is so uncertain and remote that it is never sought because it cannot be known when it is found.’
The hot partisans of Milton have not answered this criticism. Is the grey fly a real grey fly? If it is, what is it doing among the allegorical flocks? If not, what does it mean? The fact, no doubt, is that Milton was recalling real experiences, and imperfectly veiling them under similitudes beautiful in themselves, and somewhat mistily applied to the facts. Johnson complains of this vagueness because it seems to him to belie the poignancy of the mourner’s grief. He contrasts with Lycidas Cowley’s elegy on his friend Hervey; and, indeed, there can be no question which of the two poems is the more vivid in its memories and the tenderer in its affection:—
Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,
Have ye not seen us walking every day?
Was there a Tree about which did not know
The Love betwixt us two?
Henceforth, ye gentle Trees for ever fade;
Or your sad branches thicker joyn,
And into darksome shades combine,
Dark as the Grave wherein my Friend is laid.
But there is no need to bring Cowley into the question; Johnson has himself left an elegy which illustrates his creed by his practice. The lines On the Death of Dr. Robert Levett, Johnson’s friend and pensioner, who practised medicine among the very poor, are the best explanation of his doctrine.
No summons mock’d by chill delay,
No petty gains disdain’d by pride;
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supply’d.
His virtues walk’d their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found
His single talent well employ’d.
