[288] Monte decurrens velut amnis, imbres Quem super notas aluere ripas, Fervet, immensusque ruit profundo Pindarus ore.
Pindar's a mighty raging Flood, That from some Mountain flows, Rapid, and warm, and deep, and loud, Whose Force no Limits knows. Oldsworth.
From what has been said, some will be induc'd to think, that to write a Lyric Poem, which is indulg'd with so many Liberties, is the easiest Thing imaginable: But, in Reality, it is the most difficult in every Respect, except its Shortness, as it is the most elegant. It demands not only a flowing Imagination, Brightness, Life, Sublimity, and Elegance, but the nicest Art, and finest Judgment, so as to seem luxuriant, and not to be so; and under the Shew of transgressing all Laws, to preserve them. For it is not impossible but a Writer's Fire may be temper'd with the severest Judgment; and Poets may be said, tho' Lovers cannot, to be mad with Reason.
Those Digressions which quite leave the Subject, and never return to it again, please me less than some others of a very different Kind. The former, no doubt, are defensible, and sometimes highly commendable; for a Poet is not always oblig'd to dwell upon the same Argument from one End to the other; and I would rather call them Transitions, than Digressions: But the Digressions which I chiefly admire, are such as take Occasion from some Adjunct or Circumstance of the Subject, to pass on to somewhat else not totally distinct from it, with which the Imagination having been diverted for some Time, new Matter starts up, and from some new Adjunct of that, the Poet is brought back, of a sudden, to his first Design. I cannot produce a better Instance of this, out of Horace himself, than from a late Ode of one of our own Countrymen[289], who, since he has paid the Debt of Nature, may, without Envy, receive the Tribute of our Praise; that beautiful Ode, I mean, upon the Death of the famous Dr. Pocock; where the Poet describes his Travels to the East, in these Words[290]:
Quin nunc requiris tecta virentia Nini ferocis, nunc Babel arduum, Immane opus! crescentibusque Vertice sideribus propinquum! Nequicquam; amici disparibus sonis Eludit aures nescius artifex, Linguasque miratur recentes, In patriis peregrinus oris. Vestitur hinc tot sermo coloribus, Quot Tu, Pococki, dissimilis Tui Orator effers, &c.
Now Ninus' Walls you search with curious Eye, Now Babel's Tow'r, the Rival of the Sky. In vain! the mad Attempt new Tongues confound, The Toil eluded by discordant Sound: To his own Sire the Son Barbarian grown, Unletter'd, starts a Language not his own. Hence various Bounds to Nations set by Speech;} But not to You, who, Orator in each,} His proper Tongue th'admiring Native teach.}
With what Elegance does the Poet divert from his Purpose, that he may bring in a beautiful Description of Babel, and the Confusion of Tongues: Then, with no less Elegance, he returns to the Praise of his venerable Traveller, surprizingly skill'd in most of them. Afterwards, with a peculiar Delicacy, his Comment upon Joel is hinted at, and from thence Occasion taken to represent that terrible Day of the Lord, which the Prophet speaks of, and then the holy Ardour of his Interpreter:
Ac sicut albens perpetua nive Simul favillas, & cineres sinu Eructat ardenti, & pruinis Contiguas rotat Ætna flammas: Sic te trementem, te nive candidum, Mens intus urget, mens agit ignea Sequi reluctantem Joelem Per tonitru, aereasque nubes.
Annon pavescis, dum Tuba pallidum Ciet Sionem? dum tremulum polo Caligat astrum, atque incubanti Terra nigrans tegitur sub umbra? Quod agmen! heu! quæ turba sequacibus Tremenda flammis! quis strepitantium Flictus rotarum est! O Pococki Egregie! O animose Vatis Interpres abstrusi! O simili fere Correpte flamma!——
As Ætna's lucid with perpetual Snow, While heaving Flames within its Entrails glow; O'er the hoar Frost the raging Fury's spread, And ruddy Flouds of Fire beam round its Head: So trembling thou, and venerably white, Thy urging Soul tries sacred Sion's Height, Attends thy Joel, clad in dark Array, Where Clouds and Lightnings mark his awful Way. Hark! dost not shudder while the Trumpet's Sound The tott'ring Tow'rs of Solyma rebound? Behold what Troops come rolling from afar With Gleams of Terror, and the Din of War! In the bright Front consuming Fires ride, And Slaughter stalks indignant by their Side. Oh! whither, whither tends thy eager Course, Rapt by thy own, thy kindred Prophet's Force?