As few ladies ever lived more happy in her friends than our poetess, so those friends have done justice to her memory, and celebrated her, when dead, for those virtues they admired, when living. Mr. Dryden more than once mentions her with honour, and Mr Cowley has written an excellent Ode upon her death. As this Ode will better shew the high opinion once entertained of Mrs. Philips, than any thing we can say, after giving a specimen of her [157] poetry, we shall conclude with this performance of Cowley's, which breathes friendship in every line, and speaks an honest mind: so true is the observation of Pope, upon the supposition that Cowley's works are falling into oblivion,
Lost is his epic, nay, pindaric art,
But still I love the language of his heart.
Mrs. Philips's poetry has not harmony of versification, or amorous tenderness to recommend it, but it has a force of thinking, which few poets of the other sex can exceed, and if it is without graces, it has yet a great deal of strength. As she has been celebrated for her friendship, we shall present the reader with an Ode upon that subject, addressed to her dearest Lucasia.
I.
Come my Lucasia, since we see
That miracles men's faith do move
By wonder, and by prodigy;
To the dull angry world lets prove
There's a religion in our love.
II.
For tho' we were designed t'agree,
That fate no liberty destroys,
But our election is as free
As angels, who with greedy choice
Are yet determined to their joys.
III.
Our hearts are doubled by the loss,
Here mixture is addition grown;
We both diffuse, and both engross:
And we whose minds are so much one,
Never, yet ever are alone.