As in fortune's worst distress Such mountain hopes of glitt'ring gola, And in my very bosom laid That fatal Hope by which I was betray'd, And rudely laugh'd at those, who pitying wept for me. But of this expectation, when't came to❜t, In sordid robes poor disappointment came, Nay, what was worst of what mischance could do, My pretty love, with whom, had she been true, I could have liv'd most happy and content, By much more desolate, And made my courage yield unto despair. Whilst yet our vitals daily waste, And not supporting life, but pain, Call their false friendships back again, And unto death, grim death, abandon us at last. Nor is there any thing below Worth a man's wishing, or his care, And Hope deceiv'd becomes despair. I now can countercharm thy spell, And for what's past, so far I will be even, For the same reason the conclusion of his Ode to Melancholy ought not to be omitted : "Go, foolish soul, and wash thee white, Be troubled for thine own misdeeds And true contrition turns delight. Let dear-bought friends thy foes become, Though round with misery thou art beset, With scorn abroad and poverty at home, As shall outshine the brightest coronet. That still, For all their malice, and malicious skill, Thy mind revive as it was us'd to be, And that they have disgrac't themselves to honor thee." Similar pathos and sensibility are apparent in many other of Cotton's pieces, particularly in his Quatrains on Morning, Noon, and Evening; his Hymn on Christmas Day; his verses on The World, on Death, and on Contentment; and more particularly in his stanzas on Retirement, addressed to Izaak Walton. The extracts from Cotton's poems will be concluded with his "Contentation," which he also addressed to Walton; but it must first be observed that justice to his fame as a poet, as well as to his personal character, renders it very desirable that the more valuable of his productions should be reprinted. That the public would appreciate the collection is almost certain; for the late Mr Coleridge, when speaking of Waller's song, "Go, lovely Rose, &c.," has truly observed, "If I had happened to have had by me the Poems of Cotton, more but far less deservedly celebrated as the author of Virgil Travestied, I should have indulged myself, and I think have gratified many who are not acquainted with his serious works, by selecting some admirable specimens of this style. There are not a few of his poems replete with every excellence of thought, images and passions which we expect or desire in the poetry of the milder muse; and yet so worded, that the reader sees no one reason either in the selection or the order of the + words, why he might not have said the very same in an appropriate conversation, and cannot conceive how indeed he could have expressed such thoughts otherwise, without loss or injury to his meaning." 8 "CONTENTATION. DIRECTED TO MY DEAR FATHER, AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND, HEAV'N, what an age is this! what race I can go no where but I meet With malcontents, and mutineers, As if in life was nothing sweet And we must blessings reap in tears. O senseless man, that murmurs still For happiness, and does not know, Even though he might enjoy his will, What he would have to make him so. Is it true happiness to be By undiscerning fortune plac't, In the most eminent degree, Where few arrive, and none stand fast? Titles and wealth are fortune's toils Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare! The great are proud of borrow'd spoils, The miser's plenty breeds his care. The one supinely yawns at rest, A pamper'd horse, or lab'ring moil. The Titulado's oft disgrac'd, By public hate, or private frown, And be whose hand the creature rais'd, Has yet a foot to kick him down. The drudge who would all get, all save, Like a brute beast both feeds, and lics, Prone to the earth, he digs his grave, And in the very labour dies. Excess of ill-got, ill-kept pelf, Does only death, and danger breed, Whilst one rich worldling starves himself With what would thousand others feed. By which we see what wealth and pow'r Although they make men rich and great, The sweets of life do often sour, And gull ambition with a cheat. Nor is he happier than these, For he, by those desires misled, Quits his own vine's securing shade, T'expose his naked, empty head To all the storms man's peace invade. Nor is he happy who is trim, Trick't up in favours of the fair, Mirrors, with every breath made dim, Birds caught in every wanton snare. Woman, man's greatest woe, or bliss, + Does ofter far, than serve, enslave, And with the magic of a kiss Destroys whom she was made to save. There are no ills but what we make, That causes all our sufferings. We call that sickness, which is health, That persecution, which is grace; That poverty, which is true wealth, And that dishonour, which is praise. Providence watches over all, And that with an impartial eye, And if to misery we fall, 'Tis through our own infirmity. 'Tis want of foresight makes the bold Alas, our time is here so short, That in what state soe'er 'tis spent, Of joy or woe does not import, Provided it be innocent. 8 Biographia Literaria, vol. ii. p. 96. But we may make it pleasant too, If we will take our measures right, And not what Heav'n has done, undo By an unruly appetite. 'Tis Contentation that alone Can make us happy here below, And when this little life is gone, Will lift us up to Heav'n too. A very little satisfies An honest, and a grateful heart, And who would more than will suffice, Does covet more than is his part. That man is happy in his share, Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed, Whose necessaries bound his care, And honest labour makes his bed. Who free from debt, and clear from crimes, Who from the busy world retires, Who, with his angle, and his books, This man is happier far than he To crooked and forbidden ways. The world is full of beaten roads, It is Content alone that makes Our pilgrimage a pleasure here, But he has fortunes worst withstood, Several stories are related of Cotton's pecuniary distress, but though it is unquestionable that he generally laboured under embarrassments, and that he hints that he had occasionally concealed himself from his creditors, yet there is no better authority for the following anecdotes than tradition. Sir John Hawkins states that "a natural excavation in the rocky hill on which Beresford Hall stands, is shown as Mr Cotton's occasional refuge from the pursuit of his creditors; and but a few years since the granddaughter of the faithful woman who carried him food while in that humiliating retreat, was living ;" and he adds, that during Cotton's confinement on one occasion in a prison in the city, he inscribed these lines on the walls of his apartment : "A prison is a place of cure Cotton's literary merits do not appear to be sufficiently appreciated at the present day, probably because the works by which he is best known are not calculated to create respect for his abilities, and because there is no popular or selected edition of his poems. As his prose writings consist almost entirely of translations 9 Life of Cotton, 382-3. 1 Ibid. (and with the exception of Montaigne's Essays) of Memoirs of Warriors, whose deeds have been eclipsed by modern prowess, it is not surprising that his labours should be forgotten; but his biographer may refer to them as proofs that indolence at least was not among his faults. It has been taken for granted that Cotton was at one period of - his life an author by profession, and that he lived by his pen;2 but those who have made this statement, could scarcely have read the prefaces to his publications, wherein he expressly says that he had lost much money by his writings, and that the expectation of gaining anything by them was always very much beneath his thoughts. The fact appears to be that he usually gave his manuscripts to his friend Henry Brome, who incurred the expense of their publication. This arrangement seems to have been sometimes attended with loss to his publisher, and to have produced disputes between them; for in his epistle to John Bradshaw, Esq., describing his journey from London to Beresford, he says + "And now I'm here set down again in peace -The same old-fashion'd squire, no whit refin'd, To bub old ale, which nonsense does create, - Write lewd epistles, and sometimes translate Cotton's conduct and character were naturally much influenced by the manners of his times, and by the political feelings of his party. He was generous, frank, and, in pecuniary matters, thoughtless, if not extravagant. A boon companion, and, like all the Cavaliers, a hater of those qualities, as well good as evil, which distinguished the Roundheads. As a son, a husband, a father, and a friend, he appears in an amiable light; and many of his contemporaries bear testimony to his social worth no less strongly than to his talents. His religious impressions appear from his serious writings to have been fervent and sincere; and 2 Vide his Life by Hawkins and others. |