Lives Of The Poets, Vol. 1 (fiscle part-III) by Samuel Johnson (best beach reads TXT) 📖

Then, Used for _Intellection_,

In Contradistinction To _Will_, Took The Meaning, Whatever It Be, Which

It Now Bears.

 

 

 

Of All The Passages In which Poets Have Exemplified their Own Precepts,

None Will Easily Be Found Of Greater Excellence Than That In which

Cowley Condemns Exuberance Of Wit:

 

 

 

  Yet 'Tis Not To Adorn And Gild Each Part,

  That Shews More Cost Than Art.

  Jewels At Nose And Lips But Ill Appear;

  Rather Than All Things Wit, Let None Be There.

  Several Lights Will Not Be Seen,

  If There Be Nothing else Between.

  Men Doubt, Because They Stand So Thick I'Th' Sky,

  If Those Be Stars Which Paint The Galaxy.

 

 

 

In His Verses To Lord Falkland, Whom Every Man Of His Time Was Proud To

Praise, There Are, As There Must Be In all Cowley'S Compositions, Some

Striking thoughts, But They Are Not Well Wrought. His Elegy On Sir

Henry Wotton Is Vigorous And Happy; The Series Of Thoughts Is Easy And

Natural; And The Conclusion, Though A Little Weakened by The Intrusion

Of Alexander, Is Elegant And Forcible.

 

 

 

It May Be Remarked, That In this Elegy, And In most Of His

Encomiastick Poems, He Has Forgotten Or Neglected to Name His Heroes.

 

 

 

In His Poem On The Death Of Hervey, There Is Much Praise, But Little

Passion; A Very Just And Ample Delineation Of Such Virtues As A Studious

Privacy Admits, And Such Intellectual Excellence As A Mind Not Yet

Called forth To Action Can Display. He Knew How To Distinguish, And How

To Commend, The Qualities Of His Companion; But, When He Wishes To Make

Us Weep, He Forgets To Weep Himself, And Diverts His Sorrow By Imagining

How His Crown Of Bays, If He Had It, Would Crackle In the Fire. It

Is The Odd Fate Of This Thought To Be The Worse For Being true. The

Bay-Leaf Crackles Remarkably As It Burns; As, Therefore, This Property

Was Not Assigned it By Chance, The Mind Must Be Thought Sufficiently At

Ease That Could Attend To Such Minuteness Of Physiology. But The Power

Of Cowley Is Not So Much To Move The Affections, As To Exercise The

Understanding.

 

 

 

The Chronicle Is A Composition Unrivalled and Alone: Such Gaiety Of

Fancy, Such Facility Of Expression, Such Varied similitude, Such A

Succession Of Images, And Such A Dance Of Words, It Is In vain To

Expect, Except From Cowley. His Strength Always Appears In his Agility;

His Volatility Is Not The Flutter Of A Light, But The Bound Of An

Elastick Mind. His Levity Never Leaves His Learning behind It; The

Moralist, The Politician, And The Critick, Mingle Their Influence Even

In This Airy Frolick Of Genius. To Such A Performance Suckling could

Have Brought The Gaiety, But Not The Knowledge; Dryden Could Have

Supplied the Knowledge, But Not The Gaiety.

 

 

 

The Verses To Davenant, Which Are Vigorously Begun And Happily

Concluded, Contain Some Hints Of Criticism Very Justly Conceived

And Happily Expressed. Cowley'S Critical Abilities Have Not Been

Sufficiently Observed: The Few Decisions And Remarks, Which His Prefaces

And His Notes On The Davideis Supply, Were, At That Time, Accessions

To English Literature, And Show Such Skill As Raises Our Wish For More

Examples.

 

 

 

The Lines From Jersey Are A Very Curious And Pleasing specimen Of The

Familiar Descending to The Burlesque.

 

 

 

His Two Metrical Disquisitions _For_ And _Against_ Reason Are No Mean

Specimens Of Metaphysical Poetry. The Stanzas Against Knowledge Produce

Little Conviction. In those Which Are Intended to Exalt The Human

Faculties, Reason Has Its Proper Task Assigned it; That Of Judging, Not

Of Things Revealed, But Of The Reality Of Revelation. In the Verses For

Reason, Is A Passage Which Bentley, In the Only English Verses Which

He Is Known To Have Written, Seems To Have Copied, Though With The

Inferiority Of An Imitator.

 

 

 

  The Holy Book Like The Eighth Sphere Doth Shine

  With Thousand Lights Of Truth Divine,

  So Numberless The Stars, That To Our Eye

  It Makes All But One Galaxy.

  Yet Reason Must Assist Too; For, In seas

  So Vast And Dangerous As These,

  Our Course By Stars Above We Cannot Know

  Without The Compass Too Below.

 

 

 

After This, Says Bentley[20]:

 

 

 

  Who Travels In religious Jars,

  Truth Mix'D With Error, Shade With Rays,

  Like Whiston Wanting pyx Or Stars,

  In ocean Wide Or Sinks Or Strays.

 

 

 

Cowley Seems To Have Had What Milton Is Believed to Have Wanted, The

Skill To Rate His Own Performances By Their Just Value, And Has,

Therefore, Closed his Miscellanies With The Verses Upon Crashaw, Which

Apparently Excel All That Have Gone Before Them, And In which There Are

Beauties Which Common Authors May Justly Think Not Only Above Their

Attainment, But Above Their Ambition.

 

 

 

To The Miscellanies Succeed the Anacreontiques, Or Paraphrastical

Translations Of Some Little Poems, Which Pass, However Justly, Under

The Name Of Anacreon. Of These Songs Dedicated to Festivity And Gaiety,

In Which Even The Morality Is Voluptuous, And Which Teach Nothing but

The Enjoyment Of The Present Day, He Has Given Rather A Pleasing, Than

A Faithful Representation, Having retained their Sprightliness, But

Lost Their Simplicity. The Anacreon Of Cowley, Like The Homer Of Pope,

Has Admitted the Decoration Of Some Modern Graces, By Which He Is

Undoubtedly More Amiable To Common Readers, And, Perhaps, If They Would

Honestly Declare Their Own Perceptions, To Far The Greater Part Of Those

Whom Courtesy And Ignorance Are Content To Style The Learned.

 

 

 

These Little Pieces Will Be Found More Finished in their Kind Than Any

Other Of Cowley'S Works. The Diction Shows Nothing of The Mould Of Time,

And The Sentiments Are At No Great Distance From Our Present Habitudes

Of Thought. Real Mirth Must Be Always Natural, And Nature Is Uniform.

Men Have Been Wise In very Different Modes; But They Have Always Laughed

The Same Way.

 

 

 

Levity Of Thought Naturally Produced familiarity Of Language, And The

Familiar Part Of Language Continues Long The Same; The Dialogue Of

Comedy, When It Is Transcribed from Popular Manners, And Real Life, Is

Read, From Age To Age, With Equal Pleasure. The Artifices Of Inversion,

By Which The Established order Of Words Is Changed, Or Of Innovation, By

Which New Words, Or Meanings Of Words, Are Introduced, Is Practised,

Not By Those Who Talk To Be Understood, But By Those Who Write To Be

Admired.

 

 

 

The Anacreontiques, Therefore, Of Cowley, Give Now All The Pleasure

Which They Ever Gave. If He Was Formed by Nature For One Kind Of Writing

More Than For Another, His Power Seems To Have Been Greatest In the

Familiar And The Festive.

 

 

 

The Next Class Of His Poems Is Called the Mistress, Of Which It Is Not

Necessary To Select Any Particular Pieces For Praise Or Censure.

They Have All The Same Beauties And Faults, And Nearly In the Same

Proportion. They Are Written With Exuberance Of Wit, And With

Copiousness Of Learning; And It Is Truly Asserted by Sprat, That The

Plenitude Of The Writer'S Knowledge Flows In upon His Page, So That The

Reader Is Commonly Surprised into Some Improvement. But, Considered as

The Verses Of A Lover, No Man That Has Ever Loved will Much Commend

Them. They Are Neither Courtly Nor Pathetick, Have Neither Gallantry Nor

Fondness. His Praises Are Too Far-Sought, And Too Hyperbolical, Either

To Express Love, Or To Excite It; Every Stanza Is Crowded with Darts

And Flames, With Wounds And Death, With Mingled souls, And With Broken

Hearts.

 

 

 

The Principal Artifice By Which The Mistress Is Filled with Conceits,

Is Very Copiously Displayed by Addison. Love Is By Cowley, As By Other

Poets, Expressed metaphorically By Flame And Fire; And That Which Is

True Of Real Fire Is Said Of Love, Or Figurative Fire, The Same Word In

The Same Sentence Retaining both Significations. Thus, "Observing the

Cold Regard Of His Mistress'S Eyes, And, At The Same Time, Their Power

Of Producing love In him, He Considers Them As Burning-Glasses Made Of

Ice. Finding himself Able To Live In the Greatest Extremities Of Love,

He Concludes The Torrid Zone To Be Habitable. Upon The Dying of A Tree

On Which He Had Cut His Loves, He Observes That His Flames Had Burnt Up

And Withered the Tree."

 

 

 

These Conceits Addison Calls Mixed wit; That Is, Wit Which Consists Of

Thoughts True In one Sense Of The Expression, And False In the Other.

Addison'S Representation Is Sufficiently Indulgent: That Confusion Of

Images May Entertain For A Moment; But, Being unnatural, It Soon Grows

Wearisome. Cowley Delighted in it, As Much As If He Had Invented it;

But, Not To Mention The Ancients, He Might Have Found It Full-Blown In

Modern Italy. Thus Sannazaro:

 

 

 

  Aspice Quam Variis Distringar, Lesbia, Curis!

  Uror, Et Heu! Nostro Manat Ab Igne Liquor:

  Sum Nilus, Sumque Aetna Simul; Restringite Flammas

  O Lacrimae, Aut Lacrimas Ebibe, Flamma, Meas.

 

 

 

One Of The Severe Theologians Of That Time Censured him, As Having

Published "A Book Of Profane And Lascivious Verses." From The Charge Of

Profaneness, The Constant Tenour Of His Life, Which Seems To Have Been

Eminently Virtuous, And The General Tendency Of His Opinions, Which

Discover No Irreverence Of Religion, Must Defend Him; But That The

Accusation Of Lasciviousness Is Unjust, The Perusal Of His Work Will

Sufficiently Evince.

 

 

 

Cowley'S Mistress Has No Power Of Seduction: She "Plays Round The Head,

But Reaches Not The Heart." Her Beauty And Absence, Her Kindness And

Cruelty, Her Disdain And Inconstancy, Produce No Correspondence Of

Emotion. His Poetical Account Of The Virtues Of Plants, And Colours Of

Flowers, Is Not Perused with More Sluggish Frigidity. The Compositions

Are Such As Might Have Been Written For Penance By A Hermit, Or For Hire

By A Philosophical Rhymer, Who Had Only Heard Of Another Sex; For They

Turn The Mind Only On The Writer, Whom, Without Thinking on A Woman

But As The Subject For His Task, We Sometimes Esteem As Learned, And

Sometimes Despise As Trifling, Always Admire As Ingenious, And Always

Condemn As Unnatural.

 

 

 

The Pindarique Odes Are Now To Be Considered; A Species Of Composition,

Which Cowley Thinks Pancirolus Might Have Counted in "His List Of The

Lost Inventions Of Antiquity," And Which He Has Made A Bold And Vigorous

Attempt To Recover.

 

 

 

The Purpose With Which He Has Paraphrased an Olympick And Nemaean Ode,

Is, By Himself, Sufficiently Explained. His Endeavour Was, Not To Show

"Precisely What Pindar Spoke, But His Manner Of Speaking." He Was,

Therefore, Not At All Restrained to His Expressions, Nor Much To His

Sentiments; Nothing was Required of Him, But Not To Write As Pindar

Would Not Have Written.

 

 

 

Of The Olympick Ode, The Beginning is, I Think, Above The Original In

Elegance, And The Conclusion Below It In strength. The Connexion Is

Supplied with Great Perspicuity; And The Thoughts, Which, To A Reader Of

Less Skill, Seem Thrown Together By Chance, Are Concatenated without Any

Abruption. Though The English Ode Cannot Be Called a Translation, It May

Be Very Properly Consulted as A Commentary.

 

 

 

The Spirit Of Pindar Is, Indeed, Not Every Where Equally Preserved. The

Following pretty Lines Are Not Such As His _Deep Mouth_ Was Used to

Pour:

 

 

 

  Great Rhea'S Son,

  If In olympus' Top, Where Thou

  Sitt'St To Behold Thy Sacred show,

  If In alpheus' Silver Flight,

  If In my Verse Thou Take Delight,

  My Verse, Great Rhea'S Son, Which Is

  Lofty As That, And Smooth As This.

 

 

 

In The Nemaean Ode The Reader Must, In mere Justice To Pindar, Observe,

That Whatever Is Said Of "The Original New Moon, Her Tender Forehead,

And Her Horns," Is Super-Added by His Paraphrast, Who Has Many Other

Plays Of Words And Fancy Unsuitable To The Original, As

 

 

 

  The Table, Free For Ev'Ry Guest,

  No Doubt Will Thee Admit,

  And Feast More Upon Thee, Than Thou On It.

 

 

 

He Sometimes Extends His Author'S Thoughts Without Improving them. In

The Olympionick An Oath Is Mentioned in a Single Word, And Cowley Spends

Three Lines In swearing by The Castalian Stream. We Are Told Of Theron'S

Bounty, With A Hint That He Had Enemies, Which Cowley Thus Enlarges In

Rhyming prose:

 

 

 

  But In this Thankless World The Giver

  Is Envied even By The Receiver;

  'Tis Now The Cheap And Frugal Fashion

  Rather To Hide Than Own The Obligation:

  Nay, 'Tis Much Worse Than So;

  It Now An Artifice Does Grow

  Wrongs And Injuries To Do,

  Lest Men Should Think We Owe.

 

 

 

It Is Hard To Conceive That A Man Of The First Rank In learning and Wit,

When He Was Dealing out Such Minute Morality In such Feeble Diction,

Could Imagine, Either Waking or Dreaming, That He Imitated pindar.

 

 

 

In The Following odes, Where Cowley Chooses His Own Subjects, He

Sometimes Rises To Dignity Truly Pindarick; And, If Some Deficiencies Of

Language Be Forgiven, His Strains Are Such As Those Of The Theban Bard

Were To His Contemporaries:

 

 

 

  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