Part 38 (1/2)
Power was his aim; but, thrown from that pretence, The wretch turn'd loyal in his own defence, And malice reconcil'd him to his prince.
Him, in the anguish of his soul, he serv'd; Rewarded faster still than he deserv'd: Behold him now exalted into trust; His counsels oft convenient, seldom just.
Ev'n in the most sincere advice he gave, He had a grudging still to be a knave.
The frauds he learnt in his fanatick years, Made him uneasy in his lawful gears: At least as little honest as he could; And, like white witches, mischievously good.
To this first bias, longingly he leans; And rather would be great by wicked means.
The Threnodia, which, by a term I am afraid neither authorized nor a.n.a.logical, he calls Augustalis, is not among his happiest productions.
Its first and obvious defect is the irregularity of its metre, to which the ears of that age, however, were accustomed. What is worse, it has neither tenderness nor dignity; it is neither magnificent nor pathetick.
He seems to look round him for images which he cannot find, and what he has he distorts by endeavouring to enlarge them. ”He is,” he says, ”petrified with grief;” but the marble sometimes relents, and trickles in a joke:
The sons of art all med'cines try'd, And ev'ry n.o.ble remedy apply'd:
With emulation each essay'd His utmost skill; _nay, more, they prayd;_ Was never losing game with better conduct play'd.
He had been a little inclined to merriment before upon the prayers of a nation for their dying sovereign; nor was he serious enough to keep heathen fables out of his religion:
With him th' innumerable crowd of armed prayers Knock'd at the gates of heav'n, and knock'd aloud; _The first well-meaning rude pet.i.tioners_ All for his life a.s.sail'd the throne; All would have brib'd the skies by off'ring up their own.
So great a throng not heav'n itself could bar; 'Twas almost borne by force, _as in the giants' war._ The pray'rs, at least, for his reprieve were heard: His death, like Hezekiah's, was deferr'd.
There is, throughout the composition, a desire of splendour without wealth. In the conclusion he seems too much pleased with the prospect of the new reign to have lamented his old master with much sincerity.
He did not miscarry in this attempt for want of skill either in lyrick or elegiack poetry. His poem on the death of Mrs. Killigrew is, undoubtedly, the n.o.blest ode that our language ever has produced. The first part flows with a torrent of enthusiasm: ”Fervet immensusque ruit.” All the stanzas, indeed, are not equal. An imperial crown cannot be one continued diamond; the gems must be held together by some less valuable matter.
In his first ode for Cecilia's day, which is lost in the splendour of the second, there are pa.s.sages which would have dignified any other poet. The first stanza is vigorous and elegant, though the word _diapason_ is too technical, and the rhymes are too remote from one another:
From harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began: When nature underneath a heap of jarring atoms lay, And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high.
Arise, ye more than dead.
Then cold and hot, and moist and dry, In order to their stations leap, And musick's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began; From harmony to harmony Through all the compa.s.s of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in man.
The conclusion is likewise striking; but it includes an image so awful in itself, that it can owe little to poetry; and I could wish the ant.i.thesis of _musick untuning_ had found some other place:
As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move.
And sung the great creator's praise To all the bless'd above:
So, when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And musick shall untune the sky.
Of his skill in elegy he has given a specimen in his Eleonora, of which the following lines discover their author:
Though all these rare endowments of the mind Were in a narrow s.p.a.ce of life confin'd, The figure was with full perfection crown'd; Though not so large an orb, as truly round: As when in glory, through the publick place, The spoils of conquer'd nations were to pa.s.s, And but one day for triumph was allow'd, The consul was constrain'd his pomp to crowd; And so the swift procession hurry'd on, That all, tho' not distinctly, might be shown; So, in the straiten'd bounds of life confin'd, She gave but glimpses of her glorious mind: And mult.i.tudes of virtues pa.s.s'd along; Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng, Ambitious to be seen, and then make room For greater mult.i.tudes that were to come.
Yet unemployed no minute slipp'd away; Moments were precious in so short a stay.
The haste of heaven to have her was so great, That some were single acts, though each complete; And ev'ry act stood ready to repeat.
This piece, however, is not without its faults; there is so much likeness in the initial comparison, that there is no ill.u.s.tration. As a king would be lamented, Eleonora was lamented:
As, when some great and gracious monarch dies, Soft whispers, first, and mournful murmurs rise Among the sad attendants; then the sound Soon gathers voice, and spreads the news around, Through town and country, till the dreadful blast Is blown to distant colonies at last; Who then, perhaps, were off'ring vows in vain, For his long life, and for his happy reign: So slowly, by degrees, unwilling fame Did matchless Eleonora's fate proclaim, Till publick as the loss the news became.
This is little better than to say in praise of a shrub, that it is as green as a tree; or of a brook, that it waters a garden, as a river waters a country.