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one in a mediocre manner; but when the execution is equal, the subject decides the superiority. A lofty subject requires a greater grasp of intellect and a more vigorous imagination than a humble one, and therefore the author of the Paradise Lost or of the Tragedy of Macbeth would always rank above the author of the most poetical description of a game of cards that was ever written, because no human power could render it so eminently poetical as those two immortal productions. The card-game describer might be a cleverer man than Milton without a hundredth part of his genius. Lord Byron, however, very strenuously maintains that “ the poet who executes best is the highest, whatever his depart. ment*.” And what is still more strange and inconsistent, after asserting that there are no “orders” in poetry, or that if there be, the poet is ranked by his execution not his subject, he elevates Pope above all other writers of verse on the ground of his being the best ethical poet, and ethical poetry being of the highest rankt. If Bentham's prose Ethics were put into good verse, they would, according to this decision, be finer poetry than the works of Homer, Shakespeare or Milton.

* A pig by Morland might be as well done as an angel by Raphael, but this would not make the former artist entitled to the same rank amongst painters as the latter.

+ When Lord Byron on his death-bed sent for "an old and ugly witch," or after presenting a gold pin to a lady, intreated its return, because it was unlucky to give any thing with a point, a man of an intellect inferior to the poet's might very reasonably smile at nis superstition. His poetical creed, if sincere, is indeed unaccountable; but it is more easy to reconcile ourselves to the belief, that he often expressed on poetical, as on many other subjects, not so much his own opi. nions as those that he thought would most puzzle and surprize. His whole life seemed to be devoted to creating a sensation. He even made himself out a monster of iniquity, that he might become an object of wonder and speculation. His hatred of England and the English people, his scorn of mankind in general, his disbelief in virtue, and his contempt for fame, were all the grossest affectation, and had no real existence in his heart, as his conduct showed. He betrayed on several occasions and in many ways an intense desire to attract and retain the attention of the English public-he was singularly affectionate and kind to all who came in contact with him-was always ready and had frequent reason to acknowledge the virtues of his friends or enemies-had many noble traits in his own character-and devoted the greater part of his life to the acquisition of a name! The failure of his tragedies was the cause of excessive chagrin and

Byron talks continually about Pope's faultlessness, forgetting what that elegant writer himself observes

“ Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see

Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be;"

mortification, and though he always talked with apparent indifference of such of his poems as were certain of success, he could not help defending, with an uneasy and eager fondness, the less fortunate offspring of his brain. His translation of Pulci and his “ Hints from Horace," because every body else considered them unworthy of his genius, and treated them with neglect, were always spo. ken of by him as his best productions. It is curious to observe, that notwithstanding his pretended indifference to criticism, he was evidently very anxious to stand well with the leading critics. There is something not very creditable to his independence, and certainly very inconsistent with the open and vigorous straight-forwardness of his general character, in the almost servile attention which he paid to Gifford, a man who had very little in common with the Noble Bard. To the tail of almost every letter to Murray he appended his respectful compli. ments to the Editor of the Quarterly, and always submitted his poems with extraordinary deference to that critic's judgment. In opposition to this I might be referred to his English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, as a proof of his literary fearlessness : but that was a youthful indiscretion, which he lived to repent. I make these remarks with no intention to depreciate the general manliness of his character, but to show that his anxiety to secure a favorable notice of his produce tions made him condescend to a humility very foreign to his nature. Not only was Byron anxious to secure the praises of his critics, but he was thrown into an agony, by such errors of the press, as were likely to lay him open to their censure. That he would have bribed, with money, “his Grandmother's Review, The British,” to praise him, is not very likely; but it is amusing to learn from one of his letters, that so anxious was he, that his muse should not appear in a disadvantageous dress, that when he heard of some one having made an indifferent translation of his Manfred into Italian, he immediately offered him any sum of money that he expected to obtain by his project, if he would throw the translation into the fire, and promise not to meddle with his Lordship’s poems for the future. Having ascertained, that the utmost the man could expect for his version, was 200 francs, Lord Byron offered him that sum, if he would desist from publishing. The Italian however held out for more, and could not be brought to terms, until Byron threatened to horsewhip him. He at last took the 200 francs and gave up his manuscript, entering at the same time into a written engagement never to translate any more of the noble Poet's works. I believe this is the first instance on record of a man having been paid not to translate a poem. The Italian seems to have been a ludicrous specimen of a mercenary author, and pocketed both the compliment and the cash with equal coolness.

and towards the conclusion of his letter, his Lordship affirms that if any great national or natural convulsion could or should overwhelm Great Britain and sweep it from the kingdoms of the earth, and leave only a dead language, an Englishman anxious that the posterity of strangers should know that there had been such a thing as a British Epic and Tragedy, might wish for the preservation of Shakespeare and Milton ; but the surviving world would snatch Pope from the wreck, and let the rest sink with the people. Even the name of Byron, will not shelter the absurdity of this observation, or make me hesitate to protest against so preposterous a conclusion. Amongst other strange things in this letter is his Lordship's assertion that “ CowPER IS NO Poet;" which assertion is soon followed by another, that Cowper's lines addressed to his Nurse, by no means one of his best performances, are “eminently poetical and pathetic !"

Pope has no doubt been greatly undervalued by the critics of the present day, though Lord Byron, who was jealous of the Lake School, and at once abused and imitated its productions, ran into the opposite extreme, and endeavored to bring such men as Wordsworth and Southey into ridicule and contempt by invidious comparisons. Pope was a very exquisite and admirable poet, and with considerable hesitation with reference to the rival claims of Dryden, may perhaps be said to be at the very head of the artificial school of poetry. But though he may be allowed to be the first in his peculiar walk, he must rank comparatively low in the higher department of his art. That lofty enthusiasm, that passionate admiration of external nature, and that profound know. ledge of the human heart which are so conspicuous in the dramas of the immortal Shakespeare, we should look for in vain amongst the condensed couplets and labored elegancies of Pope. At the same time it is not to be inferred that he has no enthusiasm, no sense of the charms of nature, nor insight into the human heart; for he possesses all these qualities, in a certain degree : but they

are not equal in depth and intensity to the same qualities in the highest order of poets, nor do they constitute the predominant characteristics of his mind.

Perhaps the sound sense, the fine irony, the tact for personal ridicule or eulogy, and the intimate acquaintance with polite society and artificial habits, for which Pope was so remarkably distinguished, have led the generality of critics to overlook or undervalue the more purely poetical qualities which he certainly possessed, though in a less eminent degree.

It is strange that Lord Byron and the other defenders of Pope, have not brought forward the various proofs which are to be found in his works of his power of description; for Warton, Wordsworth and Bowles have laid great stress on his palpable deficiency in this important qualification of a true poet. His translation of the Moon-light Scene in the Iliad is spoken of by Wordsworth with contempt, though a complimentary allusion is made to the “ Windsor Forest.” It is worth while quoting his remarks :

“ It is remarkable that, excepting the Nocturnal Reverie of Lady Winchelsea, and a passage or two in the Windsor Forest of Pope, the poetry of the period intervening between the publication of Paradise Lost and the Seasons does not contain a single new image of external nature; and scarcely presents a familiar one from which it can be inferred that the eye of the poet had been steadily fixed upon his object, much less that his feelings had urged him to work upon it in the spirit of genuine imagination. To what a low state knowledge of the most obvious and important phenomena had sunk, is evident from the style in which Dryden had executed a description of Night in one of his Tragedies, and Pope his translation of the celebrated Moon-light Scene in the Iliad. A blind man, in the habit of atending accurately to descriptions casually dropped from the lips of those around him, might easily depict their appearances with more truth. Dryden's lines* are vague, bombastic and senseless; those of Pope, though he had Homer to guide him, are throughout false and contradictoryt. The

Melmoth says that Pope's translation of this passage surpasses the original ! + The following is the passage alluded to by Wordsworth. Rymer regarded it with extatic admiration.

“ All things are hushed as Nature's self lay dead :

The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head :

verses of Dryden, once bighly celebrated, are forgotten ; those of Pope still retain their hold upon public estimation---nay there is not a passage of descriptive poetry, which at this day finds so many ardent admirers."

Instead of supporting Pope on his strong ground of the “ Windsor Forest,” Lord Byron with his usual love of opposition confines himself wholly to a consideration of this Moon-light Scene, which he contends is full of truth and beauty. Now what can be more common-place and indistinct than such phrases and epithets as “refulgent lamp of night"_"sacred light"_“the vivid planets roll”—“gild the glowing pole"-"a flood of glory,” &c. &c. ? They are precisely of that description which one would expect to meet with in the verses of a school-boy, and present no clear picture to the mind. A living writer has done more justice to the same well known passage. I allude to Mr. Elton. Every reader who is at all versed in the elegant literature of the day, is familiar with the merits of that gentleman, whose translations of the poets of Greece and Rome are rarely denied an honorable place in a well selected library. Mere English scholars, unacquainted with the original, have often been heard to acknowledge, that Elton's translations gave them a higher notion of the purity, simplicity and truth of Greek poetry than any other versions in our language. It is now almost universally admitted, that Pope, as a translator, is too ornate, and takes too many liberties with the venerable blind bard of the Iliad and the Odyssey. He has made an odd mixture of ancient simplicity and modern finery. The superiority of Cowper's translation of Homer to that of Pope, would be more apparent, if the poet of Olney had not been so fearful of falling into the errors of his immediate predecessor as to sin in a contrary and less popular extreme. His version is too studiously

The little birds in dreams their songs repeat,
And sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew sweat;
E'en lust and envy

p; yet love denies Rest to my soul and slumber to my eyes."

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