No More Learning

No
general error evinces a more thorough confusion of ideas than the
error of supposing Donne and Cowley metaphysical in the sense wherein
Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With the two former ethics were the
end-with the two latter the means. The poet of the "Creation" wished,
by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he supposed to be moral
truth-the poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse the Poetic Sentiment
through channels suggested by analysis. The one finished by complete
failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the other, by
a path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a triumph
which is not the less glorious because hidden from the profane eyes of
the multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" of Cowley
is but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the man. And
he was in this but a type of his school-for we may as well designate
in this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up in
the volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
perceptible general character. They used little art in composition.
Their writings sprang immediately from the soul-and partook intensely of
that soul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of this
_abandon-to elevate _immeasurably all the energies of mind-but, again,
so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all good
things, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility, as to
render it not a matter of doubt that the average results of mind in
such a school will be found inferior to those results in one _(ceteris
_paribus) more artificial.

We can not bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the "Book
of Gems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest
possible idea of the beauty of the school-but if the intention had
been merely to show the school's character, the attempt might have been
considered successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now
before us of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever
beyond that of their antiquity. . The criticisms of the editor do not
particularly please us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not
to be false. His opinion, for example, of Sir Henry Wotton's "Verses on
the Queen of Bohemia"-that "there are few finer things in our language,"
is untenable and absurd.
In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of
Poesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all
time. Here every thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No
prepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no
other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of
poetry, a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,
stitched, apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and
without even an attempt at adaptation.

In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "The
Shepherd's Hunting" by Withers--a poem partaking, in a remarkable
degree, of the peculiarities of "Il Penseroso. " Speaking of Poesy the
author says:

"By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least boughs rustleling,
By a daisy whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Something that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness--
The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made
The strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves,
This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss,
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight,
This my chamber of neglect

Walled about with disrespect;
From all these and this dull air
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight. "

But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found
in Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies! " We copy a portion of Marvell's
"Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer-not only as a specimen
of the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in
pathos, exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness-to anything of
its species:

"It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet,
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race,
And when't had left me far away
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness;
And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes.
For in the flaxen lilies' shade
It like a bank of lilies laid;
Upon the roses it would feed
Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip,
But all its chief delight was still
With roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within. "

How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable!
It pervades all. .