Had of him routhe, and that thei saien should, For which him likid in his songis shewe Another exquisite master of this species of style, where the scholar and the poet supplies the material, but the perfect wellbred gentleman the expressions and the arrangement, is George. Herbert. As from the nature of the subject, and the too frequent quaintness of the thoughts, his TEMPLE; or SACREd Poems and PRIVATE EJACULATIONS are comparatively but little known, shall extract two poems. The first is a sonnet, equally admirable for the weight, number, and expression of the thoughts, and for the simple dignity of the language. Unless, indeed, a fastidious taste should object to the latter half of the sixth line. The second is a poem of greater length, which I have chosen not only for the present purpose, but likewise as a striking example and illustration of an assertion hazarded in a former page of these sketches: namely, that the characteristic fault of our elder poets is the reverse of that, which distinguishes too many of our more recent versifiers; the one conveying the most fantastic thoughts in the most correct and natural language; the other in the most fantastic language conveying the most trivial thoughts. * [Boke V. The first lines of the first stanza stand thus in the original And aftir this he to the yatis wente and the first of the last stanza thus: This songè when he thus songin had sone.—S. C.] The latter is a riddle of words; the former an enigma of thoughts As other men, so I myself do muse, I will resolve you: I am lunatic !* The other recalls a still odder passage in THE SYNAGOGUE: 01 THE SHADOW OF THE TEMPLE, a connected series of poems in im itation of Herbert's TEMPLE, and, in some editions, annexed to it O how my mind Is gravell❜d! Not a thought, That I can find, But's ravell'd All to naught! Short ends of threads, And narrow shreds Of lists, Knots, snarled ruffs, Loose broken tufts Of twists, Are my torn meditations' ragged clothing, To think how to unthink that thought again. Immediately after these burlesque passages I can not proceed a the extracts promised, without changing the ludicrous tone of feeling by the interposition of the three following stanzas of Her bert's. VIRTUE. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; * Sonnet IX. [The Synagogue, a collection of poems generally appended to the Temple, has been retained in Mr. Pickering's edition of 1835. "They were first printed," as the Preface mentions, A.D. 1640, and have been, with much probability, attributed to the Rev. Christopher Harvie, M.A. The poem quoted is at p. 274 of the edit.—S. C.] Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, THE BOSOM SIN: A SONNET BY GEORGE HERBERT. Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round! The sound of Glory ringing in our ears: LOVE UNKNOWN. Dear friend, sit down, the tale is long and sad: To him I brought a dish of fruit one day, And in the middle placed my heart. But he (I sigh to say) Look'd on a servant, who did know his eye, A stream of blood, which issued from the side Of a great rock: I well remember all, T* Indeed 'tis true. I did and do commit (I sigh to tell) To fetch a sacrifice out of my fold, Thinking with that, which I did thus present, Out of the caldron getting, soon I fled Unto my house, where to repair the strength But when I thought to sleep out all these faults, I found that some had stuff'd the bed with thoughts, The thorns did quicken what was grown too dull: CHAPTER XX. THE FORMER SUBJECT CONTINUED THE NEUTRAL STYLE, OR THAT COMMON TO PROSE AND POETRY, EXEMPLIFIED BY SPECIMENS FROM CHAUCER, HERBERT, AND OTHERS. I HAVE no fear in declaring my conviction, that the excellence defined and exemplified in the preceding chapter is not the characteristic excellence of Mr Wordsworth's style; because I can add with equal sincerity, that it is precluded by higher powers. The praise of uniform adherence to genuine, logical English is undoubtedly his; nay, laying the main emphasis on the word uniform, I will dare add that, of all contemporary poets, it is his alone. For, in a less absolute sense of the word, I should certainly include Mr. Bowles, Lord Byron, and, as to all his later writings, Mr. Southey, the exceptions in their works being so few and unimportant. But of the specific excellence described in the quotation from Garve, I appear to find more, and more undoubted specimens in the works of others; for instance, among the minor poems of Mr. Thomas Moore, and of our illustrious Laureate. To me it will always remain a singular and noticeable fact; that a theory, which would establish this lingua communis, not only as the best, but as the only commendable style, should have proceeded from a poet, whose diction, next to that of Shakspeare and Milton, appears to me of all others the most individualized and characteristic. And let it be remembered, too, that I am now interpreting the controverted passages of Mr. Wordsworth's critical preface by the purpose and object, which he may be supposed to have intended, rather than by the sense * [The three poems are at pp. 87, 40, and 133 respectively.—S. C.] |