[]

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF An amiable YOUNG LADY. WITH An Epiſtle from MENALCAS to LYCIDAS. To which are prefixed, Three Critical Recommendatory LETTERS.

EDINBURGH: Printed by A. DONALDSON and J. REID. For ALEX. DONALDSON. MDCCLXI.

ADVERTISEMENT.

[]

THE world is obliged to an unknown author for the following excellent poems. They were ſent to Mr Donaldſon, with intention to be publiſhed in the ſecond volume of his collection of poems, which will appear next winter. But, upon being examined by ſome gentlemen of taſte, they were thought to have ſo much merit, that they are here offered to the public by themſelves. As none need be aſhamed of encouraging genius, the gentlemen whoſe opinions were conſulted, have permitted them to be printed with the initials of their names. It is to be hoped that any inaccuracies in the letters will be excuſed, as they were wrote in a great hurry, with little regard to ſtyle, being indeed nothing more than the warm overflowings of ſouls ſuſceptible of the raviſhing beauties of genuine poetry.

To the Honourable A*** E***.

[]
MY DEAR SIR,

I AM juſt now favoured with your obliging letter, incloſing ſome copies of verſes. I return you thanks for the favourable opinion you entertain of my taſte: but permit me to ſay, that C—n E— has no occaſion to call in the aid of any other judgment, to enable him to determine the merit of works of taſte and genius, eſpecially of the poetic kind. A good author muſt neceſſarily be a ſound critic; and one who diſcovers ſo much fire, and, at the ſame time, correctneſs, in his own productions, is well qualified to judge of the beauties and defects of others. But as extreme modeſty is often the attendant of conſummate merit, I ſuppoſe you don't care to rely ſolely on your own judgment in a matter of this conſequence. You are anxious that Mr Donaldſon's collection ſhould be uniform, and that the ſecond volume ſhould contain nothing unworthy of the firſt; for which reaſon, perhaps, [6] you with to have your own opinion of theſe two poems confirmed by mine; on which, I am afraid, you rely more than it deſerves. Probably the laws of Parnaſſus, like thoſe of our own country, require two witneſſes to aſcertain any fact of importance.

BUT to proceed: I am aſtoniſhed how, during this long preamble, I have been able to ſuppreſs thoſe exclamations of applauſe, which I utter inſenſibly every time I read or think of theſe poems. By heavens! I never ſaw any thing that pleaſed me more. Nor do I know to which the preference is due. In the elegy however, I am apt to think, the author's genius appears moſt conſpicuouſly; and, if I am not miſtaken, his turn rather leads him to the plaintive ſtrains of Terence, than to the gay and animated compoſitions of Tibullus. The ſubject too is happily choſen. The bard ſeems to be young; and what ſubject ſuits the warm imagination and delicate ſenſibility of a juvenile poet, better than the early, premature, and unexpected death of a lady, for whom he probably entertained the moſt refined affection! It is upon occaſions of this [7] kind that a poet can give way to thoſe emotions of grief and anguiſh, which never fail to affect every reader of taſte with ſadneſs and melancholy. When the mind is truly agitated, it deſpiſes trivial ornaments; it overlooks ſmall inaccuracies. To this is to be imputed your meeting with nothing very ornamented or figurative in the diction, and now and then with a hard word, ill ſpelled, and worſe choſen. Does not the native ſimplicity of the poet, in a thouſand inſtances, atone for theſe defects?

Thou number'd lies among the numerous dead.

How pretty is that recurrence of numbers in the ſame line! yet happily is it varied: and, if you will try, as Mr Sheridan directs you, to pronounce theſe words frequently, you will obſerve how trippingly they go off the tongue, numerous number, numerous number; and there is a cadence on the laſt ſyllable, ber, that I defy you not to pronounce. You may obſerve alſo the propriety of the epithet numerous, when applied to the dead.

[8] THE concluſion alſo is moſt tender and affecting, and contains that abruptneſs, and thoſe repetitions which conſtitute the language of grief.

Adieu,—adieu,—a long—a laſt farewell.

I HAVE only to add, that inſtead of adviſing Mr Donaldſon to reſerve theſe poems for his collection, or even indeed, in compliance with the author's requeſt, to bury them in a Magazine, I ſhould think he would do both himſelf and the author more juſtice to publiſh them on a ſmall detached quarto of two or three pages. By this means they would be univerſally known and admired, and would certainly add luſtre and eclat to the collection in which they ſhould afterward appear. It is by this obvious and ingenious method that my good friend Mr Dodſley at London has eſtabliſhed his reputation as a man of taſte, enriched himſelf, and become the only bookſeller in that city, really known to, and eſteemed by people of faſhion and rank. In great haſte, I ſubmit theſe obſervations to you; but I wiſh you would [9] alſo conſult Mr B—, who really has a very ſound judgment in matters of this kind.

I have the honour to be, DEAR SIR,
Your moſt obedient ſervant, G*** D***.

To G*** D***, Eſq

DEAR SIR,

I HAVE juſt now received your epiſtle, which contains, I think, the moſt candid criticiſm I ever ſaw: I was only ſorry to ſee it ſo ſhort; every line of poetry, I am ſure, deſerves two of obſervations; but what I am remarkably pleaſed with, is the ſtrange coincidence between your ſentiments and mine. I may really and with truth ſay, that the firſt time I beheld you, I ſaw in your face a true feeling and juſt reliſh of the fine arts, particularly poetry, (poetry ſent down by the gods, to chear us [10] in this gloomy, forlorn, and dreary waſte of life); I ſaw numbers (both blank verſes and rhymes) imprinted upon your countenance; and if you had preſented me with an epic poem ſuperior to Homer's, I ſhould not have been ſurpriſed. Euripides, the famous Greek poet, has a line ſo agreeable to what I am ſaying, that I cannot forbear ſending you a tranſlation of it:

Apollo light'ned in his cat-grey eyes.

IN fact, the only way of judging the merit of a poet is by his eyes. It was in this manner Homer was found out, although he was blind. Your modeſty has, I know, as yet only ſuffered you to publiſh in the Scots Magazine; but, alas! one might as well pretend to exhibit a little cow as a ſhow in the highlands of Scotland, a purſe of gold as ſomewhat remarkable on the coaſt of Guinea, or a t—d as an extraordinary ſpectacle in the ſtreets of Edinburgh, as endeavour to become conſpicuous in that ill-fated collection. Would you believe it, Sir? A fable of mine, full of the naivette or ſimplicity abſolutely neceſſary in that ſpecies of compoſition, after being inſerted there, was never, (with aſtoniſhment I ſpeak it, and [11] with amazement you ſhall hear it), I ſay, never heard of more; loſt like a goodly city ſuddenly ſwallowed up by an earthquake, like a louſe annihilated in a large fire, or a human excrement dropped in a full capacious chamberpot. Oh! my friend, let this deter you; and, for heaven's ſake, chuſe ſome other methods of making your compoſitions public. In this caſe, what expedient ſo readily offers as making uſe of the humane and benevolent Mr D—, a gentleman, who, like a friendly ſtar, helps every dark and benighted poet into the haven of general approbation. By his help, the rays of my genius have diverged with uncommon and rapid ſtreams of luminary particles, into the remoteſt and moſt unenlightened corners of theſe kingdoms: by his aſſiſtance Mr B— is to fix the nave of that wheel, whoſe ſpokes will reach ſuch a prodigious diſtance. Would to GOD we three could live to lateſt poſterity, and be witneſſes of our applauſe from ages yet to come, world without end. Praiſe is the food of poets; notwithſtanding Mr D— frequently gives them very good dinners. This of courſe brings me back to the ſubject of this letter, which I did not think ſo ſoon to have entered upon, as I had a few more [12] points to diſcuſs. But to proceed: The bard, of whoſe poems we have been all this time talking, ſeems to poſſeſs the true elegiac humanity of Glutheros, who flouriſhed before or about the time of Homer. It is true, he is not ſo merry as Lucretius, nor ſo ſad as Horace; neither is he altogether ſo ſoft and tender as Juvenal in his ſatires; he is not quite ſo ſimplex in his munditiis as Lucan, neither has his work the modern air of the old poet Ennius; but theſe are ſlight faults. I cannot pretend to ſay whether he writes elegies like Terence, as I never ſaw that book in which they are contained, the only copy of which, they ſay, is lodged in the bend of the hanging tower at Piſa*. Here I cannot help regretting that I have as yet travelled very little; how happy are you, Sir, in that reſpect? I think it was at Rome you got your copy of the great Glutheros, which is an invaluable curioſity. For my part, I once drank a glaſs of old hock out of Buchanan's head at Copenhagen, which was the only remarkable incident that happened me in a long voyage up the Mediterranean. I agree with you in thinking that the bard, of whom we have all this time been talking, [13] diſcovers here and there a noble negligence of grammar and ſpelling; this is what Mr Pope calls (who by the by was a very bad poet) catching a grace beyond the reach of art; but theſe two arts, as Mr Sheridan ſays, I am afraid we know little about. I dare ſay he goes upon ſure ground, and has good reaſons for what he does; not that I have any particular reaſon for ſaying ſo. The epiſtle after the elegy ſeems to be much in the ſtyle of Pliny; there is nothing like it in our language. Eaſy and pathetic, ſublime and natural, it preſents us with a picture of love and friendſhip not to be parallelled; it is really a capital piece. Theſe two poems ought indeed to be printed ſeparately. I muſt here conclude; but I firſt congratulate Mr D— on this, I may ſay, the ſecond revival of letters. I did not indeed think of being guilty of the fault which I accuſed you of in the beginning of my letter; but as I intend to dine with you to-day, I ſhall reſume this ſubject when I take leave of you.

I am, SIR, Your moſt obedient humble ſervant. A*** E***.

To the Honourable A*** E ***.

[14]
DEAR SIR,

ACCEPT the moſt ſincere thanks of a mind full of gratitude, for the favour you have this day loaded me with. The exquiſite entertainment which I have received from the peruſal of the incloſed poems, is rather to be conceived than expreſſed. The critical letters upon theſe pieces by Mr D— and yourſelf, I admire beyond meaſure. The greateſt compliment I can pay them, is to tell, without diſguiſe, the ſimple, or, to uſe a better word, naked truth; which is, that I could read them with ſome degree of ſatisfaction, even after an immediate peruſal of the poems themſelves.

I CONGRATULATE with my country, that we now behold, with eyes full of intrepid wonder and premature aſtoniſhment, ſuch a poet! and ſuch critics!

IT is doing me too much honour to be claſſed with Mr E— and Mr D—, of both whoſe [15] abilities the world has already had, and is likely to have ſo many glaring proofs; whilſt I can only aſpire to the appellation of, as it were, a hackneycoachman of Helicon. You ſee I am apt to run into the figurative ſtyle, which, I hope, you will impute to an imagination heated by a recent peruſal of ſuperlative poeſy.

DEAR SIR, why do you aſk me to give my opinion?—Or, indeed, what other opinion can I give than what has already been ſo amply given?—But as you inſiſt upon my ſaying ſomething, I ſhall do ſo.

THE elegy is perhaps the completeſt thing of the kind I have ever ſeen. Even you C—n E—, who plume yourſelf ſo much on your tender, ſighing, breathing, and ſpeaking lines, muſt not be offended, though I frankly own that you have not gone ſo great lengths as this gentleman.

THE PRIDE OF PRIME is an expreſſion which you have not as yet attained to. I queſtion much if you ever will.

[16] THE ingenious author of an eſſay on the ſublime and beautiful gives it as his opinion, ‘"That a certain inflated and incoheſive rotundity of diction, is one of the leading ſources of what is grand and lofty."’ Our author has certainly reached that dizzy ſummit in this memorable line,

To ſuch majeſtic, ſuch exalting ſtrains.

THE epiſtle affords a ſtriking example of the elevated ſtyle.—At firſt, indeed, I imagined our author had been a plagiary, and ſtolen whole ſtanzas from Dryden's Alexander's Feaſt.—But, upon comparing the two poems together, with all the attention and accuracy that I poſſibly could, I diſcovered that I lay under a very palpable miſtake, and had done the author much injuſtice: for, ſo far has he been from ſtooping to filch from Jack Dryden, (as the preſent Biſhop of Bangor uſed to ſay), that, upon my word, there was not the leaſt atom of ſimilarity either in thought or language.

I HAD almoſt forgot to take notice of one peculiar circumſtance, which has eluded the penetration [17] of you, as well as that of Mr D—, although it is perhaps as material a perfection as any in the whole work: and that is the mention that is made of Wilkie, whoſe poem, called the Epigoniad, we have, with infinite regret, beheld but too too much neglected.

DOES it not kindle a flame in every patriot breaſt, to think that now the modern epic poem of Scotland ſhall ſtand upon a firm baſis, ſhall ſwim in a pellucid whirlpool, when it is at laſt hoiſted upon the ſhoulders of a Brobdignagian genius (according to Swift), or rather, (to uſe the words of Sir William Temple, in his hiſtory of the Netherlands), when it is held forth to the applauſe and admiration of poſterity, by a giant of Parnaſſus?

I ENTIRELY agree with my two good friends and fellow-rhymſters, that Mr Donaldſon ſhould make a diſtinct publication of them; as they will, by this means, be better known, and conſequently more univerſally applied to uſe by every reader of any diſcernment.

[18] I CANNOT conclude without an eulogium upon the juſtneſs and propriety of that line, when, drawing to a cloſe, he exclaims, with all the rapture and poetic fury of the Pythian prieſteſs,

I ceaſe, I ceaſe the empty lay.

I am perſuaded no human mortal can poſſibly read this without a conſcious home-felt ſatisfaction.

I HAVE now treſpaſſed too long on your patience, ſo ſhall break off with aſſuring you that I am

Your moſt humble ſervant, J *** B ***.

To the Editor of the SCOTTISH POEMS.

[19]
SIR,

IF the deſigned volumes of the Scotch Poems are not fully completed, you will pleaſe inſert amongſt them the two following pieces, ſhould they deſerve a place there. I had a few more which I was deſigning to have got ready for that purpoſe, but was prevented by ſome other more material concerns. If any further volumes are to be hereafter printed, you will ſignify it by a note in the preſent printing volume.

—I am, Sir, yours, &c. J *** B ***.

An ELEGY on the Death of an amiable YOUNG LADY.

WHILE others ſing the heroes glorious fate,
And tune to warlike ſtrains the ſounding lyre,
Their noble lives, their fearleſs deaths relate,
Their gallant deeds, which wake the Muſes fire;
[20] While Britiſh bards, to Wolfe's immortal praiſe,
Rehearſe his victories and fatal doom;
And as his monument the ſculptors raiſe,
Spread freſheſt garlands on their warrior's tomb:
Let me, whoſe humbler muſe hath ne'er aſpir'd
To ſuch majeſtic, ſuch exalting ſtrains,
By elegiac ſong be now inſpir'd,
And mourn a virgin ſnatched from theſe plains.
Sweet waſt thou, as the op'ning ſummer's roſe,
Too juſt an emblem of thee, lovely maid,
Which in the morning buds, at mid-day blows,
But withers by the chilly ev'ning's ſhade.
Calm and ſerene thou led thy peaceful life,
Religion's ſacred taſk thy only boaſt;
Unknown to ſtormy paſſion, or to ſtrife,
Thou liv'd in ev'ry good, in friendſhip moſt.
Amid the joyful gaiety of youth,
The Chriſtian's dignity thou ſtill preſerv'd,
Trod all the paths of piety and truth,
Nor in thy actions nor thy precepts ſwerv'd.
[21]
Snatch'd from this low, inhoſpitable clime,
While fortune ſmil'd upon thy chearful head,
Ev'n in the pride and flow'r of youthful prime
Thou number'd lies, among the numerous dead.
Thy lovely ſiſters, and thy aged ſire,
In deep diſtreſs, thy hapleſs fate deplore;
Praiſe thy paſt life, and, while they praiſe, admire
And wail their charming friend, alas! no more.
No coſtly monument adorns thy tomb,
No panegyric ſpreads thy humble fame;
Nor verſes, carv'd upon the ſculptur'd dome,
Tranſmit to after times thy virtuous name.
Oft as the circling ſun returns the day
On which thou mounted to th' realms of reſt,
Unto thy lonely grave I'll yearly hie,
And bid the turf lie eaſy on thy breaſt.
I'll ſprinkle flowers of ev'ry richeſt dye,
And deck thy grave with wreaths of livelieſt hue,
Then ſhed a tear, and breathe the heaving ſigh
To ſacred friendſhip; ſure ſo much is due.
[22]
Farewell, my charmer, peace attend thy reſt,
Thou, who in virtue did ſo much excel;
For this I hail thee bleſt,—ſupremely bleſt.
Adieu,—adieu,—a long—a laſt farewell.

LYCIDAS to MENALCAS.

WHILE you in nature's works explore,
The wonders of almighty pow'r,
And, curious, Flora's works ſurvey,
While by your native ſtreams you ſtray;
From Fortha's banks to you I ſend
The warmeſt wiſhes of a friend.
Deſpiſe not then theſe humble lays,
A friend excites your partial praiſe.
A friend!—How the melodious name
With nameleſs rapture trills my frame!
What tho' the feeble muſe detains
Your ardent thought from nobler ſtrains?
Yet friendſhip's ſoft alluring joys
With ſecret charms inchant your eyes.
Now ſummer decks the ruſſet plains:
How ſweet, how fair the rural ſcenes!
[23] Say, can the weak attempts of art,
Like nature, charm the glowing heart?
Can the coquet in dreſs how fair
With yonder lily's breaſt compare?
Such,—ſuch, MENALCAS, were our themes,
While, by fair Glotta's lovely ſtreams,
We oft prolong'd the pleaſant walk,
By decent mirth and ſocial talk:
Such were our themes, when we ſurvey'd
New beauties in each length'ning mead.
When ev'ning clos'd the ſetting day,
How often did our footſteps ſtray
O'er the gay banks of ſilver Clyde,
Where Nature's native charms reſide.
Oft-times in the enamell'd mead,
Or ſeated in a leafy ſhade,
Sweet poetry our ſenſes charm'd,
And our imaginations warm'd;
What time in WILKIE'S flowing ſtrains,
WILKIE the HOMER of our plains,
We view'd the fair Aetolian maid,
By love, by too fond love betray'd.
Love too did oft our ſpeech employ,
Love the pure ſource of ſocial joy:
[24] Love—but what viſions ſtrike mine eyes!
What forms, what heav'nly forms ariſe?
AMMONIA here!—ah me! excuſe
The ſallies of a wanton muſe,
That flies on fancy's wing away.
I ceaſe,—I ceaſe the empty lay.
Farewell, my friend.—Ye zephyrs bear
My wiſhes to MENALCAS' ear.
FINIS.
Notes
*
See Father Montfaucon's antiquities of Italy.
Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3913 An elegy on the death of an amiable young lady With an epistle from Menalcas to Lycidas To which are prefixed three critical recommendatory letters. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-59FC-5