action. He has likewise this peculiar excellence, that neither his speeches or descriptions are extended to such lengths as, in some attempts of the epic kind, become tiresome, and are the strongest indication of want of judgment. He paints the rapid energies of a band of freemen, in a barbarous age, struggling for their country, strangers to the refiied deliberation of later ages, and acquainted with that eloquence only which leads to prompt decision.
The character thus attempted to be given has been drawn principally from a consideration of the following passages in this poem, which in the opinion of the writer, constitute beauties of a superior kind. The parting of Leonidas with his wife and family--the hymn of the Magi-the episode of Teribazus and Ariana, to which, I believe, all critics have done justice-the description of the army of Xerxes-the speech of Demaratus to Xerxes-the combat between Diomedon and Tigranes-the destruction of the barbarians at the close of the eighth book-the sublime dream of Leonidas-his armour--the burning of the camp of Xerxes-and the death of Leonidas. To these may be added, the masterly-drawn characters of Diomedon, Dithyrambus, Menelippus, Xerxes, Demaratus, Hyperanthus, Polydorus, and Artemisia. The character of Artemisia, I may here mention, was added to the edition of 1770, with the very interesting one of Oileus, and those of Melibæus, Melissa, Artuches, and Eschylus.
Like Lucan, our author has rejected the aid of mythological machinery and prodigies, and the propriety of constructing an epic poem without such supernatural auxiliaries, became, after the publication of Leonidas, a question with certain critics. The examples of Homer, Virgil, and Milton, which were cited, are certainly powerful; but the voice of Nature is yet more powerful, and no argument or authority can prove the absolute necessity of what cannot for a moment be reconciled to truth or probability. Mythology, it may be said, has been a fertile source of the sublime, but it is only one source, and where it has been resorted to by modern poets, they have generally dwindled into servile imitators, or have become the borrowers of imagery and sentiment, which they can make appear to be their own only by spoiling.
It may with more justice be objected to Leonidas, that the author places too constant a reliance on history, and follows Herodotus and other writers so closely, as to leave less scope for the powers of invention than he might have justly claimed, considering the great distance of time, and the character of the Greeks in that age.
With respect to the language and versification of Leonidas, although they may be praised for simplicity, perspicuity, and harmony, there are many tame and prosaic lines; but the greatest fault is a want of strength, majesty, and variety. "He has not availed himself," Dr. Warton observes, "of the great privilege of blank verse, to run his verses into one another with different pauses." He thought that iambic feet only should be used in heroic verse, without admitting any trochaic, a notion which is much to be regretted in a writer whose judgment, as a critic, was acknowledged by the best scholars of his time.
The Athenaid was published in 1787, exactly as it was found among his papers. It consists of the unusual number of thirty books, but evidently was left without the corrections which he would probably have bestowed, had he revised it for the press. It is intended as a continuation, or second part to Leonidas, in which the Greeks are conducted through the vicissitudes of the war with Xerxes, to the final emancipation of their country from his invasions. As an epic it seems defective in many respects. Here is no hero ou whose fate the mind is exclusively engaged, but a race of heroes who
demand our admiration by turns; the events of history, too, are so closely followed, as to give the whole the air of a poetical chronicle.
If the plan be defective, the execution is no less so. It abounds in prosaic lines and mean comparisons; there are many words, likewise, introduced, which are too familiar for heroic poetry, as forestall, uncomfortable, acquiescence, obtuse, exemplified, meritorious, absurdity, superfluous, timber, assiduity, elegantly, authoritative, supercede, convalescence, circumscription, &c. &c. It may be added, that there are various repetitions, which mark the unfinished state in which the author has left this composition.
With all these faults, however, the Athenaid must be allowed to contain many splendid passages, such as, the vision of Leonidas which appeared to Æschylus—the dream of Timon-the march of the Persian army-Mardonius' vision of the temple of Fame —the desolation of Athens-the appearance of Xerxes and his troops on the declivity of Mount Ægaleos-the passage of Sandauce to Phaleron-the dirge of Ariana-the relief given to the famished Eretrians-the episode of Hyacinthus and Cleora-the cave of the furies, and the cave of Trophonius. As to the characters, that of Aristides is evidently the author's favourite, nor will the reader, perhaps, be less interested in the fate of Themistocles, Mardonius, Sandauce, Argestes, Timothea, Nichomachus, and Masistius. Throughout the whole of the poem, the pathetic is predominant, and the author depicts with admirable feeling those scenes of domestic woe, which are created by civil dissention co-operating with foreign invasion. Such a style is not ill adapted to modern taste, but in proportion as poems of this species abound in the pathetic, they depart from the general character of the epic.
It is not necessary to detain the reader by observations on his smaller poems. That on sir Isaac Newton is certainly an extraordinary production from a youth of sixteen, but the theme, I suspect, must have been given to him. Such an acquaintance with the state of philosophy and the improvements of our immortal philosopher, could not have been acquired at his age. Hosier's Ghost was long one of the most popular English ballads; but his London, if intended for popular influence, was probably read and understood by few. In poetical merit, however, it is not unworthy of the author of Leonidas. Fielding wrote a very long encomium on it in his Champion, and predicted, rather too rashly, that it would ever continue to be the delight of all that can feel the exquisite touch of poetry, or be roused with the divine enthusiasm of public spirit.
POEM ON SIR ISAAC NEWTON. ORIGINALLY PREFIXED TO PEMBERTON'S VIEW OF SIR ISAAC NEWTON'S PHILOSOPHY, 1728. 8vo.
To Newton's genius and immortal fame,
Th' advent'rous Muse with trembling pinions soars.
Thou, heav'nly Truth, from thy seraphic throne
Look favourable down, do thou assist
My lab'ring thought, do thou inspire my song.
Newton, who first th' Almighty's works display'd,
And smooth'd that mirror, in whose polish'd face
The great Creator now conspicuous shines;
Who open'd Nature's adamantine gates,
And to our minds her secret pow'rs expos'd;
Newton demands the Muse; his sacred hand
Shall raise her to the Heliconian height,
Where, on its lofty top enthron'd, her head
Shall mingle with the stars. Hail, Nature, hail!
O goddess, handmaid of th' ethereal power,
Now lift thy head, and to th' admiring world
Show thy long hidden beauty. Thee, the wise
Of ancient fame, immortal Plato's self,
The Stagyrite, and Syracusian sage,
From black obscurity's abyss to raise,
(Drooping and mourning o'er thy wondrous works)
With vain inquiry sought. Like meteors these
In their dark age bright sons of Wisdom shone:
But at thy Newton all thy laurels fade,
They shrink from all the honours of their names.
So glimm'ring stars contract their feeble rays,
When the swift lustre of Aurora's face
Flows o'er the skies, and wraps the heav'ns in light.
The Deity's omnipotence, the cause,
Th' original of things, long lay unknown.
Alone the beauties prominent to sight
(Of the celestial pow'r the outward form)
Drew praise and wonder from the gazing world.
As when the deluge overspread the Earth,
Whilst yet the mountains only rear'd their heads
Above the surface of the wild expanse,
Wheim'd deep below the great foundation lay,
Till some kind angel, at Heav'n's high command,
Roll'd back the rising tides, and haughty floods,
And to the ocean thunder'd out his voice:
Quick all the swelling and imperious waves,
The foaming billows, and obscuring surge,
Back to their channels and their ancient seats
Recoil affrighted: from the darksome main
Earth raises smiling, as new-born, her head,
And with fresh charms her lovely face arrays.
So his extensive thought accomplish'd first
The mighty task to drive th' obstructing mists
Of Ignorance away, beneath whose gloom
Th' unshrouded majesty of Nature lay.
He drew the veil, and swell'd the spreading scene.
How had the Moon around th' ethereal void
Rang'd, and eluded lab'ring mortals' care,
Till his invention trac'd her secret steps,
While she, inconstant, with unsteady rein,
Through endless mazes and meanders guides
In its unequal course her changing car:
Whether behind the Sun's superior light
She hides the beauties of her radiant face,
Or, when conspicuous, smiles upon mankind,
Unveiling all her night-rejoicing charms.
When thus the silver-tressed Moon dispels
The frowning horrours from the brow of Night,
And with her splendours cheers the sullen gloom,
While sable-mantled Darkness with his veil
The visage of the fair horizon shades,
And over Nature spreads his raven wings;
Let me upon some unfrequented green,
While sleep sits heavy on the drowsy world,
Seek out some peaceful solitary cell,
Where darksome woods around their gloomy brows
Bow low, and ev'ry hill's protended shade
Obscures the dusky vale, there silent dwell,
Where Contemplation holds its still abode,
There trace the wide and pathless void of heav'n,
And count the stars that sparkle on its robe.
Or else, in Fancy's wild'ring mazes lost,
Upon the verdure see the fairy elves
Dance o'er their magic circles, or behold,
In thought enraptur'd with the ancient bards,
Medea's baleful incantations draw
Down from her orb the paly queen of night.
But chiefly, Newton, let me soar with thee,
And while surveying all yon starry vault
With admiration I attentive gaze,
Thou shalt descend from thy celestial seat,
And waft aloft my high-aspiring mind,
Shalt show me there how Nature has ordain'd
Her fundamental laws, shalt lead my thought
Through all the wand'rings of th' uncertain Moon,
And teach me all her operating powers.
She and the Sun with influence conjoint
Wield the huge axle of the whirling Earth,
And from their just direction turn the poles,
Slow urging on the progress of the years.
The constellations seem to leave their seats,
And o'er the skies with solemn pace to move.
You, splendid rulers of the day and night,
The scas obey; at your resistless sway
Now they contract their waters, and expose
The dreary desert of old Ocean's reign.
The craggy rocks their horrid sides disclose :
Trembling the sailor views the dreadful scene,
And cautiously the threat'ning ruin shuns.
But where the shallow waters hide the sands,
There ravenous Destruction lurks conceal'd,
There the ill-guided vessel falls a prey,
And all her numbers gorge his greedy jaws.
But quick returning see th' impetuous tides
Back to th' abandon'd shores impell the main.
Again the foaming seas extend their waves,
Again the rolling floods embrace the shores,
And veil the horrours of the empty deep.
Thus the obsequious seas your power confess
While from the surface healthful vapours rise,
Plenteous throughout the atmosphere diffus'd,
Or to supply the mountain's heads with springs,
Or fill the hanging clouds with needful rains,
That friendly streams, and kind refreshing show'rs,
May gently lave the sun-burnt, thirsty plains,
Or to replenish all the empty air,
With wholesome moisture to increase the fruits
Of Earth, and bless the labours of mankind.
O Newton, whither flies thy mighty soul,
How shall the feeble Muse pursue through all
The vast extent of thy unbounded thought,
That even seeks th' unseen recesses dark
To penetrate, of Providence immense.
And thou, the great Dispenser of the world
Propitious, who with inspiration taught'st
Our greatest bard to send thy praises forth;
Thou, who gav'st Newton thought; who smild'st
When to its bounds he stretch'd his swelling soul;
Who still benignant ever blest his toil,
And deign'd to his enlighten'd mind t' appear
Confess'd around th' interminated world:
To me, O thy divine infusion grant,
(0 thou in all so infinitely good)
That I may sing thy everlasting works,
Thy unexhausted store of providence,
In thought effulgent and resounding verse.
O could I spread the wondrous theme around,
Where the wind cools the oriental world,
To the calm breezes of the Zephyrs' breath,
To where the frozen hyperborean blasts,
To where the boist'rous tempest-leading south
From their deep hollow caves send forth their storms.
Thou still indulgent parent of mankind,
Lest humid emanations should no more
Flow from the ocean, but dissolve away
Through the long series of revolving time:
And lest the vital principle decay,
By which the air supplies the springs of life;
Thou hast the fiery-visag'd comets form'd
With vivifying spirits all replete,
Which they abundant breathe about the void,
Renewing the prolific soul of things.
No longer now on thee amaz'd we call,
No longer tremble at imagin'd ills,
When comets blaze tremendous from on high,
Or when extending wide their flaming trains
With hideous grasp the skies engirdle round,
And spread the terrours of their burning locks.
For these through orbits in the length'ning space
Of many tedious rolling years complete
Around the Sun move regularly on;
And with the planets in harmonious orbs,
And mystic periods their obeisance pay
To him MAJESTIC RULER OF the skies,
Upon his throne of circled glory fix'd.
He or some god conspicuous to the view
Or else the substitute of nature seems,
Guiding the courses of revolving worlds.
He taught great Newton the all-potent laws
Of gravitation, by whose simple power
The universe exists. Nor here the sage
Big with invention still renewing staid.
But O! bright angel of the lamp of day,
How shall the Muse display his greater toil
Let her plunge deep in Aganippe's waves,
Or in Castalia's ever-flowing stream,
That re-inspired she may sing to thee,
How Newton dar'd advent'rous to unbraid
The yellow tresses of thy shining hair.
Or didst thou gracious leave thy radiant sphere,
And to his hand thy lucid splendours give,
T' unweave the light-diffusing wreath, and part
The blended glories of thy golden plumes?
He with laborious, and unerring care,
How diff'rent and embodied colours form
Thy piercing light, with just distinction found.
He with quick sight pursued thy darting rays,
When penetrating to th' obscure recess
Of solid matter, there perspicuous saw,
How in the texture of each body lay
The power that separates the diff'rent beams.
Hence over Nature's unadorned face
Thy bright diversifying rays dilate
Their various hues: and hence when vernal rains
Descending swift have burst the low'ring clouds,
Thy splendours through the dissipating mists
In its fair vesture of unnumber'd hues
Array the show'ry bow. At thy approach
The Morning, risen from her pearly couch,
With rosy blushes decks her virgin cheek:
The Ev'ning on the frontispiece of Heav'n
His mantle spreads with many colours gay:
The midday skies in radiant azure clad,
The shining clouds, and silver vapours rob'd
In white transparent intermixt with gold,
With bright variety of splendour clothe
All the illuminated face above.
When hoary-headed Winter back retires
To the chill'd pole, there solitary sits
Encompass'd round with winds and tempests bleak
In caverns of impenetrable ice,
And from behind the dissipated gloom
Like a new Venus from the parting surge
The gay-apparell'd Spring advances on;
When thou in thy meridian brightness sitt'st,
And from thy throne pure emanations flow
Of glory bursting o'er the radiant skies:
Then let the Muse Olympus' top ascend,
And o'er Thessalia's plain extend her view,
And count, O Tempé, all thy beauties o'er.
Mountains, whose summits grasp the pendant clouds,
Between their wood-envelop'd slopes embrace
The green attir'd vallies. Every flow'r
Here in the pride of bounteous Nature clad,
Smiles on the bosom of th' enamell'd meads.
Over the smiling lawn the silver floods
Of fair Peneus gently roll along,
While the reflected colours from the flow'rs,
And verdant borders pierce the limpid waves,
And paint with all their variegated hue
The yellow sands beneath. Smooth gliding on
The waters hasten to the neighbouring sea.
Still the pleas'd eye the floating plain pursues;
At length, in Neptune's wide dominions lost,
Surveys the shining billows, that arise
Apparell'd each in Phoebus bright attire:
Or from afar some tall majestic ship,
Or the long hostile lines of threat'ning fleets,
Which o'er the bright uneven mirror sweep,
In dazzling gold, and waving purple deck'd;
Such as of old when haughty Athens pour
Their hideous front and terrible array
Against Pallene's coast extended wide,
And with tremendous war, and battle stern
The trembling walls of Potidea shook.
Crested with pendants curling with the breeze,
The upright masts high bristle in the air,
Aloft exalting proud their gilded heads.
The silver waves against the painted prows
Raise their resplendent bosoms, and impearl
The fair vermilion with their glist'ring drops:
And from on board the iron-clothed host
Around the main a gleaming horrour cast;
Each flaming buckler like the midday Sun,
Each plumed helmet like the silver Moon,
Each moving gauntlet like the lightning's blaze,
And like a star each brazen pointed spear.
But lo! the sacred, high-erected fanes,
Fair citadels, and marble-crowned towers,
And sumptuous palaces of stately towns
Magnificent arise, upon their heads
Bearing on high a wreath of silver light.
But see, my Muse, the high Pierian hill,
Behold its shaggy locks, and airy top.
Up to the skies th' imperious mountain heaves;
The shining verdure of the nodding woods.
See where the silver Hippocrene flows,
Behold each glitt'ring rivulet and rill
Through mazes wander down the green descent,
And sparkle through the interwoven trees.
Here rest awhile, and humble homage pay,
Here, where the sacred genius, that inspir'd
Sublime Mæonides, and Pindar's breast,
His habitation once was fam'd to hold.
Here, thou, O Homer, offer'dst up thy vows;
Thee, the kind Muse Calliopæa heard,
And led thee to the empyrean seats,
There manifested to thy hallow'd eyes
The deeds of gods; thee wise Minerva taught
The wondrous art of knowing human kind;
Harmonious Phoebus tun'd thy heav'nly mind,
And swell'd to rapture each exalted sense;
Even Mars, the dreadful battle-ruling god,
Mars taught thee war, and with his bloody hand
Instructed thine, when in thy sounding lines
We hear the rattling of Bellona's car,
The yell of discord, and the din of arms.
Pindar, when mounted on his fiery steed,
Soars to the Sun, opposing, eagle-like,
His eyes undazzled to the fiercest rays.
He firmly seated, not like Glaucus' son,
Strides his swift-winged and fire-breathing horse,
And borne aloft strikes with his ringing hoofs
The brazen vault of Heav'n, superior there
Looks down upon the stars, whose radiant light
Illuminates innumerable worlds,
That through eternal orbits roll beneath.
But thou, all hail! immortalized son
Of harmony, all hail! thou Thracian bard,
To whom Apollo gave his tuneful lyre!
O might'st thou, Orpheus, now again revive,
And Newton should inform thy list'ning ear,
How the soft notes, and soul-enchanting strains
Of thy own lyre, were on the wind convey'd.
He taught the Muse, how sound progressive floats
Upon the waving particles of air,
When harmony in ever-pleasing strains,
Melodious melting at each lulling fall,
With soft alluring penetration steals
Through the enraptur'd ear to inmost thought,
And folds the senses in its silken bands.
So the sweet music, which from Orpheus' touch,
And fam'd Amphion's, on the sounding string
Arose harmonious, gliding on the air,
Pierc'd the tough-bark'd and knotty-ribbed woods,
Into their saps soft inspiration breath'd,
And taught attention to the stubborn oak,
Thus when great Henry, and brave Marlb'rough led
Th' embattled numbers of Britannia's sons,
The trump, that swells th' expanded cheek of Fame,
That adds new vigour to the gen'rous youth,
And rouses sluggish cowardice itself,
The trumpet, with its Mars-inciting voice
The wind's broad breast impetuous sweeping o'er,
Fill'd the big note of war. Th' inspir'd host
With new-born ardour press the trembling Gaul;
Nor greater throngs had reach'd eternal night,
Not if the fields of Agincourt had yawn'd,
Exposing horrible the gulf of Fate;
Or roaring Danube spread his arms abroad,
And overwhelm'd their legions with his floods.
But let the wand'ring Muse at length return;
Nor yet, angelic genius of the Sun,
In worthy lays her high-attempting song
Has blazon'd forth thy venerated name.
Then let her sweep the loud-resounding lyre
Again, again o'er each melodious string
Teach harmony to tremble with thy praise.
And still thine ear, O favourable grant,
And she shall tell thee, that whatever charms,
Whatever beauties bloom on Nature's face,
Proceed from thy all-influencing light.
That when arising with tempestuous rage,
The North, impetuons, rides upon the clouds
Dispensing round the Heav'ns obstructive gloom
And with his dreaded prohibition stays
The kind effusion of thy genial beams:
Pale are the rubies on Aurora's lips,
No more the roses blush upon her cheeks,
Black are Pencus' streams and golden sands;
In Tempé's vale dull Melancholy sits,
And ev'ry flower reclines its languid head,
By what high name shall I invoke thee, say,
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