot compliment him on its shape or beauty;
for, as this bard himself _sweetly_ sings,
'The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear,
Falls soporific on the listless ear.'
In his learned dissertation on _Hope_, we meet with the following lines
[Quotes some fifty lines from _Hope_ beginning,
Build by whatever plan caprice decrees,
With what materials, on what ground you please, etc.]
All this is very true; but there needs no ghost, nor author, nor poet,
to tell us what we knew before, unless he could tell it to us in a new
and better manner. Add to this, that many of our author's expressions
are coarse, vulgar, and unpoetical; such as _parrying_, _pushing by_,
_spitting abhorrence_, &c. The greatest part of Mr. Cowper's didactics
is in the same strain. He attempts indeed sometimes to be lively,
facetious, and satirical; but is seldom more successful in this, than in
the serious and pathetic. In his poem on Conversation there are two or
three faint attempts at humour; in one of them he tells us that
'A story in which native humour reigns
Is often useful, always entertains,
A graver fact enlisted on your side,
May furnish illustration, well applied;
But sedentary weavers of long tales,
Give me the fidgets and my patience fails.
'Tis the most asinine employ on earth,
To hear them tell of parentage and birth,
And echo conversations dull and dry,
Embellished with, _he said_, and _so said I_.
At ev'ry interview their route the same,
The repetition makes attention lame,
We bustle up with unsuccessful speed,
And in the saddest part cry--droll indeed!
The path of narrative with care pursue,
Still making probability your clue,
On all the vestiges of truth attend,
And let them guide you to a decent end.
Of all ambitions man may entertain,
The worst that can invade a sickly brain,
Is that which angles hourly for surprize,
And baits its hook with prodigies and lies.
Credulous infancy or age as weak
Are fittest auditors for such to seek,
Who to please others will themselves disgrace,
Yet please not, but affront you to your face.'
In the passage above quoted, our readers will perceive that the wit is
rather aukward, [_sic_] and the verses, especially the last, very
prosaic.
Toward the end of this volume are some little pieces of a lighter kind,
which, after dragging through Mr. Cowper's long moral lectures, afforded
us some relief. The fables of the Lily and the Rose, the Nightingale and
Glow-worm, the Pine-apple and the Bee, with two or three others, are
written with ease and spirit. It is a pity that our author had not
confined himself altogether to this species of poetry, without entering
into a system of ethics, for which his genius seems but ill
adapted.--_The Critical Review_.
[Footnote G: Nous sommes nes pour la verite, et nous ne pouvons souffrir
son abord. Les figures, les paraboles, les emblemes, sont toujours des
ornements necessaires pour qu'elle puisse s'annoncer: on veut, en la
recevant, qu'elle soit _deguisee_.]
ROBERT BURNS
_Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect_. _By_ ROBERT BURNS,
_Kilmarnock_.
When an author we know nothing of solicits our attention, we are but too
apt to treat him with the same reluctant civility we show to a person
who has come unbidden into company. Yet talents and address will
gradually diminish the distance of our behaviour, and when the first
unfavourable impression has worn off, the author may become a favourite,
and the stranger a friend. The poems we have just announced may probably
have to struggle with the pride of learning and the partiality of
refinement; yet they are intitled to particular indulgence.
Who are you, Mr. Burns? will some surly critic say. At what university
have you been educated? what languages do you understand? what authors
have you particularly studied? whether has Aristotle or Horace directed
your taste? who has praised your poems, and under whose patronage are
they published? In short, what qualifications intitle you to instruct or
entertain us? To the questions of such a catechism, perhaps honest
Robert Burns would make no satisfactory answers. 'My good Sir, he might
say, I am a poor country man; I was bred up at the school of Kilmarnock;
I understand no languages but my own; I have studied Allan Ramsay and
Ferguson. My poems have been praised at many a fireside; and I ask no
patronage for them, if they deserve none. I have not looked on mankind
_through the spectacle of books_. An ounce of mother-wit, you know, is
worth a pound of clergy; and Homer and Ossian, for any thing that I have
heard, could neither write nor read.' The author is indeed a striking
example of native genius bursting through the obscurity of poverty and
the obstructions of laborious life. He is said to be a common ploughman;
and when we consider him in this light, we cannot help regretting that
wayward fate had not placed him in a more favoured situation. Those who
view him with the severity of lettered criticism, and judge him by the
fastidious rules of art, will discover that he has not the doric
simplicity of Ramsay, nor the brilliant imagination of Ferguson; but to
those who admire the exertions of untutored fancy, and are blind to many
faults for the sake of numberless beauties, his poems will afford
singular gratification. His observations on human characters are acute
and sagacious, and his descriptions are lively and just. Of rustic
pleasantry he has a rich fund; and some of his softer scenes are touched
with inimitable delicacy. He seems to be a boon companion, and often
startles us with a dash of libertinism, which will keep some readers at
a distance. Some of his subjects are serious, but those of the humorous
kind are the best. It is not meant, however, to enter into a minute
investigation of his merits, as the copious extracts we have subjoined
will enable our readers to judge for themselves. The Character Horace
gives to Osellus is particularly applicable to him.
_Rusticus abnormis sapiens, crassaque Minerva._
[Quotes _Address to the Deil_, from the _Epistle to a Brother Bard_,
from _Description of a Sermon in the Fields_, and from
_Hallowe'en_.]--_The Edinburgh Magazine_.
_Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect_. _By Robert Burns._ Printed at
Kilmarnock.
We have had occasion to examine a number of poetical productions,
written by persons in the lower rank of life, and who had hardly
received any education; but we do not recollect to have ever met with a
more signal instance of true and uncultivated genius, than in the author
of these Poems. His occupation is that of a common ploughman; and his
life has hitherto been spent in struggling with poverty. But all the
rigours of fortune have not been able to repress the frequent efforts of
his lively and vigorous imagination. Some of these poems are of a
serious cast; but the strain which seems most natural to the author, is
the sportive and humorous. It is to be regretted, that the Scottish
dialect, in which these poems are written, must obscure the native
beauties with which they appear to abound, and renders the sense often
unintelligible to an English reader. Should it, however, prove true,
that the author has been taken under the patronage of a great lady in
Scotland, and that a celebrated professor has interested himself in the
cultivation of his talents, there is reason to hope, that his
distinguished genius may yet be exerted in such a manner as to afford
more general delight. In the meantime, we must admire the generous
enthusiasm of his untutored muse; and bestow the tribute of just
applause on one whose name will be transmitted to posterity with
honour.--_The Critical Review_.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
_Descriptive Sketches_, in Verse. Taken during a Pedestrian Tour in the
Italian, Grison, Swiss and Savoyard Alps. By W. WORDSWORTH, B.A. of St.
John's, Cambridge. 4to. pp. 55. 3s. Johnson. 1793.
More descriptive poetry! (See page 166, &c.) Have we not yet enough?
Must eternal changes be rung on uplands and lowlands, and nodding
forests, and brooding clouds, and cells, and dells, and dingles? Yes;
more, and yet more: so it is decreed.
Mr. Wordsworth begins his descriptive sketches with the following
exordium:
'Were there, below, a spot of holy ground,
By Pain and her sad family _un_found,
Sure, Nature's God that spot to man had giv'n,
Where murmuring _rivers join_ the song of _ev'n_!
Where _falls_ the purple morning far and wide
_In flakes_ of light upon the mountain side;
Where summer suns in ocean sink to rest,
Or moonlight upland lifts her hoary breast;
Where Silence, on her night of wing, o'er-broods
Unfathom'd dells and undiscover'd woods;
Where rocks and groves the _power_ of waters _shakes_
In cataracts, or sleeps in quiet lakes.'
May we ask, how it is that rivers join the song of ev'n? or, in plain
prose, the evening! but, if they do, is it not true that they equally
join the song of morning, noon, and night? The _purple morning falling
in flakes_ of light is a bold figure: but we are told, it falls far and
wide--Where?--On the mountain's _side_. We are sorry to see the purple
morning confined so like a maniac in a straight waistcoat. What the
night of wing of silence is, we are unable to comprehend: but the
climax of the passage is, that, were there such a spot of holy ground as
is here so sublimely described, _unfound_ by Pain and her sad family,
Nature's God had surely given that spot to man, though its _woods_ were
_undiscovered_.
Let us proceed,
'But doubly pitying Nature loves to show'r
Soft on his _wounded heart_ her healing pow'r,
Who _plods_ o'er hills and vales his road _forlorn_,
Wooing her varying charms from eve to morn.
_No sad vacuities_ his heart _annoy_,
_Blows_ not a Zephyr but it _whispers joy_;
For him _lost_ flowers their _idle_ sweets _exhale_;
He _tastes_ the meanest _note_ that swells the gale;
For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn,
And _peeps_ the far-off _spire_, his evening bourn!
Dear is the forest _frowning_ o'er his head,
And dear the green-sward to his _velvet tread_;
Moves there a _cloud_ o'er mid-day's flaming eye?
Upwards he looks--and calls it luxury;
Kind Nature's _charities_ his steps attend,
In every babbling brook he finds a friend.'
Here we find that _doubly_ pitying Nature is very kind to the traveller,
but that this traveller has a _wounded heart_ and _plods_ his road
_forlorn_. In the next line but one we discover that--
'No _sad vacuities_ his heart _annoy_;
Blows not a Zephyr but it whispers _joy_.'