SECT. VII.
Of Pindarick Odes, and Poems in Blank Verse.
The Stanzas of Pindarick Odes are neither confin'd to a certain number of Verses, nor the Verses to a certain number of Syllables, nor the Rhyme to a certain Distance. Some Stanzas contain 50 Verses or more, others not above 10, and sometimes not so many: Some Verses 14, nay, 16 Syllables, others not above 4: Sometimes the Rhymes follow one another for several Couplets together, sometimes they are remov'd 6 Verses from each other; and all this in the same Stanza. Cowley was the first who introduc'd this sort of Poetry into our Language: Nor can the nature of it be better describ'd than as he himself has done it, in one of the Stanzas of his Ode upon Liberty, which I will transcribe, not as an Example, for none can properly be given where no Rule can be prescrib'd, but to give an Idea of the Nature of this sort of Poetry.
If Life should a well-order'd Poem be,
In which he only hits the White,
Who joyns true Profit with the best Delight;
The more Heroick Strain let others take,
Mine the Pindarick way I'll make:
The Matter shall be grave, the Numbers loose and free,
It shall not keep one settled pace of Time,
In the same Tune it shall not always Chime,
Nor shall each day just to his Neighbour rhyme.
A thousand Liberties it shall dispence,
And yet shall manage all without offence,
Or to the sweetness of the Sound, or Greatness of the Sense.
Nor shall it never from one Subject start,
Nor seek Transitions to depart;
Nor its set way o'er Stiles and Bridges make,
Nor thro' Lanes a Compass take,
As if it fear'd some Trespass to commit,
When the wide Air's a Road for it.
So the Imperial Eagle does not stay
Till the whole Carcass he devour,
That's fall'n into his Pow'r,
As if his gen'rous Hunger understood,
That he can never want plenty of Food;
He only sucks the tastful Blood,
And to fresh Game flies chearfully away,
To Kites and meaner Birds he leaves the mangled Prey.
This sort of Poetry is employed in all manner of Subjects; in Pleasant, in Grave, in Amorous, in Heroick, in Philosophical, in Moral, and in Divine.
Blank Verse is where the Measure is exactly kept without Rhyme; Shakespear, to avoid the troublesome Constraint of Rhyme, was the first who invented it; our Poets since him have made use of it in many of their Tragedies and Comedies: but the most celebrated Poem in this kind of Verse is Milton's Paradise Lost; from the 5th Book of which I have taken the following Lines for an Example of Blank Verse.
These are thy glorious Works, Parent of Good!
Almighty! thine this universal Frame,
Thus wondrous fair! thy self how wondrous then!
Speak you, who best can tell, ye Sons of Light,
Angels! for you behold him, and with Songs,
And Choral Symphonies, Day without Night
Circle his Throne rejoycing, you in Heaven.
On Earth! joyn all ye Creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of Stars! last in the Train of Night,
Is better thou belong not to the Dawn,
Sure Pledge of Day, that crown'st the smiling Morn,
With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Sphere,
While Day arises, that sweet Hour of Prime!
Thou Sun! of this great World, both Eye and Soul,
Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his Praise
In thy Eternal Course, both when thou climb'st
And when high Noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
Moon! that now meet'st the Orient Sun, now fly'st
With the fix'd Stars, fix'd in their Orb that flies,
And ye five other wandring Fires! that move
In Mystick Dance, not without Song, resound
His Praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light.
Air! and ye Elements! the eldest Birth
Of Nature's Womb, that in Quaternion run
Perpetual Circle multiform, and mix
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless Change
Vary to our great Maker still new Praise.
To Mists and Exhalations! that now rise
From Hill or steaming Lake, dusky or grey,
Till the sun paint your fleecy Skirts with Gold,
In Honour to the World's great Author rise;
Whether to deck with Clouds th' uncolour'd Sky,
Or wet the thirsty Earth with falling Showr's,
Rising or falling, still advance his Praise.
His Praise, ye Winds! that from four Quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your Tops, ye Pines!
With ev'ry Plant, in sign of Worship, wave.
Fountains! and ye that warble as you flow
Melodious Murmurs, warbling tune his Praise.
Join Voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds!
That singing, up to Heav'n's high Gate ascend,
Bear on your Wings, and in your Notes his Praise.
Ye that in Waters glide! and ye that walk
The Earth! and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, Ev'n or Morn,
To Hill or Valley, Fountain or fresh Shade,
Made vocal by my Song, and taught his Praise.
Thus I have given a short Account of all the sorts of Poems, that are most us'd in our Language. The Acrosticks, Anagrams, &c. deserve not to be mention'd, and we may say of them what an Ancient Poet said long ago.
Stultum est difficiles habere Nugas,
Et stultus Labor est ineptiarum.