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

To My Song With Smooth And Equal Measure Dance;

  While The Dance Lasts, How Long Soe'Er It Be,

  My Musick'S Voice Shall Bear It Company;

  Till All Gentle Notes Be Drown'D

  In the Last Trumpet'S Dreadful Sound.

 

 

 

After Such Enthusiasm, Who Will Not Lament To Find The Poet Conclude

With Lines Like These:

 

 

 

  But Stop, My Muse--

  Hold Thy Pindarick Pegasus Closely In,

  Which Does To Rage Begin

  --'Tis An Unruly And A Hard-Mouth'D Horse--

  'Twill No Unskilful Touch Endure,

  But Flings Writer And Reader Too That Sits Not Sure.

 

 

 

The Fault Of Cowley, And, Perhaps, Of All The Writers Of The

Metaphysical Race, Is That Of Pursuing his Thoughts To The Last

Ramifications, By Which He Loses The Grandeur Of Generality; For Of The

Greatest Things The Parts Are Little; What Is Little Can Be But Pretty,

And, By Claiming dignity, Becomes Ridiculous. Thus All The Power Of

Description Is Destroyed by A Scrupulous Enumeration, And The Force Of

Metaphors Is Lost, When The Mind, By The Mention Of Particulars, Is

Turned more Upon The Original Than The Secondary Sense, More Upon That

From Which The Illustration Is Drawn, Than That To Which It Is Applied.

 

 

 

Of This We Have A Very Eminent Example In the Ode Entitled the Muse, Who

Goes To "Take The Air" In an Intellectual Chariot, To Which He Harnesses

Fancy And Judgment, Wit And Eloquence, Memory And Invention: How He

Distinguished wit From Fancy, Or How Memory Could Properly Contribute To

Motion, He Has Not Explained; We Are, However, Content To Suppose That

He Could Have Justified his Own Fiction, And Wish To See The Muse Begin

Her Career; But There Is Yet More To Be Done:

 

 

 

  Let The _Postillion_, Nature, Mount, And Let

  The _Coachman_ Art Be Set;

  And Let The Airy _Footmen_, Running all Beside,

  Make A Long Row Of Goodly Pride;

  Figures, Conceits, Raptures, And Sentences,

  In a Well-Worded dress,

  And Innocent Loves, And Pleasant Truths, And Useful Lies,

  In all Their Gaudy _Liveries_.

 

 

 

Every Mind Is Now Disgusted with This Cumber Of Magnificence; Yet I

Cannot Refuse Myself The Four Next Lines:

 

 

 

  Mount, Glorious Queen, Thy Travelling throne,

  And Bid It To Put On;

  For Long, Though Cheerful, Is The Way,

  And Life, Alas! Allows But One Ill Winter'S Day.

 

 

 

In The Same Ode, Celebrating the Power Of The Muse, He Gives Her

Prescience, Or, In poetical Language, The Foresight Of Events Hatching

In Futurity; But, Having once An Egg In his Mind, He Cannot Forbear To

Show Us That He Knows What An Egg Contains:

 

 

 

  Thou Into The Close Nests Of Time Dost Peep,

  And There With Piercing eye

  Through The Firm Shell And The Thick White Dost Spy

  Years To Come A-Forming lie,

  Close In their Sacred fecundine Asleep.

 

 

 

The Same Thought Is More Generally, And, Therefore, More Poetically

Expressed by Casimir, A Writer Who Has Many Of The Beauties And Faults

Of Cowley:

 

 

 

  Omnibus Mundi Dominator Horis

  Aptat Urgendas Per Inane Pennas,

  Pars Adhuc Nido Latet, Et Futuros

  Crescit In annos.

 

 

 

Cowley, Whatever Was His Subject, Seems To Have Been Carried, By A Kind

Of Destiny, To The Light And The Familiar, Or To Conceits Which Require

Still More Ignoble Epithets. A Slaughter In the Red sea "New Dies The

Water'S Name;" And England, During the Civil War, Was "Albion No More,

Nor To Be Named from White." It Is, Surely, By Some Fascination Not

Easily Surmounted, That A Writer Professing to Revive "The Noblest And

Highest Writing in verse," Makes This Address To The New Year:

 

 

 

  Nay, If Thou Lov'St Me, Gentle Year,

  Let Not So Much As Love Be There,

  Vain, Fruitless Love I Mean; For, Gentle Year,

  Although I Fear

  There'S Of This Caution Little Need,

  Yet, Gentle Year, Take Heed

  How Thou Dost Make

  Such A Mistake;

  Such Love I Mean Alone

  As By Thy Cruel Predecessors Has Been Shewn:

  For, Though I Have Too Much Cause To Doubt It,

  I Fain Would Try, For Once, If Life Can Live Without It.

 

 

 

The Reader Of This Will Be Inclined to Cry Out, With Prior,

 

 

 

  Ye Criticks, Say,

  How Poor To This Was Pindar'S Style!

 

 

 

Even Those Who Cannot, Perhaps, Find In the Isthmian Or Nemaean Songs

What Antiquity Has Disposed them To Expect, Will, At Least, See That

They Are Ill Represented by Such Puny Poetry; And All Will Determine,

That If This Be The Old Theban Strain, It Is Not Worthy Of Revival.

 

 

 

To The Disproportion And Incongruity Of Cowley'S Sentiments, Must Be

Added the Uncertainty And Looseness Of His Measures. He Takes The

Liberty Of Using, In any Place, A Verse Of Any Length, From Two

Syllables To Twelve. The Verses Of Pindar Have, As He Observes, Very

Little Harmony To A Modern Ear; Yet, By Examining the Syllables, We

Perceive Them To Be Regular, And Have Reason Enough For Supposing that

The Ancient Audiences Were Delighted with The Sound. The Imitator Ought,

Therefore, To Have Adopted what He Found, And To Have Added what Was

Wanting; To Have Preserved a Constant Return Of The Same Numbers, And To

Have Supplied smoothness Of Transition And Continuity Of Thought.

 

 

 

It Is Urged by Dr. Sprat, That The "Irregularity Of Numbers Is The Very

Thing" Which Makes "That Kind Of Poesy Fit For All Manner Of Subjects."

But He Should Have Remembered, That What Is Fit For Every Thing can Fit

Nothing well. The Great Pleasure Of Verse Arises From The Known Measure

Of The Lines, And Uniform Structure Of The Stanzas, By Which The Voice

Is Regulated, And The Memory Relieved.

 

 

 

If The Pindarick Style Be, What Cowley Thinks It, "The Highest And

Noblest Kind Of Writing in verse," It Can Be Adapted only To High And

Noble Subjects; And It Will Not Be Easy To Reconcile The Poet With The

Critick, Or To Conceive How That Can Be The Highest Kind Of Writing in

Verse, Which, According to Sprat, Is "Chiefly To Be Preferred for Its

Near Affinity To Prose."

 

 

 

This Lax And Lawless Versification So Much Concealed the Deficiencies Of

The Barren, And Flattered the Laziness Of The Idle, That It Immediately

Overspread Our Books Of Poetry; All The Boys And Girls Caught The

Pleasing fashion, And They That Could Do Nothing else Could Write Like

Pindar. The Rights Of Antiquity Were Invaded, And Disorder Tried to

Break Into The Latin: A Poem[21] On The Sheldonian Theatre, In which All

Kinds Of Verse Are Shaken Together, Is Unhappily Inserted in the Musae

Anglicanae. Pindarism Prevailed about Half A Century; But, At Last, Died

Gradually Away, And Other Imitations Supply Its Place.

 

 

 

The Pindarick Odes Have So Long Enjoyed the Highest Degree Of Poetical

Reputation, That I Am Not Willing to Dismiss Them With Unabated censure;

And, Surely, Though The Mode Of Their Composition Be Erroneous, Yet Many

Parts Deserve, At Least, That Admiration Which Is Due To Great

Comprehension Of Knowledge, And Great Fertility Of Fancy. The Thoughts

Are Often New, And Often Striking; But The Greatness Of One Part Is

Disgraced by The Littleness Of Another; And Total Negligence Of Language

Gives The Noblest Conceptions The Appearance Of A Fabrick, August In

The Plan, But Mean In the Materials. Yet, Surely, Those Verses Are Not

Without A Just Claim To Praise; Of Which It May Be Said With Truth, That

No Man But Cowley Could Have Written Them.

 

 

 

The Davideis Now Remains To Be Considered; A Poem Which The Author

Designed to Have Extended to Twelve Books, Merely, As He Makes No

Scruple Of Declaring, Because The Aeneid Had That Number; But He Had

Leisure Or Perseverance Only To Write The Third Part. Epick Poems Have

Been Left Unfinished by Virgil, Statius, Spenser, And Cowley. That We

Have Not The Whole Davideis, Is, However, Not Much To Be Regretted; For

In This Undertaking cowley Is, Tacitly, At Least, Confessed to Have

Miscarried. There Are Not Many Examples Of So Great A Work, Produced by

An Author Generally Read, And Generally Praised, That Has Crept Through

A Century With So Little Regard. Whatever Is Said Of Cowley, Is Meant Of

His Other Works. Of The Davideis No Mention Is Made; It Never Appears In

Books, Nor Emerges In conversation. By The Spectator It Has Been Once

Quoted; By Rymer It Has Once Been Praised; And By Dryden, In mac

Flecknoe, It Has Once Been Imitated; Nor Do I Recollect Much Other

Notice From Its Publication Till Now, In the Whole Succession Of English

Literature.

 

 

 

Of This Silence And Neglect, If The Reason Be Inquired, It Will Be Found

Partly In the Choice Of The Subject, And Partly In the Performance Of

The Work.

 

 

 

Sacred history Has Been Always Read With Submissive Reverence, And

An Imagination Overawed and Controlled. We Have Been Accustomed to

Acquiesce In the Nakedness And Simplicity Of The Authentick Narrative,

And To Repose On Its Veracity With Such Humble Confidence As Suppresses

Curiosity. We Go With The Historian As He Goes, And Stop With Him When

He Stops. All Amplification Is Frivolous And Vain; All Addition To That

Which Is Already Sufficient For The Purposes Of Religion Seems Not Only

Useless, But, In some Degree, Profane.

 

 

 

Such Events As Were Produced by The Visible Interposition Of Divine

Power Are Above The Power Of Human Genius To Dignify. The Miracle Of

Creation, However It May Teem With Images, Is Best Described with Little

Diffusion Of Language: "He Spake The Word, And They Were Made."

 

 

 

We Are Told, That Saul "Was Troubled with An Evil Spirit;" From This

Cowley Takes An Opportunity Of Describing hell, And Telling the History

Of Lucifer, Who Was, He Says,

 

 

 

  Once Gen'Ral Of A Gilded host Of Sprites,

  Like Hesper Leading forth The Spangled nights;

  But Down, Like Lightning which Him Struck, He Came,

  And Roar'D At His First Plunge Into The Flame.

 

 

 

Lucifer Makes A Speech To The Inferiour Agents Of Mischief, In which

There Is Something of Heathenism, And, Therefore, Of Impropriety; And,

To Give Efficacy To His Words, Concludes By Lashing "His Breast With

His Long Tail." Envy, After A Pause, Steps Out, And, Among Other

Declarations Of Her Zeal, Utters These Lines:

 

 

 

  Do Thou But Threat, Loud Storms Shall Make Reply,

  And Thunder Echo To The Trembling sky:

  Whilst Raging seas Swell To So Bold An Height,

  As Shall The Fire'S Proud Element Affright.

  Th' Old Drudging sun, From His Long-Beaten Way,

  Shall, At Thy Voice, Start, And Misguide The Day.

  The Jocund Orbs Shall Break Their Measur'D Pace,

  And Stubborn Poles Change Their Allotted place,

  Heaven'S Gilded troops Shall Flutter Here And There,

  Leaving their Boasting songs Tun'D To A Sphere.

 

 

 

Every Reader Feels Himself Weary With This Useless Talk Of An

Allegorical Being.

 

 

 

It Is Not Only When The Events Are Confessedly Miraculous, That Fancy

And Fiction Lose Their Effect: The Whole System Of Life, While The

Theocracy Was Yet Visible, Has An Appearance So Different From All Other

Scenes Of Human Action, That The Reader Of The Sacred volume Habitually

Considers It As The Peculiar Mode Of Existence Of A Distinct Species Of

Mankind, That Lived and Acted with Manners Uncommunicable; So That It Is

Difficult, Even For Imagination, To Place Us In the State Of Them Whose

Story Is Related, And, By Consequence, Their Joys And Griefs Are Not

Easily Adopted, Nor Can The Attention Be Often Interested in any Thing

That Befalls Them.

 

 

 

To The Subject Thus Originally Indisposed to The Reception Of Poetical

Embellishments, The Writer Brought Little That Could Reconcile

Impatience, Or Attract Curiosity. Nothing can Be More Disgusting than A

Narrative Spangled with Conceits; And Conceits Are All That The Davideis

Supplies.

 

 

 

One Of The Great Sources Of Poetical Delight, Is Description, Or The

Power Of Presenting pictures To The Mind. Cowley Gives Inferences

Instead Of Images, And Shows Not What May Be Supposed to Have Been Seen,

But What Thoughts The Sight Might Have Suggested. When Virgil Describes

The Stone Which Turnus Lifted against Aeneas, He Fixes The Attention On

Its Bulk And Weight:

 

 

 

  Saxum Circumspicit Ingens,

  Saxum Antiquum, Ingens, Campo Quod Forte Jacebat,

  Limes Agro Positus, Litem Ut Discerneret Arvis.

 

 

 

Cowley Says Of The Stone With Which Cain Slew His Brother,

 

 

 

  I Saw Him Fling the Stone, As If He Meant

  At Once His Murther And His Monument.

 

 

 

Of The Sword Taken From Goliah, He Says,

 

 

 

  A Sword So Great, That It Was Only Fit,

  To Cut Off His Great Head That Came With It.

 

 

 

Other Poets Describe Death By Some Of Its Common Appearances. Cowley

Says, With A Learned allusion To Sepulchral Lamps, Real Or Fabulous,

 

 

 

  'Twixt His Right Ribs Deep Pierc'D The Furious Blade,

  And Open'D Wide Those Secret Vessels Where

  Life'S Light Goes Out, When First They Let In air.

 

 

 

But He Has Allusions Vulgar, As Well As Learned. In a Visionary

Succession Of Kings:

 

 

 

  Joas At First Does Bright And Glorious Shew,

  In life'S Fresh