"I have a garden of my own, Have sought it oft, where it should lie, It like a bank of lilies laid. Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed ; And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold: Had it lived long it would have been The fancy and subtle simplicity of these lovely lines form the cream of a poem, which, at its commencement and close, is less worthy of praise. Marvell is extremely unequal, and his best thoughts are frequently injured by crudeness of expression, and by the quaintnesses in which they are imbedded. The poems of Marvell that should be read are the roughly noble "Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland;" "Bermudas," a piece that has a place in selections; "Eyes and Tears," quaint and very suggestive, but overpraised, perhaps, by some of Marvell's critics; the lines "On a Drop of Dew;" and "The Garden," which contains the lovely and familiar couplet "Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade;" and also this richly coloured stanza "What wondrous life is this I lead! Ensnared with flowers I fall on grass." All that is of choicest work in Marvell is to be found in these pocms; but he wrote also much that is to some degree felicitous, and a good deal that is far from deserving even this modicum of praise. His highest honour is that he was a friend of Milton. [Andrew Marvell's complete works, in four volumes, edited by Mr. Grosart, were published about ten years since. There is no recent edition of his poetry, but the poems named in the text are to be met with in numerous anthologies. A life of Marvell, with selections from his works, by John Dove, appeared, in 1832. It called forth an admirable article on the poet, which was published in the Edinburgh Review, Jan. 1844, and reprinted in the essays by Rogers, selected from contributions to that journal, in 1855. The poems and satires of Andrew Marvell (reprint of the American edition: Alexander Murray, 1870) is, I think, the latest edition of the poetry. A selection is much needed for general reading.] CHAPTER VII. THE POET OF THE RESTORATION. JOHN DRYDEN. ACCORDING to Savage Landor, it is absurd to talk about schools of poetry. "There is only one school, the universe; only one schoolmistress, Nature." This is well John Dryden, 1631-1700. put, and may seem at the first glance unquestionable, but the remark will not bear examination. The universe is, no doubt, the poet's school, his schoolmistress Nature; but the form in which he utters what Nature teaches him, the art that moulds his verse, giving to it beauty and proportion, is due in large measure to the predecessors or contemporaries whom he regards as his masters. The history of English poetry enables us often to trace with singular distinctness this poetical succession-the links which bind poet to poet, the relationship of a son to his father in verse. Indeed, our poets have acknowledged this relationship with the utmost frankness, and when it can be followed through several lives, as in many instances it may be, it is surely no fallacy to talk of a school of poetry. Gower, with some unreasonableness perhaps, called Chaucer his disciple; but even Chaucer, the first great poet of England, and still, after the lapse of four centuries, one of her greatest, was largely indebted for the development of his genius to the mediæval poetry of France, and while the heart of his verse is English, it is often French in form. How much, too, he gained from his poetical fathers in that land of poetry-Italy-must be obvious to every reader. To Chaucer all our poets have been more or less indebted, but his children in direct succession-Lydgate, Occleve, James I. of Scotland, Robert Henryson, and William Dunbar, for example-had not sufficient vitality to sustain a vigorous existence. Our second master-poet was more fortunate in his descendants, and I have already pointed out that the vast influence exercised by Spenser in his own age is felt as strongly in our own. Dryden loved Spenser, but does not belong to his school. He was not indebted to any single writer. To Cowley and to Denham his obligations are evident, and he owed more to Davenant. As a dramatist he gained something from France, for he had the open mind which takes suggestions and assimilates ideas from many sources. His rivals accused him of plagiarism—a fault which, in the hands of a master like Dryden, may become a virtue; for what he takes in silver he gives back in gold. But he is not only, to quote the words of Robert Bell," of all English poets perhaps the most English;" he is also, considering the large amount of work he accomplished, by no means wanting in originality. He was in the prime of life and in the fulness of his fame when Milton published the "Paradise Lost;" but Milton, who, as I have already said, belongs poetically to the Elizabethans, is separated by an immeasurable gulf from the author of "The Hind and the Panther." "Glorious John," as Dryden is termed by Claud Halcro in the "Pirate," is a great poet in his way, but it is not the way of his illustrious predecessors. He stands on another platform, and wins his place in our list of poets by gifts distinguished indeed, but of a lower order. Satire is a legitimate weapon of the poet. Even Spenser, although not fond of warfare, had proved that he could use it. There had been several minor poets before Dryden's day, such as Hall and Donne, chiefly noted for satire, and there was a young satirist, John Oldham, con 1653-1683. temporary with Dryden, whose wit and John Oldham, strength were generously acknowledged Samuel Butler, by the elder poet. He died in December, in the thirtieth year of his age, leaving the field free to Dryden; for Samuel Butler, the brilliant author of "Hudibras," had died three years before. And here I may make a digression, in order to point out that Butler's infinitely clever but ignoble burlesque, "Hudibras," 1612-1680. |