But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with me. My present empress doth claim, Whom God grant long to reign! I add a few original stanzas, which show Cowley's characteristic merits and defects;-very few, since I must find room for some of those translations from Anacreon, which for grace, spirit and delicacy, will never be surpassed. OF SOLITUDE. Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food, * Here let me careless and unthoughtful lying, A silver stream shall roll his waters near, And see how prettily they smile, Ah! wretched and too solitary he, He'll feel the weight of it many a day, To help to bear it away. Happy insect! what can be Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king! Nor dost thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year! Thee Phoebus loves and doth inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire. To thee, of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth. Dost neither age nor winter know; But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal!) Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest. DRINKING. From Anacreon. The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, GOLD. From Anacreon. A mighty pain to love it is, A curse on her, and on the man, A curse on him who found the ore! A curse on him who did refine it! A curse on him who first did coin it! A curse, all curses else above, On him who used it first in love! These the smallest harms of it! Gold, alas! does love beget. I cannot conclude without a word of detestation towards Sprat, who, Goth and Vandal that he was, destroyed Cowley's familiar letters. V. COMIC POETS. J. ANSTEY. My acquaintance with "The Pleader's Guide" commenced some five-and-forty years ago, after the following fashion. It had happened to me to make one of a large Christmas party in a large country mansion, the ladies whereof were assembled one morning dolefully enough in an elegant drawing-room. It was what sportsmen are pleased to call "a fine open day;" which, being interpreted according to the feminine version, means every variety of bad weather of which our climate is capable, excepting frost. Dirt, intolerable dirt, it always means, and rain pretty often. On the morning in question, it did not absolutely rain, it only mizzled; but the clouds hung over our heads in a leaden canopy, threaten |