This is a very perfect specimen of our poet's best style, and at the same time abounds with his peculiar defects. It is impossible to deny that it exhibits the genuine poet, but there are passages hardly intelligible. A SONG. The Vintage to the Dungeon. Sing out, pent souts, sing cheerfully! Mirth frees you in captivity : Would you double fetters add, Besides your pinioned arms, you'll find Live then prisoners uncontrol'd! Drink o' th' strong, the rich, the old, And throats are free, Triumph in your bonds and pains, And dance to the music of your chains! We may easily conceive that the above was written during the confinement of the poet in the Gatehouse Prison, and that the generous writer did not confine himself to words only, but that he employed the means in his power to make the heart of the prisoner leap for joy. SONG. To ALTHEA, from Prison. When love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates; To whisper at the grates: When I lie tangled in her hair, The birds that wanton in the air, When flowing cups run swiftly round Our careless heads with roses bound, When thirsty grief in wine we steep, Know no such liberty. When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; That for a hermitage : This song has been much, and very justly admired, and if he had composed nothing more, would have insured to Lovelace a place in the memory of all lovers H of poetry, so long as the language in which it is written exists. The composition is perfect, there is not a defective line nor a faulty word. Two objections however may be made to it. It is of temporary application, and not adapted for "all time." It is complex, refering to three different states of enjoyment, love, drinking, and loyalty. The climax, if we may be allowed to call it so, in the succession of metaphors is well adapted, and the last stanza is altogether admirable. SONG. To General Goring, after the pacification of Berwick. Whilst men at arms to kettles their old helms translate, every hand a cup be found, In To Goring! to Goring! see't go round. He whose glories shine so bright and high, That captive they in triumph lead each ear and eye, And from the earth to heaven rebound, Fix'd there eternal as this round, To Goring! to Goring! see him crown'd. To his lovely bride in love with scars, Whose eyes wound deep in peace as doth his sword in wars, They shortly must depose the queen of stars: Her cheeks the morning's blushes give, And the benighted world reprieve; To Lettice! to Lettice! let her live. Give me scorching heat, thy heat dry sun, Yet leave my grateful thirst unquench'd, undone ! In which dissolved stars should shine! To the couple! to the couple! they are divine! AN ELEGY On the death of Mrs. Cassandra Cotton, only sister to Hither with hallowed steps as is the ground Where each pale guest stands fix'd, a living tomb, There, with her, triumph in your victory, Or, if you faint to be so blest: oh hear! A LA BOURBON. Donnez moi plus de pitie ou plus de cruaulte car sans ci je ne puis pas vivre, ni mourir. Divine destroyer, pity me no more, Or else more pity me! Give me more love, ah, quickly give me more Or else more cruelty! For left thus as I am, My heart is ice and flame; And languishing thus I Can neither live nor die! Your glories are eclipsed, and hidden in the grave Of this indifferency; And Cælia, you can neither altars have, Nor I a deity : They are aspects divine That still or smile, or shine, Or like the offended sky Frown death immediately! |