ON PARODY. BEFORE We conclude these readings on Poetry, it will perhaps be advantageous to give some notion of a peculiar species of poetry, which is called Parody. 66 "Parody," says Pope, "is a kind of writing in which the words of an "author, or his thoughts, are taken, and by a slight change adapted to some new purpose.' 66 66 Parodies may be either serious or comic, and of each of these, there are two sorts. Of the serious, there may be imitation, at which the writer may aim, with a view to the beauties and excellence of the original, or, he may imitate in that style, which is called the mock-heroic. Of the former sort we have already given an instance in Adam's Morning Hymn, which is a Parody or version of the 148th Psalm. Of the latter or mock-heroic, there are examples in all languages. The earliest is by Homer, as is generally believed, in the Batrachomüomachia or the Battle of the Frogs and Mice-of this there is a beautiful translation by Parnell. In Italian the Secchia Rapita by Tassoni. In French the Lutrin of Boileau, and in English the beautiful poem of the Rape of the Lock. In the notes to Warburton's edition of Pope, and in Wharton's Essay on Pope, the parodies on Homer are care fully pointed out, to these we refer the reader, but we cannot refrain from quoting a beautiful example of this species of writing. Nothing in ancient or modern poetry is superior in generous sentiment and noble expression, to the speech of Sarpedon to Glaucus, in the 12th book of Pope's translation of Homer. "Why boast we Glaucus! our extended reign, Where Zanthus' streams enrich the Lycian plain, Our numerous herds, that range the fruitful field, And hills, where vines their purple harvest yield; Why on these shores are we with joy survey'd, 'Tis ours the dignity they give to grace; The first in valour, as the first in place. That when with wond'ring eyes our martial bands, Behold our deeds transcending our commands: This passage is beautifully parodied in the speech of Clarissa in the 5th Canto of the Rape of the Lock. "Say, why are beauties prais'd and honour'd most, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford? Why angels call'd, and angel-like ador'd? Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd beaux ? Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows? How vain are all these glories, all our pains, Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains: That men may say, when we the front-box grace, Behold the first in virtue as in face! Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? |