COWLEY.

Oh, hear a suppliant heart, all crush'd
And crumbled into contrite dust!

My hope, my fear! my Judge, my Friend!
Take charge of me, and of my end.

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ABRAHAM COWLEY.

The style of which Crashaw and Herbert are examples, culminated in Abraham Cowley.* Like the old fashion of gilding green leaves, it must be lamented that the most versatile poet in the seventeenth century wasted on ephemeral themes so much of the fine gold of his genius; and it is equally lamentable that, in his graver efforts, "never pathetic, and rarely sublime, but always either ingenious or learned, either acute or profound," the taste of his readers is constantly offended by extravagance, and their patience tried by pedantry. Still, it must be admitted, in the words of the great critic, that "he brought to his poetic labours a mind replete with learning, and that his pages are embellished with all the ornaments which books could supply; that he was the first who imparted to English numbers the enthusiasm of the greater ode, and the gaiety of the less; that he was equally qualified for sprightly sallies and for lofty flights; and that he was among those who freed translation from servility, and, instead of following his author at a distance, walked by his side." +

The first of the following specimens is from "Davideis," an epic poem on the Triumphs of David, of which only the first four books were written :

Gabriel.

Thus dress'd, the joyful Gabriel posts away,
And carries with him his own glorious day

*Born 1618; died May 2, 1667.
+ Johnson's Lives of the Poets.

Through the thick woods; the gloomy shades awhile
Put on fresh looks, and wonder why they smile;
The trembling serpents close and silent lie,
The birds obscene far from his passage fly.
A sudden spring waits on him as he goes,
Sudden as that which by creation rose.
Thus he appears to David; at first sight

All earth-born fears and sorrows take their flight.
In rushes joy divine, and hope, and rest;

A sacred calm shines through his peaceful breast.
Hail, man beloved! From highest heaven (said he)
My mighty Master sends thee health by me.

The things thou sawest are full of truth and light,
Shaped in the glass of the Divine foresight.

Ev'n now old Time is harnessing the years

To go in order thus.

Thy fate's all white;

Hence, empty fears!

from thy blest seed shalt spring

The promised Shiloh, the great mystic King.

Round the whole earth His dreaded name shall sound,
And reach the worlds that must not yet be found.
The Southern clime Him her sole Lord shall style;
Him all the North, ev'n Albion's stubborn isle.

The Ecstacy.

I leave mortality, and things below;
I have no time in compliments to waste,
Farewell to ye all in haste,

For I am call'd to go.

A whirlwind bears up my dull feet,

The officious clouds beneath them meet,

And lo! I mount, and lo!

How small the biggest parts of earth's proud tittle show!

Where shall I find the noble British land?
Lo! I at last a northern speck espy,

Which in the sea does lie,

And seems a grain o' th' sand!
For this will any sin, or bleed?
Of civil wars is this the meed?

COWLEY.

And is it this, alas! which we,

Oh, irony of words! do call Great Britannie?

I pass'd by th' arched magazines, which hold
Th' eternal stores of frost, and rain, and snow;
Dry and secure I go,

Nor shake with fear, or cold.

Without affright or wonder

I meet clouds charged with thunder,

And lightnings in my way

Like harmless lambent fires about my temples play.

Now into a gentle sea of rolling flame

I'm plunged, and still mount higher there,
As flames mount up through air,

So perfect, yet so tame,

So great, so pure, so bright a fire
Was that unfortunate desire,

My faithful breast did cover,

Then, when I was of late a wretched mortal lover.

Through several orbs which one fair planet bear,
Where I behold distinctly as I pass

The hints of Galileo's glass,

I touch at last the spangled sphere.

Here all the extended sky

Is but one galaxy,

'Tis all so bright and gay,

And the joint eyes of night make up a perfect day.

Where am I now? angels and God is here:
An unexhausted ocean of delight

Swallows my senses quite,

And drowns all what, or how, or where.

Not Paul, who first did thither pass,
And this great world's Columbus was,

The tyrannous pleasure could express;

Oh, 'tis too much for man! but let it ne'er be less.

The mighty Elijah mounted so on high,

That second man, who leap'd the ditch where all

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The rest of mankind fall,

And went not downwards to the sky.
With much of pomp and show,

As conquering kings in triumph go,

Did he to heav'n approach,

And wondrous was his way, and wondrous was his coach.

"Twas gaudy all, and rich in every part,
Of essences of gems, and spirit of gold
Was its substantial mould;

Drawn forth by chymic angels' art.
Here with moon-beams 'twas silvered bright,
There double-gilt with the sun's light,
And mystic shapes cut round in it,

Figures that did transcend a vulgar angel's wit.

The horses were of temper'd lightning made,
Of all that in heav'n's beauteous pastures feed
The noblest, sprightful'st breed,

And flaming manes their necks array'd.
They all were shod with diamond,

Not such as here are found,

But such light solid ones as shine

On the transparent rocks o' the heavenly crystalline.

Thus mounted the great prophet to the skies:
Astonish'd men, who oft had seen stars fall,
Or that which so they call,

Wonder'd from hence to see one rise.

The soft clouds melted him away,

The snow and frosts which in it lay

Awhile the sacred footsteps bore,

The wheels and horses' hoofs hiss'd as they past them o'er.

He past by the moon and planets, and did fright
All the worlds there, which at this meteor gazed,
And their astrologers amazed

With the unexampled sight.

But where he stopp'd will ne'er be known,
'Till Phoenix nature, aged grown,

To a better being do aspire,

And mount herself, like him, to eternity on fire.

George Wither was born in 1588. After two years at Oxford, he came to Lincoln's Inn to study law; but, making the acquaintance of William Brown, the poet, his thoughts were turned to literature, and he commenced the career of authorship. His publications are very numerous, and they are distinguished by a force and depth of thought, and a sweetness of versification, which entitle them to more attention than they have received during the last hundred and fifty years. His life was one of many virtues and great vicissitudes. During a great plague which ravaged London in 1625, he devoted himself to the care of the sick and dying, and his habits were of "almost patriarchal simplicity." But for the freedom with which he satirised the vices of the times, in one of his earlier volumes, he was thrown into Newgate; and, owing to his puritanism, on the restoration of Charles II., he was committed to the Tower, where he had well-nigh ended his days. He died May 2, 1667.

The Suffering Saviour.

You that like heedless strangers pass along,
As if nought here concerned you to-day;
Draw nigh, and hear the saddest passion-song,
That ever you did meet with in your way:
So sad a story ne'er was told before,
Nor shall there be the like for evermore.

The greatest king that ever wore a crown,
More than the basest vassal was abused;

The truest lover that ever was known,

By them He loved was most unkindly rɛel:

* Introduction to Wither's "Hymns and Songs of the Church." Edited by E. Farr. London: 1856.