THE VALE OF ST. JOHN. A LOVER'S TALE.-IN THREE CANTOS. An elf-quene wol I love I wis, And to an elf-quene I me take By dale and eke by doun. RIME OF SIR THOPAS. First published anonymously at Edinburgh in 1813. PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. IN the Edinburgh Annual Register for the year 1809, three Fragments were inserted, written in imitation of Living Poets. It must have been ap parent, that by these prolusions, nothing burlesque or disrespectful to the authors was intended, but that they were offered to the public as serious, though certainly very imperfect, imitations of that style of composition by which each of the writers is supposed to be distinguished. As these exercises attracted a greater degree of attention than the author anticipated, he has been induced to complete one of them, and present it as a separate publication. It is not in this place that an examination of the works of the master whom he has here adopted as his model, can, with propriety, be introduced; since his general acquiescence in the favourable suffrage of the public must necessarily be inferred from the attempt he has now made. He is induced, by the nature of his subject, to offer a few remarks on what has been called ROMANTIC POETRY; the popularity of which has been revived in the present day, under the auspices, and by the unparalleled success, of one individual. The original purpose of poetry is either religious or historical, or, as must frequently happen, a mixture of both. To modern readers, the poems of Homer have many of the features of pure romance; but, in the estimation of his contemporaries, they probably derived their chief value from their supposed historical authenticity. The same may be generally said of the poetry of all early ages. The marvels and miracles which the poet blends with his song do not exceed in number or extravagance the figments of the historians of the same period of society; and, indeed, the difference betwixt poetry and prose, as the vehicles of historical truth, is always of late introduction. Poets, under various denominations of Bards, Scalds, Chroniclers, and so forth, are the first historians of all nations. Their intention is to relate the events they have witnessed, or the traditions that have reached them; and they clothe the relation in rhyme, merely as the means of rendering it more solemn in the narrative, or more easily committed to memory. But as the poetical historian improves in the art of conveying information, the authenticity of his narrative unavoidably declines. He is tempted to dilate and dwell upon the events that are interesting to his imagination, and, conscious how indifferent his audience is to the naked truth of his poem, his history gradually becomes a romance. It is in this situation that those epics are found, which have been generally regarded as the standards of poetry; and it has happened somewhat strangely, that the moderns have pointed out as the characteristics and peculiar excellences of narrative poetry, the very circumstances which the authors themselves adopted, only because their art involved the duties of the historian as well as the poet. It cannot be believed, for example, that Homer selected the siege of Troy as the most appropriate subject for poetry; his purpose was to write the early history of his country: the event he has chosen, though not very fruitful in varied incident, nor perfectly well adapted for poetry, was nevertheless combined with traditionary and genealogical anecdotes extremely interesting to those who were to listen to him, and this he has adorned by the exertions of a genius, which, if it has been equalled, has certainly never been surpassed. It was not till comparatively a late period that the general accuracy of his narrative, or his purpose in composing it, was brought into question. Δοκεῖ πρῶτος ὁ ̓Αναξαγόρας καθά φησι Φαβορῖνος ἐν παντοδαπῇ Ιστορία) τὴν Ὁμήρου ποίησιν ἀποφήνασθαι εἶναι περὶ ἀρετῆς καὶ δικαιοouvns. But whatever theories might be framed by speculative men, his work was of an historical, not of an allegorical nature. Ἐναυτίλλετο μετὰ τοῦ Μέντεω, καὶ ὅπου ἐκάστοτε ἀφίκοιτο πάντα τὰ ἐπιχώρια διεωρᾶτο, καὶ ἱστορέων ἐπυνθάνετο εἰκὸς δέ μιν ἦν καὶ μνημόσυνα πάντων γράφ εσθαι. Instead of recommending the choice of a subject similar to that of Homer, it was to be expected that critics should have exhorted the poets of these later days to adopt or invent a narrative in itself more susceptible of poetical ornament, and to avail themselves of that advantage in order to compensate, in some degree, the inferiority of genius. The contrary course has been inculcated by almost all the writers upon the Epopaia; with what success the fate of Homer's numerous imitators may best show. The ultimum si.pplicium of criticism was inflicted on the author if he did not choose a subject which at once deprived him of all claim to originality, and placed him, if not in actual contest, at least in a fatal comparison with those giants in the land, whom it was most his interest to avoid. The celebrated receipt for writing an epic poem, which appeared in the Guardian, was the first instance in which common sense was applied to this department of poetry; and indeed, if the question be considered on its own merits, we must be satisfied that narrative poetry, if strictly confined to the great occurrences of history, would be deprived of the individual interest which it is so well calculated to excite. Modern poets may therefore be pardoned in seeking simpler subjects of verse, more interesting in proportion to their simplicity. Two or three figures, well grouped, suit the artist better than a crowd, for whatever purpose assembled. For the same reason, a scene immediately presented to the imagination, and directly brought home to the feelings, though involving the fate of but one or two persons, is more favourable for poetry than the political struggles and convulsions which influence the fate of kingdoms. The former are within the reach and comprehension of all, and if depicted with vigour, seldom fail to fix attention: the other, if more sublime, are more vague and distant, less capable of being distinctly understood, and infinitely less capable of exciting those sentiments which it is the very purpose of poetry to inspire. To generalise is always to destroy effect. We would, for example, be more interested in the fate of an individual soldier in combat, than in the grand events of a general action; with the happiness of two lovers raised from misery and anxiety to peace and union, than with the successful exertions of a whole nation. From what causes this may originate, is a separate and obviously an immaterial consideration. Before ascribing this peculiarity to causes decidedly and odiously selfish, it is proper to recollect, that while men see only a limited space, and while their affections and conduct are regulated, not by aspiring at an universal good, but by exerting their power of making themselves and others happy within the limited scale allotted to each individual, so long will individual history and individual virtue be the readier and more accessible road to general interest and attention; and perhaps we may add, that it is the more useful, as well as the more accessible, inasmuch as it affords an example capable of being easily imitated. According to the author's idea of Romantic Poetry, as distinguished from Epic, the former comprehends a fictitious narrative, framed and combined at the pleasure of the writer; beginning and ending as he may judge best; which neither exacts nor refuses the use of supernatural machinery; which is free from the technical rules of the Epee, and is subject only to those which good sense, good taste, and good morals, apply to every species of poetry without exception. The date may be in a remote age, or in the present; the story may detail the adventures of a prince or of a peasant. In a word, the author is absolute master of his country and its inhabitants, and everything is permitted to him, excepting to be heavy or prosaic, for which, free and unem barrassed as he is, he has no manner of apology. Those, it is probable, will be found the peculiarities of this species of composition: and, before joining the outcry against the vitiated taste that fosters and encourages it, the justice and grounds of it ought to be made perfectly apparent. If the want of sieges and battles and great military evolutions in our poetry is complained of, let us reflect, that the campaigns and heroes of our days are perpetuated in a record that neither requires nor admits of the aid of fiction; and if the complaint refers to the inferiority of our bards, let us pay a just tribute to their modesty, limiting them, as it does, to subjects which, however indifferently treated, have still the interest and charm of novelty, and which thus prevents them from adding insipidity to their other more insuperable defects. INTRODUCTION. I. COME, Lucy! while 'tis morning hour, We shelter in our poplar bower, Where dew lies long upon the flower, Though vanished from the velvet grass, For here, compelled to disunite, Round petty isles the runnels glide, A dry-shod pass from side to side. 2. Nay, why this hesitating pause? Like thine though timid, light, and slim, That this same stalwart arm of mine, Of form so slender, light and fine.- 3. And now we reach the favourite glade, To break Affection's whispering tone, That fain would spread the invidious tale, Noble in birth, in fortunes high, 4. How deep that blush!-how deep that sigh! Than the dull glance of common men, Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, And shared with Love the crimson glow, For Love, too, has his hours of schooling. 5. Too oft my anxious eye has spied Too oft, when through the splendid hall, Thou wouldst not yield, for wealth or rank, To meet a rival on a throne: Why, then, should vain repinings rise, A nobler name, a wide domain, 6. My sword- -its master must be dumb Is there to love and honour true, That boasts a pulse so warm as mine? They praised thy diamonds' lustre rareMatched with thine eyes, I thought it faded; They praised the pearls that bound thy hairI only saw the locks they braided; They talked of wealthy dower and land, And titles, of high birth the token— I thought of Lucy's heart and hand, Nor knew the sense of what was spoken. And yet, if ranked in Fortune's roll, I might have learned their choice unwise, Who rate the dower above the soul, And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes. 7. My lyre--it is an idle toy, That borrows accents not its own, That sings but in a mimic tone. For Lucy loves,-like COLLINS, ill-starred name! Should hang it o'er his monument when dead,-- |