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GEN. LIE. HIST ANTIQ. WALFORD 10-2-63 711776-129

ADD. VOL.

ENCYCLOPÆDIA BRITANNICA.

Of Lyric Poetry.

120

The song.

121

POETRY, Part II. Sect. 2. continued.

which are allowed the

Longinus has preserved a fragment of Sappho, an an- Of Lyric

THE variety of subjects, who consider this species of cient Greek poetess, which is in great reputation amongst

poetry under the following heads, viz. the sublime ode, the lesser ode, and the song. We shall begin with the lowest, and proceed to that which is more eminent.

I. Songs are little poetical compositions, usually set to a tune, and frequently sung in company by way of entertainment and diversion. Of these we have in our language a great number; but, considering that number, not many which are excellent; for, as the duke of Buckingham observes,

Though nothing seems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art.

The song admits of almost any subject; but the greatest part of them turn either upon love, contentment, or the pleasures of a country life, and drinking. Be the subject, however, what it will, the verses should be easy, natural, and flowing, and contain a certain harmony, so that poetry and music may be agreeably united. In these compositions, as in all others, obscene and profane expressions should be carefully avoided, and indeed every thing that tends to take off that respect which is due to religion and virtue, and to encourage vice and immorality. As the best songs in our language are already in every hand, it would seem superfluous to insert examples. For further precepts, however, as well as select examples, in this species of composition, we may refer the reader to the elegant Essay on Song Writing, by Mr Aikio.

The distin- II. The lesser ode. The distinguishing character of guishing this is sweetness; and as the pleasure we receive from character this sort of poem arises principally from its soothing and of the lesser affecting the passions, great regard should be paid to the language as well as to the thoughts and numbers.

ode.

Th' expression should be easy, fancy high;
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly :
No words transpos'd, but in such order all,
As, though hard wrought, may seem by chance to fall.
D. BUCKINGHAM'S Essay.

The style, indeed, should be easy: but it may be also florid and figurative. It solicits delicacy, but disdains affectation. The thoughts should be natural, chaste, and elegant; and the numbers various, smooth, and harmonious. A few examples will sufficiently explain what

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the critics, and has been so happily translated by Mr Philips as to give the English reader a just idea of the spirit, ease, and elegance of that admired author; and show how exactly she copied nature. To enter into the beauties of this ode, we must suppose a lover sitting by his mistress, and thus expressing his passion:

Blest as th' immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And sees and hears thee all the while
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.
'Twas this depriv'd my soul of rest,
And rais'd such tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.
My bosom glow'd, the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame :
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.
In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd ;
My feeble pulse forgot to play;

I fainted, sunk, and dy'd away.

Poetry.

122

The Sapphic ode.

123

After this instance of the Sapphic ode, it may not The Anabe improper to speak of that sort of ode which is called creontic Anacreontic; being written in the manner and taste of ode. Anacreon, a Greek poet, famous for the delicacy of his wit, and the exquisite, yet easy and natural, turn of his We have several of his odes still extant, and poesy. many modern ones in imitation of him, which are mostly composed in verses of seven syllables, or three feet

and a half.

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Of Lyric
Poetry.

May he be completely curst,
Who the sleeping mischief first
Wak'd to life, and, vile before,
Stamp'd with worth the sordid ore.
Gold creates in brethren strife;
Gold destroys the parent's life;
Gold produces civil jars,
Murders, massacres, and wars;
But the worst effect of gold,

Love, alas is bought and sold.

His ode on the vanity of riches is of a piece with the above, and conveys a good lesson to those who are over anxious for wealth.

If the treasur'd gold could give
Man a longer term to live,
I'd employ my utmost care
Still to keep, and still to spare;

And, when death approach'd, would say,
Take thy fee, and walk away.'
But since riches cannot save
Mortals from the gloomy grave,
Why should I myself deceive,
Vainly sigh, and vainly grieve?
Death will surely be my lot,
Whether I am rich or not.

Give me freely while I live
Generous wines, in plenty give
Soothing joys my life to cheer,
Beauty kind, and friends sincere ;
Happy! could I ever find

Friends sincere, and beauty kind.

But two of the most admired, and perhaps the most imitated, of Anacreon's odes, are that of Mars wounded by one of the darts of Love, and Cupid stung by a Bee; both which are wrought up with fancy and delieacy, and are translated with elegance and spirit.-Take that of Cupid stung by a bee.

Once as Cupid, tir'd with play,
On a bed of roses lay,

A rude bee, that slept unseen,

The sweet breathing buds between,
Stung his finger, cruel chance!

With its little pointed lance.

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12.

Among the most successful of this poet's English imitators may be reckoned Dr Johnson and Mr Prior. The Imitati following ode on Evening by the former of these writers of Ana has, if we mistake not, the very spirit and air of Anacreon, on and Evening now from purple wings Sheds the grateful gifts she brings; Brilliant drops bedeck the mead; Cooling breezes shake the reed; Shake the reed and curl the stream Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam; Near the chequer'd lonely grove Hears, and keeps thy secrets, Love. Stella, thither let us stray! Lightly o'er the dewy way. Phoebus drives his burning car Hence, my lovely Stella, far: In his stead the queen of night Round us pours a lambent light; Light that seems but just to show Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow: Let us now, in whisper'd joy,

Evening's silent hours employ;

Silence best, and conscious shades,

Please the hearts that love invades :

Other pleasures give them pain;

Lovers all but love disdain.

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"Dear mamma, a serpent small, "Which a bee the ploughman call, "Imp'd with wings, and arm'd with dart, "Oh-has stung me to the heart."

Venus thus reply'd, and smil'd: 'Dry those tears for shame! my

If a bee can wound so deep,

Causing Cupid thus to weep,

child;

M'offrir l'image agréable;

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(E) We give this translation, both because of its excellence, and because it is said to have been the production of no less a man than the late Lord Chatham.

Of Lyric l'oetry.

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The proffer'd joy I ne'er refuse;
"Tis oft-times troublesome to chuse.
Lov'st thou, my friend? I love at sight:
Drink'st thou? this bumper does thee right.
At random with the stream I flow,
And play my part where'er I go.

Great God of Sleep, since we must be
Oblig'd to give some hours to thee,
Invade me not till the full bowl
Glows in my cheek, and warms my soul.
Be that the only time to snore,
When I can love and drink no more:
Short, very short, then be thy reign;
For I'm in haste to live again.

But O! if melting in my arms,
In some soft dream, with all her charms,
The nymph belov'd should then surprise,
And grant what waking she denies;
Then prithee, gentle Slumber, stay;
Slowly, ah slowly, bring the day:
Let no rude noise my bliss destroy;
Such sweet delusion's real joy.

We have mentioned Prior as an imitator of Anacreon;
but the reader has by this time had a sufficient specimen
of Anacreontics. The following Answer to Cloe jealous,
which was written when Prior was sick, has much of
the elegant tenderness of Sappho.

Yes, fairest proof of beauty's power,
Dear idol of my panting heart,
Nature points this my fatal hour:

And I have liv'd: and we must part.
While now I take last adieu,
my

Heave thou no sigh, nor shed a tear ;
Lest yet my half-clos'd eye may view
On earth an object worth its care.
From jealousy's tormenting strife

For ever be thy bosom freed;
That nothing may disturb thy life,
Content I hasten to the dead.
Yet when some better-fated youth

Shall with his am'rous parly move thee,
Reflect one moment on his truth

Who, dying, thus persists to love thee.

There is much of the softness of Sappho, and the
sweetness of Anacreon and Prior, in the following ode,
which is ascribed to the unfortunate Dr Dodd; and
was written in compliment to a lady, who, being sick,
had sent the author a moss rose-bud, instead of making
his family a visit. This piece is particularly to be
esteemed for the just and striking moral with which it
is pointed.

The slightest of favours bestow'd by the fair,
With rapture we take, and with triumph we wear;
But a moss-woven rose-bud, Eliza, from thee,
A well-pleasing gift to a monarch would be.
-Ah! that illness, too cruel, forbidding should stand,
And refuse me the gift from thy own lovely hand!
With joy I receive it, with pleasure will view,
Reminded of thee, by its odour and hue :

"Sweet rose, let me tell thee, though charming thy bloom,
Tho' thy fragrance excels Seba's richest perfume;

Thy breath to Eliza's no fragrance hath in't,
And but dull is thy bloom to her cheek's blushing tint.
Yet, alas! my fair flow'r, that bloom will decay,
And all thy lov'd beauties soon wither away;
Tho' pluck'd by her hand, to whose touch we must own,
Harsh and rough is the cygnet's most delicate down :"
Thou too, snowy hand; nay, I mean not to preach ;
But the rose, lovely moralist, suffer to teach.
"Extol not, fair maiden, thy beauties o'er mine;
They too are short-liv'd, and they too must decline;
And small, in conclusion, the diff'r
'rence appears,
In the bloom of few days, or the bloom of few years!
But remember a virtue the rose hath to boast,
-Its fragrance remains when its beauties are lost!"

Poctry. Of Lyric

126

We come now to those odes of the more florid and Odes more
figurative kind, of which we have many in our language florid and
that deserve particular commendation. Mr Warton's gurative.
Ode to Fancy has been justly admired by the best judges;
for though it has a distant resemblance of Milton's
l'Allegro and Il Penseroso, yet the work is original; the
thoughts are mostly new and various, and the language
and numbers elegant, expressive, and harmonious.

O parent of each lovely muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse!
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide!
To offer at thy turf-built shrine
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flow'rs and honey from the rock.
O nymph, with loosely flowing hair,
With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare;
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd;
Waving in thy snowy hand

An all-commanding magic wand,
Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow :
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey,
Through air, and over earth and sea;
While the vast various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say, in what deep and pathles vale,
Or on what hoary mountain's side,
'Midst falls of water, you reside;
'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between ;
'Midst forests dark of aged oak,
Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke;
Where never human art appear'd,
Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cott was rear'd;
Where Nature seems to sit alone,
Majestic on a craggy throne.
Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer! tell,
To thy unknown sequester'd cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top an hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each ev'ning warbling thee to rest.
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Wrapt in some wild poetic dream;

A 2

In

3

Of Lyric
Poetry.

In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awak'd, I hear
Strange whisper'd music in my ear;
And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd
By the sweetly soothing sound!
Me, goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes through the yellow mead;
Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court;
Where Mirth and Youth each ev'ning meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,
Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
List'ning to the shepherd's song..
Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy
Can long my pensive mind employ;
Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of Folly,
To meet the matron Melancholy!
Goddess of the tearful eye,

That loves to fold her arms and sigh.
Let us with silent footsteps go
To charnels, and the house of wo;
To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast and faded cheek,
Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek :
Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,
Where, to avoid cold wint'ry show'rs,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
While whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tott'ring wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.
Now let us louder strike the lyre,
For

my heart glows with martial fire;
I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,
My big tumultuous bosom beat;
The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear,
A thousand widows shrieks I hear:
Give me another horse, I cry;
Lo, the base Gallic squadrons fly!
Whence is this rage?-what spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?
'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,
Transports me to the thickest war;
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where tumult and destruction reign;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed,
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant Terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,
Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield!
O guide me from this horrid scene
To high arch'd walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervors of the mid-day sun.
The pangs of absence, O remove,
For thou can'st place me near my love;
Can'st fold in visionary bliss,
And let me think I steal a kiss;
While her ruby lips dispense
Luscious.nectar's quintessence!

When young ey'd Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose ;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale;
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks;
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold;
At ev'ry season let my ear
Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.
O warm enthusiastic maid!
Without thy powerful, vital aid,
That breathes an energy divine,
That gives a soul to ev'ry line,
Ne'er may I strive with lips profane,
To utter an unhallow'd strain;
Nor dare to touch the sacred string,
Save when with smiles thou bid'st me sing.

O hear our pray'r, O hither come
From thy lamented Shakespeare's tomb,
On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,
Musing o'er thy darling's grave.
O queen of numbers, once again
Animate some chosen swain,
Who, fill'd with unexhausted fire,
May boldly smite the sounding lyre;
Who with some new, unequall'd song,
May rise above the rhyming throng:
O'er all our list'ning passions reign,
O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain;
With terror shake, with pity move,
Rouze with revenge, or melt with love.
O deign t'attend his evening walk,
With him in groves and grottoes talk ;
Teach him to scorn, with frigid art,
Feebly to touch th' enraptur'd heart;
Like lightning, let his mighty verse
The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;
With native beauties win applause,
Beyond cold critics studied laws :
O let each muse's fame increase!
O bid Britannia rival Greece!

The following ode, written by Mr Smart on the 5th of December (being the birth-day of a beautiful young lady), is much to be admired for the variety and harmony of the numbers, as well as for the beauty of the thoughts, and the elegance and delicacy of the compliment. It has great fire, and yet great sweetness, and is the happy issue of genius and judgment united. Hail eldest of the monthly train,

Sire of the winter drear,
December! in whose iron reign

Expires the chequer'd year.
Hush all the blust'ring blasts that blow,
And proudly plum'd in silver snow,

Smile gladly on this blest of days;
The livery'd clouds shall on thee wait,
And Phoebus shine in all his state

With more than summer rays.
Though jocund June may justly boast
Long days and happy hours;

Though August be Pomona's host,
And May be crown'd with flow'rs:

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