Cyclopaedia of English Literature: First period, from the earliest times to 1400

Fourth Period.

THE COMMONWEALTH AND REIGNS OF CHARLES II. AND JAMES II. [1649 TO 1689.]

In the department of divinity, Jeremy Taylor, Barrow, and Tillotson, laid the sure foundations of ProHE forty years testantism, and the best defences of revealed religion. comprehended In speculative philosophy, we have the illustrious in this period name of Locke; in history and polite literature, produced some Clarendon, Burnet, and Temple. In this period, too, great names; Bunyan composed his inimitable religious allegory, but, considering and gave the first conspicuous example of native the mighty force of mind and powers of imagination rising successful over all the obstructions caused by a low station in life, and a miserably defective education. The world has never been, for any length of time, without some great men to guide and illuminate the onward course of society; and, happily, some of them were found at this period to serve as beacons to their contemporaries and to all future ages.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

ABRAHAM COWLEY was perhaps the most popular English poet of his times. Waller stood next in public estimation. Dryden had as yet done nothing to stamp his name, and Milton's minor poems had not earned for him a national reputation: the same year that witnessed the death of Cowley ushered the Paradise Lost' into the world. Cowley was born in

events which then agitated the country, and must have influenced the national feelings-such as the abolition of the ancient monarchy of England, and the establishment of the commonwealth-there was less change in the taste and literature of the nation than might have been anticipated. Authors were still a select class, and literature, the delight of the learned and ingenious, had not become food for the multitude. The chivalrous and romantic spirit which prevailed in the reign of Elizabeth, had even, before her death, begun to yield to more sober and practical views of human life and society: a spirit of inquiry was fast spreading among the people. The long period of peace under James, and the progress of commerce, gave scope to domestic improvement, and fostered the reasoning faculties and mechanical powers, rather than the imagination. The reign of Charles I., a prince of taste and accomplishments, partially revived the style of the Elizabethan era, but its lustre extended little beyond the court and the nobility. During the civil war and the protectorate, poetry and the drama were buried under the strife and anxiety of contending factions. Cromwell, with a just and generous spirit, boasted that he would make the name of an Englishman as great as ever that of a Roman had been. He realised his wish in the naval victories of Blake, and the unquestioned supremacy of England abroad; but neither the time nor inclination of the Protector permitted him to be a patron of literature. Charles II. was better fitted for such a task, by natural powers, birth, and education; but he had imbibed a false and perverted taste, which, added to his indolent and sensual disposition, was as injurious to art and literature as to the public morals. Poetry declined from the date of the Restoration, and was degraded from a high and noble art to a mere courtly amusement, or pander to immorality. whole atmosphere of genius was not, however, tainted by this public degeneracy. Science was assiduously cultivated, and to this period belong some of the London in the year 1618, and was the posthumous proudest triumphs of English poetry, learning, and son of a respectable grocer. His mother had influence philosophy. Milton produced his long-cherished enough to procure admission for him as a king's epic, the greatest poem which our language can scholar at Westminster; and in his eighteenth year boast; Butler his inimitable burlesque of Hudibras; he was elected of Trinity college, Cambridge. Cowley and Dryden his matchless satire and versification.lisped in numbers;' he published a volume of poems

Flowley,

dreams. The place of his retreat was ill selected, and his health was affected by the change of situation. The people of the country, he found, were not

in his thirteenth year. A copy of Spenser used to lie in his mother's parlour, with which he was infinitely delighted, and which helped to make him a poet. The intensity of his youthful ambition may be seen from the two first lines in his miscellaniesWhat shall I do to be for ever known, 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,
His moral pleases, not his pointed wit:
Forgot his epic, nay, Pindaric art,

But still I love the language of his heart.
Cowper has also drawn a sketch of Cowley in his

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.

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'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.

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! 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!,

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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.

Anacreontics.

Or some copies of verses translated paraphrastically out of

Anacreon.

Drinking.

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.

Gold.

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! does love beget.

The Epicure.

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.

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,
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 bencath 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.

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,
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 flee,
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 diel
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.

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