own private recreation am wont to resort to such innocent gaieties as the fathers of song have bequeathed to us, so I seldom fail to present them to my readers; and it happens that this philosopher, whom we have seen dealing with high and lofty thoughts, descanting like a hermit on the joys of solitude and the delights of the country,-and in this respect his odes are nothing inferior to his Essays;—it happens that this identical Cowley hath left behind him the pleasantest of all pleasant ballads, which could hardly have been produced by any one except a thorough man of the world. It is entitled "The Chronicle," and contains a catalogue of all the fair ladies with whom he had at different times been enamoured. Never was list more amusing. It abounds in happy traits,—especially the one, which tells to half an hour how long a silly beauty may hope to retain the heart of a man of sense. The expression when the haughty Isabella, unconscious of her conquest and marching on to fresh triumphs, beats out Susan "by the bye," has passed into one of those proverbs, of which doubtless as of many other by-words, they who use them little guess the origin. "The Chronicle" was written two hundred years ago. Ladies, dear ladies, if one could be sure that no man would open this book, if we were all together in (female) parliament assembled, without a single male creature within hearing, might we not acknowledge that the sex, especially that part of it formerly called coquette, and now known by the name of flirt, is very little altered since the days of the Merry Monarch? and that a similar list compiled by some gay bachelor of Belgravia might, allowing for differences of custom and of costume, serve very well as a companion to Master Cowley's catalogue? I would not have a man read this admission for the world. THE CHRONICLE. A BALLAD. Margarita first possessed, If I remember well, my breast, Margarita first of all; But when awhile the wanton maid, Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catherine : Beauteous Catherine gave place, (Though loath and angry she to part Eliza to this hour might reign, Fundamental laws she broke, Mary then, and gentle Anne, Alternately they swayed, And sometimes Mary was the fair, Another Mary then arose, Had not Rebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free, For the gracious princess died, And Judith reigned in her stead. One month, three days, and half an hour And so Susannah took her place. But when Isabella came, Armed with a resistless flame; By the artillery of her eye, Whilst she proudly marched about, Greater conquests to find out, She beat out Susan, by the bye. But in her place I then obeyed To whom ensued a vacancy. Thousand worse passions then possessed The interregnum of my breast,— Bless me from such an anarchy ! Gentle Henrietta then, And a third Mary next began; Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria, And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catherine, But should I now to you relate, The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribands, jewels, and the rings, If I should tell the politic arts The letters, embassies, and spies, Numberless, nameless mysteries! I more voluminous should grow, But I will briefer with them be, My present empress doth claim, Whom God grant long to reign! I add a few original stanzas, which show Cowley's characteristic merits and defects;-very few, since I must find room for some of those translations from Anacreon, which for grace, spirit, and delicacy will never be surpassed. OF SOLITUDE. Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food, * Here let me careless and unthoughtful lying, With all their wanton boughs dispute, A silver stream shall roll his waters near, On whose enamelled bank I'll walk, Ah! wretched and too solitary he, * THE GRASSHOPPER. From Anacreon. Happy insect! what can be Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king! The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year! Thee Phoebus loves and doth inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire. |