Lives Of The Poets, Vol. 1 (fiscle part-III) by Samuel Johnson (best beach reads TXT) 📖

They Should Have Said Or Done; But

Wrote Rather As Beholders, Than Partakers Of Human Nature; As Beings

Looking upon Good And Evil, Impassive And At Leisure; As Epicurean

Deities, Making remarks On The Actions Of Men, And The Vicissitudes Of

Life, Without Interest And Without Emotion. Their Courtship Was Void Of

Fondness, And Their Lamentation Of Sorrow. Their Wish Was Only To Say

What They Hoped had Never Been Said Before.

 

 

 

Nor Was The Sublime More Within Their Reach Than The Pathetick; For They

Never Attempted that Comprehension And Expanse Of Thought Which, At

Once, Fills The Whole Mind, And Of Which, The First Effect Is Sudden

Astonishment, And The Second, Rational Admiration. Sublimity Is Produced

By Aggregation, And Littleness By Dispersion. Great Thoughts Are Always

General, And Consist In positions Not Limited by Exceptions, And In

Descriptions Not Descending to Minuteness. It Is With Great Propriety

That Subtilty, Which, In its Original Import, Means Exility Of

Particles, Is Taken, In its Metaphorical Meaning, For Nicety Of

Distinction. Those Writers Who Lay On The Watch For Novelty Could Have

Little Hope Of Greatness; For Great Things Cannot Have Escaped former

Observation. Their Attempts Were Always Analytick; They Broke Every

Image Into Fragments; And Could No More Represent, By Their Slender

Conceits, And Laboured particularities, The Prospects Of Nature, Or The

Scenes Of Life, Than He Who Dissects A Sunbeam With A Prism Can Exhibit

The Wide Effulgence Of A Summer Noon.

 

 

 

What They Wanted, However, Of The Sublime, They Endeavoured to Supply By

Hyperbole; Their Amplification Had No Limits; They Left Not Only

Reason But Fancy Behind Them; And Produced combinations Of Confused

Magnificence, That Not Only Could Not Be Credited, But Could Not Be

Imagined.

 

 

 

Yet Great Labour, Directed by Great Abilities, Is Never Wholly Lost;

If They Frequently Threw Away Their Wit Upon False Conceits, They,

Likewise, Sometimes Struck Out Unexpected truth; If Their Conceits Were

Far-Fetched, They Were Often Worth The Carriage. To Write On Their Plan

It Was, At Least, Necessary To Read And Think. No Man Could Be Born A

Metaphysical Poet, Nor Assume The Dignity Of A Writer, By Descriptions

Copied from Descriptions, By Imitations Borrowed from Imitations, By

Traditional Imagery, And Hereditary Similes, By Readiness Of Rhyme, And

Volubility Of Syllables[18].

 

 

 

In Perusing the Works Of This Race Of Authors, The Mind Is Exercised

Either By Recollection Or Inquiry; Either Something already Learned is

To Be Retrieved, Or Something new Is To Be Examined. If Their Greatness

Seldom Elevates, Their Acuteness Often Surprises; If The Imagination Is

Not Always Gratified, At Least The Powers Of Reflection And Comparison

Are Employed; And, In the Mass Of Materials Which Ingenious Absurdity

Has Thrown Together, Genuine Wit And Useful Knowledge May Be Sometimes

Found Buried, Perhaps, In grossness Of Expression, But Useful To

Those Who Know Their Value; And Such As, When They Are Expanded to

Perspicuity, And Polished to Elegance, May Give Lustre To Works Which

Have More Propriety, Though Less Copiousness Of Sentiment.

 

 

 

This Kind Of Writing, Which Was, I Believe, Borrowed from Marino And His

Followers, Had Been Recommended by The Example Of Donne, A Man Of Very

Extensive And Various Knowledge; And By Jonson, Whose Manner Resembled

That Of Donne More In the Ruggedness Of His Lines Than In the Cast Of

His Sentiments.

 

 

 

When Their Reputation Was High, They Had, Undoubtedly, More Imitators

Than Time Has Left Behind. Their Immediate Successours, Of Whom Any

Remembrance Can Be Said To Remain, Were Suckling, Waller, Denham,

Cowley, Cleiveland, And Milton. Denham And Waller Sought Another Way

To Fame, By Improving the Harmony Of Our Numbers. Milton Tried the

Metaphysick Style Only In his Lines Upon Hobson, The Carrier. Cowley

Adopted it, And Excelled his Predecessors, Having as Much Sentiment, And

More Musick. Suckling neither Improved versification, Nor Abounded in

Conceits. The Fashionable Style Remained chiefly With Cowley; Suckling

Could Not Reach It, And Milton Disdained it.

 

 

 

Critical Remarks Are Not Easily Understood Without Examples; And I Have,

Therefore, Collected instances Of The Modes Of Writing by Which This

Species Of Poets, For Poets They Were Called by Themselves And Their

Admirers, Was Eminently Distinguished.

 

 

 

As The Authors Of This Race Were, Perhaps, More Desirous Of Being

Admired than Understood, They Sometimes Drew Their Conceits From

Recesses Of Learning, Not Very Much Frequented by Common Readers Of

Poetry. Thus Cowley, On Knowledge:

 

 

 

  The Sacred tree 'Midst The Fair Orchard Grew;

  The Phoenix, Truth, Did On It Rest,

  And Built His Perfum'D Nest:

  That Right Porphyrian Tree Which Did True Logic Shew;

  Each Leaf Did Learned notions Give,

  And Th' Apples Were Demonstrative;

  So Clear Their Colour And Divine,

  The Very Shade They Cast Did Other Lights Outshine.

 

 

 

On Anacreon Continuing a Lover In his Old Age:

 

 

 

  Love Was With Thy Life Entwin'D,

  Close As Heat With Fire Is Join'D;

  A Powerful Brand Prescrib'D The Date

  Of Thine, Like Meleager'S Fate

 

 

 

  Th' Antiperistasis Of Age

  More Enflam'D Thy Amorous Rage.

 

 

 

In The Following verses We Have An Allusion To A Rabbinical Opinion

Concerning manna:

 

 

 

  Variety I Ask Not: Give Me One

  To Live Perpetually Upon.

  The Person Love Does To Us Fit,

  Like Manna, Has The Taste Of All In it.

 

 

 

Thus Donne Shows His Medicinal Knowledge In some Encomiastick Verses:

 

 

 

  In every Thing there Naturally Grows

  A Balsamum To Keep It Fresh And New,

  If 'Twere Not Injur'D By Extrinsique Blows;

  Your Youth And Beauty Are This Balm In you.

  But You, Of Learning and Religion,

  And Virtue And Such Ingredients, Have Made

  A Mithridate, Whose Operation

  Keeps Off, Or Cures What Can Be Done Or Said.

 

 

 

Though The Following lines Of Donne, On The Last Night Of The Year, Have

Something in them Too Scholastick, They Are Not Inelegant:

 

 

 

  This Twilight Of Two Years, Not Past Nor Next,

  Some Emblem Is Of Me, Or I Of This,

  Who, Meteor-Like, Of Stuff And Form Perplext,

  Whose What And Where In disputation Is,

  If I Should Call Me Any Thing, Should Miss.

  I Sum The Years And Me, And Find Me Not

  Debtor To Th' Old, Nor Creditor To Th' New.

  That Cannot Say, My Thanks I Have Forgot;

  Nor Trust I This With Hopes; And Yet Scarce True

  This Bravery Is, Since These Times Shew'D Me You.

 

 

 

Yet More Abstruse And Profound Is Donne'S Reflection Upon Man As A

Microcosm:

 

 

 

  If Men Be Worlds, There Is In every One

  Something to Answer In some Proportion

  All The World'S Riches: And In good Men, This

  Virtue, Our Form'S Form, And Our Soul'S Soul, Is.

 

 

 

Of Thoughts So Far-Fetched, As To Be Not Only Unexpected, But Unnatural,

All Their Books Are Full.

 

 

 

To A Lady, Who Wrote Poesies For Rings:

 

 

 

  They, Who Above Do Various Circles Find,

  Say, Like A Ring, Th' Equator Heaven Does Bind.

  When Heaven Shall Be Adorn'D By Thee,

  (Which Then More Heaven Than 'Tis Will Be,)

  'Tis Thou Must Write The Poesy There,

  For It Wanteth One As Yet,

  Then The Sun Pass Through 'T Twice A Year,

  The Sun, Which Is Esteem'D The God Of Wit.     Cowley.

 

 

 

The Difficulties Which Have Been Raised about Identity In philosophy,

Are, By Cowley, With Still More Perplexity Applied to Love:

 

 

 

  Five Years Ago (Says Story) I Lov'D You,

  For Which You Call Me Most Inconstant Now;

  Pardon Me, Madam, You Mistake The Man;

  For I Am Not The Same That I Was Then:

  No Flesh Is Now The Same 'Twas Then In me;

  And That My Mind Is Chang'D Yourself May See.

  The Same Thoughts To Retain Still, And Intents,

  Were More Inconstant Far; For Accidents

  Must Of All Things Most Strangely Inconstant Prove,

  If From One Subject They T' Another Move;

  My Members, Then, The Father Members Were,

  From Whence These Take Their Birth Which Now Are Here.

  If Then This Body Love What Th' Other Did,

  'Twere Incest, Which By Nature Is Forbid.

 

 

 

The Love Of Different Women Is, In geographical Poetry, Compared to

Travels Through Different Countries:

 

 

 

  Hast Thou Not Found Each Woman'S Breast

  (The Land Where Thou Hast Travelled)

  Either By Savages Possest,

  Or Wild, And Uninhabited?

  What Joy Could'St Take, Or What Repose,

  In countries So Unciviliz'D As Those?

 

 

 

  Lust, The Scorching dogstar, Here

  Rages With Immoderate Heat;

  Whilst Pride, The Rugged northern Bear,

  In others Makes The Cold Too Great.

  And Where These Are Temperate Known,

  The Soil'S All Barren Sand, Or Rocky Stone.      Cowley.

 

 

 

A Lover, Burnt Up By His Affection, Is Compared to Egypt:

 

 

 

  The Fate Of Egypt I Sustain,

  And Never Feel The Dew Of Rain

  From Clouds Which In the Head Appear;

  But All My Too Much Moisture Owe

  To Overflowings Of The Heart Below.              Cowley.

 

 

 

The Lover Supposes His Lady Acquainted with The Ancient Laws Of Augury,

And Rites Of Sacrifice:

 

 

 

  And Yet This Death Of Mine, I Fear,

  Will Ominous To Her Appear:

  When Sound In every Other Part,

  Her Sacrifice Is Found Without An Heart.

  For The Last Tempest Of My Death

  Shall Sigh Out That Too, With My Breath.

 

 

 

That The Chaos Was Harmonized, Has Been Recited of Old; But Whence The

Different Sounds Arose Remained for A Modern To Discover:

 

 

 

  Th' Ungovern'D Parts No Correspondence Knew;

  An Artless War From Thwarting motions Grew;

  Till They To Number And Fixt Rules Were Brought.

  Water And Air He For The Tenor Chose;

  Earth Made The Base; The Treble,

  Flame Arose.                                    Cowley.

 

 

 

The Tears Of Lovers Are Always Of Great Poetical Account; But Donne Has

Extended them Into Worlds. If The Lines Are Not Easily Understood, They

May Be Read Again:

 

 

 

  On A Round Ball

  A Workman, That Hath Copies By, Can Lay

  An Europe, Afric, And An Asia,

  And Quickly Make That, Which Was Nothing, All.

 

 

 

  So Doth Each Tear,

  Which Thee Doth Wear,

  A Globe, Yea World, By That Impression Grow,

  Till Thy Tears Mixt With Mine Do Overflow

  This World, By Waters Sent From Thee My Heaven Dissolved so.

 

 

 

On Reading the Following lines, The Reader May, Perhaps, Cry Out,

"Confusion Worse Confounded:"

 

 

 

  Here Lies A She-Sun, And A He-Moon Here,

  She Gives The Best Light To His Sphere,

  Or Each Is Both, And All, And So

  They Unto One Another Nothing owe.                Donne.

 

 

 

Who But Donne Would Have Thought That A Good Man Is A Telescope?

 

 

 

  Though God Be Our True Glass, Through Which We See

  All, Since The Being of All Things Is He,

  Yet Are The Trunks, Which Do To Us Derive

  Things In proportion Fit, By Perspective

  Deeds Of Good Men; For By Their Living here,

  Virtues, Indeed remote, Seem To Be Near.

 

 

 

Who Would Imagine It Possible, That In a Very Few Lines So Many Remote

Ideas Could Be Brought Together?

 

 

 

  Since 'Tis My Doom, Love'S Undershrieve,

  Why This Reprieve?

  Why Doth My She-Advowson Fly

  Incumbency?

  To Sell Thyself Dost Thou Intend

  By Candle'S End,

  And Hold The Contrast Thus In doubt,

  Life'S Taper Out?

  Think But How Soon The Market Fails,

  Your Sex Lives Faster Than The Males;

  And If, To Measure Age'S Span,

  The Sober Julian Were Th' Account Of Man,

  Whilst You Live By The Fleet Gregorian.           Cleiveland.

 

 

 

Of Enormous And Disgusting hyperboles, These May Be Examples:

 

 

 

  By Every Wind That Comes This Way,

  Send Me, At Least, A Sigh Or Two,

  Such And So Many I'Ll Repay

  As Shall Themselves Make Winds To Get To You.     Cowley.

 

 

 

  In tears I'Ll Waste These Eyes,

  By Love So Vainly Fed;

  So Lust Of Old The Deluge Punished.               Cowley.

 

 

 

  All Arm'D In brass, The Richest Dress Of War,

  (A Dismal Glorious Sight!) He Shone Afar.

  The Sun Himself Started with Sudden Fright,

  To See His Beams Return So Dismal Bright.         Cowley.

 

 

 

An Universal Consternation:

 

 

 

  His Bloody Eyes He Hurls Round, His Sharp Paws

  Tear Up The Ground; Then Runs He Wild About,

  Lashing his Angry Tail, And Roaring out.

  Beasts Creep Into Their Dens, And Tremble There;

  Trees, Though No Wind Is Stirring, Shake With Fear;

  Silence And Horror Fill The Place Around;

  Echo Itself Dares Scarce Repeat The Sound.        Cowley.

 

 

 

Their Fictions Were Often Violent And Unnatural.

 

 

 

Of His Mistress Bathing:

 

 

 

  The Fish Around Her Crowded, As They Do

  To The False Light That Treacherous Fishers Shew,

  And All With As Much Ease Might Taken Be,

  As She At First Took Me;

  For Ne'Er Did Light So Clear

  Among The Waves Appear,

  Though Every Night The Sun Himself Set There.     Cowley.

 

 

 

The Poetical Effect Of A Lover'S Name Upon Glass:

 

 

 

  My Name Engrav'D Herein

  Doth Contribute My Firmness To This Glass;

  Which, Ever Since That Charm, Hath Been

  As Hard As That Which Grav'D It Was.              Donne.

 

 

 

Their Conceits Were Sentiments Slight And Trifling.