myself like a painter) their colouring entertains the 'sight, but the lines and life of the picture are not to be inspected too narrowly. "This author formed himself upon Petrarch, or rather upon Marino. His thoughts, one may observe, in the main, are pretty, but oftentimes far-fetched, and too often strained and stiffened, to make them appear the greater. For men are never so apt to think a thing great, as when it is odd or wonderful; and inconsiderate authors would rather be admired than understood. This ambition of surprising a reader is the true natural cause of all Fustian, or Bombast, in Poetry. To confirm what I have said, you need but look into his first poem of the Weeper, where the 2nd, 4th, 6th, 14th, 21st stanzas are as sublimely dull as the 7th, 8th, 9th, 16th, 17th, 20th, and 23rd stanzas of the same copy, are soft and pleasing. And if these last want any thing, it is an easier and more unaffected expression. The remaining thoughts in that poem might have been spared, being either but repetitions or very trivial and mean. And by this example, one may guess at all the rest to be like this; a mixture of tender, gentle thoughts, and suitable expressions, of forced and inextricable conceits, and of needless fillers up to the rest. From all which, it is plain this author writ fast, and set down what came uppermost. A reader may skim off the froth, and use the clear underneath; but if he goes too deep, will meet with a mouthful of dregs: either the top or bottom of him are good for little, but what he did, in his own natural middle-way, is best. "To speak of his numbers is a little difficult, they are so various and irregular, and mostly Pindarick: 'tis evident his heroic verse (the best example of which is his Music's Duel) is carelessly made up; but one may imagine, from what it now is, that had he taken more care, it had been musical and pleasing enough; not extremely majestic, but sweet. And the time considered, of his writing, he was (even as incorrect as he is) none of the worst versificators. "I will just observe that the best pieces of this author are a paraphrase of Psalm xxiii., on Lessius, Epitaph on M. Ashton, Wishes to his Supposed Mistress, and the Dies Ira." This criticism, while it is generally fair to the letter of Crashaw's poetry, is unjust to its spirit, and must have been written in forgetfulness of his peculiar temperament and disposition. Whatever he did was done with all his might, and no person who recollects that the Steps to the Temple were composed during moments of devotional ardour in St. Mary's Church, will consider him to have writ like a gentleman, and at leisure hours, to keep out idleness. The praise throughout the letter is cold and languid. Such phrases as “a neat cast of verse," and "none of the worst versificators," are not surely applicable to the translator of the Sospetto d'Herode, and the Prolusion of Strada. I am far from insinuating against Pope any intentional depreciation of the genius of Crashaw (the malevolent attacks of Philips have been satisfactorily repelled by Hayley); but it may be doubted whether his tastes and prejudices did not unfit him to deliver an impartial judgment on the merits of Crashaw. His own imagination was always in subjection to his taste, flowing in a bold and glittering stream, yet rarely, except in the Epistle to Abelard, overleaping the channel through which he directed its course. Thus even his passion was polished, and terror itself assumed an elegance under his pencil. "From the dregs of Crashaw, of Carew, of Herbert, and others (for it is well known he was a great reader of these poets)," remarks Warton, "Pope has very judiciously collected gold." In these searches after hidden treasure, the magnificent fragment from Marino could not have escaped his notice; and it is odd that he omitted to specify it among the "best pieces" of the author. The Suspicion of Herod has always been estimated as a mere translation; but it may not be uninteresting to show that many parts of it are enriched by the fancy of Crashaw. This can be easily done by accompanying the English version with the parallel passages in Italian. He saw heaven blossom with a new-born light, Vede dal ciel con peregrino raggio He saw how in that blest day-bearing night Vede della felice santa notte E vinti dagli angelici splendori. And when Alecto, the most terrible of the infernal sisters, ascends to earth at the command of Satan: Heaven saw her rise, and saw Hell in the sight, Parvero i fiori intorno, e la verdura Sentir forza di peste, ira di verno. The soliloquy of Satan, though wonderfully close, has an air of original inspiration. by Milton: It reads like a copy While new thoughts boiled in his enraged breast, Was in his shady forehead seen exprest. The forehead's shade in grief's expression there, Those stings of care that his strong heart opprest, Oh me! (thus bellowed he) oh me! what great He has my heaven (what would ho more?) whose bright That mankind's torment waits upon my tears. Che più può farmi omai chi la celeste 1 Dark dusky man he needs must single forth, What though I missed my blow! yet I strook high, Art thou not Lucifer? he to whom the droves Such, and so rich, the flames that from thine eyes How grandly wrought up is the apostrophe to the fallen Spirit! Disdainful wretch! how hath one bold sin cost Volle alle forme sue semplici, e prime |