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

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

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Our author's comedy, named the Guardian, he afterwards altered, and
published under the title of the Cutter of Coleman-Street. Langbaine
says, notwithstanding Mr. Cowley's modest opinion of this play, it was
acted not only at Cambridge, but several times afterwards privately,
during the prohibition of the stage, and after the King's return
publickly at Dublin; and always with applause. It was this probably
that put the author upon revising it; after which he permitted it to
appear publickly on the stage under a new title, at his royal highness
the Duke of York's theatre. It met with opposition at first from some
who envied the author's unshaken loyalty; but afterwards it was acted
with general applause, and was esteemed by the critics an excellent
comedy.

In the year 1656 it was judged proper by those on whom Mr. Cowley
depended, that he should come over into England, and under pretence of
privacy and retirement, give notice of the situation of affairs in
this nation. Upon his return he published a new edition of all his
poems, consisting of four parts, viz.

1. Miscellanies.

2. The Mistress; or several copies of love-verses.

3. Pindarique Odes, written in imitation of the stile and manner of
Pindar.

4. Davedeis, a sacred poem of the troubles of David in four books.

"Which, says Dr. Sprat, was written in so young an age, that if we
shall reflect on the vastness of the argument, and his manner of
handling it, he may seem like one of the miracles that he there
adorns; like a boy attempting Goliah. This perhaps, may be the
reason, that in some places, there may be more youthfulness and
redundance of fancy, than his riper judgement would have allowed. But
for the main of it I will affirm, that it is a better instance and
beginning of a divine poem, than ever I yet saw in any language. The
contrivance is perfectly ancient, which is certainly the true form of
an heroic poem, and such as was never yet done by any new devices of
modern wits. The subject was truly divine, even according to God's own
heart. The matters of his invention, all the treasures of knowledge
and histories of the bible. The model of it comprehended all the
learning of the East. The characters lofty and various; the numbers
firm and powerful; the digressions beautiful and proportionable. The
design, to submit mortal wit to heavenly truths. In all, there is an
admirable mixture of human virtues and passions with religious
raptures. The truth is, continues Dr. Sprat, methinks in other matters
his wit exceeded all other men's, but in his moral and divine works it
out-did itself; and no doubt it proceeded from this cause, that in the
lighter kinds of poetry he chiefly represented the humours and
affections of others; but in these he sat to himself, and drew the
figure of his own mind. We have the first book of the Davideis
translated out of English into very elegant Latin by Mr. Cowley
himself." Dr. Sprat says of his Latin poetry, "that he has expressed
to admiration all the numbers of verse and figures of poetry, that are
scattered up and down amongst the ancients; and that there is hardly
to be found in them any good fashion of speech, or colour of measure;
but he has comprehended it, and given instances of it, according as
his several arguments required either a majestic spirit, or
passionate, or pleasant. This he observes, is the more extraordinary,
in that it was never yet performed by any single poet of the ancient
Romans themselves."

The same author has told us, that the occasion of Mr. Cowley's falling
on the pindarique way of writing, was his accidentally meeting with
Pindar's works in a place where he had no other books to direct him.
Having thus considered at leisure the heighth of his invention, and
the majesty of his stile, he tried immediately to imitate it in
English, and he performed it, says the Dr. without the danger that
Horace presaged to the man that should attempt it. Two of our greatest
poets, after allowing Mr. Cowley to have been a successful imitator of
Pindar, yet find fault with his numbers. Mr. Dryden having told us,
that our author brought Pindaric verse as near perfection as possible
in so short a time, adds, "But if I may be allowed to speak my mind
modestly, and without injury to his sacred ashes, somewhat of the
purity of English, somewhat of more sweetness in the numbers, in a
word, somewhat of a finer turn and more lyrical verse is yet wanting;"
and Mr. Congreve having excepted against the irregularity of the
measure of the English Pindaric odes, yet observes, "that the beauty
of Mr. Cowley's verses are an attonement for the irregularity of his
stanzas; and tho' he did nor imitate Pindar in the strictness of his
numbers, he has very often happily copied him in the force of his
figures, and sublimity of his stile and sentiments."

Soon after his return to England, he was seized upon thro' mistake;
the search being intended after another gentleman of considerable note
in the King's party. The Republicans, who were sensible how much they
needed the assistance and coalition of good men, endeavoured sometimes
by promises, and sometimes by threatning, to bring our author over to
their interest; but all their attempts proving fruitless, he was
committed to a severe confinement, and with some difficulty at last
obtained his liberty, after giving a thousand pounds bail, which Dr.
Scarborough in a friendly manner took upon himself. Under these bonds
he continued till Cromwell's death, when he ventured back into France,
and there remained, as Dr. Sprat says, in the same situation as
before, till near the time of the King's return. This account is a
sufficient vindication of Mr. Cowley's unshaken loyalty, which some
called in question; and as this is a material circumstance in the life
of Cowley, we shall give an account of it in the words of the elegant
writer of his life just now mentioned, as it is impossible to set it
in a fairer, or more striking light than is already done by that
excellent prelate. "The cause of his loyalty being called in question,
he tells us, was a few lines in a preface to one of his books; the
objection, says he, I must not pass in silence, because it was the
only part of his life that was liable to misinterpretation, even by
the confession of those that envied his fame.

"In this case it were enough to alledge for him to men of moderate
minds, that what he there said was published before a book of poetry;
and so ought rather to be esteemed as a problem of his fancy and
invention, than as a real image of his judgement; but his defence in
this matter may be laid on a surer foundation. This is the true reason
to be given of his delivering that opinion: Upon his coming over he
found the state of the royal party very desperate. He perceived the
strength of their enemies so united, that till it should begin to
break within itself, all endeavours against it were like to prove
unsuccessful. On the other side he beheld their zeal for his Majesty's
cause to be still so active, that often hurried them into inevitable
ruin. He saw this with much grief; and tho' he approved their
constancy as much as any man living, yet he found their unreasonable
shewing it, did only disable themselves, and give their adversaries
great advantages of riches and strength by their defeats. He therefore
believed it would be a meritorious service to the King, if any man who
was known to have followed his interest, could insinuate into the
Usurper's minds, that men of his principles, were now willing to be
quiet, and could persuade the poor oppressed Royalists to conceal
their affections for better occasions. And as for his own particular,
he was a close prisoner when he writ that against which the exception
is made; so that he saw it was impos[s]ible for him to pursue the ends
for which he came hither, if he did not make some kind of declaration
of his peaceable intentions. This was then his opinon; and the success
of the thing seems to prove that it was not ill-grounded. For
certainly it was one of the greatest helps to the King's affairs about
the latter end of that tyranny, that many of his best friends
dissembled their counsels, and acted the same designs under the
disguises and names of other parties. The prelate concludes this
account with observing, that, that life must needs be very
unblameable, which had been tried in business of the highest
consequence, and practised in the hazardous secrets of courts and
cabinets, and yet there can nothing disgraceful be produced against
it, but only the error of one paragraph, and single metaphor."

About the year 1662, his two Books of Plants were published, to which
he added afterwards four more, and all these together, with his Latin
poems, were printed in London, 1678; his Books on Plants was written
during his residence in England, in the time of the usurpation, the
better to distinguish his real intention, by the study of physic, to
which he applied.

It appears by Wood's Fasti Oxon. that our poet was created Dr. of
Physic at Oxford, December 2, 1657, by virtue of a mandamus from the
then government. After the King's restoration, Mr. Cowley, being then
past the 4Oth year of his age, the greatest part of which had been
spent in a various and tempestuous condition, resolved to pass the
remainder of his life in a studious retirement: In a letter to one of
his friends, he talks of making a voyage to America, not from a view
of accumulating wealth, but there to chuse a habitation, and shut
himself up from the busy world for ever. This scheme was wildly
romantic, and discovered some degree of vanity, in the author; for Mr.
Cowley needed but retire a few miles out of town, and cease from
appearing abroad, and he might have been sufficiently secured against
the intrusion of company, nor was he of so much consequence as to be
forced from his retirement; but this visionary scheme could not be
carried into execution, by means of Mr. Cowley's want of money, for he
had never been much on the road of gain. Upon the settlement of the
peace of the nation, he obtained a competent estate, by the favour of
his principal patrons, the duke of Buckingham, and the earl of St.
Albans. Thus furnished for a retreat, he spent the last seven or eight
years of his life in his beloved obscurity, and possessed (says Sprat)
that solitude, which from his very childhood he so passionately
desired. This great poet, and worthy man, died at a house called the
Porch-house, towards the West end of the town of Chertsey in Surry,
July 28, 1667, in the 49th year of his age. His solitude, from the
very beginning, had never agreed so well with the constitution of his
body, as his mind: out of haste, to abandon the tumult of the city, he
had not prepared a healthful situation in the country, as he might
have done, had he been more deliberate in his choice; of this, he soon
began to find the inconvenience at Barn-elms, where he was afflicted
with a dangerous and lingring fever. Shortly after his removal to
Chertsey, he fell into another consuming disease: having languished
under this for some months, he seemed to be pretty well cured of its
ill symptoms, but in the heat of the summer, by staying too long
amongst his labourers in the meadows, he was taken with a violent
defluxion, and stoppage in his breast and throat; this he neglected,
as an ordinary cold, and refused to send for his usual physicians,
'till it was past all remedy, and so in the end, after a fortnight's
sickness, it proved mortal to him.

He was buried in Westminster Abbey, the 3d of August following, near
the ashes of Chaucer and Spenser. King Charles II. was pleased to
bestow upon him the best character, when, upon the news of his death,
his Majesty declared, that Mr. Cowley had not left a better man behind
him in England. A monument was erected to his memory in May 1675, by
George, duke of Buckingham, with a Latin inscription, written by Dr.
Sprat, afterwards lord bishop of Rochester.

Besides Mr. Cowley's works already mentioned, we have, by the fame
hand, A Proposition for the advancement of Experimental Philosophy. A
Discourse, by way of Vision, concerning the Government of Oliver
Cromwel, and several Discourses, by way of Essays, in Prose and Verse.
Mr. Cowley had designed a Discourse on Stile, and a Review of the
Principles of the Primitive Christian Church, but was prevented by
death. In Mr. Dryden's Miscellany Poems, we find a poem on the Civil
War, said to be written by our author, but not extant in any edition
of his works: Dr. Sprat mentions, as very excellent in their kind, Mr.
Cowley's Letters to his private friends, none of which were published.
As a poet, Mr. Cowley has had tribute paid him from the greatest names
in all knowledge, Dryden, Addison, Sir John Denham, and Pope. He is
blamed for a redundance of wit, and roughness of verification, but is
allowed to have possessed a fine understanding, great reading, and a
variety of genius. Let us see how Mr. Addison characterizes him in his
Account of the great English Poets.

Great Cowley then (a mighty genius) wrote,
O'errun with wit, and lavish of his thought;
His turns too closely on the readers press,
He more had pleased us, had he pleased us less:
One glittering thought no sooner strikes our eyes,
With silent wonder, but new wonders rise.
As in the milky way, a shining white
O'erflows the heavens with one continued light;
That not a single star can shew his rays,
Whilst jointly all promote the common blaze.
Pardon, great poet, that I dare to name,
Th' uncumber'd beauties of thy verse with blame;
Thy fault is only wit in its' excess,
But wit like thine, in any shape will please.

In his public capacity, he preserved an inviolable honour and loyalty,
and exerted great activity, with discernment: in private life, he was
easy of access, gentle, polite, and modest; none but his intimate
friends ever discovered, by his discourse, that he was a great poet;
he was generous in his disposition, temperate in his life, devout and
pious in his religion, a warm friend, and a social companion. Such is
the character of the great Mr. Cowley, who deserves the highest
gratitude from posterity, as well for his public as private conduct.
He never prostituted his muse to the purposes of lewdness and folly,
and it is with pleasure we can except him from the general, and too
just, charge brought against the poets, That they have abilities to do
the greatest service, and by misdirecting them, too frequently fawn
the harlot face of loose indulgence, and by dressing up pleasure in an
elegant attire, procure votaries to her altar, who pay too dear for
gazing at the shewy phantom by loss of their virtue. It is no
compliment to the taste of the present age, that the works of Mr.
Cowley are falling into disesteem; they certainly contain more wit,
and good sense, than the works of many other poets, whom it is now
fashionable to read; that kind of poetry, which is known by the name
of Light, he succeeds beyond any of his cotemporaries, or successors;
no love verses, in our language, have so much true wit, and expressive
tenderness, as Cowley's Mistress, which is indeed perfect in its kind.
What Mr. Addison observes, is certainly true, 'He more had pleased us,
had he pleased us less.' He had a soul too full, an imagination too
fertile to be restrained, and because he has more wit than any other
poet, an ordinary reader is somehow disposed to think he had less. In
the particular of wit, none but Shakespear ever exceeded Cowley, and
he was certainly as cultivated a scholar, as a great natural genius.
In that kind of poetry which is grave, and demands extensive thinking,
no poet has a right to be compared with Cowley: Pope and Dryden, who
are as remarkable for a force of thinking, as elegance of poetry, are
yet inferior to him; there are more ideas in one of Cowley's pindaric
odes, than in any piece of equal length by those two great genius's
(St. Caecilia's ode excepted) and his pindaric odes being now
neglected, can proceed from no other cause, than that they demand too
much attention for a common reader, and contain sentiments so
sublimely noble, as not to be comprehended by a vulgar mind; but to
those who think, and are accustomed to contemplation, they appear
great and ravishing. In order to illustrate this, we shall quote
specimens in both kinds of poetry; the first taken from his Mistress
called Beauty, the other is a Hymn to Light, both of which, are so
excellent in their kind, that whoever reads them without rapture, may
be well assured, that he has no poetry in his soul, and is insensible
to the flow of numbers, and the charms of sense.

BEAUTY.

I.

Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape,
Who dost in ev'ry country change thy shape!
Here black, there brown, here tawny, and there white;
Thou flatt'rer which compli'st with every sight!
Thou Babel which confound'st the eye
With unintelligible variety!
Who hast no certain what nor where,
But vary'st still, and dost thy self declare
Inconstant, as thy she-professors are.

II.

Beauty, love's scene and masquerade,
So gay by well-plac'd lights, and distance made;
False coin, and which th' impostor cheats us still;
The stamp and colour good, but metal ill!
Which light, or base, we find when we
Weigh by enjoyment and examine thee!
For though thy being be but show,
'Tis chiefly night which men to thee allow:
And chuse t'enjoy thee, when thou least art thou.

III.

Beauty, thou active, passive ill!
Which dy'st thy self as fast as thou dost kill!
Thou Tulip, who thy stock in paint dost waste,
Neither for physic good, nor smell, nor taste.
Beauty, whose flames but meteors are,
Short-liv'd and low, though thou would'st seem a star,
Who dar'st not thine own home descry,
Pretending to dwell richly in the eye,
When thou, alas, dost in the fancy lye.

IV.

Beauty, whose conquests still are made
O'er hearts by cowards kept, or else betray'd;
Weak victor! who thy self destroy'd must be
When sickness, storms, or time besieges thee!
Thou unwholesome thaw to frozen age!
Thou strong wine, which youths fever dost enrage,
Thou tyrant which leav'st no man free!
Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be!
Thou murth'rer which hast kill'd, and devil which would damn me.

HYMN to LIGHT.

I.

First born of Chaos, who so far didst come,
From the old negro's darksome womb!
Which when it saw the lovely child,
The melancholly mass put on kind looks and smiled.

II.

Thou tide of glory, which no rest dost know,
But ever ebb, and ever flow!
Thou golden shower of a true Jove!
Who does in thee descend, and Heaven to earth make love!

III.

Hail active nature's watchful life, and health!
Her joy, her ornament and wealth!
Hail to thy husband heat, and thee!
Thou the world's beauteous bride, the lusty bridegroom he!

IV.

Say from what golden quivers of the sky,
Do all thy winged arrows fly?
Swiftness and power by birth are thine,
From thy great fire they came, thy fire the word divine.

V.

'Tis I believe this archery to shew
That so much cost in colours thou,
And skill in painting dost bestow,
Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heav'nly bow.

VI.

Swift as light, thoughts their empty career run,
Thy race is finish'd, when begun;
Let a Post-Angel start with thee,
And thou the goal of earth shall reach as soon as he.

VII.

Thou in the moon's bright chariot proud and gay,
Dost thy bright wood of stars survey;
And all the year doth with thee bring
O thousand flowry lights, thine own nocturnal spring.

VIII.

Thou Scythian-like dost round thy lands above
The sun's gilt tent for ever move,
And still as thou in pomp dost go,
The shining pageants of the world attend thy show.

IX.

Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn
The humble Glow-Worms to adorn,
And with those living spangles gild,
(O greatness without pride!) the blushes of the Field.

X.

Night, and her ugly subjects thou dost fright,
And sleep, the lazy Owl of night;
Asham'd and fearful to appear,
They skreen their horrid shapes, with the black hemisphere.

XI.

With 'em there hastes, and wildly takes th' alarm,
Of painted dreams, a busy swarm,
At the first opening of thine eye,
The various clusters break, the antick atoms fly.

XII.

The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts,
Creep conscious to their secret rests:
Nature to thee doth reverence pay,
Ill omens, and ill sights removes out of thy way.

XIII.

At thy appearance, grief itself is said,
To shake his wings, and rouze his head;
And cloudy care has often took
A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look.

XIV.

At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold;
Thy sun-shine melts away his cold:
Encourag'd at the sight of thee,
To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee.

XV.

Even lust, the master of a harden'd face,
Blushes if thou be'st in the place,
To darkness' curtains he retires,
In sympathizing nights he rolls his smoaky fires.

XVI.

When, goddess, thou lift'st up thy waken'd head,
Out of the morning's purple bed,
Thy choir of birds about thee play,
And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

XVII.

The ghosts, and monster spirits, that did presume
A body's priv'lege to assume,
Vanish again invisibly,
And bodies gain again their visibility.

XVIII.

All the world's bravery that delights our eyes,
Is but thy sev'ral liveries,
Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st,
Thy nimble pencil paints this landskip as thou go'st.

XIX.

A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st;
A crown of studded gold thou bear'st,
The virgin lillies in their white,
Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light.

XX.

The Violet, spring's little infant, stands,
Girt in thy purple swadling-bands:
On the fair Tulip thou dost dote;
Thou cloath'st it in a gay and party-colour'd coat.

XXI.

With flame condens'd thou dost the jewels fix,
And solid colours in it mix:
Flora herself, envies to see
Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she.

XXII.

Ah, goddess! would thou could'st thy hand with-hold,
And be less liberal to gold;
Didst thou less value to it give,
Of how much care (alas) might'st thou poor man relieve!

XXIII.

To me the sun is more delightful far,
And all fair days much fairer are;
But few, ah wondrous few there be,
Who do not Gold prefer, O goddess, ev'n to thee.

XXIV.

Thro' the soft ways of Heav'n, and air, and sea,
Which open all their pores to thee,
Like a clear river thou dost glide,
And with thy living stream through the close channels slide.

XXV.

But where firm bodies thy free course oppose,
Gently thy source the land overflows;
Takes there possession, and does make,
Of colours mingled light, a thick and standing lake.

XXVI.

But the vast ocean of unbounded day
In th'Empyraean heav'n does stay;
Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below,
From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow.

Footnotes:
1. Wood's Fasti Oxon, vol. ii. col. 120.
2. Essay on himself.
3. Sprat's Account of Cowley.

* * * * *

Sir WILLIAM DAVENANT.

Few poets have been subjected to more various turns of fortune, than
the gentleman whose memoirs we are now about to relate. He was amongst
the first who refined our poetry, and did more for the interest of the
drama, than any who ever wrote for the stage. He lived in times of
general confusion, and was no unactive member of the state, when its
necessities demanded his assistance; and when, with the restoration,
politeness and genius began to revive, he applied himself to the
promotion of these rational pleasures, which are fit to entertain a
cultivated people. This great man was son of one Mr. John Davenant, a
citizen of Oxford, and was born in the month of February, 1605; all
the biographers of our poet have observed, that his father was a man
of a grave disposition, and a gloomy turn of mind, which his son did
not inherit from him, for he was as remarkably volatile, as his father
was saturnine. The same biographers have celebrated our author's
mother as very handsome, whose charms had the power of attracting the
admiration of Shakespear, the highest compliment which ever was paid
to beauty. As Mr. Davenant, our poet's father, kept a tavern,
Shakespear, in his journies to Warwickshire, spent some time there,
influenced, as many believe, by the engaging qualities of the handsome
landlady. This circumstance has given rise to a conjecture, that
Davenant was really the son of Shakespear, as well naturally as
poetically, by an unlawful intrigue, between his mother and that great
man; that this allegation is founded upon probability, no reader can
believe, for we have such accounts of the amiable temper, and moral
qualities of Shakespear, that we cannot suppose him to have been
guilty of such an act of treachery, as violating the marriage honours;
and however he might have been delighted with the conversation, or
charmed with the person of Mrs. Davenant, yet as adultery was not then
the fashionable vice, it would be injurious to his memory, so much as
to suppose him guilty.

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