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In me is no delay; with thee to go,
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
Art all things under Heaven, all places thou, Who for my wilful crime art banish'd hence. 10 NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray This further cousolation yet secure
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are I carry hence; though all by me is lust,
still, Such favor I unworthy am vouchsaf'd,
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost By me the promis'd Seed shall all restore."
So spake our mother Eve; and Adam heard While the jolly hours lead on propitious Well pleas'd, but answer'd not: for now, too nigh
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, The archangel stood; and from the other hill First heard before the shallow cuckoo's To their fix'd station, all in bright array
bill, The cherubim descended; on the ground
Portend success in love; oh, if Jove's will Gliding meteorous, as evening mist
Have linked that amorous power to thy sost Ris'n from a river o'er the marish glides,
lay, And gathers ground fast at the laborer's' heel | Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate homeward returning. High in front advanc'd Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove The brandish'd sword of God before them blaz'd,
I nigh; Fierce as a comet; which with torid heat,
As thou from year to year hast sung too And vapor as the Libyan air adust,
late Began to parch that temperate clime; whereat | For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. In either hand the hastening angel caught
Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast
Both them I serve, and of their train ain I.
ON HIS BLINDNESS.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide;
And that one talent which is death to hide, Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more
bent slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
I fondly ask? But Patience, to prevent
| That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CONSCIENCE Either man's work or his own gifts; who best UNDER THE LONG PARLIAMENT.
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his
state Because you have thrown off your prelate
blate Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
! And post o'er land and ocean without rest; lord, And with stiff vows renounced his liturgy,
They also serve who only stand and wait. To seize the widowed whore Plurality
From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorred, Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword
TO CYRIAC SKINNER. To force our consciences that Christ set free,
Cyriac, this three years' day these eyes, though And ride us with a classic hierarchy
clear, Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford ? To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Men whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent | Bereft of light their seeing have forgot, Would have been held in high esteem with Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Paul,
Of sun, or moon, or star throughout the year, Must now be named and printed heretics
Or man, or woman, Yet I argue not By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d'ye call: ! Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
But we do hope to find out all your tricks, 1 Of heart or hope; but still bear up, and steer Your plots and packing worse than those of Right onward. What supports me, dost thou
ask? That so the Parliament, The conscience, friend, to have lost them overMay, with their wholesome and preventive plied
In liberty's defence, my noble task, Clip your pbylacteries, though bauk your ears, of which all Europe talks from side to side.
And succor our just fears, | This thought might lead me through the When they shall read this clearly in your charge, world's vain mask New Presbyter is but Old Priest writ large. Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
ON HIS WIFE..
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near, METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint
And inward ripeness doth much less appear, Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
That some more timely-happy spirits endureth. Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even gave,
To that same lot, however mean or high, Rescued from death by force, though pale and
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of faint.
Heaven; Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed
All is, if I have grace to use it so, taint, Purification in the old law did save;
As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind :
ON SHAKESPEARE, 1630. Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person What needs my Shakespeare for his bonored shined
bonesSo clear, as in no face with more delight. The labor of an age in pilèd stones ?
But oh! as to embrace me she inclined, Or that his ballowed relics should be hid
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
Thou in our wonder and astonishment TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL.
Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
| For while to the shame of low-endeavoring art CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart cloud
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Not of war only, but detractions rude,
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took ; Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ; ploughed, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie,
That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die. Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pur
sued, While Darwen stream with blood of Scots im
ON THE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT. And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much | AVENGE, O Lord ! thy slaughtered saints, whose remains
bones To conquer still; peace hath her victories Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; No less renowned than war: new foes arise
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, Threatening to bind our souls with secular, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and chains :
stones, Help us to save free conscience from the paw Forget not: in thy book record their groans Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rolled
To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes
SOW How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow My hasting days fly on with full career,
A hundredfold, who having learned thy way, But my late spring no bud or blossom sheweth. Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
ABRAHAM COWLEY was born at London, in in the royal cause, the hopes of which now be1618. His father, who was a grocer by trade, gan to revive. The Restoration reinstated him, died before his birth; but his mother procured with other royalists, in his own country; and he his admission into Westminster School, as a naturally expected. a reward for his long serking's scholar. He has represented himself as vices. He had been promised, both by Charles 80 deficient in memory as to have been unable I. and Charles II., the mastership of the Savoy, to retain the common rules of grammar: it is, but was unsuccessful in both his applications. however, certain that, by some process, he be- He had also the misfortune of displeasing his came an elegant and correct classical scholar. party by his revived comedy of “The Cutter of He early displayed a taste for poetry; and while Coleman Street," which was construed as a satire yet at school, in his fifteenth or sixteenth year, on the Cavaliers. At length, through the interest he published a collection of verses, under the of the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of St. appropriate title of “Poetical Blossoms." Alban's, he obtained a lease of a farm at Chert
In 1636 he was elected a scholar of Trinity sey, held under the queen, by which his income College, Cambridge. In this favorable situation was raised to about three hundred pounds sterbe obtained much praise for his academical exer- ling per annum. cises; and he again appeared as an author, in a Cowley took up his abode first at Barn-elms, pastoral comedy, called “Love's Riddle," and a on the banks of the Thames; but this place not Latin comedy, entitled "Naufragium Joculare ;” | agreeing with his health, he removed to Chertthe last of which was acted before the univer- sey. Here his life was soon brought to a close. sity, by the members of Trinity College. He According to his biographer, Dr. Sprat, the fatal continued to reside at Cambridge till 1643, and disease was an affection of the lungs, the conseWas a Master of Arts when he was ejected from quence of staying too late in the fields among the university by the puritanical visitors. He his laborers. Dr. Warton, however, from the thence removed to Oxford, and fixed himself in authority of Mr. Spence, gives a different account
to John's College. Here he engaged actively in of the matter. He says that Cowley, with his the royal cause, and was present in several of friend Sprat, paid a visit on foot to a gentleman the king's journeys and expeditions, but in what in the neighborhood of Chertsey, which they quality does not appear. He ingratiated him. prolonged, in free conviviality, till midnight; self, however, with the principal persons about and that missing their way on their return, they e court, and particularly with Lord Falk-were obliged to pass the night under a hedge,
which gave to the poet a severe cold and fever, When the events of the civil war obliged the which terminated in bis death. He died on een-mother to quit the kingdom, Cowley July 28, 1667, and was interred, with a most ompanied her to France, and obtained a set honorable attendence of persons of distinction, ent at Paris, in the family of the Earl of St. in Westminster Abbey, near the remains of ChauD's. During an absence of nearly ten years cer and Spenser. King Charles II. pronounced his native country, he took various jour. his eulogy, by declaring that "Mr. Cowley had into Jersey, Scotland, Holland, and Flan- | not left a better man behind him in England.”
and it was principally through his instru- ' At the time of his death, Cowley certainly tality that a correspondence was maintained ranked as the first poet in England ; for Milton
een the king and his consort. The busi. lay under a cloud, nor was the age qualified to Dess
of ciphering and deciphering their letters appreciate him. And, although a large portion intrusted to his care, and often occupied his of Cowley's celebrity has since vanished, there Its as well as his days. It is no wonder still remains enough to raise him to a consider
after the Restoration, he long complained able rank among the British poets. M. Taine le neglect with which he was treated. In says: “He was a well-governed, reasonable, in. 1 baving no longer any affairs to transact structed, polished, well-trained man, fertile in 49, he returned to England; still, it is sup- general reflections and ideas "-in short, a lit
2, engaged in the service of his party, as a erary man, rather than a poet, the first who, in medi
um of secret intelligence. Soon after his England, was really deserving to be called an arrivs
al, he published an edition of his poems, author by profession. He possessed the ability ntaining most of those which now appear in | to say what he pleased, but had really nothing 18 works. In a search for another person, he to say. His poetry is contorted and artificial,
apprehended by the messengers of the rul. I and therefore soon wearies us. It may be prop. 5 powers, and committed to custody: but was I er here to add that, as a prose-writer, particu. soon released on bail.
larly in the department of essays, there are Hter the death of Cromwell, Cowley returned few who can compare with him in elegant sim. France, and resumed his station as an agent | plicity.
of the neglect
Noisy nothing ! stalking shade!
By what witchcraft wert thou made,
Empty cause of solid harms!
But I shall find out counter-charms
Thy airy devilship to remove
From this circle here of love.
Sure I shall rid myself of thee
By the night's obscurity, While others great, by being born, are grown; And obscurer secrecy! Their mothers' labor, not their own.
Unlike to every other sprite, In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie,
Thou attempt'st not men to fright, The weight of that mounts this so high.
Nor appear'st but in the light.
Brought forth with their own fire and light:
ear? Sure I Fame's trumpet hear :
This only grant me, that my means may lie It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can
| Too low for envy, for contempt too high. Raise up the buried man.
Some honor I would have, Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all,
Not from great deeds, but good alone. And march, the Muses' Hannibal.
Th’ unknown are better than ill known : Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay
Rumor can ope the grave. Nets of roses iv the way!
Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends Hence, the desire of honors or estate,
Not on the number, but the choice, of friends. And all that is not above Fate ! Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days!
Books should, not business, entertain the light,
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. Which intercepts my coming praise ! Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me on;
My house a cottage more 'T is time that I were gone.
Than palace; and should fitting be
For all my use, no luxury.
My garden painted o'er
With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures He conquered the earth, the whole world
Horace might envy in his Sabine field. Welcome, learned Cicero! whose blest tongue and wit
Thus would I double my life's fading space : Preserves Rome's greatness yet :
For he, that runs it well, twice runs his race. Thou art the first of orators; only he
And in this true delight,
These unbought sports, this happy state,
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate;
But boldly say each night,
| To-morrow let my sun his beams display, And made that art wbich was a rage.
Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day. Tell me, ye mighty Three ! what shall I do
To be like one of you!
Włen fair Rebecca set me free,
"Twas then a golden time with me :
But soon those pleasures fled ;
One month, three days, and half an hour,
Judith held the sovereign power:
Wondrous beautiful her face! But so weak and small her wit, That she to govern was unfit,
And so Susanna took her place
1. LOVE. I'll sing of heroes and of kings, In mighty numbers, mighty things. Begin, my Muse! but lo! the strings To my great song rebellious prove ; The strings will sound of nought but love. I broke them all, and put on new; "Tis this or nothing sure will do. These, sure, (said I) will me obey; These, sure, heroic notes will play. Straight I began with thundering Jove, And all th’immortal powers; but Love, Love smil'd, and from m'enfeebled lyre Came gentle airs, such as inspire Melting love and soft desire. Farewell, then, heroes! farewell, kings And mighty numbers, mighty things! Love tunes my heart just to my strings
But when Isabella came,
Ari'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;
Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria; And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catharine,
And then a long et cætera.
But should I now to you relate
The strength and riches of their stato;
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 !)
III. BEAUTY LIBERAL Nature did dispense To all things arms for their defence; And some she arms with sinewy force, And some with swiftness in the course Some with hard hoofs or forked claw.3, And some with horns or tusked jaws:
And all the little lime-twigs laid,
By Machiavel the waiting-maid ;