It is proposed in this chapter to examine in some detail the use of compound epithets in the poetry of the eighteenth century. For this purpose the following grammatical scheme of classification has been adopted from various sources:[160] First Type, noun plus noun; Second Type, noun plus adjective; Third Type, noun plus present participle; Fourth Type, noun plus past participle; Fifth Type, adjective, or adjective used adverbially, plus another part of speech, usually a participle; Sixth Type, true adverb plus a participle; Seventh Type, adjective plus noun plus -ed. Of these types it will be evident in many cases that the first (noun plus noun) and the sixth (true adverb plus participle) are not compounds at all, for the hyphen could often be removed without any change or loss of meaning. Occasionally the compounds will be regarded from the point of view of the logical relation between the two elements, when a formal classification may usually be made as follows: (a) Attributive, as in “anger-glow”; (b) Objective, as in “anger-kindling”; (c) Instrumental, as in “anger-boiling.” This scheme of classification permits of an examination of the compounds from the formal point of view, whilst at the same time it does not preclude an estimate of the æsthetic value of the new words thus added to the language of poetry.[161]

It may be said, to begin with, that the formation and use of compound epithets has always been one of the distinguishing marks of the special language of poetry in English, as distinct from that of prose. The very ease with which they can be formed out of the almost inexhaustible resources of the English vocabulary has been a constant source of temptation to poets with new things to say, or new impressions to describe. Moreover, the partial disappearance of inflections in modern English has permitted of a vagueness in the formation of compound words, which in itself is of value to the word-maker. Though, of course, it is possible in most cases accurately to analyse the logical relation between the elements of a compound, yet it sometimes happens, especially with the compound epithets of poetry, that this cannot be done with certainty, because the new formation may have been the result of a hasty but happy inspiration, with no regard to the regular rules of composition.[162] Hence, from one point of view, the free formation of compounds is a legitimate device allowed to the poets, of which the more severe atmosphere of prose is expected to take less advantage; from another point of view, the greater prevalence of the compound in poetry may not be unconnected with the rhythm of verse. Viewed in this light, the use of compound epithets in our poetry at any period may well have been conditioned, in part at least, by the metrical form in which that poetry received expression; and thus in the poetry of the eighteenth century it connects itself in some degree—first, with the supremacy of the heroic couplet, and later with the blank verse that proved to be the chief rival of the decasyllabic.

The freedom of construction which facilitates the formation of compounds had already in the earliest English period contributed to that special poetic diction which is a distinguishing mark of Anglo-Saxon verse, as indeed of all the old Germanic poetry; of the large number of words not used in Anglo-Saxon prose, very many are synonymous compounds meaning the same thing.[163] During the Middle English period, and especially before the triumph of the East Midland dialect definitely prepared the way for Modern English, it would seem that the language lost much of its old power of forming compounds, one explanation being that the large number of French words, which then came into the language, drove out many of the Old English compounds, whilst at the same time these in-comers, so easily acquired, tended to discourage the formation of new compounds.[164] It was not until the great outburst of literary activity in the second half of the sixteenth century that a fresh impetus was given to the formation of compound nouns and epithets. The large number of classical translations especially exercised an important influence in this respect: each new translation had its quota of fresh compounds, but Chapman’s “Homer” may be mentioned as especially noteworthy.[165] At the same time the plastic state of Elizabethan English led to the making of expressive new compounds of native growth, and from this period date some of the happiest compound epithets to be found in the language.[166] From the Elizabethans this gift of forming imaginative compounds was inherited, with even greater felicity by Milton, many of whose epithets, especially those of Type VII such as “grey-hooded even,” “coral-paven floor,” “flowery-kirtled Naiades” reveal him as a consummate master of word-craft.

With Dryden begins the period with which we are especially concerned, for it is generally agreed that from nearly every point of view the advent of what is called eighteenth century literature dates from the Restoration. During the forty years dominated by Dryden in practically every department of literature, the changes in the language, both of prose and poetry, which had been slowly evolving themselves, became apparent, and, as the sequel will show, this new ideal of style, with its passion for “correctness,” and its impatience of innovation, was not one likely to encourage or inspire the formation of expressive compounds; the happy audacities of the Elizabethans, of whose tribe it is customary to seal Milton, are no longer possible.

The compounds in the poems of Dryden show this; of his examples of Type I—the substantive compounds—the majority are merely the juxtaposition of two appositional nouns, as brother-angels (“Killigrew,” 4); or, more rarely, where the first element has a descriptive or adjectival force, as traitor-friend (“Palamon,” II, 568). Not much more imaginative power is reflected in Dryden’s compound epithets; his instances of Types III and IV include “cloud-dispelling winds” (“Ovid,” Met. I, 356), “sun-begotten tribe” (ibid., III, 462), with more original examples like “sleep-procuring wand.” Next comes a large number of instances of Types V and VI: “thick-spread forest” (“Palamon,” II, 123), “hoarse-resounding shore” (“Iliad” I, 54), as well as many compounded with long-, well-, high-, etc. Most of these examples of Types V and VI are scarcely compounds at all, for after such elements as “long,” “well,” “much,” the hyphen could in most cases be omitted without any loss of power. Of Dryden’s compound epithets it may be said in general that they reflect admirably his poetic theory and practice; they are never the product of a “fine frenzy.” At the same time not a few of them seem to have something of that genius for satirical expression with which he was amply endowed. Compounds like court-informer (“Absalom,” 719), “the rebels’ pension-purse” (ibid., Pt. II, 321),

play their part in the delivery of those “smacks in the face” of which Professor Saintsbury speaks in his discussion of Dryden’s satiric manipulation of the heroic couplet.[167]

In the verse of Pope, compound formations are to be found in large numbers. This may partly be attributed, no doubt, to the amount of translation included in it, but even in his original poetry there are many more instances than in the work of his great predecessor. When engaged on his translation of Homer the prevalence of compounds naturally attracted his attention, and he refers to the matter more than once in his Preface.[168] As might be expected from the apostle of “correctness,” he lays down cautious and conservative “rules” of procedure. Such should be retained “as slide easily of themselves into an English compound, without violence to the ear, or to the received rules of composition, as well as those which have received the sanction from the authority of our best poets, and are become familiar through their use of them.”[169]

An examination of Pope’s compounds in the light of “the received rules of composition,” shows his examples to be of the usual types. Of noun plus noun combinations he has such forms as “monarch-savage,” (“Odyss.” IV), whilst he is credited with the first use of “the fury-passions” (Epistle III). More originality and imagination is reflected in his compound epithets; of those formed from a noun and a present participle, with the first element usually in an objective relation to the second, his instances include “love-darting-eyes” (“Unfortunate Lady”), as well as others found before his time, like the Elizabethan “heart-piercing anguish” (ibid., XII) and “laughter-loving dame” (ibid., III). He has large numbers of compounded nouns and past-participles, many of which—“moss-grown domes” (“Eloisa”), “cloud-topped hills” (“Essay on Man,” I, 100), “Sea-girt isles” (“Iliad,” III)—were common in the seventeenth century, as well as “borrowed” examples, such as “home-felt joys” (Epistle II) or “air-bred people” (“Odyss.,” LX, 330), presumably from Milton and Drayton respectively. But he has a few original formations of this type, such as “heaven-directed spire” (Epistle III), “osier-fringed bank,” (“Odyss.,” XIII), the latter perhaps a reminiscence of Sabrina’s song in “Comus,” as well as happier combinations, of which the best examples are “love-born confidence” (“Odyss.,” X) and “love-dittied airs” (“Odyss.,” II).

Pope, however, makes his largest use of that type of compound which can be formed with the greatest freedom—an adjective, or an adjective used adverbially, joined to a present or past participle. He has dozens of examples with the adverbial long, wide, far, loud, deep, high, etc., as the first element, most of the examples occurring in the Homer translations, and being attempts to reproduce the Greek compounds.[170] Other instances have a higher æsthetic value: “fresh-blooming hope” (“Eloisa”), “silver-quivering rills” (Epistle IV), “soft-trickling waters” “Iliad,” IX), “sweet airs soft-circling” (ibid., XVII), etc. Of the formations beginning with a true adverb, the most numerous are the quasi-compounds beginning with “ever”—“ever-during nights,” “ever-fragrant bowers” (“Odyss.,” XII), etc.; or “well”—“well-sung woes” (“Eloisa”) or “yet”—“yet-untasted food” (“Iliad,” XV), etc. These instances do not reveal any great originality, for the very ease with which they can be formed naturally discounts largely their poetic value. Occasionally, however, Pope has been more successful; perhaps his best examples of this type are “inly-pining hate” (“Odyss.,” VI—where the condensation involved in the epithet does at least convey some impression of power—and “the softly-stealing space of time,” (“Odyss.,” XV), where the compound almost produces a happy effect of personification.

Of the irregular type of compound, already mentioned in connexion with Dryden, Pope has a few instances—“white-robed innocence” (“Eloisa”), etc. But perhaps Pope’s happiest effort in this respect is to be seen in that quatrain from the fourth book of the “Dunciad,” containing three instances of compound epithets, which help to remind us that at times he had at his command a diction of higher suggestive and evocative power than the plain idiom of his satiric and didactic verse:

Of the poets contemporary with Pope only brief mention need be made from our present point of view. The poems of Anne, Countess of Winchilsea contain few instances and those of the ordinary type, a remark which is equally applicable to the poems of Parnell and John Phillips. John Gay (1685-1732), however, though he has many formations found in previous writers, has also some apparently original compound epithets which have a certain charm: “health-breathing breezes” (“A Devonshire Hill,” 10), “dew-besprinkled lawn” (“Fables,” 50), and “the lark high-poised in the air” (“Sweet William’s Farewell,” 13). More noteworthy is John Dyer; “Grongar Hill” has no very striking examples, but his blank verse poems have one or two not devoid of imaginative value: “soft-whispering waters” (“Ruins of Rome”) and “plaintive-echoing ruins” (ibid.); he has been able to dispense with the “classical” descriptive terms for hills and mountains (“shaggy,” “horrid,” “terrible,” etc.), and his new epithets reflect something at least of that changing attitude towards natural scenery, of which he was a foremost pioneer: “slow-climbing wilds” (“Fleece,” I), “cloud-dividing hill” (ibid.), and his irregular “snow-nodding crags” (ibid., IV).

Neglecting for the moment the more famous of the blank verse poems, we may notice Robert Blair’s “Grave” (published 1743), with a few examples, which mainly allow him to indulge in “classical” periphrases, such as the “sight-invigorating tube” for “a telescope.” David Mallet, who imitated his greater countryman James Thomson, has one or two noteworthy instances: “pines high-plumed” (“Amyntor,” II), “sweetly-pensive silence” (“Fragment”), “spring’s flower-embroidered mantle” (“Excursion,” I)—suggested, no doubt, by Milton’s “violet-embroidered”—“the morn sun-tinctured” (ibid.), compound epithets which betray the influence of the “Seasons.” Of the other minor blank verse poems their only aspect noteworthy from our present point of view is their comparative freedom from compounds of any description. John Armstrong’s “Art of Preserving Health” (1744) has only a few commonplace examples, and the same may be said of the earlier “The Chase” (1735) by William Somerville, though he finds a new epithet in his expression “the strand sea-lav’d” (Bk. III, 431). James Grainger’s “The Sugar Cane” (1764) shows a similar poverty, but the “green-stol’d Naiad, of the tinkling rill” (Canto I), “soft-stealing dews” (Canto III), “wild-careering clouds” (Canto II), and “cane-crowned vale” (Canto IV) are not without merit. These blank verse poems, avowedly modelled on Milton, might have been expected to attempt the “grandeur” of their original by high-sounding compounds; but it was rather by means of latinized words and constructions that the Miltonic imitators sought to emulate the grand style; and moreover, as Coleridge pointed out, Milton’s great epics are almost free from compound epithets, it being in the early poems that “a superfluity” is to be found.[171]

Before turning to the more famous blank verse poems of the first half of the eighteenth century it will be convenient at this point to notice one or two poets whose work represents, on its formal side at least, a continuation or development of the school of Pope. The first of these is Richard Savage, whose only poem of any real merit, “The Wanderer” (apart perhaps from “The Bastard”), appeared in 1729. He has only one or two new compounds of noun and part-participle, such as “the robe snow-wrought” (“The Wanderer,” I, 55), his favourite combination being that of an adjective or adverb with a participle, where, amidst numerous examples of obvious formations, he occasionally strikes out something new: “eyes dim-gleaming” (Canto I), “soft-creeping murmurs” (Canto V), etc. Of his other types the only other noteworthy compound is the “past-participle” epithet in his phrase “the amber-hued cascade” (Canto III), though a refreshing simplicity of expression is found in such lines as

The poetical work of Dr. Johnson contains scarcely any instances of compounds, and none either newly invented or applied. “London” and “The Vanity of Human Wishes” have each not more than two or three instances, and even the four poems, in which he successively treats of the seasons, are almost destitute of compound epithets, “snow-topped cot” (“Winter”) being almost the only example.

There are many more instances of compound formations in the works of Oliver Goldsmith, most of which, like “nut-brown draughts” (“Deserted Village,” II), “sea-borne gales” (“Traveller,” 121), “grass-grown footway” (“Deserted Village,” 127), had either been long in the language, or had been used by earlier eighteenth century poets. There are, however, instances which testify to a desire to add to the descriptive power of the vocabulary; in “The Traveller” we find mention of “the hollow-sounding bittern” (l. 44), “the rocky-crested summits” (l. 85), “the yellow-blossomed vale” (l. 293), and the “willow-tufted bank” (l. 294). For the rest, Goldsmith’s original compounds are, like so many of this type, mere efforts at verbal condensation, as “shelter-seeking peasant” (“Traveller,” 162), “joy-pronouncing eye” (ibid., 10), etc.

Of the more famous blank verse poems of the eighteenth century the first and most important was “The Seasons” of James Thomson, which appeared in their original form between 1726 and 1730. The originality of style, for which Johnson praised him,[172] is perhaps to be seen especially in his use of compound formations; probably no other poet has ever used them so freely.

As a general rule, Thomson’s compounds fall into the well-defined groups already mentioned. He has a number of noun plus noun formations (Type I), where the first element has usually a purely adjectival value; “patriot-council” (“Autumn,” 98), “harvest-treasures” (ibid., 1217), as well as a few which allow him to indulge in grandiose periphrasis, as in the “monarch-swain” (“Summer,” 495) for a shepherd with his “sceptre-crook” (ibid., 497). These are all commonplace formations, but much more originality is found in his compound epithets. He frequently uses the noun plus present participle combinations (Type III), “secret-winding, flower-enwoven bowers” (“Spring,” 1058) or “forest-rustling mountains” (“Winter,” 151), etc. Moreover, the majority of his compounds are original, though now and then he has taken a “classical” compound and given it a somewhat curious application, as in “cloud-compelling cliffs” (“Autumn,” 801). A few of this class are difficult to justify logically, striking examples being “world-rejoicing state” (“Summer,” 116) for “the state of one in whom the world rejoices,” and “life-sufficing trees” (ibid., 836) for “trees that give sustenance.”

Thomson has also numerous instances of the juxtaposition of nouns and past-participles (Type IV): “love-enlivened cheeks” (“Spring,” 1080), “leaf-strewn walks” (“Autumn,” 955), “frost-concocted glebe” (“Winter,” 706); others of this type are somewhat obscure in meaning, as “mind-illumined face” (“Spring,” 1042), and especially “art imagination-flushed” (“Autumn,” 140), where economy of expression is perhaps carried to its very limit.

Thomson’s favourite method of forming compounds however is that of Type V, each book of “The Seasons” containing large numbers, the first element (full, prone, quick, etc.) often repeated with a variant second element. Sometimes constant repetition in this way produces the impression of a tiresome mannerism. Thus “many” joined to present and past-participles is used irregularly with quasi-adverbial force, apparently meaning “in many ways,” “many times,” or even “much,” as “many-twinkling leaves” (“Spring,” 158), “many-bleating flock” (ibid., 835), etc. In the same way the word “mazy” seems to have had a fascination for Thomson. Thus he has “the mazy-running soul of melody” (“Spring,” 577), “the mazy-running brook” (“Summer,” 373), “and mazy-running clefts” (“Autumn,” 816), etc. Not all of this type, however, are mere mechanical formations; some have real poetic value and bear witness to Thomson’s undoubted gift for achieving happy expressive effects. Thus the “close-embowering wood” (“Autumn,” 208), “the lonesome muse low-whispering” (ibid., 955), “the deep-tangled copse” (“Spring,” 594), “the hollow-whispering breeze” (ibid., 919), “the grey-grown oaks” (“Summer,” 225), “flowery-tempting paths” (“Spring,” 1109), “the morn faint-gleaming” (“Summer,” 48), “dark-embowered firs” (“Winter,” 813), “the winds hollow-blustering” (ibid., 988), “the mossy-tinctured streams” (“Spring,” 380), as well as such passages as

and

Thomson’s compound epithets with a true adverb as the first element (Sixth Type), such as “north-inflated tempest” (“Autumn,” 892), are not particularly striking, and some of them are awkward and result in giving a harsh effect to the verse, as

Finally, in “The Seasons” there are to be found many examples of the type of compound epithet, already referred to, modelled on the form of a past-participle; here Thomson has achieved some of his happiest expressions, charged with real suggestive power.[173] Among his instances are such little “word-pictures” as “rocky-channelled maze” (“Spring,” 401), “the light-footed dews” (“Summer,” 123); “the keen-aired mountain” (“Autumn,” 434) “the dusky-mantled lawn” (ibid., 1088), “the dewy-skirted clouds” (ibid., 961) Even when he borrows a felicitous epithet he is able to apply it without loss of power, as when he gives a new setting to Milton’s “meek-eyed” applied to “Peace” as an epithet for the quiet in-coming of the dawn; the “meek-eyed Morn” (“Summer,” 47).

Thomson makes good and abundant use of compound epithets, and in this respect, as in others he was undoubtedly a bold pioneer. His language itself, from our present point of view, apart from the thought and outlook on external nature it reflects, entitles him to that honourable position as a forerunner in the Romantic reaction with which he is usually credited. He was not content to accept the stereotyped diction of his day, and asserted the right of the poet to make a vocabulary for himself. There is thus justice in the plea that it is Thomson, rather than Gray, whom Wordsworth should have marked down for widening the breach between the language of poetry and that of prose.

No doubt the prevalence of the compound epithets in “The Seasons” is due, to some extent at least, to the requirement of his blank verse line; they helped him, so to speak, to secure the maximum of effect with the minimum of word-power; and at times we can almost see him trying to give to his unrhymed decasyllabics something of the conciseness and polish to which Pope’s couplet had accustomed his generation. But they owe their appearance, of course, to other causes than the mere mechanism of verse. Thompson’s fondness for “swelling sound and phrase” has often been touched upon, and this predilection finds full scope in the compound epithets; they play their part in giving colour and atmosphere to “The Seasons,” and they announce unmistakably that the old dead, descriptive diction is doomed.

Of the blank verse poems of the period only “The Seasons” has any real claim to be regarded as announcing the Romantic revolt that was soon to declare itself unmistakably. But three years after the appearance of Thomson’s final revision of his poem the first odes of William Collins were published, at the same time as those of Joseph Warton, whilst the work of Thomas Gray had already begun.

There are some two score of compound formations in the poems of Collins, but many of these—as “love-darting” (“Poetic Character,” 8), “soul-subduing” (“Liberty,” 92)—date from the seventeenth century. One felicitous compound Collins has borrowed from James Thomson, but in doing so he has invested it with a new and beautiful suggestiveness. Thomson had written of

The compound is taken by Collins and given a new beauty in his description of the landscape as the evening shadows gently settle upon it:

where the poetic and pictorial force of the epithet is perhaps at its maximum.[174]

Collins, however, has not contented himself with compounds already in the language; he has formed himself, apparently, almost half of the examples to be found in his poems. His instances of Types I, as of Types V and VI, are commonplace, and he has but few examples of Type II, the most noteworthy being “scene-full world” (“Manners,” 78), where the epithet, irregularly formed, seems to have the meaning of “abounding in scenery.” Most of his instances of Type III are either to be found in previous writers, or are obvious formations like “war-denouncing trumpets” (“Passions,” 43).

Much more originality is evident in his examples of Type IV, which is apparently a favourite method with him. He has “moss-crowned fountain” (“Oriental Ecl.,” II, 24), “sky-worn robes” (“Pity,” II), “sedge-crowned sisters” (“Ode on Thomson,” 30), “elf-shot arrows” (“Popular Superstitions,” 27), etc. Some instances here are, strictly speaking, irregular formations, for the participles, as in “sphere-descended,” are from intransitive verbs; in other instances the logical relation must be expressed by a preposition such, as “with” in “moss-crowned,” “sedge-crowned”; or “by” in “fancy-blest,” “elf-shot”; or “in” in “sphere-found,” “sky-worn.” He has some half-dozen examples of Type VII, three at least of which—“gay-motleyed pinks” (“Oriental Eclogues,” III, 17), “chaste-eyed Queen” (“Passions,” 75), and “fiery-tressed Dane” (“Liberty,” 97)—are apparently his own coinage, whilst others, such as “rosy-lipp’d health” (“Evening,” 50) and “young-eyed wit,” have been happily used in the service of the personifications that play so great a part in his Odes.

There is some evidence that the use of compounds by certain writers was already being noticed in the eighteenth century as something of an innovation in poetical language. Thus Goldsmith, it would seem, was under the impression that their increasing employment, even by Gray, was connected in some way with the revived study of the older poets, especially Spenser.[175] This supposition is unfounded. Gray, it is true, uses a large number of compounds, found in previous writers, but it is chiefly from Milton—e.g. “solemn-breathing airs” (“Progress of Poesy,” 14; cp. “Comus,” 555), “rosy-bosomed hours” (“Spring,” I), or from Pope—e.g. “cloud-topped head” (“Bard,” 34) that he borrows. Moreover, he has many compounds which presumably he made for himself. Of Type I he has such instances as “the seraph-wings of Ecstasy” (“Progress,” 96), “the sapphire-blaze” (ibid., 99), etc.; he has one original example of Type II in his “silver-bright Cynthia” (“Music,” 32), and two of Type III, when he speaks of the valley of Thames as a “silver-winding way” (“Eton Ode,” 10), and he finds a new epithet for the dawn in his beautiful phrase “the incense-breathing Morn” (Elegy XVII). Of Type IV, he has some half-dozen examples, only two of which, however, owe their first appearance to him—the irregularly formed “feather-cinctured chiefs” (“Progress,” 62) and “the dew-bespangled wing” (“Vicissitude,” 2). The largest number of Gray’s compound epithets belong to Type V, where an adjective is used adverbially with a participle: “rosy-crowned loves” (“Progress,” 28) and “deep-toned shell” (“Music,” 23). One of Gray’s examples of this class of compound, evidently formed on a model furnished by Thomson, came in for a good deal of censure. He speaks of “many-twinkling feet” (“Progress,” 35), and the compound, which indeed is somewhat difficult to defend, aroused disapproval in certain quarters. Lyttleton was one of the first to object to its use, and he communicated his disapproval to Walpole, who, however, at once took sides for the defence. “In answer to your objection,” he wrote,[176] “I will quote authority to which you will yield. As Greek as the expression is, it struck Mrs. Garrick; and she says that Mr. Gray is the only poet who ever understood dancing.” Later, the objection was revived in a general form by Dr. Johnson. “Gray,” he says,[177] “is too fond of words arbitrarily compounded. ‘Many-twinkling’ was formerly censured as not analogical: we may say ‘many-spotted’ but scarcely ‘many-spotting.’” The incident is not without its significance; from the strictly grammatical point of view the epithet is altogether irregular, unless the first element is admitted to be an adverb meaning “very much” or “many times.” But Gray’s fastidiousness of expression is a commonplace of criticism, and we may be sure that even when he uses compounds of this kind he has not forgotten his own clearly expressed views on the language fit and proper for poetry.

Johnson also objected to another device by which Gray had sought to enrich the vocabulary of poetry, as reflected in his use of the “participal” epithet in -ed.[178] If this device for forming new epithets cannot be grammatically justified, the practice of the best English poets at least has always been against Johnson’s dictum, and, as we have seen, it has been a prolific source of original and valuable compound epithets. Of this type Gray has some six or seven examples, the majority of which, however, had long been in the language, though in the new epithet of “the ivy-mantled tower” (Elegy IX) we may perhaps see an indication of the increasing Romantic sensibility towards old ruins.

Though not admitted to the same high rank of poets as Collins and Gray, two of their contemporaries, the brothers Warton, are at least of as great importance in the history of the Romantic revival.[179] From our present point of view it is not too fanciful to see a reflection of this fact in the compound epithets freely used by both of the Wartons. Thomas Warton is especially noteworthy; probably no other eighteenth century poet, with the exception of James Thomson, has so many instances of new compound formations, and these are all the more striking in that few of them are of the mechanical type, readily formed by means of a commonplace adjective or adverb. Instances of compound substantives (Type I) are almost entirely lacking, and the same may be said of the noun plus adjective epithets (Type II). There are, however, a few examples of Type III (noun plus present participle), some of which, as “beauty-blooming isle” (“Pleasures of Melancholy”), “twilight-loving bat” (ibid.), and “the woodbines elm-encircling spray” (“On a New Plantation”), no doubt owe something to the influence of Thomson. Instances of Type IV are plentiful, and here again there is a welcome freshness in Warton’s epithets: “Fancy’s fairy-circled shrine” (“Monody Written near Stratford-on-Avon”), “morning’s twilight-tinctured beam” (“The Hamlet”), “daisy-dappled dale” (“Sonnet on Bathing”). One instance of this class of compound epithet, “the furze-clad dale,” is certainly significant as indicative of the changes that were going on from the “classical” to the Romantic outlook towards natural scenery.[180]

Of the other class of compound epithets, Warton has only a few instances, but his odes gave plenty of scope for the use of the “participial epithet” (Type VII), and he has formed them freely: “Pale Cynthia’s silver-axled car” (“Pleasures of Melancholy”), “the coral-cinctured stole” (“Complaint of Cherwell”), “Sport, the yellow-tressed boy” (ibid.). No doubt many of Thomas Warton’s compound formations were the result of a conscious effort to find “high-sounding” terms, and they have sometimes an air of being merely rhetorical, as in such instances as “beauty-blooming,” “gladsome-glistering green,” “azure-arched,” “twilight-tinctured,” “coral-cinctured,” “cliff-encircled,” “daisy-dappled,” where alliterative effects have obviously been sought. Yet he deserves great credit for his attempts to find new words at a time when the stock epithets and phrases were still the common treasury of the majority of his contemporaries.

His brother, Joseph Warton, is less of a pioneer, but there is evident in his work also an effort to search out new epithets. His compounds include (Type II) “marble-mimic gods” (“The Enthusiast”); (Type III) “courage-breathing songs” (“Verses, 1750”), with many instances of Type IV, some commonplace, as “merchant-crowded towns” (“Ode to Health”), others more original, as “mirth and youth nodding lily-crowned heads” (“Ode to Fancy”), joy, “the rose-crowned, ever-smiling boy” (“Ode Against Despair”), “the beech-embowered cottage” (“On The Spring”). Moreover, there are a number in “The Enthusiast,” which reflect a genuine love of Nature (“thousand-coloured tulips,” “pine-topp’d precipice”) and a keen observation of its sights and sounds.

It is not forcing the evidence of language too much to say that a similar increasing interest in external nature finds expression in some of the compound epithets to be found in much of the minor poetry of the period. Thus Moses Mendez (d. 1758)[181] has in his poem on the various seasons (1751) such conventional epithets as

but others testify to first hand observation as

Richard Jago (1715-1781)[182], in his “Edgehill” (1767), has such instances as “the woodland-shade,” “the wave-worn face,” and “the tillag’d plain wide-waving.” The Rev. R. Potter,[183] who imitated Spenser in his “Farewell Hymn to the Country” (1749), has happy examples like “mavis-haunted grove” and “this flowre-perfumed aire.” In William Whitehead’s poems[184] there are numerous formations like “cloud-enveloped towers” (“A Hymn”) and “rock-invested shades” (“Elegy,” IV). A few new descriptive terms appear in the work of John Langhorne (1735-1779),[185] “flower-feeding rills” (“Visions of Fancy,” I), “long-winding vales” (“Genius and Valour”), etc. Michael Bruce (1746-1767) in his “Lochleven”[186] has, e.g., “cowslip-covered banks,” and fresh observation of bird life is seen in such phrases as “wild-shrieking gull” and “slow-wing’d crane.” James Graeme (1749-1772)[187] has at least one new and happy compound in his line

John Scott (1730-1783)[188] makes more use of compound formations than most of his minor contemporaries. He has many instances of Type IV (noun plus participle), including “rivulet-water’d glade” (Eclogue I), “corn-clad plain,” “elder-shaded cot” (“Amwell”). His few instances of Type VI (e.g. “wildly-warbled strain,” (“Ode” IV)), and of Type VII (e.g. “trefoil-purpled field” (“Elegy,” III)); “may-flower’d hedges” (“Elegy,” IV); and “golden-clouded sky,” (“Ode,” II), are also worthy of notice.

Meanwhile another aspect of the rising Romantic movement was revealing itself in the work of Chatterton. With the “antiquarianism” of the Rowley poems we are not here concerned, but the language of both the “original” work and of the “discovered” poems contains plenty of material relevant to our special topic. Chatterton, indeed, seems to have had a predilection for compound formations, though he has but few instances of compound substantives (e.g. “coppice-valley” (“Elegy”), and instances of Type II (noun plus adjective) are also rare. The other types of epithets are, however, well represented: “echo-giving bells” (“To Miss Hoyland”), “rapture-speaking lyre” (“Song”), etc. (Type III), though it is perhaps in Type IV that Chatterton’s word-forming power is best shown: “flower-bespangled hills” (“Complaint”), “rose-hedged vale” (“Elegy at Stanton-Drew”), etc., where the first compound epithet is a new and suggestive descriptive term. His examples of Type V are also worth noting: “verdant-vested trees” (“Elegy,” V), “red-blushing blossom” “Song”), whilst one of the best of them is to be found in those lines, amongst the most beautiful written by Chatterton, which reflect something of the new charm that men were beginning to find in old historic churches and buildings:

The remaining examples of Chatterton’s compound formations do not call for much attention, though “gently-plaintive rill” (“Elegy on Phillips”) and “loudly-dinning stream” (“Ælla,” 84) are new and fresh. Chatterton has much of the conventional poetical language and devices of his time throughout his work, and his compound epithets do not in the mass vary much from contemporary usage in this respect. But some of them at least are significant of the position which he occupies in the history of the Romantic revival.

The greatest figure in this revival, as it appears to us now, was William Blake, but from our present point of view he is almost negligible. It may safely be said that few poets of such high rank have made less use of compound formations: in his entire poetical work scarcely half a dozen instances are to be found. Yet the majority of these, such as “angel-guarded bed” (“A Dream,” 2), “mind-forg’d manacles” (“London,” 8), “Winter’s deep-founded habitation” (“Winter,” 3), “softly-breathing song” (“Song,” 2: “Poetical Sketches”) are a sufficiently striking tribute to his ability to form expressive compounds had he felt the need. But in the beautiful purity and simplicity of his diction, for which he has in our own time at least received adequate praise, there was no place for long compound formations, which, moreover, are more valuable and more appropriate for descriptive poetry, and likely to mar the pure singing note of the lyric.

It is curious to find a similar paucity of compound formations in the poems of George Crabbe, the whole number being well represented by such examples as “dew-press’d vale” (“Epistle to a Friend,” 48), “violet-wing’d Zephyrs” (“The Candidate,” 268), and “wind-perfuming flowers” (“The Choice”). No doubt the narrative character of much of Crabbe’s verse is the explanation of this comparative lack of compounds, but the descriptions of wild nature that form the background for many of “The Tales” might have been expected to result in new descriptive terms.

Two lesser poets of the time are more noteworthy as regards our especial topic. William Mickle (1735-1788), in his “Almada Hill” (1781) and his “May Day,” as well as in his shorter poems, has new epithets for hills and heights, as in such phrases as “thyme-clad mountains” and “fir-crown’d hill” (“Sorcerers,” 4). His Spenserian imitation “Syr Martyn,” contains a few happy epithets: