Then, to assist your satires, I will come, [Enjoyment of the Present Hour Recommended.] [From the twenty-ninth ode of the First Book of Horace.] Enjoy the present smiling hour, And put it out of Fortune's pow'r: The tide of business, like the running stream, Is sometimes high, and sometimes low, And always in extreme. Now with a noiseless gentle course And bears down all before it with impetuous force; Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call to-day his own: The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate, are mine. But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. Fortune, that with malicious joy Is seldom pleas'd to bless : Promotes, degrades, delights in strife, I can enjoy her while she's kind; And shakes her wings, and will not stay, The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd: And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. What is't to me, Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, If storms arise, and clouds grow black; If the mast split, and threaten wreck? Then let the greedy merchant fear For his ill-gotten gain; And pray to gods that will not hear, While the debating winds and billows bear His wealth into the main. For me, secure from Fortune's blows, Secure of what I cannot lose, In my small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar; And running with a merry gale, With friendly stars my safety seek, Within some little winding creek, And see the storm ashore. JOHN PHILIPS. Mr Southey has said that the age from Dryden to Pope is the worst age of English poetry. In this interval, which was but short, for Dryden bore fruit to the last, and Pope was early in blossom, there were about twenty poets, most of whom might be blotted from our literature, without being missed or regretted. The names of Smith, Duke, King, Sprat, Garth, Hughes, Blackmore, Fenton, Yalden, Hammond, Savage, &c., have been preserved by Dr Johnson, but they excite no poetical associations. Their works present a dead-level of tame and uninteresting mediocrity. The artificial taste introduced in the reign of Charles II., to the exclusion of the romantic spirit which animated the previous reign, sunk at last into a mere collocation of certain phrases and images, of which each repetition was more weak than the last. Pope revived the national spirit by his polished satire and splendid versification; but the true poetical feeling lay dormant till Thomson's Seasons and Percy's Relics of Ancient Poetry spoke to the heart of the people, and recalled the public taste from art to nature. Of the artificial poets of this age, JOHN PHILIPS (1676-1708) evinced considerable talent in his Splendid Shilling, a parody on the style of Milton. He was the son of Dr Philips, archdeacon of Salop, who officiated as minister of Bampton, in Oxfordshire. He intended to follow the medical profession, and studied natural history, but was cut off at the early age of thirty-three. Philips wrote a poem on the victory of Blenheim, and another on Cider, the latter in imitation of the Georgics. The whole are in blank verse. He was an avowed imitator of Milton, but regretted that, like his own Abdiel, the great poet had not been found' faithful But he however let the muse abstain, The notion, that Philips was able, by whatever he might write, to blast the fame of Milton, is one of those preposterous conceits which even able men will sometimes entertain. The Splendid Shilling. - Sing, heavenly muse ! Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme,' A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain Yclep'd Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate; Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat In vain; awake, I find the settled thirst Such plagues from righteous men !) Behind him stalks Or the Ionian, till, cruising near Another monster, not unlike himself, A catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware, So pass my days. But, when nocturnal shades The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush She strikes rebounding; whence the shatter'd oak, The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they (Vain efforts!) still the battering waves rush in, Implacable; till, delug'd by the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss. JOHN POMFRET. JOHN POMFRET (1667-1703) was the son of a clergyman, rector of Luton, in Bedfordshire, and himself a minister of the church of England. He obtained the rectory of Malden, also in Bedfordshire, and had the prospect of preferment; but the bishop of London considered, unjustly, his poem, The Choice, as conveying an immoral sentiment, and rejected the poetical candidate. Detained in London by this unsuccessful negotiation, Pomfret caught the smallpox, and died. The works of this amiable ill-fated man consist of occasional poems and some Pindaric Essays, the latter evidently copied from Cowley. The only piece of Pomfret's now remembered (we can hardly say read) is 'The Choice.' Dr Johnson remarks that no composition in our language has been oftener perused; and Mr Southey asks why Pomfret's Choice' is the most popular poem in the English language? To the latter observation Mr Campbell makes a quaint reply-It might have been demanded with equal propriety, why London bridge is built of Parian marble.' It is difficult in the present day, when the English muse has awakened to so much higher a strain of thought and expression, and a large body of poetry, full of passion, natural description, and emotion, lies between us and the times of Pomfret, to conceive that the 'Choice' could ever have been a very popular poem. It is tame and commonplace. The idea, however, of a country retirement, a private seat, with a wood, garden, and stream, a clear and competent estate, and the enjoyment of lettered ease and happiness, is so grateful and agreeable to the mind of man, especially in large cities, that we can hardly forbear liking a poem that recalls so beloved an image to our recollection. Swift has drawn a similar picture in his exquisite imitation of Horace's sixth satire; and Thomson and Cowper, by their descriptions of rural life, have completely obliterated from the public mind the feeble draught of Pomfret. [Extract from The Choice.] If Heaven the grateful liberty would give On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood. Too much at fortune; they should taste of mine; Should be reliev'd with what my wants could spare; To feed the stranger, and the neighbouring poor. EARL OF DORSET. CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET (1637-1706), wrote little, but was capable of doing more, and being a liberal patron of poets, was a nobleman highly popular in his day. Coming very young to the possession of two plentiful estates, and in an age when pleasure was more in fashion than business, he applied his talents rather to books and conversation than to politics. In the first Dutch war he went a volunteer under the Duke of York, and wrote or finished a song (his best composition, one of the prettiest that ever was made,' according to Prior) the night before the naval engagement in which Opdam, the Dutch admiral, was blown up, with all his crew. He was a lord of the bedchamber to So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud Song. Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes, Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace; Her Cupid is a blackguard boy, That runs his link full in your face. Song. Written at sea, the first Dutch war, 1665, the night before an engagement. To all you ladies now at land, We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand The Muses now, and Neptune too, With a fa la, la, la, la. For though the Muses should prove kind, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Then, if we write not by each post, By Dutchmen or by wind: The king with wonder and surprise, Should foggy Opdam chance to know From men who've left their hearts behind? With a fa, &c. Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, 'Tis then no matter how things go, To pass our tedious hours away, But now our fears tempestuous grow, When any mournful tune you hear, As if it sigh'd with each man's care Think then how often love we've made To you, when all those tunes were play'd. With a fa, &c. In justice, you cannot refuse To think of our distress, Our certain happiness; And now we've told you all our loves, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE. JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE (1649-1721) was associated in his latter days with the wits and poets of the reign of Queen Anne, but he properly belongs to the previous age. He went with Prince Rupert against the Dutch, and was afterwards colonel of a regiment of foot. In order to learn the art of war under Marshall Turenne, he made a campaign in the French service. The literary taste of Sheffield was never neglected amidst the din of arms, and he made himself an accomplished scholar. He was a member of the privy council of James II., but acquiesced in the Revolution, and was afterwards a member of the cabinet council of William and Mary, with a pension of £3000. Sheffield is said to have made love' to Queen Anne when they were both young, and her majesty heaped honours on the favourite immediately on her accession to the throne. He was an opponent of the court of George I., and continued actively engaged in public affairs till his death. Sheffield wrote several poems and copies of verses. Among the former is an Essay on Satire, which Dryden is reported to have revised. His principal work, however, is his Essay on Poetry, which received the praises of Roscommon, Dryden, and Pope. It is written in the heroic couplet, and seems to have suggested Pope's Essay on Criticism.' It is of the style of Denham and Roscommon, plain, perspicuous, and sensible, but contains as little true poetry, or less, than any of Dryden's prose essays. [Extract from the Essay on Poetry.] Of all those arts in which the wise excel, Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retir'd, To check thy course, and use the needful rein, * * First, then, of songs, which now so much abound; * * Of all the ways that wisest men could find To mend the age, and mortify mankind, Satire well writ has most successful prov'd, And cures, because the remedy is lov'd. 1 "Tis hard to write on such a subject more, That stain a beauty which we so much love. And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words convey'd. Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down; * * * By painful steps at last we labour up And with just pride behold the rest below. To be the utmost stretch of human sense; There are but two the world has yet brought forth- Has shown where all their mighty magic lies; DRAMATISTS. JOHN DRYDEN. At the restoration of the monarchy the drama was also restored, and with new lustre, though less decency. Two theatres were licensed in the metropolis, one under the direction of Sir William Davenant, who, as already mentioned, had been permitted to act plays even during the general proscription of the drama, and whose performers were now (in compliment to the Duke of York) named the Duke's Company. The other establishment was managed by Thomas Killigrew, a well-known wit and courtier, whose company took the name of the King's Servants. Davenant effected two great improvements in thea trical representation-the regular introduction of actresses, or female players, and the use of moveable scenery and appropriate decorations. Females had performed on the stage previous to the Restoration, and considerable splendour and variety of scenery had been exhibited in the Court Masques and Revels. Neither, however, had been familiar to the public, and they now formed a great attraction to the two patent theatres. Unfortunately, these powerful auxiliaries were not brought in aid of the good old dramas of the age of Elizabeth and James. Instead of adding grace and splendour to the creations of Shakspeare and Jonson, they were lavished to support a new and degenerate dramatic taste, which Charles II. had brought with him from the continent. Rhyming or heroic plays had long been fashionable in France, and were dignified by the genius of Corneille and Racine. They had little truth of colouring or natural passion, but dealt exclusively with personages in high life and of transcendent virtue or ambition; with fierce combats and splendid processions; with superhuman love and beauty; and with long dialogues alternately formed of metaphysical subtlety and the most extravagant and bombastic expression. 'Blank verse,' says Dryden, 'is acknowledged to be too low for a poem, nay more, for a paper of verses; but if too low for an ordinary sonnet, how much more for tragedy!' Accordingly, the heroic plays were all in rhyme, set off not only with superb dresses and decorations, but with the richest and most ornate kind of verse, and the farthest removed from ordinary colloquial diction.' The comedies were degenerate in a different way. They were framed after the model of the Spanish stage, and adapted to the taste of the king, as exhibiting a variety of complicated intrigues, successful disguises, and constantly-shifting scenes and adventures. The old native English virtues of sincerity, conjugal fidelity, and prudence, were held up to constant ridicule, as if amusement could only be obtained by obliterating the moral feelings. Dryden ascribes the licentiousness of the stage to the example of the king. Part, however, must be assigned to the earlier comedies of Beaumont and Fletcher, and part to the ascetic puritanism and denial of all public amusements during the time of the commonwealth. If the Puritans had contented themselves with regulating and purifying the theatres, they would have conferred a benefit on the nation; but, by shutting them up entirely, and denouncing all public recreations, they provoked a counteraction in the taste and manners of the people. The over-austerity of one period led naturally to the shameless degeneracy of the succeeding period; and deeply is it to be deplored, that the great talents of Dryden were the most instrumental in extending and prolonging this depravation of the national taste. The operas and comedies of Sir William Davenant were the first pieces brought out on the stage after the Restoration. He wrote twenty-five in all; but, notwithstanding the partial revival of the old dramatists, none of Davenant's productions have been reprinted. His last work,' says Southey, was his worst; it was an alteration of the Tempest, executed in conjunction with Dryden; and marvellous indeed it is, that two men of such great and indubitable genius should have combined to debase, and vulgarise, and pollute such a poem as the Tempest.' The marvel is enhanced when we consider that Dryden writes of their joint labour with evident complacency, at the same time that his prologue to the adapted play contains the following just and beautiful character of his great predecessor :— As when a tree's cut down, the secret root Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot; |