English Poets of the Eighteenth Century - Selected and Edited with an Introduction by Ernest Bernbaum
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The sentimentalists had long yearned for the advent of the ideal poet.
Macpherson had presented him,--but as of an era far remote; latterly
Beattie, in _The Minstrel_, had set forth his growth under the
inspiration of Nature,--but in a purely imaginary tale. Suddenly Burns
appeared: and the ideal seemed incarnated in the living present. The
Scottish bard was introduced to the world by his first admirers as "a
heaven-taught ploughman, of humble unlettered station," whose "simple
strains, artless and unadorned, seem to flow without effort from the
native feelings of the heart"; and as "a signal instance of true and
uncultivated genius." The real Burns, though indeed a genius of song, was
far better read than the expectant world wished to believe, particularly
in those whom he called his "bosom favorites," the sentimentalists
Mackenzie and Sterne; and his sense of rhythm and melody had been trained
by his emulation of earlier Scotch lyricists, whose lilting cadences flow
towards him as highland rills to the gathering torrent. Sung to the notes
of his native tunes, and infused with the local color of Scotch life, the
sentimental themes assumed the freshness of novelty. Giving a new ardor
to revolutionary tendencies,--Burns revolted against the orthodoxy of the
"Auld Lichts," depicting its representatives as ludicrously hypocritical.
He protested against distinctions founded on birth or rank, as in _A
Man's a Man for A' That_; and, on the other hand, he idealized the homely
feelings and manners of the "virtuous populace" in his immortal _Cotter's
Saturday Night_. He scorned academic learning, and protested that true
inspiration was rather to be found in "ae spark o' Nature's fire,"--or at
the nearest tavern:
Leese me on drink! It gies us mair
Than either school or college.
Like Sterne, who boasted that his pen governed him, Burns praised and
affected the impromptu:
But how the subject theme may gang,
Let time or chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
His Muse was to be the mood of the moment. Herein he brought to
fulfillment the sentimental desire for the liberation of the emotions;
but his work, taken as a whole, can scarcely be said to vindicate the
faith that the emotions, once freed, would manifest instinctive purity.
At his almost unrivalled best, he can sing in the sweetest strains the
raptures or pathos of innocent youthful love, as in _Sweet Afton_ or _To
Mary in Heaven_; but straightway sinking from that elevation of feeling
to the depths of vulgarity or grossness, he will chant with equal zest
and skill the indulgence of the animal appetites.[1] He hails the joys of
life, but without discriminating between the higher and the lower. Yet
these exuberant animal spirits which, unrestrained by conscience
or taste, drove him too often into scurrility, gave his work that
passion--warm, throbbing, and personal--which had been painfully wanting
in earlier poets of sensibility. It was his emotional intensity as well
as his lyric genius that made him the most popular poet of his time.
In Burns, sentimentalism was largely temperamental, unreflective, and
concrete. In William Blake, the singularity of whose work long retarded
its due appreciation, sentimentalism was likewise temperamental; but,
unconfined to actuality, became far broader in scope, more spiritual,
and more consistently philosophic. Indeed, Blake was the ultimate
sentimentalist of the century. A visionary and symbolist, he passed
beyond Shaftesbury in his thought, and beyond any poet of the school
in his endeavor to create a new and appropriate style. His contemporary,
Erasmus Darwin, author of _The Botanic Garden_, was trying to give
sentimentalism a novel interpretation by describing the life of plants
in terms of human life; but, Darwin being destitute of artistic sense,
the result was grotesque. Blake, by training and vocation an engraver,
was primarily an artist; but, partly under Swedenborgian influences, he
had grasped the innermost character of sentimentalism, perceived all its
implications, and carried them fearlessly to their utmost bounds. To him
every atom of the cosmos was literally spiritual and holy; the divine
and the human, the soul and the flesh, were absolutely one; God and Man
were only two aspects of pervasive "mercy, pity, peace, and love."
Nothing else had genuine reality. The child, its vision being as yet
unclouded by false teachings, saw the universe thus truly; and Blake,
therefore, in _Songs of Innocence_, gave glimpses of the world as the
child sees it,--a guileless existence amid the peace that passes all
understanding. He hymned the sanctity of animal life: even the tiger,
conventionally an incarnation of cruelty, was a glorious creature of
divine mould; to slay or cage a beast was, the _Auguries of Innocence_
protested, to incur anathema. The _Book of Thel_ allegorically showed
the mutual interdependence of all creation, and reprehended the maiden
shyness that shrinks from merging its life in the sacrificial union
which sustains the whole.
To Blake the great enemy of truth was the cold logical reason, a
truncated part of Man's spirit, which was incapable of attaining wisdom,
and which had fabricated those false notions that governed the practical
world and constrained the natural feelings. Instances of the unhappiness
caused by such constraint, he gave in _Songs of Experience_, where _The
Garden of Love_ describes the blighting curse which church law had laid
upon free love. To overthrow intellectualism and discipline, Man must
liberate his most precious faculty, the imagination, which alone can
reveal the spiritual character of the universe and the beauty that life
will wear when the feelings cease to be unnaturally confined. Temporarily
Blake rejoiced when the French Revolution seemed to usher in the
millennium of freedom and peace; and his interpretation of its earlier
incidents in his poem on that theme[2] illustrates in style and spirit
the highly original nature of his mind. More than any predecessor he
understood how the peculiarly poetical possibilities of sentimentalism
might be elicited, namely by emphasizing its mystical quality. Thus
under his guidance mysticism, which in the early seventeenth century had
sublimated the religious poetry of the orthodox, returned to sublimate
the poetry of the radicals; and with that achievement the sentimental
movement reached its climax.
Burns died in 1796; Blake, lost in a realm of symbolism, became
unintelligible; and temporarily sentimentalism suffered a reaction. The
French Revolution, with its Reign of Terror, and the rise of a military
autocrat, though supported, even after Great Britain had taken up arms
against Napoleon, by some "friends of humanity" who placed universal
brotherhood above patriotism, seemed to the general public to demonstrate
that the sentimental theories and hopes were untrue to life and led to
results directly contrary to those predicted. Once again, in Canning's
caustic satires of _The Anti-Jacobin_, conservatism raised its voice. But
by this time sentimentalism was too fully developed and widely spread to
be more than checked. Under the new leadership of Wordsworth, Coleridge,
and Southey, the movement, chastened and modified by experience, resumed
its progress; and the fame of its new leaders presently dimmed the memory
of those pioneers who in the eighteenth century had undermined the
foundations of orthodoxy, slowly upbuilt a new world of thought,
gradually fashioned a poetic style more suited to their sentiments than
the classical, and thus helped to plunge the modern world into that
struggle which, in life and in literature, rages about us still.
ERNEST BERNBAUM
[Footnote 1: In this edition, the poems of Burns, unlike those of the
other poets, are printed not in the order of their publication but as
nearly as ascertainable in that of their composition.]
[Footnote 2: _The French Revolution_ was suppressed at the time, and
has been recovered only in our own day by Dr. John Sampson, who first
published it in the admirable Clarendon Press edition of Blake.]
ENGLISH POETS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
JOHN POMFRET
THE CHOICE
_If Heaven the grateful liberty would give,
That I might choose my method how to live;
And all those hours propitious fate should lend,
In blissful ease and satisfaction spend._
I. THE GENTLEMAN'S RETIREMENT
Near some fair town I'd have a private seat,
Built uniform, not little, nor too great:
Better, if on a rising ground it stood;
Fields on this side, on that a neighbouring wood.
It should within no other things contain,
But what are useful, necessary, plain:
Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure,
The needless pomp of gaudy furniture.
A little garden, grateful to the eye;
And a cool rivulet run murmuring by,
On whose delicious banks a stately row
Of shady limes, or sycamores, should grow.
At th' end of which a silent study placed,
Should with the noblest authors there be graced:
Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines
Immortal wit, and solid learning, shines;
Sharp Juvenal and amorous Ovid too,
Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew:
He that with judgment reads the charming lines,
In which strong art with stronger nature joins,
Must grant his fancy does the best excel;
His thoughts so tender, and expressed so well:
With all those moderns, men of steady sense,
Esteemed for learning, and for eloquence.
In some of these, as fancy should advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise:
For sure no minutes bring us more content,
Than those in pleasing useful studies spent.
II. HIS FORTUNE AND CHARITY
I'd have a clear and competent estate,
That I might live genteelly, but not great:
As much as I could moderately spend;
A little more, sometimes t' oblige a friend.
Nor should the sons of poverty repine
At fortune's frown, for they should taste of mine;
And all that objects of true pity were,
Should be relieved with what my wants could spare;
For what our Maker has too largely given,
Should be returned in gratitude to Heaven.
A frugal plenty should my table spread.
With healthy, not luxurious, dishes fed;
Enough to satisfy, and something more,
To feed the stranger, and the neighb'ring poor.
Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food
Creates diseases, and inflames the blood.
But what's sufficient to make nature strong,
And the bright lamp of life continue long,
I'd freely take, and as I did possess,
The bounteous Author of my plenty bless.
III. HIS HOSPITALITY AND TEMPERANCE
I'd have a little cellar, cool and neat,
With humming ale and virgin wine replete.
Wine whets the wit, improves its native force,
And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse;
By making all our spirits debonair,
Throws off the lees and sediment of care.
But as the greatest blessing Heaven lends
May be debauched, and serve ignoble ends;
So, but too oft, the grape's refreshing juice
Does many mischievous effects produce.
My house should no such rude disorders know,
As from high drinking consequently flow;
Nor would I use what was so kindly given,
To the dishonour of indulgent Heaven.
If any neighbour came, he should be free,
Used with respect, and not uneasy be,
In my retreat, or to himself or me.
What freedom, prudence, and right reason give,
All men may, with impunity, receive:
But the least swerving from their rules too much,
And what's forbidden us, 'tis death to touch.
IV. HIS COMPANY
That life may be more comfortable yet,
And all my joys refined, sincere, and great;
I'd choose two friends, whose company would be
A great advance to my felicity:
Well-born, of humours suited to my own,
Discreet, that men as well as books have known;
Brave, generous, witty, and exactly free
From loose behaviour or formality;
Airy and prudent, merry but not light;
Quick in discerning; and in judging, right;
They should be secret, faithful to their trust,
In reasoning cool, strong, temperate, and just;
Obliging, open, without huffing, brave;
Brisk in gay talking, and in sober, grave;
Close in dispute, but not tenacious; tried
By solemn reason, and let that decide;
Not prone to lust, revenge, or envious hate;
Nor busy meddlers with intrigues of state;
Strangers to slander, and sworn foes to spite,
Not quarrelsome, but stout enough to fight;
Loyal and pious, friends to Caesar; true
As dying martyrs to their Makers too.
In their society I could not miss
A permanent, sincere, substantial bliss.
V. HIS LADY AND CONVERSE
Would bounteous Heaven once more indulge, I'd choose
(For who would so much satisfaction lose
As witty nymphs in conversation give?)
Near some obliging modest fair to live:
For there's that sweetness in a female mind,
Which in a man's we cannot [hope to] find;
That, by a secret but a powerful art,
Winds up the spring of life, and does impart
Fresh, vital heat to the transported heart.
I'd have her reason all her passions sway;
Easy in company, in private gay;
Coy to a fop, to the deserving free;
Still constant to herself, and just to me.
She should a soul have for great actions fit;
Prudence and wisdom to direct her wit;
Courage to look bold danger in the face,
Not fear, but only to be proud or base;
Quick to advise, by an emergence pressed,
To give good counsel, or to take the best.
I'd have th' expressions of her thoughts be such,
She might not seem reserved, nor talk too much:
That shows a want of judgment and of sense;
More than enough is but impertinence.
Her conduct regular, her mirth refined;
Civil to strangers, to her neighbours kind;
Averse to vanity, revenge, and pride;
In all the methods of deceit untried;
So faithful to her friend, and good to all,
No censure might upon her actions fall:
Then would e'en envy be compelled to say
She goes the least of womankind astray.
To this fair creature I'd sometimes retire;
Her conversation would new joys inspire;
Give life an edge so keen, no surly care
Would venture to assault my soul, or dare
Near my retreat to hide one secret snare.
But so divine, so noble a repast
I'd seldom, and with moderation, taste:
For highest cordials all their virtue lose,
By a too frequent and too bold an use;
And what would cheer the spirits in distress,
Ruins our health when taken to excess.
VI. HIS PEACEABLE LIFE
I'd be concerned in no litigious jar;
Beloved by all, not vainly popular.
Whate'er assistance I had power to bring
T' oblige my company, or to serve my king,
Whene'er they called, I'd readily afford,
My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword.
Lawsuits I'd shun, with as much studious care,
As I would dens where hungry lions are;
And rather put up injuries, than be
A plague to him who'd be a plague to me.
I value quiet at a price too great
To give for my revenge so dear a rate:
For what do we by all our bustle gain,
But counterfeit delight for real pain?
VII. HIS HAPPY DEATH
If Heaven a date of many years would give,
Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live.
And as I near approach[ed] the verge of life,
Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife)
Should take upon him all my worldly care
While I did for a better state prepare.
Then I'd not be with any trouble vexed,
Nor have the evening of my days perplexed;
But by a silent and a peaceful death,
Without a sigh, resign my aged breath.
And, when committed to the dust, I'd have
Few tears, but friendly, dropped into my grave;
Then would my exit so propitious be,
All men would wish to live and die like me.
DANIEL DEFOE
FROM THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN
The Romans first with Julius Caesar came,
Including all the nations of that name,
Gauls, Greeks, and Lombards, and, by computation,
Auxiliaries or slaves of every nation.
With Hengist, Saxons; Danes with Sueno came;
In search of plunder, not in search of fame.
Scots, Picts, and Irish from th' Hibernian shore,
And conquering William brought the Normans o'er.
All these their barbarous offspring left behind,
The dregs of armies, they of all mankind;
Blended with Britons, who before, were here.
Of whom the Welsh ha' blessed the character.
From this amphibious ill-born mob began
That vain, ill-natured thing, an Englishman.
* * * * *
And lest by length of time it be pretended
The climate may this modern breed ha' mended,
Wise Providence, to keep us where we are,
Mixes us daily with exceeding care.
We have been Europe's sink, the Jakes where she
Voids all her offal outcast progeny.
From our fifth Henry's time, the strolling bands
Of banished fugitives from neighbouring lands
Have here a certain sanctuary found:
Th' eternal refuge of the vagabond,
Where, in but half a common age of time,
Borrowing new blood and mariners from the clime,
Proudly they learn all mankind to contemn;
And all their race are true-born Englishmen.
Dutch, Walloons, Flemings, Irishmen, and Scots,
Vaudois, and Valtelins, and Huguenots,
In good Queen Bess's charitable reign,
Supplied us with three hundred thousand men.
Religion--God, we thank thee!--sent them hither,
Priests, Protestants, the Devil and all together:
Of all professions and of every trade,
All that were persecuted or afraid;
Whether for debt or other crimes they fled,
David at Hachilah was still their head.
The offspring of this miscellaneous crowd,
Had not their new plantations long enjoyed,
But they grew Englishmen, and raised their votes
At foreign shoals for interloping Scots.
The royal branch from Pictland did succeed,
With troops of Scots and Scabs from North-by-Tweed.
The seven first years of his pacific reign
Made him and half his nation Englishmen.
Scots from the northern frozen banks of Tay,
With packs and plods came whigging all away;
Thick as the locusts which in Egypt swarmed,
With pride and hungry hopes completely armed;
With native truth, diseases, and no money,
Plundered our Canaan of the milk and honey.
Here they grew quickly lords and gentlemen,--
And all their race are true-born Englishmen.
* * * * *
The wonder which remains is at our pride,
To value that which all wise men deride.
For Englishmen to boast of generation
Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation.
A true-born Englishman's a contradiction,
In speech an irony, in fact a fiction;
A banter made to be a test of fools,
Which those that use it justly ridicules;
A metaphor invented to express
A man akin to all the universe.
FROM A HYMN TO THE PILLORY
Hail hieroglyphic state-machine,
Contrived to punish fancy in!
Men that are men in thee can feel no pain,
And all thy insignificants disdain.
Contempt, that false new word for shame,
Is, without crime, an empty name,
A shadow to amuse mankind,
But never frights the wise or well-fixed mind:
Virtue despises human scorn,
And scandals innocence adorn.
* * * * *
Sometimes, the air of scandal to maintain,
Villains look from thy lofty loops in vain;
But who can judge of crimes by punishment
Where parties rule and L[ord]s subservient?
Justice with, change of interest learns to bow,
And what was merit once is murder now:
Actions receive their tincture from the times,
And as they change, are virtues made or crimes.
Thou art the state-trap of the law,
But neither can keep knaves nor honest men in awe;
These are too hardened in offence,
And those upheld by innocence.
* * * * *
Thou art no shame to truth and honesty,
Nor is the character of such defaced by thee
Who suffer by oppressive injury.
Shame, like the exhalations of the sun,
Falls back where first the motion was begun;
And he who for no crime shall on thy brows appear
Bears less reproach than they who placed him there.
But if contempt is on thy face entailed,
Disgrace itself shall be ashamed;
Scandal shall blush that it has not prevailed
To blast the man it has defamed.
Let all that merit equal punishment
Stand there with him, and we are all content.
* * * * *
Thou bugbear of the law, stand up and speak,
Thy long misconstrued silence break;
Tell us who 'tis upon thy ridge stands there,
So full of fault and yet so void of fear;
And from the paper in his hat,
Let all mankind be told for what.
Tell them it was because he was too bold,
And told those truths which should not ha' been told,
Extol the justice of the land,
Who punish what they will not understand.
Tell them he stands exalted there
For speaking what we would not hear;
And yet he might have been secure
Had he said less or would he ha' said more.
Tell them that this is his reward
And worse is yet for him prepared,
Because his foolish virtue was so nice
As not to sell his friends, according to his friends' advice.
And thus he's an example made,
To make men of their honesty afraid,
That for the time to come they may
More willingly their friends betray;
Tell them the m[en] who placed him here
Are sc[anda]ls to the times;
But at a loss to find his guilt,
They can't commit his crimes.
JOSEPH ADDISON
FROM THE CAMPAIGN
Behold in awful march and dread array
The long-extended squadrons shape their way!
Death, in approaching terrible, imparts
An anxious horror to the bravest hearts;
Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife,
And thirst of glory quells the love of life.
No vulgar fears can British minds control:
Heat of revenge and noble pride of soul
O'er look the foe, advantaged by his post,
Lessen his numbers, and contract his host;
Though fens and floods possessed the middle space,
That unprovoked they would have feared to pass,
Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands
When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands.
But, O my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find
To sing the furious troops in battle joined!
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound
The victor's shouts and dying groans confound,
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies,
And all the thunder of the battle rise!
'Twas then great Malborough's mighty soul was proved,
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of death surveyed,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel by divine command
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast,
And, pleases th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
[DIVINE ODE]
I
The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun from day to day
Does his Creator's power display;
And publishes to every land
The work of an almighty hand.
II
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale;
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth:
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
III
What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amidst their radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice:
Forever singing as they shine,
'The hand that made us is divine.'
MATTHEW PRIOR
TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD THE AUTHOR FORTY
Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned, by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obeyed.
Nor quality nor reputation
Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
Dear five years old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.
For while she makes her silk-worms beds
With all the tender things I swear,
Whilst all the house my passion reads
In papers round her baby's hair,
She may receive and own my flame;
For though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
Then, too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends;
For, as our different ages move,
'Tis so ordained (would fate but mend it!)
That I shall be past making love
When she begins to comprehend it.