Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 74

Rochester may be signalised as the first thoroughly depraved and vicious person, so far as we remember, who a.s.sumed the office of the satirist, --the first, although not, alas! the last human imitator of 'Satan accusing Sin.' Some satirists before him had been faulty characters, while rather inconsistently a.s.sailing the faults of others; but here, for the first time, was a man of no virtue, or belief in virtue whatever, (his tenderness to his family, revealed in his letters, is just that of the tiger fondling his cubs, and seeming, perhaps, to _them_ a 'much- misrepresented character,') and whose life was one ma.s.s of wounds, bruises, and putrefying sores,--a naked satyr who gloried in his shame, --becoming a severe castigator of public morals and of private character.

Surely there was a gross anomaly implied in this, which far greater genius than Rochester's could never have redeemed.

SONG.

1 Too late, alas! I must confess, You need not arts to move me; Such charms by nature you possess, 'Twere madness not to love ye.

2 Then spare a heart you may surprise, And give my tongue the glory To boast, though my unfaithful eyes Betray a tender story.

SONG.

1 My dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me, When with love's resistless art, And her eyes, she did enslave me.

But her constancy's so weak, She's so wild and apt to wander, That my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder.

2 Melting joys about her move, Killing pleasures, wounding blisses: She can dress her eyes in love, And her lips can warm with kisses.

Angels listen when she speaks, She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break, Should we live one day asunder.

THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON.

Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, was the son of James Dillon and Elizabeth Wentworth. She was the sister of the infamous Strafford, who was at once uncle and G.o.dfather to our poet. In what exact year Dillon was born is uncertain, but it was some time about 1633. His father had been converted from Popery by Usher; and when the Irish Rebellion broke out, Strafford, afraid of the fury of the Irish, sent for his G.o.dson, and took him to his own seat in Yorks.h.i.+re, where he was taught Latin with great care. He was sent afterwards to Caen, where he studied under Bochart. It is said that while playing extravagantly there at the customary games of boys, he suddenly paused, became grave, and cried out, 'My father is dead,' and that a fortnight after arrived tidings from Ireland confirming his impression. Johnson is inclined to believe this story, and we are more than inclined. Since the lexicographer's day, many of what used to be called his 'superst.i.tions' have been established as certain facts, although their explanation is still shrouded in darkness. Roscommon was then only ten years of age.

From Caen he travelled to Italy, where he obtained a profound knowledge of medals. At the Restoration he returned to England, where he was made Captain of the Band of Pensioners, and subsequently Master of the Horse to the d.u.c.h.ess of York. He became unfortunately addicted to gambling, and, through this miserable habit, he got embroiled in endless quarrels, as well as in pecuniary embara.s.sments.

Business compelled him to visit Ireland, where the Duke of Orrnond made him Captain of the Guards. On his return to England in 1662, he married the Lady Frances, daughter of the Earl of Burlington. By her he had no issue. His second wife, whom he married in 1674, was Isabella, daughter of Matthew Beynton of Barmister, in Yorks.h.i.+re.

Roscommon now began to meditate and execute literary projects. He produced an 'Essay on Translated Verse,' (in 1681,) a translation of Horace's 'Art of Poetry,' and other pieces. He projected, in conjunction with his friend Dryden, a plan for refining our language and fixing its standard, as if Time were not the great refiner, fixer, and enricher of a tongue. While busy with these schemes and occupations, the troubles of James II.'s reign commenced. Roscommon determined to retire to Rome, saying, 'It is best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smokes.'

Death, however, prevented him from reaching the beloved and desired focus of Roman Catholic darkness. He was a.s.sailed by gout, and an ignorant French empiric, whom he consulted, contrived to drive the disease into the bowels. Roscommon expired, uttering with great fervour two lines from his own translation of the 'Dies Irae,'--

'My G.o.d, my Father, and my Friend, Do not forsake me in my end.'

This was in 1684. He received a pompous interment in Westminster Abbey.

Roscommon does not deserve the name of a great poet. He was a man of varied accomplishments and exquisite taste rather than of genius. His 'Essay on Translated Verse' is a sound and sensible, not a profound and brilliant production. In one point he went before his age. He praises Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' although unfortunately he selects for encomium the pa.s.sage in the sixth book describing the angels fighting against each other with fire-arms--a pa.s.sage which most critics have considered a blot upon the poem.

FROM "AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE."

Immodest words admit of no defence; For want of decency is want of sense.

What moderate fop would rake the park or stews, Who among troops of faultless nymphs may choose?

Variety of such is to be found: Take then a subject proper to expound; But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice; For men of sense despise a trivial choice; And such applause it must expect to meet, As would some painter busy in a street, To copy bulls and bears, and every sign That calls the staring sots to nasty wine.

Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good: It must delight us when 'tis understood.

He that brings fulsome objects to my view, As many old have done, and many new, With nauseous images my fancy fills, And all goes down like oxymel of squills.

Instruct the listening world how Maro sings Of useful subjects and of lofty things.

These will such true, such bright ideas raise, As merit grat.i.tude, as well as praise: But foul descriptions are offensive still, Either for being like, or being ill: For who, without a qualm, hath ever looked On holy garbage, though by Homer cooked?

Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded G.o.ds Make some suspect he snores, as well as nods.

But I offend--Virgil begins to frown, And Horace looks with indignation down: My blus.h.i.+ng Muse with conscious fear retires, And whom they like implicitly admires.

On sure foundations let your fabric rise, And with attractive majesty surprise; Not by affected meretricious arts, But strict harmonious symmetry of parts; Which through the whole insensibly must pa.s.s, With vital heat to animate the ma.s.s: A pure, an active, an auspicious flame; And bright as heaven, from whence the blessing came: But few, oh! few souls, preordained by fate, The race of G.o.ds, have reached that envied height.

No rebel t.i.tan's sacrilegious crime, By heaping hills on hills can hither climb: The grizzly ferryman of h.e.l.l denied Aeneas entrance, till he knew his guide.

How justly then will impious mortals fall, Whose pride would soar to heaven without a call!

Pride, of all others the most dangerous fault, Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought.

The men who labour and digest things most, Will be much apter to despond than boast: For if your author be profoundly good, 'Twill cost you dear before he's understood.

How many ages since has Virgil writ!

How few are they who understand him yet!

Approach his altars with religious fear: No vulgar deity inhabits there.

Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod, Than poets should before their Mantuan G.o.d.

Hail, mighty Maro! may that sacred name Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame, Sublime ideas and apt words infuse; The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the Muse!

What I have instanced only in the best, Is, in proportion, true of all the rest.

Take pains the genuine meaning to explore!

There sweat, there strain: tug the laborious oar; Search every comment that your care can find; Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind: Yet be not blindly guided by the throng: The mult.i.tude is always in the wrong.

When things appear unnatural or hard, Consult your author, with himself compared.

Who knows what blessing Phoebus may bestow, And future ages to your labour owe?

Such secrets are not easily found out; But, once discovered, leave no room for doubt.

Truth stamps conviction in your ravished breast; And peace and joy attend the glorious guest.

Truth still is one; Truth is divinely bright; No cloudy doubts obscure her native light; While in your thoughts you find the least debase, You may confound, but never can translate.

Your style will this through all disguises show; For none explain more clearly than they know.

He only proves he understands a text, Whose exposition leaves it unperplexed.

They who too faithfully on names insist, Rather create than dissipate the mist; And grow unjust by being over nice, For superst.i.tious virtue turns to vice.

Let Cra.s.sus' ghost and Labienus tell How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell.

Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame That few know Pacorus' or Monaeses' name.

Words in one language elegantly used, Will hardly in another be excused; And some that Rome admired in Caesar's time, May neither suit our genius nor our clime.

The genuine sense, intelligibly told, Shows a translator both discreet and bold.

Excursions are inexpiably bad; And 'tis much safer to leave out than add.

Abstruse and mystic thought you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth s.h.i.+nes brightest through the plainest dress.

The Aenean Muse, when she appears in state, Makes all Jove's thunder on her verses wait; Yet writes sometimes as soft and moving things As Venus speaks, or Philomela sings.

Your author always will the best advise, Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise.

Affected noise is the most wretched thing, That to contempt can empty scribblers bring.

Vowels and accents, regularly placed, On even syllables (and still the last) Though gross innumerable faults abound, In spite of nonsense, never fail of sound, But this is meant of even verse alone, As being most harmonious and most known: For if you will unequal numbers try, There accents on odd syllables must lie.

Whatever sister of the learned Nine Does to your suit a willing ear incline, Urge your success, deserve a lasting name, She'll crown a grateful and a constant flame.

But if a wild uncertainty prevail, And turn your veering heart with every gale, You lose the fruit of all your former care, For the sad prospect of a just despair.

A quack, too scandalously mean to name, Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame; As if Lucina had forgot her trade, The labouring wife invokes his surer aid.

Well-seasoned bowls the gossip's spirits raise, Who, while she guzzles, chats the doctor's praise; And largely, what she wants in words, supplies, With maudlin eloquence of trickling eyes.

But what a thoughtless animal is man!

How very active in his own trepan!

For, greedy of physicians' frequent fees, From female mellow praise he takes degrees; Struts in a new unlicensed gown, and then From saving women falls to killing men.

Another such had left the nation thin, In spite of all the children he brought in.