But all this merit or demerit is matter
of mere language only. The poet--a very pretty poet in his way, and
doubtless capable of gracious work enough in the idyllic or elegiac line
of business--shows about as much capacity to grasp and handle the fine
intimacies of character and the large issues of circumstance to any
tragic or dramatic purpose, as might be expected from an idyllic or
elegiac poet who should suddenly assume the buskin of tragedy. Let us
suppose that Moschus, for example, on the strength of having written a
sweeter elegy than ever before was chanted over the untimely grave of a
friend and fellow-singer, had said within himself, "Go to, I will be
Sophocles"; can we imagine that the tragic result would have been other
than tragical indeed for the credit of his gentle name, and comical
indeed for all who might have envied the mild and modest excellence which
fashion or hypocrisy might for years have induced them to besprinkle with
the froth and slaver of their promiscuous and pointless adulation?
As the play is not more generally known than it deserves to be,--or
perhaps we may say it is somewhat less known, though its claim to general
notice is faint indeed compared with that of many a poem of its age
familiar only to special students in our own--I will transcribe a few
passages to show how far the writer could reach at his best; leaving for
others to indicate how far short of that not inaccessible point he is too
generally content to fall and to remain.
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