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*You charmed me not with that fair face,

Though it was all divine;
To be another's is the grace

That makes me wish you mine.
The gods and fortune take their part

Who like young monarchs fight,
And boldly dare invade that heart

Which is another's right.
First, mad with hope, we undertake

To pull up every bar;
But, once possessed, we feebly make

A dull defensive war.
Now every friend is turned a foe,

In hope to get our store :
And passion makes us cowards grow

Which made us brave before.' The Muse who could mourn to such purpose for Anne Killigrew might have been expected to soar high in celebrating and lamenting Charles II., parts of whose history and character certainly lent themselves to poetry. Whether from haste, indifference, or whatever reason, Dryden was clearly unable to penetrate himself with the subject, and it is perhaps to his honour that his composition should so little simulate an inspiration he was evi. dently far from feeling. The choice of subjects is judi. cious, but the treatment is in general inanimate and perfunctory, except when the poet is going to say something absurd, and then his motto is Pecca fortiter. There is, perhaps, nothing nearer burlesque in all Dryden's rhyming plays than this couplet :

• Ere a prince is to perfection brought,

He costs Omnipotence a second thought.' The poet is also weighted by having to flatter Charles and his successor at the same time. The concluding lines, however, eulogizing James's care for the navy, will always echo in the heart of Britain :


Behold even the remoter shores
A conquering navy proudly spread :
The British cannon formidably roars,
While, starting from his oozy bed,
The asserted Ocean rears his reverend head
To view and recognize his ancient Lord again,
And with a willing hand restores
The fasces of the main.'

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This latter fine phrase had occurred already in Astraea
Redux and Annus Mirabilis.

Andrew Marvell, though unequal, is an excellent lyric poet. His best song, Where the remote Bermudas ride, is such a household word that we select a less known piece:

Ye living lamps, by whose dear light

The nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the summer night,

Her matchless songs does meditate;
'Ye country comets, that portend

No war nor prince's funeral,
Shining unto no other end

Than to presage the grass's fall ;
Ye glowworms, whose officious flame

To wandering mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,

And after foolish fires do stray ;
• Your courteous lights in vain you waste,

Since Juliana here is come;
For she my mind hath so displaced,

That I shall never find my home.'
In fancy as in melody this and Marvell's other gems
belong to the age of Charles I. Apart from Dryden, the
Restoration has little to show beside three songs of genuine
inspiration in the plays of Crowne, to be mentioned in his
place as a middling dramatist; Sir Charles Sedley's charm-
ing verses to Chloris ; others, mostly from the same hand,

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Motteux, and, strange to say, the Dryasdust Rymer, which have found a harbour in Mr. Arthur Bullen's Musa Proterva ; a few songs of Rochester's and Aphra Behn's; some few carols in Mr. Ebsworth's collections; and the elegant and animated To all you ladies now at land of Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset (1637-1706), less known for his occasional verses, these excepted, than as the arbiter of taste and the benefactor of needy men of letters.

It was but natural that the lyrists, like the dramatists, should endeavour to make up in bombastic extravagance for their deficiencies in simplicity and truth to nature. An appropriate instrument was at hand in the Pindaric ode, the miscreation of a true poet, Cowley. So little were the genuine characteristics of Pindaric versification then understood even by scholars, that it is no wonder that Cowley should have conceived them to be equivalent to absolute irregularity. His own compositions are not within our province; but it may be remarked that they are distinguished from the Pindarics of Charles II.'s time by the preponderance of what was then called wit, which we should describe as a perverse ingenuity in discovering superficial resemblances between dissimilar things. It is impossible not to admire in a measure some of the feats of this kind performed by Cowley, Crashaw, and Donne; but common sense intimates that the real criterion of the merit of a comparison is its justice. The movement, nevertheless, had considerable significance as indicating the exhaustion of the old forms of poetry. It had triumphed in Italy and in Spain in the persons of Marino and Gongora, with most disastrous effects on the literature of those countries. Fortunate it was for England that this fashion arrived late, and before it could take much root was dislodged by the saner methods of France. Pindaries, however, went on existing, but with comparatively little wit, and even less

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poetry. Sprat, of whom we shall have to speak as the
historian of the Royal Society, was perhaps the most con-
spicuous practitioner. The following lines on Prometheus
are a bright example of his amalgam of poetry and wit:

* Along he brought the sparkling coal
From some celestial chimney' stole ;
Quickly the plundered stars he left,

And as he hastened down,
With the robbed flames his hands still shone,

And seemed as if they were burnt for the theft.'
Congreve is equally absurd in his personification of

• An ancient sigh he sits upon,
Whose memory of sound is long since gone,

And purposely annihilated for his throne.'
This poet, nevertheless, who, as pointed out by Dr. Johnson
and Mr. Gosse, has the critical merit of having given the
English Pindaric a regular structure, was capable of much
better things. The opening of the ode which yields the
above choice morceau (To Mrs. Arabella Hunt, Singing) is
in a fine strain of poetry:

• Let all be hushed, each softest motion cease,
Be every loud tumultuous thought at peace,
And every ruder gasp of breath
Be calm, as in the arms of death :
And then, most fickle, most uneasy part,
Thou restless wanderer, my heart,
Be still ; gently, ah gently, leave,
Thou busy, idle thing, to heave :
Stir not a pulse ; and let my blood,

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i It should be noted that this word is not so absurd as it may appear to the modern reader. Chimney (Fr. cheminée) here means the fireplace, not the flue. *The mantle of the chimney in his hall.'—WALTON, Life of George Herbert.

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That turbulent unruly flood,
Be softly staid :
Let me be all, but my attention, dead.
Go, rest, unnecessary springs of life,

your officious toil and strife ; For I would hear her voice, and try If it be possible to die.'

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