English Poetry [pp. 101-106]

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
101
And muttered the word
Which in our clime
Hath not been heard
Since the birth of Time Thas done,'t is said,
If the youth or the maid
Of thy heart be untrue,
The leaves will ficlde
And fall where they grew;
Alas! he knew
By this samnie never-erring token,
That the faith of his ocean-love was broken.
In mute surprise and grief the youth remained,
Gazing upon the stalk unleaved and bare,
Which still his hand unconsciously retained,
Then proudly tossed it on the green sward there"Thus," said he, "from my heart, false one, I cast
The memory of thee and of the past."
Now o'er the fountain's brim he stooped to lave
His eager lip in the oblivious wave;
But ere he had approached so near, his breath
Might break the mirror sleeping calm beneath,
Her- image, in the beauty of a dream,
Between him and the waters seemed to swim,
And memories which his heart unconsciously
Had garnered up, came o'er himn hurriedly,
In sweet succession,'till his soul of feeling
Thrilled lilke harp-strings o'er which the winds
stealing.
He drew back, undecided-in dismay,
And as, whene'er he strove, the vision smiled,
So was he ever baffled and beguiled,
Until at last he rose and went his wayUnhappy howsoe'er, he fancied yet
SNought could so joyless be as tofor-get.
are
MORAL.
There must be something beautiful in wo
That springs fiuom love, else what is it that mniakes
The heart cling to its veriest sorrows so,
And will not part with them until it breaks-?
Indeed love's pleasure with its pain so blends
Like the warm sunset glowv, and'mid heaven's blue,
We cannot tell where one begins or ends,
Tho' each so totally unlike in hue.
ENGLISH POETRY.
CHAPTER III.
My task has been in part a task of selection. Many
of the old Poets whose frequent beauties I have acknowledged, (at no time more than when occupied in
the compilation of these papers,) have been passed
over in silence. Herrick, the "honey-bee of letters" —
Rare Drummond, hight "of Hawthornden"-Lovelace,
whose A!thlea will live with Surry's Geraldine-and
many other "names noble and bright" have met with
bare mention. It cannot be expected then that I should
rake up from the dung-hill of the day the Tennysons,
the Montgomeries, the Blessingtons, etc. etc. with whose
writings magazine readers are so conversant. These
are "bad bardlings." But many will be passed by for
whom I entertain much respect, and more love. Mrs
Norton, the elder Montgomery, Miss Landon, gentle
and sad Grahame, are lights of no mean magnitude.
But "in looking upon the moon the dinmmer orbs are
forgotten." I avail myself of this introductory para graph to say, that this paper will be unlike those which
have preceded it. Accurate research, and close examination into points of literary history, although necessary
in treating of English Poetry in its earlier stages, are
scarcely so in treating of the same subject in its later.
The reason of this is evident. I shall therefore content
myself with brief critical remarks, (too brief, perhaps,
to excite interest) and as a matter of less importance
than in my former papers-with snatches of biography.
This being the case, I fear that these papers will be
thought trivial.
My last chapter ended with Pope. Passing over Swift
and a few others, we come at once upon a worthy name.
I. James Thomson, the author of the Seasons and
other Poems of merit, w as born in Roxburgshire, Scotland, in Septeniber, 1700. His father, a clergyman of
small estate, died while the Poet was yet a boy; and,
after a few years speit in obscurity, the son went to
London as a literary adventurer. "By what gradation
of indigence he becanme reduced to a Poet it would be
vain to inquire." He did become "readuced to a Poet,"
however, and, after a season of want, he succeeded in
selling his "WVinter." Mr. Wheatley and Aaron Hill
took active parts in his advancement, and Thomscon
was so blinded by gratitude for the kindness of the latter gentleman, that hlie flattered him without stint,-for
which our poet no doubt underwent the repentance of
Caliban on discovering the earthly quality of Stephano.
" What a thrice double ass
Was I to take the drunkard for a God,
And worship this dull fool."
His "Winter" was dedicated to Sir Spencer Compton,
afterwards Viscount Pevensey-and twenty guineas
were the price of the compliment. This poem soon
became popular; so much so, that he was induced to
publish his " Summer"-after which, " Spring" and
"Aututmn" followed in the order in which I write them.
In 1727 he wrote "Britannia," a satirical poem, and
" Sophonisba," a tragedy.* Other plays followed, several of which were suppressed by the liceuser. Then
came "Liberty," an elaborate and heavy poem. Thomson, at this stage of his affairs, was without funds or patronage. The Prince of Wales, however, having reduced
his own fortunes to a condition almost as desperate as
the Poet's, either from sympathy or from a supposition
that the patronage of literature would be one means of
gaining popuk r favor, employed Mr. Lyttleton to enlist Thonmson. Our Poet, when the Prince on his first
introduction familiarly inquired into his affairs, answer.
ed that'they were in a more poetical posture than formerly'-whereupon he was presented with a yearly
pension of 1001. After this he produced Agamemnon,
a tragedy-Edward and Eleonora, a tragedy-Alfred,
a mask-and the tragedy of Tanered and Sigismunda.
Mr. Lyttleton having come into office, appointed him
* Now only remembered from a rough parody on one of its
verses. The play had excited high expectation, and was well
received; but when the actor came to repeat-" 0, Sophonisba,
Sophonisba, O0," a voice from the audience chimed in-" 0",
Jermmie Thomson, Jemnie Thomson, 0," which for a time was
a mouth-verse throughcut the city.
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