RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

POEMS BY LUCIUS CARY, LORD FALKLAND.

"See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just."

THIS eulogy by Pope is founded on the splendid character given of this nobleman in the pages of Clarendon, and which Walpole's flippant and paradoxical censures can neither tarnish nor destroy. It is vain that this eccentric biographer accuses Falkland of debility of mind, superstition, moderate understanding, weakness, and lastly infatuation; we learn from a far higher and better authority-" that he was a person of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable sweetness, and delight in conversation, of so flowing and obliging a humanity, and goodness to mankind, and of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other brand upon this odious and accursed civil war than that single loss, it must be most infamous and execrable to all posterity." Clarendon also expressly says of him" that he was a man of excellent parts, of a wit so sharp, and a ature so sincere, that nothing could be more lovely. That the most polite and accurate men of the University found in him such an immenseness of wit, and such a solidity of judgment, so infinite a fancy, bound in by a most logical ratiocination such a vast knowledge, that he was not ignorant of any thing, yet such an excessive humility, as if he had known nothing; that they frequently resorted, and dwelt with him, as in a College situated in a fairer air, so that his house was an University in a less volume, whither they came not so much for repose as study, and to examine and refine those grosser propositions which laziness and consent made current in vulgar conversation." In another place, Clarendon speaks of Lord Falkland's immense knowledge, his excellent understanding, and the wit and weight of his speeches. Now this is praise in solid and weighty ingots, and is not to be dissolved and melted away in the heat of Walpole's capricious imagination; for it is not only very exalted, but it is precise; delivered in chosen and appropriate language. As regards the change of his political life, we conceive that the same noble historian who has borne witness to the excellence of his private character, has, in a few words, explained it to all candid judges of human conduct. When placed in very perplexing situations, and where the exact road of duty was difficult to discover and to keep, and where right motives were often pushed into wrong conclusions, and when the furious violence of faction had shattered, or severed the constitutional chain that bound together the patriots who had rallied round the liberties of their country-placed as Lord Falkland was, in such a position, and allowing, as we have a right to allow from the best authority, that he was a man of wise and temperate judgment, of great constitutional knowledge, of high principles, and a noble sense of duty and religion-we say that the reasons which Lord Clarendon has given for his conduct, are such as to remove from him the blame and suspicion that Walpole too unguardedly, and even coarsely, heaps upon him. But it is time to turn from such discussions, for our purpose is to consider Lord Falkland not as a politician, but as a poet; a character in which we believe he is but little known; and we confess that we shall be disappointed if his poetry, though thrown out on casual hints, and being, as it were, only the off-flowering of his deeper studies, does not convey to

*See Walpole's Noble Authors, and Clarendon's History of the Rebellion, and Life; Lloyd's State Worthies, vol. ii. p. 256; Granger's Biog. Hist. of England; Cibber's Lives of the Poets, &c. for an account of Lord Falkland. Lloyd calls him' a knowing Statesman and a learned Scholar."

+ Granger says, that the character of Lord Falkland, by Clarendon, appears to be ken from near and repeated views.

the readers of it some proof that the praise of the noble historian was given with truth and discrimination; and we may claim the humble reward that is bestowed on industry, when we mention that these Poems were never before collected; that Walpole mentions only one of them; and that the Elegy by Sir Francis Wortley, is not alluded to by him, or any other biographer whom we know. We shall first give

No. I.

AN ECLOGUE ON THE DEATH OF BEN JOHNSON, BETWEEN MELYBŒEUS AND

HYLAS.

Melybæus. Hylas, the clear day boasts a glorious sunne,
Our troope is ready, and our time is come;
That fox who hath so long our lambs destroy'd,
And daily in his prosperous rapine joy'd,

Is earthed not far from hence; old Ægon's sonne,
Rough Corilas, and lusty Coridon,

In part the sport, in part revenge desire,
And both thy tarrier and thy aid require.
Haste, for by this, but that for thee we staid,
The prey-devourer had our prey bin made.
Hylas. Oh! Melibæus, now I list not hunt,
Nor have that vigor as before I wont.
My presence will afford them no reliefe,
That beaste I strive to chase, is only griefe.

Mel. What meane thy folded armes, thy downecast eyes,

Teares which so fast descend, and sighs which rise?
What meane thy words which so distracted fall,
As all thy joyes had now one funerall?

Cause for such griefe can our retirements yield?
That followes courtes, but stoopes not to the field.
Hath thy stern step-dame to thy sire revealed

Some youthful act, which thou could'st wish concealed?
Part of thy herd hath some close thief conveyed
From open pastures to a darker shade?

Part of thy flock hath some fierce torrent drown'd?
Thy harvest failed? or Amaryllis frown'd?
Hyl. Nor love, nor anger, accident, nor thiefe,
Hath raised the waves of my unbounded griefe!
To cure this cause, I would provoke the ire
Of my fierce step-dame, or severer sire;

Give all my herds, fields, flocks, and all the grace
That ever shone in Amaryllis' face.

Alas! that bard, that glorious bard is dead,

Who, when I whilome cities visited,

Hath made them seeme but houres which were full dayes,

Whilst he vouchsafed me his harmonious layes,

And when he lived, I thought the country then
A torture, and no mansion, but a den.
Mel. Johnson you meane, unlesse I much doe erre,
I know the person by the character.
Hyl. You guesse aright, it is too truely so,

From no lesse spring could all these rivers flow.
Mel. Ah, Hylas! then thy griefe I cannot call

A passion, when the ground is rationall;

I now excuse thy teares and sighs, though those
To deluges, and these to tempests rose.

* From Jonsonus Virbius, or the Memorie of Ben Johnson revived by the friends of the Muses, 4to. 1638. In this volume are verses by Buckhurst, J. Beaumont, Sir T. Hawkins, H. King, H. Coventry, T. May, D. Digges, S. Fortescue, E. Waller, S. Howell, W. Abington, S. Vernon, S. C. (Cleveland,) S. Mayne, W. Cartwright, J. Rutter, O. Feltham, Sh. Marmion, S. Ford, &c. See a letter from Sir K. Digby to Dr. Duppa, relative to the publication of this work, (from Harl. MS. 4153. f. 21) in Private Memoirs of Sir K. Digby, Introd. p. liii.

Her great instructor gone, I know the age
No lesse laments, than doth the widdow'd stage,
And only vice and folly now are glad―
Our gods are troubled, and our prince is sad.
He chiefly who bestowes life, health, and art,
Feeles this sharpe griefe pierce his immortal heart,
He his neglected lyre away hath throwne,
And wept a larger, nobler Helicon,

To finde his hearbes, which to his wish prevaile
For the lesse loved, should his own favorite faile,
So moaned himself, when Daphne he ador'd,
That arts relieving all, should faile their lord.
Hyl. But say, from whence in thee this knowledge springs,
Of what his favour was with gods and kings?
Mel. Dorus, who long had known men, books, and townes,

At last the honour of our woods and downs,
Had often heard his songs, was often fir'd
With their enchanting power e'er he retired,
And e'er himself to our still groves he brought
To meditate on what his muse had taught;
Here all his joy was to revolve alone,

All that his musicke to his soule had showne,
Or in all meetings to direct the streame

Of our discourse, and make his friend his theme,
And praising works which that rare loome had weaved,
Impart that pleasure which he had received.
So in sweet notes, (which did all tunes excell,
But what he prais'd) I oft have heard him tell
Of his rare pen what was the use and price,
The wayes of virtue, and the scourge of vice;
How the rich ignorant he valued least,
Nor for the trappings would esteeme the beast;
But did our youth to noble actions raise,
Hoping the meed of his immortal praise.

How bright and soone his Muse's morning shone,
Her noone how lasting, and her evening none !
How speech exceeds not dumbenesse, nor verse prose,
More than his verse the low rough rimes of those
(For such his seene they seem'd) who highest rear'd,
Possest Parnassus e'er his power appear'd;
Nor shall another pen his fame dissolve,

Till we this doubtful problem can resolve :—
Which in his works we most transcendent see,
Wit, judgment, learning, art, or industry;
Which till is never, so all jointly flow,
And each doth to an equal torrent grow.
His learning such, no author, old or new,
Escap'd his reading, that deserved his view;
And such his judgment, so exact his test
Of what was best in bookes, as what bookes best,
That had he join'd those notes his labours tooke,
From each most praised and praise-deserving booke,
And could the world of that choice treasure boast,
It need not care though all the rest were lost.
And such his wit, he writ past what he quotes,
And his productions far exceede his notes.
So in his workes where ought inserted growes,
He noblest of the plants ingrafted showes,
That his adopted children equall not,
The generous issue his own brain begot;
So great his art, that much which he did write,
Gave the wise wonder, and the crowd delight.
Each sort as well as sex admir'd his wit,
The hees and shees, the boxes and the pit;