Text: Various, Review of Samuel Rogers, Poems, Graham's Magazines, December 1843, pp. 317-319

[page 317:]

Review of New Books.

Poems by Samuel Rogers. With Numerous Illustrations. A New Edition, Revised, with Additions by the Author. Philadelphia, Lea & Blanchard, 1843.

Such a quiet attribute as taste is not very efficient at a period like the present. And yet it is one of those qualities which go far toward perpetuating a poem as well as a statue or painting. We are now so accustomed to look for the rare and striking in literature, that the very principle which harmonizes and stamps with enduring beauty the effusions of mind, is scarcely appreciated. It is chiefly to the past that we must look for poetic taste. Recent bards have but seldom done justice to the form and manner of their writings. There is something, however, in a refined style and tasteful execution not unworthy the highest genius. It is due at least to that magic vehicle of ideas which we call language, that it should be wrought and polished into a shape fitted to enshrine the glowing image and the lofty thought. Many a work, the sentiment of which is without significance in this busy age, continues to delight from its artistical excellence, and much of the literature of the day, that bears the impress of genius, is destined to speedy oblivion, from its unfinished and ill-constructed diction. There is no little scope for sweet fancy and delicate feeling in the use of language. Not in his ideas and figures alone is the poet manifest. Indeed, it is as rare to find a good artist in the sphere of words and sentences as in that of marble and colors. Some ingenious philosophers have pointed out analogies between styles of writing and character, which suggest a much more delicate relation between the mind and its verbal expression than we generally suppose. Taste is no minor element of poetry; and the want of it has often checked the musical flow of gifted spirits, and rendered their development wholly unattractive. The epithet healthy has been applied with great meaning to a book. Of the same efficacy is taste in poetic efforts. It renders them palatable and engaging, it wins our regard immediately and gives double zest to the more imposing charms of the work. It is like a fine accompaniment in music; the sentiment of the song is heightened, and we cannot thenceforth even read it without a peculiar association of pleasure. Rogers is distinguished by no quality more obviously than that of taste. His general characteristics are not very impressive or startling. There are few high reflective beauties, such as win reverence for the bard of Rydal Mount, and scarcely an inkling of the impassioned force of Childe Harold. We are not warmed in his pages, by the lyric fire of Campbell, or softened by the tender rhapsodies of Burns; and yet the poetry of Rogers is very pleasing. It gains upon the heart by gentle encroachments. It commends itself by perfect freedom from rugged, strained and unskillful versification. It is, for the most part, so flowing and graceful that it charms us unaware. Without brilliant flashes or luxuriant imagery, it is still clear, free and harmonious. It succeeds by virtue of simplicity, by unpretending beauty, in a word, by the genuine taste which guides the poet both in his eye for the beautiful and the expression of his feelings. Great ideas are not often encountered in his poems, but purity of utterance and a true refinement of sentiment everywhere abound. [column 2:]

There is perhaps no Englishman who, by such universal consent, is more worthy the appellation of a man of taste. This tone of mind is the more remarkable, inasmuch as it has no connection with professional life. The ostensible pursuit of Mr. Rogers has no reference to his intellectual bias, except in having furnished him the means of mental gratification. Like his transatlantic prototype in the brotherhood of song, a good portion of his life is, or has been,

— “to life's coarse service sold,

Where thought lies barren, and naught breeds but gold.”

His taste is the spontaneous and native quality of a refined mind. It has made him a discriminating collector of literary treasures and trophies of art, the liberal patron of struggling genius, the correspondent of the gifted and the renowned, and the centre of a circle where wit and wisdom lend wings to time. It is in contemplating such a life as this that the most philosophic and unworldly may be forgiven for breathing a sigh for that wealth, which a cultivated man can thus render the source of such noble enjoyment. And yet the very feeling that such an example awakens is an evidence of its rarity. How seldom in a mercantile community do we find fortune associated with taste, a competence with a mind able to enjoy and improve leisure, the means of dispensing worthy delight, with a benevolent and judicious character. An exception to the prevailing rule is presented by our poet; and even those who have not participated in his elegant hospitality and graceful companionship, may realize that pervading taste whence is derived their peculiar charm, by communing with the mind of the classic banker, in the sweet effusions of his muse.

The excellent taste of Rogers is exhibited in his simplicity. He does not seek for that false effect which is produced by labored epithets and unusual terms. He is content to use good Saxon phraseology, and let his meaning appear through the transparent medium of common but appropriate words. He recognizes the truth that distinct and clear enunciation of thought is the most beautiful, and that a writer's superiority is best evinced by the mice adaptation of language to sentiment. Obvious as such a primciple is, there is none more commonly violated by the more showy minstrels of this generation, who seem to place great reliance on a kind of verbal mysticism, a vagueness of speech which, upon examination, proves but the dazzling attire of commonplace ideas. Instances of this simplicity are of frequent occurrence in the poems of Rogers. Their value is illustrated by the quiet emphasis of single lines, which, like a masterly stroke of the pencil, appear so felicitous that no revision can improve them. A few random examples will suffice —

When nature pleased, for life itself was new,

And the heart promised what the fancy drew.

——

How oft, when purple evening tinged the west,

We watched the emmet to her grainy nest,

Welcomed the wild bee home on weary wing,

Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring !

How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme

The bark now silvered by the touch of Time;

Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid,

Through sister elms that waved their summer shade; [page 318:]

Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,

To lure the redbreast from her lone retreat :

——

When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car,

Comes slowly on to meet the evening star.

——

Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife,

And all the dull impertinence of life.

——

Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,

Quickening my truant feet across the lawn.

——

But not till Time has calmed the ruffled breast,

And those fond dreams of happiness confest,

Not till the rushing winds forget to race

In Heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave.

With all due admiration for the loftier flights of the Muse, we cannot revert to the purer school of poetic diction which Rogers represents, without a feeling of refreshment. The simple, the correct, the clear and nervous style of versification has an intrinsic charm. The genuine taste in which it originates and to which it ministers, is an instinct of refined natures. It is the same principle that makes a Grecian temple more truly admirable in its chaste proportions and uniform tint, than all the brilliant hues and combinations of a Catholic church; and renders a classic statue more pleasing and impressive than the most ingenious mechanism. And it is from the same cause that the paintings of the Roman and Tuscan schools leave more vivid traces on the memory than the gorgeous triumphs of Venetian art. By virtue of their confidence in the feeling or thought to be presented, men of real taste are ever true to simplicity. They rely on the plain statement and the reader's imagination, and produce by a single comparison or remark an impression which more elaborate terms would greatly weaken. For instance, when Rogers describes the scenery of the Alps, speaking of one of those pools that have so dark an appearance amid the surrounding whiteness, he says —

— in that dreary dale,

If dale it might be called, so near to Heaven,

A little lake, where never, fish leaped up,

Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow.

How completely is a sense of the dreariness and ebon hue of these mountain ponds conveyed, and by what natural illustrations. The diminutive size of St. Helena is thus indicated —

— a rock so small,

Amid the countless multitude of waves,

That ships have gone and sought it, and returned,

Saying it was not.

The wild solitude of the convent of St. Bernard has been often described, as well as its awful place of sepulture. Do not these few lines gives us a remarkably vivid idea of those who “perished miserably?”

Side by side,

Within they lie, a mournful company,

All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them,

In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change,

Though the barred windows, barred against the wolf,

Are always open!

Speaking of the festive preparations on St. Mary's Eve, how expressive is this single circumstance —

— all arrived;

And in his straw the prisoner turned and listened,

So great the stir in Venice.

Whoever has visited that extraordinary city will feel that it is pictured by Rogers, not in the most glowing, yet in a style of graphic truth, which accords perfectly with the real scene —

There is a glorious City of the Sea.

The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,

Ebbing and flowing: and the salt sea-weed

Clings to the marble of her palaces.

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,

Ilead to her gates. The path lies o’er the sea,

Invisible; and from the land we went

As to a floating city — steering in,

And gliding up her streets as in a dream,

So smoothly, silently — by many a dome

Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,

The statues ranged along an azure sky;

By many a pile of more than Eastern splendor,

Of old the residence of merchant kings:

The fronts of some, though Time ha shattered them,

Still glowing with the richest hues of art,

As though the wealth within them had run o’er.

In an argument we have need of strong epithets, and to rouse men on an abstract theme, fervid appeals are unavoidable, but in view of the marvels of art or the sublimities of nature, what call is there for exaggeration? To the true soul is not the fact sufficient? Cam expletives and strained metaphors add to the native interest of such objects? Are they not themselves poetry? Is not the poet's office in relation to them, to give us as true a picture as may be, that we too may thrill with wonder or revel in beauty? Even in portraying deep emotion our great dramatist was satisfied to place in Macduff's mouth — “He has no children.” And it is equally true to human nature, for Rogers to speak of Ginevra's bereaved father as

An old man wandering in quest of something,

Something he could not find — he knew not what.

Another evidence of the good judgment of Rogers may be found in the fact that he has published so little. It is the fashion to chide the authors of a few successful poems for their idleness. Some deem it a very pretty compliment to say of a poet that his only fault is that he has not written more. But such praise is equivocal, to say the least. It betrays a singular ignorance of the very nature of poetry, which may be defined as an art above the will. Doubtless if fine poems were as easily produced as fine rail-roads, it would be incumbent on the makers thereof to be very industrious in their vocation. But as the activity of the fancy and the flow of thought are but occasionally felicitous, some degree of reverence should be accorded the poet who having once struck the lyre to a masterly strain, thenceforth meekly refrains from any rash meddling with its chords, without that authority which his own heart can alone vouchsafe. Occasional witticisms have been indulged in reference to the coyness and care with which the bard of Memory woos the Muses. To a delicate and considerate mind such a course approves itself far more than the opposite. How many desirable reputations have been sacrificed to the morbid vanity of unceasing authorship ! The creative power of every intellect is limited, its peculiar vein is soon exhausted, and its most ethereal powers not to be too frequently invoked without vapid results. We have heard of an old lady who had a celebrated bishop to dine with her every Sunday, and invariably on these occasions, his worship inquired how her ladyship would have the punch made; to which polite query, the good woman always gave the same judicious reply — “Make a little, bishop, but make it good.” Such a rule would often serve as well for poetry as for punch.

Rogers, in point of execution, belongs to the same category as Goldsmith. He has the requisite insight to copy from nature what is really adapted to poetical objects, to harmonize and enliven his pencilings with genial sentiment, and finally to present them in a form that charms the ear and imagination. The spirit of his poetry is not of the highest order. His talent is artistical rather than inventive. He is a clear delineator rather than a creative genius. A remarkable contrast is presented by his “Italy” and the [page 319:] fourth canto of Childe Harold. The former gives us a just and sweet picture of the graces and griefs of that beautiful land, as they were reflected in the mind of an amiable man of taste; the latter displays the same country, seen through the medium of an impassioned and self-occupied soul. Rogers looked upon the vale and river, the palace and the statue, the past and present associations of Italy, from the calm watch-tower of a serene consciousness; Byron surveyed those scenes as a restless seeker for peace, with a mind too excited and unsatisfied not to mingle with and color every fact and object with which it came in contact. There is a wild and melancholy beauty in Harold's musings that appeals to our deepest sympathy; repose and pleasurable calm in those of Rogers, that soothes and diverts us. Something of tragic impression and strong personal interest carries us along with Byron in his pilgrimage, while a quiet attachment and agreeable fellowship win us to follow the steps of Rogers.

The blank verse of “Italy” is of a somewhat uncommon description. In English poetry, this species of metre has generally been written in a sustained and dignified manner, and some passages of Shakspeare and Milton prove that there is no style so fitted for sublime effect. Rogers essayed to give a more easy and familiar construction to blank verse, and the attempt was remarkably successful. Occasionally the lines are prosaic, and scarcely elevated to the tone of legitimate verse; but often there is a natural and sweet cadence which is worthy of the most harmonious bard. The example, too, has obviously tended to chasten and render more simple the management of this kind of verse. In this respect, Rogers has illustrated blank verse as Hunt has the heroic measure. They have exemplified a less stilted and artificial use of poetic language. The poem of the former has, indeed, an epistolary character. It is precisely such a series of genial sketches as an artist might send his friends from a foreign country — light, graceful and true to nature, but pretending to no great or elaborate conceptions. In this, as in his other efforts, Rogers is often somewhat tame, and frequently lacks fire and point; but the mass of what he has published is conceived and executed in such an unassuming and tasteful spirit, that the reader has no disposition to magnify his defects. His minor poems have a very unpretending air, and remind us somewhat of the “copies of verses” that cavaliers were accustomed to indite for the gratification of friend or mistress. The prettiest and most characteristic of these occasional poems is, perhaps, that entitled “A Wish.”

Mine be a cot beside the hill,

A bee-hive's hum to soothe my ear;

A willowy brook, that turns a mill,

With many a fall shall linger near.

——

The swallow oft beneath my thatch

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

——

Around my ivyed porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing

In russet gown and apron blue.

——

The village church among the trees,

Where our first marriage vows were given,

With merry peals shall swell the breeze,

And point with taper spire to heaven.

To Rogers we must accord a true moral feeling. The cordial friend, the man of native literary sympathies and domestic tastes, are ever reflected in his pages. He has a kindly and liberal heart as well as an intellectual spirit. There are more imposing names on the scroll of poetic [column 2:] fame, but few who have a better claim to love and respect. He is not without a poet's ambition —

Oh could my mind, unfolded in my page,

Enlighten climes and mould a future age;

Oh could it still, through each succeeding year,

My life, my manners and my name endear!

The latter aspiration has already met its fulfillment. The clearness and elegance, the quiet ardor and urbane sentiment that appear in his verse, are too candid and winning not to excite interest. Our attachment to the higher and more affecting species of poetry does not militate with, but rather enhances our sympathy with the quiet graces of his muse. The delight with which we tread the sea-shore and listen to the dashing billows does not prevent us from reposing with pleasure beside the calm lake, to watch the clouds reflected in its bosom, or the flowers that hang their fragrant urns around its brink.