CHARLES COTTON. cxcv 



Nor is there any thing below 



Worth a man's wishing, or his care, 

 When what we wish begets our wo, 



And Hope deceiv'd becomes despair. 

 Then, thou seducing Hope, farewell, 

 No more thou shall of sense bereave me, 



No more deceive me, 

 I now can countercharm thy spell, 



And for what's past, so far I will b<* even, 

 Never again to hope for any thing but Heaven." 



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 



That heav'nly sorrow comfort breeds. 

 And true contrition turns delight. 

 Let princes thy past services forget, 



Let dear-bought friends thy foes become, 

 Though round with misery thou art bestt, 



With scorn abroad and poverty at home, 

 Keep yet thy hands but clear, and conscience pure, 



And all the ills thou shalt endure 



Will on thy worth such lustre set 

 As shall outshine the brightest coronet. 

 And men at last will be asham'd to see, 

 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, 

 arid 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 " Con- 

 tentation," 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 

 no one reason either in the selection or the order of the 



