SONNET LXXV.
SUBJECT CONTINUED.
He found her not;—yet much the Poet found,
To swell Imagination's golden store,
On Arno's bank, and on that bloomy shore,
Warbling Parthenope; in the wide bound,
Where Rome's forlorn Campania stretches round
Her ruin'd towers and temples;—classic lore
Breathing sublimer spirit from the power
Of local consciousness.—Thrice happy wound,
Given by his sleeping graces, as the Fair
“Hung over them enamour'd,” the desire
Thy fond result inspir'd, that wing'd him there,
Where breath'd each Roman and each Tuscan Lyre,
Might haply fan the emulative flame,
That rose o'er Dante's song, and rival'd Maro's fame.
SONNET LXXVI.
THE CRITICS OF DOCTOR JOHNSON'S SCHOOL[1].
Lo! modern Critics emulously dare
Ape the great Despot; throw in pompous tone
And massy words their true no meaning down!
But while their envious eyes on Genius glare,
While axioms false assiduously they square
In arrogant antithesis, a frown
Lours on the brow of Justice, to disown
The kindred malice with its mimic air.
Spirit of Common Sense[2]! must we endure
The incrustation hard without the gem?
Find in th' Anana's rind the wilding sour,
The Oak's rough knots on every Osier's stem?
The dark contortions of the Sybil bear,
Whose inspirations never meet our ear?
[1]: In jargon, like the following, copied from a Review, are the works of Genius perpetually criticized in our public Prints: “Passion has not sufficient coolness to pause for metaphor, nor has metaphor ardor enough to keep pace with passion.”—Nothing can be less true. Metaphoric strength of expression will burst even from vulgar and illiterate minds when they are agitated. It is a natural effort of roused sensibility in every gradation, from unlettered simplicity to the highest refinement. Passion has no occasion to pause for metaphors, they rush upon the mind which it has heated. Similies, it is true, are not natural to strong emotion. They are the result of spirits that are calm, and at leisure to compare.
[2]: This idea is from a speech of Mr. Burke's, recorded by Boswell.
SONNET LXXVII.
O! hast thou seen a vernal Morning bright
Gem every bank and trembling leaf with dews,
Tinging the green fields with her amber hues,
Changing the leaden streams to lines of light?
Then seen dull Clouds, that shed untimely night,
Roll envious on, and every ray suffuse,
Till the chill'd Scenes their early beauty lose,
And faint, and colourless, no more invite
The glistening gaze of Joy?—'Twas emblem just
Of my youth's sun, on which deep shadows fell,
Spread from the pall of Friends; and Grief's loud gust
Resistless, oft wou'd wasted tears compel:
Yet let me hope, that on my darken'd days
Science, and pious Trust, may shed pervading rays.