"Hold mighty man, I cry all this we know,
And 'tis this very reason I despise,
This supernatural gift that makes a mite
Think he's the image of the Infinite;
Comparing his short life, void of all rest,
To the eternal and the ever blest.
This busy, puzzling stirrer up of doubt,
That frames deep mysteries, then finds them out,
Filling, with frantic crowds of thinking fools,
Those reverend bedlams, colleges, and schools;
Borne on whose wings each heavy sot can pierce
The limits of the boundless universe.
So charming ointments make an old witch fly,
And bear a crippled carcase through the sky.
'Tis this exalted power, whose business lies
In nonsense and impossibilities.
This made a whimsical philosopher
Before the spacious world his tub prefer;
And we have modern cloistered coxcombs, who
Retire to think, 'cause they have naught to do.
But thoughts are given for action's government,
Where action ceases, thought's impertinent."
Whether these ideas are true or false, it is certain they are expressed
with an energy and fire which form the poet. I shall be very far from
attempting to examine philosophically into these verses, to lay down the
pencil, and take up the rule and compass on this occasion; my only design
in this letter being to display the genius of the English poets, and
therefore I shall continue in the same view.
The celebrated Mr. Waller has been very much talked of in France, and Mr.
De la Fontaine, St. Evremont, and Bayle have written his eulogium, but
still his name only is known. He had much the same reputation in London
as Voiture had in Paris, and in my opinion deserved it better. Voiture
was born in an age that was just emerging from barbarity; an age that was
still rude and ignorant, the people of which aimed at wit, though they
had not the least pretensions to it, and sought for points and conceits
instead of sentiments. Bristol stones are more easily found than
diamonds. Voiture, born with an easy and frivolous, genius, was the
first who shone in this aurora of French literature. Had he come into
the world after those great geniuses who spread such a glory over the age
of Louis XIV., he would either have been unknown, would have been
despised, or would have corrected his style. Boileau applauded him, but
it was in his first satires, at a time when the taste of that great poet
was not yet formed. He was young, and in an age when persons form a
judgment of men from their reputation, and not from their writings.
Besides, Boileau was very partial both in his encomiums and his censures.
He applauded Segrais, whose works nobody reads; he abused Quinault, whose
poetical pieces every one has got by heart; and is wholly silent upon La
Fontaine. Waller, though a better poet than Voiture, was not yet a
finished poet. The graces breathe in such of Waller's works as are writ
in a tender strain; but then they are languid through negligence, and
often disfigured with false thoughts. The English had not in his time
attained the art of correct writing. But his serious compositions
exhibit a strength and vigour which could not have been expected from the
softness and effeminacy of his other pieces. He wrote an elegy on Oliver
Cromwell, which, with all its faults, is nevertheless looked upon as a
masterpiece. To understand this copy of verses you are to know that the
day Oliver died was remarkable for a great storm. His poem begins in
this manner:--
"Il n'est plus, s'en est fait, soumettons nous au sort,
Le ciel a signale ce jour par des tempetes,
Et la voix des tonnerres eclatant sur nos tetes
Vient d'annoncer sa mort.
"Par ses derniers soupirs il ebranle cet ile;
Cet ile que son bras fit trembler tant de fois,
Quand dans le cours de ses exploits,
Il brisoit la tete des Rois,
Et soumettoit un peuple a son joug seul docile.
"Mer tu t'en es trouble; O mer tes flots emus
Semblent dire en grondant aux plus lointains rivages
Que l'effroi de la terre et ton maitre n'est plus.
"Tel au ciel autrefois s'envola Romulus,
Tel il quitta la Terre, au milieu des orages,
Tel d'un peuple guerrier il recut les homages;
Obei dans sa vie, sa mort adore,
Son palais fut un Temple," &c.
* * * * *
"We must resign! heaven his great soul does claim
In storms as loud as his immortal fame;
His dying groans, his last breath shakes our isle,
And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile:
About his palace their broad roots are tost
Into the air; so Romulus was lost!
New Rome in such a tempest missed her king,
And from obeying fell to worshipping.
On OEta's top thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruined oaks and pines about him spread.
Nature herself took notice of his death,
And, sighing, swelled the sea with such a breath,
That to remotest shores the billows rolled,
Th' approaching fate of his great ruler told."