Critical Notices [pp. 582-600]

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
565
as the heart, such as can be found inr. no other class of
poets."
Notwithstanding the direct truth of what has been
here so well advanced, it cannot, we think, be a matter
of doubt with any reflecting mind, that at least one third of the reverence, or of the affection, with which
we regard the elder poets of Great Britain, should be
credited to what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry we mean to the simple love of the antique-and that
again a third of even the proper poetic sentiment inspired
by these writings should be ascribed to a fact which,
while it has a strict connection with poetry in the ab stract, and also with the particular poems in question,
must not be looked upon as a merit appertaining to the
writers of the poems. Almost every devout reader of
the old English bards, if demanded his opinion of their
productions, would mention vaguely, yet with perfect
sincerity, a sense of dreamy, wild, indefinite, and he
would perhaps say, undefinable delight. Upon being
required to point out the source of this so shadowy
pleasure, he would be apt to speak of the quaint in
phraseology and of the grotesque in rhythm. And this
quaintness and grotesqueness are, as we have elsewhere
endeavored to show, very powerful, and if well managed, very admissible adjuncts to Ideality. But in the
present instance they arise independently of the author's
will, and are matters altogether apart from his intention.
The.merican JIonthly has forcibly painted the general
character of the old English Muse. She was a maid,
frank, guileless, and perfectly sincere, and although
very learned at times, still very learned without art.
No general error evinces a more thorough confusion of
ideas than the error of supposing Donne and Cowley
metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth and
Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the
end-with the two latter the means. The poet of the
Creation wished, by highly artificial verse, to inculcate
what he considered moral truth-he of the.uncient
JMariner to infuse the Poetic Sentiment through channels
suggested by mental analysis. The one finished by
complete failure what he commenced in the grossest
misconception-the other, by a path which could not
possibly lead him astray, arrived at a certainty and
intensity of triumph which is not the less brilliant and
glorious because concentrated among the very few who
have the power to perceive it. It will now be seen that
even the " metaphysical verse" of Cowley is no more
than evidence of the straight-forward simplicity and
single-heartedness of the man. And he was in all this
but a type of his school-for we may as wvell designate
in this way the entire class of writers whose poems
are bound up in the volume before us, and throughout
all of whom runs a very perceptible general character.
They used but little art in composition. Their writings
sprang immediately from the soul-and partook intensely of the nature of that soul. It is not difficult to
perceive the tendency of this glorious abandon. To
elevate immeasurably all the energies of mind-but
again-so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force,
delicacy, and all good things, with the lowest possible
bathos, baldness, and utter imbecility, as to render it
not a matter of doubt, but of certainty, that the average
results of mind in such a school, will be found inferior
to those results in one (ceteris paribus) more artificial.
Such, we think, is the view of the older English Poetry,
in which a very calm examination wvill bear us out.
The quaintness in manner of which we were just
speaking, is an adventitious advantage. It formed no
portion ofthe poet's intention. Words and theirrhythm
have varied. Verses which affect us to day with a
vivid delight, and which delight in some instances, may
be traced to this one source of grotesqueness and to
none other, must have worn in the days of their construction an air of a very common-place nature. This
is no argument, it will be said, against the poems now.
Certainly not-we mean it for the poets then. The notion of power, of excessive power, in the English antique
writers should be put in its proper light. This is all
we desire to see done.
We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the selections made use of in the Book of Gems, are such as will
impart to a poetical reader the highest possible idea of
the beauty of the school. Better extracts might be made.
Yet if the intention were merely to show the character
of the school the attempt is entirely successful. There
are long passages now before us of the most utterly
despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond their
simple antiquity. And it is almost needless to say that
there are many passages too of a glorious strength-a
radiant loveliness, making the blood tingle in our veins
as we peruse them. The criticisms of the Editor do
not please us in a great degree. He seems to have
fallen into the common cant in such cases. In one
instance the American Monthly accords with him in
an unjust opinion touching some verses by Sir Henry
Wotton, on the Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James
I, and about which it is said that "there are few finer
things in our language." Our readers will agree with
us, we believe, that this praise is exaggerated. We
quote the lines in full.
You meaner beauties of the night
That poorly satisfy our eyes,
More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies
What are you when the sun shall rise?
You curious chaunters of the wood
That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents; what's your praise
Whenl Philomel her voice shall raise?
You violets, that first appear
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year
As if the spring were all your own,
What are you when the rose is blown?
So, when my mistress shall be seen
In sweetness of her looks and mind,
By virtue first, then choice a queen,
Tell me if she were not designed
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?
In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher
attributes of the Muse which belong to her under all
circumstances and throughout all time. Here every
thing is art-naked or but awkwardly concealed. No
prepossession for the mere antique (for in this case we
can imagine no other prepossession) should induce us
to dignify with the sacred name of Poesy, a series such
as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,
(threadbare even at the time of their composition)
stitched apparently together, without fancy, without