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Alas ! how this dim scene
Is fraught with change and death! What countless myriads here have been
To breathe a moment's breath, Then sink beneath that mortal doom That makes the wide green earth a tomb,
Its flowers a funeral wreath ; And oh! what countless myriads more Shall rise and fall ere Time is o'er !
One after one we fill
The darkly yawning grave;
Thus wave succeedeth wave,
The happiest fate may save,
But hence with thoughts like these,
(The present still is ours !) They come like autumn's blighting breeze
Through Summer's leafy bowers ;
And when the future lowers,
Oh! spirit-gladdening sight!
Oh! happiness divine !
To call such cherub mine!
Yet how can I repine
LORD BYRON’S OPINION OF POPE.
LORD BYRON had always a nervous horror of floating with the stream, and was never inclined to express any other opinions than those which he knew to be in direct opposition to the general judgment of mankind, more especially of his own contemporaries. It was this feeling that led him to undervalue Shakespeare and make Pope his idol. In the Pope and Bowles controversy Lord Byron was any thing but triumphant, notwithstanding the flippant dogmatism of his style, which presented a strong contrast to the moderate, candid, and argumentative productions of his opponent, who though a writer vastly inferior to Lord Byron in the general powers of his mind, had certainly the advantage over him in a suber critical disquisition*. This was less owing to a deficiency of taste and judgment on the part of Byron than to a downright want of sincerity. With all his swaggering he must have been perfectly conscious that he was taking up the wrong side of the question, when he spoke of Pope as the greatest poet in the world. Mr. Bowles was strangely misrepresented and misunderstood, in this discussion, though he simply maintained the theory of Warton, that images drawn from nature, human and external, are more poetical per se than those drawn from works of art and artificial manners. I have not a copy of Bowles's pamphlet in my possession, and have not read it since the time of its first publication ; but I well recollect the general tenor of its reasoning, and my surprise at the mistakes or wilful misapprehensions of Byron. It may seem
• Some of Bowles's later pamphlets on the same subject were written in a less amiable spirit,
presumptuous to speak in this strain of so great a man. dull eyes may discover spots in the sun, and very ordinary persons may be alive to the faults of their superiors. I shall give a specimen or two of his arguments.
“ I opposed,” says he, “and will ever oppose the robbery of ruins from Athens, to instruct the English in sculpture ; but why did I do so ? The ruins are as poetical in Piccadilly as they were in the Parthenon, but the Parthenon and its rocks are less so without them. Such is the poetry of art."
To suppose these detached fragments of buildings, as poetical in a confined and crowded court in London, as in the place from which they were taken, surrounded by picturesque and classical scenes and associations, is manifestly erroneous. The same line of argument would prove that a boat high and dry in a dock-yard or in a carpenter's warehouse is as poetical an object as the same boat when filled with human beings, tossing on the stormy sea or sleeping by sunset on a glassy lake. Works of art are not poetical per se, but as connected with external nature and human
“Mr. Bowles contends, again, that the pyramids of Egypt are poetical, because of the association with boundless deserts,' and that a 'pyramid of the same dimensions would not be sublime in Lincoln's Inn Fields;' not so poetical certainly; but take away the pyramids, and what is the desert ?''
The desert would still be poetical without the pyramids, but not so the pyramids without the desert. Mr. Bowles would readily admit that the taking away the pyramids would lessen the poetry of the desert, because the human associations suggested by works of art would add greatly to the interest of any scenery, however beautiful and poetical in itself. In the same way the ocean in a storm is a strikingly poetical object, but its poetry is heightened by the associations of danger and suffering connected with the sight of a ship. It is not the appearance of the mere planks or the mechanical construction of the ship, but the probable emotions and anxieties of those on board, and the uncertainty of their fate, that touches the heart and awakens the imagination.
“To the question whether the description of a game of cards be as poetical, supposing the execution equal, as a description of a walk in a forest? it may be answered, that the materials are certainly not equal ; but that the artist who has rendered a game of cards poetical, is by far the greater of the two. But all this ordering of poets is purely arbitrary on the part of Mr. Bowles. There may or may not be, in fact, different orders of poetry ; bat the poet is always ranked according to his execution, and not according to bis branch of the art."
Who does not see the fallacy of this ? Will
any body main. tain that the best satire that was ever written is as poetical as the best epic poem, or entitles the author to the same rank in literature. He whose work is the most poetical is the best poet, and not he who exhibits the most skill in treating unpoetical subjects. Dryden's Absolem and Achitophel is as well handled, perhaps, as Milton's Paradise Lost; but which production is the most poetical, and which author is the greatest poet? Is the author of the most excellent sonnet equal in rank to the author of the most excellent tragedy? Certainly not. Dryden has said, that “ an Heroic Poem, truly such, is undoubtedly the greatest work which the soul of man is capable to perforın.” Could he have said this of an epigram without exciting a universal laugh* ? A poet who executes an inferior subject with uncommon skill is entitled to a place above him who executes a sublime
• Dr. South, however, foolishly asserted that a perfect epigram is as difficult as an Epic poem, and Pope very justly ridiculed him for it in the Dunciad.
How many Martials were in Pulteney lost!