# The Lives of the Poets of Great Britain and Ireland/Volume 4/Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe

Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe.
This lady was born at Ilcheſter in Somerſetſhire September 11, 1674, being the eldeſt of three daughters of Mr. Walter Singer, a gentleman of good family, and Mrs. Elizabeth Portnel, both perſons of great worth and piety. Her father was not a native of Ilcheſter, nor an inhabitant, before his impriſonment there for non-conformity in the reign of King Charles II. Mrs. Portnel, from a principle of tenderneſs, viſited thoſe who ſuffered on that account, and by this accident an acquaintance commenced, which terminated in the nuptial union. They who were acquainted with the lady, who is the ſubject of this article, in her early years, perhaps obſerved an uncommon diſplay of genius as prophetic of that bright day which afterwards enſued.
There is ſo great a ſimilitude between painting and poetry, that it is no ways ſurprifing, a perſon, who poſſeſſed the latter of theſe graces in ſo high a degree, ſhould very eaſily diſcover an inclination to the former, which has often the ſame admirers. Accordingly we find Mrs. Rowe diſcover a taſte for painting; ſhe attempted to carry her taſte into execution, when ſhe had hardly ſteadineſs of hand ſufficient to guide the pencil. Her father perceiving her fondneſs for this art, was at the expence of a maſter to inſtruct her in it; and ſhe never failed to make it an amuſement ’till her death. Every one acquainted with her writings, and capable of reliſhing the melifluent flow of her numbers, will naturally ſuppoſe, that ſhe had a genius ​for muſic, particularly that of a grave and ſolemn kind, as it was beſt ſuited to the grandeur of her ſentiments, and the ſublimity of her devotion. But her moſt prevailing propenſion was to poetry. This ſuperior grace was indeed the moſt favourite employment of her youth, and in her the moſt diſtinguiſhed excellence. So powerful was her genius in this way, that her proſe hath all the charms of verſe without the fetters; the ſame fire and elevation; the ſame richneſs of imagery, bold figures, and flowing diction.
It appears by a life of Mrs. Rowe, prefixed to the firſt volume of her miſcellaneous works, that in the year 1696, the 22d of her age, a Collection of her Poems on various Occaſions was publiſhed at the deſire of two of her friends, which we ſuppoſe did not contain all ſhe had by her, ſince the ingenious author of the preface, Mrs. Elizabeth Johnſon, gives the reader room to hope, that Mrs. Rowe might, in a little while, be prevailed upon to oblige the world with a ſecond part, no way inferior to the former.
Mrs. Rowe’s Paraphraſe on the 38th Chapter of Job was written at the requeſt of biſhop Kenn, which gained her a great reputation. She had no other tutor for the French and Italian languages, than the honourable Mr. Thynne, ſon to the lord viſcount Weymouth, and father to the right honourable the counteſs of Hertford, who willingly took the taſk upon himſelf, and had the pleaſure to ſee his fair ſcholar improve ſo faſt by his leſſons, that in a few months ſhe was able to read Taſſo’s Jeruſalem with eaſe. Her ſhining merit, with the charms of her perſon and converſation, had procured her many admirers: among others, the celebrated Mr. Prior made his addreſſes to her; ſo that allowing for the double licence of the poet and the lover, the concluding lines in his Anſwer to Mrs. Singer’s Paſtoral on Love and ​Friendſhip, were not without foundation in truth; but Mr. Thomas Rowe, a very ingenious and learned gentleman, was the perſon deſtined to fill the arms of this amiable poeteſs.
As this gentleman was a poet of no inconſiderable rank, a man of learning and genius, we ſhall here give ſome account of him, in place of aſſigning him a particular Article, as the incidents of his life will be more naturally blended with that of his wife.——He was born at London, April the 25th, 1687, the eldeſt ſon of the revd. Mr. Rowe: who with a very accurate judgment, and a conſiderable ſtock of uſeful learning, joined the talents in preaching and a moſt lively and engaging manner in converſation. He was of a genteel deſcent, both on his father’s and mother’s ſide; but he thought too juſtly to value himſelf on ſuch extrinſic circumſtances. His ſuperior genius, and inſatiable thirſt after knowledge were conſpicuous in his earlieſt years. He commenced his acquaintance with the Claſſics at Epſom, while his father reſided there, and by the ſwift advances in this part of learning, quickly became the delight of his maſter, who treated him with very particular indulgence, in ſpight of the natural ruggedneſs and ſeverity of his temper.
When his father removed to London, he accompanied him, and was placed under the famous Dr. Walker, maſter of the Charter-Houſe-School. His exerciſes here never failed of being diſtinguiſhed even among thoſe who had the approbation of that excellent maſter, who would fain have perſuaded his father to place him at one of our Engliſh univerſities; but how honourably ſoever Mr. Rowe might think of the learning of thoſe noble ſeats of the Muſes, yet not having the ſame advantageous notions of their political principles, he choſe to enter him in a private academy in London, and ſome time before his death ſent him to Leyden: Here he ſtudied ​Jeuriel’s Antiquities, civil law, the Belles Lettres, and experimental philoſophy; and eſtabliſhed a reputation for capacity, application, and an obliging deportment, both among the profeſſors and ſtudents. He returned from that celebrated ſeat of literature, with a gpeat acceſſion of knowledge, entirely incorrupt in his morals, which he had preſerved as inviolate, as he could have done under the moſt vigilant eye, though left without any reſtraints but thoſe of his own virtue and prudence.
The love of liberty had always been ore of Mr. Rowe’s darling paſſions. He was very much confirmed therein, by his familiar acquaintance with the hiſtory and noble authors of Greece and Rome, whoſe very ſpirit was tranferred into him: By reſiding ſo long at a Republic, he had continual examples at the ineſtimable value of freedom, as the parent of induſtry, and the univerſal ſource of ſocial happineſs. Tyranny of every kind he ſincerely deteſted; but moſt of all eccleſiaſtical tyranny, deeming the ſlavery of the mind the moſt abject and ignominious, and in its conſequences more pernicious than any other.
He was a perfect maſter of the Greek, Latin and French languages; and, which is ſeldom known to happen, had at once ſuch a prodigious memory, and unexhaustible fund of wit, as would have ſingly been admired, and much more united. Theſe qualities, with an eaſy fluency of ſpeech, a frankneſs, and benevolence of diſpoſition, and a communicative temper, made his company much ſollicited by all who knew him. He animated the converſation, and inſtructed his companions by the acuteneſs of his obſervations.
He had formed a deſign to compile the lives of all the illuſtrious perſons of antiquity, omitted by Plutarch; and for this purpoſe read the antient hiſtorians with great care. This deſign he in part executed. Eight lives were publiſhed ſince his ​deceaſe, in octavo, by way of Supplement to that admired Biographer; in which though ſo young a guide, he ſtrikes out a way like one well acquainted with the dark and intricate paths of antiquity. The ſtile is perfectly eaſy, yet conciſe, and nervous; The reflexions juſt, and ſuch as might be expected from a lover of truth and of mankind.
Beſides theſe Lives, he had finiſhed for the preſs, the Life of Thraſybulus, which being put into the hands of Sir Richard Steele, for his reviſal, was unhappily loſt, and could never ſince be recovered.
The famous Mr. Dacier, having tranſlated Plutarch’s Lives into French, with Remarks Hiſtorical and Critical, the Abbé Bellenger added in 1734 a ninth tome to the other eight, conſiſting of the Life of Hannibal, and Mr. Rowe’s Lives made French by that learned Abbé: In the Preface to which verſion, he tranſcribes from the Preface to the Engliſh edition, the character of the author with viſible approbation; and obſerves, that the Lives were written with taſte; though being a poſthumoous work, the author had not put his laſt hand to it.
Such is the character of Mr. Rowe, the huſband of this amiable lady; and when ſo accompliſhed a pair meet in conjugal bonds, what great expectations may not be formed upon them! A friend of Mr. Rowe’s upon that occaſion wrote the following beautiful Epigram,
No more proud Gallia, bid the world revere Thy learned pair, Le Fevre and Dacier: Britain may boaſt, this happy day unites, Two nobler minds, in Hymen’s ſacred rites. What theſe have ſung, while all th’ inſpiring nine, Exalt the beauties of the verſe divine, Thoſe (humble critics of th’ immortal ſtrain,) Shall bound their fame to comment and explain.
Youth’s livelieſt bloom, a never-fading grace, And more than beauty ſparkles in her face. How ſoon the willing heart, her empire feels? Each look, each air, each melting action kills: Yet the bright form creates no looſe deſires; At once ſhe gives and purifies our fires, And paſſions chaſte, as her own ſoul inſpires. Her ſoul, heav’n’s nobleſt workmanſhip deſign’d, To bleſs the ruined age, and ſuccour loſt mankind, To prop abandon’d virtue’s ſinking cauſe, And ſnatch from vice its undeſerv’d applauſe.
He married her in the year 1710, and Mrs. Rowe’s exalted merit, and amiable qualities, could not fail to inſpire the moſt generous and laſting paſſion. Mr. Rowe knew how to value that treaſure of wit, ſoftnefs and virtue, with which heaven had bleſſed him; and made it his ſtudy to repay the felicity with which ſhe crowned his life. The eſteem and tenderneſs he had for her is inexpreſſible, and poſſeſſion ſeems never to have abated the fondneſs and admiration of the lover; a circumſtance which ſeldom happens, but to thoſe who are ​capable of enjoying mental intercourſe, and have a reliſh for the ideal tranſports, as well as thoſe of a leſs elevated nature. It was ſome conſiderable time after his marriage, that he wrote to her a very tender Ode, under the name of Delia, full of the warmeſt ſentiments of connubial friendſhip and affection. The following lines in it may appear remarkable, as it pleaſed Heaven to diſpoſe events, in a manner ſo agreeable to the wiſhes expreſſed in them,
——So long may thy inſpiring page, And bright example bleſs the riſing age; Long in thy charming priſon mayſt thou ſtay, Late, very late, aſcend the well-known way, And add new glories to the realms of day! At leaſt Heav’n will not ſure, this prayer deny; Short be my life’s uncertain date, And earlier long than thine, the deſtin’d hour of fate! When e’er it comes, may’ſt thou be by, Support my ſinking frame, and teach me how to die; Baniſh deſponding nature’s gloom, Make me to hope a gentle doom, And fix me all on joys to come. With ſwimming eyes I’ll gaze upon thy charms, And claſp thee dying in my fainting arms; Then gently leaning on thy breaſt; Sink in ſoft ſlumbers to eternal reſt. The ghaſtly form ſhall have a pleaſing air, And all things ſmile, while Heav’n and thou art there.
This part of the Ode which we have quoted, contains the moſt tender breathings of affection, and has as much delicacy and ſoftneſs in it, as we remember ever to have ſeen in poetry.
​As Mr. Rowe had not a robuſt conſtitution, ſo an intenſe application to ſtudy, beyond what the delicacy of his frame could bear, might contribute to that ill ſtate of health which allayed the happineſs of his married life, during the greater part of it. In the latter end of the year 1714, his weakneſs encreaſed, and he ſeemed to labour under all the ſymptoms of a conſumption; which diſtemper, after it had confined him ſome months, put a period to his moſt valuable life, at Hampſtead, in 1715, when he was but in the 28th year of his age. The exquiſite grief and affliction, which his amiable wife felt for the loſs of ſo excellent a huſband, is not to be expreſſed.
She wrote a beautiful Elegy on his death, and continued to the laſt moments of her life, to expreſs the higheſt veneration and affection for his memory, and a particular regard and eſteem for his relations. This Elegy of Mrs. Rowe, on the death of her much lamented huſband, we ſhall here inſert.
An ELEGY, &c.
In what ſoft language ſhall my thoughts get free, My dear Alexis, when I talk of thee? Ye Muſes, Graces, all ye gentle train, Of weeping loves, O ſuit the penſive ſtrain! But why ſhould I implore your moving art? ’Tis but to ſpeak the dictates of my heart; And all that knew the charming youth will join, Their friendly ſighs, and pious tears to mine; For all that knew his merit, muſt confeſs, In grief for him, there can be no exceſs. His ſoul was form’d to act each glorious part Of life, unſtained with vanity, or art, No thought within his gen’rous mind had birth, But what he might have own’d to Heav’n and Earth.
Practis’d by him, each virtue grew more bright, And ſhone with more than its own native light. Whatever noble warmth could recommend The juſt, the active, and the conſtant friend, Was all his own——But Oh! a dearer name, And ſofter ties my endleſs ſorrow claim. Loſt in deſpair, diſtracted, and forlorn, The lover I, and tender huſband mourn. Whate’er to ſuch ſuperior worth was due, Whate’er exceſs the fondeſt paſſion knew; I felt for thee, dear youth; my joy, my care, My pray’rs themſelves were thine, and only where Thou waſt concern’d, my virtue was ſincere. When e’er I begg’d for bleſſings on thy head, Nothing was cold or formal that I ſaid; My warmeſt vows to Heav’n were made for thee, And love ſtill mingled with my piety. O thou waſt all my glory, all my pride! Thro’ life’s uncertain paths my conſtant guide; Regard leſs of the world, to gain thy praiſe Was all that could my juſt ambition raiſe. Why has my heart this fond engagement known? Or why has Heav’n diſſolved the tye ſo ſoon? Why was the charming youth ſo form’d to move? Or why was all my ſoul ſo turn’d for love? But virtue here a vain defence had made, Where ſo much worth and eloquence could plead. For he could talk——’Twas extacy to hear, ’Twas joy! ’twas harmony to every ear. Eternal muſic dwelt upon his tongue, Soft, and tranſporting as the Muſes ſong; Liſt’ning to him my cares were charm’d to reſt, And love, and ſilent rapture fill’d my breaſt: Unheeded the gay moments took their flight, And time was only meaſur’d by delight.
I hear the lov’d, the melting accents ſtill, And ſtill the kind, the tender tranſport feel. Again I ſee the ſprightly paſſions riſe, And life and pleaſure ſparkle in his eyes. My fancy paints him now with ev’ry grace, But ah! the dear deluſion mocks my fond embrace; The ſmiling viſion takes its haſty flight, And ſcenes of horror ſwim before my ſight. Grief and deſpair in all their terrors riſe; A dying lover pale and gaſping lies, Each diſmal circumſtance appears in view, The fatal object is for ever new. *************
For thee all thoughts of pleaſure I forego, For thee my tears ſhall never ceaſe to flow: For thee at once I from the world retire, To feed in ſilent ſhades a hopeleſs fire. My boſom all thy image ſhall retain; The full impreſſion there ſhall ſtill remain. As thou haſt taught my conſtant heart to prove; The nobleſt height and elegance of love; That ſacred paſſion I to thee confine; My ſpotleſs faith ſhall be forever thine.
After Mr. Rowe’s deceaſe, and as ſoon as her affairs would permit, our authoreſs indulged her inconquerable inclination to ſolitude, by retiring to Froome in Somerſetſhire, in the neighbourhood of which place the greateſt part of her eſtate lay. When ſhe forſook the town, ſhe determined to return no more but to ſpend the remainder of her life in abſolute retirement; yet upon ſome few occaſions ſhe thought it her duty to violate this reſolution.
​In compliance with the importunate requeſt of the honourable Mrs. Thynne, ſhe paſſed ſome months with her at London, after the death of her daughter the lady Brooke, and upon the deceaſe of Mrs. Thynne herſelf, ſhe could not diſpute the commands of the counteſs of Hertford, who earneſtly deſired her company, to ſoften the ſevere affliction of the loſs of ſo excellent a mother, and once or twice more, the power which this lady had over Mrs. Rowe, drew her, with an obliging kind of violence, to ſpend a few months with her in the country. Yet, even on theſe occaſions ſhe never quitted her retreat without ſincere regret, and always returned to it, as ſoon as ſhe could with decency diſengage herſelf from the importunity of her noble friends. It was in this receſs that ſhe compoſed the moſt celebrated of her works, in twenty Letters from the Dead to the Living; the deſign of which is to impreſs the notion of the ſoul’s immortality, without which all virtue and religion, with their temporal and eternal good conſequences muſt fall to the ground.
Some who pretend to have no ſcruples about the being of a God, have yet doubts about their own eternal exiſtence, though many authors have eſtabliſhed it, both by chriſtian and moral proofs, beyond reaſonable contradiction. But ſince no means ſhould be left untried, in a point of ſuch awful importance, a virtuous endeavour to make the mind familiar with the thoughts of immortality, and contract as it were unawares, an habitual perſuaſion of it, by writings built on that foundation, and addreſſed to the affections, and imagination, cannot be thought improper, either as a doctrine or amuſement: Amuſement, for which the world makes ſo large a demand, and which generally ſpeaking is nothing but an art of forgetting that immortality, the form, ​belief, and advantageous contemplation, of which this higher amuſement would recommend.
In the year 1736, the importunity of ſome of Mrs. Rowe’s acquaintance who had ſeen the Hiſtory of Joſeph in MS. prevailed on her to print it. The publication of this piece did not long precede the time of her death, to prepare for which had been the great buſineſs of her life; and it ſtole upon her according to her eaneſt wiſhes, in her beloved receſs. She was favoured with a very uncommon ſtrength of conſtitution, and had paſs’d a long ſeries of years with ſcarce any indiſpoſition, ſevere enough to confine her to bed.——But about half a year before her deceaſe, ſhe was attacked with a diſtemper, which ſeemed to herſelf as well as others, attended with danger. Tho’ this diſorder found her mind not quite ſo ſerene and prepared to meet death as uſual; yet when by devout contemplation, ſhe had fortified herſelf againſt that fear and diffidence, from which the moſt exalted piety does not always ſecure us in ſuch an awful hour, ſhe experienced ſuch divine ſatisfaction and tranſport, that ſhe ſaid with tears of joy, ſhe knew not that ſhe ever felt the like in all her life, and ſhe repeated on this occaſion Pope’s beautiful ſoliloquy of the dying Chriſtian to his ſoul.
The dying Christian to his Soul.
I.
Vital ſpark of heav’nly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame; Trembling, hoping, lingr’ing, flying; Oh the pain, the bliſs of dying! Ceaſe, fond nature, ceaſe thy ſtrife, And let me languiſh into life.
II.
Hark! they whiſper; Angels ſay, Sifter ſpirit, come away! What is this abſorbs me quite, Steals my ſenſes, ſhuts my ſight, Drowns my ſpirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my ſoul, can this be death?
III.
The world recedes; it diſappears! Heav’n opens on my eyes! my ears With ſounds ſeraphic ring; Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O grave! where is thy victory? O death! where is thy ſting?
She repeated the above, with an air of intenſe pleaſure. She felt all the elevated ſentiments of pious extaſy and triumph, which breath in that exquiſite piece of ſacred poetry. After this threatning illneſs ſhe recovered her uſual good ſtate of health; and though at the time of her deceaſe ſhe was pretty far advanced in years, yet her exact temperance, and the calmneſs of her mind, undiſturbed with uneaſy cares, and turbulent paſſions, encouraged her friends to hope a much longer enjoyment of ſo valuable a life, than it pleaſed heaven to allow them. On the day when ſhe was ſeized with that diſtemper, which in a few hours proved mortal, ſhe ſeemed to thoſe about her to be in perfect health and vigour. In the evening about eight o’clock ſhe converſed with a friend, with her uſual vivacity, mixed with an extraordinary chearfulneſs, and then retired to her chamber. About 10 her ſervant ​hearing ſome noiſe in her miſtreſs’s room, ran inſtantly into it, and found her fallen off the chair on the floor, ſpeechleſs, and in the agonies of death. She had the immediate aſſiſtance of a phyſician and ſurgeon, but all the means uſed were without ſucceſs, and having given one groan ſhe expired a few minutes before two o’clock, on Sunday morning, February the 20th, 1736–7: Her diſeaſe was judged to be an apoplexy. A pious book was found lying open by her, as alſo ſome looſe papers, on which ſhe had written the following devout ejaculations,
O guide, and council, and protect my ſoul from ſin! O ſpeak! and let me know thy heav’nly will. Speak evidently to my liſt’ning ſoul! O fill my ſoul with love, and light of peace, And whiſper heav’nly comfort to my ſoul! O ſpeak cœleſtial ſpirit in the ſtrain Of love, and heav’nly pleaſure to my ſoul.
In her cabinet were found letters to ſeveral of her friends, which ſhe had ordered to be delivered to the perſons to whom they were directed immediately after her deceaſe.
Mrs. Rowe lived in friendſhip with people of the firſt faſhion and diſtinction in life, by whom ſhe was eſteemed and reſpected. To enumerate them would be needleſs; let it ſuffice to remark, that her life was honoured with the intimacy, and her death lamented with the tears, of the counteſs of Hertford. Many verſes were publiſhed to celebrate her memory, amongſt which a copy written by Mrs. Elizabeth Carter are the beſt.
Thus lived honoured, and died lamented, this excellent poeteſs, whoſe beauty, though not her ​higheſt excellence, yet greatly contributed to ſet off her other more important graces to advantage; and whoſe piety will ever ſhine as a bright example to poſterity, and teach them how to heighten the natural gifts of underſtanding, by true and unaffected devotion.——The conduct and behaviour of Mrs. Rowe might put ſome of the preſent race of females to the bluſh, who rake the town for infamous adventures to amuſe the public. Their works will ſoon be forgotten, and their memories when dead, will not be deemed exceeding precious; but the works of Mrs. Rowe can never periſh, while exalted piety and genuine goodneſs have any exiſtence in the world. Her memory will be ever honoured, and her name dear to lateſt poſterity.
Mrs. Rowe’s Miſcellaneous Works were publiſhed a few years ago at London, in octavo, and her Devotions were reviſed and publiſhed by the reverend Dr. Watts, under the title of Devout Exerciſes, to which that worthy man wrote a preface; and while he removes ſome cavils that wantonneſs and ſenſuality might make to the ſtile and manner of theſe Devotions, he ſhews that they contain the moſt ſublime ſentiments, the moſt refined breathings of the ſoul, and the moſt elevated and cœleſtial piety.
Mrs. Rowe’s acquaintance with perſons of faſhion had taught her all the accompliſhments of good-breeding, and elegance of behaviour, and without formality or affectation ſhe practiſed in the moſt diſtant ſolitude, all the addreſs and politeneſs of a court.
She had the happieſt command over her paſſions, and maintained a conſtant calmneſs of temper, and ſweetneſs of diſpoſition, that could not be ruffled by adverſe accidents.
​She was in the utmoſt degree an enemy to ill-natured ſatire and detraction; ſhe was as much unacquainted with envy, as if it had been impoſſible for ſo baſe a paſſion to enter into the human mind.
She had few equals in converſation; her wit was lively, and ſhe expreſſed her thoughts in the moſt beautiful and flowing eloquence.
When ſhe entered into the married ſtate, the higheſt eſteem and moſt tender affection appeared in her conduct to Mr. Rowe, and by the moſt gentle and obliging manner, and the exerciſe of every ſocial and good natured virtue, ſhe confirmed the empire ſhe had gained over his heart. In ſhort, if the moſt cultivated underſtanding, if an imagination lively and extenſive, a character perfectly moral, and a ſoul formed for the moſt exalted exerciſes of devotion, can render a perſon amiable, Mrs. Rowe has a juſt claim to that epithet, as well as to the admiration of the lovers of poetry and elegant compoſition.