If the Pindarick ftyle be, what Cowley thinks it, the highest and noblest kind of writing in verfe, it can be adapted only to high and noble fubjects; and it will not be eafy to reconcile the poet with the critick, or to conceive how that can be the highest kind of writing in verfe which, according to Sprat, is chiefly to be preferred for its near affinity to profe. This lax and lawless verfification fo much concealed the deficiences of the barren, and flattered the laziness of the idle, that it immediately overfpread our books of poetry; all the boys and girls caught the pleafing fashion, and they that could do nothing else could write like Pindar. The rights of antiquity were invaded, and diforder tried to break into the Latin: a poem * on the Sheldonian The atre, in which all kinds of verse are shaken together, is unhappily inferted in the Mufa Anglicana. Pindarifm prevailed about half * First published in quarto, 1669, under the title of "Carmen Pindaricum in Theatrum Sheldonianum in "folennibus magnifici Operis Encœniis. Recitatum Julii die 9, Anno 1669, a Corbetto Owen, A. B. Æd. Chr. Alumno Authore." R, a cen a century; but at last died gradually away, and other imitations fupply its place. The Pindarick Odes have fo long enjoyed the highest degree of poetical reputation, that I am not willing to difmifs them with unabated cenfure; and furely though the mode of their compofition be erroneous, yet many parts deferve at least that admiration which is due to great comprehenfion of knowledge, and great fertility of fancy. The thoughts are often new, and often ftriking; but the greatness of one part is difgraced by the littleness of another; and total negligence of language gives the nobleft conceptions the appearance of a fabric auguft in the plan, but mean in the materials. Yet furely those verses are not without a juft claim to praise; of which it may be faid with truth, that no man but Cowley could have written them. The Davideis now remains to be confidered; a poem which the author designed to have extended to twelve books, merely, as he makes no fcruple of declaring, because the Eneid had that number; but he had leisure or perseverance only to write the third I part. part. Epick poems have been left unfinished by Virgil, Statius, Spenfer, and Cowley. That we have not the whole Davideis is, however, not much to be regretted; for in this undertaking Cowley is, tacitly at least, confeffed to have miscarried. There are not many examples of fo great a work, produced by an author generally read, and generally praised, that has crept through a century with fo little regard. Whatever is faid of Cowley, is meant of his other works. Of the Davideis no mention is made; it never appears in books, nor emerges in converfation. By the Spectator it has been once quoted; by Rymer it has once been praised; and by Dryden, in "Mac Flecknoe," it has once been imitated; nor do I recollect much other notice from its publication till now in the whole fucceffion of English literature. Of this filence and neglect, if the reason be inquired, it will be found partly in the choice of the fubject, and partly in the performance of the work. Sacred History has been always read with fubmiffive reverence, and an imagination · over 1 over-awed and controlled. We have been accustomed to acquiefcé in the nakedness and fimplicity of the authentic narrative, and to repose on its veracity with fuch humble confidence as fuppreffes curiofity. We go with the historian as he goes, and ftop with him when he stops. All amplification is frivolous and vain; all addition to that which is already fufficient for the purposes of religion, seems not only useless, but in fome degree profane. Such events as were produced by the vifible interpofition of Divine Power are above the power of human genius to dignify. The miracle of Creation, however it may teem with images, is best described with little dif fufion of language: He fpake the word, and they were made. fr We are told that Saul was troubled with an evil spirit; from this Cowley takes an opportunity of defcribing hell, and telling the hiftory of Lucifer, who was, he fays, Once general of a gilded host of sprites, Like Hefper leading forth the fpangled nights; But But down like lightning, which him struck, he came, And roar'd at his first plunge into the flame. Lucifer makes a fpeech to the inferior agents of mischief, in which there is something of heathenifm, and therefore of impropriety; and, to give efficacy to his words, concludes by lashing his breaft with his long tail. Envy, after a pause, steps out, and among other declarations of her zeal utters thefe lines: Do thou but threat, loud ftorms fhall make reply, And thunder echo to the trembling sky. Every reader feels himself weary with this useless talk of an allegorical Being. |