And spread his mantle dark and cold,
And wrapped thee formless in the fold,
And dulled the murmur on thy lip,
And bore thee where I could not see
Nor follow—though I walk in haste;
And think—that somewhere in the waste,
The shadow sits, and waits for me!”
Can I be wrong in thinking that under the solemn lights of these stanzas the earlier poet’s verse grows dim?
Cowley was a good Kingsman; and in the days of the Commonwealth held position of secretary to the exiled Queen Henrietta, in Paris; he did, at one time, think of establishing himself in one of the American colonies; returned, however, to his old London haunts, and, wearying of the city, sought retirement at Chertsey, on the Thames’ banks (where his old house is still to be seen), and where he wrote, in graceful prose and cumbrous verse, on subjects related to country life—which he loved overmuch—and died there among his trees and the meadows.