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No. IV. COWLEY'S PREFACE TO HIS POEMS, 1656. It has been already observed that Cowley had scarcely opportunity to become acquainted with the early poems of Milton; and his party attachments prevented even a wish for personal intimacy; he was engaged besides on active, sometimes foreign service, and, if he read the “ Defensio ” of the great republican, in all probability read it with horror.
Yet we find on authority not to be questioned, that Milton spoke of Cowley as a poet whom he valued, and named him with Spenser and Shakspeare. This is the more surprising, as Cowley was by ten years the younger man, and his writings had never appeared in body till 1656, when he returned to England from the Continent, and published them in folio. This volume was, there can be no question, read to Milton in his blindness : the congeniality of their studies, and their religious feelings, led him to estimate highly the only rival that Cambridge had bred to him in Latin verse ; and though unnoticed in the volume upon his table, the PREFACE spoke to him, as by the inspiration of Urania herself. Let the reader imagine the blind bard listening to the following exquisite admonitions, which he alone fully comprehended ; and the expectations which of all mankind he only could gratify ; and upon which he was then earnestly and silently meditating :
“When I consider how many bright and magnificent subjects the holy Scripture affords and proffers, as it were, to poesy, in the wise managing and illustrating whereof, the glory of God Almighty might be joined with the singular utility and noblest delight of mankind; it is not without grief and indignation that I behold that divine science employing all her inexhaustible riches of wit and eloquence, either in the wicked and beggarly flattery of great persons, or the unmanly idolizing of foolish women, or the wretched affectation of scurril laughter, or at best on the confused antiquated dreams of senseless fables and metamorphoses. Amongst all holy and consecrated things, which the devil ever stole and alienated from the service of the Deity; as altars, temples, sacrifices, prayers, and the like ; there is none that he so universally, and so long usurped, as poetry. It is time to recover it out of the tyrant's hands, and to restore it to the kingdom of God, who is the father of it. It is time to baptize it in Jordan, for it will never become clean by bathing in the water of Damascus. There wants, methinks, but the conversion of that, and the Jews, for the accomplishment of the kingdom of Christ. And as men, before their receiving of the faith, do not without some carnal reluctancies apprehend the bonds and fetters of it, but find it afterwards to be the truest and greatest liberty ; it will fare no otherwise with this art, after the regeneration of it : it will meet with wonderful variety of new, more beautiful, and more delightful objects ; neither will it want room, by being confined to heaven. There is not so great a lie to be found in any poet, as the vulgar conceit of men, that lying is essential to good poetry. Were there never so wholesome nourishment to be had (but alas, it breathes nothing but diseases) out of these boasted feasts of love and fables ; yet, methinks, the unalterable continuance of the diet should make us nauseate it : for it is almost impossible to serve up any new dish of that kind, They are all but the cold meats of the ancients, new-heated, and new set forth. I do not at all wonder that the old poets made some rich crops out of these grounds ; the heart of the soil was not then wrought out with continual tillage : but what can we expect now, who come a gleaning, not after the first reapers, but after the very beggars ? Besides, though those mad stories of the gods and heroes seem in themselves so ridiculous ; yet they were in the whole body (or rather chaos) of the theology of those times. They were believed by all but à few philosophers, and perhaps some atheists, and served to good purpose among the vulgar (as pitiful things as they are), in strengthening the authority of law with the terrors of conscience, and expectation of certain rewards, and unavoidable punishments. There was no other religion ; and therefore that was better than none at all : but to us, who have no need of them ; to us, who deride their folly, and are wearied with their impertinencies; they ought to appear no better arguments for verse, than those of their worthy successors, the knights errant. What can we imagine more proper for the ornaments of wit or learning in the story of Deucalion than in that
of Noah! Why will not the actions of Samson afford as plentiful matter as the labours of Hercules? Why is not Jephthah's daughter as good a woman as Iphigenia ? and the friendship of David and Jonathan more worthy celebration than that of Theseus and Pirithous ! Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetical variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Æneas ? Are the obsolete thread-bare tales of Thebes and Troy half so stored with great, heroical, and supernatural actions (since verse will needs find or make such) as the wars of Joshua, of the Judges, of David, and divers others ? Can all the transformatims of the gods give such copious hints to flourish and expatiate on, as the true miracles of Christ, or of his prophets and apostles ? What do I instance in these few particulars ? All the books of the Bible are either already most admirable and exalted pieces of poesy, or are the best materials in the world for it. Yet, though they be in themselves so proper to be made use of for this purpose ; none but a good artist will know how to do it: neither must we think to cut and polish diamonds with so little pains and skill as we do marble : for if any man design to compose a sacred poem, by only turning a story of the scripture, like Mr. Quarles's, or some other godly matter, like Mr. Heywood of angels, into rhyme ; he is so far from elevating of poesy, that he only abases divinity. In brief, he who can write a profane poem well, may write a divine one better ; but he who can do that but ill, will do this much worse. The same fertility of inven. tion ; the same wisdom of disposition ; the same judgment in observance of decencies; the same lustre and vigour of elocution ; the same modesty and majesty of number; briefly, the same kind of habit is required to both : only this latter allows better stuff, and therefore would look more deformedly ill dressed in it. I am far from assuming to myself to have fulfilled the duty of this weighty- undertaking : but sure I am, there is nothing yet in our language (nor perhaps in any) that is in any degree answerable to the idea that I conceive of it. And I shall be ambitious of no other fruit from this weak and imperfect attempt of mine, but the opening of a way to the courage and industry of some other persons, who may be better able to perform it thoroughly and successfully."
Such were the suggestions of that amiable and excellent writer, and such the soil on which this broad-cast celestial seed was thrown. What a subject of regret that he should have died, without seeing the work he was so modest as to expect from another and superior Muse! He died on the 28th of July, 1667, in the 49th year of his age ; and the “ Paradise Lost” was then just issuing from the press.
SELECTED ENCOMIASTIC LINES.
Carmina Miltoni, quid nisi cuneta legis ?
Et fata, et fines continet iste liber.
Scribitur et toto quicquid in orbe latet :
Sulphureumque Erebi, flammivomumque specus :
Quæque colunt summi lucida regna poli :
Et sine fine Chaos, et sine fine Deus ;
In Christo erga homines conciliatus amor.
Et tamen hæc hodie terra Britanna legit.
Quæ canit, et quanta, prælia dira tuba!
Et quæ cælestes pugna deceret agros !
Quantus in æthereis, tollit se Lucifer armis !
Atque ipso graditur vix Michaele minor ! Quantis et quam funestis concurritur iris,
Dum ferus hic stellas protegit, ille rapit ! Dum vulsos montes ceu tela reciproca torquent,
Et non mortali desuper igne pluunt :
Et metuit pugnæ non superesse suæ.
Et currus animes, armaque digna Deo,
Erumpunt torvis fulgura luminibus,
Admistis flammis insonuere polo ;
Et cassis dextris irrita tela cadunt.
Infernis certant condere se tenebris.
Et quos fama recens vel celebravit anus.
ANDREW MARVELL *
Yet as I read, still growing less severe,
Pardon me, mighty Poet ! nor despise My causeless, yet not impious, surmise : But I am now convinced ; and none will dare Within thy labours to pretend to share. Thou hast not miss'd one thought that could be fit, And all that was improper dost omit: So that no room is here for writers left, But to detect their ignorance or theft.
That majesty which through thy work doth rcign, Draws the devout, deterring the profane : And things divine thou treat'st of in such state, As them preserves, and thee, inviolate. At once delight and horror on us seize, Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease ;
* Address to Milton on reading Paradise Lost.
And above human flight dost soar aloft
Where couldst thou words of such a compass find ?
Well mightst thou scorn thy readers to allure
For lofty sense,
Is not each great, each amiable Muse
# The Seasons" Summer."
Have now o'erturn’d the inspiring bowers,
How, at thy gloomy close of day ;
When Darkness, brooding on thy sight,
Exiled the sovereign lamp of light;
Hence the rich spoils, thy studious youth
Caught from the stores of ancient Truth :
that Tiber's bank supplied ;
Each charm received, retain'd, combined.