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far less capable of calling forth the vast powers of the poet's mind; and though it abounds with passages equal to any of the same nature in "Paradise Lost," it is, as a whole, less ornate, elevated, and imaginative, and cannot at all compare throughout with the greater poem. "Samson Agonistes" succeeded "Paradise Regained." In this his last poem "ebbs the mighty tide of Milton's genius." An air of grandeur pervades it, the vigor of thought remains, but the imagination flags; and it is not, even with the lovers of poetry, a popular poem, though critics assert that it deserves a higher rank than has been accorded it. "In Paradise Lost," says Craik, "Milton rises high above all Greek, above all Roman fame." The first book of that poem is held, by the same critic, to be " probably the most perfect and splendid of all human compositions."

Judging it, not from a theological, or even from an ethical standpoint, but purely as a work of art, posterity will, I think, confirm his estimate of this noble poem. It was begun by Milton in 1658, completed in 1665, and put in print in 1667. Simmons, the bookseller, gave five pounds down for it! Five more were to be received from him for two ensuing editions. When the third payment fell due, Milton no longer needed mortal pittances, and it was received by his widow, who outlived him fifty-three years. She sold all her claims on the poem for eight pounds! In thirteen years but three thousand copies had been sold.

CHAPTER XI.

POPE, AND THE MINOR POETS OF THE ARTIFICIAL SCHOOL.

TH

HE reigns of William III., Anne, and George I. produced a class of poets to whom is justly awarded the praise due to a polished style, and a felicity in painting artificial life, qualities less valued in our own time than the bold originality of style and thought, the vivid imaginative power, and the depth of natural sentiment which characterizes the poets who preceded them. They were sagacious, neat, clear, and reasonable, but for the most part cold, timid, and superficial.

The period of twelve years which comprises the reign. of Anne- from 1702 to 1714- was styled during the whole of the eighteenth century the Augustan era of English literature, on account of its supposed resemblance in intellectual opulence to the reign of the Emperor Augustus. 66 The present age has not followed or confirmed this

opinion."

During the whole thirty-eight years of which this era was the central period, the popular poets either filled high diplomatic and official situations, or were engaged in schemes of ambition, where offices of State, and the ascendency of rival parties, rather than poetical or literary laurels, were the prizes contended for.

"Writing," says an observing critic, "with infinite good sense, grace, and vivacity, and above all, writing for the first time in a tone that was peculiar to the upper ranks of society,

and upon subjects that were almost exclusively interesting to them, they naturally figured as the most accomplished, fashionable, and perfect writers which the world had ever seen, and made the wild, luxuriant, and humble sweetness of our earlier poets appear rude and untutored in the comparison. Yet amid all the gayety, polish, and sprightliness of fancy conspicuous in the writers of this period, we look in vain for the lyrical grandeur and enthusiasm which charms us in the elder poets and redeems so many apparent errors."

Though by mixing in courtly society, and enjoying much worldly prosperity and importance, the poets of this time may have gained in taste and correctness, they undoubtedly impaired the native vigor and originality of genius and the steady worship of truth and Nature. "The path of things is silent;" and high thoughts and divine imaginations are most successfully nursed in solitude.

The modish court Muse in hoop and stays, stiff in brocade, and refulgent in jewels, bears little resemblance to the graceful sisterhood of Helicon; yet the age, it must be allowed, produced several writers who, each in his own line, may be called extraordinary. At the head of this, the artificial school of verse, was Alexander Pope, by whom the poetry of elegant and artificial life was exhibited in a perfection never since attained. Pope was born in London, May 21, 1688.

His father, a linen-draper, having acquired an independent fortune, retired to Binfield, Windsor Forest. He was a Roman Catholic, and the young poet was partly educated by the family priest. Subsequently being sent to a Catholic seminary, he lampooned his teacher, was severely punished, and afterward taken home by his parents, and attended no school after his twelfth year. Though self-educated, the whole of Pope's early life is affirmed to have been that of a severe student. He was, even from infancy, a poet, and tells us that

“As yet a child, and all unknown to fame,

I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came."

Dryden early became the particular object of his admiration, and when not more than twelve years of age, he prevailed upon a friend to introduce him to the coffeehouse which Dryden then frequented, that he might have the gratification of seeing the great master of the art, whom he afterward acknowledged to be his instructor in versification; and who, though infinitely less subtile, polished, and refined than Pope (being a homelier and bolder artist, and far more true to Nature), must be regarded as the founder of this school of poetry of which Pope may claim to be the master. At that early age Pope wrote, and afterward destroyed, various dramatic pieces; and at the age of sixteen he composed his pastorals, in imitation of Chaucer.

In 1711 appeared his "Essay on Criticism," a work which, though composed when the author was only twentyone, displays a marvellous ripeness of judgment, and is affirmed to be the finest piece of argumentative and reasoning poetry in the English language. This essay, commended by Addison in the "Spectator," immediately rose into great popularity. The style of Pope was now formed and complete. His versification was that of his model, Dryden; but he gave to the heroic couplet a terseness, correctness, and melody all his own.

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The essay was shortly afterward followed by the "Rape of the Lock," the most graceful, ingenious, and delightful of all his compositions. The subject of this poem was the stealing of a lock of hair from a beauty of the day by her lover, whose playful pilfering was taken seriously, and caused an estrangement between the lovers and their respective families. Pope wrote his poem to reconcile them by making a jest of the affair. In this amicable un

dertaking he did not succeed, though by the effort he added vastly to his poetical reputation.

The machinery of the poem, founded upon the fanciful yet charming theory that the elements are inhabited by sylphs, gnomes, nymphs, and salamanders, was suggested by some of his friends. By blending the most delicate satire with the most lively fancy, in the "Rape of the Lock" Pope has produced a poem which is allowed to be the finest and most brilliant mock-heroic poem in the world. He could scarcely have conceived a more admirable prototype of our modern society belle than his Belinda of the "Rape of the Lock":

"Fair nymphs and well-dress'd youths around her shone,
But every eye was fix'd on her alone.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,

Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.

Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,
Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those.
Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;
Oft she rejects, but never once offends.
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike.
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide :

If to her share some female errors fall,

Look on her face, and you'll forget them all."

Pope's description of the sylphs may compare with Shakespeare's conception of Ariel:

"Some to the sun their insect wings unfold
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold;
Transparent forms too fine for mortal sight,
Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light.
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew,
Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew,
Dipped in the richest tincture of the skies,
Where light disports in ever mingling dyes,

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