Or an hand to wear and tire FALSE AND TRUE RELIGION. CAN wars, and jars, and fierce contention, That makes the riven heaven with trumpets ring, But true religion, sprung from God above, In heart and voice: free, large, even infinite; But grasping all in her vast active sprite Bright lamp of God, that men would joy in thy pure light! ABRAHAM COWLEY Was born in London in 1618. He was early sent to Cambridge, but being a zealous loyalist, was ejected thence, and retired first to Oxford, and afterwards to France. He was made secretary to Lord Jermyn, and after the Restoration, through his interest, obtained an advantageous lease, which set him at ease in fortune. He died at Chertsey, in 1667, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, near Chaucer and Spenser. The writings of Cowley have great and various merit. They display a vivid imagination, clear intellect, and a rich command of language; but his style is too artificial. "In Cowley," says Mr. Montgomery, "it has been the fate of one of the most brilliant intellects that ever arose in this country never to be estimated by its real excellence." FROM "THE GARDEN." METHINKS I see great Diocletian walk In the Salonian garden's noble shade, "If I, my friends," said he, "should to you show I walk not here with more delight Than even after the most happy fight In triumph to the Capitol I rode, To thank the gods, and to be thought myself almost a god!" 16* THE ECSTASY. I LEAVE mortality, and things below; For I am called to go. A whirlwind bears up my dull feet, And lo! I mount, and lo! How small the biggest parts of earth's proud title show. Where shall I find the noble British land? Lo! I at last a northern speck espy, Which in the sea does lie, And seems a grain o' the sand; For this will any sin or bleed? Oh! irony of words! do call Great Britannie? I passed by th' arched magazines which hold Nor shake with fear or cold; Without affright or wonder, I meet clouds charged with thunder, And lightnings in my way, Like harmless lambent fires about my temples play. Now into a gentle sea of rolling flame. I'm plunged, and still mount higher there, So perfect, yet so tame, So great, so pure, so bright a fire My faithful breast did cover, When, when I was of late a wretched mortal lover. Throng several orbs which one fair planet bear, Where I behold distinctly as I pass, The hints of Galileo's glass, I touch at last the spangled sphere. Here all the extended sky Is but one galaxy, "Tis all so bright and gay, And the joint eyes of night make up a perfect day. Where am I now? angels and God is here; An unexhausted ocean of delight Swallows my senses quite, And drowns all what, or how, or where; And this great world's Columbus was, Oh, 'tis too much for man! but let it ne'er be less. The mighty Elijah mounted so on high, That second man, who leaped the ditch where all And went not downwards to the sky. With much of pomp and show, As conquering kings in triumph go, Did he to heaven approach, And wondrous was his way, and wondrous was his coach. 'Twas gaudy all, and rich in every part, Of essences of gems, and spirit of gold, Drawn forth by chemic angel's art, Figures that did transcend a vulgar angel's wit. The horses were of tempered lightning made, Of all that in heaven's beauteous pastures feed The noblest, sprightfullest breed ; And flaming manes their necks arrayed: They all were shod with diamond But such light solid ones as shine On the transparent rocks o' th' heavenly crystalline. Thus mounted the great prophet to the skies; Wondered from hence to see one rise. The soft clouds melted him a way ; The snow and frosts which in it lay The wheels and horses' hoofs hissed as they passed them o'er. He passed by the moon and planets, and did fright With th' unexampled sight. But where he stopped will ne'er be known, To a better being do aspire, And mount herself like him to eternity in fire. |