22 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, Their pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, 23 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 24 For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 25 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 26 There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech 27 Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 6 He is an evening reveller, who makes 217 HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 2 Spirit of BEAUTY, that dost consecrate With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river; Such gloom; why man has such a scope 3 No voice from some sublimer world hath ever To sage or poet these responses given: Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven Remain the records of their vain endeavour; Frail spells, whose utter'd charm might not avail to sever, From all we hear and all we see, Doubt, chance, and mutability. Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven, Through strings of some still instrument, 4 Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds, depart That wax and wane in lovers' eyes; Thou, that to human thought art nourishment, Like darkness to a dying flame, Depart not as thy shadow came ! 5 While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped I call'd on poisonous names with which our youth is fed: When musing deeply on the lot Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing News of birds and blossoming, Sudden, thy shadow fell on me : I shriek'd, and clasp'd my hands in ecstasy! 6 I vow'd that I would dedicate my powers To thee and thine: have I not kept the vow? With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now I call the phantoms of a thousand hours Each from his voiceless grave: they have in vision'd bowers Of studious zeal or love's delight Outwatch'd with me the envious night: That thou, O awful LOVELINESS! 7 The day becomes more solemn and serene When noon is past: there is a harmony In Autumn, and a lustre in its sky, Which through the Summer is not heard nor seen, Thus let thy power, which, like the truth Descended, to my onward life supply JOHNSON'S LIVES OF THE POETS. JOHNSON'S LIVES OF THE POETS. 219 I AM very much the biographer's humble admirer. His uncommon share of good sense, and his forcible expression, secure to him that tribute from all his readers. He has a penetrating insight into character, and a happy talent of correcting the popular opinion, upon all occasions where it is erroneous; and this he does with the boldness of a man who will think for himself, but, at the same time, with a justness of sentiment that convinces us he does not differ from others through affectation, but because he has a sounder judgment. This remark, however, has his narrative for its object, rather than his critical performance. In the latter, I do not think him always just, when he departs from the general opinion. He finds no beauties in Milton's Lycidas. His treatment of Milton is unmerciful to the last degree. A pensioner is not likely to spare a republican; and the Doctor, in order, I suppose, to convince his royal patron of the sincerity of his monarchical principles, has belaboured that great poet's character with the most industrious cruelty. As a man, he has hardly left him the shadow of one good quality. Churlishness in his private life, and a rancorous hatred of every thing royal in his public, are the two colours with which he has smeared all the canvas. If he had any virtues, they are not to be found in the Doctor's picture of him; and it is well for Milton, that some sourness in his temper is the only vice with which his memory has been charged: it is evident enough that if his biographer could have discovered more, he would not have spared him. As a poet, he has treated him with severity enough, and has plucked one or two of the most beautiful feathers out of his Muse's wing, and trampled them under his great foot. He has passed sentence of condemnation upon Lycidas, and has taken occasion, from that charming poem, to expose to ridicule (what is indeed ridiculous enough) the childish prattlement of pastoral compositions, as if Lycidas was the prototype and pattern of them all. The liveliness of the description, the sweetness of the numbers, the classical spirit of antiquity that prevails in it, go for nothing. I am convinced, by the way, that he has no ear for poetical numbers, or that it was stopped by prejudice against the harmony of Milton's. Was there ever any thing so delightful as the music of the Paradise Lost? It is like that of a fine organ; has the fullest and the deepest tones of majesty, with all the softness and elegance of the Dorian flute. Variety without end and never equalled, unless perhaps by Virgil. Yet the Doctor has little or nothing to say upon this copious theme, but talks something about the unfitness of the English language for blank-verse, and how apt it is, in the mouth of some readers, to degenerate into declamation. O! I could thresh his old jacket, till I made his pension jingle in his pocket. There are He pours contempt upon Prior, to such a degree, that, were he really as undeserving of notice as he represents him, he ought no longer to be numbered among the poets. These, indeed, are the two capital instances in which he has offended me. others less important, which I have not room to enumerate, and in which I am less confident that he is wrong. What suggested to him the thought that the Alma was written in imitation of Hudibras, I cannot conceive. In former years, they were both favourites of mine, and I often read them; but never saw in them the least resemblance to each other; nor do I now, except that they are composed in verse of the same measure. After all, it is a melancholy observation, which it is impossible not to make, after having run through this series of poetical lives, that, where there were such shining talents, there should be so little virtue. These luminaries of our country seem to have been kindled into a brighter blaze than others, only that their spots might be more noticed! So much can Nature do for our intellectual part, and so little for our moral. What vanity, what petulance in Pope! How painfully sensible of censure, and yet how restless in provocation! To what mean artifices could Addison stoop, in hopes of injuring the reputation of his friend! Savage, how sordidly vicious! and the more condemned for the pains that are taken to palliate his vices. Offensive as they appear through a veil, how would they disgust without one! What a sycophant to the public taste was Dryden! sinning against his feelings, lewd in his writings, though chaste in his conversation. I know not but one might search these eight volumes with a candle, as the Prophet says, to find a man, and not find one, unless, perhaps, Arbuthnot were he. WILLIAM COWPER: 1731-1800. |