Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett Part 10

Even now she shades thy evening walk with bays, (No hireling she, no prost.i.tute to praise) Even now, observant of the parting ray, Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day, Through fortune's cloud one truly great can see, Nor fears to tell that MORTIMER is he.

_September_ 25, 1721. A. POPE.

THE LIFE AND POETRY OF THOMAS PARNELL.

Parnell is the third in a trio of poetical clergymen whose names have immediately succeeded each other in this edition. Bowles, Churchill, and Parnell were all clergymen, and all poets; but in other respects differed materially from each other. In Bowles, the clerical and the poetical characters were on the whole well attuned and harmonised. In Churchill, they came to an open rupture. In Parnell, they were neither ruptured nor reconciled, but maintained an ambiguous relation, till his premature death settled the moot point for ever.

The life of this poet has been written by Goldsmith, by Johnson, by the Rev. John Mitford, and others; but, after all, very little is known about him. Thomas Parnell was the descendant of an ancient family, which had been settled for some hundreds of years at Congleton, Cheshire. His father, whose name also was Thomas, took the side of the Commonwealth, and at the Restoration went over to Ireland, where he purchased a considerable property. This, along with his estate in Cheshire, devolved to the poet. His father had a second son, John, whose descendants were created baronets. The late Sir Henry Parnell, for some years the respected member of Parliament for the town of Dundee, where we now write, was the great-great-grandson of the poet's father. Parnell was born in Dublin, in the year 1679. He was sent to a school taught by one Dr Jones. Here he is said to have distinguished himself by the readiness and retentiveness of his memory; often performing the task allotted for days in a few hours, and being able to repeat forty lines in any book of poems, after the first reading. It is a proof of the prematurity of his powers, that he entered Trinity College, Dublin, at the age of thirteen, where his compositions attracted attention from the extent of cla.s.sical lore which they discovered. He took the degree of M.A. in 1700; and the same year (through a dispensation on account of being under age) was ordained deacon by the Bishop of Deny. Three years after, he was ordained priest; and in 1705, he was made Archdeacon of Clogher, by Sir George Ashe, bishop of that see. So soon as he received the archdeanery, he married Miss Ann Minchin, who is described as a young lady of great beauty, and of an amiable character, by whom he had two sons, who died young, and a daughter, who long survived both her parents.

Up to the triumph of the Tories, at the end of Queen Anne's reign, Parnell appears to have been, like his father, a keen Whig. He was at that time, however, induced, for motives which his biographers call obscure, but which to us seem obvious enough, on the well-known principle of the popularity of the rising sun, to change his party; and he was hailed by the Tories as a valuable accession to their ranks. This proves that his talents were even then known; a fact corroborated by Johnson's statement, that while he was waiting in the outer-room at Lord Oxford's levee, the prime minister, when told he was there, went out, at the persuasion of Swift, with his treasurer's staff in his hand, and saluted him in the most flattering manner. He became, either before or immediately after this, intimate with Pope, Swift, Gay, and the rest of that brilliant set, who all appear to have loved him for his social qualities, to have admired his genius, and to have pitied his infirmities. He was a member of the Scriblerus Club, and contributed some trifles to their transactions. He was, at the same time, intimate with Addison and Steele, and wrote a few papers in the "Spectator." To Pope, he was of essential service, a.s.sisting him in his notes to the "Iliad," being, what Pope was not, a good Greek scholar. He wrote a life of Homer, which was prefixed to the Translation, although stiff in style, and fabulous in statement. He gratified Pope's malicious spirit still more by writing, under the guise of a "Life of Zoilus," a bitter attack on Dennis--the great object of the poet's fear and mortal abhorrence. For these and other services, Pope rewarded him, after his usual manner, with large offerings of that sweet and suffocating incense, by which he delighted, now to gain his enemies, and now to gratify his friends.

With Gay, also, Parnell was intimate; and the latter, himself independent by his fortune, is said to have bestowed on this needy and improvident genius the price of the copyright of his works.

Parnell first visited London in 1706; and from that period till his death, scarcely a year elapsed without his spending some time in the metropolis. He seems to have had as intense a relish of London life as Johnson and Boswell exhibited in the next age. So soon as he had collected his rents, he hied to the capital, and there enjoyed himself to the top of his bent. He jested with the Scriblerus Club. He quaffed now and then with Lord Oxford. He varied his round of amus.e.m.e.nts by occasional professional exhibitions in the pulpits of Southwark and elsewhere,--made, we fear, more from a desire to display himself, than to benefit his hearers. Still his sermons were popular; and he entertained at one time the hope,--a hope blasted by the death of Queen Anne,--of being preferred to a city charge. So soon as each London furlough was expired, he returned to Ireland, jaded and dispirited, and there took delight in nursing his melancholy; in pining for the amus.e.m.e.nts of the metropolis; in shunning and sneering at the society around him; and in abusing his native bogs and his fellow-countrymen in verse. This was not manly, far less Christian conduct. He ought to have drowned his recollections of London in active duty, or in diligent study; and if he found society coa.r.s.e or corrupt, he should have set himself to refine and to purify it. But he seems to have been a lazy, luxurious person--his life a round of selfish rapture and selfish anguish,--in fact, ruined by his independent fortune. Had he been a poorer, he had probably been a happier man. He was not, moreover, of that self-contained cast of character, which can live on its own resources, create its own world, and say, "My mind to me a kingdom is."

In 1712 he lost his wife, with whom he appears to have lived as happily as his morbid temperament and mortified feelings would permit.

This blow deepened his melancholy, and drove him, it is said, to an excessive and habitual use of wine. In the same year we find him in London, brought out once more under the "special patronage" of Dean Swift, who had quite a penchant for Parnell, and who wished, through his side, to mortify certain persons in Ireland, who did not appreciate, he says, the Archdeacon; and who, we suspect, besides, did not thoroughly appreciate the Dean. Swift, partly in pity for the "poor lad," as he calls him, whom he saw to be in such imminent danger of losing caste and character, and partly in the true patronising spirit, introduced Parnell to Lord Bolingbroke, who received him kindly, entertained him at dinner, and encouraged him in his poetical studies. The Dean's patronage, however, was of little avail in this matter to the protege; Bolingbroke, a man of many promises, and few performances, did nothing for him. The consequences of dissipation began, at this time, too, to appear in Parnell's const.i.tution; and we find Swift saying of him, "His head is out of order, like mine, but more constant, poor boy." It was perhaps to this period that Pope referred, when he told Spence, "Parnell is a great follower of drams, and strangely open and scandalous in his debaucheries." If so, his bad habits seem to have sprung as much from disappointment and discontent as from taste.

Yet Swift continued his friend, and it was at his instance that, in 1713, Archbishop King presented Parnell with a prebend. In 1714, his hope of London promotion died with Queen Anne; but in 1716, the same generous Archbishop bestowed on him the vicarage of Fingla.s.s, in the diocese of Dublin, worth 400 a-year. This preferment, however, the poet did not live long to enjoy,--dying at Chester, in July 1717, on his way to Ireland, aged thirty-eight years. His estates pa.s.sed to his nephew, Sir John Parnell. He had, in the course of his life, composed a great deal of poetry; much of it, indeed, _invita_ Minerva. After his death, Pope collected the best pieces, and published them, with a dedication to Lord Oxford. Goldsmith, in his edition, added two or three; and other editors, a good many poems, of which we have only inserted one, deeming the rest unworthy of his memory. In 1788 a volume was published, ent.i.tled, "The Posthumous Works of Dr T. Parnell, containing poems moral and divine." These, however, attracted little attention, being mostly rubbish. Johnson says of them, "I know not whence they came, nor have ever inquired whither they are going." It is said that the present representative of the Parnell family preserves a ma.s.s of unpublished poems from the pen of his relative. We trust that he will long and religiously refrain from disturbing their MS. slumbers.

The whole tenor of Parnell's history convinces us that he was an easy-tempered, kind-hearted, yet querulous and self-indulgent man, who had no higher motive or object than to gratify himself. His very ambition aspired not to very lofty alt.i.tudes. His utmost wish was to attain a metropolitan pulpit, where he could have added the reputation of a popular preacher to that of being the _protege_ of Swift, and the pet of the Scriblerus Club. The character of his poetry is in keeping with the temperament of the man. It is slipshod, easy, and pleasing.

If the distinguishing quality of poetry be to give pleasure, then Parnell is a poet. You never thrill under his power, but you read him with a quiet, constant, subdued gratification. If never eminently original, he has the art of enunciating common-places with felicity and grace. The stories he relates are almost all old, but his manner of telling them is new. His thoughts and images are mostly selected from his common-place book; but he utters them with such a natural ease of manner, that you are tempted to think them his own. He knows the compa.s.s of his poetical powers, and never attempts anything very lofty or arduous. His "Allegory on Man,"--p.r.o.nounced by Johnson his best,--seems rather a laborious than a fortunate effusion. His "Hymn to Contentment" is animated, as the subject required, by a kind of sober rapture. His "Faery Tale" is a good imitation of that old style of composition. His "Hesiod" catches the cla.s.sical tone and spirit with considerable success. His "Flies," and "Elegy to the Old Beauty,"

are ingenious trifles. His "Nightpiece on Death" has fine touches, but is slight for such a theme, and must not be named beside Blair's "Grave," and Gray's "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." His translations we have, in accordance with the plan of this edition, omitted--and, indeed, they are little loss. His "Bookworm," &c., are adaptations from Beza and other foreign authors. By far his most popular poem is the "Hermit." In it he tells a tale that had been told in Arabic, French, and English, for the tenth time; and in that tenth edition tells it so well, that the public have thanked him for it as for an original work. Of course, the story not being Parnell's, it is not his fault that it casts no light upon the dread problems of Providence it professed to explain. But the incidents are recorded with ease and liveliness; the characters are rapidly depicted, and strikingly contrasted; and many touches of true poetry occur.

How vivid this couplet, for instance--

"Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shivering pair!"

How picturesque the following--

"A fresher green the smiling leaves display, And, _glittering as they tremble_, cheer the day!"

The description of the unveiled angel approaches the sublime--

"Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; Celestial odours breathe through purpled air; And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day, Wide at his back, their gradual plumes display.

The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light."

A pa.s.sage of similar brilliance occurs in "Piety, or the Vision"--

"A sudden splendour seem'd to kindle day; A breeze came breathing in; a sweet perfume, _Blown from eternal gardens_, fill'd the room, And in a void of blue, that clouds invest, Appear'd a daughter of the realms of rest."

Such pa.s.sages themselves are enough to prove Parnell a true poet.

PARNELL'S POEMS.

HESIOD; OR, THE RISE OF WOMAN.

What ancient times, those times we fancy wise, Have left on long record of woman's rise, What morals teach it, and what fables hide, What author wrote it, how that author died,-- All these I sing. In Greece they framed the tale; (In Greece, 'twas thought a woman might be frail); Ye modern beauties! where the poet drew His softest pencil, think he dreamt of you; And warn'd by him, ye wanton pens, beware How Heaven's concern'd to vindicate the fair. 10 The case was Hesiod's; he the fable writ-- Some think with meaning--some, with idle wit: Perhaps 'tis either, as the ladies please; I waive the contest, and commence the lays.

In days of yore, no matter where or when, 'Twas ere the low creation swarm'd with men, That one Prometheus, sprung of heavenly birth (Our author's song can witness), lived on earth.

He carved the turf to mould a manly frame, And stole from Jove his animating flame. 20 The sly contrivance o'er Olympus ran, When thus the Monarch of the Stars began: 'Oh versed in arts! whose daring thoughts aspire To kindle clay with never-dying fire!

Enjoy thy glory past, that gift was thine; The next thy creature meets, be fairly mine: And such a gift, a vengeance so design'd, As suits the counsel of a G.o.d to find; A pleasing bosom cheat, a specious ill, Which, felt, they curse, yet covet still to feel.' 30

He said, and Vulcan straight the sire commands To temper mortar with ethereal hands; In such a shape to mould a rising fair, As virgin-G.o.ddesses are proud to wear; To make her eyes with diamond-water shine, And form her organs for a voice divine.

'Twas thus the sire ordain'd; the power obey'd; And work'd, and wonder'd at the work he made; The fairest, softest, sweetest frame beneath, Now made to seem, now more than seem, to breathe. 40

As Vulcan ends, the cheerful queen of charms Clasp'd the new-panting creature in her arms; From that embrace a fine complexion spread, Where mingled whiteness glow'd with softer red.

Then in a kiss she breathed her various arts, Of trifling prettily with wounded hearts; A mind for love, but still a changing mind; The lisp affected, and the glance design'd; The sweet confusing blush, the secret wink, The gentle-swimming walk, the courteous sink, 50 The stare for strangeness fit, for scorn the frown, For decent yielding, looks declining down, The practised languish, where well-feign'd desire Would own its melting in a mutual fire; Gay smiles to comfort; April showers to move; And all the nature, all the art, of love.

Gold-sceptred Juno next exalts the fair; Her touch endows her with imperious air, Self-valuing fancy, highly-crested pride, Strong sovereign will, and some desire to chide: 60 For which an eloquence, that aims to vex, With native tropes of anger arms the s.e.x.

Minerva, skilful G.o.ddess, train'd the maid To twirl the spindle by the twisting thread, To fix the loom, instruct the reeds to part, Cross the long weft, and close the web with art: An useful gift; but what profuse expense, What world of fashions, took its rise from hence!

Young Hermes next, a close-contriving G.o.d, Her brows encircled with his serpent rod; 70 Then plots, and fair excuses, fill'd her brain, The views of breaking amorous vows for gain, The price of favours, the designing arts That aim at riches in contempt of hearts; And for a comfort in the marriage life, The little, pilfering temper of a wife.

Full on the fair his beams Apollo flung, And fond persuasion tipp'd her easy tongue; He gave her words, where oily flattery lays The pleasing colours of the art of praise; 80 And wit, to scandal exquisitely p.r.o.ne, Which frets another's spleen to cure its own.

Those sacred virgins whom the bards revere, Tuned all her voice, and shed a sweetness there, To make her sense with double charms abound, Or make her lively nonsense please by sound.

To dress the maid, the decent Graces brought A robe in all the dyes of beauty wrought, And placed their boxes o'er a rich brocade Where pictured loves on every cover play'd; 90 Then spread those implements that Vulcan's art Had framed to merit Cytherea's heart; The wire to curl, the close-indented comb, To call the locks that lightly wander, home; And chief, the mirror, where the ravish'd maid Beholds and loves her own reflected shade.

Fair Flora lent her stores, the purpled hours Confined her tresses with a wreath of flowers; Within the wreath arose a radiant crown; A veil pellucid hung depending down; 100 Back roll'd her azure veil with serpent fold, The purfled border deck'd the flower with gold.

Her robe (which, closely by the girdle braced, Reveal'd the beauties of a slender waist) Flow'd to the feet; to copy Venus' air, When Venus' statues have a robe to wear.

The new-sprung creature finish'd thus for harms, Adjusts her habit, practises her charms, With blushes glows, or shines with lively smiles, Confirms her will, or recollects her wiles: 110 Then conscious of her worth, with easy pace Glides by the gla.s.s, and, turning, views her face.

A finer flax than what they wrought before, Through Time's deep cave the sister Fates explore, Then fix the loom, their fingers nimbly weave, And thus their toil prophetic songs deceive:

'Flow from the rock, my flax! and swiftly flow, Pursue thy thread, the spindle runs below.

A creature fond and changing, fair and vain, The creature Woman, rises now to reign. 120 New beauty blooms, a beauty form'd to fly; New love begins, a love produced to die; New parts distress the troubled scenes of life, The fondling mistress, and the ruling wife.

Men, born to labour, all with pains provide; Women have time to sacrifice to pride: They want the care of man, their want they know, And dress to please with heart-alluring show, The show prevailing, for the sway contend, And make a servant where they meet a friend. 130

Thus in a thousand wax-erected forts A loitering race the painful bee supports, From sun to sun, from bank to bank he flies, With honey loads his bag, with wax his thighs, Fly where he will, at home the race remain, Prune the silk dress, and murmuring eat the gain.

Yet here and there we grant a gentle bride, Whose temper betters by the father's side; Unlike the rest, that double human care, Fond to relieve, or resolute to share: 140 Happy the man whom thus his stars advance!

The curse is general, but the blessing chance.'

Thus sung the Sisters, while the G.o.ds admire Their beauteous creature, made for man, in ire; The young Pandora she, whom all contend To make too perfect not to gain her end: Then bid the winds that fly to breathe the spring, Return to bear her on a gentle wing; With wafting airs the winds obsequious blow, And land the shining vengeance safe below. 150 A golden coffer in her hand she bore, (The present treacherous, but the bearer more) 'Twas fraught with pangs; for Jove ordain'd above, That gold should aid, and pangs attend on love.

Her gay descent the man perceived afar, Wondering he ran to catch the falling star; But so surprised, as none but he can tell, Who loved so quickly, and who loved so well.

O'er all his veins the wandering pa.s.sion burns, He calls her nymph, and every nymph by turns. 160 Her form to lovely Venus he prefers, Or swears that Venus must be such as hers.

She, proud to rule, yet strangely framed to tease, Neglects his offers while her airs she plays, Shoots scornful glances from the bended frown, In brisk disorder trips it up and down, Then hums a careless tune to lay the storm, And sits and blushes, smiles, and yields in form.

'Now take what Jove design'd, (she softly cried,) This box thy portion, and myself thy bride:' 170 Fired with the prospect of the double charms, He s.n.a.t.c.h'd the box, and bride, with eager arms.

Unhappy man! to whom so bright she shone, The fatal gift, her tempting self, unknown!

The winds were silent, all the waves asleep, And heaven was traced upon the flattering deep; But whilst he looks, unmindful of a storm, And thinks the water wears a stable form, What dreadful din around his ears shall rise!