Lives Of The Poets, Vol. 1 (fiscle part-III), Samuel Johnson [good summer reads .TXT] 📗

Has A Just

Claim To Popularity, Because He Writes To Common Degrees Of Knowledge;

And Is Free, At Least, From Philosophical Pedantry, Unless, Perhaps,

The End Of A Song To The Sun May Be Excepted, In which He Is Too Much A

Copernican. To Which May Be Added, The Simile Of The Palm In the Verses,

On Her Passing through A Crowd; And A Line In a More Serious Poem On The

Restoration, About Vipers And Treacle, Which Can Only Be Understood By

Those Who Happen To Know The Composition Of The Theriaca.

 

 

 

His Thoughts Are Sometimes Hyperbolical, And His Images Unnatural:

 

 

 

  The Plants Admire,

  No Less Than Those Of Old Did Orpheus' Lyre:

  If She Sit Down, With Tops All Tow'Rds Her Bow'D,

  They Round About Her Into Arbours Crowd:

  Or If She Walks, In even Ranks They Stand,

  Like Some Well-Marshall'D And Obsequious Band.

 

 

 

In Another Place:

 

 

 

  While In the Park I Sing, The Listening deer

  Attend My Passion, And Forget To Fear:

  When To The Beeches I Report My Flame,

  They Bow Their Heads, As If They Felt The Same:

  To Gods Appealing, When I Reach Their Bowers,

  With Loud Complaints They Answer Me In showers.

  To Thee A Wild And Cruel Soul Is Given,

  More Deaf Than Trees, And Prouder Than The Heaven!

 

 

 

On The Head Of A Stag:

 

 

 

  O Fertile Head! Which Every Year

  Could Such A Crop Of Wonder Bear!

  The Teeming earth Did Never Bring,

  So Soon So Hard, So Huge A Thing:

  Which Might It Never Have Been Cast,

  Each Year'S Growth Added to The Last,

  These Lofty Branches Had Supply'D

  The Earth'S Bold Sons' Prodigious Pride:

  Heaven With These Engines Had Been Scal'D,

  When Mountains Heap'D On Mountains Fail'D.

 

 

 

Sometimes, Having succeeded in the First Part, He Makes A Feeble

Conclusion. In the Song Of Sacharissa'S And Amoret'S Friendship, The Two

Last Stanzas Ought To Have Been Omitted.

 

 

 

His Images Of Gallantry Are Not Always In the Highest Degree Delicate:

 

 

 

  Then Shall My Love This Doubt Displace.

  And Gain Such Trust, That I May Come

  And Banquet Sometimes On Thy Face,

  But Make My Constant Meals At Home.

 

 

 

Some Applications May Be Thought Too Remote And Unconsequential; As In

The Verses On The Lady Dancing:

 

 

 

  The Sun In figures Such As These

  Joys With The Moon To Play:

  To The Sweet Strains They Advance,

  Which Do Result From Their Own Spheres;

  As This Nymph'S Dance

  Moves With The Numbers Which She Hears.

 

 

 

Sometimes A Thought, Which Might, Perhaps, Fill A Distich, Is Expanded

And Attenuated, Till It Grows Weak And Almost Evanescent:

 

 

 

  Chloris! Since First Our Calm Of Peace

  Was Frighted hence, This Good We Find,

  Your Favours With Your Fears Increase,

  And Growing mischiefs Make You Kind.

  So The Fair Tree, Which Still Preserves

  Her Fruit, And State, While No Wind Blows,

  In storms From That Uprightness Swerves;

  And The Glad Earth About Her Strows

  With Treasure From Her Yielding boughs.

 

 

 

His Images Are Not Always Distinct; As, In the Following passage, He

Confounds Love, As A Person, With Love, As A Passion:

 

 

 

  Some Other Nymphs, With Colours Faint,

  And Pencil Slow, May Cupid Paint,

  And A Weak Heart, In time, Destroy;

  She Has A Stamp, And Prints The Boy:

  Can, With A Single Look, Inflame

  The Coldest Breast, The Rudest Tame.

 

 

 

His Sallies Of Casual Flattery Are Sometimes Elegant And Happy, As That

In Return For The Silver Pen; And Sometimes Empty And Trifling, As That

Upon The Card Torn By The Queen. There Are A Few Lines Written In the

Dutchess'S Tasso, Which He Is Said, By Fenton, To Have Kept A Summer

Under Correction. It Happened to Waller, As To Others, That His Success

Was Not Always In proportion To His Labour.

 

 

 

Of These Petty Compositions, Neither The Beauties Nor The Faults Deserve

Much Attention. The Amorous Verses Have This To Recommend Them, That

They Are Less Hyperbolical Than Those Of Some Other Poets. Waller Is Not

Always At The Last Gasp; He Does Not Die Of A Frown, Nor Live Upon A

Smile. There Is, However, Too Much Love, And Too Many Trifles. Little

Things Are Made Too Important; And The Empire Of Beauty Is Represented as

Exerting its Influence Further Than Can Be Allowed by The Multiplicity Of

Human Passions, And The Variety Of Human Wants. Such Books, Therefore,

May Be Considered, As Showing the World Under A False Appearance, And, So

Far As They Obtain Credit From The Young And Unexperienced, As Misleading

Expectation, And Misguiding practice.

 

 

 

Of His Nobler And More Weighty Performances, The Greater Part Is

Panegyrical: For Of Praise He Was Very Lavish, As Is Observed by His

Imitator, Lord Lansdowne:

 

 

 

  No Satyr Stalks Within The Hallow'D Ground,

  But Queens And Heroines, Kings And Gods Abound;

  Glory And Arms And Love Are All The Sound.

 

 

 

In The First Poem, On The Danger Of The Prince On The Coast Of Spain,

There Is A Puerile And Ridiculous Mention Of Arion, At The Beginning; And

The Last Paragraph, On The Cable, Is, In part, Ridiculously Mean, And In

Part, Ridiculously Tumid. The Poem, However, Is Such As May Be Justly

Praised, Without Much Allowance For The State Of Our Poetry And Language

At That Time.

 

 

 

The Two Next Poems Are Upon The King'S Behaviour At The Death Of

Buckingham, And Upon His Navy.

 

 

 

He Has, In the First, Used the Pagan Deities With Great Propriety:

 

 

 

  'Twas Want Of Such A Precedent As This,

  Made The Old Heathen Frame Their Gods Amiss.

 

 

 

In The Poem On The Navy, Those Lines Are Very Noble, Which Suppose The

King'S Power Secure Against A Second Deluge; So Noble, That It Were

Almost Criminal To Remark The Mistake Of _Centre_ For _Surface_, Or To

Say That The Empire Of The Sea Would Be Worth Little, If It Were Not That

The Waters Terminate In land.

 

 

 

The Poem Upon Sallee Has Forcible Sentiments; But The Conclusion Is

Feeble. That On The Repairs Of St. Paul'S Has Something vulgar And

Obvious; Such As The Mention Of Amphion; And Something violent And Harsh;

As,

 

 

 

  So All Our Minds With His Conspire To Grace

  The Gentiles' Great Apostle, And Deface

  Those State-Obscuring sheds, That, Like A Chain,

  Seem'D To Confine, And Fetter Him Again:

 

 

 

  Which The Glad Saint Shakes Off At His Command,

  As Once The Viper From His Sacred hand.

  So Joys The Aged oak, When We Divide

  The Creeping ivy From His Injur'D Side.

 

 

 

Of The Two Last Couplets, The First Is Extravagant, And The Second Mean.

 

 

 

His Praise Of The Queen Is Too Much Exaggerated; And The Thought, That

She "Saves Lovers, By Cutting off Hope, As Gangrenes Are Cured by Lopping

The Limb," Presents Nothing to The Mind But Disgust And Horrour.

 

 

 

Of The Battle Of The Summer Islands, It Seems Not Easy To Say Whether It

Is Intended to Raise Terrour Or Merriment. The Beginning is Too Splendid

For Jest, And The Conclusion Too Light For Seriousness. The Versification

Is Studied, The Scenes Are Diligently Displayed, And The Images Artfully

Amplified; But, As It Ends Neither In joy Nor Sorrow, It Will Scarcely Be

Read A Second Time.

 

 

 

The Panegyrick Upon Cromwell Has Obtained from The Publick A Very Liberal

Dividend Of Praise, Which, However, Cannot Be Said To Have Been Unjustly

Lavished; For Such A Series Of Verses Had Rarely Appeared before In the

English Language. Of The Lines Some Are Grand, Some Are Graceful, And All

Are Musical. There Is Now And Then A Feeble Verse, Or A Trifling thought;

But Its Great Fault Is The Choice Of Its Hero.

 

 

 

The Poem Of The War With Spain Begins With Lines More Vigorous And

Striking than Waller Is Accustomed to Produce. The Succeeding parts

Are Variegated with Better Passages And Worse. There Is Something too

Far-Fetched in the Comparison Of The Spaniards Drawing the English On,

By Saluting st. Lucar With Cannon, "To Lambs Awakening the Lion By

Bleating." The Fate Of The Marquis And His Lady, Who Were Burnt In their

Ship, Would Have Moved more, Had The Poet Not Made Him Die Like The

Phoenix, Because He Had Spices About Him, Nor Expressed their Affection

And Their End, By A Conceit, At Once, False And Vulgar:

 

 

 

  Alive, In equal Flames Of Love They Burn'D,

  And Now Together Are To Ashes Turn'D.

 

 

 

The Verses To Charles On His Return Were Doubtless Intended to

Counterbalance The Panegyrick On Cromwell. If It Has Been Thought

Inferiour To That With Which It Is Naturally Compared, The Cause Of Its

Deficience Has Been Already Remarked.

 

 

 

The Remaining pieces It Is Not Necessary To Examine Singly. They Must Be

Supposed to Have Faults And Beauties Of The Same Kind With The Rest. The

Sacred poems, However, Deserve Particular Regard; They Were The Work Of

Waller'S Declining life, Of Those Hours In which He Looked upon The

Fame And The Folly Of The Time Past With The Sentiments Which His Great

Predecessor, Petrarch, Bequeathed to Posterity, Upon His Review Of That

Love And Poetry Which Have Given Him Immortality.

 

 

 

That Natural Jealousy Which Makes Every Man Unwilling to Allow Much

Excellence In another, Always Produces A Disposition To Believe That The

Mind Grows Old With The Body; And That He, Whom We Are Now Forced to

Confess Superiour, Is Hastening daily To A Level With Ourselves. By

Delighting to Think This Of The Living, We Learn To Think It Of The Dead;

And Fenton, With All His Kindness For Waller, Has The Luck To Mark The

Exact Time When His Genius Passed the Zenith, Which He Places At His

Fifty-Fifth Year. This Is To Allot The Mind But A Small Portion.

Intellectual Decay Is, Doubtless, Not Uncommon; But It Seems Not To

Be Universal. Newton Was, In his Eighty-Fifth Year, Improving his

Chronology, A Few Days Before His Death; And Waller Appears Not, In my

Opinion, To Have Lost, At Eighty-Two, Any Part Of His Poetical Power.

 

 

 

His Sacred poems Do Not Please Like Some Of His Other Works; But Before

The Fatal Fifty-Five, Had He Written On The Same Subjects, His Success

Would Hardly Have Been Better.

 

 

 

It Has Been The Frequent Lamentation Of Good Men, That Verse Has Been Too

Little Applied to The Purposes Of Worship, And Many Attempts Have Been

Made To Animate Devotion By Pious Poetry. That They Have Very Seldom

Attained their End, Is Sufficiently Known, And It May Not Be Improper

To Inquire, Why They Have Miscarried. Let No Pious Ear Be Offended if I

Advance, In opposition To Many Authorities, That Poetical Devotion Cannot

Often Please. The Doctrines Of Religion May, Indeed, Be Defended in a

Didactick Poem; And He Who Has The Happy Power Of Arguing in verse, Will

Not Lose It Because His Subject Is Sacred. A Poet May Describe The Beauty

And The Grandeur Of Nature, The Flowers Of The Spring, And The Harvests

Of Autumn, The Vicissitudes Of The Tide, And The Revolutions Of The Sky,

And Praise The Maker For His Works, In lines Which No Reader Shall Lay

Aside. The Subject Of The Disputation Is Not Piety, But The Motives To

Piety; That Of The Description Is Not God, But The Works Of God.

 

 

 

Contemplative Piety, Or The Intercourse Between God And The Human Soul,

Cannot Be Poetical. Man, Admitted to Implore The Mercy Of His Creator,

And Plead The Merits Of His Redeemer, Is Already In a Higher State Than

Poetry Can Confer.

 

 

 

The Essence Of Poetry Is Invention; Such Invention As, By Producing

Something unexpected, Surprises And Delights. The Topicks Of Devotion Are

Few, And, Being few, Are Universally Known; But, Few As They Are, They

Can Be Made No More; They Can Receive No Grace From Novelty Of Sentiment,

And Very Little From Novelty Of Expression.

 

 

 

Poetry Pleases By Exhibiting an Idea More Grateful To The Mind Than

Things Themselves Afford. This Effect Proceeds From The Display Of Those

Parts Of Nature Which Attract, And The Concealment Of Those Which Repel

The Imagination: But Religion Must Be Shown As It Is; Suppression And

Addition Equally Corrupt It; And Such As It Is, It Is Known Already.

 

 

 

From Poetry The Reader Justly Expects, And From Good Poetry Always

Obtains, The Enlargement Of His Comprehension And Elevation Of His Fancy;

But This Is Rarely To Be Hoped by Christians From Metrical Devotion.

Whatever Is Great, Desirable, Or Tremendous, Is Comprised in the Name

Of The Supreme Being. Omnipotence Cannot Be Exalted; Infinity Cannot

Be Amplified; Perfection Cannot Be Improved. The Employments Of Pious

Meditation Are Faith, Thanksgiving, Repentance, And Supplication. Faith,

Invariably Uniform, Cannot Be Invested by Fancy With Decorations.

Thanksgiving, The Most Joyful Of All Holy Effusions, Yet Addressed to A

Being without Passions, Is Confined to A Few Modes, And Is To Be Felt

Rather Than Expressed. Repentance, Trembling in the Presence Of The

Judge, Is Not At Leisure For Cadences And Epithets.