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such as

might feel at the sight, their tears
angels weep.' The pathos is of that mild, con-
templative kind which arises from regret for the
loss of unspeakable happiness, and resignation
to inevitable fate. There is none of the fierce-
ness of intemperate passion, none of the agony
of mind and turbulence of action which is the
result of the habitual struggles of the will with
circumstances, irritated by repeated disappoint-
ment, and constantly setting its desires most
eagerly on that which there is an impossibility
of attaining. This would have destroyed the
beauty of the whole picture. They had re-
ceived their unlooked-for happiness as a free
gift from their Creator's hands, and they sub-
mitted to its loss, not without sorrow, but
without impious and stubborn repining.

'In either hand the hastening angel caught
Our lingering parents, and to th' eastern gate
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast
To the subjected plain; then disappeared.
They, looking back, all th' eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms;
Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them


The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.'



DRYDEN and Pope are the great masters of

the artificial style of poetry in our language, as the poets of whom I have already treated, Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton, were of the natural; and though this artificial style is generally and very justly acknowledged to be inferior to the other, yet those who stand at the head of that class ought perhaps to rank higher than those who occupy an inferior place in a superior class. They have a clear and independent claim upon our gratitude, as having produced a kind and degree of excellence which existed equally nowhere else. What has been done well by some later writers of the highest style of poetry, is included in and obscured by a greater degree of power and genius in those before them; what has been done best by poets of an entirely distinct turn of mind stands by itself, and tells for its whole amount. Young, for instance,

Gray, or Akenside, only follow in the train of Milton and Shakspeare; Pope and Dryden walk by their side, though of an unequal stature, and are entitled to a first place in the lists of fame. This seems to be not only the reason of the thing, but the common-sense of mankind, who, without any regular process of reflection, judge of the merit of a work, not more by its inherent and absolute worth than by its originality and capacity of gratifying a different faculty of the mind or a different class of readers; for it should be recollected that there may be readers (as well as poets) not of the highest class, though very good sort of people, and not altogether to be despised.

The question whether Pope was a poet,1 has hardly yet been settled, and is hardly worth settling; for if he was not a great poet, he must have been a great prose-writer, that is, he was a great writer of some sort. He was a man of exquisite faculties and of the most refined taste; and as he chose verse (the most obvious distinction of poetry) as the vehicle to express his ideas, he has generally passed for a poet, and a good one. If indeed by a great poet we mean one who gives the utmost grandeur to our conceptions of Nature, or the utmost 1 See the 'Scots' Magazine' for February, 1818. — ED.

force to the passions of the heart, Pope was not in this sense a great poet; for the bent, the characteristic power of his mind, lay the clean contrary way, namely, in representing things as they appear to the indifferent observer, stripped of prejudice and passion, as in his Critical Essays; or in representing them in the most contemptible and insignificant point of view, as in his Satires; or in clothing the little with mock dignity, as in his poems of Fancy; or in adorning the trivial incidents and familiar relations of life with the utmost elegance of expression and all the flattering illusions of friendship or self-love, as in his Epistles. He was not, then, distinguished as a poet of lofty enthusiasm, of strong imagination, with a passionate sense of the beauties of Nature, or a deep insight into the workings of the heart; but he was a wit and a critic, a man of sense, of observation and the world, with a keen relish for the elegances of art, or of Nature when embellished by art, a quick tact for propriety of thought and manners as established by the forms and customs of society, a refined sympathy with the sentiments and habitudes of human life as he felt them within the little circle of his family and friends. He was, in a word, the poet, not of Nature, but of art;

and the distinction between the two, as well as I can make it out, is this. The poet of Nature is one who, from the elements of beauty, of power, and of passion in his own breast, sympathizes with whatever is beautiful and grand and impassioned in Nature, in its simple majesty, in its immediate appeal to the senses, to the thoughts and hearts of all men; so that the poet of Nature, by the truth and depth and harmony of his mind, may be said to hold communion with the very soul of Nature; to be identified with, and to foreknow, and to record the feelings of all men at all times and places, as they are liable to the same impressions, and to exert the same power over the minds of his readers that Nature does. He sees things in their eternal beauty, for he sees them as they are; he feels them in their universal interest, for he feels them as they affect the first principles of his and our common nature. Such was Homer, such was Shakspeare, whose works will last as long as Nature, because they are a copy of the indestructible forms and everlasting impulses of Nature, welling out from the bosom as from a perennial spring, or stamped upon the senses by the hand of their Maker. The power of the imagination in them is the representative power of all Nature. It has its

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