poet say something else, or something worse, than he does say. One great distinction, I appeared to myself to see plainly between even the characteristic faults of our elder poets, and the false beauty of the moderns. In the former, from Donne to Cowley, we find the most fantastic, out-of-the-way thoughts, but in the most pure and genuine mother English; in the latter, the most obvious thoughts, in language the most fantastic and arbitrary. Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the starts of wit; the moderns, to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract* meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery. The reader must make himself acquainted with the general style of composition that was at that time deemed poetry, in order to understand and account for the effect produced on me by the Sonnets, the Monody at Matlock, and the Hope,† of Mr. Bowles ; for it is peculiar to original genius to become less and less striking, in proportion to its success in improving the taste and judgment of its contemporaries. The poems of West, indeed, had the * I remember a ludicrous instance in the poem of a young tradesman: No more will I endure love's pleasing pain, Or round my heart's leg tie his galling chain." [The Monody at Matlock was published in 1791, and the Vision of Hope in 1796.-Ed.] [Meaning, of course, Gilbert West, the Translator of Pindar; to whose merit as a poet, it may be doubted whether the author does full justice in the text. West's two imitations of Spenser are excellent, not merely, as Johnson seems to say, for their ingenuity, but for their fulness of thought and vigor of expression. The following stanza is but one of many other passages of equal felicity: land Custom he hight, and aye in every That she unawares is caught in his embrace, And tho' deflower'd and thrall'd naught feels her foul disgrace. Education.-Ed.] merit of chaste and manly diction; but they were cold, and, if I may so express it, only dead-colored; while in the best of Warton's* there is a stiffness, which too often gives them the appearance of imitations from the Greek. Whatever relation, therefore, of cause or impulse Percy's collection of Ballads may bear to the most popular poems of the present day; yet in a more sustained and elevated style, of the then living poets Cowper and Bowlest were, to the best of my knowledge, the first who com *[Thomas Warton; whose English poems, taken generally, seem as inferior to G. West's in correctness of diction as in strength of conception. Some of his Latin verse is beautiful; and, if he had written nothing else, his epigram addressed to Sleep would perpetuate his name at least among scholars: Somne veni; et quanquam certissima mortis imago es, Consortem cupio te tamen esse tori. Huc ades, haud abiture cito: nam sic sine vita Vivere quam suave est-sic sine morte mori ! A few stray lines of Warton's have crept into familiar use and application without ever being attributed to their author, such as: while with uplifted arm Death stands prepared, but still delays to strike. Ode to Sleep. O what's a table richly spread Without a woman at its head! Progress of Discontent. Nor rough, nor barren are the winding ways Of hoar Antiquity, but strown with flowers. In Dugdale's Monasticon. Warton's best poem, as a whole, is the Inscription in a Hermitage: Beneath this stony roof reclined, &c. But his great work is the History of English Poesy, imperfect and inadequate as it is : τὸν τελοῦντα μένει. It is somewhat remarkable that Mr. C. should not upon this occasion have mentioned Akenside, and, as compared with Warton, the beautiful Hymn to the Naiads.-Ed.] * Cowper's Task* was published some time before the Sonnets of Mr. Bowles; but I was not familiar with it till many years afterwards. The vein of satire which runs through that excellent poem, together with the * [Cowper's Task was first published in 1785-his Table Talk in 1782. Ed. Thomson was born in 1700; published his works, collected in 4to, in 1730. The Castle of Indolence, his last piece, appeared in 1746.-S. C.] bined natural thoughts with natural diction; the first who reconciled the heart with the head. It is true, as I have before mentioned, that from diffidence in my own powers, I for a short time adopted a laborious and florid diction, which I myself deemed, if not absolutely vicious, yet of very inferior worth. Gradually, however, my practice conformed to my better judgment; and the compositions of my twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth years-(for example, the shorter blank verse poems, the lines, which now form the middle and the conclusion of the poem entitled the Destiny of Nations, and the tragedy of Remorsef)-are not more below my present ideal in respect of the general issue of the style than those of the latest date. Their faults were at least a remnant of the former leaven, and among the many who have done me the honor of putting my poems in the same class with those of my betters, the one or two, who have pretended to bring examples of affected simplicity from my volume, have been able to adduce but one instance, and that out of a copy of verses half ludicrous, half splenetic, which I intended, and had myself characterized, as sermoni propiora. Every reform, however necessary, will by weak minds be carried to an excess, which will itself need reforming. The reader will excuse me for noticing, that I myself was the first to expose risu honesto the three sins of poetry, one or the other of which is the most likely to beset a young writer. So long ago as the publication of the second number of the Monthly Magazine, under the name of Nehemiah Higginbottom, I contributed three sonnets, the first of which had for its object to excite a good-natured laugh at the spirit of doleful egotism, and at the recurrence of favorite sombre hue of its religious opinions, would probably, at that time, have prevented its laying any strong hold on my affections. The love of nature seems to have led Thomson to a cheerful religion; and a gloomy religion to have led Cowper to a love of nature. The one would carry his fellow-men along with him into nature; the other flies to nature from his fellow-men. In chastity of diction, however, and the harmony of blank verse, Cowper leaves Thomson immeasurably below him; yet still I feel the latter to have been the born poet. * [Poet. Works, p. 83.-Ed.] [Poet. Works, p. 327.-Ed.] [Not meaning of course the exquisite reflections on having left a place of Retirement, to which Coleridge himself affixed the motto from Horace. Poet. Works, p. 149.-Ed.] phrases, with the double defect of being at once trite and licentious;—the second was on low creeping language and thoughts, under the pretence of simplicity; the third, the phrases of which were borrowed entirely from my own poems, on the indiscriminate use of elaborate and swelling language and imagery. The reader will find them in the note* below, and will I trust regard them SONNET I. Pensive at eve, on the hard world I mused, And mused me on the wretched ones that pass very well, SONNET II. Oh I do love thee, meek Simplicity! For of thy lays the lulling simpleness Goes to my heart, and soothes each small distress, SONNET III. And this reft house is that, the which he built, What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn, as reprinted for biographical purposes alone, and not for their Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed: Ah! thus through broken clouds at night's high noon The following anecdote will not be wholly out of place here, and may perhaps amuse the reader. An amateur performer in verse expressed to a common friend a strong desire to be introduced to me, but hesitated in accepting my friend's immediate offer, on the score that he was, he must acknowledge, the author of a confounded severe epigram on my Ancient Mariner, which had given me great pain." I assured my friend that, if the epigram was a good one, it would only increase my desire to become acquainted with the author, and begged to hear it recited: when, to my no less surprise than amusement, it proved to be one which I had myself some time before written and inserted in the Morning Post, to wit To the Author of the Ancient Mariner. Your poem must eternal be, Dear sir! it can not fail, |