'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. 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 canon of that church. Above the subtle foldings of the sky, Above the well-set orbs soft harmony; Above those petty lamps that gild the night, There is a place o'erflown with hallowed light; Where Heaven, as if it left itself behind, Is stretched out far, nor its own bounds can find: Here peaceful flames swell up the sacred place, Nor can the glory contain itself in th' endless space. For there no twilight of the sun's dull ray Glimmers upon the pure and native day. No pale-faced moon does in stolen beams appear, Or with dim tapers scatter darkness there. On no smooth sphere the restless seasons slide, No circling motion doth swift time divide; Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last. Beneath the silent chambers of the earth, Where the sun's fruitful beams give metals birth, Where he the growth of fatal gold does see Gold which above more influence has than heBeneath the dens where unfledg'd tempests lie, And infant winds their tender voices try; Beneath the mighty ocean's wealthy caves; Beneath the eternal fountain of the waves, Where their vast court the mother-waters keep, And, undisturb'd by moons, in silence sleep, There is a place, deep, wondrous deep below, Which genuine Night and Horror does o'erflow: No bound controls the unwearied space but hell, Endless as those dire pains that in it dwell. Here no dear glimpse of the sun's lovely face Strikes through the solid darkness of the place; No dawning morn does her kind red display; One slight weak beam would here be thought the day; No gentle stars, with their fair gems of light, Offend the tyrannous and unquestion'd night. Here Lucifer, the mighty captive, reigns, Proud 'midst his woes, and tyrant in his chains, Once general of a gilded host of sprites, Like Hesper leading forth the spangled nights; But down like lightning which him struck he came, And roar'd at his first plunge into the flame. Myriads of spirits fell wounded round him there; With dropping lights thick shone the singed air. A dreadful silence fill'd the hollow place, Doubling the native terror of hell's face; Rivers of flaming brimstone, which before So loudly raged, crept softly by the shore; No hiss of snakes, no clank of chains was known, The souls amidst their tortures durst not groan. * To Pyrrha. In imitation of Horace's Ode, Lib. i. Od. 5. To whom now, Pyrrha, art thou kind i Dost thou thy golden lock unbind, Ah, simple youth! how oft will he Of thy chang'd faith complain! And his own fortunes find to be So airy and so vain; 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, 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. But when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung 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. This mightier sound shall wake its hearers' ears; 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, Haste to their colours all. Unhappy most, like tortured men, Their joints new set to be new rack'd again. To mountains they for shelter pray; 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 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, And good as guardian angels are, 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; Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And nought but Echo flatter. The gods, when they descended hither From heav'n, did always choose their way; 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; Both to reign at once began: And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes both I obey'd. Another Mary then arose, And did rigorous laws impose; Had not Rebecca set me free. "Twas then a golden time with me. 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 ! Gentle Henrietta then, 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, My present emperess does claim, Whom God grant long to reign! [Lord Bacon.] [From Ode to the Royal Society."] From these and all long errors of the way, Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last; 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 Ode on the Death of Mr William Harvey. It was a dismal and a fearful night, My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know. 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, Wit, eloquence, and poetry; 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. Thus health and strength he to a third age enjoys, HENRY VAUGHAN. HENRY VAUGHAN (1614-1695) published in 1651 a volume of miscellaneous poems, evincing considerable strength and originality of thought and copious imagery, though tinged with a gloomy sectarianism and marred by crabbed rhymes. Mr Campbell scarcely does justice to Vaughan, in styling him 'one of the harshest even of the inferior order of the school of conceit,' though he admits that he has 'some few scattered thoughts that meet our eye amidst his harsh pages, like wild flowers on a barren heath.' As a sacred poet, Vaughan has an inten Wondrous, young man, why wert thou made so good, sity of feeling only inferior to Crashaw. He was a To be snatcht hence ere better understood? Snatcht before half enough of thee was seen! Thou ripe, and yet thy life but green! Nor could thy friends take their last sad farewell, But danger and infectious death, Maliciously seized on that breath Where life, spirit, pleasure, always used to dwell. Epitaph on the Living Author. Here, stranger, in this humble nest, Here Cowley sleeps; here lies, Scaped all the toils that life molest, And its superfluous joys. Here, in no sordid poverty, And no inglorious ease, The little earth, he asks, survey: 'Light lie that earth,' good stranger, pray, 'Nor thorn upon it breed!' With flowers, fit emblem of his fame, With flowers of every fragrant name, Claudian's Old Man of Verona. Happy the man who his whole time doth bound Which both preserv'd his life, and gave him birth. The cold and heat winter and summer snows; A neighbouring wood, born with himself, he sees, Welshman (born in Brecknockshire), and had a dash of Celtic enthusiasm. He first followed the profession of the law, but afterwards adopted that of a physician. He does not seem to have attained to a competence in either, for he complains much of the proverbial poverty and suffering of poets As they were merely thrown upon the stage, In his latter days Vaughan grew deeply serious and devout, and published a volume of religious poetry, containing his happiest effusions. The poet was not without hopes of renown, and he wished the river of his native vale to share in the distinction When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams, Early Rising and Prayer. [From Silex Scintillans, or Sacred Poems."] Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should |