some striking thoughts, but they are not well wrought. His "Elegy
on Sir Henry Wotton" is vigorous and happy; the series of thoughts
is easy and natural; and the conclusion, though a little weakened by
the intrusion of Alexander, is elegant and forcible.

It may be remarked, that in this elegy, and in most of his
encomiastic poems, he has forgotten or neglected to name his heroes.

In his poem on the death of Hervey, there is much praise, but little
passion; a very just and ample delineation of such virtues as a
studious privacy admits, and such intellectual excellence as a mind
not yet called forth to action can display. He knew how to
distinguish, and how to commend, the qualities of his companion;
but, when he wishes to make us weep, he forgets to weep himself, and
diverts his sorrow by imagining how his crown of bays, if he had it,
would crackle in the fire. It is the odd fate of this thought to be
the worse for being true. The bay-leaf crackles remarkably as it
burns; as therefore this property was not assigned it by chance, the
mind must be thought sufficiently at ease that could attend to such
minuteness of physiology. But the power of Cowley is not so much to
move the affections, as to exercise the understanding.

The "Chronicle" is a composition unrivalled and alone: such gaiety
of fancy, such facility of expression, such varied similitude, such
a succession of images, and such a dance of words, it is in vain to
expect except from Cowley. His strength always appears in his
agility; his volatility is not the flutter of a light, but the bound
of an elastic mind. His levity never leaves his learning behind it;
the moralist, the politician, and the critic, mingle their influence
even in this airy frolic of genius. To such a performance Suckling