violated, life is misrepresented, and language is depraved. But love is only one of many passions; and as it has no great influence upon the sum of life, it has little operation in the dramas of a poet, who caught his ideas from the living world, and exhibited only what he saw before him. He knew that He knew that any other passion, as it was regular or exorbitant, was a cause of happiness or calamity. This, therefore, is the praise of Shakspeare, that his drama is the mirror of life; that he who has mazed his imagination, in following the phantoms which other writers raise up before him, may here be cured of his delirious ecstasies, by reading human sentiments in human language, by scenes from which a hermit may estimate the transactions of the world, and a confessor predict the progress of the passions. Shakspeare's plays are not in the rigorous and critical sense either tragedies or comedies, but compositions of a distinct kind ; exhibiting the real state of sublunary nature, which partakes of good and evil, joy and sorrow, mingled with endless variety of proportion, and innumerable modes of combination; and expressing the course of the world, in which the loss of one is the gain of another; in which, at the same time, the reveller is hasting to his wine, and the mourner burying his friend; in which the malignity of one is sometimes defeated by the frolic of another; and many mischiefs and many benefits are done and hindered without design. Shakspeare has united the powers of exciting laughter and sorrow not only in one mind, but in one composition. Almost all his plays are divided between serious and ludicrous characters, and, in the successive evolutions of the design, sometimes produce seriousness and sorrow, and sometimes levity and laughter. That this is a practice contrary to the rules of criticism will be readily allowed; but there is always an appeal open from criticism to nature. The end of writing is to instruct; the end of poetry is to instruct by pleasing. That the mingled drama may convey all the instruction of tragedy or comedy cannot be denied, because it includes both in its alternations of exhibition, and approaches nearer than either to the appearance of life, by showing how great machinations and slender designs may promote or obviate one another, and the high and the low co-operate in the general system by unavoidable concatenation. The force of his comic scenes has suffered little diminution from the changes made by a century and a half, in manners or in words. As his personages act upon principles arising from genuine passion, very little modified by particular forms, their pleasures and vexations are communicable to all times and to all places; they are natural, and therefore durable. The adventitious pecu liarities of personal habits are only superficial dyes, bright and pleasing for a little while, yet soon fading to a dim tinct, without any remains of former lustre; but the discriminations of true passion are the colors of nature; they pervade the whole mass, and can only perish with the body that exhibits them. The accidental compositions of heterogeneous modes are dissolved by the chance which combined them; but the uniform simplicity of primitive qualities neither admits increase, nor suffers decay. The sand heaped by one flood is scattered by another; but the rock always continues in its place. The stream of time, which is continually washing the dissoluble fabrics of other poets, passes without injury by the adamant of Shakspeare. Preface to Shakspeare. THE FATE OF POVERTY. By numbers here from shame or censure free, This, only this, the rigid law pursues, This, only this, provokes the snarling muse. The sober trader at a tatter'd cloak Wakes from his dream, and labors for a joke; London. CARDINAL WOLSEY. In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, To him the church, the realm, their powers consign, Through him the rays of regal bounty shine. Turn'd by his nod, the stream of honor flows, His smile alone security bestows; Still to new heights his restless wishes tower, Till conquest, unresisted, ceased to please, And rights submitted left him none to seize. I The Spaniards had at this time laid claim to several of the English provinces in America. At length his sovereign frowns-the train of state Vanity of Human Wishes. CHARLES XII.1 On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, No dangers fright him, and no labors tire; War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field: vain Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in The march begins in military state, He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay;— He left a name, at which the world grew pale, Vanity of Human Wishes. 1 Charles XII., King of Sweden, having invaded Russia, was totally defeated at the battle of Pultowa, and forced to seek refuge in Turkey. He was afterwards killed at the siege of a little fort in Norway, OBJECTS OF PETITION. Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find! Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise; No cries invoke the mercies of the skies? Inquirer, eease; petitions yet remain, Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain. But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain, These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain; With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find. Vanity of Hanan Wishes THE FOLLY OF PROCRASTINATION. To-morrow's action! can that hoary wisdom, Tragedy of Irene. MRS. GREVILLE, Or Mrs. Greville, whose "Prayer for Indifference" has been so much admired, I cannot, after the greatest search, give the least account. PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. Oft I've implored the gods in vain, Sweet airy being, wanton sprite If e'er thy pitying heart was moved, 1 And for th' Athenian maid who loved, Thou sought'st a wondrous spell; O deign once more t' exert thy power! Sovereign as juice of western flower, I ask no kind return of love, No tempting charm to please; Nor peace, nor ease, the heart can know, Turns at the touch of joy or woe, But, turning, trembles too. Far as distress the soul can wound, 'Tis bliss but to a certain bound; Beyond, is agony. Then take this treacherous sense of mine O haste to shed the sovereign balm, At her approach, see Hope, see Fear, And Disappointment in the rear, 1 See Midsummer Night's Dream. |