The Art of English Poetry Containing

No, to what Purpofe fhould I fpeak?
No, wretched Heart, fwell till you break:
She cannot love me if she would,

And, to fay Truth, 'twere Pity that she should.
No, to the Grave thy Sorrows bear,

As filent as they will be there;

Since that lov'd Hand this mortal Wound does give,
So handfomly the thing contrive,
That he may guiltless of it live:
So perish, that her killing thee

May a Chance-Medley, and no Murther be.

SECT. VII.

Cowl.

Of Pindarick Odes, and Poems in Blank Verse.

HE Stanzas of Pindarick Odes are neither confin'd to a certain Number of Verses, nor the Verses to a certain Number of Syllables, nor the Rhyme to a certain Distance. Some Stanzas contain 50 Verfes or more, others not above 10, and fometimes not fo many: Some Verfes 14, nay, 16 Syllables, others not above 4: Sometimes the Rhymes follow one another for feveral Couplets together, fometimes they are remov'd 6 Verfes from each other; and all this in the fame Stanza. Cowley was the firft who introduc'd this fort of Poetry into our Language: Nor can the Nature of it be better defcrib'd than as he himfelf has done it, in one of the Stanzas of his Ode upon Liberty, which I will transcribe, not as an Example, for none can properly be given where no Rule can be prefcrib'd, but to give an Idea of the Nature of this fort of Poetry.

If Life fhould a well-order'd Poem be,

In which he only hits the White,

Who joins true Profit with the best Delight;

The more Heroick Strain let others take,

Mine the Pindarick way I'll make:

The Matter fhall be grave, the Numbers loofe and free;

It shall not keep one fettled Pace of Time,

In the fame Tune it shall not always chime,

Nor shall each Day just to his Neighbour rhyme.

A thousand Liberties it fhall difpence,

And yet fhall manage all without Offence,

Or to the Sweetness of the Sound, or Greatness of the Senfe.

Nor

Nor fhall it never from one Subject start,
Nor feek Tranfitions to depart;

Nor its fet way o'er Stiles and Bridges make,
Nor thro' Lanes a Compass take,
As if it fear'd fome Trespass to commit,
When the wide Air's a Road for it.
So the Imperial Eagle does not ftay
Till the whole Carcass he devour,
That's fall'n into his Pow'r,
As if his gen'rous Hunger understood,
That he can never want Plenty of Food;
He only fucks the taftful Blood,

And to fresh Game flies chearfully away,

To Kites and meaner Birds he leaves the mangled Prey. This fort of Poetry is employ'd in all Manner of Subjects in Pleasant, in Grave, in Amorous, in Heroick, in Philofophical, in Moral, and in Divine.

Blank Verfe is where the Meafure is exa&ty kept without Rhyme; Shakespear, to avoid the troublefome Conftraint of Rhyme, was the firft who invented it; our Poets fince him have made ufe of it in many of their Tragedies and Comedies: But the moft celebrated Poem in this kind of Verfe is Milton's Paradife Loft; from the 5th Book of which I have taken the following Lines for an Example of Blank Verse. Thefe are thy glorious Works, Parent of Good! Almighty! thine this univerfal Frame,

Thus wondrous fair! thy felf how wondrous then!
Speak you, who beft can tell, ye Sons of Light,
Angels! for you behold him, and with Songs,
And Choral Symphonies, Day without Night
Circle his Throne rejoycing, you in Heaven.
On Earth! joyn all ye Creatures, to extol
Him firft, him laft, him midft, and without end.
Fairest of Stars! laft in the Train of Night,
If better thou belong not to the Dawn,

Sure Pledge of Day, that crown'ft the Smiling Morn
With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Sphere,
While Day arifes, that fweet Hour of Prime!
Thou Sun! of this great World both Eye and Soul,
Acknowledge him thy Greater, found his Praife
In thy eternal Course, both when thou climb'ft
And when high Noon haft gain'd, and when thou fall'ft.
Moon! that now meet'ft the Orient Sun, now fly'ft
With the fix'd Stars, fix'd in their Orb that flies,
And ye Five other wandring Fires! that move
In Myftick Dance, not without Song, resound

His Praife, who out of Darkness call'd up Light.
Air and ye Elements! the eldest Birth
of Nature's Womb, that in Quaternion run
Perpetual Circle multiform, and mix

And nourish all things; let your ceaseless Change
Vary to our great Maker ftill new Praife.
Te Mifts and Exhalations! that now rife
From Hill or fteaming Lake, dusky or grey,
Till the Sun paint your fleecy Skirts with Gold,
In Honour to the World's great Author rife;
Whether to deck with Clouds th'uncolour'd Sky,
Or wet the thirsty Earth with falling Show'rs,
Rifing or falling, ftill advance his Praife.

His Praife, ye Winds! that from four Quarters blow,
Breath foft or loud; and wave your Tops, ye Pines !
With ev'ry Plant, in fign of Worship, wave.
Fountains! and ye that warble as you flow
Melodious Murmurs, warbling tune his Praife.
Join Voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds!
That finging, up to Heav'n's high Gate afcend,
Bear on your Wings, and in your Notes his Praife.
Te that in Waters glide! and ye that walk
The Earth! and ftately tread, or lowly creep ;
Witnefs if I be filent, Ev'n or Morn,
To Hill or Valley, Fountain or fresh Shade,
Made vocal by my Song, and taught his Praife.

Thus I have given a fhort Account of all the forts of Poems, that are moft us'd in our Language. The Acrofticks, Anagrams, &c. deferve not to be mention'd, and we may fay of them what an antient Poet faid long ago.

Stultum eft difficiles habere Nugas,
Er ftultus Labor eft ineptiarum.

FIN 1 S.