The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland (1753) Volume V Part 25

The Labyrinth, and Daedalus and Icarus, from the eighth Book.

Part of the Fable of Cyparissus from the tenth Book.

Most part of the eleventh Book, and The Funeral of Memnon, from the thirteenth Book.

He likewise performed an entire Translation of aesop's Fables.

Subjoined to the Fair Circa.s.sian are several Poems addressed to Sylvia; Naked Truth, from the second Book of Ovid's Fastorum; Heathen Priestcraft, from the first Book of Ovid's Fastorum; A Midsummer's Wish; and an Ode on Florinda, seen while she was Bathing. He is also author of a curious work, in one Volume Octavo, ent.i.tled Scripture Politics: being a view of the original const.i.tution, and subsequent revolutions in the government of that people, out of whom the Saviour of the World was to arise: As it is contained in the Bible.

In consequence of his strong attachment to the Whig interest, he was made archdeacon of Salop 1732, and chaplain in ordinary to his present Majesty.

As late as the year 1750, Dr. Croxall published a poem called The Royal Manual, in the preface to which he endeavours to shew, that it was composed by Mr. Andrew Marvel, and found amongst his MSS. but the proprietor declares, that it was written by Dr. Croxall himself. This was the last of his performances, for he died the year following, in a pretty advanced age. His abilities, as a poet, we cannot better display, than by the specimen we are about to quote.

On FLORINDA, Seen while she was Bathing.

Twas summer, and the clear resplendent moon Shedding far o'er the plains her full-orb'd light, Among the lesser stars distinctly shone, Despoiling of its gloom the scanty night, When, walking forth, a lonely path I took Nigh the fair border of a purling brook.

Sweet and refreshing was the midnight air, Whose gentle motions hush'd the silent grove; Silent, unless when p.r.i.c.k'd with wakeful care Philomel warbled out her tale of love: While blooming flowers, which in the meadows grew, O'er all the place their blended odours threw.

Just by, the limpid river's crystal wave, Its eddies gilt with Phoebe's silver ray, Still as it flow'd a glittering l.u.s.tre gave With glancing gleams that emulate the day; Yet oh! not half so bright as those that rise Where young Florinda bends her smiling eyes.

Whatever pleasing views my senses meet, Her intermingled charms improve the theme; The warbling birds, the flow'rs that breath so sweet, And the soft surface of the dimpled stream, Resembling in the nymph some lovely part, With pleasures more exalted seize my heart.

Rapt in these thoughts I negligently rov'd, Imagin'd transports all my soul employ, When the delightful voice of her I lov'd Sent thro' the Shades a sound of real joy.

Confus'd it came, with giggling laughter mixt, And echo from the banks reply'd betwixt.

Inspir'd with hope, upborn with light desire, To the dear place my ready footsteps tend.

Quick, as when kindling trails of active fire Up to their native firmament ascend: There shrouded in the briers unseen I stood, And thro' the leaves survey'd the neighb'ring flood.

Florinda, with two sister nymphs, undrest, Within the channel of the cooly tide, By bathing sought to sooth her virgin breast, Nor could the night her dazzling beauties hide; Her features, glowing with eternal bloom, Darted, like Hesper, thro' the dusky gloom.

Her hair bound backward in a spiral wreath Her upper beauties to my sight betray'd; The happy stream concealing those beneath, Around her waste with circling waters play'd; Who, while the fair one on his bosom sported, Her dainty limbs with liquid kisses courted.

A thousand Cupids with their infant arms Swam padling in the current here and there; Some, with smiles innocent, remarked the charms Of the regardless undesigning fair; Some, with their little Eben bows full-bended, And levell'd shafts, the naked girl defended.

Her eyes, her lips, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s exactly round, Of lilly hue, unnumber'd arrows sent; Which to my heart an easy pa.s.sage found, Thrill'd in my bones, and thro' my marrow went: Some bubbling upward thro' the water came, Prepar'd by fancy to augment my flame.

Ah love! how ill I bore thy pleasing pain?

For while the tempting scene so near I view'd, A fierce impatience throb'd in every vein, Discretion fled and reason lay subdu'd; My blood beat high, and with its trembling made A strange commotion in the rustling shade.

Fear seiz'd the tim'rous Naiads, all aghast Their boding spirits at the omen sink, Their eyes they wildly on each other cast, And meditate to gain the farther brink; When in I plung'd, resolving to a.s.swage In the cool gulph love's importuning rage.

Ah, stay Florinda (so I meant to speak) Let not from love the loveliest object fly!

But ere I spoke, a loud combining squeak From shrilling voices pierc'd the distant sky: When straight, as each was their peculiar care, Th' immortal pow'rs to bring relief prepare.

A golden cloud descended from above, Like that which whilom hung on Ida's brow, Where Juno, Pallas, and the queen of love, As then to Paris, were conspicuous now.

Each G.o.ddess seiz'd her fav'rite charge, and threw Around her limbs a robe of azure hue.

But Venus, who with pity saw my flame Kindled by her own Amorer so bright, Approv'd in private what she seem'd to blame, And bless'd me with a vision of delight: Careless she dropt Florinda's veil aside, That nothing might her choicest beauties hide.

I saw Elysium and the milky way Fair-opening to the shades beneath her breast; In Venus' lap the struggling wanton lay, And, while she strove to hide, reveal'd the rest.

A mole, embrown'd with no unseemly grace, Grew near, embellishing the sacred place.

So pleas'd I view'd, as one fatigu'd with heat, Who near at hand beholds a shady bower, Joyful, in hope-amidst the kind retreat To shun the day-star in his noon-tide hour; Or as when parch'd with droughty thirst he spies A mossy grot whence purest waters rise.

So I Florinda--but beheld in vain: Like Tantalus, who in the realms below Sees blushing fruits, which to increase his pain, When he attempts to eat, his taste forego.

O Venus! give me more, or let me drink Of Lethe's fountain, and forget to think.

The Revd. Mr. CHRISTOPHER PITT,

The celebrated translator of Virgil, was born in the year 1699. He received his early education in the college near Winchester; and in 1719 was removed from thence to new college in Oxford. When he had studied there four years, he was preferred to the living of Pimperne in Dorsetshire, by his friend and relation, Mr. George Pitt; which he held during the remaining part of his life. While he was at the university, he possessed the affection and esteem of all who knew him; and was particularly distinguished by that great poet Dr. Young, who so much admired the early displays of his genius, that with an engaging familiarity he used to call him his son.

Amongst the first of Mr. Pitt's performances which saw the light, were a panegyric on lord Stanhope, and a poem on the Plague of Ma.r.s.eilles: But he had two large Folio's of MS. Poems, very fairly written out, while he was a school-boy, which at the time of election were delivered to the examiners. One of these volumes contained an entire translation of Lucan; and the other consisted of Miscellaneous pieces. Mr. Pitt's Lucan has never been published; perhaps from the consideration of its being the production of his early life, or from a consciousness of its not equalling the translation of that author by Rowe, who executed this talk in the meridian of his genius. Several of his other pieces were published afterwards, in his volume of Miscellaneous Poems.

The ingenious writer of the Student hath obliged the world by inferring in that work several original pieces by Mr. Pitt; whose name is prefixed to them.

Next to his beautiful Translation of Virgil, Mr. Pitt gained the greatest reputation by rendering into English, Vida's Art of Poetry, which he has executed with the strictest attention to the author's sense, with the utmost elegance of versification, and without suffering the n.o.ble spirit of the original to be lost in his translation.

This amiable poet died in the year 1748, without leaving one enemy behind him. On his tombstone were engraved these words,

"He lived innocent, and died beloved."

Mr. Auditor Benson, who in a pamphlet of his writing, has treated Dryden's translation of Virgil with great contempt, was yet charmed with that by Mr. Pitt, and found in it some beauties, of which he was fond even to a degree of enthusiasm. Alliteration is one of those beauties Mr. Benson so much admired, and in praise of which he has a long dissertation in his letters on translated verse. He once took an opportunity, in conversation with Mr. Pitt, to magnify that beauty, and to compliment him upon it. Mr. Pitt thought this article far less considerable than Mr. Benson did; but says he, 'since you are so fond of alliteration, the following couplet upon Cardinal Woolsey will not displease you,

'Begot by butchers, but by bishops bred, How high his honour holds his haughty head.

Benson was no doubt charmed to hear his favourite grace in poetry so beautifully exemplified, which it certainly is, without any affectation or stiffness. Waller thought this a beauty; and Dryden was very fond of it. Some late writers, under the notion of imitating these two great versifiers in this point, run into downright affectation, and are guilty of the most improper and ridiculous expressions, provided there be but an alliteration. It is very remarkable, that an affectation of this beauty is ridiculed by Shakespear, in Love's Labour Lost, Act II. where the Pedant Holofernes says,

I will something affect the letter, for it argues facility.-- The praiseful princess pierced, and p.r.i.c.kt.--

Mr. Upton, in his letter concerning Spencer, observes, that alliteration is ridiculed too in Chaucer, in a pa.s.sage which every reader does not understand.

The Ploughman's Tale is written, in some measure, in imitation of Pierce's Ploughman's Visions; and runs chiefly upon some one letter, or at least many stanza's have this affected iteration, as

A full sterne striefe is stirr'd now,-- For some be grete grown on grounde.

When the Parson therefore in his order comes to tell his tale, which reflected on the clergy, he says,

--I am a southern man, I cannot jest, rum, ram, riff, by letter, And G.o.d wote, rime hold I but little better.

Ever since the publication of Mr. Pitt's version of the Aeneid, the learned world has been divided concerning the just proportion of merit, which ought to be ascribed to it. Some have made no scruple in defiance of the authority of a name, to prefer it to Dryden's, both in exactness, as to his author's sense, and even in the charms of poetry. This perhaps, will be best discovered by producing a few shining pa.s.sages of the Aeneid, translated by these two great masters.

In biographical writing, the first and most essential princ.i.p.al is candour, which no reverence for the memory of the dead, nor affection for the virtues of the living should violate. The impartiality which we have endeavoured to observe through this work, obliges us to declare, that so far as our judgment may be trusted, the latter poet has done most justice to Virgil; that he mines in Pitt with a l.u.s.tre, which Dryden wanted not power, but leisure to bestow; and a reader, from Pitt's version, will both acquire a more intimate knowledge of Virgil's meaning, and a more exalted idea of his abilities.--Let not this detract from the high representations we have endeavoured in some other places to make of Dryden. When he undertook Virgil, he was stooping with age, oppressed with wants, and conflicting with infirmities. In this situation, it was no wonder that much of his vigour was lost; and we ought rather to admire the amazing force of genius, which was so little depressed under all these calamities, than industriously to dwell on his imperfections.