"Who says that fictions only, and false hair, and notwithstanding the negative answer, he cabins, cribs, confines his own, to artificial emblems and insignificant forms. Crashaw, a convert to the Romish faith, and zealous in proselytizing others, displayed a degree of fervour and talent unsurpassed by any minor Poet of the age. No doubt unequal, and so curiously made up of beauties and defects, that it is difficult to commend the finest passages without being obliged to add a salvo against some striking imperfections, impairing or marring the effect of the whole-the melody of his compositions, and the charm of his powerful descriptions, rank him high among the earnest band whose poetry adorned the first half of the seventeenth century. Homer, Virgil, Dante, Milton! The civilized world-millions upon millions of men-pronounce four names; and the name of Milton is one of them-the last and not the least, perhaps the greatest of them all. Except the blind Grecian, our judgment would compare no other with the blind Briton; shut out from external "light, the prime work of God," only to enkindle the far more bright and dazzling light within, which should exhale itself in so resplendent a flame as to illuminate the entire earth, and burn for ever with infinite unquenchable fires; and amid "Such music as ('tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the Sons of Morning sung." From his similar Song, Milton condescended little to less sacred lays; but L'Allegro and Il Penseroso are delicious examples of the relaxation of the sublime mind, and its refreshment among the moral inquisitions upon human life, and the attractive joys of simple nature. But if we class these exquisite productions among the sweetest of "the gay motes that people the sunbeams" of our brightest verse, what shall we say of Comus, a poem to illuminate for ever the "dim spot which men call earth?" If not as a whole the noblest, it is not second to the noblest effusion in the English tongue. When we peruse Comus, we feel what it is to be a poet; and how many there are who aspire to be poets, and some who are accounted so, but who in truth belong to a different and inferior grade! Taste and talent, and considerable skill and power, are theirs, but the glorious soul of genius shines far above their sphere; and nothing that ever was written demonstrates this great fact so irrefragably as Milton's wonderful Mask. In a number of our justly most popular favourites, we glance from beauty to beauty, and admire the art with which they are displayed; but we are lost in Comus, for Comus is all one beauty. It is not even the design-the pure lesson of virtue-which chains us to the muse. It is the unexampled outpouring of an Essence, without alloy or dilution, that absolutely fills us with astonishment, as if not man, however gifted, but a superhuman being, uttered these enchanting sounds. And the cause of this marvellous effect is not far to seek. The inspired images of the Poem are not impressed upon our senses by separate passages, and wrought out ideas, though these are most striking and abundant. But if we examine the subject more minutely, we discover that not only single lines, but half lines, epithets, expressions of single words, are all imbued with the same fascination, and that we are held captive, not by the splendid links alone, but by every finest mesh and tie of the matchless composition. Hence it has been that Painting and Sculpture have found exhaustless stores in Comus, and that the style has been so strikingly incorporated with the English language, that in our most eloquent orations, and our plainest spoken household words, we continually meet with collocations from this poem, unaware of the source whence this richness of poetry and pith of meaning have, as it were, been imperceptibly made part and parcel of our native tongue. This is an interesting consideration, and a sure test of poetic genius. Wherever a country almost unconsciously adopts the words of the Poet, in order to express itself with force, or grace, and harmony, none can doubt that the divine power was there. Comus, within its compass, furnishes the most extraordinary proof of this in the whole circle of our literature. On its other charming features we need not dwell. Imitating the manner of Shakspeare, and redolent of Spenser, Homer, Lucretius, Plato, Euripides, Virgil, Horace, Ovid, and every Classic source, it presents one power, as necromantic as its sorcerer hero, combined of learning and loveliness, not to transform mankind into a bestial crew, but exalt them in wisdom and virtue to the and to "Sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever," "Sit i' the centre, and enjoy bright day." True it is-and the sequel of our Selections will illustrate the important and inestimable fact that to earn a deathless name, the genius of the Poet must be attuned to the most ennobling sentiments, to the purest virtues, to the most cordial humanities, to the most universally sympathetic chords of our nature. These have their gracious responses, and indent their impressions for ever. The godlike reproduces the sublime, the humane the merciful, the pathetic the piteous, the chivalric the generous, the affectionate the love of kind. The glorious mission of Poetry is to effect these blessings, and all that falls short of such holy emprize, performs only a secondary part; no matter how brilliant the talents may be that flame and glitter in other directions. It needs no argument to point the application of these immovable truths to the immoral and licentious. No poems, so stained with poisons at deadly war with the very spirit and soul of Poetry, ever could enjoy more than a temporary existence: they must perish. The elements of speedy dissolution are in their heart's core: they are not dead-born, but there is death in their birth, and with all the wit in the world, they can only for a transitory season flash, dazzle, and disappear. In a less imperative degree, the same reasoning applies even to the innocently comic, jocular, and facetious. The lofty Muse asserts her inherent properties, and refuses to class among the beneficent agencies of her dominion those things which are merely humorous and pleasant. Her works are duties, not simply pastimes,-to improve, refine, and elevate, not to amuse, enervate, and depress. Her divinity can hardly bear to be mixed with sports, admirable and charming as these sports may be; or, at least, we may declare that they are more evanescent, and lay no hold on the immortality destined for other forms of more spiritual and exalting Song. And if we reflect on the circumstances, the cause of this difference will be readily revealed. Wit and humour are hedged in by locality, even though it may be to the extent of a country and an age. They also depend much on language for their happy manifestation, and upon manners and customs which pass away, and become, if not altogether forgotten, mere shadowy traditions; whilst all that is founded on the innate attributes, aspirations, feelings, and passions of man, remains for ever and for ever the same. A momentary retrospect will establish the case. If there ever was a jest in Hebrew, it might as well never have been for all that Jew or Gentile can tell of it now. The dramatic and epigrammatic humours of Greece and Rome, which have descended to our day are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable; and the best of them could not raise a laugh among the whole population of Britain, and far less set the table in a roar. French vivacity and calembourg are the ephemera of one generation; and if we look back for our own English wits, who is there that remembers much of the visible and ludicrous of a Prior or a Swift? No doubt there are compositions in which the comic is the most prevalent feature, and which bid fair for a considerable period of popularity; but if the same author should also have produced a piece of sublimity, a glowing religious sentiment, a pathetic ballad, or a touching domestic picture, it will be found that the former soon sink into oblivion, whilst the latter are transmitted to posterity as the lasting memorials of genius and fame. Possessing other attractive qualities besides, such poems as John Gilpin or Tam O'Shanter will have their day; but the specimens we have chosen for our collection from the same bards are calculated to outlive them, (superior as, of their kind, they are,) and be repeated as household words from sire to son, when they are sought only for curiosity and critical admiration. But, indeed, the exceptions prove the rule; and when Butler can be quoted as little read or studied, it would be vain to assert that the class of poetry, of which his Hudibras is a matchless example, is made for all time. Subject is of immense importance to poetry, for although genius can embellish and beautify any theme, it is a striking improvement that the theme itself should be apt and beautiful. Dryden-nervous and vigorous beyond compare, and working the English language into perfection-has left us to quote his Alexander's Feast, an exquisite performance, and replete with his masterly lineaments. But the splendid invective and glorious revenge of Absalom and Achitophel were, unfortunately, for their own time; and the consequence has been to throw some of the finest poetry ever written to be chiefly scanned for politics and philology, and perhaps occasionally for composition. The Hind and Panther, also great, though inferior in art and devoted to polemics, has for similar reasons sunk into still deeper obscurity. With Pope-another sovereign master of the power and melody of English verse, whose sweep ran swiftly and smoothly over every chord-an era rich in poesy and cognate genius completed its splendid array. What a galaxy of stars of the first magnitude, and of orbs of lesser but no mean splendour clustering round Prior, and Swift, and Addison, and Pope, and Steele, and Young, and Gay, and Garth, and Parnell, and Allan Ramsay, and a farther host! Ramsay, the fountain head and source whence, though running in different streams, have sprung all the later poetical glories of Scotland, well deserves a separate notice. His Gentle Shepherd, the most homely and natural pastoral in the doric tongue of Caledonia, corrected the overwhelming system of bad taste, and set the example of simplicity against stylishness, and warm life against cold classic allegory. In the collection and preservation of old Scottish song he was the prototype of Burns (and we fear it must be confessed that they cost us the loss of as many as they saved and regenerated); and what is more, his Twa Books, a fable, was obviously the model on which the immortal ploughman framed his Twa Dogs: "Twa Books, near neighbours in a shop; The tither's face was weather-beaten, reminds us infallibly of the "Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame." |