endering of the now bold and abrupt, now enchained sequences of
expressive sound, in those measures which we hardly yet know how to scan.
It is not the track but the wing of the Theban eagle that is the
desperation.

It is always delightful to hear Dryden speaking of Cowley. He was indeed a
man made to be loved. But to students in the divine art, his poetry will
for ever remain the great puzzle. His "Pindarque Odes, written in
imitation of the style and manner of the Odes of Pindar," are unique.
Cowley was a scholar. In Latin verse he is one of the greatest among the
modern masters; and he had much Greek. There can be no doubt that he could
construe Pindar--none that he could have understood him--had he tried to
do so. "If a man should undertake to translate Pindar word for word, it
would be thought that one madman had translated another." Instead,
therefore, of translating him word for word, "the ingenious Cowley" set
about imitating his style and manner, and that he thought might best be
effected by changing his measures, and discarding almost all his words,
except the proper names, to which he added many others of person or place,
illustrious at the time, or in tradition. Events and exploits brought
vividly back by Pindar to the memory of listeners, to whom a word
sufficed, are descanted on by Cowley in explanatory strains, often
unintelligible to all living men. The two opening lies of his first
Imitation characterize his muse.

"Queen of all harmonious things,
Dancing words, and speaking things."

The words do dance indeed; and "Cowley's Medley" combines the Polka and
the Gallopade.

Yet throughout these Two Odes (the Second Olympic and the First Nemaean)
may be detected flowing the poetry of Pindar. Compare Cowley with
him--book in hand--and ever and anon you behold Pindar. Cowley all along
had him in his mind--but Cowley's mind played him queer tricks--his heart
never; yet had he a soul capable of taking flight with the Theban eagle.
There are many fine lines, sentimental and descriptive, in these
extraordinary performances. There is sometimes "a golden ferment" on the
page, which, for the moment, pleases more than the cold correctness of
Carey. For example--THE ISLE OF THE BLEST.

"Far other lot befalls the good;
A life from trouble free;
Nor with laborious hands
To vex the stubborn lands,
Nor beat the billowy sea
For a scanty livelihood.
But with the honour'd of the gods,
Who love