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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
From Reason's dawn each pleasure and each care;
With whom, alas! I fondly hoped to know
The humble walks of happiness below;

If thy blest nature now unites above
An angel's pity with a brother's love,
Still o'er my life preserve thy mild controul,
Correct my views, and elevate my soul;

Grant me thy peace and purity of mind,
Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned;
Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise,
Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise,

To meet the changes Time and Chance present
With modest dignity and calm content.
When thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest,
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed,
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled,
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed,
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave,
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave?
The sweet Remembrance of unblemished youth,
The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth!

Hail, MEMORY, hail! in thy exhaustless mine
From age to age unnumbered treasures shine!
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey,
And Place and Time are subject to thy sway!

Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone;
The only pleasures we can call our own.
Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die,
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky;
If but a beam of sober Reason play,

Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away!
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power,
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight,
Pour round her path a stream of living light,
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest
Where Virtue triumphs and her sons are blest!


When by a good man's grave I muse alone,
Methinks an Angel sits upon the stone,

Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night,
Who sate and watched in raiment heavenly bright,
And, with a voice inspiring joy not fear,
Says, pointing upward, 'Know, He is not here;
He is risen!'

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,
A hat of ceremony? On he glides,
Slip-shod, ungartered; his long suit of black
Dingy, thread-bare, tho', patch by patch, renewed
Till it has almost ceased to be the same.

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)
And bowed and left me; in his hollow hand
Receiving my small tribute, a zecchine,
Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees.

My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine,
Pure as the virgin-spring, had happily
Fled from all eyes; or, in a waking dream,
I might have sat as many a great man has,
And many a small, like him of Santillane,
Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise.

Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius? Are those the distant turrets of Verona ?

And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque
Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him?
Such questions hourly do I ask myself;
And not a stone, in a cross-way, inscribed
'To Mantua'-'To Ferrara '- but excites
Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation.

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