LITMIR.BIZ

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      So joys the aged oak, when we divide

      The creeping ivy from his injured side.

      Of the two last couplets, the first is extravagant, and the second mean.

      His praise of the Queen is too much exaggerated; and the thought, that he “saves lovers, by cutting off hope, as gangrenes are cured by lopping the limb,” presents nothing to the mind but disgust and horror.

      Of the Battle of the Summer Islands, it seems not easy to say whether it is intended to raise terror or merriment.  The beginning is too splendid for jest, and the conclusion too light for seriousness.  The versification is studied, the scenes are diligently displayed, and the images artfully amplified; but as it ends neither in joy nor sorrow, it will scarcely be read a second time.

      The panegyric upon Cromwell has obtained from the public a very liberal dividend of praise, which, however, cannot be said to have been unjustly lavished; for such a series of verses had rarely appeared before in the English language.  Of the lines some are grand, some are graceful, and all are musical.  There is now and then a feeble verse; or a trifling thought; but its great fault is the choice of its hero.

      The poem of the War with Spain begins with lines more vigorous and striking than Waller is accustomed to produce.  The succeeding parts are variegated with better passages and worse.  There is something too farfetched in the comparison of the Spaniards drawing the English on by saluting St. Lucar with cannon, “to lambs awakening the lion by bleating.”  The fate of the Marquis and his Lady, who were burnt in their ship, would have moved more, had the poet not made him die like the Phoenix, because he had spices about him, nor expressed their affection and their end by a conceit at once false and vulgar:

      The verses to Charles, on his return, were doubtless intended to counterbalance the panegyric on Cromwell.  If it has been thought inferior to that with which it is naturally compared, the cause of its deficience has been already remarked.

      The remaining pieces it is not necessary to examine singly.  They must be supposed to have faults and beauties of the same kind with the rest.  The Sacred Poems, however, deserve particular regard; they were the work of Waller’s declining life, of those hours in which he looked upon the fame and the folly of the time past with the sentiments which his great predecessor Petrarch bequeathed to posterity, upon his review of that love and poetry which have given him immortality.

      That natural jealousy which makes every man unwilling to allow much excellence in another, always produces a disposition to believe that the mind grows old with the body; and that he, whom we are now forced to confess superior, is hastening daily to a level with ourselves.  By delighting to think this of the living, we learn to think it of the dead; and Fenton, with all his kindness for Waller, has the luck to mark the exact time when his genius passed the zenith, which he places at his fifty-fifth year.  This is to allot the mind but a small portion.  Intellectual decay is doubtless not uncommon; but it seems not to be universal.  Newton was in his eighty-fifth year improving his chronology, a few days before his death; and Waller appears not, in my opinion, to have lost at eighty-two any part of his poetical power.

      His Sacred Poems do not please like some of his other works; but before the fatal fifty-five, had he written on the same subjects, his success would hardly have been better.

      It has been the frequent lamentation of good men that verse has been too little applied to the purposes of worship, and many attempts have been made to animate devotion by pious poetry.  That they have very seldom attained their end is sufficiently known, and it may not be improper to inquire why they have miscarried.

      Let no pious ear be offended if I advance, in opposition to many authorities, that poetical devotion cannot often please.  The doctrines of religion may indeed be defended in a didactic poem; and he, who has the happy power of arguing in verse, will not lose it because his subject is sacred.  A poet may describe the beauty and the grandeur of nature, the flowers of the spring, and the harvests of autumn, the vicissitudes of the tide, and the revolutions of the sky, and praise the Maker for his works, in lines which no reader shall lay aside.  The subject of the disputation is not piety, but the motives to piety; that of the description is not God, but the works of God.

      Contemplative piety, or the intercourse between God and the human soul, cannot be poetical.  Man, admitted to implore the mercy of his Creator, and plead the merits of his Redeemer, is already in a higher state than poetry can confer.

      The essence of poetry is invention; such invention as by producing something unexpected, surprises and delights.  The topics of devotion are few, and being few are universally known; but, few as they are, they can be made no more; they can receive no grace from novelty of sentiment, and very little from novelty of expression.

      Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful to the mind than things themselves afford.  This effect proceeds from the display of those parts of nature which attract, and the concealment of those which repel, the imagination: but religion must be shown as it is; suppression and addition equally corrupt it; and such as it is, it is known already.

      From poetry the reader justly expects, and from good poetry always obtains, the enlargement of his comprehension and elevation of his fancy: but this is rarely to be hoped by Christians from metrical devotion.  Whatever is great, desirable, or tremendous, is comprised in the name of the Supreme Being.  Omnipotence cannot be exalted; Infinity cannot be amplified; Perfection cannot be improved.

      The employments of pious meditation are Faith, Thanksgiving, Repentance, and Supplication.  Faith, invariably uniform, cannot be invested by fancy with decorations.  Thanksgiving, the most joyful of all holy effusions, yet addressed to a Being without passions, is confined to a few modes, and is to be felt rather then expressed.  Repentance, trembling in the presence of the judge, is not at leisure for cadences and epithets.  Supplication of man to man may diffuse itself through many topics of persuasion; but supplication to God can only cry for mercy.

      Of sentiments purely religious, it will be found that the most simple expression is the most sublime.  Poetry loses its lustre and its power, because it is applied to the decoration of something more excellent than itself.  All that pious verse can do is to help the memory and delight the ear, and for these purposes it may be very useful; but it supplies nothing to the mind.  The ideas of Christian Theology are too simple for eloquence, too sacred for fiction, and too majestic for ornament; to recommend them by tropes and figures, is to magnify by a concave mirror the sidereal hemisphere.

      As much of Waller’s reputation was owing to the softness and smoothness of his numbers, it is proper to consider those minute particulars to which a versifier must attend.

      He certainly very much excelled in smoothness most of the writers who were living when his poetry commenced.  The poets of Elizabeth had attained an art of modulation, which was afterwards neglected or forgotten.  Fairfax was acknowledged by him as his model; and he might have studied with advantage the poem of Davies, which, though merely philosophical, yet seldom leaves the ear ungratified.

      But he was rather smooth than strong; of “the full resounding line,” which Pope attributes to Dryden, he has given very few examples.  The critical decision has given the praise of strength to Denham, and of sweetness to Waller.

      His excellence of versification has some abatements.  He uses the expletive “do” very frequently; and, though he lived to see it almost universally ejected, was not more careful to avoid it in his last compositions than in his first.  Praise had given him confidence; and finding the world satisfied, he satisfied himself.

      His rhymes are sometimes weak words: “so” is found to make the rhyme twice in ten lines, and occurs often as a rhyme through his book.

      His double rhymes, in heroic verse, have been censured by Mrs. Phillips, who was his rival in the translation of Corneille’s “Pompey;” and more faults might be found were not the inquiry below attention.

      He sometimes uses the obsolete termination of verbs, as “waxeth,” “affecteth;” and sometimes

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