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spirit and easy animation of Scott, the amorous appeals of Moore, and the passion of Byron; whilst mere tenderness, thoughtfulness and grace were to share its fate, and be trampled in the dust.
An author's name will generally continue long to be associated with that of the work which has first made him known to the world, whether or not it be his best. The Pleasures of Memory is probably to this day the best known by name of the author's principal poems. They were seven in number an Ode to Superstition, The Pleasures of Memory, An Epistle to a Friend, Columbus, Jacqueline, Human Life, and Italy; and they were written, the earliest at twenty-two years of age, the latest at seventy-one.
Human Life is a poem of the same type as The Pleasures of Memory, and in the same verse. The fault of such poems is that they are about nothing in particular. Their range and scope is so wide that one theme is almost as apposite as another. The poet sets himself to work to think thoughts and devise èpisodes, and to give them what coherency he can; the result being, that some are forced and others commonplace. But if such poems are to be written by a poet who is not a philosopher, they could not well be executed by any one with more care and skill than by Rogers.
The subject of Italy was better chosen. The poet travels from Geneva to Naples ; and his itinerary brings picturesque features, alternately with romantic traditions and memorable facts in history, into a natural sequence of poetic themes. They are described and related always in a way to please, often with striking effect; and any one who travels the same road and desires to see with the eyes of a poet what is best worth seeing, and to be reminded of what is best worth remembering, can have no better companion.
The heroic couplet, moreover, is left behind. For before the first of the fifteen years occupied in the composition of Italy (1819-34) Spenserian stanzas, ottava rima, octosyllabic verse, blank verse, any verse, had found itself to be more in harmony with the poetic spirit of the time. Italy is the longest of the author's poems; and for a poem of such length, blank verse is best. It is a form of verse which, since the Elizabethans, no poet except Milton had hitherto used with what could be called signal success; and the abrupt contrasts and startling significance of which it was capable in their hands, will always find a place more naturally in dramatic than in narrative poetry. But the blank verse written by Rogers, though not very expressive, flows with an easy and gentle melody, sufficiently varied, and almost free from faults.
Of the other poems, the Epistle to a Friend will perhaps be read with the most pleasure. It is short, familiar, and graceful. The subject is entirely within his powers, though wholly remote from his experience. 'Every reader,'. he says in the preface, 'turns with pleasure to those passages of Horace, Pope, and Boileau, which describe how they lived and where they dwelt; and which, being interspersed among their satirical writings, derive a secret and irresistible grace from the contrast, and are admirable examples of what in painting is termed repose;' and he proceeds to describe a sort of Sabine Farm in which he supposes himself to pass his days in studious seclusion and absolute repose. His real life was the reverse of all this. His house in St. James's Place did indeed exemplify the classic ideal described in his poem ; it was adorned with exquisite works of art, and with these only; rejecting as inconsistent with purity of taste all ornaments which are ornaments and nothing more; and in its interior it might be said to be a work of art in itself. But his life was a life of society; and in the circles which he frequented, including all who were eminent in literature as well as celebrities in every other walk of life, he was more conspicuous by his conversation and by his wit, than admired as a poet. He had kindness of heart, benevolence, and tender emotions: but his wit was a bitter wit; and it found its way into verse only in the shape of epigrams, too personal and pungent for publication. It may be matter of regret that he did not adopt the converse of the examples he quotes, of Horace, Pope, and Boileau, and intersperse some satirical writings amongst his other works. His poetic gifts were surpassed by half a dozen or more of his contemporaries; his gift of wit equalled by only one or two. His deliberate and quiet manner of speaking made it the more effective. I remember one occasion on which he threw a satire into a sentence :-' They tell me I say ill-natured things. I have a very weak voice: if I did not say ill-natured things, no one would hear what I said.'
If it is true that he said ill-natured things, it is equally so that he did kind and charitable and generous things, and that he did them in large measure, though, to his credit, with less notoriety.
FROM THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.' Oft may the spirits of the dead descend To watch the silent slumbers of a friend; To hover round his evening-walk unseen, And hold sweet converse on the dusky green; To hail the spot where first their friendship grew, And heaven and nature opened to their view! Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees A smiling circle emulous to please; There may these gentle guests delight to dwell, And bless the scene they loved in life so well!
Oh thou! with whom my heart was wont to share
If thy blest nature now unites above
Grant me thy peace and purity of mind,
To meet the changes Time and Chance present
Hail, MEMORY, hail! in thy exhaustless mine
Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone;
Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away!
FROM 'HUMAN LIFE.'
When by a good man's grave I muse alone,
Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night,
But the day is almost spent ; And stars are kindling in the firmament, To us how silent-though like ours perchance Busy and full of life and circumstance; Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue, Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few; And, as the sun goes round-a sun not ours— While from her lap another Nature showers Gifts of her own, some from the crowd retire, Think on themselves, within, without inquire; At distance dwell on all that passes there, All that their world reveals of good and fair; And, as they wander, picturing things, like me, Not as they are but as they ought to be, Trace out the journey through their little day, And fondly dream an idle hour away.
But who comes,
Brushing the floor with what was once, methinks,
At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads "Tis my necessity!' he stops and speaks, Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face. 'Blame not a Poet, Signor, for his zeal— When all are on the wing, who would be last? The splendour of thy name has gone before thee; And Italy from sea to sea exults,
As well indeed she may! But I transgress.
He, who has known the weight of praise himself,
Should spare another.' Saying so, he laid
His sonnet, an impromptu, at my feet,
(If his, then Petrarch must have stolen it from him)
My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine,
Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius? Are those the distant turrets of Verona ?
And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque