Some present speed to come and visit me: "Skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy" is one of the most elaborate passages of the poem, essentially cast in an undramatic mould. But this is but a prelude to the catastrophe, where, if we mistake not, a strength of passion is put forth which is worthy him who drew the terrible agonies of Lear : "Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, She throws forth Tarquin's name: 'He, he,' she says, She utters this: He, he, fair lords, 't is he, too bad even for his genius to make tolerable. He, Steevens, who would take up a play of Shakspere's in the condescending spirit with which a clever tutor takes up a smart boy's verses,-altering a word here, piecing out a line there, commending this thought, shaking his head at this false prosody, and acknowledging upon the whole that the thing is pretty well, seeing how much the lad has yet to learn-he sent forth his decree that nothing less than an act of parliament could compel the reading of Shakspere's Sonnets. For a long time mankind bowed before the oracle; and the 'Sonnets' were not read. Wordsworth has told us something about this: "There is extant a small volume of miscellaneous poems in which Shakspeare expresses his feelings in his own person. It is not difficult to conceive that the editor, George Steevens, should have been insensible to the beauties of one portion of that volume, the 'Sonnets;' though there is not a part of the writings of this poet where is found, in an equal compass, a greater number of exquisite feelings felicitously expressed. But, from regard to the critic's own credit, he would not have ventured to talk of an act of parliament not being strong enough to compel the perusal of these, or any production of Shakspere, if he had not known that the people of England were ignorant of the treasures contained in those little pieces."* That ignorance has been removed; and no one has contributed more to its removal, by creating a school of poetry founded upon Truth and Nature, than Wordsworth himself. The critics of the last century have passed away : "Peor and Baalim That guides this hand to give this wound to me.'" Malone, in his concluding remarks upon the Venus and Adonis,' and 'Lucrece,' says, "We should do Shakspeare injustice were we to try them by a comparison with more modern and polished productions, or with our present idea of poetical excellence." This was written in the year 1780-the period which rejoiced in the "polished productions" of Hayley and Miss Seward, and founded its" idea of poetical excellence" on some standard which, secure in its conventional forms, might depart as far as possible from simplicity and nature, to give us words without thought, arranged in verses without music. It would be injustice indeed to Shakspere to try the 'Venus and Adonis,' and Lucrece,' by such a standard of " poetical excellence." But we have outlived that period. By way of apology for Shakspere, Malone adds, "that few authors rise much above the age in which they live." He further says, " the poems of Venus and Adonis' and the Rape of Lucrece,' whatever opinion may be now entertained of them, were certainly much admired in Shakspere's lifetime." This is consolatory. Shakspere's lifetime there were a few men that the world has since thought somewhat qualified to establish an "idea of poetical excellence" Spenser, Drayton, Jonson, Fletcher, Chapman, for example. These were not much valued in Malone's golden age of "more modern and polished productions;"-but let that pass. We are coming back to the opinions of this obsolete school; and we venture to think the majority of readers now will not require us to make an apology for Shak-duced, which, though no better, brings with it at least spere's poems. In If Malone thought it necessary to solicit indulgence for the Venus and Adonis,' and Lucrece,' he drew even a more timid breath when he ventured to speak of the Sonnets.' "I do not feel any great propensity to stand forth as the champion of these compositions. However, as it appears to me that they have been somewhat underrated, I think it incumbent on me to do them that justice to which they seem entitled." No wonder he speaks timidly. The great poetical lawgiver of his time-the greater than Shakspere, for he undertook to mend him, and refine him, and make him fit to be tolerated by the super-elegant intellects of the days of George III.—had pronounced that the 'Sonnets' were Forsake their temples dim." By the operation of what great sustaining principle is it that we have come back to the just appreciation of " the treasures contained in those little pieces"? The poetcritic will answer : "There never has been a period, and perhaps never will be, in which vicious poetry, of some kind or other, has not excited more zealous admiration, and been far more generally read, than good; but this advantage attends the good, that the individual, as well as the species, survives from age to age: whereas, of the depraved, though the species be immortal, the individual quickly perishes; the object of present admiration vanishes, being supplanted by some other as easily pro the irritation of novelty, with adaptation, more or less skilful, to the changing humours of the majority of those who are most at leisure to regard poetical works when they first solicit their attention. Is it the result of the whole, that, in the opinion of the writer, the judgment of the people is not to be respected? The thought is most injuricus; and, could the charge be brought against him, he would repel it with indignation. The people have already been justified, and their eulogium pronounced by implication, when it is said, above—that, of good poetry, the individual, as well as the species, survives. And how does it survive but through the Preface to Poetical Works. people? what preserves it but their intellect and their wisdom? 'Past and future are the wings On whose support, harmoniously conjoin'd, Moves the great spirit of human knowledge.'-MS. The voice that issues from this spirit is that vox populi which the Deity inspires. Foolish must he be who can mistake for this a local acclamation, or a transitory outcry transitory though it be for years, local though from a nation! Still more lamentable is his error who can believe that there is anything of divine infallibility in the clamour of that small though loud portion of the community, ever governed by factitious influence, which, under the name of the PUBLIC, passes itself, upon the unthinking, for the PEOPLE."* It is this perpetual mistake of the public for the people that has led to the belief that there was a period when Shekspere was neglected. He was always in the heart Preface to Poetical Works. of the people. There, in that deep, rich soil, have the Sonnets rested during two centuries; and here and there in remote places have the seeds put forth leaves and flowers. All yonng imaginative minds now rejoice in their hues and their fragrance. But this preference of the fresh and beautiful of poetical life to the pot-pourri of the last age must be a regulated love. Those who, seeing the admiration which now prevails for these outpourings of "exquisite feelings felicitously expressed," talk of the Sonnets' as equal, if not superior, to the greatest of the poet's mighty dramas, compare things that admit of no comparison. Who would speak in the same breath of the gem of Cupid and Psyche, and the Parthenon? In the 'Sonnets,' exquisite as they are, the poet goes not out of himself (at least in the form of the composition), and he walks, therefore, in a narrow circle of art. In the Venus and Adonis,' and the 'Lucrece,' the circle widens. But in the Dramas, the centre is I the Human Soul, the circumference the Universe. ΤΟ THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON AND BARON OF TITCHFIELD. RIGHT HONOURABLE, I KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your Lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burthen: only if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish, and the world's hopeful expectation. Your Honour's in all duty, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. was formerly the usual mode of address to noblemen VENUS AND ADONIS. EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, "Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, Over one arm the lusty courser's rein, She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, The studded bridle on a ragged bough Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust, And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken, He saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss ;a Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin, Forc'd to content, but never to obey, Content-acquicscence. Rain added to a river that is rank, Perforce will force it overflow the bank. Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, Being red, she loves him best; and being white, Look how he can, she cannot choose but love; Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet; Upon this promise did he raise his chin, But when her lips were ready for his pay, Never did passenger in summer's heat "I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now, Yet hath he been my captive and my slave, "Over my altars hath he hung his lance, Scorning his churlish drum, and ensign red, O be not proud, nor brag not of thy might, These blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prine Rot and consume themselves in little time. "Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old, Ill-nurtur'd, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, O'er-worn, despised, rheumatic, and cold, Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice, Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee; But having no defects, why dost abhor me? "Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow; Mine eyes are grey," and bright, and quick in turning ; My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow, My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning; My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt, Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt. "Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green, Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell`d hair, Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen: Love is a spirit all compact of fire, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire. And died to kiss his shadow in the brook. Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty, "Upon the earth's increase why shouldst thou feed, Souring his cheeks, cries, "Fie, no more of love! I'll make a shadow for thee of my hairs; Grey is said to be here used as bue. We have subse quently "Her two blue windows faintly she upheaveth." But the eye lids are the "blue windows." b 'Tired-attired. The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm, "Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel, b She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind. "What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this? Or what great danger dwells upon my suit? What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss? Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute: Give me one kiss, I'll give it thee again, And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain. "Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone, Well-painted idol, image dull and dead, Statue contenting but the eye alone, Thing like a man, but of no woman bred; Thou art no man, though of a man's complexion, For men will kiss even by their own direction." This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue, And swelling passion doth provoke a pause; Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong; Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause: And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak, And now her sobs do her intendments break. Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand, Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground; Sometimes her arms infold him like a band; She would, he will not in her arms be bound; And when from thence he struggles to be gone She locks her lily fingers one in one. b His ears up prick'd; his braided hanging mane Of the fair breeder that is standing by. What recketh he his rider's angry stir, He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, "Fondling," she saith, "since I have hemm'd thee here, Look when a painter would surpass the life, Within the circuit of this ivory pale, Then be my deer, since I am such a park; At this Adonis smiles as in disdain, Foreknowing well if there he came to lie, Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say? Her words are done, her woes the more increasing, In limning out a well-proportion'd steed, Look what a horse should have, he did not lack, a Remorse-tenderness. b Compass d-arched. c Mane is here used as a plural noun. d Holla. Ho is the ancient interjection, giving notice to stop. The word before us is certainly the same as the French hola, and is explained in Cotgrave's French Dictionary as meaning "enough, soft, soft, no more of that." In the game of base, or prison base, one runs and challenges another to pursue. |