Part 41 (2/2)

The triplet and alexandrine are not universally approved. Swift always censured them, and wrote some lines to ridicule them. In examining their propriety, it is to be considered that the essence of verse is regularity, and its ornament is variety. To write verse, is to dispose syllables and sounds harmonically by some known and settled rule; a rule, however, lax enough to subst.i.tute similitude for ident.i.ty, to admit change without breach of order, and to relieve the ear without disappointing it. Thus a Latin hexameter is formed from dactyls and spondees, differently combined; the English heroick admits of acute or grave syllables, variously disposed. The Latin never deviates into seven feet, or exceeds the number of seventeen syllables; but the English alexandrine breaks the lawful bounds, and surprises the reader with two syllables more than he expected.

The effect of the triplet is the same: the ear has been accustomed to expect a new rhyme in every couplet; but is on a sudden surprised with three rhymes together, to which the reader could not accommodate his voice, did he not obtain notice of the change from the braces of the margins. Surely there is something unskilful in the necessity of such mechanical direction.

Considering the metrical art simply as a science, and, consequently, excluding all casualty, we must allow that triplets and alexandrines, inserted by caprice, are interruptions of that constancy to which science aspires. And though the variety which they produce may very justly be desired, yet, to make our poetry exact, there ought to be some stated mode of admitting them.

But till some such regulation can be formed, I wish them still to be retained in their present state. They are sometimes grateful to the reader, and sometimes convenient to the poet. Fenton was of opinion, that Dryden was too liberal, and Pope too sparing, in their use.

The rhymes of Dryden are commonly just, and he valued himself for his readiness in finding them; but he is sometimes open to objection.

It is the common practice of our poets to end the second line with a weak or grave syllable:

Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly, Fill'd with ideas of fair Italy.

Dryden sometimes puts the weak rhyme in the first:

Laugh all the powers that favour _tyranny_, And all the standing army of the sky.

Sometimes he concludes a period or paragraph with the first line of a couplet, which, though the French seem to do it without irregularity, always displeases in English poetry.

The alexandrine, though much his favourite, is not always very diligently fabricated by him. It invariably requires a break at the sixth syllable; a rule which the modern French poets never violate, but which Dryden sometimes neglected:

And with paternal thunder vindicates his throne.

Of Dryden's works it was said by Pope, that he ”could select from them better specimens of every mode of poetry than any other English writer could supply.” Perhaps no nation ever produced a writer that enriched his language with such variety of models. To him we owe the improvement, perhaps the completion, of our metre, the refinement of our language, and much of the correctness of our sentiments. By him we are taught ”sapere et fari,” to think naturally and express forcibly. Though Davies has reasoned in rhyme before him, it may be, perhaps, maintained that he was the first who joined argument with poetry. He showed us the true bounds of a translator's liberty. What was said of Rome, adorned by Augustus, may be applied by an easy metaphor to English poetry, embellished by Dryden, ”lateritiam invenit, marmoream reliquit.” He found it brick, and he left it marble.

The invocation before the Georgicks is here inserted from Mr. Milbourne's version, that, according to his own proposal, his verses may be compared with those which he censures:

What makes the richest _tilth_, beneath what signs To _plough_, and when to match your _elms and vines_;

What care with _flocks_, and what with _herds_ agrees, And all the management of frugal _bees_; I sing, Maecenas! Ye immensely clear, Vast orbs of light, which guide the rolling year; Bacchus, and mother Ceres, if by you We fatt'ning _corn_ for hungry _mast_ pursue, If, taught by you, we first the _cl.u.s.ter_ prest, And _thin cold streams_ with _sprightly juice_ refresht; Ye _fawns_, the present _numens_ of the field, _Wood nymphs_ and _fawns_, your kind a.s.sistance yield; Your gifts I sing! And thou, at whose fear'd stroke From rending earth the fiery _courser_ broke, Great Neptune, O a.s.sist my artful song!

And thou to whom the woods and groves belong, Whose snowy heifers on her flow'ry plains In mighty herds the Caean isle maintains!

Pan, happy shepherd, if thy cares divine E'er to improve thy Maenalas incline, Leave thy _Lycaean wood_ and _native grove_, And with thy lucky smiles our work approve!

Be Pallas too, sweet oil's inventor, kind; And he who first the crooked _plough_ design'd!

Sylva.n.u.s, G.o.d of all the woods, appear, Whose hands a new-drawn tender _cypress_ bear!

Ye _G.o.ds_ and _G.o.ddesses_, who e'er with love Would guard our pastures and our fields improve!

You, who new plants from unknown lands supply, And with condensing clouds obscure the sky, And drop 'em softly thence in fruitful show'rs; a.s.sist my enterprise, ye gentler pow'rs!

And thou, great Caesar! though we know not yet Among what G.o.ds thou'lt fix thy lofty seat; Whether thou'lt be the kind _tutelar_ G.o.d Of thy own Rome; or with thy awful nod Guide the vast world, while thy great hand shall bear The fruits and seasons of the turning year, And thy bright brows thy mother's myrtles wear; Whether thou'lt all the boundless ocean sway, And seamen only to thyself shall pray, Thule, the farthest island, kneel to thee, And, that thou may'st her son by marriage be,

Tethys will for the happy purchase yield To make a _dowry_ of her wat'ry field; Whether thou'lt add to heaven a _brighter sign_, And o'er the _summer months_ serenely s.h.i.+ne; Where between Cancer and Erigone, There yet remains a s.p.a.cious _room_ for thee; Where the hot _Scorpion_ too his arms declines, And more to thee than half his _arch_ resigns; Whate'er thou'lt be; for sure the realms below No just pretence to thy command can show: No such ambition sways thy vast desires, Though Greece her own _Elysian fields_ admires.

And now, at last, contented Proserpine Can all her mother's earnest pray'rs decline.

Whate'er thou'lt be, O guide our gentle course; And with thy smiles our bold attempts enforce; With me th' unknowing _rustics_' wants relieve, And, though on earth, our sacred vows receive!

Mr. Dryden, having received from Rymer his Remarks on the Tragedies of the last Age, wrote observations on the blank leaves; which, having been in the possession of Mr. Garrick, are, by his favour, communicated to the publick, that no particle of Dryden may be lost:

<script>