and produced combinations of confused magnificence, that not only could not be credited, but could not be imagined. Yet, great labour, directed by great abilities, is never wholly lost; if they frequently threw away their wit upon false conceits, they likewise sometimes struck out unexpected truth: if their conceits were far-fetched, they were often worth the carriage. To write on their plan, it was at least necessary to read and think. No man could be born a metaphysical poet, nor assume the dignity of a writer, by descriptions copied from descriptions, by imitations borrowed from imitations, by traditional imagery, and hereditary similies, by readiness of rhyme, and volubility of syllables. In perusing the works of this race of authors, the mind is exercised either by recollection or inquiry; either something already learned is to be retrieved, or something new is to be examined. If their greatness seldom elevates, their acuteness often surprises; if the imagination is not always gratified, at least the powers of reflection and comparison are employed; and, in the mass of materials which ingenious absurdity has thrown together, genuine wit and useful knowledge may be sometimes found, buried perhaps in grossness of expression, but useful to those who know their value; and such as, when they are expanded to perspicuity, and polished to elegance, may give lustre to works which have more propriety, though less copiousness, of sentiment. This kind of writing, which was, I believe, borrowed from Marino and his followers, had been recommended by the example of Donne, a man of very extensive and various knowledge; and by Jonson, whose manner resembled that of Donne more in the ruggedness of his lines than in the cast of his sentiments. When their reputation was high, they had undoubtedly more imitators than time has left behind. Their immediate successors, of whom any remembrance can be said to remain, were Suckling, Waller, Denham, Cowley, Cleiveland, and Milton. Denham and Waller sought another way to fame, by improving the harmony of our numbers. Milton tried the metaphysic style only in his lines upon Hobson the carrier. Cowley adopted it, and excelled his predecessors, having as much sentiment and more music. Suckling neither improved versification, nor abounded in conceits. The fashionable style remained chiefly with Cowley; Suckling could not reach it, and Milton disdained it. Critical remarks are not easily understood without examples; and I have therefore collected instances of the modes of writing by which this species of poets (for poets they were called by themselves and their admirers) was eminently distinguished. As the authors of this race were perhaps more desirous of being admired than understood, they sometimes drew their conceits from recesses of learning not very much frequented by common readers of poetry. Thus Cowley on knowledge: The sacred tree 'midst the fair orchard grew : The phoenix Truth did on it rest, And built his perfum'd nest, That right porphyrian tree which did true logic shew. So clear their colour and divine, The very shade they cast did other lights outshine. On Anacreon continuing a lover in his old age: A powerful brand prescrib'd the date Of thine, like Meleager's fate. Th' antiperistasis of age More enflam'd thy amorous rage. In the following verses, we have an allusion to a rabbinical opinion concerning manna: Variety I ask not: give me one To live perpetually upon. The person love does to us fit, Like manna, has the taste of all in it. Thus Donne shews his medicinal knowledge in some encomiastic verses: In every thing there naturally grows If 'twere not injur'd by extrinsique blows: And virtue, and such engredients, have made Keeps off, or cures, what can be done or said. Though the following lines of Donne, on the last night of the year, have something in them too scholastic, they are not inelegant: This twilight of two years, not past nor next, Who, meteor-like, of stuff and form perplext, Debtor to th' old, nor creditor to th' new. Nor trust I this with hopes; and yet scarce true DONNE. Yet more abstruse and profound is Donne's reflection upon man as a microcosm: If men be worlds, there is in every one Of thoughts so far-fetched, as to be not only unexpected, but unnatural, all their books are full. To a lady who wrote poesies for rings. They, who above do various circles find, 'Tis thou must write the poesy there, For it wanteth one as yet, Then the sun pass through't twice a year, The sun, which is esteem'd the god of wit. COWLEY. The difficulties which have been raised about identity, in philosophy, are, by Cowley, with still more perplexity, applied to love: Five years ago (says story) I lov'd you, For which you call me most inconstant now; Must of all things most strangely inconstant prove, If from one subject they t' another move; My members then the father members were, From whence these take their birth, which now are here. If then this body love what th' other did, Twere incest, which by nature is forbid. The love of different women is, in geographical poetry, compared to travels through different countries: Hast thou not found each woman's breast Either by savages possest, Or wild, and uninhabited? What joy could'st take, or what repose, The soil's all barren sand, or rocky stone. COWLEY. A lover, burnt up by his affection, is compared to Egypt The fate of Egypt I sustain, And never feel the dew of rain COWLEY. The lover supposes his lady acquainted with the ancient laws of augury, and rites of sacrifice : And yet this death of mine, I fear, When, sound in every other part, Shall sigh out that, too, with my breath. That the chaos was harmonized, has been recited of old ; but, whence the different sounds arose, remained for a modern to discover: Th' ungovern'd parts no correspondence knew ; Earth made the base; the treble, flame, arose. COWLEY. The tears of lovers are always of great poetical account; but Donne has extended them into worlds. If the lines are not easily understood, they may be read again. On a round ball, A workman, that hath copies by, can lay An Europe, Afric, and an Asia, And quickly make that, which was nothing, all. Which thee doth wear, A globe, yea world, by that impression grow, This world, by waters sent from thee, my heaven, |