XII. "And he, whose kind and fostering care "To thee, to me, our beings gave, "Shall near his breast my flowrets wear, "And walk regardless o'er thy grave. XIII. "Deluded flower! the friendly screen "That hides thee from the noon-tide ray, "And mocks thy passion to be seen, "But kindly deeds with scorn repaid, XV. Fierce on the flower the scorching beam XVI. Expanded by the searching fire, The curling leaves the breast disclos'd; The mantling bloom was painted higher, XVII. But when the Sun was sliding low, And sought her bending leaves to fold. XVIII. Those leaves, alas, no more would close; And fled before the rising gale. I think there cannot be any great impropriety in the indulgence of poetical amusements of this moral nature, even at my far advanced time of life. You found some difficulty, notwithstanding, to bring me over to this opinion; and I cannot yet think that an old man can spend his time very properly in what you call the circle of the muses and the graces. There is one John Milton, an old commonwealth's man, who hath in the latter part of his life, written a poem intituled Paradise Lost; and to say the truth, it is not with. out some fancy and bold invention. But I am much better pleased with some smaller producM tions of his in the scenical and pastoral way; one of which called Lycidas, I shall herewith end you, that you may have some amends for the trouble of reading this bad poetry. LETTER XXIX. ST. EVREMOND TO WALLER. I THANK you for your vegetable fable, and have long thought as you do, that a very beautiful collection of moral poems of the same kind might be drawn from that part of nature. The enthusiasm that would be excited by the scenery in general, and the pleasure which might arise from the minuter beauties of description, would give to compositions of this sort many evident advantages. Nature is a much better moralist than Seneca or Epictetus, and gives her lessons both more agreeably and more effectually. The poem called Lycidas, which you say is written by Mr. Milton, has given me much pleasure. It has in it what I conceive to be the true spirit of pastoral poetry, the old Arcadian enthusiasm. Your English poets have been strangely mistaken, when they have thought it possible to accomodate the genius of this poetry to the inelegant simplicity of your clowns. Your Spenser, in other respects an agreeable painter of nature, is, in hisrustic pastorals, insupportable. It is not to be denied, however, that Theocritus is, in some places, quite as vile as Spenser, and Virgil almost M 2 as vile as Theocritus. But the latter, I think, seems to have written beneath the dignity of poetry with reluctance. The language of his taste was always, —Sylvae sint consule digno ! But his reverence for his model led him into an imitation of his defects. The great error seems to have arisen from an inattention to this doctrine, that every species of poetry is under the patronage of the Graces. How the Greeks should, at any time, forget this, is somewhat difficult to account for; as the Muses and the Graces are with them, very often, synonymous terms, and their word Charites is used indifferently for either. Yet it is certain that some of their best poets have frequently forgotten in whose Temple they were worshipping. It is not the most unadorned simplicity that is improper in any species of pastoral composition; for simplicity is the ground of every thing that is graceful. It is the introduction of objects or ideas that are in themselves low and inelegant, which spoils the beauty of pastoral imagery. Taste is always attended with a peculiar delicacy, and will be disgusted with every work of art where that is wanting. |