ceptions, and in descriptions not descending to minuteness. It is with great propriety that subtlety, which in its original import means exility of particles, is taken in its metaphorical meaning for nicety of distinction. Those writers who lay on the watch for novelty, could have little hope of greatness; for great things cannot have escaped former observation. Their attempts were always analytic; they broke every image into fragments; and could no more represent, by their slender conceits and laboured particularities, the prospects of nature, or the scenes of life, than he, who dissects a sun-beam with a prism, can exhibit the wide effulgence of a summer noon. What they wanted, however, of the sublime, they endeavoured to supply by hyperbole; their amplification had no limits; they left not only reason but fancy behind them; and produced combinations of confused magnificence, that not only could not be credited, but could not be imagined. Yet great labour, directed by great abilities, is never wholly lost: if they frequently threw away their wit upon false conceits, they likewise some times struck out unexpected truth: if their conceits were far-fetched, they were often worth the carriage. To write on their plan it was at least necessary to read and think. No man could be born a metaphysical poet, nor assume the dignity of a writer, by descriptions copied from descriptions, by imitations borrowed from imitations, by traditional imagery, and hereditary similes, by readiness of rhyme, and volubility of syllables.` In perusing the works of this race of authors, the mind is exercised either by recollection or inquiry: either something already learned is to be retrieved, or something new is to be examined. If their greatness seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises; if the imagination is not always gratified, at least the powers of reflection and comparison are employed; and, in the mass of mate rials which ingenious absurdity has thrown toge ther, genuine wit and useful knowledge may be sometimes found buried perhaps in grossness of expression, but useful to those who know their value; and such as, when they are expanded to perspicuity, and polished to elegance, may give lustre to works which have more propriety, though less copiousness of sentiment. This kind of writing, which was, I believe, borrowed from Marino and his followers, had been recommended by the example of Donne, a man of very extensive and various knowledge; and by Jonson, whose manner resembled that of Donne more in the ruggedness of his lines than in the cast of his sentiments. When their reputation was high, they had undoubtedly more imitators than time has left be hind. Their immediate successors, of whom any remembrance can be said to remain, were Suckling, Waller, Denham, Cowley, Cleiveland, and Milton. Denham and Waller sought another way to fame, by improving the harmony of our num bers. Milton tried the metaphysic style only in his lines upon Hobson the Carrier. Cowley adopted it, and excelled his predecessors, having as much sentiment and more music. Suckling neither improved versification, nor abounded in conceits. The fashionable style remained chiefly with Cowley; Suckling could not reach it, and Milton dis dained it, CRITICAL REMARKS are not easily understood without examples; and I have therefore collected instances of the modes of writing by which this species of poets (for poets they were called by themselves and their admirers) was eminently distinguished. As the authors of this race were perhaps more desirous of being admired than understood, they sometimes drew their conceits from recesses of learning not very much frequented by common readers of poetry. Thus Cowley on Knowledge: The sacred tree 'midst the fair orchard grew; The phoenix Truth did on it rest, And built his perfum'd nest, That right Porphyrian tree which did true logic shew. Each leaf did learned notions give, And th' apples were demonstrative : So clear their colour and divine, The very shade they cast did other lights outshine, On Anacreon continuing a lover in his old age: Love was with thy life entwin'd, Of thine, like Meleager's fate. Th' antiperistasis of age More enflam'd thy amorous rage. In the following verses we have an allusion to a Rabbinical opinion concerning Manna: Variety I ask not: give me one To live perpetually upon. The person Love does to us fit, Like manna, has the taste of all in it. Thus Donne shews his medicinal knowledge in some encomiastic verses: In every thing there naturally grows If 'twere not injur'd by extrinsic blows; Keeps off, or cures what can be done or said. Though the following lines of Donne, on the last night of the year, have something in them too scholastic, they are not inelegant : This twilight of two years, not past nor next, Who, meteor-like, of stuff and form perplext, true This bravery is, since these times shew'd me you. Yet more abstruse and profound is Donne's reflection upon Man as a Microcosm: If men be worlds, there is in every one Of thoughts so far-fetched, as to be not only unexpected, but unnatural, all their books are full. To a Lady, who wrote poesies for rings. They, who above do various circles find, Then the sun pass through't twice a year, COWLEY. The difficulties which have been raised about identity in philosophy, are by Cowley with still more perplexity applied to Love: Five years ago (says story) I lov'd you, No flesh is now the same 'twas then in me, If from one subject they t' another move; My members then the father members were, From whence these take their birth which no are here. If then this body love what th' other did, 'Twere incest, which by nature is forbid. The love of different women is, in geographical poetry, compared to travels through different countries: Hast thou not found each woman's breast (The land where thou hast travelled) Either by savages possest, Or wild, and uninhabited? COWLEY. A Lover, burnt up by his affection, is compared to Egypt: The fate of Egypt I sustain, And never feel the dew of rain |