Of Lyric Poetry. son. And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Now strike the golden lyre again; And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Has rais'd up his head, See the snakes that they rear, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain, Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, To light him to his prey, Timotheus, to his breathing flute, And sounding lyre, Whose palms, new-pluck'd from Paradise, Since heaven's eternal Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse But such as thy own voice did practise here, If by traduction came thy mind, A soul so charming from a stock so good; Was form'd at first with myriads more, And was that Sappho last which once it was before. III. May we presume to say, that, at thy birth, } Could swell the soul of rage, or kindle soft desire. New joy was sprung in heav'n, as well as here on earth? At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He rais'd a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down. Grand chor. At last, &c. There is another poem by Dryden, on the death of Mrs Anne Killegrew, a young lady eminent for her * Dr John-skill in poetry and painting, which a great critic * has pronounced to be "undoubtedly the noblest ode that our language has ever produced." He owns, that as a whole it may perhaps be inferior to Alexander's Feast; but he affirms that the first stanza of it is superior to any single part of the other. This famous stanza, he says, flows with a torrent of enthusiasm: Fervet immensusque ruit. How far this criticism is just, the public must determine. I. Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the bless'd; 4. For sure the milder planets did combine Might know a poetess was born on earth. Had heard the music of the spheres. } Heav'n had not leisure to renew: O gracious God! how far have we (Nay Of Lyric Of Lyric (Nay added fat pollutions of our own) Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. Art she had none, yet wanted none; She might our boasted stores defy : That it seem'd borrow'd where 'twas only born. By great examples daily fed, What in the best of books, her father's life, she read. Tho' Epictetus with his lamp were there. Even love (for love sometimes her Muse express'd) So cold herself, while she such warmth express'd, VI. Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, One would have thought she should have been content A plenteous province and alluring prey. A Chamber of Dependencies was fram'd. (As conquerors will never want pretence, When arm'd, to justify th' offence) And the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claim'd. And perfectly could represent The shape, the face, with ev'ry lineament, } And all the large domains which the dumb sister sway'd. And oft the happy draught surpass'd the image in her mind. } VII. The scene then chang'd, with bold erected look Our martial king the sight with rev'rence struck : For not content t'express his outward part, Her hand call'd out the image of his heart: His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, His high-designing thoughts were figur'd there, As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear. Our phoenix queen was pourtray'd too so bright, Beauty alone could beauty take so right: Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, Were all observ'd, as well as heav'nly face. With such a peerless majesty she stands, As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands; Before a train of heroines was seen, In beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen. Thus nothing to her genius was denied, But like a ball of fire the further thrown, Still with a greater blaze she shone, And her bright soul broke out on ev'ry side. What next she had design'd, Heaven only knows : To such immod'rate growth her conquest rose, That fate alone its progress could oppose. VIII. Now all those charms, that blooming grace, To work more mischievously slow, Heav'n, by the same disease, did both translate; As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate. IX. Meantime her warlike brother on the seas . If any sparkles than the rest more bright, X. When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, For those who wake and those who sleep: From the four corners of the sky; } The Of Lyric Poetry. Of Lyric The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, * whose. That this is a fine ode, and not unworthy of the genius of Dryden, must be acknowledged; but that it is the noblest which the English language bas produced, or that any part of it runs with the torrent of enthusiasm which characterizes Alexander's Feast, are positions which we feel not ourselves inclined to admit. Had the critic by whom it is so highly praised, inspected it with the eye which scanned the odes of Gray, we cannot help thinking that he would have perceived some parts of it to be tediously minute in description, and others not very perspicuous at the first perusal. It may perhaps, upon the whole, rank as high as the following ode by Collins on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland; but to a higher place it has surely no claim. I. HOME, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side; Together let us wish him lasting truth, And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand, There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill; There, ev'ry herd, by sad experience, knows, Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit beifers lie. Ev'n yet preserv'd, how often may'st thou hear, Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father to his list'ning son, Strange lays, whose pow'r had charm'd a Spenser's ea At every pause, before thy mind possest, Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, ear. With uncouth lyres in many-colour'd vest, Of Lyric Poetry. And strew'd with choicest herbs his scented grave; Or whether sitting in the shepherd's shiel (H), Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms, When, at the bugle's call, with fire and steel, The sturdy clans pour'd forth their brawny * swarms, * bony. And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms. IV. 'Tis thine to sing how framing hideous spells, In Sky's lone isle the gifted wizzard-seer †, When, o'er the wat'ry strath, or quaggi moss, For them the viewless forms of air obey; As (G) A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins. (H) A summer hut, built in the high part of the mountains, to tend their flocks in the warm season, when the pasture is fine. (1) Waiting in wintery cave his wayward fits. (K) Of this beautiful ode two copies have been printed one by Dr Carlyle, from a manuscript which he acknowledges to be mutilated; another by an editor who seems to hope that a nameless somebody will be believed, when he declares, that "he discovered a perfect copy of this admirable ode among some old papers in the concealed drawers of a bureau left him by a relation." The present age has been already too much amused with pretended discoveries of poems in the bottoms of old chests, to pay full credit to an assertion of this kind, even though the scene of discovery be laid in a bureau. As the ode of the anonymous editor differs, however, very little from that of Dr Carlyle, and as what is affirmed by a GENTLEMAN may be true, though "he chooses not at present + siter + embodied fpiercing They mourn'd in air, fell, fell rebellion, slain! And as of late they joy'd in Preston's fight, Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd! They rav'd divining through their second-sight (M), Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd! Illustrious William (N)! Britain's guardian name! One William sav'd us from a tyrant's stroke; He, for a sceptre, gain'd heroic fame, But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke, To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke! VI. These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic muse He glows, to draw you downward to your death, Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For watchful, lurking, 'mid th' unrustling reed, At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, And listens oft to hear the passing steed, And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, Ifchance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise. VII. On him, enrag'd, the fiend, in angry mood, What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait, His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate! Her travell'd limbs in broken slumbers steep! Of Lyric Poetry. * hapless. "At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; "Nor e'er of me one * helpless thought renew, "While I lie welt'ring on the ozier'd shore, "Drown'd by the kelpie's† wrath, nor e'er shall aid the water IX. [thee more!” i nd. + style. Unbounded is thy range; with varied skıli‡ To present to publish his name," we have inserted into our work the copy which pretends to he perfect, nothing at the bottom or margin of the page the different readings of Dr Carlyle's edition. In the Doctor's manuscript, which appeared to have been nothing more than the prima cura, or first sketch of the poem, the fifth stanza and half of the sixth were wanting; and to give a continued context, he prevailed with Mr M'Kenzie, the ingenious author of the Man of Feeling, to fill up the chasm. This he did by the following beautiful lines, which we can not help thinking much more happy than those which occupy their place in the copy said to be perfect : “Or on some bellying rock that shades the deep, They view the lurid signs that cross the sky, Where in the west the brooding tempests lie; And hear their first, faint, rustling pennons sweep. Or in the arched cave, where deep and dark The broad unbroken billows heave and swell, In horrid musings wrapt, they sit to mark The lab'ting moon; or list the nightly yell Of that dread spirit, whose gigantic form The seer's entranced eye can well survey, Through the dim air who guides the driving storm, And points the wretched bark its destin'd prey. Or him who hovers on his flagging wing, O'er the dire whirlpool, that in ocean's waste, Draws instant down whate'er devoted thing The falling breeze within its reach hath plac'dThe distant seaman hears, and flies with trembling haste. Or if on land the fiend exerts his sway, Silent he broods o'er quicksand, beg, or fen, Far from the shelt'ring roof and haunts of men, When witched darkness shuts the eye of day, And shrouds each star that wont to cheer the night g Or if the drifted snow perplex the way, With treach'rous gleam he lures the fated wight And leads him flound'ring on and' quite astray." (L) By young Aurora, Collins undoubtedly meant the first appearance of the northern lights, which is com monly said to have happened about the year 1715. (M) Second-sight is the term that is used for the divination of the Highlanders. (N) The late duke of Cumberland, who defeated the Pretender at the battle of Culloden. (0) A fiery meteor, called by various names, such as Will with the Wisp, Jack with the Lanthorn, &c. It hovers in the air over marshy and fenny places. Of Lyric Poetry. To that hear pile (P) which still its ruin shows: Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, But, ob o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, With sparing temp'rance at the needful time, P. 237. and N° 3. Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage There, Shakespeare's self, with every garland crown'd, Flew to those fiery climes his fancy sheen (R), In musing hour; his wayward sisters found, And with their terrors dress'd the magic scene. From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast! The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line, In scenes like these, which, daring to depart Of Lyric Poetry. How have I trembl'd, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd, When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd sword! How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind, To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung! Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind, Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung! Hence, at each sound, imagination glows! Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here! (s) Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murm'ring *, strong, and clear, And fills the impassion'd heart, and wins th' harmonious ous. XIII. [ear. * numer + spacious. Three ri vers in All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail! Scotland. Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! (T) Then will I dress once more the faded bow'r, Where Jonson (U) sat in Drummond's classic† shade; † social. Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flow'r, And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's laid ‡! Meantime, ye pow'rs that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains (x), attend! Where'er HOME dwells §, on hill, or lowly moor, To him I loose, your kind protection lend, And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent friend! Dr Johnson, in his life of Collins, informs us, that Dr Warton and his brother, who had seen this ode in the author's possession, thought it superior to his other works. The taste of the Wartons will hardly be questioned but we are not sure that the following Ode to the Passions has much less merit, though it be merit of a different kind, than the Ode on the Superstitions of the Highlands: WHEN Music, heav'nly maid, was young, And (P) One of the Hebrides is called the Isle of Pigmies, where it is reported, that several miniature bones of the human species have been dug up in the ruins of a chapel there. (a) Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where many of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings, are said to be interred. (R) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition. (s) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition. (T) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition. (U) Ben Jonson paid a visit on foot in 1619 to the Scotch poet Drummond, at his seat of Hawthornden, within seven miles of Edinburgh. (x) Barrow, it seems, was at the university of Edinburgh, which is in the county of Lothian. the widowed maid! § he dwell. I lose. |