The Impious Feast: a poem in ten books

Preface

. The reader is not thus detained because I would hope, either to prevent criticism by a Preface, or to propitiate it. Such attempts rarely succeed, and never long. But some justification may appear necessary, both of the metre which I have chosen, and of the title — for reasons directly opposite — the first, because it is new — and the last because it is not new. No other subject in the whole range of history, whether true or false, sacred or profane — seems more likely to captivate an ardent and ambitious imagination than Belshazzar's Feast — the magnificence of Babylon, the mysterious grandeur of its empire, the accomplishment of divine wrath, and above all, the sudden and terrific a2 PRF.FAt E. nature of that catastrophe which has been recorded by Daniel. Truth can proceed no farther ; and fiction has never yet advanced so far.

But judgments better disci plined would be discouraged by those very qualities which most urgently recommend its adoption to sanguine or immature ones. Works of imagination, broadly founded upon the more conspicuous events recorded in history, are subject to many obvious disadvantages. If they closely correspond with the facts by which they have been suggested, thev are bttle better than shadows moving as their more substantial causes move be-fore them — than tales redoubled on a wearied audience — than echos less loud and less distinct in every repetition. No superiority of manner can compensate for that offence which the mind always feels whenever second impressions disturb and confuse the first. If, on the contrary, they depart more widely and boldly from their originals, we are shocked bv their violation of truth, by something more offensive than mere poetical improbability, by the undisguised outrage offered both to our memories and our understandings. Let me repeat that I here speak of subjects broadly founded on the more conspicuous events recorded in

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. V history; not of those which, deriving their principal interest elsewhere — from imaginary creations, or obscure incidents — attach themselves to well-known truths. We have, at the present day, many splendid examples of this fertile and fortunate union between fiction and fact — in which we are compelled to admire the former for its grace, while we respect the latter for its integrity. The Greek poets generally looked to those heroic ages which left their imaginations sufficiently unrestricted. Virgil and Lucan among the Latin will best illustrate what I mean — they are examples of fiction supported by history, and of history corrupted by fiction. The Italian poets, and, with one exception, the greatest of our own, employed historical truth only when it was indistinct and mysterious in itself, or had been clouded by time and softened through distance.

In all the greatest of his dramas, Shakspeare is hardly to be considered as such an exception — and we may fairly doubt whether those plays, which are essentially and immediately derived from English or Roman history, apply as strongly against my case as they, at first sight, appear to do. With nine readers out of ten, they do not follow but precede : they have gained the start, and told their tale first — like the ancient pedant in Katharine

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. VI and Petruchio, they establish themselves comfortably above, and then reprove their more honest but tardy competitor for his attempted intrusion. But far more dangerous is any proposal to build upon the broad foundations of Sacred Scripture. Here our former alternative continues with greatly augmented embarrassment in the choice. If we scrupulously ab stain from innovation, and reverentially refuse either to add or to diminish, we can only do that a second time which has been much better done already ; we erect a similar building with worse materials ; we discover much presumption and little skill. Supposing, however, that we boldly venture on novelty, and interweave our own imaginations with divine truth — divine truth fully and distinctly revealed — every judicious reader is disgusted by the mixture, and every pious one offended at the profanation.

In the first case, there is sure to be a feeble copy of a well-known original — in the second, a palpable departure from reality, and an indecent disre gard of holiness. Every one has knowledge enough to detect the fraud — to distinguish between such impure metal and the fine gold for which it has been sub stituted.

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. These observations apply principally to the historical pasts of Sacred Scripture : but I may, perhaps, be per mitted to add, what is indeed less immediately con nected with my purpose, that they will extend much farther. Our great critic has attributed the almost universal poverty of sacred lyrical poetry by modern writers to the unapproachable majesty of its subject. He might have recollected that such reasoning, if it were just, would reach to all sacred compositions of this kind whatever, ancient as well as modern, the originals as well as the copies. Perhaps we may more easily ac count for the fact, as far as it is correct, by a recurrence to what I have already advanced. There is no good passion or affection incidental to human nature, in which religion may not have some share: it connects itself with the strongest as well as the more amiable — hope, fear, love, gratitude, sorrow, repentance : all our tenderer feelings as well as all our noblest aspirations are immediately concerned.

Surely then religion is not only a subject for poetry — but it is poetry. Yet its simple holiness despises ornament, and eschews innova tion. Every Christian has the sacred models always before him — he is familiar with the inspired melodies of holy writ — and by them he necessarily judges what

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. may be offered for the same purpose. A copy can have, at best, only the merit of a copy — while an attempt at novelty in matter, has the appearance of profanation — in manner, of levity. Rhyme itself seems to detract from its solemnity : and there is something incongruous in metre which, however beautiful, reminds us at once of other subjects. The hymns of Paradise Lost prove that devotion may be admirably harmonized in English poetry : and some by Bishop Heber, recently pubhshed, demonstrate how far genius and piety can conquer what is objectionable in rhyme. This principle might, perhaps, be extended to other of the fine arts, were there leisure for its consideration ; and explain why it is that painting derives fewer sub jects from poetry than from prose ; and rarely succeeds so well with those which have been largely and minutely described by either, however admirable they may be, as with scenes which are more obscure, or less elaborately detailed.

From Homer, Virgil, Dante, Ariosto, Tasso, Shakspeare, Spencer, and Milton, there are few pic tures of universal celebrity — because these poets have already perfected their own ideas ; because their creations are so distinct, so forcible, and so well known, that the

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. IX sister art would offend if she presumed to alter, and give but inferior pleasure if she only attempted to imitate. If the pictures derived from them were ex actly accordant with our own previous conception, they would appear little better than duplicates — if different, we should dislike their originality as affectation, or reject it as falsehood. Belshazzar's Feast, or the Destruction of Babylon, however captivating to inexperience, is in itself — or rather by itself — a most hopeless undertaking; and therefore I do not undertake it. The catastrophe, if varied, could not be improved : no fresh impressions on the mind could equal those which have been produced by Sacred Scripture : and poetry never succeeds in retracing such perfect and vivid images as are imprinted there already. But, as we have seen above, historical truths, which are altogether unfit for the primary sub jects of a poem, may be well calculated to support imaginary incidents, or incidents derived from sources less apparent.

Should the scrupulous reader exclaim against any such intermixture, and insist upon more than a distinction — upon a separation — between truth and fancy, in all cases, and especially where the subject

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. X is sacred — we shall very reverentially appreciate such remonstrances; but at the same time he must be re minded that his objection applies to the greatest works of human genius, to those mighty poets whom I have enumerated, and most expressly to Paradise Lost — Paradise Regained — and Sampson Agonistes. Milton has ventured much farther beyond the confines of sacred things than any other man — not excepting even Dante himself. Well may he exclaim- 44 Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed !" Familiar as we are from childhood with his works, n e hardly perceive how large a part of them is fictitious ; we seldom consider that the whole structure of Paradise Lost rests upon six or seven verses in Genesis; and that the Sacred Scriptures elsewhere have supplied little more than texts on which he so gloriously expatiates.

Nay, it may even be questioned whether we, at all times, sufficiently distinguish between the source and the stream : certainly many images which we consider as authentic are not in the Bible. But amone: the wonders which he has effected, one of the greatest is his inoffensive familiarity with sacred things.

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. XI For other poets it is enough if they can attach their own thoughts to revealed truth : they may connect but not confound: what is sacred they should leave, as such, not only unaltered but untouched. The pri vileges of fancy should have this limitation — she may imagine certain probable events as concurrent with those real ones which Scripture records ; as happening at the same time ; as implicated in their movements, and deter mined by their progress. They are reeds carried along a torrent on which they have no influence, and which would run just as fast whether they were there or not. They are branches which the tempest scatters, but of which it takes no cognizance. And yet it is to these, at last, that our attention will be principally directed — they are most within our reach — they constitute the novelty, and excite the interest.

Many more years have elapsed than I am willing to remember, since a subject something like my present one, was chosen by me at college. With presumption childish and extravagant, but innocent enough if it had manifested itself only in this manner, I seized upon the loftiest as the most desirable. The title was, The Destruction of Babylon, and the form, a sacred tragedy.

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. Nor did I sicken of a task to which I was so deplorably unequal, till its completion. By that time I had disco vered how much labour was thrown away, and how much more profitably my diligence might have been occupied. Unlike my present poem, that drama was broadly founded upon the fifth chapter of Daniel. Characters and incidents which are now the principal ones, were altogether secondary. It was afterwards cast aside, with many other abortive projects of the same nature, which I had at last learnt to value as they de served, and which were soon forgotten among more important pursuits. With greater leisure I have since expanded and re modelled my old design — -have changed the dramatic into a narrative form — and have attempted to remove those objections which were before so fatal, by separating the fictitious parts from the true.

Whatever power may be exercised upon the feelings, is now purely do mestic. The incidents are such as we may suppose to have occurred during the three last days of Babylon — for my story includes no more. A distinguished con temporary has chosen, if not the same subject, a subject with nearly the same title, during that long interval of

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. XIII which I have spoken. There would have appeared nothing surprising if twenty minds, instead of two, had been made captive by a catastrophe so tremendous. Mr. Milman, with his usual good judgment, has con trived to deduce the interest of his drama from a private and an imaginary source. There will, I believe, be found but one point of resemblance between his plan and mine ; nor is this solitary coincidence of much im portance. It was suggested to both by the same page in Ancient History ; and will be discovered in my fourth book. On his action it operates durably and essentially — on mine, casually and only for a moment. With this exception, it is hardly possible that any two works founded on a subject apparently the same, should be more dissimilar. My seventh book also contains some few lines which may remind the reader, not less to my disadvantage, of Sardanapalus.

In both instances, these passages were written and read long before the publications appeared which they, so far, resemble — in both instances, they might have been removed or dis guised, with very little inconvenience, if I had conde scended. Had my original plan of a drama been retained in its primitive condition, some coincidences would have, indeed, appeared much too suspicious either

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. XIV for innocence or hardihood. As it is, I would rather, of the two, be thought a borrower from authors so affluent, than hazard an imputation far more dis graceful. It remains that I should say something in apology of the metre. Narrative poetry of a graver kind has s,, generally been written either in what is called the heroic couplet, the stanza of Spenser, the eight syllable line, or blank verse — that no other choice seems to remain. The heroic couplet, however beautiful in shorter com positions, is now generally exploded as too monotonous for more extensive ones. The stanza of Spenser is best adapted to romance, love, adventure, chivalry — or, at least, has been so long retained by them in their ser vice, that, beside its other objections, this one — where the poem is quite of another character — seems enough.

Of the same kind, but much more obvious and forcible, is that to eight syllable lines, whether in couplets or stanzas. We are thus reduced to blank verse. I wish that I knew how to speak of it honestly and yet without offence. The two greatest of all poets have adopted and perfected it. Miserably as its character

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. XV has been depraved since, there can be no doubt but that it is alone suited to dramatic poetry. Milton has also proved its excellence in narrative — an excellence which, even if it were attainable, would be undesirable for any other purpose than such poems as his. The in volved, the elaborate and learned construction of his sentences, has often been imitated, but always ineffec tually. That majesty which is so becoming, because so natural in him, appears absurd when assumed by others. They pant and sweat half smothered under the burden of a garment which he wears easily as his ordinary clothing, notwithstanding its magnificence. Not only the language of Paradise Lost, but the metre, originated spontaneously from a mind so wonderful ; and may be traced in all his other works, whether verse or prose.

" He fed on thoughts that voluntary moved Harmonious numbers.'' And was visited by a muse who inspired " Easy his unpremeditated verse." It is, I believe, scarcely possible, in a poem founded on sacred scripture, at all times to avoid the appearance of imitation. The same great storehouse of holy images

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. and Asiatic phraseology is open to both — scriptural lan guage must frequently be employed, and in proportion as it is appropriate, will it suggest a resemblance. We should not, however, presume to quote his example as an authority for what we ourselves may do. To say that Milton ever either stole or borrowed were false : the sovereign poet took openly what he pleased — from his contemporaries, as their tribute ; and from the an cients, as his inheritance. For mv own part, I have always walked the most easily, as well as the most safely, when alone. Narrative blank verse, when unsupported by such awful stateliness as is becoming only in him, incurs the danger of pompous and plethoric monotony, on the one hand — or of feeble, disjointed, prosaic inefficiency, on the other. Nay, even that which has been much more suc cessfully employed in moral and descriptive poetry, is seldom simple as well as strong.

I shall not be supposed to depreciate genius so exalted as the genius of Youno-, Thomson, or Akenside, when I acknowledge how much less pleasing to me is their metre than their descriptions — how impatient I have sometimes become under that suf focating snow-shower of great soft words which, while

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. XVII they obscure the objects described, have no other ap parent purpose but to fill up crevices in the metre. This grandiloquous phraseology, swelling into sentences of the same tone, has descended, as a common inheritance, among their posterity. There are not many readers, perhaps, who dare to acknowledge that they have ever felt satiated by the Seasons ; but surely there never yet was one reader who ended the Castle of Indolence with out regret, or could rest till he had ended it. With so many great authorities before him, not only the ordinary lover of poetry, but the critic himself, hesitates to acknowledge that blank verse has lost much of its charm. Two living poets, whose genius has the same salutary influence on our literature, that their characters have upon our morals, do every thing possible for its revival.

They demonstrate its capabilities, and using it as the eloquent medium of Christian Philosophy and Christian Heroism, assert its claims to our regard by descriptions the most powerful, and meditations the most profound. But we may doubt whether either the Excursion or Don Roderick is indebted for its high estimation by all competent and unprejudiced readers, so much to the versification, as to many other less disputable excellences b

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. XVIII At all events, whatever may have been the success of others in this most difficult metre, I soon became dis satisfied with my own. The possibibty of extracting much which is desirable both from rhyme and blank verse — of preserving their better qualities, and refusing those that are incompatible or otherwise objectionable — remains perhaps to be ascertained at some future time. In hands more skilful than mine, it is, I am persuaded, by no means impracticable. This attempt will at least serve to exemplify what I mean. The principal recom mendation of blank verse is its variety. Lines may be extended into sentences — or as Milton expresses himself, the sense may be " variously drawn out from one verse into another,"' with almost as many variations of sound as in prose itself. Much of this excellence is not incon sistent with rhymes when judiciously interspersed at proper distances : and that rhymes in a language like ours, if unnecessary, are graceful and useful — to sustain metre loose by itself, to distinguish more broadly between verse and prose, and to satisfy ears which miss them when wanting and expect them through habit, seems generally allowed.

But this recurrence of similar sounds at suitable intervals, should vary according to the sub ject. It may be occasionally so close and so frequent as to resemble a stanza ; or it may lie rendered so lax .as to

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. XIX have all the freedom of blank verse. Every line is of the same length, and should have a corresponding one either nearer or more remote. The greatest difficulty is thus to vary and adapt, to tighten or loosen the chain of harmony ; still preserving a general accordance, and rendering the transition easy as well as inoffensive. Rhymes may occur as often as the repetition continues to be agreeable ; but they become useless, and indeed are no longer rhymes when their corresponding sounds are lost in an interval too far protracted. Several short lyrical poems have been written with metre thus far resembling mine, that their final words rhyme irregularly, and appear to fall by accident, though in their proper places. Such is Lord Byron's Ode to Venice. But I am not aware that any attempt at variety in different parts of the same poem, has been made — by suiting them to the passages described — col lecting or dispersing them at pleasure — employing a more formal structure, almost the stanza or couplet, where it is expedient — united with such freedom of inflection and cadence as we expect no where else excepting in blank verse. Two or three specimens of a lyrical kind are given in the Chaldaean Hymns. b2 XX

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. Their composition is on principles extremely dissimilar to the narrative part, where I have often attempted not only simplicity but austerity, rejecting all superfluous ornament in language, metre, imagery, or illustration. But even if thus much should be accomplished in the versification at the expense of congruitv — if the transitions should be so abrupt as to mark their change before it is complete, and the different passages should not only vary among themselves, but disagree — my labour has been thrown away. Let the reader, how ever, remember that such metre was not preferred because it is abstractedly the best — but the best for my purpose, the best in my power, the best which I could produce. The alteration of my plan in one respect is almost certain to please those who care little about its other changes.

I had extracted from ancient and modern authorities whatever particulars related to the history of Babylon ; had expanded quotations into notes, and notes into dissertations — on its wars, customs, arts, morals, policy, philosophy, religion, and origin— the wonders of its architecture, the fertility of its climate.

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. XXI the extent and duration of its empire. From all this, they are entirely unencumbered : they will find not one word of prose beyond the Preface. Of its history I need only observe that erroneous distinctions seem to have been made between the Chal daean and the Assyrian kingdoms. During many gene rations, they were two unequal branches of the same empire. Babylon, if founded first, did not arrive at its supremacy till after the extinction of Nineveh. In all ages an especial gratification was manifested by Asiatic conquerors in creating and destroying. The more habit able parts of that mighty continent have been almost covered by cities built and ruined in succession. Every victorious sovereign wasted the capitals of his prede cessors that he might erect new ones to his own glory with their materials, and people them with their inhabit ants.

In the time of Nebuchadnezzar, the elder sister gained, or regained, an ascendancy ; and after having utterly destroyed her rival and relative, established a new dynasty, transferring riches, sovereignty, people, every thing, to Babylon. This ambition to be con sidered as the founder of a city or empire, occasions much confusion. Nimrod, Belus, Seniirainis, and Nebu-

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XXII chadnezzar were all called founders. There is much reason to suppose that the two first names belonged to the same individual : besides a general renovation, many works of almost incredible magnificence are attributed to the two last. Poetry has no room here in which to amplify and exaggerate. Walls of solid masonry sixty miles in extent, more than a hundred yards high, and thirty broad, with towers and gates proportionable to them — Palaces each occupying as much ground as a respectable metropolitan city elsewhere — Gardens with hills and valleys supported by arches in the air — a Bridge of sur passing magnitude above the Euphrates, and a passage under it — are some only among the better authenticated wonders of history. But when we read of a Tower far higher than the highest Alps — or of an artificial Lake one hundred and sixty miles in circumference — the Muse, who hates arithmetic, and never uses other than round numbers — has little chance.

Her wisest plan is to de cline a race against the extravagances of graver fiction, and to start only within the confines of possibility. Cyrus, prophetically named long before in sacred

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. XXIII scripture, continued to besiege Babylon without having produced the slightest impression on her strength, when that period was arrived which God's wisdom had ap pointed for her destruction and for the deliverance of his captive people. The book of Daniel describes an idolatrous festival, but informs us only in continuation, that Belshazzar was slain and his kingdom conquered on the same night. Profane history adds to these facts the means by which they were accomplished. The waters of the Euphrates were turned into a new channel, and the city was surprised through that from which they had been diverted. Nitocris, the mother of Bel shazzar, and celebrated for her wisdom, is supposed by some writers to have been that queen who entered his banqueting-hall, and named Daniel as a prophet of " an excellent Spirit."

Her reign appears to have been conjointly with her son after his arrival at manhood, and for some years in unrestricted supremacy before. She is sometimes confounded with Semiramis, the same mighty works being ascribed to both. A story about her tomb above one of the city gates is however quite irreconcileable with our supposition. She who entered the banqueting-hall could have had little subsequent leisure for such contrivances and inscriptions.

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. XXIV Warburton supposes that the Chaldaean hymns were mere depositories of popular fables, and that the divine unity was taught to the initiated. It is much more certain that every part of their religion which could be understood by the people was licentious in the extreme. Some opinions of a more refined nature were, no doubt, common both to the Chald.nean and the Per sian sages. Fire, and the sun as its source or centre, was the chief visible object of adoration to both. The heavenly bodies were intelligent beings, or the habita tions of intelligent beings. Every star had some con nexion with humanity propitious or malignant, and shining with clearer and larger radiance through the serenity of their beautiful skies, was supposed by those who studied, and perhaps by those who did not study its changes, to be watchful for their safety, or envious of their happiness.

The elements were all deified, or at least were under the separate government of their appropriate deities. As such superstitions descended to the vulgar they became proportionally gross. Time is as much confusion and uncertainty about the Chaldaean idols as those of Egypt or India. Much might be advanced on the supposition that both of these nations, and consequently all other nations whatever, borrowed

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. XXV their idolatries from Mesopotamia, as their common centre and original cradle. A resemblance so remark able between the Chaldaean Gods, and those of Greece, could not have been accidental. The Persians must have tolerated, at least, that grosser idolatry among their confederates — and the armies of Cyrus compre hended many nations. Besides those Deities of higher and more extensive dominion, there were innumerable local ones — guardian Gods of kingdoms, provinces, or cities — beyond which they had no authority till carried away captive, when they transferred their affections to their conquerors. The Greeks and Romans were only imitators in this sort of sacrilegious rape. In another particular also they copied the Asiatics — they deified their more heroic so vereigns after death — and sometimes, if this honour appeared to the powerful candidate either as too tardy or too doubtful, before.

Such, perhaps, was the origin of those Chaldaean Gods who afterwards became most eminent, Bel, Nebo, Benoth, and several others. No just objection to this probability arises from their astro nomical character. Even as late as Julius Caesar a star was found to assist at the apotheosis of a hero.

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. XXVI But amidst all this extravagance of superstition which so thickly peopled the universe with subjects for adora tion; and not content with such airy deities as filled their groves, frequented their fountains, and presided at their festivals — placed altars and images in every house : there was undoubtedly a deep and general bebef that some far more holy and powerful nature claimed their service, abhorred their pollutions, and threatened their apostacy. Every nation had its " unknown God" — and we read that in the highest story of their temple the Babylonians placed a table or altar where there wa-> neither priest nor image. It was not possible that the terrors of Jehovah should have been either forgotten, or carelessly remembered, by those nations which had so frequently suffered from them.

This hardness of heart, this obduracy in rebellion, this addiction to obscene rites and licentious sacrifices rather than to a pure but awful service, constituted their guilt. There is much reason to suppose that image worship, and worship of the celestial luminaries, originated in the same way. Human weakness needed some mediation between its own impurities and that holy Creator — some less terrible protectors to propitiate and intercede.

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. XXVII Nations, cities, families, and individuals, placed them selves under the friendly guardianship — each of its own appropriate intercessor, whose honour was engaged in their protection. The nobler patrons obtained many clients : and other advocates who had less employment might be supposed to exercise greater zeal and diligence where they were trusted. All history has agreed in attributing to Chaldaea the earliest inventions in astronomy and her spurious sister astrology. Much might be adduced to demonstrate that in those arts and sciences of which Egypt is so generally considered as the parent, Chaldaea was at least equally early. With the vanities of necromancy, witchcraft, augury, and such like — they must have united far more substantial knowledge. They excelled in casting metals ; they understood something of statuary and even of painting ; they were skilled in " all kinds of music ;" we read much of their embroidered garments and sump tuous tapestry — and surpassing every other people in architecture and astronomy, they must unquestionably have had some knowledge of mathematics. That almost universal distaste to poetry — at least to XX VI 11