Poems on Several Occasions by Joseph Addison, published in London in 1719, is a collection of Latin poems, many of which are accompanied by English translations. The volume also includes a “Dissertation Upon The Roman Poets,” offering critical commentary on classical and contemporary Latin verse. The collection showcases Addison’s poetic range, from philosophical odes to mock-heroic narratives, reflecting the Augustan era’s engagement with classical forms and themes.
Addison’s Poetic Range and Classical Imitation
The Augustan Age and the Revival of Latin Poetry
The collection “Poems on Several Occasions” by Mr. Addison, published in London in 1719, opens with a preface that immediately situates the author’s work within a rich literary tradition. The preface begins by celebrating the Augustan Age and the subsequent efforts of Italian scholars, particularly those under the patronage of the House of Medici, to revive and emulate the finest Roman poets. This period, coinciding with the era of Leo the Tenth, saw a flourishing of brilliant minds dedicated to refining the “barbarity” and “rust” of an age marked by ignorance. Their success was considerable, leading to a re-establishment of the Muses in their ancient domain, with their best works compiled in a volume titled “Poetæ Italici.” Among these, Vida stands out for his purity and elegance, though his constant imitation of Virgil drew some criticism.
The preface then extends this discussion to other European nations. The French, it notes, produced little of comparable significance in this style, with Rapin being a notable exception. Rapin’s poems, while exhibiting a Roman sensibility, differed from Vida’s in their approach to imitation; Rapin aimed to capture Virgil’s manner of expression rather than directly borrowing his phrases, a distinction famously encapsulated by Mr. Dryden’s remark on Ben Jonson: “One imitates him most, and t’other best.” The Dutch also contributed significantly to Latin poetry through figures like Grotius and Heinsius. Buchanan, however, is singled out as the “just boast of the Scottish nation,” lauded for his mastery of the Latin tongue and his ability to infuse his own poems with its nuances and beauties. The author laments that Buchanan’s “De Sphæra,” a noble poem on a challenging subject, is often overlooked by modern critics, whom he dismisses as mere “Borrowers of other Opinions,” relying on the “Plunder of Scaliger and Rapin” rather than engaging with original works. These critics, he argues, offer praise “upon trust,” remaining ignorant of the true merits or flaws they either commend or ignore.
Addison’s Contribution and the Value of Classical Imitation
Turning to his own nation, the author identifies the “Occasional Copies in the University Collections,” particularly those in the “Musæ Anglicanæ,” as the pinnacle of English Latin poetry, though many other deserving pieces exist. Mr. Addison’s poems, selected from these as the most brilliant examples, have been translated into English to allow a wider, “unlearned” audience to appreciate them. The author posits that while being a good Latin poet is not a prerequisite for being a good English one, the act of imitating the Ancients in their original language fosters a deeper understanding of their thought processes, allowing one to gradually absorb their graces and then skillfully transplant them into the vernacular. This practice, he contends, yields “no vulgar Beauties in an English Poem,” citing Milton and Addison himself as prime examples of its successful application.
Many of Addison’s pieces, though considered perfect in their own right, are presented as early demonstrations of a burgeoning genius, following the ancient tradition of honing poetical strength through essays before tackling more ambitious subjects. The language throughout is characterized as pure, elegant, and resonant, with a fluid and varied versification that adapts well to diverse themes. It is notably free from affected turns of phrase, juvenile frivolity, or other stylistic weaknesses that betray poor taste or judgment. A discerning reader, the critic suggests, could already perceive the nascent promise of future masterpieces like “The Campaign” and “Cato” within these early works.
Mock-Heroic, Philosophical, and Lyrical Poems
The preface then delves into specific categories of Addison’s poems. “The Battel of the Pygmies and Cranes,” “The Puppet-Show,” and “The Bowling-Green” are grouped as mock-heroic. These poems take trivial and seemingly unpoetic subjects and elevate them to heroic stature through a “splendid boldness of expression,” grand verse, and metaphors, allusions, and similes drawn from more dignified realms, thereby conveying a sense of greatness and magnificence. Virgil’s Georgics are acknowledged as the supreme model for this style, with the crucial distinction that Virgil’s grandeur is serious, whereas Addison’s is mimetic, designed to evoke laughter rather than admiration.
“The Barometer” is highlighted as a philosophical poem, praised for its accurate depiction of the instrument’s interaction with air. The Odes to Dr. Burnett and Dr. Hannes are celebrated for embodying the true spirit of Horace, a feat rarely matched by modern poets, save for Horace’s own excellent odes. “The Resurrection” is described as a noble piece, skillfully crafted in the manner of a painter, with the translator having already offered commentary, leaving further observations to the reader.
Finally, “The Peace of Ryswick,” though placed last in this edition, was originally the first and is considered where Addison truly unleashed his full poetic powers. It is hailed as a masterpiece, distinguished by images chosen with exquisite judgment, developed with imaginative delicacy, and presented in the most striking light. Its descriptions are both precise and surprising, captivating the mind and surpassing expectations. The author acknowledges the inherent difficulty of finding Latin equivalents for modern battle concepts, given the evolution of warfare since Roman times, but asserts that Addison’s pen was uniquely capable of depicting these terrible scenes with fresh invention.
The translators, in their own brief note, express their hope that no excuse is needed for the reader, though they feel an apology is due to Addison himself, whose excellences their translations only faintly capture. Their justification lies in the fact that some of Addison’s works had previously suffered at the hands of less capable translators, resulting in distorted meaning and debased poetry. They aim to at least mitigate this damage, even if they cannot fully rectify it, by correcting many past abuses.
Ode to Dr. Thomas Burnett
The collection then presents “Ad insignissimum Virum D. D. THO. BURNETTUM. Sacræ Theoriæ Telluris Autorem. Jo. Addison, e Coll. Magd. Oxon. 1699.” This Latin ode, addressed to Dr. Thomas Burnett, author of “Sacred Theory of the Earth,” extols Burnett’s profound insights into the earth’s creation and ultimate destruction. It contrasts his scientific pursuit of truth with popular misconceptions, vividly describing the earth’s foundations crumbling, waters erupting, and the ensuing chaos where whales glimpse the sun’s reflection and stars appear to float. The ode marvels at Burnett’s descriptive power, questioning who could read of the earth’s impending ruin without trembling. It foresees a future where nature reshapes mountain fragments and Jupiter unleashes sulfurous storms, culminating in a universal conflagration where Burnett’s writings will add to the inferno. The poem concludes by envisioning a renewed earth, smooth and verdant, adorned with perpetual flowers, and hails Burnett as a citizen of this regenerated world.
An English translation, “An ODE to Dr. BURNETT,” follows, faithfully mirroring the Latin original’s themes. It addresses Burnett as an explorer of nature’s origins, one who reveals its fractured structure and scorns learned fables in favor of hidden truths. The translation recounts the breaking of the earth’s foundations, the overflowing seas, and the subsequent floating debris. It then paints a picture of new heavens where whales gaze at stars and the moon beneath the waves. The translator praises Burnett’s powerful verse, grand ideas, and vigor. The ode continues to describe the earth’s renewal from a new mold, only to face a second destruction by fiery storms and molten flames, consuming worlds and humanity. Hills melt, and rocks flow like streams. Finally, the earth blooms anew with fragrant dews and springs, but the igniting celestial bodies signal nature’s end, feeding the triumphant fire. The ode concludes by commending Burnett’s thoughtful mind, capable of both creating and destroying worlds, asserting that every world will celebrate his fame, and he who enchanted the old world will grace the new.
Ode to Dr. Hannes
Next is “Ad D. D. HANNES. Insignissimum Medicum & Poetam. Jo. Addison, e Coll. Magd. Oxon. 1699,” a Latin ode dedicated to Dr. Hannes, a distinguished physician and poet. The ode urges Hannes to set aside his serious work and worries, to relax with wine, and to remember the figures of William and Montague. It advises him against jeopardizing his own health through excessive caution in healing others. The poem suggests that his efforts to control feverish blood, explore veins, or study chemical remedies and herbal powers are ultimately futile, as all are destined for the grave. It predicts that Hannes, despite his art, will eventually join the fabled ghosts, though perhaps fewer in number due to his skill, and that victorious Death will ultimately claim its conqueror. The ode concludes by praising the happier life of those who are not overly anxious, who enjoy the tranquil order of Aventium, and find contentment with friends and innocent pleasures.
The English translation, “An ODE to Dr. HANNES,” follows, addressing Hannes as one who gently plays the lyre, inspires the harp with soft melodies, and skillfully brings fleeting ghosts back to life. It questions whether his brilliance lies in graceful verse or in exploring the cold body in death, acknowledging his skill but noting its inability to fully restore. It encourages him to abandon his scholarly toil, relax his brow with wine, and forget his worries, urging him to be kind to himself and not to lack the vitality he imparts to others. It suggests he draw inspiration from his monarch’s glory, Nassau, or commemorate the patriot Montague. The poem asserts that his efforts to quell turbulent blood, examine veins for fever, or seek remedies in healing flowers are in vain, as neither he nor his art can grant eternal youth or protection from the grave. It declares that all must face a predetermined fate when the soul ascends to the heavens and sons mourn their loss. It foretells that Hannes, too, will encounter the fabled ghosts, fewer though they may be due to his art, and that Death, whose power he defies, will boast that even its conqueror can die. The ode concludes by describing the blessed life of one free from sorrow, enjoying cheerful ease and harmless joy, not adding to his own burdens, and happily spending his remaining years with chosen friends and innocent delights.
The Battle of the Pygmies and Cranes
The collection then presents “PYGMÆO-GERANO-MACHIA, SIVE, PRÆLIUM INTER PYGMÆOS & GRUES commiſſum,” a Latin poem titled “The Battle between the Pygmies and the Cranes.” The author declares his intention to describe the conflict between the Pygmies, their small armies, and the menacing beaks of the Cranes, celebrating this clash between tiny soldiers and birds. He notes that the Muses have already exhausted their efforts on the grand spirits and tragic wars of heroes like the Greek youths, Theseus, Achilles, Aeneas, William, the Theban brothers, and the lamentable fate of Pompey. The author proclaims himself the first to depict untouched armies and the faint sound of trumpets in song, venturing into new camps to sing of the small warriors and their avian adversaries.
The Latin text then elaborates on this mock-heroic theme, recounting the history of a Pygmy empire in India, nestled in a pleasant valley amidst rugged rocks. These Pygmies were industrious, cultivating their land with various skills. Now, however, a traveler finds only deserted homes and valleys strewn with tiny bones, marveling at miniature footprints, as victorious Cranes hold the desolate kingdom, nesting securely. This was not always the case; for many years, the small Pygmy progeny was unconquerable. In those days, any bird daring to engage in close combat would be met by a fierce soldier who would strike it down, carry the huge prey on his shoulders, and feast on the slain enemy. Often, Pygmies would ambush Cranes, destroy their nests, or avenge themselves on the parents through their offspring. Whenever a Crane skillfully built a nest or laid its eggs, a Pygmy soldier, with a menacing expression, would immediately devastate it, killing the innocent young and cutting short their imperfect lives while still in the warm egg. These actions ignited fatal wars, with battle lines drawn for death, leading to widespread slaughter of both birds and men, and a confused image of death. The passage asserts that even the Maeonian Bard (Homer) did not portray such grand movements or memorable war in his sublime poem (Batrachomyomachia), which depicted a swamp filled with noise and arms, mice transfixed by reeds, and a frog lamenting with a hoarse throat, crawling on three legs after a severed knee.
A day arrived when the Pygmies regretted the slaughter of the young and wished the eggs had been left untouched. Enraged, a Crane, full of indignation, erupted in severe anger. Cranes from the Strymonis river, the Mareotidis swamp, and the wet meadows of the lower Cayster gathered. Cranes from the Scythian swamp and the Ister river descended, contemplating immense slaughter and wounds even in their absence. They sharpened their talons, prepared their sharp beaks, and adjusted their wings for flight, driven by a great love of war and a desire for vengeance. When spring came, the army of Cranes, suspended high in the air, created a din with their flapping wings. Innumerable Cranes surveyed vast stretches of land and distant seas, soaring through the North Wind and clouds. The vast ether constantly fluctuated with their frequent flapping, and the entire sky was filled with continuous tumult.
No less activity occurred on the ground, as the energetic Pygmy leader prepared for war, arranged his army, strengthened his phalanxes, and raged spiritedly with weapons in hand. This leader, venerable in majesty and grave in gait, surpassed all others in his gigantic stature, rising half an ell tall. His appearance was sterner, his face scarred by hostile talons, and his honest countenance bore marks of beaks and raw bites on his chest. He waged eternal war with immortal hatred against the race of birds; no bird could attack him with impunity. How often he drew his fatal sword against the Cranes, lopping off their wings and preventing their swift flight! How much slaughter he caused! What funerals he brought upon naked chicks! How often he filled the Strymon with lamentation!
Now, a sound is heard from afar, and a black cloud of flying birds appears, bringing war and enemies. The huge army of birds, arranged in various formations, finally grows denser and presents itself in great numbers, fanning the dark air with moving wings. The multitude fills the sky, its immense appearance overshadowing the Pygmy armies, clinging in dense clouds. Now dense, but soon thinner as they return to their native lands. The Pygmies burn with eagerness for war, looking up at the enemy with fierce eyes. Soon, the heavy mass descends rapidly, bringing war to those who hoped for it. A crash occurs; plucked feathers fly around in the air. Soon, the exhausted birds rise again on light wings, and, with renewed strength, seek the ground again with impetus. The fortune of arms hangs in the balance: here a bird, fixed by a spear, furiously twists in a bloody rotation, aiming its weak beak at the enemy and retracting its curved talons in death. Here, a Pygmy’s blood slowly drips from a wound, causing frequent gasps, and he beats the ground with his tiny feet, cursing the sharp talon as he dies. The entire ground seethes with noise and blushes with warm blood; swords are scattered, and wings are scattered, and talons and fingers, and beaks mixed with arms.
The Pygmy leader rages and burns amidst thousands, surrounded far and wide by the scattered bodies of dying Cranes. He wanders amidst death, neither falling from the flapping of wings nor the strike of a beak. He is the terror of the Cranes; the densest battle rages around him, and the entire war focuses on him alone. Then, suddenly, in an unexpected tumult (as the Gods willed), a huge and formidable bird seized the fighting leader with its feet and carried him into the sky (a sad thing to relate). The warrior hangs suspended from its talons, and a dense globe of birds surrounds him with noise. In vain, the Pygmies lament their king among the clouds with mournful eyes, and see their fierce leader, now smaller, as food for the applauding Cranes. Now the war intensifies again; a Crane from above presses with its beak and attacks the enemy with a bite from on high. Then it flies high away; the Pygmy throws his arms upwards, impatient with the wound, and rages at the empty air. Such was the face of the war when huge Pelion was cast from its foundations into the sky, and Briareus would hurl Jove headlong, scattering thunderbolts and rocks throughout the air. Flaming weapons were hurled downwards by Jove’s hand, while the vast bodies of the Giants lay scattered and smoked, half-burnt with sulfur. With their strength completely exhausted, the Pygmy armies finally languished. Therefore, some turned their backs, struck by horrible fear, while others raised a tiny voice. The Cubitalis (Pygmy) people wandered far and wide. The birds pressed from behind, tearing and dragging them mercilessly, determined to exterminate the accursed race. Thus, the Pygmy house, which had ruled for many years, survived so many wars, and rejoiced in so many triumphs over the Cranes, utterly perished. Indeed, a certain end awaits all kingdoms at last; there are definite limits beyond which it is forbidden to pass. Thus, the Assyrian Empire once fell, and thus the great Persia from its depths. Now, mixed with the shades of mighty heroes slain, the small populace wanders through the empty Elysian valleys and mingles with the grand shades of ancient heroes. Or, if an old fable deserves any credit, shepherds often see tiny shadows, Pygmies without bodies, through the darkness of night. The light crowd is entirely devoid of joy, indulging in dances, leaping, and rejoicing in the Lemures. This section is attributed to Jo. Addiſon, M. A. E col. Magd. Oxon. 1699.
The Barometer
The Latin text then transitions to a “BAROMETRI Descriptio,” a description of a barometer, referred to as a “Weather-Glass.” It details the preparation of a glass tube by expelling denser air and allowing a pool of mercury to settle at the bottom. This mobile metal descends when rain is impending and rises when heat demands it, emerging to occupy the void and filling the entire tube. The conscious liquid then indicates the state of the sky and future weather, foretelling winter and cold. When the liquid rises and its former banks cannot contain it in the glass channel, one can hope for joyful days, the fields declare summer, and laugh with widely diffused light. But if the silvery liquid rises excessively and, too much compressed, strives towards the heights of the glass, then the herbs thirst, the flame cooks out the fertile juices, and the meadows languish with consumed greenery. However, when the earth’s vents emit thin mists, and moist vapors float over the waters, providing food for future rain, then the molten weight descends. The Ardea (heron) is no surer in indicating humid skies when, flying through the middle regions of the ether, it enjoys the thick upper air and scatters the dewy clouds with its wet wings. Now, drops agglomerate, cold compacts dispersed particles, and moisture gathers into a cloud. The meadows turn green, the ether irrigates the crops with fertile rains, and supplies nourishment to the thirsty roots. But when the metallic liquid descends more than usual and loves the bottom, impatient for rain and fearing a storm, farmers should beware. The colonist does not observe this with impunity; soon, the air, pregnant with vapors, will show collected winters and a noisy storm. But even if the silver, lifted by the incumbent mass, subsides and hides itself deep in the cavity, everything else swells. Rivers, overflowing their banks, rush out, and a deluge foams with surging waves, a rapid and unrestrained license of the sea. The marvelous glass keeps no secrets of the sky, but reveals the various faces and times of the heavens. It foretells when one will walk safely with a thin covering, and when one will hope for fire in the cold. Relying on this omen, even if the dark clouds of the black sky break the day and threaten rain, if the machine denies it and promises serenity, swains may safely go beneath the hanging shower and fearlessly mow. This faithful glass defies the wrath of heaven, makes winter pointless, and disarms the skies. Frosts, colds, and tempests, when prepared by this, fall innocent and meet us on our guard.
The Puppet-Show
The collection then presents “MACHINAE GESTICULANTES” (Latin) and its English translation, “THE PUPPET-SHOW,” by Jo. Addiſon, A. B. c Coll. Magd. Oxon. 1699. The English poem sings of trivial things, surprising scenes, and a race devoid of thought and minds, whose frames were built free from ancient guilt by a better new Prometheus.
The Destructive Power of War and the Promise of Peace
The collection opens with a Latin verse, painting a vivid picture of military might and its devastating effects. It describes the swift destruction of fortresses and the humble town of Namur, brought low by a diligent hand. The imagery evokes a youthful fervor for battle, with flames of passion rising in a young man’s breast, his cheeks flushed with an “amiable horror.” The poem then shifts to a more reflective tone, questioning who possesses the poetic skill to immortalize the grandeur of Augusta, where even the canals are stained purple. It asks who will chronicle the fall of stars, the fragile sky, the torn paper of absurd crossroads, the spoils of sulfur, and the empty tubes of bitumen, suggesting a world in disarray.
The scene then transforms, as a distant night is illuminated by an unnatural light, a shower of brilliance falling everywhere. Crackling stars twinkle, raining fires across the entire sky. On earth, Vulcan, the god of fire, crafts a thousand figures: fire-breathing beasts and shining monsters with terrifying forms. He imitates the rough limbs of a lion, its mane shaking with twisted flames, and a slippery serpent glides, hissing with fire. This intense imagery of creation and destruction, both celestial and earthly, sets a dramatic stage for the subsequent reflections on human conflict.
Amidst this chaos, a secure citizen finds profound joy and pleasure, having cast aside fear. This individual commands the winds, leading a fleet across the farthest reaches of the world with impunity, navigating the seas with newfound freedom. He observes fields bristling with the swords of Cancer, constrained by ice, or chooses to unfurl his sails to the fragrant south wind, which mingles incense-laden breezes and perfumes the air with gentle odors. This contrast between the citizen’s serene journey and the earlier scenes of destruction highlights the profound impact of peace.
The poem then addresses the “illustrious souls of heroes and fresh shades,” whose bodies, still bearing crude wounds, secured this desired peace for the world. It implores them not to abandon their loyal support for their “NASSOVIAN leader,” but to encircle him with their customary presence and spread their ethereal ranks around him. It also speaks to MARIA, who never forgets her Britons, a goddess patiently awaiting her great husband. The plea is for her not to begrudge the earth its lord, even if the divine will detains him longer, ensuring a prolonged peace under his protection. The Latin section concludes with the author’s academic affiliation, “Addison A. M. e Coll. Magd. Oxon.”
A Poet’s Apology and the Dedication to Charles Montague
The text transitions to an English dedication addressed “To the Honourable Charles Montague, Esq; First Lord-Commissioner of the TREASURY; and Privy-Counsellor, Chancellor of the Exchequer.” The author, Addison, acknowledges that Montague’s ears are constantly assailed by inferior poets, suggesting that his own contribution will be no new burden. He expresses concern that his verse might debase the noble subject it addresses. Addison observes that while England excels in the art of war, its standing in the “politer Studies of Peace” is lamentably low, a fact evident from recently published verses. He credits Congreve’s “Divine, Poetical Fury” with saving “The Oxford Verses on the Peace” from being miserably handled. Addison admits that in criticizing others, he might appear to forget his own potential shortcomings, acknowledging that his Latin poem could also suffer. He states he has never experienced the torment of some poets who, in their own literary disputes, are the first to suffer. He hopes that the variety of his subject matter will nonetheless bring some pleasure to Montague.
The Peace of Reswick: A New Era of Tranquility
The poem “The PEACE of RESWICK” begins by announcing the cessation of battle’s tumult, as the earth embraces a softer song. It calls upon “Great LEOPOLD” to accept this peace, assuring him that no dreadful music or shouts will disturb his rest. The poem urges Leopold to calm his vengeful spirit, allowing wars to cease, nature to find repose, and an end to scenes of ruin and schemes of death. It advocates for abandoning the pursuit of fame and forgoing the dark laurels of victory. No longer will dire camps glitter, nor will swarming millions hide the crowded field; instead, “downy peace and solemn silence” will reign.
The narrative shifts to the peasant, who now cuts the turf with furrows, transforming the warlike mound. Ramparts, once formidable to the enemy, are now seen sinking and threatening as they rise. Over the fields of death, the waste of war, the peasant sighs and trembles. Richer blades of grass wave along the bulwarks, and green things emerge to strew the warriors’ graves. Luxuriant ears of corn are nourished by the fertile soil, with the harvest bending where soldiers once fell.
Distant worlds are invited to survey the ruins of the concluded war, marveling at wide, gaping walls and shattered towers, twisted by tempests of tumultuous fire. They explore the long trail of death, observing and deploring the warriors’ toil, while streams of blood still stain each current. Ormond’s wounds ennoble the plain. Where ramps remain moist with gore and stained with the dead, the Chief, his temple bound with laurel, defended Buda. He broke through the thickest troops, undeterred by floods of fire. Bursting shells and burning balls fall unnoticed around the hero as he rushes through dark flames into the fight. A ghastly breach opens in the yawning towers, still revealing astonishing broken ruins that hang enormously, casting shadows over the plain. Treacherous caves are discovered beneath the earth, where beds of sulfur swell the cavernous ground. Here, mingling hosts test their courage in vain, innocent of death, yet destined to die.
The poem continues, describing how the earth’s opening mouth hurls entire armies skyward, with the mangled limbs of heroes driven upwards, reeking in the air. Burning troops, abandoned to despair, ascend in flames and smoke. The red bolt, flaming from above, strikes downwards. Nature’s sad ruins surprise her children, who gaze upon her rugged form and mourn the loss of Great Pelion and the overthrow of Ossa’s height. Streams now wander, mistaking their course over craggy rocks, carving new banks and flowing through new channels.
The wild confusion is observed, with people searching for their former hills and vanished shades. Led by William’s fortune and fame, united worlds gathered to protect the Monarch. The sons of fair Helgia join the hardy Britons, along with nations nurtured beyond the Rhine. Faithful Austria dispatches millions of victorious forces from her shining towers. Eager Northern Bands conspire, and though they lack Phoebus’s light, they boast his fire. Swarthy troops, drawn to the great cause, forsake the day and leave their sun behind. From remote climes and distant skies, close-gathering bands surround the pious King. Worlds separated by nature unite, joining the Frozen Pole and the burning Line. Their languages differ, yet their swords agree, all drawn for Freedom and for William.
The poem then addresses “Great CODRINGTON,” a name dreaded in war, foremost in danger and first in fame. It declares that if Isis can imbue his worth with life, his name will escape the grave and live forever. While arts and arms combine to shape his youth, and Minerva’s influence shines in his every action, Isis reluctantly yields her prize, surrendering him to fame with weeping eyes. The faint sun is too weak to inspire his soul with vengeance and his breast with fire. His sultry India, where the God of Day shoots his burning ray directly, ripens his godlike vigor and bestows intense heat. From these benevolent beams came his kindling ardor, which lent the spark and nurtured it into a flame.
Nations untouched by the summer sun, rough with the enormous spoils of the shaggy bear, listen attentively to the story of his fame, forgetting their climate and glowing at William’s Name. Beneath their breasts, as his great battles unfold, each feels a new heat and burns beneath his Pole. His godlike deeds inspire each freezing arm, and warmed by him, they desire no other fire.
The poem then describes the Great Chief, whose empires stretch far and wide, bounded only by nature and oceans. He forsakes his snowy realms and chilling skies, observing the Hero with astonished eyes. His gaze explores the awesome Warrior, and in his looks, he re-reads his battles. The vast idea brings to his mind the forts he stormed and the millions he slew. Here, great Namur, and there the bleeding Boyne, swollen with slaughter, present their numerous dead. His thoughts race to Seneff in raptures, where both deserved the palm, which neither won. His demeanor is grand, his bearing majestic. Rising, he moves and awesomely leads the plain. Stern majesty sits lowering on his face, mingled with comely terror and a frowning grace.
This image is compared to Evander when his Royal Guest (dressed in a lion’s curling mane) joins his hand in leagues of holy friendship; thus fierce he looks, and thus majestic shines. As William’s deeds captivate the Hero, his heart beats quickly, and each bursting vein swells. The blood flows more sprightly in its circling rounds and bounds flaming through the purple channels. The Britons’ triumphs rising to his view, he glows, he fights, and seems to triumph too. In elated thought, he now disdains the foe and drives the Tartar across the Russian Plains.
Joyful shouts rise in the distance, piercing the air and filling the skies, doubling in intensity. The hollow shores echo with William’s Name, and echoing vales repeat the beloved sound. Fair Albion no longer reclines on the beach, augmenting the seas with tears and the wind with sighs. Nor does she chide the envious gale and angry main that so long detain her bliss from her eyes. The lingering bark no longer causes her woe, which, flying over the waves, is still slow. The vast fleet divides the parting seas, whitening the surge and cutting the foamy tide. Arrived at last, she drops the dashing oar, while Peace and William land on Albion’s Shore.
No battles now rage within his bosom, no longer painting to his eye which foe shall bleed next, what rival die. Soft passions and every milder grace now smile in his looks and smooth the Hero’s face. No more dread vengeance reddens at his eyes. The British youth surround their Lord, valuing their safety scarcely above their wounds. Each warrior’s bosom is red with comely scars, asserting how well he fought, how often he bled. As the soldier flies to his loved home, joy swells his heart and wets his bubbling eyes.
The trembling wife explores her lover’s face, still coy and uncertain of her Lord’s embrace. She hangs on his neck, confused with mixed surprise, and satisfies her love before her eyes. The infant starts as the sire draws near, hiding his fear deep in the mother’s bosom. He recounts to the astonished crowd the deaths he inflicted and the hardy toils he endured, crowning his own exploits with his own full praises, and pompous words set off his past renown.
This scene is likened to when the ship, laden with Argive Heroes, brought the shining treasure back to Greece. All behold the burnished prize with wonder, rigid and stiff with curls of flaming gold. Still pale with fear, the soldier recounts the dire, dreadful forms that guard the wakeful shore. Here, streams of fire from hissing serpents rise, lighting the dusk air and flashing across the sky. There, glowing bulls, which no labors could tame, groan at the wain and snort a living flame.
The poem asks what grateful trophies rise for William’s return, what honest joy overflows each Briton’s eye. To meet his fame, his Isle pours out her populace and nobles from all her joyful towers. All rush to their great Returning Monarch, with joy smiling before and transport shouting behind. Mingling murmurs and applauses sound. Now the loved Youth, William Duke of Gloucester, in all his youthful glory, is introduced, concluding this segment of the poem.
A Critical Survey of Roman Poets
The text then shifts to a critical analysis of Roman poets, beginning with Lucretius. His diction, despite some archaic words and a meter that occasionally borders on prose, is deemed highly pleasing to those with a Roman sensibility.
Claudian is next, lauded for his beautiful integration of agreeable images within his descriptions. However, he faces criticism for being overly verbose and for repeating the same ideas with different expressions. Claudian himself was aware of his descriptive prowess, constantly seeking opportunities for such passages, and many of his works, including “The Rape of Proserpine,” “Phoenix,” “Porcupine,” and “Cramp-fish,” are entirely descriptive.
Ovid, characterized as a courtly genius, excelled in love poetry, crafting neat and polished verse. Yet, his other works often employ a more common style, as he relied more on natural talent than on elaborate diction. His “Metamorphoses” is particularly noted for its excellent portrayal of animal transformations, where old forms gradually yield to new ones.
Papinius is mentioned as often fulfilling the poet’s duty well, a contrast to Lucan. Lucan’s diction is described as bombastic, lacking beauty in phrases or epithets, and more suited to prose than poetry, sometimes even falling below prose standards. Despite frequent descriptions and digressions, he seldom completes his work properly.
Statius composed many works that would be envied by the greatest poets, but his virtues are accompanied by significant flaws. His diction employs excessively grand words, injecting empty thunder into his verse without regard for the subject matter. In his descriptions, he errs by indulging in excessive heat, overshooting his mark and swelling unnaturally in his attempt to excel. Claudian is also occasionally guilty of these two faults.
The discussion then turns to Virgil’s Aeneid, acknowledging the extensive commentary already written about it. The focus then narrows to Statius’s and Lucan’s poems, as they are considered the only other Latin epic poems.
Regarding Lucan, the suitability of the historical content of his “Pharsalia” as a subject for an epic poem is debated. To resolve this, the true nature of heroic poetry, as described by Verulam (Lord Bacon) in “The Advancement of Learning,” is presented. Bacon states that narrative or heroic poetry, in terms of its subject matter, is founded on a noble basis, contributing to the dignity of human nature. Since the sensible world is inferior to the human soul, poetry grants human nature what history denies, satisfying the mind with shadows of things when solid reality is unavailable. Poetry provides a more stately greatness, perfect order, and beautiful variety than nature offers after the Fall. History’s acts and events are insufficient to content the human mind, so poetry invents more heroic deeds. History reports successes disproportionate to merit, but poetry corrects this, presenting outcomes according to desert and the law of Nemesis. History’s monotony bores the soul, but poetry refreshes it with unexpected, varied, and vicissitude-filled narratives. Thus, poetry contributes not only to delight but also to magnanimity and morals, and can be seen as partaking in divinity by elevating the mind and accommodating images to the soul’s desires, rather than subjecting the mind to things (as reason and history do).
From this, the conclusion is drawn that true history and epic poetry are incompatible, and Lucan significantly failed in his choice of subject. The five prominent heroes in Lucan’s poem are Caesar, Pompey, Brutus, Cato, and Cicero, all notable in life and lamentable in death, whose virtues approached the heroic perfection falsely attributed by other poets. Lucan rails against Caesar, passionately supports Pompey, and highly praises Brutus and Cato due to his shared Stoic spirit. Many faults attributed to Lucan are philosophical in nature, stemming from his Stoicism. This led to his excessive wit and ambitious display of sentiments, preferring great actions over good ones. Consequently, he failed in exciting passions, a key part of poetry, because his philosophy deemed passions illicit. An example is given from the Battle of Pharsalia: after Caesar’s victory over Pompey, Lucan, instead of having Pompey lament his fate, advises Pompey to commiserate with Caesar, because Caesar’s victory was achieved through crime. The passage quotes Lucan’s lines where Pompey is urged to pity Caesar and consider the bloodshed. The author questions this philosophical approach, asking how Pompey, an old, exiled, miserable, and vanquished man, could feel pity for his criminal conqueror. Such a Stoic perspective, placing happiness solely in virtue despite loss, is deemed extreme.
Virgil is contrasted as the only poet who effectively evokes grief, avoiding the prolixity and excessive display of genius that other poets use, which makes readers admire the verse more than mourn the subject. Virgil uses simple, unadorned sorrow, briefly touching on pain. Cicero is quoted, stating that lamentations should be brief and concise, as tears quickly dry and it is difficult to sustain an audience’s emotion.
Returning to Statius, his spirit is often lofty, but he fails to temper it, leading to bombast and empty, sounding words. The subject of his “Thebaid” suits his fierce genius but is not appropriate for an epic poem. Eteocles, Polynices, and Tydeus, the heroes of the “Thebaid,” lack heroic qualities except fortitude. The poem presents only examples of crimes like parricide, treachery, cruelty, and hatred, unlike Virgil’s heroes, where praiseworthy qualities shine, and Aeneas exemplifies piety towards gods, son, wife, friends, and father. Statius’s epithets are often metaphorical, attributing animal qualities to inanimate objects. Claudian follows Statius in metaphors with elegance, while Virgil is sparing in both words and metaphors. Statius uses many similes, often imitating Virgil, an area where Lucan might have succeeded better if he had found a middle ground. However, while Virgil descends to humble subjects like bees and ants, Lucan bellows only about lightning-struck oaks, earthquakes, and the world’s conflagration. This concludes the discussion of heroic poets.
Satirists, Dramatists, and Epigrammatists
The text then moves to satirists, debating whether Juvenal or Horace deserves more praise. Juvenal’s sharp bitterness is contrasted with Horace’s jocular lampoons. Horace is noted for his loose conduct, while Juvenal rigidly practiced virtue. Horace lived in Augustus’s polite court, Juvenal in Domitian’s corrupt times. Their writings reflected their eras: Horace focused on ludicrous courtly follies, while Juvenal criticized serious crimes and vices, using indignation, ardor, and acrimony. However, Juvenal sometimes shows Horatian pleasantry when being jocoose. Both are considered perfect in their respective styles, Horace in ridicule, Juvenal in severity. Horace’s other works are deemed admirable, beyond both censure and praise.
For dramatic poets, Plautus and Terence are praised for their well-known plots, turns, and elegant style. Seneca, however, divides opinion, some ranking him among the best tragedians, others among the worst. He possessed a great genius, an elegant and concise style, and abounded in acute sentences reflecting his Stoic philosophy. This made him popular with those unfamiliar with dramatic art. However, his tragedies are too elaborate, and a peculiar fault is that all his characters, regardless of their roles, speak in the same philosophical, Stoic manner, more suited to schools than the theatre. Kings, slaves, and even the nurse speak with the same proud Stoic style.
Among epigrammatists, Martial and Claudian are highlighted. Martial is known for the sharp point at the end of his epigrams and the jingle of his words. Claudian disperses his wit throughout his epigrams with beautiful Latin elegance. Other common poets are dismissed as mediocre, and while some virtue might be found in Catullus’s affected songs, Tibullus’s or Propertius’s indecent pages, and careless verses, it is not worth extracting gems from filth. The excerpt concludes with the name “Jo. Addison, & Coll. Magd. Oxon.”
The Art of Mock-Heroic and Philosophical Verse
Addison’s collection demonstrates a keen understanding of various poetic forms, particularly the mock-heroic. Poems like “The Battel of the Pygmies and Cranes,” “The Puppet-Show,” and “The Bowling-Green” take trivial subjects and elevate them through “splendid boldness of expression, pomp of verse, and metaphors, allusions, and similitudes drawn from higher-class things.” This technique, which Addison attributes to Virgil’s Georgics, aims to produce laughter rather than admiration, mimicking heroic grandeur for comedic effect. The detailed Latin and English versions of “The Battle between the Pygmies and the Cranes” exemplify this, transforming a petty conflict into an epic struggle, complete with a venerable Pygmy leader and a dramatic, albeit tiny, downfall. Similarly, “The Puppet-Show” applies grand descriptions to the mechanical movements of puppets, highlighting the absurdity and ingenuity of the form.
Beyond the mock-heroic, Addison also explores philosophical and descriptive poetry. “The Barometer” is a notable example, accurately detailing the instrument’s function and its relation to weather patterns in a poetic manner. The Odes to Dr. Burnett and Dr. Hannes, written in the “true spirit of Horace,” delve into profound themes. The ode to Burnett praises his scientific insights into the earth’s formation and destruction, envisioning cosmic chaos and renewal. The ode to Hannes, a physician and poet, offers a more carpe diem philosophy, urging him to set aside serious work for relaxation and to acknowledge the inevitability of death despite his healing arts. These poems showcase Addison’s ability to imbue scientific observation and philosophical reflection with classical poetic grace.
The Resurrection and Divine Majesty
“The Resurrection,” presented in both Latin and English, stands as a noble and skillfully drawn piece, described as an “exact copy of the painter’s original on the Altar in Magdalen College.” This poem is a powerful example of Addison’s descriptive prowess, translating a visual artwork into vivid verse. It meticulously details the painter’s process, from the initial blank wall to the emergence of angels with “deafening clarions” and the “laboring Graves” confessing the revival of the dead. The poem uses striking comparisons, such as the resurrected masses to Cadmus sowing seeds, to convey the scale of this miraculous event.
The depiction of Christ, “greatly changed and unlike the one who patiently wore the mortal frame,” emphasizes his triumphant ascent after subduing death and hell. The poem then shifts to the “menial Twelve” (Apostles) and martyr-saints, all shining in glory, and the “fruitful Matron, the spotless Maid, and Infants” gazing on their Redeemer. The inclusion of William Wainflet, founder of Magdalen College, rising from his tomb, adds a personal and institutional layer to the universal theme. The poem concludes with a terrifying vision of the damned, driven by a “stern Avenger” into a landscape of “malignant flame” and “liquid Sulphur,” underscoring the final judgment. This piece not only showcases Addison’s poetic skill but also his deep engagement with theological themes and the visual arts.
“The Peace of Ryswick” and the Celebration of William III
“The Peace of Ryswick” is presented as a masterpiece where Addison “exerted all his powers.” This poem, dedicated to Charles Montague, celebrates the end of a major European conflict and the triumph of William III. It opens with the cessation of battle and the earth accepting a “softer song,” urging “Great LEOPOLD” to embrace peace. The imagery shifts from the tumult of war to the tranquility of peace, where peasants now cultivate former battlefields, and “richer blades wave along the bulwarks.”
The poem vividly recounts the horrors of war, with “wide gaping walls and shattered towers” and “streams of blood still stain[ing] each current.” It praises specific heroes like Ormond and the chief who defended Buda, highlighting their bravery amidst “floods of fire” and “bursting shells.” The narrative then broadens to encompass the allied forces—Britons, Helgians, nations beyond the Rhine, Austrians, and Northern Bands—all united under William’s leadership for freedom.
A significant portion of the poem is dedicated to praising “Great CODRINGTON,” a formidable figure in war, whose “godlike vigor” and “kindling ardor” are attributed to his “sultry India.” The poem culminates in the triumphant return of William III to Albion’s shore, greeted by “joyful shouts” and a populace rushing to meet their monarch. The transformation of William from a stern warrior to a figure of “soft passions and every milder grace” underscores the transition from war to peace. The poem concludes with a poignant scene of soldiers returning home, their “bosom red with comely scars,” and the joyful reunion with their families, contrasting the horrors of war with the solace of peace.
Addison’s Dissertation on Roman Poets
The “Dissertation Upon The Roman Poets” provides a critical framework for understanding Addison’s own poetic endeavors and the broader literary landscape of his time. He begins by tracing the revival of classical studies in the Augustan Age and among the Italians, particularly under the Medici, who encouraged the imitation of Roman poets. He praises Vida for his purity and elegance, despite his constant imitation of Virgil, and contrasts him with Rapin, who imitated Virgil’s manner rather than his exact phrases. Addison also acknowledges the Latin poems of the Dutch and praises Buchanan as the “just boast of the Scottish nation” for his mastery of Latin.
Addison criticizes contemporary “Criticks” as “Borrowers of other Opinions,” who rely on secondary sources rather than engaging with original works. He argues that imitating the Ancients in their own language helps poets adopt their way of thinking and transplant their graces into the mother tongue, citing Milton and himself as successful examples. He describes his own Latin poems as “trials of a great genius,” characterized by “Pure, Elegant, and Sounding” language and “easy and numerous versification.”
His critical analysis extends to specific Roman poets. He praises Lucretius’s diction, Claudian’s agreeable images (while criticizing his prolixity), and Ovid’s courtly genius in love poetry. He is critical of Lucan, describing his diction as “bombastic” and “more suited to prose than poetry,” and argues that the historical content of his Pharsalia is unsuitable for an epic poem. Drawing on Bacon’s “The Advancement of Learning,” Addison posits that heroic poetry should grant human nature what history denies, presenting more heroic deeds and outcomes that align with merit, thereby contributing to “magnanimity and morals.” He contrasts Lucan’s Stoic philosophy, which he believes hindered the excitement of passions, with Virgil’s ability to evoke genuine grief through “simple, unadorned sorrow.” Addison’s dissertation thus not only offers insights into classical poetry but also reveals his own aesthetic principles and his commitment to a poetry that elevates the mind and engages with profound human experience.
