Franckly each paramour his leman knowes; Each bird his mate; ne any does envy Their goodly meriment and gay felicity. There is continual spring, and harvest there For both the boughes doe laughing blossoms beare, We are then presented with one of his arbors, of which he was the cunningest builder in all fairy-land: The present one belongs to Venus and Adonis. Right in the middest of that Paradise There stood a stately mount, on whose round top A gloomy grove of mirtle trees did rise, But like a girlond compassed the hight, And from their fruitfull sydes sweet gum did drop, Threw forth most dainty odours and most sweet delight. And in the thickest covert of that shade There was a pleasant arber, not by art But of the trees own inclination made, Which knitting their rancke braunches part to part, With wanton yvie-twine entrayled athwart, And eglantine and caprifole emong, Fashion'd above within their inmost part, That neither Phoebus beams could through them throng, Nor Eolus sharp blast could worke them any wrong. FAIRY QUEENE, Book III. Canto vi. Here Venus was wont to enjoy the company of Adonis ; "Adonis," says Upton, "being matter, and Venus, form." Ovid would have said, "he did not know how that might be, but that the allegory 'was genial."" The poets are a kind of eclectic philosophers, who pick out of theories whatever is suitable to the truth of natural feeling and the candor of experience; and thus, with due allowances for what is taught them, may be looked upon as among the truest as well as most universal of philosophers. The most opinionate of them, Milton for one, are continually surrendering the notions induced upon them by their age or country, to the cause of their greater mothercountry, the universe; like beings deeply sympathizing with man, but impatient of wearing the clothes and customs of a particular generation. It is doubtful, considering the whole context of Milton's life, and taking away the excitements of personal feelings, whether he was a jot more in earnest when playing the polemic, than in giving himself up to the dreams of Plato; whether he felt more, or so much, in common with Raphael and Michael, as with the genius of the groves of Harefield, listening at night-time to the music of the spheres. In one of his prose works (we quote from memory) he complains of being forced into public brawls and "hoarse seas of dispute;" and asks, what but a sense of duty could have enabled him thus to have been "put off from beholding the bright countenance of Truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies." This truth was truth universal; this air, the same that haunted the room of Plato, and came breathing from Elysium. No man had a greater taste than he for the "religio loci," — the genius of a particular spot. The genius of a wood in particular, was a special friend of his, as indeed he has been of all poets. The following passage has been often quoted; but we must not on that account pass it by. New beauties may be found in it every time. A passage in a wood has been often trod, but we tread it again. The pleasure is ever young, though the path is old. So When the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring Where the rude axe with heaved stroke, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such consort as they keep, And let some strange mysterious dream Softly on my eye-lids laid. And as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen genius of the wood. PENSEROSO. In the Arcades, a Marque performed at Harefield before the Countess of Derby, one of these genii makes his appearance. Two noble shepherds coming forward are met by the "genius of the wood." We will close our article with him as a proper harmonious personage, who unites the spirit of the Greek and Roman demonology. He need not have troubled himself, perhaps, with "curling" the groves; and his "tassel'd" horn is a little fine and particular, — not remote enough or audible. But the young poet was writing to please young patricians. The "tassel" was for their nobility; the rest is for his own. Stay, gentle swains; for though in this disguise, I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes; And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound. To lull the daughters of necessity. This is a passage to read at twilight; or before putting out the candles, in some old country house. There is yet one more passage which we must quote from Milton, about a genius. It concerns also a very demoniacal circumstance, the cessation of the heathen oracles. See with what regret the poet breaks up the haunt of his winged beauties, and sends them floating away into dissolution with their white bodies out of the woods. The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetick cell. The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale, Edg'd with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent: With flower-inwoven tresses torn The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars, and Lemures, mourn with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. |