ABRAHAM COWLEY, a poet of considerable dis- | virtue of a degree which he obtained, by mandamus, tinction, was born at London, in 1618. His father, who was a grocer by trade, died before his birth; but his mother, through the interest of her friends, procured his admission into Westminster school, as a king's scholar. He has represented himself as so deficient in memory, as to have been unable to retain the common rules of grammar: it is, however, certain that, by some process, he became an elegant and correct classical scholar. He early imbibed a taste for poetry; and so soon did it germinate in his youthful mind, that, while yet at school, in his fifteenth or sixteenth year, he published a collection of verses, under the appropriate title of Poetical Blossoms. In 1636 he was elected a scholar of Trinity college, Cambridge. In this favourable situation he obtained much praise for his academical exercises; and he again appeared as an author, in a pastoral comedy, called Love's Riddle, and a Latin comedy, entitled, Naufragium Joculare; the last of which was acted before the university, by the members of Trinity college. He continued to reside at Cambridge till 1643, and was a Master of Arts when he was ejected from the university by the puritanical visiters. He thence removed to Oxford, and fixed himself in St. John's college. It was here that he engaged actively in the royal cause, and was present in several of the king's journeys and expeditions, but in what quality, does not appear. He ingratiated himself, however, with the principal persons about the court, and was particularly honoured with the friendship of Lord Falkland. from Oxford, in December, 1657. After the death of Cromwell, Cowley returned to France, and resumed his station as an agent in the royal cause, the hopes of which now began to revive. The Restoration reinstated him, with other royalists, in his own country; and he naturally expected a reward for his long services. He had been promised, both by Charles I. and Charles II., the Mastership of the Savoy, but was unsuccessful in both his applications. He had also the misfortune of displeasing his party, by his revived comedy of "The Cutter of Coleman-street," which was construed as a satire on the cavaliers. At length, through the interest of the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of St. Alban's, he obtained a lease of a farm at Chertsey, held under the queen, by which his income was raised to about 3001. per annum. From early youth a country retirement had been a real or imaginary object of his wishes; and, though a late eminent critic and moralist, who had himself no sensibility to rural pleasures, treats this taste with severity and ridicule, there seems little reason to decry a propensity, nourished by the favourite strains of poets, and natural to a mind long tossed by the anxieties of business, and the vicissitudes of an unsettled condition. Cowley took up his abode first at Barn-elms, on the banks of the Thames; but this place not agreeing with his health, he removed to Chertsey. Here his life was soon brought to a close. According to his biographer, Dr. Sprat, the fatal disease was an affection of the lungs, the consequence of staying When the events of the war obliged the queen- too late in the fields among his labourers. Dr. mother to quit the kingdom, Cowley accompanied Warton, however, from the authority of Mr. Spence,. her to France, and obtained a settlement at Paris, gives a different account of the matter. He says, in the family of the Earl of St. Alban's. During that Cowley, with his friend Sprat, paid a visit on an absence of nearly ten years from his native foot to a gentleman in the neighbourhood of Chertcountry, he took various journeys into Jersey, Scot-sey, which they prolonged, in free conviviality, till land, Holland, and Flanders; and it was principally through his instrumentality that a correspondence was maintained between the king and his consort. The business of cyphering and decyphering their letters was entrusted to his care, and often occupied his nights, as well as his days. It is no wonder that, after the Restoration, he long complained of the neglect with which he was treated. In 1656, having no longer any affairs to transact abroad, he returned to England; still, it is supposed, engaged in the service of his party, as a medium of secret intelligence. Soon after his arrival, he published an edition of his poems, containing most of those which now appear in his works. In a search for another person, he was apprehended by the messengers of the ruling powers, and committed to custody; from which he was liberated, by that generous and learned physician, Dr. Scarborough, who bailed him in the sum of a thousand pounds. This, however, was possibly the sum at which he was rated as a physician, a character he assumed by midnight; and that missing their way on their return, they were obliged to pass the night under a hedge, which gave to the poet a severe cold and fever, which terminated in his death. He died on July 28. 1667, and was interred, with a most honourable attendance of persons of distinction, in Westminster-abbey, near the remains of Chaucer and Spenser. King Charles II. pronounced his eulogy, by declaring," that Mr. Cowley had not left a better man behind him in England.' At the time of his death, Cowley certainly ranked as the first poet in England; for Milton lay under a cloud, nor was the age qualified to taste him. And although a large portion of Cowley's celebrity has since vanished, there still remains enough to raise him to a considerable rank among the British poets. It may be proper here to add, that as a prose-writer, particularly in the department of essays, there are few who can compare with him in elegant simplicity. THE MOTTO. TENTANDA VIA EST, &c. WHAT shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own? I shall, like beasts or common people, die, Unless you write my elegy; Whilst others great, by being born, are grown; In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie, The weight of that mounts this so high. These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright; Brought forth with their own fire and light : If I, her vulgar stone, for either look, Out of myself it must be strook. Yet I must on. What sound is't strikes mine ear? It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all, Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay Hence, the desire of honours or estate, And all that is not above Fate ! Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days! Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me on; 'Tis time that I were gone. Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now Thy scholar's victories thou dost far out-do; He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and wit Preserves Rome's greatness yet: Thou art the first of orators; only he Who best can praise thee, next must be. Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise! Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; But you have climb'd the mountain's top, there sit Noisy nothing! stalking shade! Sure I shall rid myself of thee OF MYSELF. THIS only grant me, that my means may lie Some honour I would have, Acquaintance I would have, but when't depends Books should, not business, entertain the light, My house a cottage more My garden painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yi Horace might envy in his Sabin field. Thus would I double my life's fading space; These unbought sports, this happy state, But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, HONOUR SHE loves, and she confesses too; What's this, ye gods! what can it be? Have I o'ercome all real foes, And shall this phantom me oppose? THE CHRONICLE. A BALLAD. MARGARITA first possest, If I remember well, my breast, But when awhile the wanton maid Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine. Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loth 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. 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; And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, And sometimes both I obey'd. Another Mary then arose, And did rigorous laws impose; Long, alas! should I have been Had not Rebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden time with me: For the gracious princess dy'd, 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, And th' artillery of her eye; Whilst she proudly march'd about, Greater conquests to find out, She beat out Susan by the by. But in her place I then obey'd Black-ey'd 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; And then a pretty Thomasine, And then a long et cætera. 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; (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. My present emperess does claim, Whom God grant long to reign! ANACREONTICS OR, SOME COPIES OF VERSES, TRANSLATED PARAPHRASTICALLY OUT OF ANACREON. 1. LOVE. I'LL sing of heroes and of kings, Farewell, then, heroes! farewell, kings U. DRINKING. THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain, III. BEAUTY. LIBERAL Nature did dispense And some with scales, and some with wings, What arms, what armour, has sh' assign'd? And yet what flame, what lightning, e'er V. AGE. OFT am I by the women told, 'Tis time short pleasures now to take, VII. GOLD. A MIGHTY pain to love it is, And 'tis a pain that pain to miss ; ; A curse on her, and on the man A curse on him who found the ore! A curse on him who first did coin it! VIII. THE EPICURE. FILL the bowl with rosy wine! To day is ours, what do we fear? IX. ANOTHER. UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade, On flowery beds supinely laid, X. THE GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY Insect! what can be Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing; Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; Phœbus is himself thy sire. To thee, of all things upon earth, Dost neither age nor winter know; Sated with thy summer feast, XI. THE SWALLOW. FOOLISH Prater, what dost thou |