N° LVI.

On the Allegorical Style of Poetry of Collins:with a Comparison of it with that of

Sackville.

Melior fieri tuendo.

I DOUBT Whether there are any poems in our language more elegant and highly finished than those of Collins. There scarcely occurs an imperfect line, a lame sentence, or a flat and improper word. They are perhaps more marked by the singular praise of being such as none but himself could have produced, than the compositions of any. other author. On the other hand they are, I think, deficient in some ingredients, which constitute the very first charms of poetry. Let me be forgiven, if with a love of this great poet above that of most men, I endeavour with candour to point these out; while I trust I shall shew myself fully sensible of his inimitable beauties.

His Odes are principally descriptive of single allegorical figures. We know that in painting no subjects are more generally tiresome than these. Whether it requires too great a habit of abstraction,

or whether, the condensing into one person all the varieties of a passion, too much narrows our ideas, or whatever be the cause, it is certain that even of those who are pleased with such exhibitions at first, the major part soon grow weary. Collins's delineations partake of this defect; and partake of them the more, because he has chosen to delineate them too much in the manner of a painter. He has not sufficiently enriched his figures with sentiment; and with that expression of the movements of the soul, which the pencil of the painter, and he who is merely conversant with matter, can never reach. I do not mean that he has not gone beyond the painter; because a painter cannot exhibit the successive movements of a figure, nor place it in a variety of situations and circumstances in the same picture, nor express any of those invocations, which the dulness of the spectator will seldom be able to supply to the lips of the person worshipping the goddess which may form the main feature on the

canvas.

But why should the poet so much curtail, if he do not entirely forego, his superiorities? Why should he leave those paths, whither the painter cannot follow him, for others, in which the painter in some important points has even the advantage. The finest Ode of Collins, next to that to the Passions, is the Ode to Fear; it contains the strongest

expression of the internal workings of the spirit of the personified being addressed: but perhaps even this sublime composition is in some degree liable to these objections. The animated and inimitable groups of the PASSIONS themselves disclose their characteristic impulses by action only.

There is I think another trait in the allegorical personages of Collins. They are almost too abstract; too far removed from human creatures; instead of earthly beings somewhat elevated and purified. I can more easily illustrate this by instances, than by definition. When Gray personifies ADVERSITY, he manages his invention in such a manner, as to give it a more moral effect, and bring it more " home to men's business and bosoms," while his composition loses nothing of the poetical character.

But there is a poet, who appears to me to have given this moral cast to descriptions of this kind, beyond all others. The vigour and solemnity of his personifications, and the powers of his language are entitled to the highest praise, without reference, to the age in which he wrote, while the fact of their having appeared two hundred and sixty years ago must excite not only admiration but astonishment. I refer to the INDUCTION of Thomas Sackville, the first Earl of Dorset, in the Mirror for Magistrates.

The poet is conducted by SORROW, to the

classical Hell, the place of torments and the place of happiness, where he describes the dreadful group of Beings, whom he found sitting within the porch.

......

She forthwith uplifting me apace

Remov'd my dread, and with a sted fast mind
Bade me come on, for here was now the place,
The place where we our travel end should find.
Wherewith I arose, and to the place assign'd
Astoin'd I stalk, when strait we' approached near
The dreadful place, that you will dread to hear.
An hideous hole all vast, withouten shape,

Of endless depth o'erwhelm'd with ragged stone,
With ugly mouth, and grisły jaws doth gape,
And to our sight confounds itself in one.
Here entred we, and yeding forth, anon
An horrible loathly lake we might discern,
As black as pitch, that cleped is Averne.

A deadly gulf, where nought but rubbish grows,

With foul black swelth, in thicken'd lumps that lies,
Which up in th' air such stinking vapours throws,
That over there may fly no fowl but dies,
Choak'd with the pestilent vapours that arise.
Hither we come, whence forth we still did pace,
In dreadful fear amid the dreadful place.

And first within the porch and jaws of hell
Sat deep REMORSE OF CONSCIENCE, all besprent
With tears; and to herself oft would she tell

Her wretchedness; and cursing never stent To sob and sigh; but ever thus lament With thoughtful care, as she that all in vain Would wear and waste continually in pain.

Her eyes unstedfast rolling here and there,
Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance brought,
So was her mind continually in fear,

Toss'd and tormented with the tedious thought
Of those detested crimes which she had wrought;
With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky,
Wishing for death, and yet she could not die.

Next saw we DREAD, all trembling how he shook

With foot uncertain proffer'd here and there : Benumb'd of speech, and with a ghastly look Search'd every place, all pale and dread for fear, His cap borne up with staring of his hair, Storm'd and amaz'd at his own shade for dread, And fearing greater dangers than was need.

And next within the entry of this lake

Sat fell REVENGE, gnashing her teeth for ire,
Devising means how she may vengeance take,
Never in rest till she have her desire;
But frets within so far forth with the fire
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she
To die by death, or veng'd by death to be.

When fell REVENGE, with bloody foul pretence
Had shew'd herself as next in order set,

With trembling limbs we softly parted thence,