Public-domain ebook
by Anna Seward
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Subjects
In: Poetry·Poetry·British Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #27663.
This volume is a collection of one hundred poems by Anna Seward, the great majority of which conform to the strict fourteen‑line sonnet form. The introductory essay, taken from the 1786 Gentleman’s Magazine, explains that only nine of the pieces deviate from the conventional rhyme scheme, and even those maintain the essential sonnet structure. The author uses the essay to argue for the English language’s capacity to sustain the “regular Sonnet,” citing Milton as a model and dismissing contemporary critics who claim otherwise. Following this scholarly preface, the book presents Seward’s own sonnets, each prefaced with a brief dedication or contextual note, ranging from reflections on nature and personal loss to meditations on hope and imagination. The poems are presented in their original eighteenth‑century spelling and punctuation, preserving the period’s rhetorical vigor.
Seward’s voice is unmistakably that of a learned, late‑Georgian poetess, combining classical allusion with a personal, often intimate tone. Her style is formal yet expressive, employing the tight, “nervous” rhythm characteristic of the sonnet while allowing moments of lyrical expansiveness. Readers who appreciate the disciplined elegance of the sonnet, enjoy early‑modern English poetry, or have an interest in women’s contributions to the canon will find this collection rewarding. The work also appeals to those curious about the adaptation of Horace’s odes into English verse, as the occasional paraphrase demonstrates Seward’s facility with both Latin models and English poetic conventions.
The opening · free to read
PRINTED FOR G. SAEL, NO. 192, STRAND; AND SOLD BY MR. SWINNEY, BIRMINGHAM, AND MR. MORGAN, LICHFIELD.
1799.
PREFACE.
Whatever other excellence may be wanting in the ensuing Poems, they are, with only nine exceptions out of the hundred, strictly Sonnets. Those nine vary only from the rules of the legitimate Sonnet in that they rhime three, instead of four times in the first part. The pause is in them, as in the rest, variously placed through the course of the verses; and thus they bear no more resemblance than their associates, to those minute Elegies of twelve alternate rhimes, closing with a couplet, which assume the name of Sonnet, without any other resemblance to that order of Verse, except their limitation to fourteen lines. I never found the quadruple rhimes injurious to the general expression of the sense, but in the excepted instances. When it is considered how few they are in so large a number, I flatter myself the idea will vanish that our language is not capable of doing justice to the regular Sonnet.
From the Supplement to the Gentleman's Magazine for 1786, I shall insert Mr. White's definition of the nature and perfection of this species of Verse, because I think it explains them with justness and precision.
“Little Elegies, consisting of four stanzas and a couplet, are no more Sonnets than they are Epic Poems. The Sonnet is of a particular and arbitrary construction; it partakes of the nature of Blank Verse, by the lines running into each other at proper intervals. Each line of the first eight, rhimes four times, and the order in which those rhimes should fall is decisive. For the ensuing six there is more licence; they may, or may not, at pleasure, close with a couplet.
“Of Milton's English Sonnets, only that to Oliver Cromwell ends with a couplet, but the single instance is a sufficient precedent; however, in three out of his five Italian ones, the concluding lines rhime to each other.
“The style of the Sonnet should be nervous, and, where the subject will with propriety bear elevation, sublime; with which, simplicity of language is by no means incompatible. If the subject is familiar and domestic, the style should, though affectionate, be nervous; though plain, be energetic. The great models of perfection, for the sublime and domestic Sonnet, are those of Milton's, ‘To the Soldier to spare his Dwelling-place,’ and ‘To Mr. Laurence.’
“The Sonnet is certainly the most difficult species of poetic composition; but difficulty, well subdued, is excellence. Mrs. Smith says she has been told that the regular Sonnet suits not the nature or genius of our language. Surely this assertion cannot be demonstrated, and therefore was not worth attention.
“Out of eighteen English Sonnets, written by Milton, four are bad. The rest, though they are not free from certain hardnesses, have a pathos and greatness in their simplicity, sufficient to endear the legitimate Sonnet to every Reader of just taste. They possess a characteristic grace, which can never belong to three elegiac stanzas, closing with a couplet.”
I have pleasure in quoting the preceding Dissertation on the SONNET, conscious that there is no order of Verse, upon which so much erroneous opinion has gone forth, and of whose beauties the merely common Reader is so insensible. But when the Author of this just Treatise says of the assertion, that the legitimate Sonnet suits not our language, “its truth cannot be demonstrated,” he should perhaps rather have observed, that its fallacy is proved by the great number of beautiful legitimate Sonnets, which adorn our National Poetry, not only by Milton, but by many of our modern Poets.
Of the four of Milton's, justly disapproved by Mr. White, there is one evidently a burlesque, written in sport. It begins,
“A book was writ of late, call'd Tetrachordon.”
Doctor Johnson has the disingenuousness, in his Folio Dictionary, under the word SONNET, to cite that Sonnet at full length, as a specimen of Milton's style in this kind of Poetry. Johnson disliked Sonnets, and he equally disliked Blank Verse, and Odes. It is in vain to combat the prejudice of splenetic aversion. The Sonnet is an highly valuable species of Verse; the best vehicle for a single detached thought, an elevated, or a tender sentiment, and for a succinct description. The compositions of that order now before the Reader, ensued from time to time, as various circumstances impressed the heart, or the imagination of their Author, and as the aweful, or lovely scenes of Nature, arrested, or allured her eye.
Dear are the forceful energies of Song, For they do swell the spring-tide of the heart With rosier currents, and impel along The life-blood freely:--O! they can impart Raptures ne'er dreamt of by the sordid throng Who barter human feeling at the mart Of pamper'd selfishness, and thus do wrong Imperial Nature of her prime desert.-- SEWARD! thy strains, beyond the critic-praise Which may to arduous skill its meed assign, Can the pure sympathies of spirit raise To bright Imagination's throne divine; And proudly triumph, with a generous strife, O'er all the “flat realities of life.”
High Street, Marybone, Feb. 1, 1799.
T. PARK.
Hear, honor'd Flaccus, from the vocal shades Where with gay Prior, and thy [1]Teian Peer Thou wanderest thro' the amaranthine glades, While social joys the devious walk endear!
Or whether in the bright Elysian bowers, Where the tall vine its lavish mantle spreads, Thou crown'st the goblet with unfading flowers, Sooth'd by the murmuring stream, that labors thro' the meads.
Hear, happy Bard!--to wake thy silent lyre Our British Muse, our charming Seward, deigns!-- With more harmonious tones, more sportive fire Beneath her hand arise the potent strains.
Then, as thou hear'st the sweet Enthusiast, own Thy fancy's various florets look'd less gay When kiss'd by bright Italia's ardent sun, Than now their hues expand in Albion's milder ray!
H. F. CAREY.
1: Anacreon.
SONNETS.
SONNET I.
When Life's realities the Soul perceives Vain, dull, perchance corrosive, if she glows With rising energy, and open throws The golden gates of Genius, she achieves His fairy clime delighted, and receives In those gay paths, deck'd with the thornless rose, Blest compensation.--Lo! with alter'd brows Lours the false World, and the fine Spirit grieves; No more young Hope tints with her light and bloom The darkening Scene.--Then to ourselves we say, Come, bright IMAGINATION, come! relume Thy orient lamp; with recompensing ray Shine on the Mind, and pierce its gathering gloom With all the fires of intellectual Day!
SONNET II.
The Future, and its gifts, alone we prize, Few joys the Present brings, and those alloy'd; Th' expected fulness leaves an aching void; But HOPE stands by, and lifts her sunny eyes That gild the days to come.--She still relies The Phantom HAPPINESS not thus shall glide Always from life.--Alas!--yet ill betide Austere Experience, when she coldly tries In distant roses to discern the thorn! Ah! is it wise to anticipate our pain? Arriv'd, it then is soon enough to mourn. Nor call the dear Consoler false and vain, When yet again, shining through april-tears, Those fair enlight'ning eyes beam on advancing Years.
SONNET III.
WRITTEN AT BUXTON IN A RAINY SEASON.
From these wild heights, where oft the mists descend In rains, that shroud the sun, and chill the gale, Each transient, gleaming interval we hail, And rove the naked vallies, and extend Our gaze around, where yon vast mountains blend With billowy clouds, that o'er their summits sail; Pondering, how little Nature's charms befriend The barren scene, monotonous, and pale. Yet solemn when the darkening shadows fleet Successive o'er the wide and silent hills, Gilded by watry sun-beams, then we meet Peculiar pomp of vision. Fancy thrills, And owns there is no scene so rude and bare, But Nature sheds or grace or grandeur there.
SONNET IV.
TO HONORA SNEYD[1], WHOSE HEALTH WAS ALWAYS BEST IN WINTER.
And now the youthful, gay, capricious Spring, Piercing her showery clouds with crystal light, And with their hues reflected streaking bright Her radiant bow, bids all her Warblers sing; The Lark, shrill caroling on soaring wing; The lonely Thrush, in brake, with blossoms white, That tunes his pipe so loud; while, from the sight Coy bending their dropt heads, young Cowslips fling Rich perfume o'er the fields.--It is the prime Of Hours that Beauty robes:--yet all they gild, Cheer, and delight in this their fragrant time, For thy dear sake, to me less pleasure yield Than, veil'd in sleet, and rain, and hoary rime, Dim Winter's naked hedge and plashy field.
May 1770.
1: Afterwards Mrs. Edgeworth.
SONNET V.
TO A FRIEND, WHO THINKS SENSIBILITY A MISFORTUNE.
Ah, thankless! canst thou envy him who gains The Stoic's cold and indurate repose? Thou! with thy lively sense of bliss and woes!-- From a false balance of life's joys and pains Thou deem'st him happy.--Plac'd 'mid fair domains, Where full the river down the valley flows, As wisely might'st thou wish thy home had rose On the parch'd surface of unwater'd plains, For that, when long the heavy rain descends, Bursts over guardian banks their whelming tide!-- Seldom the wild and wasteful Flood extends, But, spreading plenty, verdure, beauty wide, The cool translucent Stream perpetual bends, And laughs the Vale as the bright waters glide.
SONNET VI.
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