Our gentle Lovelace! thee too I hail--beauty in all thy lines, so quaint
yet graceful. A fopling poet though thou wert, dainty and perfumed, yet
still a poet, sweet in a lady's bower, where all is fashioned as befits
the place and time: a poet indeed! and, what is more, never wert thou
turned from thy chosen path of duty by praise or purse--although a poet
and poor all the days of thy most checkered life. Alas! must we contrast
thee with the weathercock of the rhyming folk, bowing to kings,
protector, lords, and all that could pay golden coin for his poesy? Many
there be among the scribbling tribe who emulate a Waller's practice, and
amble in his ill-chosen path; how few have the redeeming gift that was
his so largely!
And thou must not be forgotten, "O rare Ben Jonson!" for whom a single
sentence doth suffice. And him, "the melancholy Cowley!" let him come
too, with his honeyed wisdom: it will be still the sweeter if we think
upon his stern bitterness in prose. Let him reprove the muse to whom he
owes his fame,-"Thou who rewardest but with popular breath,
----And that too after death:--"
let him reprove, yet not come without her. Ah! the poet is but a sorry
politician after all.
Ye cannot do ill if ye pile the verdant turf breast high with those old
masters; those mighty monarchs of sweet song,-"Blessings be with them and eternal praise,
The poets!"
Bring them all, all, from the ancient of days, who have gained this
"praise eternal," to those of our own age, who have laboured for, and
will also obtain it. And chiefly among such as have sweetly carolled
among us--still more, if ye be young and warm-hearted, with the
affections pure and true within you--bring the dear lays of a poet--a
ladye poet--a poet who will hold rank among the best, when life shall
have given place to immortality.--How gladly do I add the tribute of
admiration to the gift of friendship.--In her own eloquent words may we
give our thoughts utterance.
"Methinks it is not much to die--
To die, and leave behind
A spirit in the hearts of men,
A voice amid our kind;
When Fame and Death, in unison,
Have given a thousand lives for one.
"Our thoughts, we live again in them,
Our nature's noblest part;
Our life in many a memory,
Our home in many a heart:
When not a lip that breathes our strain,
But calls us into life again."