though never so finely balanced between truth and fiction, is but of a subordinate nature, as we have always two passions opposing each other; a love of reality, which represses the flights of fancy, and a passion for the marvellous, which would leave reflection behind. However, with all his faults, no poet enlarges the imagination more than Spenser. Cowley was formed into poetry by reading him; and many of our modern writers, such as Gray, Akenside, and others, seem to have studied his manner with the utmost attention: from him their compounded epithets, and solemn flow of numbers, seem evidently borrowed; and the verses of Spenser may, perhaps, one day be considered the standard of English poetry. (1) It were happy indeed, if his beauties were the only objects of modern imitation; but many of his words, justly fallen into disuse among his successors, have been of late revived, and a language, already too copious, has been augmented by an unnecessary reinforcement. Learning and language are ever fluctuating, either rising to perfection or retiring into primeval barbarity: perhaps the point of English perfection is already passed, and every intended improvement may be now only deviation. This at least is certain, that posterity will perceive a strong similitude between the poets (1) ["When I began Childe Harold, I had never tried Spenser's measure; and now I cannot scribble in any other."— Lord Byron to Lord Holland, Sept. 26, 1812. "The stanza of the Faerie Queene is framed with such consummate skill, that all its parts are indivisibly interlaced, and the rhythm proceeds with increasing strength and fullness through the whole, till it is wound up in a harmonious, rich, and perfect close. There is no form of verse in our language in which so many successful poems have been written as in this, notwithstanding its apparent difficulty. The poet who would learn the mysteries of his art, should take Spenser for his master, and drink of his poetry as from a well,-not indeed of English undefiled, but of perpetual harmony, pure thoughts, delightful imagery, and tender feeling."- Quart. Rev., 1814, vol. xii., p. 72.] of the sixteenth, and those of the latter end of the eighteenth century. To this edition of Spenser's works, the editor has prefixed some account of his life, gleaned from his own and cotemporary writings. There is a strong similitude between the lives of almost all our English poets. The ordinary of Newgate, we are told, has but one story, which serves for the life of every hero that happens to come within the circle of his pastoral care; however unworthy the resemblance appears, it may be asserted, that the history of one poet might serve with as little variation for that of any other. Born of creditable parents, who gave him a pious education; however, in spite of all their endeavours, in spite of all the exhortations of the minister of the parish on Sundays, he turned his mind from following good things, and fell to writing verses! Spenser, in short, lived poor, was reviled by the critics of his time, and died at last in the utmost distress. (1) There are some quotations brought in proof of this, from a poem called the Purple Island, which, as the reader may have never seen, we shall beg leave to transcribe. "The poet had been speaking of the discouragements attending learning and the muses: STANZA 17. "But wretched we to whom these iron daies 19. "Witnesse our Colin; whom though all the Graces And all the learn'd, and all the shepherds throng; (1)[" Spenser died broken-hearted at London, in January 1599. He was buried, according to his desire, near the tomb of Chaucer, and the most celebrated poets of the time (Shakspeare was probably of the number), followed his hearse, and threw tributary verses into his grave."-CAMPBELL, Brit. Poets, vol. ii, p. 176.] Yet all his hopes were crost, all suits denied, Poorly (poore man) he liv'd; poorly (poore man) he di’d. 20. “And had not that great Hart (whose honour'd head Unblest, nor grac'd with any common rite : Yet shalt thou live, when thy great foe shall sink 21. "O! let th' Iambick muse revenge that wrong, Which cannot slumber in thy sheets of lead: Let thy abused honour crie as long As there be quills to write, or eyes to reade: "The reader will excuse our tempting his curiosity, by adding, that the author of these agreeable lines is Phineas Fletcher, nephew to Richard Fletcher, bishop of London. As we have taken the liberty to introduce on this occasion this poet so little known, we cannot but add, that he seems to be of Spenser's own turn of mind. At Hilgay (2) 'tis (1) [“ Under the auspices of the Earl of Essex, Spenser received from Queen Elizabeth a pension of £50 yearly. It is supposed that some passages in his poems drew down upon his head the wrath of the great Burleigh; the effects of which continued to attend him through life. The striking lines, describing the miseries of a suitor for court favour, have been always understood to refer to his own disappointment: Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried, SIR WALTER SCOTT, Prose Works, vol. xvii. p. 91.] (2) [Phineas Fletcher held the living of Hilgay, in Norfolk, for twentyHe died about the year 1650.] nine years. most likely this ingenious and good man passed his days, privately and humbly, and with all the modest sentiments with which he every where abounds. We cannot but think of him and love him, when he mentions Which lurk close shrouded from high-looking eyes, Shewing that sweetness oft both low and hidden lies: ' "And we cannot but revere and envy him, when giving us advice : 'Would'st thou live honour'd? clip Ambition's wing; To Reason's yoke thy furious passions bring : The notes to this edition are mostly imitations or various readings, and sufficiently evince the editor's industry, though they contribute little to enlighten the reader. There is also a glossary of the obsolete terms which are not explained in the notes; and, in short, such helps as are sufficient to understand the poet, without any ostentation of learning in the learned editor. XVI.-LANGHORNE'S "DEATH OF ADONIS, FROM THE GREEK OF BION." a [From the Critical Review, 1759. "The Death of Adonis : Pastoral Elegy, from the Greek of Bion. By the Rev. John Langhorne." 4to.] Of all the different kinds of poetry, elegy has been least cultivated since the revival of letters. We have seen the (1) [The translator of Plutarch, and author of "Letters of Theodosius and Constantia," "Fables of Flora," &c. &c. "He was," says Mr. Campbell, "an elegant scholar and an amiable man. He gave delight to thousands, from the press and the pulpit. Yet, as a prose writer, it is impossible to deny, that his rapidity was the effect of lightness more than vigour; and, as a poet, there is no ascribing to him either fervour or simplicity."-British Poets, vol. vi. p. 365.] ancients rivalled, sometimes excelled in the epic, the ode, or the pastoral; but in elegy they still remain without competitors, and the attempts of Biderman, Fontaine, Deshouliers, and Hammond, serve only to evince their inferiority. This may seem the more surprising, as there is scarcely a beauty in poetry, that elegy is not capable of admitting; sometimes replete with pathetic simplicity, sometimes even assuming the bold metaphors of resentment, and often borrowing every ornament that art can bestow: in a word, is tender, passionate, or graceful, by turns. Elegy may be distinguished into three different kinds, as either of them happens to prevail. It is Love, and not the poet, who speaks like a true boy, he is easily enraged, and as easily appeased; now exulting with success, again melting into tears of disappointment; when angry, threatening impossibilities; when appeased, repenting his insolence with the most abject humility. But whatever the pretences of the moderns, or even of the Latins, may be to this beautiful species of poetry, the little poem before us bears away the prize, and is incontestibly the finest production of the elegiac Muse, if we except that of Euripides, in his Andromache. We shall not enter into a disquisition with the grammarians, whether it be an elegy or not, as it wants what they term the characteristic difference of this species of poesy; viz. an alternate succession of hexameters and pentameters be it sufficient to observe, that it unites every charm that a beautiful passion can suggest, and though simple, yet it is simplex munditiis. Some modern critics, it is true, have asserted, that plaintive elegy should be entirely unornamented: it might be sufficient to answer, that the practice of the ancients is against them; but nature itself also opposes this doctrine. A despairing lover, it is true, has no occasion to be tricked out like a beau, but yet should be sufficiently beautiful to interest the spectators |