Buckingham, the lease of some lands belonging to the queen, worth about three hundred pounds per annum-a decent pension, at least, for his retirement. He finally settled at Chertsey, on the banks of the Thames, where his house may still be seen. 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, in ease and elegance, and in commemorating the chams of a country life, he sometimes rivalled; and here also he composed his fine prose discourses, so full of gentle thoughts, and well-digested knowledge, heightened by a delightful bonhommie and communicativeness worthy of even a Horace or a Montaigne. Cowley was not, however, happy in his retirement. Solitude, that had so long wooed him to her arms, was a phantom that vanished in his embrace. He had, it is true, attained the long-wished-for object of his studious youth and busy manhood-the woods and the fields at length inclosed 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 dreams. The place of his retreat was ill selected, and the change of situation materially affected his health. The people of the country, he soon found, were no better, or more innocent, than those of the town. He could not collect his rents, and the grass of his meadows was nightly eaten up by cattle let into them by his neighbors. From this harassing situation this amiable and accomplished man of genius was at length released by his death, which occurred on the twenty-eighth of July, 1667. His remains were interred, with great pomp, in the poet's corner in Westminster Abbey, and the king, when he received intelligence of the bereavement which the nation had sustained, graciously remarked that, 'Cowley had not left a better man behind him.' The poems of Cowley are Miscellanies, The Mistress, or Love Verses, Pindaric Odes, and the Davideis, a heroic poem of the Troubles of David. The peculiar character of his genius is happily expressed by Pope in the following lines: Who now reads Cowley? If he pleases yet, Forget his epic, nay Pindaric art, But still I love the language of his heart. Cowley's 'Love Poems' are generally fantastic and sickly, and it is evident that heart had no share in them; but his 'Anacreontics' are easy, lively, and full of spirit. They are redolent of joy and youth, and of images of natural and poetic beauty, that touch the feeling 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 'Davideis' is, as a whole, a tedious and unfinished poem, but the extract which follows, containing an account of the Creation, is full of eloquence and poetry, and shows how well Cowley was capable of writing in the heroic couplet: THE CREATION. They sung how God spoke-out the World's vast ball, But an unbottom'd gulf of emptiness; Full of himself, th' Almighty sate, his own But he was goodness whole, and all things will'd; As if it stepp'd in haste before the rest; Dull Earth with his own weight did downwards pierce And was quite lost in waters; till God said To the proud Sea, Shrink in your insolent head; Then Herbs peep'd forth, now Trees admiring stood, Nay the mute Fish witness no less his praise; For those he made, and clothed with silver scales, From Minnows to those living islands, Whales, Yes, Man he could, the bond of all before; In him he all things with strange order hurl'd, In him that full abridgment of the World! The following lyric, also from the same poem, in which David speaks of his love for Saul's daughter, is a perfect gem: Awake, awake my Lyre! And tell thy silent master's humble tale, Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: Though so exalted she, And I so lowly be, Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony! Hark! how the strings awake! And though the moving hand approach not near, A kind of numerous trembling make: Now all thy forces try, Now all thy charms apply, Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure Is useless here, since thou art only found To cure, but not to wound; And she to wound but not to cure: Too weak too wilt thou prove My passion to remove Physic to other ills, thou 'rt nourishment to Love. Sleep, sleep again my Lyre! For thou canst never tell my humble tale In sounds that will prevail; Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; All thy vain mirth lay by, Bid thy strings silent lie; Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! and let thy master die! The following ode on the death of Cowley's college companion, Harvey, is highly imaginative, and abounds in tenderness: It was a dismal and a fearful night, Scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling light, My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, And on my soul hung the dull weight What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know. My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, O thou hast left me all alone! My dearest friend, would I had died for thee! If once my griefs prove tedious too. As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by Alas, my treasure's gone! why do I stay? He was my friend, the truest friend on earth; By friendship given of old to fame, For much above myself I loved them too. Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine, Wit, eloquence, and poetry; Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were thine. Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, Henceforth, ye gentle trees, forever 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. His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, As if wise nature had made that her book. * With as much zeal, devotion, piety, Which still in water sets at night, Unsullied with his journey of the day. Wondrous young man, why wert thou made so good, Nor could thy friends take their last sad farewell 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, in no sordid poverty, And no inglorious ease, He braves the world, and can defy 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, As Cowley holds a distinguished position among the prose writers of this age, and has ever been placed at the head of those who first cultivated that clear, easy, and natural style which was afterward brought so nearly to perfection by Addison, we shall here introduce, as an appropriate specimen, the following account of himself: OF MYSELF. It is a hard and nice subject for a man to write of himself; it grates his own heart to say any thing of disparagement, and the reader's ears to hear any thing of praise from him. There is no danger from me of offending him in this kind; neither my mind, nor my body, nor my fortune, allow me any materials for that vanity. It is sufficient, for my own contentment, that they have preserved me from being scandalous, or remarkable on the defective side. But besides that, I shall here speak of myself only in relation to the subject of these precedent discourses, and shall be |