And make the age to come my own? Cowley, being a royalist, was ejected from Cambridge, and afterwards studied at Oxford. He went with the queen-mother to France, where he remained twelve years. He was sent on various embassies, and deciphered the correspondence of Charles and his queen, which, for some years, took up all his days, and two or three nights every week. At last the Restoration came with all its hopes and fears. England looked for happy days, and loyalty for its reward, but in both cases the cup of joy was dashed with disappointment. Cowley expected to be made master of the Savoy, or to receive some other appointment, but his claims were overlooked. In his youth he had written an ode to Brutus, which was remembered to his disadvantage; and a dramatic production, the Cutter of Coleman Street, which Cowley brought out shortly after the Restoration, and in which the jollity and debauchery of the cavaliers are painted in strong colours, was misrepresented or misconstrued at court. It is certain that Cowley felt his disappointment keenly, and he resolved to retire into the country. He had only just passed his fortieth year, but the greater part of his time had been spent in incessant labour, amidst dangers and suspense. He always professed,' says Dr Sprat, his biographer, that he went out of the world as it was man's, into the same world as it was nature's and as it was God's. The whole compass of the creation, and all the wonderful effects of the divine wisdom, were the constant prospect of his senses and his thoughts. And, indeed, he entered with great advantage on the studies of nature, even as the first great men of antiquity did, who were generally both poets and philosophers.' Cowley had obtained, through Lord St Albans and the Duke of Buckingham, the lease of some lands belonging to the queen, worth about £300 per annum-a decent provision for his retirement. The poet finally settled at Chertsey, on the banks of the Thames, where his house still remains. Here he cultivated his fields, his garden, and his plants; he wrote of solitude and obscurity, of the perils of greatness, and the happiness of liberty. He renewed his acquaintance with the beloved poets of antiquity, whom he rivalled occasionally in ease and elegance, and in commemorating the charms of a country life; and he composed his fine prose discourses, so full of gentle thoughts and well-digested knowledge, heightened by a delightful bon-hommie and communicativeness worthy of Horace or Montaigne. The style of these discourses is pure, Cowley's poetical works are divided into four natural, and lively. Sprat mentions that Cowley parts- Miscellanies,' the Mistress or Love Verses,' excelled in letter-writing, and that he and Mr M.Pindaric Odes,' and the 'Davideis, a heroical poem Clifford had a large collection of his letters, but they of the Troubles of David.' The character of his had decided that nothing of that kind should be genius is well expressed by Popepublished. This is much to be regretted. The private letters of a distinguished author are generally read with as much interest as his works, and Cowper and others owe much of their fame to such confidential disclosures of their habits, opinions, and daily life. Cowley was not happy in his retirement. Solitude, that had so long wooed him to her arms, was a phantom that vanished in his embrace. He had attained the long-wished object of his studious youth and busy manhood; the woods and fields at length enclosed the melancholy Cowley' in their shades. But happiness was still distant. He had quitted the 'monster London ;' he had gone out from Sodom, but had not found the little Zoar of his a whit better or more innocent than those of the town. He could get no money from his tenants, and his meadows were eaten up every night by cattle put in by his neighbours. Dr Johnson, who would have preferred Fleet Street to all the charms of Arcadia and the golden age, has published, with a sort of malicious satisfaction, a letter of Cowley's, dated from Chertsey, in which the poet makes a querulous and rueful complaint over the downfall of his rural prospects and enjoyment. His retirement extended over a period of only seven years. One day, in the heat of summer, he had stayed too long amongst his labourers in the meadows, and was seized with a cold, which, being neglected, proved fatal in a fortnight. The death of this amiable and accomplished man of genius took place on the 28th of July, 1667. His remains were taken by water to Westminster, and interred with great pomp in the abbey. The king himself,' says Sprat, was pleased to bestow on him the best epitaph, when, upon the news of his death, his majesty declared that Mr Cowley had not left a better man behind him.' Who now reads Cowley? If he pleases yet, But still I love the language of his heart. Task,' in which he laments that his splendid wit' should have been entangled in the cobwebs of the schools.' The manners of the court and the age inspired Cowley with a portion of gallantry, but he seems to have had no deep or permanent passion. He expresses his love in a style almost as fantastic as the euphuism of old Lyly or Sir Percie Shafton. 313 'Poets,' he says, are scarce thought freemen of their company, without paying some duties, and obliging themselves to be true to love; and it is evident that he himself composed his Mistress' as a sort of taskwork. There is so much of this wit-writing in Cowley's poetry, that the reader is generally glad to escape from it into his prose, where he has good sense and right feeling, instead of cold though glittering conceits, forced analogies, and counterfeited passion. His anacreontic pieces are the happiest of his poems; in them he is easy, lively, and full of spirit. They are redolent of joy and youth, and of images of natural and poetic beauty, that touch the feelings as well as the fancy. His Pindaric Odes,' though deformed by metaphysical conceits, though they do not roll the full flood of Pindar's unnavigable song, though we admit that even the art of Gray was higher, yet contain some noble lines and illustrations. The best pieces of his 'Miscellanies,' next to the 'Anacreontics,' are his lines on the death of his college companion, Harvey, and his elegy on the religious poet, Crashaw, which are tender and imaginative. The Davideis' is tedious and unfinished, but we have extracted a specimen to show how well Cowley could sometimes write in the heroic couplet. It is evident that Milton had read this neglected poem. On the Death of Mr Crashaw. Poet and Saint! To thee alone are given * How well, blest swan, did Fate contrive thy death, Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak't and grief; So far, at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Oppos'd by our old enemy, adverse chance, Expos'd by tyrant love to savage beasts and fires; Heaven and Hell. [From the Davideis."] Sleep on! Rest, quiet as thy conscience, take, * Mr Crashaw died of a fever at Loretto, being newly chosen nanon of that church. Above the subtle foldings of the sky, A dreadful silence fill'd the hollow place, To Pyrrha. In imitation of Horace's Ode, Lib. i. Od. 5. To whom now, Pyrrha, art thou kind? Dost thou thy golden lock unbind, Ah, simple youth! how oft will he Of thy chang'd faith complain! Of so cameleon-like a hue, That still their colour changes with it too! How oft, alas! will he admire The blackness of the skies; Trembling to hear the winds sound higher, And see the billows rise! Poor unexperienc'd he, Who ne'er, alas, had been before at sea! H' enjoys thy calmy sunshine now, In the clear heaven of thy brow No smallest cloud appears. He sees thee gentle, fair, and gay, And trusts the faithless April of thy May. Unhappy! thrice unhappy he, T'whom thou untried dost shine! But there's no danger now for me, Since o'er Loretto's shrine, In witness of the shipwreck past, My consecrated vessel hangs at last. Anacreontics. Or some copies of verses translated paraphrastically out of Anacreon. Drinking. The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, Oft am I by the women told, "Tis time short pleasures now to take, Gold. A mighty pain to love it is, A curse on her and on the man A curse on him who found the ore! A curse all curses else above The Epicure. Fill the bowl with rosy wine, To-day is ours; what do we fear? Happy insect, what can be Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; To thee, of all things upon earth, Dost neither age nor winter know. Satiated with thy summer feast, The Resurrection. Begin the song, and strike the living lyre! Lo, how the years to come, a numerous and well-fitted quire, All hand in hand do decently advance, And to my song with smooth and equal measures dance! While the dance lasts, how long soe'er it be, My music's voice shall bear it company. Till all gentle notes be drown'd In the last trumpet's dreadful sound, That to the spheres themselves shall silence bring, Untune the universal string; Then all the wide-extended sky, And all the harmonious worlds on high, And Virgil's sacred work shall die; And he himself shall see in one fire shine Rich Nature's ancient Troy, though built by hands divine. Whom thunder's dismal noise, And all that prophets and apostles louder spake, This mightier sound shall make When dead to arise, And open tombs, and open eyes, To the long sluggards of five thousand years. Some from birds, from fishes some, Some from earth, and some from seas, Some from beasts, and some from trees, And, when the attending soul naked and shivering stands, Meet, salute, and join their hands, As dispersed soldiers, at the trumpet's call, Unhappy most, like tortured men, Their joints new set to be new rack'd again. The mountains shake, and run about no less confused than they. The Shortness of Life and Uncertainty of Riches. Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or, what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou'rt to fly, Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see, Suppose thou Fortune couldst to tameness bring, Suppose thou couldst on Fate so far prevail, Yet Death at all that subtlety will laugh; Who does a slight and annual plant ingraff Thou dost thyself wise and industrious deem; Fond man! like a bought slave, thou all the while Officious fool! that needs must meddling be For when to future years thou extend'st thy cares, Ev'n aged men, as if they truly were Of power and honour the deceitful light If it of life the whole small time would stay, Like lightning that, begot but in a cloud, Be prudent, and the shore in prospect keep! The wise example of the heav'nly lark, The Wish. Well, then, I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree; The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy. And they, methinks, deserve my pity, Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings Of this great hive, the city. Ah! yet ere I descend to th' grave, Only belov'd, and loving me! Oh fountains! when in you shall I Myself, eas'd of unpeaceful thoughts, espy? Oh fields! oh woods! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade? Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood, Where all the riches lie, that she Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; The gods, when they descended hither That 'tis the way too thither. How happy here should I, And one dear She live, and embracing die? I should have then this only fear, The Chronicle. Margarita first possest, If I remember well, my breast. But when a while the wanton maid To the beauteous Catherine. Had she not evil counsels ta'en; And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes both I obey'd. Another Mary then arose, And did rigorous laws impose; 'Twas then a golden time with me. For the gracious princess died And Judith reigned in her stead. One month, three days, and half an hour, And so Susanna took her place. But when Isabella came, Arm'd with a resistless flame, She beat out Susan by the bye. Bless me from such an anarchy ! And a third Mary next began, And then a long 'et cetera.' But should I now to you relate The strength and riches of their state, The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribbons, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint, and warlike things That make up all their magazines: If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts; The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, Numberless, nameless mysteries; By Machiavel, the waiting-maid; But I will briefer with them be, Whom God grant long to reign! Did on the very border stand Of the blest promis'd land, And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit, But life did never to one man allow Nor can so short a line sufficient be, Ode on the Death of Mr William Harvey. It was a dismal and a fearful night, Scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling light, My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know. O thou hast left me all alone! If once my griefs prove tedious too. As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by By friendship given of old to fame. For much above myself I loved them too. We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine, Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were thine. Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade; * * To him my muse made haste with every strain, Whilst it was new, and warm yet from the brain. He lov'd my worthless rhymes, and like a friend Would find out something to commend. Hence now, my muse, thou canst not me delight; Be this my latest verse, With which I now adorn his hearse; And this my grief, without thy help shall write. |