Ah come not, write not, think not once of me!

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole!

And what force and what expansive meaning has that line in Milton

Rocks, caves, lakes, dens, bogs, fens, and shades of death. Wordsworth in a letter to Scott, says "I admire Dryden's talents and genius highly-but his is not a poetical genius." Can any one read even the prose passage, which we read just now, and doubt that Dryden was a true poet? Look at his Fables from Chaucer and Boccaccio, written in his extremeold age, too, and "with the bayonet of necessity at his back." He is said to have done injustice to Chaucer on the whole, but several of his lines are unquestionably improvements on the original. I cannot resist the pleasure of reading a passage from his Preface to the Fables, in which he alludes so pleasantly and gracefully to his old age. Opie, the painter, used to say that it was a mistake to suppose that people went on improving to the last, in any art or profession; according to him, they put their best thoughts into their first works, and what they gain afterwards in correctness and refinement, they lose in originality and vigor. Dryden presents an instance to the contrary.—

Chaucer (as you have formerly been told by our learned Mr. Rymer) first adorned and amplified our barren tongue from the Provencal, which was then the most polished of all the modern languages; but this subject has been copiously treated by that great critic, who deserves no little commendation from us, his countrymen. For these reasons of time, and resemblance of genius in Chaucer and Boccaccio, I resolved to join them in my present work; to which I have added some original papers of my own; which, whether they are equal or inferior to my other poems, an author is the most improper judge; and, therefore, I leave them wholly to the mercy of the reader. I will hope the best, that they will not be condemned; but if they should, I have the excuse of an old gentleman, who mounting on horseback before some ladies, when I was present, got up somewhat heavily, but desired of the fair spectators, that they would count fourscore and eight before they judged him. By the mercy of God, I am already come within twenty years of his number, a cripple in my limbs; but what decays are in my mind, the reader must determine. I think myself as vigorous

as ever in the faculties of my soul, excepting only my memory, which is not impaired to any great degree; and if I lose not more of it, I have no great reason to complain. What judgment I had, increases rather than diminishes; and thoughts, such as they are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to choose or to reject; to run them into verse, or to give them the other harmony of prose. I have so long studied and practised both, that they are grown into a habit, and become familiar to me. In short, though I may lawfully claim some part of the old gentleman's excuse, yet I wish to preserve it till I think I have greater need, and ask no grains of allowance for the faults of this my present work, but those which are given of course to human frailty.

Let us now look at a specimen or two of the poetical fruits of Dryden's green old age. Here is a passage from Palamon and Arcite. The words flowery green in the fourth line are vague, and not therefore so good as the original―

Than is the lily on his stalkie green.

But here is a beautiful little picture, not in Chaucer; it is Dryden's own

At every turn, she made a little stand.

And thrust among the thorns her lily hand,

To draw the rose.

In reading Hunt's Rimini, I have often been reminded of Dryden's Fables from Chaucer. He has evidently studied Dryden's manner, and appreciated his varied versification. In imitating its ease and freedom, he has occasionally gone a step too far, and fallen into unpleasant roughnesses. But I am keeping you from my specimen of Dryden

Thus year by year they pass, and day by day,
Till once, 'twas on the morn of cheerful May,
The young Emilia, fairer to be seen

Than the fair lily on the flowery green;

More fresh than May herself in blossoms new,

For with the rosy colour strove her hue,
Wak'd, as her custom was, before the day,

To do observance due to sprightly May;

For sprightly May commands our youth to keep

The vigils of her night, and breaks their sluggard sleep;

Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves;
Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves.
In this remembrance Emily, ere day,
Arose and dressed herself in rich array;
Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,
Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair:
A ribband did the braided tresses bind,
The rest was loose, and wanton'd in the wind:
Aurora had but newly chas'd the night,
And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light,
When to the garden walk she took her way,
To sport and trip along in cool of day,
And offer maiden vows in honour of the May.
At every turn, she made a little stand,
And thrust among the thorns her lily hand

To draw the rose; and every rose she drew,

She shook the stalk, and brushed away the dew:
Then party-colour'd flowers of white and red
She wove, to make a garland for her head:
This done, she sung and carol'd out so clear,
That men and angels might rejoice to hear:
Ev'n wondering Philomel forgot to sing,
And learn'd from her to welcome in the Spring.
The tower, of which before was mention made,
Within whose keep the captive knights were laid,
Built of a large extent, and strong withal,

Was one partition of the palace wall:

The garden was enclos'd within the square,

Where young Emilia took her morning air.

Here is another specimen of Dryden's most forcible mannerthe last and best couplet is not in Chaucer.

When Arcite was to Thebes return'd again,
The loss of her he lov'd renew'd his pain;
What could be worse, than never more to see
His life, his soul, his charming Emily?
He rav'd with all the madness of despair,
He roar'd, he beat his breast, he tore his hair.
Dry sorrow in his stupid eyes appears,
For, wanting nourishment, he wanted tears:
His eye-balls in their hollow sockets sink:
Bereft of sleep, he loaths his meat and drink :

He withers at his heart, and looks as wan

As the pale spectre of a murder'd man :

I can hardly come to a stop. One more passage I must give you.

The slayer of himself yet saw I there,

The gore congeal'd was clotted in his hair:

With eyes half clos'd and gaping mouth he lay,
And grim, as when he breath'd his sullen soul away.
In midst of all the dome, Misfortune sate,

And gloomy Discontent, and fell Debate,

And Madness, laughing in his ireful mood;

And arm'd Complaint on Theft; and cries of Blood.

L.-The fourth is a noble line, and every word of it Dryden's; the last line but one is very striking. It is old Chaucer's a little altered. Gray has stolen it—

And moody madness laughing wild,

Amidst severest woe.

Chaucer's words are

Yet saw I woodnesse laughing in his rage.

H.-Pope in his versions of Chaucer caught something of Dryden's freedom of versification. Perhaps the critics of this day are disposed to underrate Pope. He had a favorite see-saw system of versification, which has led many readers to turn away in disgust from passages that are perfectly admirable, in every thing but in the arrangement of the cæsural pauses

But anxious cares | the pensive nymph oppress'd,

And secret passions labour'd in her breast.

Not youthful kings | in battle seized alive,

Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,

Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss,

Not ancient la | dies when refused a kiss

Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,
Not Cynthia when her mantua's pinned awry,
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair.

As thou, sad vir | gin! for thy ravished hair.

L. Of this sort of style Pope's own couplet in ridicule of tasteless gardening, may fairly be used as an illustration-

Grove nods at grove, each alley has its brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.

H.-It is full time to adjourn, or I think we should have done well to turn to a consideration of Pope's better qualities. With all his faults, he is a wonderfully fine writer, and has many passages of surpassing excellence. His Rape of the Lock is the most exquisite thing of the kind that was ever written.

No. XVII.

SIR WALTER SCOTT AND LORD BYRON.

H.-Scott and Byron used to display that sort of inverted ambition to be regarded rather as private gentlemen than as men of letters, which so disgusted Voltaire with Congreve. In Byron, much of this was, of course, sheer affectation, but Scott, I think always said what he thought, and no more. He was not like Byron-sophisticated, but an honest, straightforward, healthyhearted fellow.

L.-Your praise of Scott requires some qualification. His life by Lockhart has rather lowered him in the estimation of many, while that of Byron, by Moore, has mollified the prejudices of some readers, and greatly raised the admiration of others. When Scott's son-in-law let the world discover that the author of Waverley and the Lay of the Last Minstrel was a worldly-minded man, covetous of yellow dirt and petty municipal distinctionswhen the unhappy trade-partnership-the speculation in types and paper-was exposed in all its details, and it was discovered, by Scott's own letters, how he had wheedled friends and strangers into the employment of his own printing press, under the impression that they were seconding his disinterested regard for the prosperity of other men-when his deliberate falsehoods respecting the authorship of the Scotch Novels, reiterated verbally and in writing for so many years, were carefully collected and record