'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 The two most sacred names of earth and heaven; The hard and rarest union which can be, Next that of Godhead, with humanity. Long did the Muses banish'd slaves abide, And built vain pyramids to mortal pride; Like Moses thou (though spells and charms withstand) Hast brought them nobly home, back to their holy land.
How well, blest swan, did Fate contrive thy death, And made thee render up thy tuneful breath In thy great mistress' arms! Thou most divine And richest offering of Loretto's shrine, Where, like some holy sacrifice t' expire, A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire. Angels, they say, brought the famed chapel there, And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air. 'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they And thou, their charge, went singing all the way. Pardon, my mother church, if I consent That angels led him when from thee he went; For even in error sure no danger is, When join'd with so much piety as his.
Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak't and grief; Ah, that our greatest faults were in belief! And our weak reason were ev'n weaker yet, Rather than thus our wills too strong for it. His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right; And I myself a Catholic will be,
So far, at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail bard triumphant, and some care bestow On us the poets militant below,
Oppos'd by our old enemy, adverse chance, Attack'd by envy and by ignorance, Enchain'd by beauty, tortured by desires,
Expos'd by tyrant love to savage beasts and fires; Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise, And, like Elijah, mount alive the skies!
Heaven and Hell.
[From the Davideis."]
Sleep on! Rest, quiet as thy conscience, take, For though thou sleep'st thyself, thy God's awake.
*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 he— Beneath 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.
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In imitation of Horace's Ode, Lib. i. Od. 5.
To whom now, Pyrrha, art thou kind? To what heart-ravish'd lover
Dost thou thy golden lock unbind, Thy hidden sweets discover, And, with large bounty, open set All the bright stores of thy rich cabinet?
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, And no breath stirring hears;
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.
Or some copies of yerses translated paraphrastically out of
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again. The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair. The sea itself, which one would think Should have but little need of drink, Drinks ten thousand rivers up, So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup. The busy sun (and one would guess By's drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and when he has done, The moon and stars drink up the sun. They drink and dance by their own light; They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in nature's sober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there, for why Should every creature drink but I, Why, men of morals, tell me why? Age.
Oft am I by the women told, Poor Anacreon, thou grow'st old! Look how thy hairs are falling all; Poor Anacreon, how they fall! Whether I grow old or no, By th' effects I do not know. This I know, without being told, "Tis time to live if I grow old.
"Tis time short pleasures now to take, Of little life the best to make, And manage wisely the last stake.
A mighty pain to love it is, And 'tis a pain that pain to miss, But of all pain the greatest pain It is to love, but love in vain. Virtue now nor noble blood, Nor wit, by love is understood. Gold alone does passion move; Gold monopolises love!
A curse on her and on the man Who this traffic first began!
A curse on him who found the ore! A curse on him who digg'd the store! A curse on him who did refine it! A curse on him who first did coin it!
A curse all curses else above On him who us'd it first in love! Gold begets in brethren hate; Gold, in families debate; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create. These the smallest harms of it; Gold, alas 1 does love beget.
Fill the bowl with rosy wine, Around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully a while, Like the wine and roses smile. Crown'd with roses, we contemn Gyges' wealthy diadem.
To-day is ours; what do we fear? To-day is ours; we have it here. Let's treat it kindly, that it may Wish at least with us to stay. Let's banish business, banish sorrow; To the gods belongs to-morrow. The Grasshopper.
Happy insect, what can be
In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; "Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature self's thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee; All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plough; Farmer he, and landlord thou! Thou dost innocently enjoy; Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripen'd year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth. Happy insect! happy thou,
Dost neither age nor winter know.
But when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal!)
Satiated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest.
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, And all the creatures' plain conspiring voice Could not whilst they lived awake,
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; Then shall the scattered atoms crowding come Back to their ancient home;
Some from birds, from fishes some,
Some from earth, and some from seas,
Some from beasts, and some from trees, Some descend from clouds on high, Some from metals upwards fly;
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, Oh, man! ordain'd to die?
Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie?
Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For Death, alas! is reaping thee.
Suppose thou Fortune couldst to tameness bring, And clip or pinion her wing;
Suppose thou couldst on Fate so far prevail, As not to cut off thy entail;
Yet Death at all that subtlety will laugh; Death will that foolish gard'ner mock, Who does a slight and annual plant ingraff Upon a lasting stock.
Thou dost thyself wise and industrious deem; A mighty husband thou wouldst seem;
Fond man! like a bought slave, thou all the while Dost but for others sweat and toil.
Officious fool! that needs must meddling be In business that concerns not thee;
For when to future years thou extend'st thy cares, Thou deal'st in other men's affairs.
Ev'n aged men, as if they truly were Children again, for age prepare; Provisions for long travel they design, In the last point of their short line. Wisely the ant against poor winter hoards The stock which summer's wealth affords; In grasshoppers, that must at autumn die, How vain were such an industry!
Of power and honour the deceitful light Might half excuse our cheated sight, If it of life the whole small time would stay, And be our sunshine all the day.
Like lightning that, begot but in a cloud, (Though shining bright, and speaking loud), Whilst it begins, concludes its violent race, And where it gilds, it wounds the place. Oh, scene of fortune! which dost fair appear Only to men that stand not near: Proud Poverty, that tinsel brav'ry wears, And, like a rainbow, painted tears!
Be prudent, and the shore in prospect keep! In a weak boat trust not the deep; Plac'd beneath envy-above envying rise; Pity great men-great things despise.
The wise example of the heav'nly lark, Thy fellow-poet, Cowley! mark; Above the clouds let thy proud music sound; Thy humble nest build on the ground.
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, May I a small house and large garden have, And a few friends, and many books both true, Both wise, and both delightful too! And since love ne'er will from me flec, A mistress moderately fair,
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; And therefore we may boldly say,
That 'tis the way too thither.
How happy here should I,
And one dear She live, and embracing die? She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude.
I should have then this only fear, Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here.
The Chronicle.
Margarita first possest,
If I remember well, my breast. Margarita first of all;
But when a while the wanton maid With my restless heart had play'd, Martha took the flying ball. Martha soon did it resign
To the beauteous Catherine. Beauteous Catherine gave place (Though loath and angry she to part With the possession of my heart)
To Eliza's conquering face. Eliza till this hour might reign,
Had she not evil counsels ta'en; Fundamental laws she broke, And still new favourites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose, And cast away her yoke. Mary then, and gentle Anne,
Both to reign at once began: Alternately they sway'd;
And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, And sometimes both I obey'd.
And did rigorous laws impose; A mighty tyrant she! Long, alas! should I have been Under that iron-scepter'd queen,
Had not Rebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free,
'Twas then a golden time with me. But soon those pleasures fled;
For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride,
And Judith reigned in her stead.
One month, three days, and half an hour, Judith held the sovereign power. Wondrous beautiful her face; But so weak and small her wit, That she to govern was unfit,
And so Susanna took her place.
But when Isabella came,
Arm'd with a resistless flame, And th' artillery of her eye, Whilst she proudly march'd about, Greater conquests to find out,
She beat out Susan by the bye. But in her place I then obey'd Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy maid, To whom ensued a vacancy. Thousand worse passions then possest The interregnum of my breast:
Bless me from such an anarchy !
Gentle Henrietta then,
And a third Mary next began, Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria, And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catherine,
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; And all the little lime-twigs laid
By Machiavel, the waiting-maid; I more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I like them should tell All change of weathers that befell) Than Holinshed or Stow.
But I will briefer with them be,
Since few of them were long with me. A higher and a nobler strain My present emperess does claim, Heleonora, first o' th' name,
Whom God grant long to reign!
[From Ode to the Royal Society."]
From these and all long errors of the way, In which our wandering predecessors went, And like th' old Hebrews many years did stray In deserts but of small extent,
Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last; The barren wilderness he pass'd
Did on the very border stand Of the blest promis'd land,
And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit, Saw it himself, and show'd us it.
But life did never to one man allow Time to discover worlds and conquer too;
Nor can so short a line sufficient be,
To fathom the vast depths of nature's sca: The work he did we ought t'admire, And we're unjust if we should more require From his few years, divided 'twixt the excess Of low affliction and high happiness; For who on things remote can fix his sight, That's always in a triumph or a fight?
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, When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast, By something liker death possest.
My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, And on my soul hung the dull weight Of some intolerable fate.
What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know. My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, Thy end for ever, and my life to moan? O thou hast left me all alone! Thy soul and body, when death's agony Besieged around thy noble heart, Did not with more reluctance part Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee. My dearest friend, would I had died for thee! Life and this world henceforth will tedious be. Nor shall I know hereafter what to do,
If once my griefs prove tedious too. Silent and sad I walk about all day,
As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by Where their hid treasures lie; Alas, my treasure's gone! why do I stay? He was my friend, the truest friend on earth; A strong and mighty influence join'd our birth. Nor did we envy the most sounding name By friendship given of old to fame. None but his brethren he, and sisters, knew, Whom the kind youth preferred to me; And ev'n in that we did agree,
For much above myself I loved them too. Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, How oft unwearied have we spent the nights? Till the Ledæan stars, so fam'd for love, Wonder'd at us from above.
We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine, But search of deep philosophy, Wit, eloquence, and poetry;
Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were thine. 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 join, And into darksome shades combine; Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.
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His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, Yet never did his God or friends forget; And, when deep talk and wisdom came in view, Retir'd and gave to them their due. For the rich help of books he always took, Though his own searching mind before Was so with notions written o'er, As if wise nature had made that her book.
With as much zeal, devotion, piety, He always liv'd as other saints do die; Still with his soul severe account he kept, Weeping all debts out ere he slept. Then down in peace and innocence he lay, Like the sun's laborious light, Which still in water sets at night, Unsullied with his journey of the day.
Wondrous young man, why wert thou made so good, 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, He braves the world, and can defy Its frowns and flatteries.
The little earth, he asks, survey: Is he not dead, indeed?
'Light lie that earth,' good stranger, pray, Nor thorn upon it breed!'
With flowers, fit emblem of his fame, Compass your poet round;
With flowers of every fragrant name, Be his warm ashes crown'd!
Claudian's Old Man of Verona.
Happy the man who his whole time doth bound Within the enclosure of his little ground. Happy the man whom the same humble place (The hereditary cottage of his race) From his first rising infancy has known, And by degrees sees gently bending down, With natural propension, to that earth
Which both preserv'd his life, and gave him birth. Him no false distant lights, by fortune set, Could ever into foolish wanderings get. He never dangers either saw or fear'd: The dreadful storms at sea he never heard. He never heard the shrill alarms of war, Or the worse noises of the lawyers' bar. No change of consuls mark to him the year; The change of seasons is his calendar.
The cold and heat winter and summer shows; Autumn by fruits, and spring by flowers he knows. He measures time by land-marks, and has found For the whole day the dial of his ground.
A neighbouring wood, born with himself, he sees, And loves his old contemporary trees. He has only heard of near Verona's name, And knows it, like the Indies, but by fame; Does with a like concernment notice take Of the Red Sea, and of Benacus' lake.
Thus health and strength he to a third age enjoys, And sees a long posterity of boys. About the spacious world let others roam: The voyage, life, is longest made at home.
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 intensity of feeling only inferior to Crashaw. He was a 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, The mirth of fools, and legends of the age.
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, And my sun sets where first it sprang in beams, I'll leave behind me such a large kind light As shall redeem thee from oblivious night, And in these vows which (living yet) I pay, Shed such a precious and enduring ray, As shall from age to age thy fair name lead Till rivers leave to run, and men to read!
Early Rising and Prayer.
[From Silex Scintillans, or Sacred Poems."]
When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave To do the like; our bodies but forerun The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun : Give him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep Him company all day, and in him sleep. Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should Dawn with the day: there are set awful hours "Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good After sun-rising; far day sullies flowers: Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut. Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring Or leaf but hath his morning hymn; each bush And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing! O leave thy cares and follies! Go this way, And thou art sure to prosper all the day. Serve God before the world; let him not go Until thou hast a blessing; then resign The whole unto him, and remember who Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine; Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, Then journey on, and have an eye to heav'n. Mornings are mysteries; the first, the world's youth, Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth, Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food:
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