No More Learning

SUMMARY.


It is more difficult to characterise the English Poetry of the
eighteenth century than that of any other. For it was an age not only of
spontaneous transition, but of bold experiment: it includes not only
such divergences of thought as distinguished the "Rape of the Lock" from
the "Parish Register," but such vast contemporaneous differences as lie
between Pope and Collins, Burns and Cowper. Yet we may clearly trace
three leading moods or tendencies:--the aspects of courtly or educated
life represented by Pope and carried to exhaustion by his followers; the
poetry of Nature and of Man, viewed through a cultivated, and at the
same time an impassioned frame of mind by Collins and Gray:--lastly, the
study of vivid and simple narrative, including natural description,
begun by Gay and Thomson, pursued by Burns and others in the north, and
established in England by Goldsmith, Percy, Crabbe, and Cowper. Great
varieties in style accompanied these diversities in aim: poets could not
always distinguish the manner suitable for subjects so far apart; and
the union of the language of courtly and of common life, exhibited most
conspicuously by Burns, has given a tone to the poetry of that century
which is better explained by reference to its historical origin than by
naming it, in the common criticism of our day, artificial. There is
again, a nobleness of thought, a courageous aim at high and, in a strict
sense manly, excellence in many of the writers:--nor can that period be
justly termed tame and wanting in originality, which produced poems such
as Pope's Satires, Gray's Odes and Elegy, the ballads of Gay and Carey,
the songs of Burns and Cowper. In truth Poetry at this as at all times
was a more or less unconscious mirror of the genius of the age; and the
brave and admirable spirit of Enquiry which made the eighteenth century
the turning-time in European civilisation is reflected faithfully in its
verse. An intelligent reader will find the influence of Newton as
markedly in the poems of Pope, as of Elizabeth in the plays of
Shakespeare. On this great subject, however, these indications must here
be sufficient.




117. ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE.

Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
She woos the tardy Spring:
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.

New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the sky-lark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
And lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.

Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know;
'Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past Misfortune's brow
Soft Reflection's hand can trace,
And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads
Approaching Comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost
And breathe and walk again:
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.

T. GRAY.




118. SOLITUDE.

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade
In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

A. POPE.




119. THE BLIND BOY.

O say what is that thing call'd Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy;
What are the blessings of the sight,
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?