Part 4 (2/2)

_With thee conversing, I forget all Time, All Seasons and their Change, all please alike: Sweet is the Breath of Morn, her Rising sweet With Charm of earliest Birds, pleasant the Sun When first on this delightful Land he spreads His orient Beams, on Herb, Tree, Fruit and Flow'r, Glistring with Dew: Fragrant the fertile Earth After soft Show'rs, and sweet the Coming on Of grateful Evening mild: Then silent Night With this her solemn Bird, and this fair Moon, And these the Gems of Heaven, her starry Train.

But neither Breath of Morn, when she ascends With Charm of earliest Birds; nor rising Sun On this delightful Land, nor Herb, Fruit, Flow'r, Glistring with Dew, nor Fragrance after Showers, Nor grateful Evening mild, nor silent Night With this her solemn Bird; nor walk by Moon, Or glittering Star Light, without thee is sweet._

To speak poetically one would think every Verse was turn'd and polish'd by the _Loves_ and the _Graces_. Indeed all the Conversation between the first Bridegroom and his Bride, in this Poem, is exquisitely agreeable and tender, except the very Incident of the Fall.

I take the Verses in _Waller_, address'd to _Amoret_, to be of the agreeable Kind:

_Fair, that you may truly know What you unto_ Thyrsis _owe; I will tell you how I do_ Sacharissa _love, and you_.

_Joy salutes me, when I set My blest Eyes on_ Amoret; _But with Wonder I am strook; While I on the Other look_.

_If sweet_ Amoret _complains, I have Sense of all her Pains: But for_ Sacharissa _I Do not only grieve, but die._ &c.

I could give many Instances of agreeable Thoughts but of _Dryden_'s Fables, especially that of _Cymon_ and _Iphigenia_, which had been taken notice of long enough before the _Spectator_ was thought of; and I do not think it fair, that he should engross all the _Beaux Endroits_, because he printed them first. The Rusticity of _Cymon_, and even his Stupidity, has something in it very agreeable in the Image, which is the pure Nature that we meet with there:

_It happen'd on a Summer's Holy-day, That to the Greenwood Shade he took his Way; His Quarter-Staff, which he cou'd ne'er forsake, Hung half before, and half behind his Back; He trudg'd along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went for Want of Thought._

There is not a more natural Picture in Language than this. Of the same Kind is that of _Iphigenia_ sleeping by the Fountain: The very Numbers express the Wantonness of the Wind so livelily, that we feel the Air, and are fanned by it while we read them, which I think has had the good Luck to escape Observation:

_Her Bosom to the View was only bare; The fanning Wind upon her Bosom blows;_ } _To meet the fanning Wind her Bosom rose;_ } _The fanning Wind, and purling Streams continue her Repose._}

Mr. _Dryden_ was 68 Years old when he wrote this Fable, which I have always taken for a Master-piece, with Respect to natural Thoughts, which are always agreeable, and harmonious Numbers. The Reader will perceive, that I do not forbear quoting fine Pa.s.sages, because they are in the _Spectator_. I cannot allow of his Forestalling the Market; and besides, I take his Example to be preferable to his Precept. Himself does not stick to quote even from himself; as,

N 91. Sidley _has that prevailing gentle Art_, &c.

And again,

N [400.] Sidley _has that prevailing gentle Art_, &c.

_Guard_ 110. Motto----Non ego paucis, Offendor maculis.

_Spec._ 291. Motto----Non ego paucis, Offendor maculis.

This however I will declare in my own Behalf, that I have quoted nothing from him which he has quoted from _Milton_ or _Dryden_, but what I had before collected my self as remarkable Pa.s.sages in their several Kinds of Thinking.

What follows, taken out of Mr. _Charles Hopkins_'s Verses to the Earl of _Dorset_, is of the agreeable Kind:

_As Nature does in new-born Infants frame With their first Speech their careful_ Forstrer_'s Name, Whose needful Hands their daily Food provide, And by whose Aid they have their Wants supply'd: You are, my Lord, the Poet's earliest Theme, And the first Word he speaks is_ Dorset_'s Name._

Were not the next Verses written on a Tomb Stone, they wou'd be very _agreeable_. They are _Ben Johnson_'s:

_Underneath this Stone doth lie As much Virtue as cou'd die: Which when alive did Vigour give To as much Beauty as cou'd live._

Is not this Picture of _Venus_ in _Palamon_ and _Arcite_ of the same Kind:

_The G.o.ddess self some n.o.ble Hand had wrought, Smiling she seem'd, and full of pleasing Thought, From Ocean, as she first began to rise, And smooth'd the ruffled Waves, and clear'd the Skies.

She trod the Brine, all bare below the Breast, And the green Waves, but ill conceal'd the Rest: A Lute she held, and on her Head was seen A Wreath of Roses red, and Myrtles green: Her Turtles fan'd the buxom Air above, And by his Mother stood an Infant Love With Wings display'd.--------_

These Verses out of _Dryden_'s St. _Cecilia_'s Ode are very agreeable:

_Softly sweet in_ Lydian _Measures Soon he sooth'd his Soul to Pleasures, War, he sung, is Toil and Trouble, Honour but an empty Bubble.

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