LOVELACE, Richard (1618-1658), English poet, was born in 1618. On the father’s side he was a scion of a Kentish family, and inherited a tradition of military distinction, maintained by successive generations from the time of Edward III. His mother’s family was legal; her grandfather had been chief baron of the exchequer. Lovelace’s fame has been kept alive by a few songs and the romance of his career, and his poems are commonly spoken of as careless improvisations, and merely the amusements of an active soldier. But the unhappy course of his life gave him more leisure for verse-making than opportunity of soldiering. Before the outbreak of the civil war in 1642 his only active service was in the bloodless expedition which ended in the Pacification of Berwick in 1640. By that time he was one of the most distinguished of the company of courtly pofets gathered round Queen Henrietta, and influenced as a school by contemporary French writers of vers de société. Lovelace had probably a more serious and sustained poetical ambition than any of them. He wrote a comedy, The Scholar, when he was sixteen, and a tragedy, The Soldier, when he was one and twenty. From what he says of Fletcher, it would seem that this dramatist was his model, but only the spirited prologue and epilogue to his comedy have been preserved. When the rupture between king and parliament took place, Lovelace was committed to the Gatehouse at Westminster for presenting to the Commons a petition from Kentish royalists in the king’s favour. It was then that he wrote his most famous song, “To Althaea from Prison.” He was liberated on bail of <£40,000,—a sign of his importance in the eyes of the parliament,—and throughout the civil war was a prisoner on parole, with this security in the hands of ...his enemies. His only active service was after 1646, when he raised a regiment for the French king, and took part in the siege of Dunkirk. Returning to England in 1648, he was again thrown into prison. During this second imprisonment, he collected and revised for the press a volume of occasional poems, many if not most of which had previously appeared in various publications. The volume was published in 1649 under the title of Lucasta, his poetical name—contracted from Lux Casta— for Lucy Sacheverell, a lady who married another during his absence in France, on a report that he had died of his wounds at Dunkirk. The last ten years of Lovelace’s life were passed in obscurity. His fortune had been exhausted in the king’s interest, and he is said to have been supported by the generosity of more fortunate friends. He died, according to Aubrey, “in a cellar in Longacre.” A volume of Lovelace’s Posthume Poems was published in 1659 by one of his brothers. They are of very inferior merit to his own collection.
The world has done no injustice to Lovelace in neglecting all but a few of his modest offerings to literature. But critics often do him injustice in dismissing him as a gay cavalier, who dashed off his verses hastily and cared little what became of them. It is a mistake to class him with Suckling; he has neither Suckling’s easy grace nor his reckless spontaneity. We have only to compare the version of any of his poems in Lucαstα with the form in which it originally appeared to see how fastidious was his revision. In many places it takes time to decipher his meaning. The expression is often elliptical, the syntax inverted and tortuous, the train of thought intricate and discontinuous. These faults—they are not of course to be found in his two or three popular lyrics, “Going to the Wars,” “To Althaea from Prison,” “The Scrutiny”—are, however, as in the case of his poetical master, Donne, the faults not of haste but of over-elaboration. His thoughts are not the first thoughts of an improvisatore, but thoughts ten or twenty stages removed from the first, and they are generally as closely packed as they are far-fetched. Lovelace is not named by Johnson among the “metaphysical poets,” but in elaboration of workmanship as well as in intellectual force he comes nearer than any other disciple to the founder of the school. His most far-fetched conceits are worth the carriage, and there is genuine warmth in them. The wine of his poetry is a dry wine, but it is wine, and not an artificial imitation. His career as a dramatist was checked by the suppression of the stage; if he had been born thirty years earlier or thirty years later, Fietcher or Congreve would have had in him a powerful rival. The most recent edition of his poems is that by W. C. Hazlitt, in 1864.
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