Imatges de pÓgina
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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 supplied
The earth's bold son's prodigious pride;
Heaven with these engines had been scal'd,

When mountains heap'd on mountain's 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 Duchess'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 farther 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 hallowed 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 heathens 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 injured side."

Of the last two couplets, the first is extravagant, and the second

mean.

His praise of the queen is too much exaggerated; and the thought, that she 66 saves lovers by cutting off hope, as gangrenes are cured by lopping the limb," presents nothing to the mind but disgust and horror.

Of The Battle of the Summer Islands, it seems not easy to say whether it is intended to raise terror 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 Panegyric upon Cromwell has obtained from the public 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 panegyric on Cromwell. If it has been thought inferior 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 superior, 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 didactic 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 topics 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

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