England alone can supply. He was bred in Windsor Forest, and amidst the beautiful scenery of Eton; he lived familiarly and frequently at the country-seats of Bathurst, Cobham, Burlington, Peterborough, Digby, and Bolingbroke; amongst whose seats was to be numbered Slowe. He made his own little "five acres" a model to princes, and to the first of our artists who imitated nature. Warton thinks "that the most engaging of Kent's works was also planned on the model of Pope's, at least in the opening and retiring shades of Venus's Vale." It is true that Pope was infirm and deformed; but he could walk, and he could ride (he rode to Oxford from London at a stretch), and he was famous for an exquisite eye. On a tree at Lord Bathurst's is carved "Here Pope sang,"―he composed beneath it. Bolingbroke, in one of his letters, represents them both writing in the bay-field. No poet ever admired Nature more, or used her better, than Pope has done; as I will undertake to prove from his works, prose and verse, if not anticipated in so easy and agreeable a labour. I remember a passage in Walpole, somewhere, of a gentleman who wished to give directions about some willows to a man who had long served Pope in his grounds: "I understand, sir," he replied: "you would have them hang down, sir, somewhat poetical." Now, if nothing existed but this little anecdote, it would suffice to prove Pope's taste for Nature, and the impression which he had made on a common-minded man. But I have already quoted Warton and Walpole (both his enemies), and, were it necessary, I could amply quote Fope himself for such tributes to Nature as no poet of the present day has even approached. His various excellence is really wonderful: architecture, painting, gardening, all are alike subject to his genius. Be it remembered, that English gardening is the purposed perfectioning of niggard Nature, and that without it England is but a hedge-and-ditch, doublepost-and-rail, Hounslow Heath and Clapham Common sort of country, since the principal forests have been felled. It is, in general, far from a picturesque country. The case is different with Scotland, Wales, and Ireland; and I except also the lake counties and Derbyshire, together with Eton, Windsor, and my own dear Harrow on the Hill, and some spots near the coast. In the present rank fertility of "great poets of the age," and "schools of poetry"- -a word which, like "schools of eloquence" and of "philosophy," is never introduced till the decay of the art has increased with the number of its professors-in the present day, then, there have sprung up two sorts of Naturals;-the Lakers, who whine about Nature because they live in Cumberland; and their under-sect (which some one has maliciously called the "Cockney School"), who are enthusiastical for the country because they live in London. It is to be observed, that the rustical founders are rather anxious to disclaim any connection with their metropolitan followers, whom they ungraciously review, and call cockneys, atheists, foolish fellows, bad writers, and other hard names not less ungrateful than unjust. I can understand the pretensions of the aquatic gentlemen of Windermere to what Mr. Braham terms " entusumusy," for lakes, and mountains, and daffodils, and buttercups; but I should be glad to be apprised of the foundation of the London propensities of their imitative brethren to the same high argument." Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge have rambled over half Europe, and seen Nature in most of her varieties (although I think that they have occasionally not used her very well); but what on earth-of earth, and sea, and Nature-have the others seen? Not a half nor a tenth part so much as Pope. While they sneer at his indsor Forest, have they ever seen any thing of Windsor except its brick? The most rural of these gentlemen is my friend Leigh Hunt, who lives at Hampstead. I believe that I need not disclaim any personal or poetical hostility against that gentleman. A more amiable man in society I know not; nor (when he will allow his sense to prevail over his sectarian principles) a better writer. When he was writing his Rimini, I was not the last to discover its beauties, long before it was published. Even then I remonstrated against its vulgarisms; which are the more extraordinary, because the author is thing but a vulgar man. Mr. Hunt's answer was, that he wrote them upon principle; they made part of his "system!!" I then said no more. When a man talks of his system, it is like a woman's talking of her virtue. I let them talk on. Whether there are writers who could have written Rimini, as it might have been written, I know not; but Mr. Hunt is, probably, the only poet who could have had the heart to spoil his own capo d'opera. any With the rest of his young people I have no acquaintance, except through some things of theirs (which have been sent out without my desire), and I confess that till I had read them I was not aware of the full extent of human absurdity. Like Garrick's Ode to Shakspeare, they "defy criticism." These are of the personages who decry Pope. One of them, a Mr. John Ketch, has written some lines against him, of which it were better to be the subject than the author. Mr. Hunt redeems himself by occasional beauties; but the rest of these poor creatures seem so far gone, that I would not "march through Coventry with them, that's flat!" were in Mr. Hunt's place. To be sure, he has "led his ragamuffins where they will be well peppered;" but a system-maker must receive all sorts of proselytes. When they have really seen life-when they have felt it-when they have travelled beyond the far distant boundaries of the wilds of Middlesexwhen they have overpassed the Alps of Highgate, and traced to its sources the Nile of the New River-then, and not till then, can it properly be permitted to them to despise Pope; who had, if not in Wales, been near it, when he described so beautifully the "artificial" works of the Benefactor of Nature and mankind, the Man of Ross, whose picture, still suspended in the parlour of the inn, I have so often contemplated with reverence for his memory, and admiration of the poet, without whom even his own still existing good works could hardly have preserved his honest renown. I would also observe to my friend Hunt, that I shail be very glad to see him at Ravenna, not only for my sincere pleasure in his company, and the advantage which a thousand miles or so of travel might produce to a "natural" poet, but also to point out one or two little things in Rimini, which he probably would not have placed in his opening to that poem, if he had ever seen Ravenna;-unless, indeed, it made "part of his system!!" I must also crave his indulgence for having spoken of his disciples-by no means an agreeable or self-sought subject. If they had said nothing of Pope, they might have remained "alone with their glory" for aught I should have said or thought about them or their nonsense. But if they interfere with the little nightingale" of Twickenham, they may find others who will bear it-I won't. Neither time, nor distance, nor grief, nor age, can ever dimiaish my veneration for him, who is the great moral poet of all times, of all climes, of all feelings, and of all stages of existence. The delight of my boyhood, the study of my manhood, perhaps (if allowed to me to attain it) he may be the consolation of my age. His poetry is the Book of Life. Without canting, and yet without neglecting religion, he has assembled all that a good and great man can gather together of moral wisdom, clothed in consummate beauty. Sir William Temple observes," that of all the members of mankind that live within the compass of a thousand years, for one man that is born capable of making a great poe, there may be a thousand born capable of making as great generals and ministers of state as any in story." Here is a statesman's opinion of poetry: it is honourable to him and to the art. Such "poet of a thousand years" was Pope. A thousand years will roll away before such another can be hoped for in our literature. But it can want them-he himself is a literature. a One word upon his so brutally-abused translation of Homer. "Dr. Clarke, whose critical exactness is well known, has not been able to point out above three or four mistakes in the sense through the whole Iliad. | The real faults of the translation are of a different kind." So says Wartou, himself a scholar. It appears by this, then, that he avoided the chief fault of a translator. As its other faults, they consist in his having made a beautiful English poem of a sublime Greek one. It will always hold. Cowper, and all the rest of the blank pretenders, may do their best and their worst: they will never wrench Pope from the hands of a single reader of sense and feeling. The grand distinction of the under forms of the new school of poets is their vulgarity. By this I do not mean that they are coarse, but "shabby-genteel," as it is termed. A man may be coarse and yet not rulgar, and the reverse. Burns is often coarse, but never vulgar. Chatterton is never vulgar, nor Wordsworth, nor the higher of the Lake school, though they treat of low life in all its branches. It is in their finery that the new under school are most vulgar, and they may be known by this at once; as what we called at Harrow "a Sunday blood" might be easily distinguished from a gentleman, although his clothes might be the better cut, and his boots the best blackened, of the two;-probably because he made the one, or cleaned the other, with his own hands. In the present case, I speak of writing, not of persons. Of the latter, I know nothing; of the former, 1 judge as it is found. Of my friend Hunt, I have already said, that he is any thing but vulgar in his manners; and of his disciples, therefore, I will not judge of their manners from their verses. They may be honourable and gentlemanly men, for what I know; but the latter quality is studiously excluded from their publications. They remind me of Mr. Smith and the Miss Broughtons, at the Hampstead Assembly, in Evelina. In these things (in private life, at least,) I pretend to some small experience; because, in the course of my youth, I have seen a little of all sorts of society, from the Christian prince and the Mussulman sultan and pacha, and the higher ranks of their countries, down to the London boxer, the "flash and the swell," the Spanish muleteer, the wandering Turkish dervise, the Scotch highlander, and the Albanian robber;-to say nothing of the curious varieties of Italian social life. Far be it from me to presume that there ever was, or can be, such a thing as an aristocracy of poets; but there is a nobility of thought and of style, open to all stations, and derived partly from talent, and partly from education,-which is to be found in Shakspeare, and Pope, and Burns, no less than in Dante and Alfieri, but which is nowhere to be perceived in the mock birds and bards of Mr. Hunt's little chorus. If I were asked to define what this gentlemanliness is, I should say that it is only to be defined by examplesof those who have it, and those who have it not. In life, I should say that most military men have it, and few naval;—that several men of rank have it, and few lawyers;-that it is more frequent among authors than divines (when they are not pedants); that fencing-masters have more of it than dancing-masters, and singers than players; and that (if it be not an Irishism to say so) it is far more generally diffused among women than among men. In poetry, as well as writing in general, it will never make entirely a poet or a poem; but neither poet nor poem will ever be good for any thing without it. It is the salt of society, and the seasoning of composition. Vulgarity is far worse than downright blackguardism; for the latter comprehends wit, humour, and strong sense at times; while the former is a sad abortive attempt at all things, "signifying nothing." It does not depend upon low themes, or even low language, for Fielding revels in both;-but is he ever vulgar? No. You see the man of education, the gentleman, and the scholar, sporting with his subject,its master, not its slave. Your vulgar writer is always most vulgar, the higher his subject; as the man who showed the menagerie at Pidcock's was wont to say,"This, gentlemen, is the eagle of the sun, from Archangel, in Russia; the otterer it is, the igherer he flies."But to the proofs. It is a thing to be felt more than explained. Let any man take up a volume of Mr. Hunt's subordinate writers, read (if possible) a couple of pages, and pronounce for himself, if they contain not the kind of writing which may be likened to “shabby-genteel” in actual life. When he has done this, let him take up Pope;-and when he has laid him down, take up the cockney again—if he can. ON AN OLD LADY. (1) IN Nottingham county there lives, at Swan Green, As curst an old lady as ever was seen; And when she does die, which I hope will be soon, She firmly believes she will go to the moon! THE ADIEU. WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE. ADIEU, thou Hill! (2) where early joy Where Science secks each loitering boy Adieu, my youthful friends or woes, No more through Ida's paths we stray; Soon must I share the gloomy cell, Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell Unconscious of the day. Adieu, ye hoary regal fanes, Ye spires of Granta's vale, Ye comrades of the jovial hour, On Cama's ve: dant margin placed, Adieu, ye mountains of the clime Where grew my youthful years, With sons of pride to roam? Hall of my Sires! a long farewell- Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Thy towers my tomb will view: The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, And former glories of thy Hall, (3) Forgets its wonted simple noteBut yet the lyre retains the strings, And sometimes, on Eolian wings, In dying strains may float. (1) These lines are said to have been written by Byron at ten years of age, and, as such, are not a little remarkable, as exhibiting his early talent for rhyming. The subject of them, an old dame, who, while on a visit to his mother, had drawn forth the satirical powers of the infantine poet by some expression that very much affronted him, entertained some curious notions respecting the soul, which, she imagined, took its flight to the moon after death.-P. E. Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, Adieu! you are not now forgot, To retrospection dear. At noontide heat, their pliant course; And shall I here forget the scene, Still nearest to my breast? The spot which passion blest; To me in smiles display'd: And thou, my Friend! (6) whose gentle love Description's power of words! All, all, is dark and cheerless now! Not e'en the hope of future fame Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. And mingle with the dead. Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart; My life a short and vulgar dream: (2) Harrow.-L. E, (3) See antè, pp. 3, 28.-P. E. (4) The river Grete, at Southwell.-L. E. (6) Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister. See antè, p.23. -P. E. When I repose beneath the sod, By nightly skies, and storms alone; No mortal eye will deign to steep With tears the dark sepulchral deep Which hides a name unknown. Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven: To bigots and to sects unknown, He, who is merciful and just, Although his meanest care. Father of Light! to Thee I call, My soul is dark within: Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 1807. [Now first published.] TO A VAIN LADY. Ан, heedless girl! why thus disclose What ne'er was meant for other ears? Why thus destroy thine own repose, And dig the source of future tears? Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid! While lurking envious foes will smile, For all the follies thou hast said Of those who spoke but to beguile. Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh, If thou believ'st what striplings say: Oh, from the deep temptation fly, Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey! Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, The words man utters to deceive? Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, If thou canst venture to believe. While now amongst thy female peers Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, Canst thou not mark the rising sucers Duplicity in vain would veil? These tales in secret silence hush, Nor make thyself the public gaze: What modest maid without a blush Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise? Will not the laughing boy despise Her who relates each fond conceitWho, thinking heaven is in her eyes, Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? For she who takes a soft delight While vanity prevents concealing. One, who is thus from nature vain, January 15, 1807. Now first published.] TO ANNE. On, Anne! your offences to me have been grievous; I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, I swore, in a transport of young indignation, And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. TO THE SAME. Он say not, sweet Anne! that the Fates have decreed The rage of the tempest united must weather, TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET, BEGINNING "Sad is my verse,' you say, and yet no tear.'" THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: And much, alas! I think he needs it: Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, Although by far too dull for laughter. ON FINDING A FAN. IN one who felt as once he felt, This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; But now his heart no more will melt, Because that heart is not the same. As when the ebbing flames are low, The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their blaze in night: Thus has it been with passion's fires As many a boy and girl remembersWhile every hope of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. The first, though not a spark survive, Some careful hand may teach to burn; The last, alas! can ne'er survive; No touch can bid its warmth return. Or, if it chance to wake again, Not always doom'd its heat to smother, It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 1807. [Now first published.] FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days, Young offspring of Fancy ! 't is time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. Though simple the themes of my rude-flowing lyre, Yet even these themes are departed for ever; No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire, My visions are flown, to return,-alas, never! When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, How vain is the effort delight to prolong! When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song? Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? (1) Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy that, as the tree flourished, so should he. On revisiting the abbey, during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed;-hence these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with him, "Here is a fine young oak; | Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? more. And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. (1) YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. I left thee, my Oak! and, since that fatal hour, A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire; Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care Ere twice round you Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done. Oh! live then, my Oak! tower aloft from the weeds That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, And still may thy branches their beauty display. but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper place."" "I hope not, sir," replied the man; "for it's the one that my Lord was so fond of, because he set it himself." The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible care of it. It is already inquired after, by strangers, as "THE BYRON OAK," and promises to share, in after-times, the celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.-L. E. |