Of the moral Poems we shall say but little. We have elsewhere observ'd, that these have scarce any Thing of Poetry in them but their Measure, and therefore hardly deserve to be class'd under the Head of it: Such are Pythagoras's Golden Verses; the Sentences of Theognis; the Ποιημα Νουθετικον of Phocylides. We have nothing of this Kind of the Latin Writers, or of our own[260], worth mentioning; and, in short, they have nothing in common with a Poem, except this, that a Life led according to the strictest Rules of Virtue, resembles the best, and the noblest.
But, on the other Hand, nothing shines more in Verse, than Disquisitions of natural History. We then see the strictest Reasoning join'd to the politest Expression. Poetry and Philosophy are happily united: The latter affords abundant Matter for Description; it opens a large Field for Fancy, and strikes out new Ideas, which the other expresses with suitable Dignity. What Subject can be a more poetical one than
[261] —Errantem Lunam, Solisque labores, Unde hominum genus, & pecudes, unde imber, & ignes, Unde tremor terris, qua vi maria alta tumescant Obicibus ruptis, rursusque in seipsa residant; Arcturum, pluviasque Hyadas, geminosque Triones: Quid tantum Oceano properent se tingere soles Hyberni, vel quæ tardis mora noctibus obstet?
The wand'ring Moon, the Labours of the Sun; Whence Men, and Beasts, whence Rain, and Lightnings come; The Constellations of the northern Cars, Arcturus, and the show'ry Hyades: Why Suns, in Winter, haste so swift to tinge Themselves in Ocean; and what Cause retards The sluggish Nights.
What can be more suitable to the Dignity of a Poem, than to celebrate the Works of the great Creator? What more agreeable to the Variety of one, than to describe the Journies of the heavenly Orbs, the Rise of Thunder, and other Meteors, the Motion of the Earth, and the Tides of the Sea; the attractive Force of the Magnet, the impulsive Motion of Light, and the slower Progression of Sound; and innumerable other Wonders, in the unbounded Storehouse of Nature. I shall say nothing, at present, of Aratus among the Greeks, or of Manilius among the Latin Writers; Lucretius, alone, shall suffice, instead of all the rest. He, indeed, is so far from celebrating the Creator, that he supposes there is none; but, allowing him his Hypothesis, his Poem is truly philosophical. He had deserv'd much greater Praise, had he corrected his Notions in Philosophy, and his Style in Poetry; for in this Particular, also, he is often deficient. The Asperity of his Versification must be imputed rather to the Times he liv'd in, (viz. the Age between Ennius and Virgil) than to the Subject he treated of; which, whatever the common Opinion be, not only admits of the Harmony of Numbers, but requires it. The following Directions of Virgil about burning the Turf, part of which we cited before, upon another Occasion, don't lose any Thing of their Philosophy by their Smoothness:
[262] Sive inde occultas vires, & pabula terræ Pinguia concipiunt, sive illis omne per ignem Excoquitur vitium, atque exudat inutilis humor; Seu plures calor ille vias, & cæca relaxat Spiramenta, novas veniat qua succus in herbas: Seu durat magis, & venas astringit hiantes, Ne tenues pluviæ, rapidive potentia solis Acrior, aut Boreæ penetrabile frigus adurat.
Whether from thence they secret Strength receive, And richer Nutriment: Or by the Fire All latent Mischief, and redundant Juice, Oozing sweats off: Or whether the same Heat Opens the hidden Pores, that new Supplies Of Moisture may refresh the recent Blades. Or hardens more, and with astringent Force Closes the gaping Veins; lest driv'ling Show'rs Shou'd soak too deep, or the Sun's parching Rays, Or Boreas' piercing Cold shou'd dry the Glebe.
And even Lucretius himself is sometimes more flowing and sonorous, not only when he addresses himself to Venus, as in the following beautiful Passage:
[263] Te, Dea, te fugiunt venti, te nubila cœli, Adventumque tuum; tibi suaves dædala tellus Summittit flores; tibi rident æquora ponti, Pacatumque nitet, diffuso lumine, cœlum.
At thy Approach, great Goddess, strait remove Whate'er are rough, and Enemies to Love; The Clouds disperse, the Winds do swiftly waft, And reverently in Murmurs breathe their last. The Earth with various Art (for thy warm Pow'rs That dull Mars feels) puts forth her gawdy Flow'rs. To pleasure thee, ev'n lazy Lux'ry toils, The roughest Sea puts on smooth Looks, and Smiles: The well-pleas'd Heav'n assumes a brighter Ray At thy Approach, and makes a double Day. Creech.