Upon Marvell’s work as a poet properly so called that curious, floating, ever-changing population to whom it is convenient to refer as “the reading public,” had no opportunity of forming any real opinion until after the poet’s death, namely, when the small folio of 1681 made its appearance. This volume, although not containing the Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland or the lines upon Cromwell’s death, did contain, saving these exceptions, all the best of Marvell’s verse.
How this poetry was received, to whom and to how many it gave pleasure, we have not the means of knowing. The book, like all other good books, had to take its chance. Good poetry is never exactly unpopular—its difficulty is to get a hearing, to secure a vogue. I feel certain that from 1681 onwards many ingenuous souls read Eyes and Tears, The Bermudas, The Nymph complaining for the Death of her Fawn, To his Coy Mistress, Young Love, and The Garden with pure delight. In 1699 the poet Pomfret, of whose Choice Dr. Johnson said in 1780, “perhaps no composition in our language has been oftener perused,” and who Southey in 1807 declared to be “the most popular of English poets”; in 1699, I say, this poet Pomfret says in a preface, sensibly enough, “to please everyone would be a New Thing, and to write so as to please no Body would be as New, for even Quarles and Wythers (sic) have their Admirers.” So liable is the public taste to fluctuations and reversals, that to-day, though Quarles and Wither are not popular authors, they certainly number many more readers than Pomfret, Southey’s “most popular of English poets,” who has now, it is to be feared, finally disappeared even from the Anthologies. But if Quarles and Wither had their admirers even in 1699, the poet Marvell, we may be sure, had his also.
Marvell had many poetical contemporaries—five-and-twenty at least—poets of mark and interest, to most of whom, as well as to some of his immediate predecessors, he stood, as I must suppose, in some degree of poetical relationship. With Milton and Dryden no comparison will suggest itself, but with Donne and Cowley, with Waller and Denham, with Butler and the now wellnigh forgotten Cleveland, with Walker and Charles Cotton, with Rochester and Dorset, some resemblances, certain influences, may be found and traced. From the order of his mind and his prose style, I should judge Marvell to have been both a reader and a critic of his contemporaries in verse and prose—though of his criticisms little remains. Of Butler he twice speaks with great respect, and his sole reference to the dead Cleveland is kindly. Of Milton we know what he thought, whilst Aubrey tells us that he once heard Marvell say that the Earl of Rochester was the only man in England that had the true vein of satire.
Be these influences what they may or must have been, to us Marvell occupies, as a poet, a niche by himself. A finished master of his art he never was. He could not write verses like his friend Lovelace, or like Cowley’s Chronicle or Waller’s lines “On a Girdle.” He had not the inexhaustible, astonishing (though tiresome) wit of Butler. He is often clumsy and sometimes almost babyish. One has frequently occasion to wonder how a man of business could allow himself to be tickled by such obvious straws as are too many of the conceits which give him pleasure. To attribute all the conceits of this period to the influence of Dr. Donne is but a poor excuse after all. The worst thing that can be said against poetry is that there is so much tedium in it. The glorious moments are all too few. It is his honest recognition of this woeful fact that makes Dr. Johnson, with all his faults lying thick about him, the most consolatory of our critics to the ordinary reading man. “Tediousness is the most fatal of all faults.... Unhappily this pernicious failure is that which an author is least able to discover. We are seldom tiresome to ourselves.... Perhaps no man ever thought a line superfluous when he wrote it” (Lives of the Poets. Under Prior—see also under Butler).
That Marvell is never tiresome I will not assert. But he too has his glorious moments, and they are all his own. In the whole compass of our poetry there is nothing quite like Marvell’s love of gardens and woods, of meads and rivers and birds. It is a love not learnt from books, not borrowed from brother-poets. It is not indulged in to prove anything. It is all sheer enjoyment.
“Bind me, ye woodbines, in your twines,
Curb me about, ye gadding vines,
And oh, so close your circles lace,
That I may never leave this place!
But, lest your fetters prove too weak,
Ere I your silken bondage break,
Do you, O brambles, chain me too,
And, courteous briars, nail me through.
...
Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,
Casting the body’s vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings.”
No poet is happier than Marvell in creating the impression that he made his verses out of doors.
“He saw the partridge drum in the woods;
He heard the woodcock’s evening hymn;
He found the tawny thrush’s broods,
And the shy hawk did wait for him.
What others did at distance hear
And guessed within the thicket’s gloom
Was shown to this philosopher,
And at his bidding seemed to come.”
(From Emerson’s Wood Notes.)
Marvell’s immediate fame as a true poet was, I dare say, obscured for a good while both by its original note (for originality is always forbidding at first sight) and by its author’s fame as a satirist, and his reputation as a lover of “liberty’s glorious feast.” It was as one of the poets encountered in the Poems on Affairs of State (fifth edition, 1703) that Marvell was best known during the greater part of the eighteenth century. As Milton’s friend Marvell had, as it were, a side-chapel in the great Miltonic temple. The patriotic member of Parliament, who refused in his poverty the Lord-Treasurer Danby’s proffered bribe, became a character in history before the exquisite quality of his garden-poetry was recognised. There was a cult for Liberty in the middle of the eighteenth century, and Marvell’s name was on the list of its professors. Wordsworth’s sonnet has preserved this tradition for us.