Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

thick enough to hide him from the importunities of company or business, which would abstract him from his beloved.

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]

HAIL, old Patrician Trees, so great and good!
Hail, ye Plebeian Under-wood!

Where the poetic birds rejoice,

And for their quiet nests, and plenteous food,
Pay with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor Muses' richest manor seat!
Ye country houses and retreat,

Which all the happy Gods so love,
That for you oft they quit their bright and great
Metropolis above.

Here Nature does a house for me erect,

Nature, the fairest architect,

Who those fond artists does despise,
That can the fair and living trees neglect,
Yet the dead timber prize.

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying,
Hear the soft winds above me flying,
With all their wanton boughs dispute;
And the more tuneful birds to both replying:
Nor be myself too mute.

A silver stream shall roll his waters near,
Gilt with the sun-beams here and there;
On whose enamel'd bank I'll walk;

And see how prettily they smile; and hear
How prettily they talk.

a Virgil's Georgics.

Ah! wretched, and too solitary he,

Who loves not his own company!

He'll feel the weight of 't many a day, Unless he call in Sin, or Vanity,

To help to bear't away.

Oh! Solitude, first state of humankind!
Which blest remain'd, 'till man did find
Ev'n his own helper's company.

As soon as two, alas! together join'd,

The serpent made up three.

Though God himself, through countless ages, thee His sole companion chose to be,

Thee, sacred Solitude, alone,

Before the branchy head of Number's Tree
Sprang from the trunk of one!

Thou (though men think thine an unactive part)
Dost break and tame th' unruly heart,
Which else would know no settled pace,
Making it move, well manag'd by thy art,
With swiftness and with grace.

Thou the faint beams of Reason's scatter'd light Dost, like a burning-glass, unite;

Dost multiply the feeble heat,

And fortify the strength, 'till thou dost bright
And noble fires beget.

Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see

The monster London laugh at me;
I should at thee too, foolish City,

If it were fit to laugh at misery:
But thy estate I pity.

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,
And all the fools that crowd thee so,

Ev'n thou, who dost thy millions boast,
A village less than Islington wilt grow,
A Solitude almost."

Modern writers will do well to imitate the condensed vigour and fullness of ideas, as well as the purity and clearness of language, of this prose of COWLEY. And never was wisdom at once more refined and more practical, than this Essay contains. Instead of the ostentatious sentiments of those, who seem more anxious to display fine writing, than vent the bursting conviction of their hearts, here is all the eloquent sincerity of a richly-gifted Being sick of the world, of whose bosom the inmost recesses are laid open to us.

But Dr. Johnson, who was one of those, to whom, in COWLEY'S emphatic words, Solitude was "to retreat from men, and fall into the hands of devils," seized with malicious delight on a querulous letter of COWLEY to Sprat, preserved by Peck, to turn this passion of our amiable and enlightened author into ridicule. "I recommend this letter," says the sarcastic Critic, "to all, who hereafter pant for Solitude:" a letter written under the bodily pain, and mental depression, of sickness, which ended in his death; for he did not survive it two years.

may

"Shortly after his removal to Chertsey," says his first and best Biographer, Bishop Sprat, "he fell into another consum

ing 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 last summer, by staying too long among his labourers in the meadows, he was taken with a violent defluxion, and stoppage in his breast, and throat. This he at first neglected, as an ordinary cold, and refused to send for his usual physician, till it was past all remedies; and so, in the end, after a fortnight's sickness, it proved mortal to him. Who can here forbear exclaiming on the weak hopes and frail condition of human nature? For as long as MR. COWLEY was pursuing the course of ambition, in an active life, which he scarce esteemed has true life, he never wanted a constant health and strength of body. But as soon as ever he had found an opportunity of beginning indeed to live, and to enjoy himself in security, his contentment was at first broken by sickness; and at last his death was occasioned by his very delights in the country, and the fields, which he had long fancied above all other pleasures. But let us not grieve at this fatal accident. upon his account, lest we should seem to repine at the happy change of his condition, and not to know, that the loss of a few years, which he might longer have lived, will be reconciled by an immortal memory. If we complain, let it only be for our own sakes, that in him we are at once deprived of the greatest natural and improved abilities, of the usefulest conversation, of the faithfulest friendship, of a mind that practised the best virtues itself, and wit that was best able to recommend them to others."

Now let us have before us this unlucky letter, on which Johnson has founded his triumphant claim to victory over the love of Solitude: a love, which every highly-gifted mind, unless it be diseased, will always

cherish.

TO DR. THOMAS SPRAT.

Chertsey, May 21, 1665.

What If it be

"The first night that I came hither I caught so great a cold, with a defluxion of rheum, as made me keep my chamber for ten days; and two after, had such a bruise on my ribs with a fall, that I am yet unable to move or turn myself in my bed. This is my personal fortune here, to begin with. And, besides, I can get no money from my tenants, and have my meadows eaten up every night by cattle put in by my neighbours. this signifies, or may come to in time, God knows. ominous, it can end in nothing less than hanging. Another misfortune has been, and stranger than all the rest, that you have broke your word with me, and failed to come, even though you told Mr. Bois that you would. This is what they call monstri simile. I do hope to recover my late hurt so far within five or six days, (though it be uncertain yet whether I shall ever recover it) as to walk about again. And then, methinks, you and I and the Dean might be very merry upon St. Anne's Hill. You might very conveniently come hither the way of Hampton Town, lying there one night. I write this in pain, and can say Verbum sapienti."

no more.

"His Solitude," says Sprat, "from the very beginning, had never agreed so well with the constitution of his body, as of his mind. The chief cause of it was, that out of haste to be gone away from the tumult, and noise of the city, he had not prepared so healthfnl a situation in the country, as he might have done, if he had made a more leisurable choice."

But there are other passages, important to the present subject, in the Life, written by Sprat, of which, as that Life, though frequently printed in

« ПредишнаНапред »