The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 15

To the King.-1728.

Old ocean's praise Demands my lays; A truly British theme I sing; A theme so great, I dare complete, And join with ocean, ocean's king.

The Roman ode Majestic flow'd: Its stream divinely clear, and strong; In sense, and sound, Thebes roll'd profound; The torrent roar'd and foam'd along.

Let Thebes, nor Rome, So fam'd, presume To triumph o'er a northern isle; Late time shall know The north can glow, If dread Augustus deign to smile.

The naval crown Is all his own!

Our fleet, if war, or commerce, call, His will performs Through waves and storms, And rides in triumph round the ball.

No former race, With strong embrace, This theme to ravish durst aspire; With virgin charms My soul it warms, And melts melodious on my lyre.

My lays I file With cautious toil; Ye graces! turn the glowing lines; On anvils neat Your strokes repeat; At every stroke the work refines!

How music charms!

How metre warms!

Parent of actions, good and brave!

How vice it tames!

And worth inflames!

And holds proud empire o'er the grave!

Jove mark'd for man A scanty span, But lent him wings to fly his doom; Wit scorns the grave; To wit he gave The life of G.o.ds! immortal bloom!

Since years will fly, And pleasures die, Day after day, as years advance; Since, while life lasts, Joy suffers blasts From frowning fate, and fickle chance;

Nor life is long; But soon we throng, Like autumn leaves, death's pallid sh.o.r.e; We make, at least, Of bad the best, If in life's phantom, fame, we soar.

Our strains divide The laurel's pride; With those we lift to life, to live; By fame enroll'd With heroes bold, And share the blessings which we give.

What hero's praise Can fire my lays, Like his, with whom my lay begun?

"Justice sincere, And courage clear, Rise the two columns of his throne.

"How form'd for sway!

Who look, obey; They read the monarch in his port: Their love and awe Supply the law; And his own l.u.s.tre makes the court:"

On yonder height, What golden light Triumphant s.h.i.+nes? and s.h.i.+nes alone?

Unrivall'd blaze!

The nations gaze!

'Tis not the sun; 'tis Britain's throne.

Our monarch, there, Rear'd high in air, Should tempests rise, disdains to bend; Like British oak, Derides the stroke; His blooming honours far extend!

Beneath them lies, With lifted eyes, Fair Albion, like an amorous maid; While interest wings Bold foreign kings To fly, like eagles, to his shade.

At his proud foot The sea, pour'd out, Immortal nourishment supplies; Thence wealth and state, And power and fate, Which Europe reads in George's eyes.

From what we view, We take the clue, Which leads from great to greater thing Men doubt no more, But G.o.ds adore, When such resemblance s.h.i.+nes in kings.

On Lyric Poetry.

How imperfect soever my own composition may be, yet am I willing to speak a word or two, of the nature of lyric poetry; to show that I have, at least, some idea of perfection in that kind of poem in which I am engaged; and that I do not think myself poet enough entirely to rely on inspiration for success in it.

To our having, or not having, this idea of perfection in the poem we undertake, is chiefly owing the merit or demerit of our performances, as also the modesty or vanity of our opinions concerning them. And in speaking of it I shall show how it unavoidably comes to pa.s.s, that bad poets, that is, poets in general, are esteemed, and really are, the most vain, the most irritable, and most ridiculous set of men upon earth. But poetry in its own nature is certainly

Non hos quaesitum munus in usus.

-VIRG.

He that has an idea of perfection in the work he undertakes may fail in it; he that has not, must: and yet he will be vain. For every little degree of beauty, how short or improper soever, will be looked on fondly by him; because it is all pure gains, and more than he promised to himself; and because he has no test, or standard in his judgment, with which to chastise his opinion of it.

Now this idea of perfection is, in poetry, more refined than in other kinds of writing; and because more refined, therefore more difficult; and because more difficult, therefore more rarely attained; and the non-attainment of it is, as I have said, the source of our vanity. Hence the poetic clan are more obnoxious to vanity than others. And from vanity consequently flows that great sensibility of disrespect, that quick resentment, that tinder of the mind that kindles at every spark, and justly marks them out for the genus irritabile among mankind. And from this combustible temper, this serious anger for no very serious things, things looked on by most as foreign to the important points of life, as consequentially flows that inheritance of ridicule, which devolves on them, from generation to generation. As soon as they become authors, they become like Ben Jonson's angry boy, and learn the art of quarrel.

Concordes animae-dum nocte prementur; Heu! quantum inter se bellum, si lumina vitae Attigerint, quantas acies stragemque ciebunt!

Qui Juvenes! quantas ostentant, aspice, vires.

Ne, pueri! ne tanta animis a.s.suescite bella.

Tuque prior, tu parce, genus qui ducis Olympo, Sidereo flagrans clypeo, et clestibus armis, Projice tela manu, sanguis meus!

Nec te ullae facies, non terruit ipse Typhus Arduus, arma tenens; non te Messapus et Ufens, Contemtorque Deum Mezentius.

VIRG.

But to return. He that has this idea of perfection in the work he undertakes, however successful he is, will yet be modest; because to rise up to that idea, which he proposed for his model, is almost, if not absolutely, impossible.

These two observations account for what may seem as strange, as it is infallibly true; I mean, they show us why good writers have the lowest, and bad writers the highest, opinion of their own performances. They who have only a partial idea of this perfection, as their portion of ignorance or knowledge of it is greater or less, have proportionable degrees of modesty or conceit.

Nor, though natural good understanding makes a tolerably just judgment in things of this nature, will the reader judge the worse, for forming to himself a notion of what he ought to expect from the piece he has in hand, before he begins his perusal of it.

The ode, as it is the eldest kind of poetry, so it is more spiritous, and more remote from prose, than any other, in sense, sound, expression, and conduct. Its thoughts should be uncommon, sublime, and moral; its numbers full, easy, and most harmonious; its expression pure, strong, delicate, yet unaffected; and of a curious felicity beyond other poems; its conduct should be rapturous, somewhat abrupt, and immethodical to a vulgar eye.

That apparent order, and connexion, which gives form and life to some compositions, takes away the very soul of this. Fire, elevation, and select thought, are indispensable; an humble, tame, and vulgar ode is the most pitiful error a pen can commit.

Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum.

And as its subjects are sublime, its writer's genius should be so too; otherwise it becomes the meanest thing in writing, viz. an involuntary burlesque.

It is the genuine character, and true merit of the ode, a little to startle some apprehensions. Men of cold complexions are very apt to mistake a want of vigour in their imaginations, for a delicacy of taste in their judgments; and, like persons of a tender sight, they look on bright objects, in their natural l.u.s.tre, as too glaring; what is most delightful to a stronger eye, is painful to them. Thus Pindar, who has as much logic at the bottom as Aristotle or Euclid, to some critics has appeared as mad; and must appear so to all who enjoy no portion of his own divine spirit.

Dwarf understandings, measuring others by their own standard, are apt to think they see a monster, when they see a man.