a hot controversy not yet forgotten
(nor, to tell the truth, quite settled) on the question Whether Pope was
a poet? That Bowles can have had scant sympathy with Pope is evident
from the very first glance at the famous sonnets themselves. Besides
their form, which, as has been said, was of itself something of a
reactionary challenge, they bear strong traces of Gray, and still
stronger traces of the picturesque mania which was at the same time
working so strongly in the books of Gilpin and others. But their real
note is the note which, ringing in Coleridge's ear, echoed in all the
poetry of the generation, the note of unison between the aspect of
nature and the thought and emotion of man. In the sonnets "At
Tynemouth," "At Bamborough Castle," and indeed in all, more or less,
there is first the attempt to paint directly what the eye sees, not the
generalised and academic view of the type-scene by a type-poet which had
been the fashion for so long; and secondly, the attempt to connect this
vision with personal experience, passion, or meditation. Bowles does not
do this very well, but he tries to do it; and the others, seeing him
try, went and did it.
His extreme importance as an at least admitted "origin" has procured
him notice somewhat beyond his real deserts; over others we must pass
more rapidly. Robert Bloomfield, born in 1760, was one of those
unfortunate "prodigy" poets whom mistaken kindness encourages. He was
the son of a tailor, went early to agricultural labour, and then became
a shoemaker. His _Farmer's Boy_, an estimable but much overpraised
piece, was published in 1800, and he did other things later. He died
mad, or nearly so, in 1823--a melancholy history repeated pretty closely
a generation later by John Clare. Clare, however, was a better poet than
Bloomfield, and some of the "Poems written in an Asylum" have more than
merely touching merit. James Montgomery,[9] born at Irvine on 4th
November 1771, was the son of a Moravian minister, and intended for his
father's calling. He, however, preferred literature and journalism,
establishing himself chiefly at Sheffield, where he died as late as 1854
(30th April). He had, as editor of the _Sheffield Iris_, some troubles
with the law, and in 1835 was rewarded with a pension. Montgomery was a
rather copious and fairly pleasing minor bard, no bad hand at hymns and
short occasional pieces, and the author of longer things called _The
Wanderer of Switzerland_, _The We
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