Our monarch, there,
Rear'd high in air,

ON LYRIC POETRY.

Should tempests rise, disdains to bend ;
Like British oak,

Derides the stroke;

His blooming honours far extend !

Beneath them lies,
With lifted eyes,

Fair Albion, like an amorous maid;
While interest wings
Bold foreign kings

To fly, like eagles, to his shade.

At his proud foot

The sea pour'd out,

Immortal nourishment supplies;
Thence wealth, and state,
And power, and-fate,

Which Europe reads in George's eyes.

ON LYRIC POETRY.

How imperfect soever my own composition may be, yet am I willing to speak a word or two, of the nature of lyric poetry; to show that I have, at least, some idea of perfection in that kind of poem in which I am engaged; and that I do not think myself poet enough entirely to rely on inspiration

for success in it.

To our having, or not having, this idea of perfection in the poem we undertake, is chiefly owing the merit or demerit of our performances, as also the modesty or vanity of our opinions concerning them. And in speaking of it I shall show how it unavoidably comes to pass, that bad poets, that is, poets in general, are esteemed, and really are, the most vain, the most irritable, and most ridiculous set of men upon Earth. But poetry in its own nature is certainly

-Non hos quæsitum munus in usus.

VIRG.

He that has an idea of perfection in the work he undertakes may fail in it; he that has not, must: and yet he will be vain. For every little degree of beauty, how short or improper soever, will be looked on fadly by him; because it is all pure gains, and more than he promised to himself; and because he has no test, or standard in his judgment, with which to chastise his opinion of it.

Now this idea of perfection is, in poetry, more refined than in other kinds of writing; and because more refined, therefore more difficult; and because more difficult, therefore more rarely attained; and the non-attainment of it is, as I have said, the source of our vanity. Hence the poetic clan are more obnoxious to vanity than others. And from vanity consequently flows that great sensibility of disrespect, that quick resentment, that tinder of the mind that kindles at every spark, and justly marks them out for the genus irritabile among mankind. And from this combustible temper, this serious anger for no very serious things, things looked on by most as foreign to the important points of life, as consequentially flows that inheritance of ridicule, which devolves on them, from generation to generation. As soon as they become authors, they become like Ben Jonson's angry boy, and learn the art of quarrel.

Concordes animæ dum nocte premuntur;
Heu! quantum inter se bellum, si lumina vitæ

Attigerint, quantas acies stragemque ciebunt !
Qui Juvenes! quantas ostentant, aspice, vires.
Ne, pueri! ne tanta animis assuescite bella.
Tuque prior, tu parce, genus qui ducis Olympo,
Sidereo flagrans clypeo, et cœlestibus armis,
Projice tela manu, sanguis meus!

Nec te ullæ facies, non terruit ispe Typhous
Arduus, arma tenens; non te Mesзapus et Ufens,
VIRG.
Contemptorque Deûm Mezentius.

But to return. He that has this idea of perfection in the work he undertakes, however successful he is, will yet be modest; because to rise up to that idea, which he proposed for his model, is almost, if not absolutely, impossible.

These two observations account for what may seem as strange, as it is infallibly true; I mean, they show us why good writers have the lowest, and bad writers the highest, opinion of their own performances. They who have only a partial idea of this perfection, as their portion of ignorance or knowledge of it is greater or less, have proportionable degrees of modesty or conceit.

Nor, though natural good understanding makes a tolerably just judgment in things of this nature, will the reader judge the worse, for forming to himself a notion of what he ought to expect from the The Ode, as it is the eldest kind of poetry, so it piece he has in hand, before he begins his perusal of it. is more spiritous, and more remote from prose than any other, in sense, sound, expression, and con. duct. Its thoughts should be uncommon, sublime, and moral; its numbers full, easy, and most harmonious; its expression pure, strong, delicate, yet unaffected; and of a curious felicily beyond other poems; its conduct should be rapturous, somewhat apparent order, and connexion, which gives form abrupt, and immethodical to a vulgar eye. That and life to some compositions, takes away the very soul of this. Fire, elevation, and select thought, are indispensable; an humble, tame, and vulgar ode is the most pitiful errour a pen can commit.

Musa dedit Fidibus divos, puerosque deorum. And as its subjects are sublime, its writer's genius should be so too; otherwise it becomes the meanest thing in writing, viz. an involuntary burlesque.

It is the genuine character, and true merit of the ode, a little to startle some apprehensions. Men of cold complexions are very apt to mistake a want of vigour in their imaginations, for a delicacy of taste in their judgments, and, like persons of a tender sight, they look on bright objects, in their natural lustre, as too glaring; what is most delightful to a stronger eye, is painful to them. Thus Pindar, who has as much logic at the bottom as Aristotle or Euclid, to some critics has appeared as mad; and must appear so to all who enjoy no portion of his own divine spirit. Dwarf-understandings, measuring others by their own standard, are apt to think they see a monster, when they see a man.

And indeed it seems to be the amends which Nature makes to those whom she has not blessed with an elevation of mind, to indulge them in the comfortable mistake, that all is wrong, which falls not within the narrow limits of their own comprehensions and relish.

Judgment, indeed, that masculine power of the mind, in ode, as in all compositions, should bear the supreme sway; and a beautiful imagination, as its mistress, should be subdued to its dominion.

Hence, and hence only, can proceed the fairest offspring of the human mind,

Assumes the God,
Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres, are chosen in the following ode, because the sub

But then in ode, there is this difference from other kinds of poetry; that, there, the imagination, like a very beautiful mistress, is indulged in the ap-ject of it is great. pearance of domineering; though the judgment, like an artful lover, in reality carries its point; and the less it is suspected of it, it shows the more masterly conduct, and deserves the greater commendation.

It holds true in this province of writing, as in war, "The more danger, the more honour." It must be very enterprising; it must, in Shakespeare's style, have hair-breadth 'scapes; and often tread the very brink of errour: nor can it ever deserve the applause of the real judge, unless it renders itself obnoxious to the misapprehensions of the contrary.

For the more harmony likewise, I chose the frequent return of rhyme; which laid me under great difficulties. But difficulties overcome give grace and pleasure. Nor can I account for the pleasure of rhyme in general (of which the moderns are too fond) but from this truth.

But then the writer must take care that the difficulty is overcome. That is, he must make rhyme consistent with as perfect sense, and expression, as could be expected if he was free from that shackle. Otherwise, it gives neither grace to the work, nor pleasure to the reader, nor, consequently, reputa

Such is Casimire's strain among the moderns,tion to the poet. whose lively wit, and happy fire, is an honour to them. And Buchanan might justly be much admired, if any thing more than the sweetness of his numbers, and the purity of his diction, were his own: his original, from which I have taken my motto, through all the disadvantages of a northern prose translation, is still admirable; and, Cowley says, as preferable in beauty to Buchanan, as Judæa is to Scotland.

To sum the whole: Ode should be peculiar, but not strained; moral, but not flat; natural, but not obvious; delicate, but not affected; noble, but not ambitious; full, but not obscure; fiery, but not mad; thick, but not loaded in its numbers, which should be most harmonious, without the least sacrifice of Above all, in this, as in expression, or of sense. every work of genius, somewhat of an original spirit should be, at least, attempted; otherwise the Pindar, Anacreon, Sappho, and Horace, are the poet, whose character disclaims mediocrity, makes a secondary praise his ultimate ambition; which great masters of lyric poetry among Heathen writers. Pindar's Muse, like Sacharissa, is a stately, has something of a contradiction in it. Originals imperious, and accomplished beauty; equally dis-only have true life, and differ as much from the daining the use of art, and the fear of any rival; so intoxicating that it was the highest commendation that could be given an antient, that he was not afraid to taste of her charms;

Pindarici fontis qui non expalluit haustus ; a danger which Horace declares he durst not run. Anacreon's Muse is like Amoret, most sweet, natural, and delicate; all over flowers, graces, and charms; inspiring complacency, not awe; and she seems to have good-nature enough to admit a rival, which she cannot find.

is passionately Sappho's Muse, like Lady tender, and glowing; like oil set on fire, she is soft. and warm, in excess. Sappho has left us a few fragments only; Time has swallowed the rest; but that little which remains, like the remaining jewel of Cleopatra, after the other was dissolved at ber banquet, may be esteemed (as was that jewel) a sufficient ornament for the goddess of beauty herself.

Horace's Muse (like one I shall not presume to name) is correct, solid, and moral; she joins all the sweetness and majesty, all the sense and the fire of the former, in the justest proportions and degrees; superadding a felicity of dress entirely her

own.

She moreover is distinguishable by this particularity, That she abounds in hidden graces, and secret charms, which none but the discerning can discover; nor are any capable of doing fall justice, in their opinion, to her excellencies, without giving the world, at the same time, an incontestable proof of refinement in their own understandings.

But, after all, to the honour of our own country I must add, that I think Mr. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day inferior to no composition of this kind. Its chief beauty consists in adapting the numbers most happily to the variety of the oceaajon. Those by which he has chosen to express Majesty, (viz.)

best imitations, as men from the most animated pictures of them. Nor is what I say at all incon sistent with a due deference for the great standards of antiquity; nay, that very deference is an argument for it, for doubtless their example is on my side in this matter. And we should rather imitate their example in the general motives, and fundamental methods of their working, than in their works themselves. This is a distinction, I think, not hitherto made, and a distinction of consequence. For the first may make us their equals; the second must pronounce us their inferiors even in our utmost success. But the first of these prizes is not so readily taken by the moderns; as valuables too massy for easy carriage are not so liable to the thief.

The antients had a particular regard to the choice, of their subjects; which were generally national and great. My subject is, in its own nature, noble; most proper for an Englishman; never more proper than on this occasion; and (what is strange) hitherto unsung.

If I stand not absolutely condemned by my own rules; if I have hit the spirit of ode in general; if I cannot think with Mr. Cowley, that " alone, sometimes, makes an excellent ode;"

Musie

Versus inopes rerum, nugæque canoræ ; if there is any thought, enthusiasm, and picture, which are as the body, soul, and robe of Poetry; in a word, if in any degree I have provided rather food for men,than air for wits; I hope smaller faults will meet indulgence for the sake of the design, which is the glory of my country and my king.

And indeed, this may be said, in general, that great subjects are above being nice; that dignity, and spirit ever suffer from scrupulous exactness; and that the minuter cares effeminate a composi tion. Great masters of poetry, painting, and statuary, in their nobler works, have even affected the contrary and justly; for a truly-masculine

air partakes more of the negligent, than of the neat, both in writings, and in life

Grandis oratio haberet majestatis suæ pondus.

PETRON. A poem, like a criminal, under too severe correction, may lose all its spirit, and expire. We know it was Faberrimus, that was such an artist at a hair or a nail. And we know the cause was

Quia ponere totum
Nescius.

HOR.

Who love the shore,

Let those adore

The god Apollo, and his Nine,
Parnassus' hill,

And Orpheus' skill;

But let Arion's harp be mine.

The main the main!
Is Britain's reign;

Her strength, her glory, is her fleet;
The main! the main!

As

So

Be Briton's strain;

Triton's strong, as Syren's sweet.
Through nature wide,

Is nought descried

rich in pleasure, or surprise;
When all-serene,

How sweet the scene!

To close: If a piece of this nature wants an apology, I must own, that those who have strength of mind sufficient profitably to devote the whole of their time to the severer studies, I despair of imitating, I can only envy and admire. The mind is relieved and strengthened by variety; and he that sometimes is sporting with his pen, is only taking the most effectual means of giving a general importance to it. This truth is clear from the knowledge of human nature, and of history; from which I could cite very celebrated instances, did I not In which ere-while Britannia fair fear that, by citing them, I should condemn myself, who am so little qualified to follow their example in its full extent.

How dreadful, when the billows rise:
And storms deface
The fluid glass,

Look'd down with pride,
Like Ocean's bride,

Adjusting her majestic air.

When tempests cease,
And hush'd in peace

'The flatten'd surges smoothly spread,
Deep silence keep,

And seem to sleep

Recumbent on their oozy bed;

With what a trance

The level glance,

Unbroken, shoots along the seas!
Which tempt from shore

The painted oar;

And every canvass courts the breeze!