Old English Poetry

by Edgar Allan Poe

　　

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It should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection withwhich we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be-attributed towhat is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry-we mean to the simple loveof the antique-and that, again, a third of even the proper poeticsentiment inspired by their writings should be ascribed to a factwhich, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, andwith the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as amerit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devoutadmirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on beingrequired to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he would beapt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general handling. Thisquaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to ideality, but in thecase in question it arises independently of the author's will, and isaltogether apart from his intention. Words and their rhythm have varied.Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid delight, and which delight, inmany instances, may be traced to the one source, quaintness, must haveworn in the days of their construction, a very commonplace air. This is,of course, no argument against the poems now-we mean it only as againstthe poets thew. There is a growing desire to overrate them. The oldEnglish muse was frank, guileless, sincere, and although very learned,still learned without art. No general error evinces a more thoroughconfusion of ideas than the error of supposing Donne and Cowleymetaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. Withthe two former ethics were the end-with the two latter the means. The poetof the "Creation" wished, by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what hesupposed to be moral truth-the poet of the "Ancient Mariner" to infuse thePoetic Sentiment through channels suggested by analysis. The one finishedby complete failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; theother, by a path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at atriumph which is not the less glorious because hidden from the profaneeyes of the multitude. But in this view even the "metaphysical verse" ofCowley is but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of theman. And he was in this but a type of his school-for we may as welldesignate in this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound upin the volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a veryperceptible general character. They used little art in composition. Theirwritings sprang immediately from the soul-and partook intensely of thatsoul's nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of thisabandon-to elevate immeasurably all the energies of mind-but, again, soto mingle the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all goodthings, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility, as torender it not a matter of doubt that the average results of mind in such aschool will be found inferior to those results in one (ceteris paribus)more artificial.We can not bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the "Book ofGems" are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possibleidea of the beauty of the school-but if the intention had been merely toshow the school's character, the attempt might have been consideredsuccessful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us ofthe most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of theirantiquity.. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please us.His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His opinion,for example, of Sir Henry Wotton's "Verses on the Queen of Bohemia"-that"there are few finer things in our language," is untenable and absurd.In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of Poesywhich belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time. Hereevery thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No prepossessionfor the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no otherprepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of poetry,a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments, stitched,apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and withouteven an attempt at adaptation.In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "TheShepherd's Hunting" by Withers--a poem partaking, in a remarkable degree,of the peculiarities of "Il Penseroso." Speaking of Poesy the author says:"By the murmur of a spring,Or the least boughs rustleling,By a daisy whose leaves spread,Shut when Titan goes to bed,Or a shady bush or tree,She could more infuse in meThan all Nature's beauties canIn some other wiser man.By her help I also nowMake this churlish place allowSomething that may sweeten gladnessIn the very gall of sadness--The dull loneness, the black shade,That these hanging vaults have madeThe strange music of the wavesBeating on these hollow caves,This black den which rocks emboss,Overgrown with eldest moss,The rude portals that give lightMore to terror than delight,This my chamber of neglectWalled about with disrespect;From all these and this dull airA fit object for despair,She hath taught me by her mightTo draw comfort and delight."But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the generalcharacter of the English antique. Something more of this will be found inCorbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's "Maidenlamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer-not only as a specimen of theelder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in pathos,exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness-to anything of itsspecies:"It is a wondrous thing how fleet'Twas on those little silver feet,With what a pretty skipping graceIt oft would challenge me the race,And when't had left me far away'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;For it was nimbler much than hinds,And trod as if on the four winds.I have a garden of my own,But so with roses overgrown,And lilies, that you would it guessTo be a little wilderness;And all the spring-time of the yearIt only loved to be there.Among the beds of lilies IHave sought it oft where it should lie,Yet could not, till itself would rise,Find it, although before mine eyes.For in the flaxen lilies' shadeIt like a bank of lilies laid;Upon the roses it would feedUntil its lips even seemed to bleed,And then to me 'twould boldly trip,And print those roses on my lip,But all its chief delight was stillWith roses thus itself to fill,And its pure virgin limbs to foldIn whitest sheets of lilies cold.Had it lived long, it would have beenLilies without, roses within."How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! Itpervades all.. It comes over the sweet melody of the words-over thegentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself-even overthe half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the beautiesand good qualities of her favorite-like the cool shadow of a summer cloudover a bed of lilies and violets, "and all sweet flowers." The whole isredolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is an ideaconveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or theartlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,or the fragrance and warmth and appropriateness of the little nest-likebed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon them, andcould scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy little damselwho went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on her face. Considerthe great variety of truthful and delicate thought in the few lines wehave quotedthe wonder of the little maiden at the fleetness of herfavorite-the "little silver feet"--the fawn challenging his mistress to arace with "a pretty skipping grace," running on before, and then, withhead turned back, awaiting her approach only to fly from it again-can wenot distinctly perceive all these things? How exceedingly vigorous, too,is the line,"And trod as if on the four winds!"A vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of thespeaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Thenconsider the garden of "my own," so overgrown, entangled with roses andlilies, as to be "a little wilderness"--the fawn loving to be there, andthere "only"--the maiden seeking it "where it should lie"--and not beingable to distinguish it from the flowers until "itself would rise"--thelying among the lilies "like a bank of lilies"--the loving to "fill itselfwith roses," "And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold,"and these things being its "chief" delights-and then the pre-eminentbeauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole onlyrenders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence, theartlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more passionateadmiration of the bereaved child--"Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within."

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