Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

A powerful brand prescribed the date

Of thine, like Meleager's fate.

Th' antiperistasis of age

More inflam'd thy amorous rage.

In the following verses we have an allusion to a rabbinical opinion concerning manna:

"Variety I ask not: give me one

To live perpetually upon.
The person Love does to us fit,

Like manna, has the taste of all in it."

Thus Donne shows his medicinal knowledge in some encomiastic verses:

"In everything there naturally grows
A balsamum to keep it fresh and new,
If 'twere not injured by extrinsic blows:
Your youth and beauty are this balm in you.
But you, of learning and religion,
And virtue and such ingredients, have made
A mithridate, whose operation

Keeps off, or cures what can be done or said."

Though the following lines of Donne, on the last night of the year, have something in them too scholastic, they are not inelegant:

[ocr errors]

"This twilight of two years, not past nor next,
Some emblem is of me, or I of this,

Who, meteor-like, of stuff and form perplext,
Whose what and where in disputation is,

If I should call me anything, should miss.

I sum the years and me, and find me not
Debtor to th' old, nor creditor to th' new.

That cannot say, my thanks I have forgot,
Nor trust I this with hopes; and yet scarce true
This bravery is, since these times show'd me you."
Yet more abstruse and profound is Donne's
reflection upon man as a microcosm:

"If men be worlds, there is in every one Something to answer in some proportion: All the world's riches; and in good men this Virtue, our form's form, and our soul's soul, is." Of thoughts so far-fetched as to be not only unexpected, but unnatural, all their books are full.

To a lady who wrote posies for rings: "They who above do various circles find, Say, like a ring th' equator Heaven does bind. When Heaven shall be adorn'd by thee, (Which then more Heaven than 'tis will be) Tis thou must write the poesy there, For it wanteth one as yet, Then the sun pass through't twice a year, The sun, which is esteem'd the god of wit." -(COWLEY.)

The difficulties which have been raised about identity in philosophy are by Cowley, with still more perplexity, applied to love:

"Five years ago (says story) I loved you,

For which you call me most inconstant now;
Pardon me, madam, you mistake the man;
For I am not the same that I was then:
No flesh is now the same 'twas then in me,
And that my mind is changed yourself may see.
The same thoughts to retain still, and intents,
Were more inconstant far; for accidents
Must of all things most strangely inconstant prove,
If from one subject they t' another move;
My members then the father members were,

From whence these take their birth which now are

here.

If then this body love what th' other did,
"Twere incest, which by nature is forbid."

The love of different women is, in geographical poetry, compared to travels through different countries:

"Hast thou not found each woman's breast (The land where thou hast travelled)

Either by savages possest,

Or wild, and uninhabited?
What joy could'st take, or what repose,
In countries so unciviliz'd as those?
Lust, the scorching dog-star, here

Rages with immoderate heat;
Whilst Pride, the rugged northern bear,
In others makes the cold too great.
And where these are temperate known,
The soil's all barren sand or rocky stone."

[ocr errors]

-(COWLEY.)

A lover, burned up by his affection, is compared to Egypt:

"The fate of Egypt I sustain,

And never feel the dew of rain,

From clouds which in the head appear;

But all my too-much moisture owe

To overflowings of the heart below."-(COWLEY.) The lover supposes his lady acquainted with the ancient laws of augury and rites of sacrifice:

"And yet this death of mine, I fear, Will ominous to her appear:

When, sound in every other part,

Her sacrifice is found without an heart.
For the last tempest of my death

Shall sigh out that too, with my breath."

That the chaos was harmonized, has been recited of old; but whence the different sounds arose remained for a modern to discover:

"Th' ungovern'd parts no correspondence knew;

An artless war from thwarting motions grew;
Till they to number and fixed rules were brought.
Water and air he for the tenor chose,
Earth made the base; the treble flame arose."
-(COWLEY.)

The tears of lovers are always of great poetical account; but Donne has extended them into worlds. If the lines are not easily understood, they may be read again:

"On a round ball

A workman, that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afric, and an Asia,

And quickly make that which was nothing, all.
So doth each tear,

Which thee doth wear,

A globe, yea world, by that impression grow,
Till thy tears mixed with mine do overflow
This world, by waters sent from thee my heaven
dissolved so."

On reading the following lines the reader may perhaps cry out, "Confusion worse confounded:

"Here lies a she sun, and a he moon here,
She gives the best light to his sphere,
Or each is both, and all, and so

They unto one another nothing owe."-(DONNE.)

Who but Donne would have thought that a good man is a telescope?

"Though God be our true glass through which we see All, since the being of all things is he,

Yet are the trunks, which do to us derive
Things in proportion fit, by perspective
Deeds of good men; for by their living here,
Virtues, indeed remote, seem to be near."

Who would imagine it possible that in a very few lines so many remote ideas could be brought together?

"Since 'tis my doom, love's undershrieve,

[blocks in formation]

Of enormous and disgusting hyberboles, these may be examples:

"By every wind that comes this way,

Send me at least a sigh or two,

Such and so many I'll repay

As shall themselves make winds to get to you."

"In tears I'll waste these eyes,

By love so vainly fed:

So lust of old the deluge punished."

"All arm'd in brass, the richest dress of war, (A dismal glorious sight!) he shone afar. The sun himself started with sudden fright, To see his beams return so dismal bright." - (COWLEY.)

An universal consternation:

His bloody eyes he hurls round. his sharp paws
Tear up the ground; then runs he wild about,
Lashing his angry tail and roaring out.
Beasts creep into their dens, and tremble there;
Trees, though no wind is stirring, shake with fear;
Silence and horror fill the place around;
Echo itself dares scarce repeat the sound."

(COWLEY.)

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

Upon a paper written with the juice of lemon, and read by the fire:

Nothing yet in thee is seen,

But when a genial heat warms thee within,
A new-born wood of various lines there grows;
Here buds an L, and there a B

Here sprouts a V, and there a T,
And all the flourishing letters stand in rows.”
-(COWLEY)

As they sought only for novelty, they d not much inquire whether their allusions were to things high or low, elegant or gross; whether they compared the little to the great, or the great to the little.

Physic and chirurgery for a lover:

"Gently, ah gently, madam, touch
The wound which you yourself have made;
That pain must needs be very much
Which makes me of your hand afraid.
Cordials of pity give me now,

For I too weak of purgings grow."—(COWLEY.)

The world and a clock:

Mahol th' inferior world's fantastic face
Through all the turns of matter's maze did trace;
Great Nature's well set clock in pieces took;
On all the springs and smallest wheels did look
Of life and motion, and with equal art
Made up the whole again of every part."

—(COWLIT ) A coal-pit has not often found its poet; but that it may not want its due honour, Clevelan. has paralleled it with the sun:

"Yet why should hallow'd vestal's sacred shrine
Deserve more honour than a flaming mine!
These pregnant wombs of heat would fitter br
Than a few embers, for a deity.

Had he our pits, the Persian would admire
No sun, but warm's devotion at our fire:
He'd leave the trotting whipster, and prefer
Our profound Vulcan 'bove that wargoner.
For wants he heat or light? or would have da
Of both? 'tis here: and what can suns give nar
Nay, what's the sun but, in a different name,
A coal-pit rampant, or a mine on flame?
Then let this truth reciprocally run,
The sun's heaven's coalery, and coals our sus
Death, a voyage:

"No family

E'er rigg'd a soul for Heaven's discovery, With whom more venturers might boldly dare Venture their stakes with him in joy to share.

Their thoughts and expressions were so times grossly absurd, and such as no figures or license can reconcile to the understanding A lover neither dead nor alive:

"Then down I laid my head

Down on cold earth; and for a while was dead.
And my freed soul to a strange somewhere tini,

Ah, sottish soul, said I,

When back to its cage again I saw it fly;
Fool to resume her broken chain,

And row her galley here again!

Fool, to that body to return

Where it condemned and destined is to burn!

Once dead, how can it be,

Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee, That thou should'st come to live it o'er again in me?" (COWLEY.)

A lover's heart a hand grenado:

"Woe to her stubborn heart, if once mine come
Into the self-same room,

"Twill tear and blow up all within,
Like a grenado shot into a magazine.
Then shall Love keep the ashes and torn parts
Of both our broken hearts;

Shall out of both one new one make; From hers th' alloy, from mine the metal take." -(COWLEY.)

The poetical propagation of light:

"The prince's favour is diffus'd o'er all,

From which all fortunes, names, and natures fall; Then from those wombs of stars, the Bride's bright

eyes,

At every glance a constellation flies,

And sowes the court with stars, and doth prevent
In light and power, the all-ey'd firmament:
First her eye kindles other ladies' eyes,

Then from their beams their jewels' lustres rise;
And from their jewels torches do take fire,
And all is warmth, and light, and good desire."
-(DONNE.)

They were in very little care to clothe their notions with elegance of dress, and therefore miss the notice and the praise which are often gained by those who think less, but are more diligent to adorn their thoughts.

That a mistress beloved is fairer in idea than in reality is by Cowley thus expressed:

"Thou in my fancy dost much higher stand
Than woman can be placed by Nature's hand;
And I must needs, I'm sure, a loser be,

To change thee as thou'rt there, for very thee."

That prayer and labour should co-operate are thus taught by Donne:

"In none but us are such mix'd engines found,
As hands of double office; for the ground
We till with them; and them to heaven we raise;
Who prayerless labours, or, without this, prays,
Doth but one-half, that's none."

By the same author, a common topic, the danger of procrastination, is thus illustrated:

"That which I should have begun

In my youth's morning, now late must be done;
And I, as giddy travellers must do,
Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost
Light and strength, dark and tired, must then ride
post."

All that man has to do is to live and die; the sum of humanity is comprehended by Donne in the following lines:

"Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie; After enabled but to suck and cry.

Think, when 'twas grown to most. 'twas a poor inn, A province pack'd up in two yards of skin, VOL. IV.

And that usurp'd or threaten'd with a rage
Of sicknesses or their true mother, age.
But think that death hath now enfranchis'd thee;
Thou hast thy expansion now, and liberty;
Think, that a rusty piece discharged is flown
In pieces, and the bullet is his own,

And freely flies: this to thy soul allow,

Think thy shell broke, think thy soul hatch'd but

now.

These poets were sometimes indelicate and disgusting. They were not always strictly curious, whether the opinions from which they drew their illustrations were true; it was enough that they were popular. Bacon remarks that some falsehoods are continued by tradition, because they supply commodious allusions.

"It gave a piteous groan, and so it broke; In vain it something would have spoke; The love within too strong for't was,

Like poison put into a Venice-glass."-(COWLEY.)

In forming descriptions, they looked out not for images, but for conceits. Night has been a common subject, which poets have contended to adorn. Dryden's Night is well known; Donne's is as follows:

"Thou seest me here at midnight, now all rest:
Time's dead-low water; when all minds divest
To-morrow's business; when the labourers have
Such rest in bed, that their last church-yard grave,
Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this;
Now when the client, whose last hearing is
To-morrow, sleeps: when the condemned man,
Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them then
Again by death, although sad watch he keep;
Doth practise dying by a little sleep:
Thou at this midnight seest me."

It must be, however, confessed of these writers, that if they are upon common subjects, often unnecessarily and unpoetically subtle; yet, where scholastic speculation can be properly admitted, their copiousness and acuteness may justly be admired. What Cowley has written upon Hope shows an unequalled fertility of invention:

"Hope, whose weak being ruin'd is,
Alike if it succeed and if it miss;
Whom good or ill does equally confound,
And both the horns of fate's dilemma wound;
Vain shadow! which dost vanish quite
Both at full noon and perfect night!
The stars have not a possibility

Of blessing thee;

If things then from their end we happy call,
'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.
Hope, thou bold taster of delight,

Who, whilst thou should'st but taste, devour'st
it quite!

Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poor,
By clogging it with legacies before!"

travels and his wife that stays at home, with a To the following comparison of a man that pair of compasses, it may be doubted whether absurdity or ingenuity has the better claim:

"Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
84

A breach, but an expansion,

Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so

As stiff twin compasses are two;

Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth if th' other do.
And, though it in the centre sit,

Yet when the other far doth roam
It leans and hearkens after it,

And grows erect as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must

Like th' other foot obliquely run.
Thy firmness makes my circle just,

And makes me end where I begun."-(DONNE.)

In all these examples it is apparent that whatever is improper or vicious is produced by a voluntary deviation from nature in pursuit of something new and strange; and that the writers fail to give delight by their desire of exciting admiration.

Essay on Cowley.

ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS.

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, and wisdom. The emperors and generals, who in these periods of approaching ignorance still felt a passion for science, from time to time added to its buildings, or increased its professorships. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, was of the number: he repaired those schools which barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, and continued those pensions to men of learning which avaricious governors had monopolized to themselves.

In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Septimius were fellow students together. The one the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum; the other the most eloquent speaker in the Academic Grove. Mutual admiration soon begot an acquaintance, and a similitude of disposition made them perfect friends. Their fortunes were nearly equal, their studies the same, and they were natives of the two most celebrated cities in the world; for Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome. In this mutual harmony they lived for some time together, when Alcander, after passing the first part of his youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought at length of entering into the busy world, and as a step previous to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. Hypatia showed no dislike to his addresses. The day of their intended nuptials was fixed, the previous ceremonies were performed, and nothing now remained but her being conducted in triumph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom.

An exultation in his own happiness, or his being unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to introduce his mistress to his fellow student, which he did with all the gaiety of a man who found himself equally happy in friendship and love.-But this was an interview fatal to the peace of both; for Septimius no sooner saw her but he was smit with an involuntary passion. He used every effort, but in vain, to suppress desires at once apartment in inexpressible agony; and the so imprudent and unjust. He retired to his emotions of his mind in a short time became so strong, that they brought on a fever, which the physicians judged incurable.

During this illness Alcander watched him with all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mistress to join in those amiable offices of friendship. The sagacity of the physicians, by this means, soon discovered the cause of their patient's disorder; and Alcander, being apprised of their discovery, at length extorted a confession from the reluctant dying lover.

It would but delay the narrative to describe the conflict between love and friendship in the breast of Alcander on this occasion; it is enough to say, that the Athenians were at this time arrived at such refinement in morals, that every virtue was carried to excess. In short, forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her charms, to the young Roman. They were married privately by his connivance; and this unlooked-for change of fortune wrought as unexpected a change in the constitution of the now happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an exertion of those talents of which he was so eminently possessed, he in a few years arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was constituted the city judge, or pretor.

Meanwhile Alcander not only felt the pain of being separated from his friend and mistress, but a prosecution was also commenced against him by the relations of Hypatia, for his having basely given her up, as was suggested, for money. Neither his innocence of the crime laid to his charge, nor his eloquence in his own defence, was able to withstand the influence of a powerful party. He was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous fine. Unable to raise so large a sum at the time appointed, his possessions were confiscated, himself stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed in the market-place, and sold as a slave to the highest bidder.

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Alcander, with some other companions of distress, was carried into that region of desolation and sterility. His stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperious master; and his skill in hunting was all that was allowed him to supply a precarious subsistence. Condemned to hopeless servitude, every morning waked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and every change of season served but to aggravate his unsheltered distress. Nothing but death or flight was left him, and almost certain death was the consequence of his attempting to flee. After some years of bondage, however, an opportunity of escaping offered: he embraced it with ardour, and travelling by night, and lodging in caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at last arrived in Rome. The day of Alcander's arrival Septimius sat in the forum administering justice; and hither our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known and publicly acknowledged. Here he stood the whole day among the crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken notice of; but so much was he altered by a long succession of hardships, that he passed entirely without notice; and in the evening, when he was going up to the pretor's chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven from one ungrateful object to another; night coming on, he now found himself under a necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All emaciated and in rags as he was, none of the citizens would harbour so much wretchedness, and sleeping in the streets might be attended with interruption or danger: in short, he was obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, or despair.

In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while in sleep; and virtue found on this flinty couch more ease than down can supply to the guilty.

appearance confirmed suspicion. Misfortune and he were now so long acquainted, that he at last became regardless of life. He detested a world where he had found only ingratitude, falsehood, and cruelty, and was determined to make no defence. Thus, lowering with resolution, he was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. The proofs were positive against him, and he offered nothing in his own vindication; the judge, therefore, was proceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when, as if illumined by a ray from heaven, he discovered, through all his misery, the features, though dim with sorrow, of his long-lost, loved Alcander. It is impossible to describe his joy and his pain on this strange occasion; happy in once more seeing the person he most loved on earth, distressed at finding him in such circumstances. Thus agitated by contending passions, he flew from his tribunal, and, falling on the neck of his dear benefactor, burst into an agony of distress. The attention of the multitude was soon, however, divided by another object. The robber who had been really guilty was apprehended selling his plunder, and, struck with a panic, confessed his crime. He was brought bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every other person of any partnership in his guilt. Need the sequel be related? Alcander was acquitted, shared the friendship and the honours of his friend Septimius, lived afterwards in happiness and ease, and left it to be engraved on his tomb, that "no circumstances are so desperate which Providence may not relieve."

BARREN FAITH.

The Bee, 1759.

O, friend, we nurse in vain a scholar-faith,

Though one that with its husky logic feeds
And satisfies our intellectual needs;

How should this move to good or guard from scaith?
Begot of schoolmen's subtleties alone

It was midnight when two robbers came to make this cave their retreat, but happening to disagree about the division of their plunder, one of them stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in blood at the entrance. In these circumstances he was found next morning, and this naturally induced a further inquiry. The alarm was spread, the cave was examined, Alcander was found sleeping, and immediately apprehended and accused of rob- Something the soul demands on which to thrive;

bery and murder. The circumstances against him were strong, and the wretchedness of his

It carries with it no awakening force, Life is not quickened by it in its course; The head is ever cool; the heart a stone. Such dead-seed faith is with no saving rife, It does not, cannot blossom into aught Of active goodness, is mere barren thought That never can become a law of life.

If it is saved, it must be saved "alive."

WILLIAM SAWYER.

« VorigeDoorgaan »