Theophilus Cibber - The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland (1753)

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After this storm had subsided, Mr. Waller travelled into France, where
he continued several years. He took over his lady's jewels to support
him, and lived very hospitably at Paris, and except that of lord
Jermyn, afterwards earl of St. Alban's, who was the Queen of England's
prime minister when she kept her court there, there was no English
table but Mr. Waller's; which was so costly to him, that he used to
say, 'he was at last come to the Rump Jewel.' Upon his return to
England, such was the unsteadiness of his temper, he sided with those
in power, particularly the Lord Protector, with whom he lived in great
intimacy as a companion, tho' he seems not to have acted for him. He
often declared that he found Cromwell very well acquainted with the
Greek and Roman story; and he frequently took notice, that in the
midst of their discourse, a servant has come to tell him, that such
and such attended; upon which Cromwell would rise and stop them;
talking at the door, where Mr. Waller could over-hear him say, 'The
lord will reveal, the lord will help,' and several such expressions;
which when he returned to Mr. Waller, he excused, saying, 'Cousin
Waller, I must talk to these men after their own way.'

In 1654 he wrote a panegyric on Oliver Cromwell, as he did a poem on
his death in 1658. At the restoration he was treated with great
civility by King Charles II, who always made him one of his party in
his diversions at the duke of Buckingham's, and other places, and gave
him a grant of the provostship of Eaton-College; tho' that grant
proved of no effect. He sat in several Parliaments after the
restoration, and wrote a panegyric upon his Majesty's return, which
however, was thought to fall much short of that which he before had
wrote on Cromwell. The King one day asked him in raillery, 'How is it
Waller, that you wrote a better encomium on Cromwell than on me.' May
it please your Majesty, answered the bard, with the most admirable
fineness, 'Poets generally succeed best in fiction.' Mr. Waller
continued in the full vigour of his genius to the end of his life; his
natural vivacity bore up against his years, and made his company
agreeable to the last; which appears from the following little story.

King James II having ordered the earl of Sunderland to desire Mr.
Waller to attend him one afternoon; when he came, the King carried him
into his closet, and there asked him how he liked such a picture?
'Sir, says Mr. Waller, my eyes are dim, and I know not whose it is.'
The King answered, 'It is the Princess of Orange;' and says Mr.
Waller, 'she is like the greatest woman in the world.' 'Whom do you
call so, said the King,' 'Queen Elizabeth, said he.' 'I wonder, Mr.
Waller, replied the King, you should think so; but I must confess, she
had a wise council;' and Sir, said Mr. Waller, 'did you ever know a
Fool chuse a wise one.'

Mr. Waller died of a dropsy October 21, 1687. Finding his distemper
encrease, and having yielded all hopes of recovery, he ordered his
son-in-law Dr. Peter Birch, to desire all his children to join with
him, and give him the sacrament. He at the same time professed himself
a believer in revealed religion with great earnestness, telling them,
that he remembered when the duke of Buckingham, once talked profanely
before King Charles, he told him, 'My lord, I am a great deal older
than your grace, and I believe I have heard more arguments for
atheism, than ever your grace did; but I have lived long enough to
see, there was nothing in them, and so I hope will your grace.' It is
said, that had Mr. Waller lived longer, he would have inclined to the
revolution, which by the violent measures of James II. he could
foresee would happen. He was interred in the church-yard of
Beaconsfield, where a monument is erected to his memory, the
inscriptions on it were written by Mr. Thomas Rymer.

He left several children behind him: He bequeathed his estate to his
second son Edmund, his eldest, Benjamin, being so far from inheriting
his father's wit, that he had not a common portion. Edmund, the second
Son, used to be chosen member of Parliament for Agmondesham, and in
the latter part of his life turned Quaker. William, the third son, was
a merchant in London, and Stephen, the fourth, a civilian. Of the
daughters, Mary was married to Dr. Peter Birch, prebendary of
Westminster; another to Mr. Harvey of Suffolk, another to Mr. Tipping
of Oxfordshire.

These are the most material circumstances in the life of Mr. Waller, a
man whose wit and parts drew the admiration of the world upon him when
he was living, and has secured him the applause of posterity. As a
statesman, lord Clarendon is of opinion, he wanted steadiness, and
even insinuates, that he was deficient in point of honour; the earl at
least construes his timidity, and apparent cowardice, in a way not
very advantageous to him.

All men have honoured him as the great refiner of English poetry, who
restored numbers to the delicacy they had lost, and joined to
melifluent cadence the charms of sense. But as Mr. Waller is
unexceptionally the first who brought in a new turn of verse, and gave
to rhime all the graces of which it was capable, it would be injurious
to his fame, not to present the reader with the opinions of some of
the greatest men concerning him, by which he will be better able to
understand his particular excellencies, and will see his beauties in
full glow before him. To begin with Mr. Dryden, who, in his dedication
to the Rival Ladies, addressed to the earl of Orrery, thus
characterizes Waller.

'The excellency and dignity of rhime were never fully known till Mr.
Waller sought it: He first made writing easily an art; first shewed us
to conclude the sense most commonly in distichs, which in the verses
of those before him, runs on for so many lines together, that the
reader is out of breath to overtake it.'

Voltaire, in his letters concerning the English nation, speaking of
British poets, thus mentions Waller. 'Our author was much talked of in
France. He had much the same reputation in London that Voiture had in
Paris; and in my opinion deserved it better. Voiture was born in an
age that was just emerging from barbarity; an age that was still rude
and ignorant; the people of which aimed at wit, tho' they had not the
least pretensions to it, and sought for points and conceits instead of
sentiments. Bristol stones are more easily found than diamonds.
Voiture born with an easy and frivolous genius, was the first who
shone in this Aurora of French literature. Had he come into the world
after those great genius's, who spread such glory over the age of
Lewis XIV, he would either have been unknown, would have been
despised, or would have corrected his stile. Waller, tho' better than
Voiture, was not yet a finished poet. The graces breathe in such of
Waller's works as are wrote in a tender strain; but then they are
languid thro' negligence, and often disfigured with false thoughts.
The English had not at this time attained the art of correct writing;
but his serious compositions exhibit a strength and vigour, which
could not have been expected from the softness and effeminacy of his
other pieces.'

The anonymous author of the preface to the second part of our author's
poems, printed in the year 1690, has given his character at large, and
tells us; 'That Waller is a name that carries every thing in it that
is either great, or graceful in poetry. He was indeed the parent of
English verse, and the first who shewed us our tongue had beauty and
numbers in it. The tongue came into his hands like a rough diamond; he
polished it first, and to that degree, that artists since have admired
the workmanship without pretending to mend it. He undoubtedly stands
first in the list of refiners; and for ought I know the last too; for
I question whether in Charles II's reign; the English did not come to
its full perfection, and whether it had not had its Augustan age, as
well as the Latin.' Thus far this anonymous author. If I may be
permitted to give my opinion in so delicate a point as the reputation
of Waller, I shall take the liberty to observe, that had he, in place
of preceding, succeeded those great wits who flourished in the reign
of Charles II, he could never have rose to such great reputation, nor
would have deserved it: No small honour is due to him for the harmony
which he introduced, but upon that chiefly does his reputation stand.
He certainly is sometimes languid; he was rather a tender than a
violent lover; he has not that force of thinking, that amazing reach
of genius for which Dryden is renowned, and had it been his lot to
have appeared in the reign of Queen Anne, I imagine, he would not have
been ranked above the second class of poets. But be this as it may,
poetry owes him the highest obligations for refining it, and every
succeeding genius will be ready to acknowledge, that by copying
Waller's strains, they have improved their own, and the more they
follow him, the more they please.

Mr. Waller altered the Maid's Tragedy from Fletcher, and translated
the first Act of the Tragedy of Pompey from the French of Corneille.
Mrs. Katharine Philips, in a letter to Sir Charles Cotterell, ascribes
the translation of the first act to our author; and observes, that Sir
Edward Filmer did one, Sir Charles Sidley another, lord Buckhurst
another; but who the fifth, says she, I cannot learn.

Mrs. Philips then proceeds to give a criticism on this performance of
Waller's, shews some faults, and points out some beauties, with a
spirit and candour peculiar to her.

The best edition of our author's works is that published by Mr.
Fenton, London 1730, containing poems, speeches, letters, &c. In this
edition is added the preface to the first edition of Mr. Waller's
poems after the restoration, printed in the year 1664.

As a specimen of Mr. Waller's poetry, we shall give a transcript of
his Panegyric upon Oliver Cromwell.

A Panegyric to my Lord PROTECTOR, of the present greatness and joint
interest of his Highness and this Nation.

In the YEAR 1654.

While with a strong, and yet a gentle hand
You bridle faction, and our hearts command,
Protect us from our selves, and from the foe,
Make us unite, and make us conquer too;

Let partial spirits still aloud complain,
Think themselves injur'd that they cannot reign,
And own no liberty, but where they may
Without controul upon their fellows prey.

Above the waves as Neptune shew'd his face
To chide the winds, and save the Trojan race;
So has your Highness, rais'd above the rest,
Storms of Ambition tossing us represt.

Your drooping country, torn with civil hate,
Restor'd by you, is made a glorious state;
The feat of empire, where the Irish come,
And the unwilling Scotch, to fetch their doom.

The sea's our own, and now all nations greet,
With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet.
Your pow'r extends as far as winds can blow,
Or swelling sails upon the globe may go.

Heav'n, that hath plac'd this island to give law,
To balance Europe, and her states to awe,
In this conjunction doth on Britain smile;
The greatest leader, and the greatest isle.

Whether this portion of the world were rent
By the rude ocean from the Continent,
Or thus created, it was sure design'd
To be the sacred refuge of mankind.

Hither th' oppressed shall henceforth resort
Justice to crave, and succour at your court;
And then your Highness, not for our's alone,
But for the world's Protector shall be known.

Fame swifter than your winged navy flies
Thro' ev'ry land that near the ocean lies,
Sounding your name, and telling dreadful News
To all that piracy and rapine use.

With such a chief the meanest nation blest,
Might hope to lift her head above the rest:
What may be thought impossible to do
By us, embraced by the seas, and you?

Lords of the world's great waste, the ocean, we
Whole forests send to reign upon the sea,
And ev'ry coast may trouble or relieve;
But none can visit us without your leave.

Angels and we have this prerogative,
That none can at our happy seats arrive;
While we descend at pleasure to invade
The bad with vengeance, and the good to aid.

Our little world, the image of the great,
Like that, amidst the boundless ocean set,
Of her own growth hath all that nature craves,
And all that's rare, as tribute from the waves.

As AEgypt does not on the clouds rely,
But to the Nile owes more than to the sky;
So what our Earth and what our heav'n denies,
Our ever-constant friend the sea, supplies.

The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know,
Free from the scorching sun that makes it grow;
Without the worm in Persian silks we shine,
And without planting drink of ev'ry vine.

To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs.
Gold (tho' the heaviest Metal) hither swims:
Our's is the harvest where the Indians mow,
We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.

Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds;
Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds;
Rome (tho' her eagle thro' the world had flown)
Cou'd never make this island all her own.

Here the third Edward, and the Black Prince too,
France conq'ring Henry flourish'd, and now you;
For whom we staid, as did the Grecian state,
Till Alexander came to urge their fate.

When for more world's the Macedonian cry'd,
He wist not Thetys in her lap did hide
Another yet, a word reserv'd for you,
To make more great than that he did subdue.

He safely might old troops to battle lead
Against th' unwarlike Persian, and the Mede;
Whose hasty flight did from a bloodless field,
More spoils than honour to the visitor yield.

A race unconquer'd, by their clime made bold,
The Caledonians arm'd with want and cold,
Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame,
Been from all ages kept for you to tame.

Whom the old Roman wall so ill confin'd,
With a new chain of garrisons you bind:
Here foreign gold no more shall make them come,
Our English Iron holds them fast at home.

They that henceforth must be content to know
No warmer region than their hills of snow,
May blame the sun, but must extol your grace,
Which in our senate hath allow'd them place.

Preferr'd by conquest, happily o'erthrown,
Falling they rise, to be with us made one:
So kind dictators made, when they came home,
Their vanquish'd foes free citizens of Rome.

Like favour find the Irish, with like fate
Advanc'd to be a portion of our state:
While by your valour, and your bounteous mind,
Nations, divided by the sea, are join'd.

Holland, to gain your friendship, is content
To be our out-guard on the continent:
She from her fellow-provinces wou'd go,
Rather than hazard to have you her foe.

In our late fight, when cannons did diffuse
(Preventing posts) the terror and the news;
Our neighbour princes trembled at their roar:
But our conjunction makes them tremble more.

Your never-failing sword made war to cease,
And now you heal us with the acts of peace
Our minds with bounty and with awe engage,
Invite affection, and restrain our rage.

Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won,
Than in restoring such as are undone:
Tygers have courage, and the rugged bear,
But man alone can whom he conquers, spare.

To pardon willing; and to punish, loath;
You strike with one hand, but you heal with both.
Lifting up all that prostrate lye, you grieve
You cannot make the dead again to live.

When fate or error had our Age mis-led,
And o'er this nation such confusion spread;
The only cure which cou'd from heav'n come down,
Was so much pow'r and piety in one.

One whose extraction's from an ancient line,
Gives hope again that well-born men may shine:
The meanest in your nature mild and good,
The noble rest secured in your blood.

Oft have we wonder'd, how you hid in peace
A mind proportion'd to such things as these;
How such a ruling sp'rit you cou'd restrain,
And practise first over your self to reign.

Your private life did a just pattern give
How fathers, husbands, pious sons shou'd live;
Born to command, your princely virtues slept
Like humble David's while the flock he kept:

But when your troubled country call'd you forth,
Your flaming courage, and your matchless worth
Dazling the eyes of all that did pretend,
To fierce contention gave a prosp'rous end.

Still as you rise, the state, exalted too,
Finds no distemper while 'tis chang'd by you;
Chang'd like the world's great scene, when without noise
The rising sun night's vulgar lights destroys.

Had you, some ages past, this race of glory
Run, with amazement we shou'd read your story;
But living virtue, all atchievements past,
Meets envy still to grapple with at last.

This Caesar found, and that ungrateful age,
With losing him, went back to blood and rage.
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke,
But cut the bond of union with that stroke.

That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars
Gave a dim light to violence and wars,
To such a tempest as now threatens all,
Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall.

If Rome's great senate cou'd not wield that sword
Which of the conquer'd world had made them lord,
What hope had our's, while yet their pow'r was new,
To rule victorious armies, but by you?

You, that had taught them to subdue their foes,
Cou'd order teach, and their high sp'rits compose:
To ev'ry duty you'd their minds engage,
Provoke their courage, and command their rage.

So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
And angry grows; if he that first took pain
To tame his youth, approach the haughty beast,
He bends to him, but frights away the rest.

As the vext world, to find repose, at last
Itself into Augustus' arms did cast:
So England now doth, with like toil opprest,
Her weary head upon your bosom rest.

Then let the muses, with such notes as these,
Instruct us what belongs unto our peace;
Your battles they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the image of our Mars in fight;

Tell of towns storm'd, of armies overcome,
Of mighty kingdoms by your conduct won,
How, while you thunder'd, clouds of dust did choak
Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse,
And ev'ry conqueror creates a muse;
Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing,
But there, my lord, we'll bays and olive bring,

To crown your head; while you in triumph ride
O'er vanquish'd nations, and the sea beside:
While all your neighbour princes unto you,
Like Joseph's sheaves, pay reverence and bow.

Footnotes:
1. The ancient seat of the Sydneys family in Kent; now in the
possession of William Perry, esq; whose lady is niece to the late
Sydney, earl of Leicester. A small, but excellent poem upon this
delightful seat, was published by an anonymous hand, in 1750,
entitled, PENSHURST. See Monthly Review, vol. II. page 331.
2. Life, p. 8, 9.
3. History of the Rebellion, Edit. Oxon. 1707, 8vo.

* * * * *

JOHN OGILBY,

This poet, who was likewise an eminent Geographer and Cosmographer,
was born near Edinburgh in the year 1600[1]. His father, who was of an
ancient and genteel family, having spent his estate, and being
prisoner in the King's Bench for debt, could give his son but little
education at school; but our author, who, in his early years
discovered the most invincible industry, obtained a little knowledge
in the Latin grammar, and afterwards so much money, as not only to
procure his father's discharge from prison, but also to bind himself
apprentice to Mr. Draper a dancing master in Holbourn, London. Soon
after, by his dexterity in his profession, and his complaisant
behaviour to his master's employers, he obtained the favour of them to
lend him as much money as to buy out the remaining part of his time,
and set up for himself; but being afterwards appointed to dance in the
duke of Buckingham's great Masque, by a false step, he strained a vein
in the inside of his leg, which ever after occasioned him to halt. He
afterwards taught dancing to the sisters of Sir Ralph Hopton, at
Wytham in Somersetshire, where, at leisure, he learned to handle the
pike and musket. When Thomas earl of Strafford became Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland, he was retained in his family to teach the art of dancing,
and being an excellent penman, he was frequently employed by the earl
to transcribe papers for him.

In his lordship's family it was that he first gave proofs of his
inclination to poetry, by translating some of AEsop's Fables into
English verse, which he communicated to some learned men, who
understood Latin better than he, by whose assistance and advice he
published them. He was one of the troop of guards belonging to the
earl, and composed an humourous piece entitled the Character of a
Trooper. About the time he was supported by his lordship, he was made
master of the revels for the kingdom of Ireland, and built a little
theatre for the representation of dramatic entertainments, in St.
Warburgh's street in Dublin: but upon the breaking out of the
rebellion in that kingdom, he was several times in great danger of his
life, particularly when he narrowly escaped being blown up in the
castle of Rathfarnam. About the time of the conclusion of the war in
England, he left Ireland, and being shipwrecked, came to London in a
very necessitous condition. After he had made a short stay in the
metropolis, he travelled on foot to Cambridge, where his great
industry, and love of learning, recommended him to the notice of
several scholars, by whose assistance he became so compleat a master
of the Latin tongue, that in 1646 he published an English translation
of Virgil, which was printed in large 8vo. and dedicated to William
marquis of Hereford. He reprinted it at London 1654 in fol. with this
title; The Works of Publius Virgilius Maro, translated and adorned
with Sculptures, and illustrated with Annotations; which, Mr. Wood
tells us, was the fairest edition, that till then, the English press
ever produced. About the year 1654 our indefatigable author learned
the Greek language, and in four year's time published in fol. a
translation of Homer's Iliad, adorned with excellent sculptures,
illustrated with Annotations, and addressed to King Charles II. The
same year he published the Bible in a large fol. at Cambridge,
according to the translation set forth by the special command of King
James I. with the Liturgy and Articles of the Church of England, with
Chorographical Sculptures. About the year 1662 he went into Ireland,
then having obtained a patent to be made master of the revels there, a
place which Sir William Davenant sollicited in vain. Upon this
occasion he built a theatre at Dublin, which cost him 2000 l. the
former being ruined during the troubles. In 1664 he published in
London, in fol. a translation of Homer's Odyssey, with Sculptures, and
Notes. He afterwards wrote two heroic poems, one entitled the Ephesian
Matron, the other the Roman Slave, both dedicated to Thomas earl of
Ossory. The next work he composed was an Epic Poem in 12 Books, in
honour of King Charles I. but this was entirely lost in the fire of
London in September 1666, when Mr. Ogilby's house in White Fryars was
burnt down, and his whole fortune, except to the value of five pounds,
destroyed. But misfortunes seldom had any irretrievable consequences
to Ogilby, for by his insinuating address, and most astonishing
industry, he was soon able to repair whatever loss he sustained by any
cross accident. It was not long till he fell on a method of raising a
fresh sum of money. Procuring his house to be rebuilt, he set up a
printing-office, was appointed his Majesty's Cosmographer and
Geographic Printer, and printed many great works translated and
collected by himself and his assistants, the enumeration of which
would be unnecessary and tedious.

This laborious man died September 4, 1676, and was interred in the
vault under part of the church in St. Bride's in Fleet-street. Mr.
Edward Philips in his Theatrum Poetarum stiles him one of the
prodigies, from producing, after so late an initiation into
literature, so many large and learned volumes, as well in verse as in
prose, and tells us, that his Paraphrase upon AEsop's Fables, is
generally confessed to have exceeded whatever hath been done before in
that kind.

As to our author's poetry, we have the authority of Mr. Pope to
pronounce it below criticism, at least his translations; and in all
probability his original epic poems which we have never seen, are not
much superior to his translations of Homer and Virgil. If Ogilby had
not a poetical genius, he was notwithstanding a man of parts, and made
an amazing proficiency in literature, by the force of an unwearied
application. He cannot be sufficiently commended for his virtuous
industry, as well as his filial piety, in procuring, in so early a
time of life, his father's liberty, when he was confined in a prison.

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