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The Pindarique Odes are now to be considered; a species of composition, with Cowley thinks Pancirolus might have counted in his list of the lost invento fatiguity, and which he has made a bold and vigorous attempt to recover The purpose with which he has paraphrased an Olympic and Nematan Ode, i; by himself sufficiently explained. His endeavour was, not to shew precisely what Pindar pote, but his manner of speaking. He was therefore not at all restrained to his expressions, nor much to his sentiments; nothing was required of him, but not to write as Pindar would not have written. Ofthe Olympic Ode the beginning is, I think, above the original in elegance, and the conclusion below it in strength. The connection is supplied with great peop.cuity, and the thoughts, which to a reader of less skill seem thrown together by chance, are concatenated without any abruption. Though the English ode cannot be called a translation, it may be very properly consulted as a commentary. The spirit of Pindar is indeed not every where equally preserved. The following pretty lines are not such as his deep mauth was used to pour: Great Rhea's son, If in Olympus’ top where thou | | Sitt'st to behold thy sacred show, | If in Alpheus' silver flight, If in my verse thou take delight, My verse, great Rhea's son, which is Lofty as that, and smooth as this.

on the Nemean ode the reader must, in mere justice to Pindar, observe that "atever is said of the original new moon, her tender forehead and her horns, is operadded by his paraphrast, who has many other plays of words and fancy uniuitable to the original, as, The table, free for every guest, No doubt will thee admit, And feast more upon thee, than thou on it.

He sometimes extends his author's thoughts without improving them. In the Olympionick an oath is mentioned in a single word, and Cowley spends three ontsin swearing by the Castalian Stream. We are toll of Theron's bounty, with -bint that he had enemies, which Cowley thus enlarges in rhyming prose: But in this thankless world the giver Is envied even by the receiver; 'Tis now the cheap and frugal fashion Rather to hide than own the obligation; Nay, 'tis much worse than so; It now an artifice does grow Wrongs and injuries to do, Lest men should think we owe. 'tis hard to conceive that a man of the first rank in learning and wit, when * was dealing out such minute morality in such feeble diction, could imagine, *: waking or dreaming that he imitated Pindar. - E 2 In


In the following odes, where Cowley chooses his own subjects, he sometimes rises to dignity truly Pindarick; and, if some deficiencies of language be forgiven, his strains are such as those of the Theban Bard were to his contemporaries: Begin the song, and strike the living lyre : Lo how the years to come, a numerous and well-fitted quire, All hand in hand do decently advance, And to my song with smooth and equal measure dance ; While the dance lasts, how long soe'er it be, My musick's voice shall bear it company ; Till all gentle notes be drown'd

* In the last trumpet’s dreadful sound.

After such enthusiasm, who will not lament to find the poet conclude with lines like these : But stop, my Muse— Hold thy Pindaric Pegasus closely in, Which does to rage begin— —"Tis an unruly and a hard-mouth’d horse • . 'Twill no unskilful touch endure, But flings writer and reader too that sits not sure. The fault of Cowley, and perhaps of all the writers of the metaphysical race, is that of pursuing his thoughts to the last ramifications, by which he loses the grandeur of generality; for of the greatest things the parts are little; what is little can be but pretty, and by claiming dignity becomes ridiculous. Thus all the power of description is destroyed by a scrupulous enumeration; and the force of metaphors is lost, when the mind by the mention of particulars is turned more upon the original than the secondary sense, more upon that from which the illustration is drawn than that to which it is applied. Of this we have a very eminent example in the ode intituled The Muse, who goes to take the air in an intellectual chariot, to which he harnesses Fancy and Judgment, Wit and Eloquence, Memory and Invention: how he distinguished Wit from Fancy, or how Memory could properly contribute to Motion, he has not cxplained; we are however content to suppose that he could have justified his own fiction, and wish to see the Muse begin her career; but there is yet more to be done. - - Let the postilion Nature mount, and let The coachman Art be set; - - And let the airy footmco, running all beside, Make a long row of goodly pride; Figures, conceits, raptures, and Sentences, In a well-worded dress, And innocent loves, and pleasant truths, and useful lies, In all their gaudy liveries. Every mind is now distinguished with this cumber of magnificence; yet 1 tannot refuse myself the four next lines: -- - Mount,

Mount, glorious queen, thy travelling throne,
And bid it to put on ;
For long though cheerful is the way,
And life alas allows but one ill winter’s day.

In the same ode, celebrating the power of the Muse, he gives her presciano, or, in poetical language, the foresight of events hatching in futurity; but hi. ing once an egg in his mind, he cannot forbear to shew us that he knozo what an egg contains:

Thou into the close nests of Time dost peep,
And there with a piercing eye
Through the firm shell and the thick white dost spy
Years to come a-forming lie,
Close in their sacred fecundine asleep.

The same thought is more generally, and therefore more poetically, expressei by Casimir, a writer, who has many of the beauties and faults of Cowley:

Omnibus mundi Dominator horis

Aptat urgendas per inane pennas,

Pars adhuc nido latet, & futuros -
Crescit in annos. i

Cowley, whatever was his subject, seems to have been carried by a kind ofdestiny, to the light and the familiar, or to conceits which require stillmore ignoble ‘pithets. A slaughter in the Red Sea new dies the waters name; and England, during the Civil War, was Albion no more, nor to be named from white. It is surely o, some fascination not easily surmounted, that a writer professing to revive to not and highest writing in verse, makes this address to the new year:

Nay, if thou lov'st me, gentle year,
Let not so mnch as love be there,
Vain fruitless love I mean; for, gentle year,
Although I fear,
There's of this caution little heed,
Yet, gentle year, take heed
How thou dost make
Such a mistake;
- Such love I mean alone
As by thy cruel predecessors has been shewn ;
For, though I have too much cause to doubt it,
I sain would try, for once, if life can live without it.

The reader of this will be inclined to cry out with Prior— Ye Critics, say, How poor to this was Pindar's style? Even those who cannot perhaps find in the Isthmian or Nemacan songs what

Antiquity has disposed them to expect, will at last see that they are il represented

sented by such puny poetry; and all will determine that, if this be the old Theban strain, it is not worthy of revival. To the disproportion and incongruity of Cowley's sentiments must be added the uncertainty and looseness of his measures. He takes the liberty of using in any place a verse of any length, from two syllables to twelve. The verses of Pindar have, as he observes, very little harmony to a modern ear; yet by examining the syllables we perceive them to be regular, and have reason enough for supposing that the ancient audiences were delighted with the sound. The imitator ought therefore to have adopted what he found, and to have added what was wanting; to have preserved a constant return of the same numbers, and to have supplied smoothness of transition and continuity of thought. It is urged by Dr. Sprat, that the irregularity of numbers is the very thing which makes that kind of poesy fit for all manner of subjects. But he should have remembered, that what is fit for every thing can fit nothing well. The great pleasure of verse arises from the known measure of the lines, and uniform structure of the stanzas, by which the voice is regulated, and the memory relieved. If the Pindarick style be, what Cowley thinks it, the highest and noblest kind of writing in verse, it can be adapted only to high and noble subjects; and it will not be easy to reconcile the poet with the critick, or to conceive how that can be the highest kind of writing in verse, which, according to Sprat, is chiefly to be preferred for its near affinity to prose. This lax and lawless versification so much concealed the deficiencies of the barren, and flattered the laziness of the idle, that it immediately overspread our \books of poetry; all the boys and girls caught the pleasing fashion, and they , that could do nothing else could write like Pindar. The rights of antiquity were invaded, and disorder tried to break into the Latin: a poem * on the Sheldonian Theatre, in which all kinds of verse are shaken together, is unhappily inserted in the Musae Anglicana. Pindarism prevailed above half a century; but at last died gradually away, and other imitations supply its place. The Pindarique Odes have so long enjoyed the highest degree of poetical reputation, that I am not willing to dismiss them with unabated censure; and surely though the mode of their composition be erroneous, yet many parts deserve at least that admiration which is due to great comprehension of knowledge, and great fertility of fancy. The thoughts are often new, and often striking; but the greatness of one part is disgraced by the littleness of another; and total negligence of language gives the noblest conceptions the appearance of a fabric august in the plan, but mean in the materials. Yet surely those verses are not without a just claim to praise; of which it may be said with truth, that no man but Cowley could have written them.

* First published in quarto, 1669, under the title of “Carmen Pindaricum in Theatrum “Sheldonianum in solennibus magnifici Operis Encoeniis. Recitatum Julii die 9, Anno 1669,

“a Corbetto Owen, A. B.A.d. Chr. Alumno Authore.” E. The

The Davideis now remains to be considered; a poem which the author designed to have extended to twelve books, merely, as he makes no scruple of declaring, because the AEneid had that number; but he had leisure or perseverance only to write the third part. Epick poems have been left unfinished by Virgil, Statius, Spenser, and Cowley. That we have not the whole Davideis is, however, not much to be regretted; for in this undertaking Cowley is, tacitly at least, confessed to have miscarried. There are not many examples of so great a work, produced by an author generally read, and generally Praised, that has crept through a century with so little regard. Whatever is said of Cowley, is meant of his other works. Of the Davideis no mention is made; it never appears in books, nor emerges in conversation. By the Spectator it has been once quoted; by Rymer it has once been praised; and by Dryden, in “Mac Flecknoe,” it has once been imitated; not do I recollect much other notice from its publication till now, in the whole succession of English literature. Of this silence and neglect, if the reason be inquired, it will be found partly in the choice of the subject, and partly in the performance of the work. Sacred History has been always read with submissive reverence, and an inagination over-awed and controlled. We have been accustomed to acquiesce in the nakedness and simplicity of the authentic narrative, and to repose on its veracity with such humble confidence, as suppresses curiosity. We go with the historian as he goes, and stop with him when he stops. All amplification is frivolous and vain; all addition to that which is already sufficient for the purPoes of religion, seems not only useless, but in some degree profane. Such events as were produced by the visible interposition of Divine Power are above the power of human genius to dignify. The miracle of Creation, however it may teen with images, is best described with little diffusion of lanSuage; He pake the word, and they were made. y We are told that Saul was troubled with an evil spirit; from this Cowley takes an opportunity of describing hell, and telling the history of Lucifer, who was, he says, Once general of a gilded host of sprites, Like Hesper leading forth the spangled nights; But down like lightning, which him struck, he came, And roar'd at his first plunge into the flame.

Lucifer makes a speech to the inferior agents of mischief, in which there is something of heathenism, and therefore of impropriety; and, to give efficacy to his words, concludes by lashing his breast with his long tail. Envy, after a Pause, steps out, and among other declarations of her zeal utters these lines:

Do thou but treat, loud storms shall make reply,
And thunder echo to the trembling sky,
Whilst raging seas swell to so bold an height,
As shall the fire's proud element affright,
Th' old drudging Sun, from his long-beaten way,
Shall at thy voice start, and misguide the day.

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