For my relief, yet had'st no reason why; Whether the muse, or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. Milton did not write for the age in which he lived, in any sense. His poetry was not adored by his contemporaries; the poetry of Cowley, the luster of whose fame, in its dawn, eclipsed Milton's, was preferred to it. His, are the only great productions of these times; the only works that were full of nature and sentiment, and that evince the re-union of taste and genius. The characteristic of the general poetry of his age was wit and gayety; it consisted of sonnets and fragments of song. Literature was wanting in elegance and dignity, in taste and imagination, in vigor of sentiment and strength of thought. Milton stands alone, and differs from his race, as much in his powers of execution, as in the nature of his subject. He was surrounded by a circle of wits; Waller, Suckling, and Rochester belong to the same period; but his "soul was like a star and dwelt apart." Butler who was born four years later, was a greater wit than any other writer in the language. Prior and Swift, of the same century, (though born in the last half,) are full of humor and polished wit. Dryden, who was born twenty-three years later, and is signalized as the Father of English criticism, resembled Milton in his strength of thought, elegance of diction, and variety of versification, but he had not the tenderness, the grandeur of conception, nor the surpassing perception of beauty that Milton had. This, however, is the second great name of the seventeenth century, and he is, in a manner, the founder of the poetry of the eighteenth century. He had neither the wit, the fancy, nor the humor of the age that preceded him. The wealth of his language is immense. His odes are the most perfect specimens, in the language, of lyrical elegance and power. The following specimen, says Mr. Ellis, which seems to have escaped the notice of former collators, is written with all the characteristic fire and spirit of its author: FROM THE TRAGEDY OF EDIPUS. Invocation of the Ghost of Laius, by Tiresias. Tir. Choose the darkest part o' the grove: Such as ghosts at noon-day love. Dig a trench, and dig it nigh Where the bones of Laius lie: Altars raised of turf or stone, Will th' infernal powers have none.― Cho. 'Tis done. Tir. Is the sacrifice made fit? Draw her backward to the pit; Barren let her be, and black. And turn your faces from the sun. Answer me, if this be done. Cho. 'Tis done. Tir. Pour in blood, and blood-like wine, To mother Earth and Proserpine; Mingle milk into the stream: Snatch a brand from funeral pile ; Toss it in to make them boil: And turn your faces from the sun.- Cho. All is done. * SONG. 1. Hear, ye sullen powers, below! Hear, ye taskers of the dead! 2. You that boiling cauldrons blow! You that scum the molten lead! 2. You that pinch with red-hot tongs! 1. You that drive the trembling hosts Of poor, poor ghosts With sharpen'd prongs! 2. You that thrust them off the brim! You that plunge them when they swim! 'Till they drown; 'Till they go On a row Down, down, down, Ten thousand, thousand, thousand fathoms low. Chor. 'Till they drown, 1. Music for a while 2. Shall your cares beguile: Wondering how your pains were eas'd! And disdaining to be pleas'd! 3. 'Till Alecto free the dead For hell's broke up, and ghosts have holy-day. Chor. Come away, 1. Lauis! 2. Laius! 3. Laius! 1. Hear! 2. Hear! 3. Hear! Tir. Hear and appear! By the Fates that spun thy thread! Chor. Which are three, Tir. By the Furies fierce and dread! Chor. Which are three, Tir. By the judges of the dead! Chor. Which are three, Three times three, Tir. By hell's blue flame! And by Demogorgon's name POETS AND POETRY OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. IT were no small task to write a complete history of all the productions of any single age of English literature, since the introduction of Printing into England in the fifteenth century, since which time the Press has been constantly pouring forth its flood of publications. The accumulation of four centuries, therefore, affords an abundance of materials to work upon. The task is, however, greatly diminished-or, at least, rendered more easy of execution, by the well-established custom of the historian, to embrace a whole age in a single paragraph; and if then there happens to be more than can well be disposed of in his design, or which, from his ignorance, he does not know how to treat, it is at once disposed of in a manner, easier still; by considering it altogether unworthy of notice. The value of the literature of any age is, generally, in the inverse ratio to the amount of production. The best works appear during a comparative dearth. After the language has become settled and fixed, and taste is perfected, it is of no benefit to recast the same material, or change the forms of literature, and nothing |