JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND
Here we have a great ascent from our former subject of biography--from Blind Harry to James I.--from a beggar to a king. But in the Palace of Poetry there are 'many mansions,' and men of all ranks, climes, characters, professions, and we had almost added talents, have been welcome to inhabit there. For, even as in the House Beautiful, the weak Ready-to-halt and the timid Much-afraid were as cheerfully received as the strong Honest and the bold Valiant-for-truth; so Poetry has inspired children, and seeming fools, and maniacs, and mendicants with the finest breath of her spirit. The 'Fable-tree' Fontaine is as immortal as Corneille; Christopher Smart's 'David' shall live as long as Milton's 'Paradise Lost;' and the rude epic of a blind wanderer, whose birth, parentage, and period of death are all alike unknown, shall continue to rank in interest with the productions of one who inherited that kingdom of Scotland, the independence of which was bought by the successive efforts and the blended blood of Wallace and Bruce.
Let us now look for a moment at the history and the writings of this 'Royal Poet.' The name will suggest to all intelligent readers the title of one of the most pleasing papers in Washington Irving's 'Sketch-book.' James I. was the son of Robert III. of Scotland,--a character familiar to all from the admirable 'Fair Maid of Perth,'--and of Annabella Stewart. He was created Earl of Carrick; and after the miserable death of the Duke of Rothesay, his elder brother, his father, apprehensive of the further designs of Albany, determined to send James to France, to find an asylum and receive his education in that friendly Court. On his way, the vessel was captured off Flamborough Head by an English cruiser, (the 13th of March 1405,) and the young prince, with his attendants, was conveyed to London, and committed to the Tower. As there was a truce between the two nations at the time, this was a flagrant outrage on the law of nations, and has indelibly disgraced the memory of Henry IV., who, when some one remonstrated with him on the injustice of the detention, replied, with cool brutality, 'Had the Scots been grateful, they ought to have sent the youth to me, for I understand French well.' Here for nineteen years,--during the remainder of the life of Henry IV., and the whole of the reign of Henry V.,--James continued. He was educated, however, highly, according to the fashion of these times, --instructed in the languages, as well as in music, painting, architecture, horticulture, dancing, fencing, poetry, and other accomplishments. Still it must have fretted his high spirit to be passing his young life in prison, while without horses were stamping, plumes glistening, trumpets sounding, tournaments waging, and echoes from the great victories of Henry V. in France ringing around. One sweetener of his solitude, however, he at length enjoyed. Having been transferred from the Tower to Windsor Castle, he beheld one day from its windows that beautiful vision he has described in 'The King's Quhair,' (see 'Specimens.') This was Lady Jane or Joanna Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, niece of Richard II., and grand-daughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. She was a lady of great beauty and accomplishments as well as of high rank, and James, even before he knew her name, became deeply enamoured. The passion was returned, and their mutual attachment had by and by an important bearing upon his prospects.
In 1423, the Duke of Bedford being now the English Regent, the friends of James renewed negotiations--often attempted before in vain--for his return to his native land, where his father had been long dead, and which, torn by factions and steeped in blood, was sorely needing his presence. Commissioners from the two kingdoms met at Pontefract on the 12th of May 1423, when, in presence of the young King, and with his consent, matters were arranged. The English coolly demanded £40,000 to defray the expense of James's nurture and education, (as though a bill were handed in to a man who had been unjustly detained in prison on a false charge, ere he left its walls,) insisted on the immediate departure of the Scots from France, where a portion of them were fighting in the French army, and procured the assent of the Scottish Privy Council to the marriage of James with his beloved Jane Beaufort. A truce, too, with Scotland was concluded for seven years. All this was settled; and soon after, in the Church of St Mary Overies, Southwark, so often alluded to in the 'Life of Gower,' the happy pair were wed. It seemed a most auspicious event for both countries, and to augur the substitution of permanent peace for casual and temporary truces. To Lady Jane Beaufort it gave a crown, and a noble, gallant, and gifted prince to share it withal. On James it bestowed a lady of great beauty, who was regarded, too, with gratitude as having lightened the load of his captivity, and been a sunshine in his shady place, and--least consideration--who brought him a dowry of £10,000, which was, in fact, a remission of the fourth part of his ransom.
Attended by a magnificent retinue, the royal pair set out for Scotland. They were met at Durham by three hundred of the principal nobility and gentry, twenty-eight of whom were retained by the English as hostages for the national faith. Arrived on his native soil, James, at Melrose Abbey, gave his solemn assent on the Holy Gospels to the treaty; and seldom have the Eildon Hills returned a louder and more joyous shout of acclamation than now welcomed back to the kingdom of his fathers the 'Royal Poet.' He proceeded to Edinburgh, where he celebrated Easter with great pomp, and a month later, he and his queen were solemnly crowned inthe Abbey Church at Scone. This was in 1424. He lived after this only thirteen years; but the period of his reign has always been thought a glorious interlude in the dark early history of Scotland. He set himself, with considerable success, to curb the exorbitant power of the nobles, sacrificing some of them, such as Albany, to his just indignation. He passed many useful regulations in reference to the coinage, the constitution, and the commerce of the country. He suppressed with a strong hand some of the gangs of robbers and 'sorners' which abounded, founding instead the order of Bedesmen or King's Beggars, immortalised since in the character of Edie Ochiltree. He stretched a strong hand over the refractory Highland chieftains. While keeping at first on good terms with the English Court, he turned with a fonder eye to the French as the ancient allies of Scotland, and in 1436 gave his daughter Margaret in marriage to the Dauphin. This step roused the jealousy of his southern neighbours, who tried even to intercept the fleet that was conveying the bride across the Channel, whereupon James, stung to fury, proclaimed war against England, and in August commenced the siege of Roxburgh Castle. The castle, after being environed for fifteen days, was about to fall into his hands, when the Queen suddenly arrived in the camp, and communicated some information, probably referring to a threatened conspiracy of the nobles, which induced him to throw up the siege, disband his army, and return northward in haste. This unexpected step probably retarded, but could not prevent the dreadful purpose of death which had already been formed against the King.
In October 1436, he held his last Parliament in Edinburgh, in which, amidst many other enactments, we find, curiously enough, a prefiguration of the Forbes Mackenzie Act, in a decree that all taverns should be shut at nine o'clock. In the end of the year he determined on retiring to Perth, where (in the language of Gibbon, applied to Timour) 'he was expected by the Angel of Death.' It is said that, when about to cross the Frith of Forth, then called the Scottish Sea, a Highland woman, who claimed the character of a prophetess, like Meg Merrilees in fiction, met the cavalcade, and cried out, with a loud voice, 'My Lord the King, if you pass this water you shall never return again alive;' but as she was concluded to be mad or drunk, her warning was scorned. He betook himself to the convent of the Black Friars, where Christmas was being celebrated with great pomp and splendour. Meanwhile Robert Grahame, and Walter, Earl of Athole, the King's own uncle, actuated, the former by revenge on account of the resumption of some lands improperly granted to his family, and the latter by a desire to succeed to the Crown, had formed a plot against James's life. Several warnings, besides that of the Highland seeress, the King received, but he heeded them not, and, like most of the doomed, was in unnaturally high spirits, as if the winding-sheet far up his breast had been a wedding-robe.
It is the evening of the 20th of February 1437. James and his nobles and ladies are seated at table till deep into the night, engaged in chess, music, and song. Athole, like another Judas, has supped with them, and gone out at a late hour. A tremendous knocking is heard at the gate. It is the Highland prophetess, who, having followed the monarch to Perth, is seeking to force her way into the room. The King tells her, through his usher, that he cannot receive her to-night, but will hear her tidings to-morrow. She retires reluctantly, murmuring that they will for ever rue their refusal to admit her into the royal presence. About an hour after this, James calls for the Voidee, or parting-cup, and the company disperse. Sir Robert Stewart, the chamberlain, who is in the confidence of the conspirators, is the last to retire, having previously destroyed the locks and removed the bars of the doors of the royal bed- chamber and the outer room adjoining. The King is standing before the fire, in his night-gown and slippers, and talking gaily with the Queen and her ladies, when torches are seen flashing up from the garden, and the clash of arms and the sound of angry voices is heard from below. A sense of the dread reality bursts on them in an instant. The Queen and the ladies run to secure the door of the chamber, while James, seizing the tongs, wrenches up one of the boards of the floor and takes refuge in a vault beneath. This was wont to have an opening to the outer court, but it had unfortunately been built up of late by his own orders. There, under the replaced boards, cowers the King, while the Queen and her women seek to barricade the door. One brave young lady, Catherine Douglas, thrusts her beautiful arm into the staple from which the bolt had been removed. It is broken in a moment, and she sinks back, to bear, with her descendants--a family well known in Scotland--the name of Barlass ever since. The murderers, who had previously killed in the passage one Walter Straiton, a page, rush in, with naked swords, wounding the ladies, striking, and well-nigh killing the Queen, and crying, with frantic imprecations, 'This is but a woman! Where is James?' Finding him not in the chamber, they leave it, and disperse through the neighbouring apartments in search.
James, who had become wearied of his immurement, and thought the assassins were gone, calls now on one of the ladies to aid him in coming out of his place of concealment. But while this is being effected, one of the murderers returns. The cry, 'Found, found,' rings through the halls; and after a violent but unarmed resistance, the King is, with circumstances of horrible barbarity, first mangled, then run through the body, and then despatched with daggers. In vain he offers half his kingdom for his life; and when he seeks a confessor from Grahame, the ruffian replies, 'Thou shalt have no confessor but this sword.' It is satisfactory to know that the Queen made her escape, and that the criminals were punished, although the tortures they endured are such as human nature shrinks from conceiving, and history with a shudder records.
* * * * *
We turn with pleasure from King James's life and death to his poetry, although there is so little of it that a sentence or two will suffice. 'The King's Quhair' is a poem conceived very much in the spirit, and written in the style of Chaucer, whose works were favourites with James. There is the same sympathy with nature, and the same perception of its relation to and unconscious sympathy with human feelings, and the same luscious richness in the description, alike of the early beauties of spring and of youthful feminine loveliness, although this seems more natural in the young poet James than in the sexagenarian author of 'The Canterbury Tales.' There is nothing even in Chaucer we think finer than the picture of Lady Jane Beaufort in the garden, particularly in the lines--
'Or are ye god Cupidis own princess, And comen are ye to loose me out of band? Or are ye very Nature the goddess, That have depainted with your heavenly hand This garden full of flowers as they stand?'
Or where, picturing his mistress, he cries--
'And above all this there was, well I wot, Beauty enough to make a world to dote.'
Or where, describing a ruby on her bosom, he says--
'That as a spark of low[1] so wantonly Seemed burning upon her white throat.'
[1] 'Low:' fire.
Besides this precious little poem, King James is believed by some to have written several poems on Scottish subjects, such as 'Christis Kirk on the Green,' 'Peblis to the Play,' &c., but his claim to these is uncertain. The first describes the mingled merrymaking and contest common in the old rude marriages of Scotland, and, whether by James or not, is full of burly, picturesque force.
Take the Miller--
'The Miller was of manly make, To meet him was no mowes.[1] There durst not tensome there him take, So cowed he their powes.[2] The bushment whole about him brake, And bicker'd him with bows. Then traitorously behind his back They hack'd him on the boughs Behind that day.'
Or look at the following ill-paired pair--
'Of all these maidens mild as mead, Was none so jimp as Gillie. As any rose her rude[3] was red-- Her lire[4] like any lillie. But yellow, yellow was her head, And she of love so silly; Though all her kin had sworn her dead, She would have none but Willie, Alone that day.
'She scorn'd Jock, and scripped at him, And murgeon'd him with mocks-- He would have loved her--she would not let him, For all his yellow locks. He cherisht her--she bade go chat him-- She counted him not two clocks. So shamefully his short jack[5] set him, His legs were like two rocks, Or rungs that day.'
[1] 'Mowes:' joke. [2] 'Powes:' heads. [3] 'Rude:' complexion. [4] 'Lire:' flesh, skill. [5] 'Jack:' jacket.
Our readers will perceive the resemblance, both in spirit and in form of verse, between this old poem and the 'Holy Fair,' and other productions of Burns.
James, cut off in the prime of life, may almost be called the abortive Alfred of Scotland. Had he lived, he might have made important contributions to her literature as well as laws, and given her a standing among the nations of Europe, which it took long ages, and even an incorporation with England, to secure. As it is, he stands high on the list of royal authors, and of those kings who, whether authors or not, have felt that nations cannot live on bread alone, and who have sought their intellectual culture as an object not inferior to their physical comfort. It is not, perhaps, too much to say, that no man or woman of genius has sate either on the Scotch or English throne since, except Cromwell, to whom, however, the term 'genius,' in its common sense, seems ludicrously inadequate. James V. had some of the erratic qualities of the poetic tribe, but his claim to the songs--such as the 'Gaberlunzie Man'--which go under his name, is exceedingly doubtful. James VI. was a pedant, without being a scholar--a rhymester, not a poet. Of the rest we need not speak. Seldom has the sceptre become an Aaron's rod, and flourished with the buds and blossoms of song. In our annals there has been one, and but one 'Royal Poet.'
THE KING THUS DESCRIBES THE APPEARANCE OF HIS MISTRESS, WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER FROM A WINDOW OF HIS PRISON AT WINDSOR.
X.
The longë dayës and the nightës eke, I would bewail my fortune in this wise, For which, against distress comfórt to seek, My custom was, on mornës, for to rise Early as day: O happy exercise! By thee came I to joy out of tormènt; But now to purpose of my first intent.
XI.
Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone, Despaired of all joy and remedy, For-tired of my thought, and woe begone; And to the window 'gan I walk in hye,[1] To see the world and folk that went forby; As for the time (though I of mirthis food Might have no more) to look it did me good.
XII.
Now was there made fast by the toweris wall A garden fair; and in the corners set An herbere[2] green; with wandis long and small Railed about, and so with treës set Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet, That life was none [a] walking there forby That might within scarce any wight espy.
* * * * *
XIV.
And on the smallë greenë twistis [3] sat The little sweetë nightingale, and sung, So loud and clear the hymnis consecrate Of lovë's use, now soft, now loud among,[4] That all the gardens and the wallis rung Right of their song; and on the couple next Of their sweet harmony, and lo the text.
XV.
Worship, O ye that lovers be, this May! For of your bliss the calends are begun; And sing with us, 'Away! winter, away! Come, summer, come, the sweet seasòn and sun; Awake for shame that have your heavens won; And amorously lift up your headës all, Thank love that list you to his mercy call.
* * * * *
XXI.
And therewith cast I down mine eye again, Where as I saw walking under the tower, Full secretly new comen to her pleyne,[5] The fairest and the freshest youngë flower That e'er I saw (methought) before that hour For which sudden abate [6] anon astert [7] The blood of all my body to my heart.
* * * * *
XXVII.
Of her array the form if I shall write, Toward her golden hair, and rich attire, In fret-wise couched with pearlis white, And greatë balas[8] lemyng[9] as the fire; With many an emerald and fair sapphìre, And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue, Of plumës parted red, and white, and blue.
* * * * *
XXIX.
About her neck, white as the fair amaille,[10] A goodly chain of small orfeverie,[11] Whereby there hang a ruby without fail Like to a heart yshapen verily, That as a spark of lowe[12] so wantonly Seemed burning upon her whitë throat; Now if there was good, perdie God it wrote.
XXX.
And for to walk that freshë Mayë's morrow, A hook she had upon her tissue white, That goodlier had not been seen toforrow,[13] As I suppose, and girt she, was a lite[14] Thus halfling[15] loose for haste; to such delight It was to see her youth in goodlihead, That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread.
XXXI.
In her was youth, beauty with humble port, Bounty, richess, and womanly featúre: (God better wot than my pen can report) Wisdom, largèss, estate, and cunning[16] sure,
* * * * *
In word, in deed, in shape and countenance, That nature might no more her child advance.
[1] 'Hye:' haste. [2] 'Herbere:' herbary, or garden of simples. [3] 'Twistis:' twigs. [4] 'Among:' promiscuously. [5] 'Pleyne:' sport. [6] 'Sudden abate:' unexpected accident. [7] 'Astert:' started back. [8] 'Balas:' rubies. [9] 'Lemyng:' burning. [10] 'Amaille:' enamel. [11] 'Orfeverie:' goldsmith's work. [12] 'Lowe:' fire. [13] 'Toforrow:' heretofore. [14] 'Lite:' a little. [15] 'Halfling:' half. [16] 'Cunning:' knowledge.
JOHN THE CHAPLAIN--THOMAS OCCLEVE
The first of these is the only versifier that can be assigned to England in the reign of Henry IV. His name was John Walton, though he was generally known as Johannes Capellanus or 'John the Chaplain.' He was canon of Oseney, and died sub-dean of York. He, in the year 1410, translated Boethius' famous treatise, 'De Consolatione Philosophiae,' into English verse. He is not known to have written anything original. --Thomas Occleve appeared in the reign of Henry V., about 1420. Like Chaucer and Gower, he was a student of municipal law, having attended Chester's Inn, which stood on the site of the present Somerset House; but although he trod in the footsteps of his celebrated predecessors, it was with far feebler powers. His original pieces are contemptible, both in subject and in execution. His best production is a translation of 'Egidius De Regimine Principum.' Warton, alluding to the period at which these writers appeared, has the following oft-quoted observations: --'I consider Chaucer as a genial day in an English spring. A brilliant sun enlivens the face of nature with an unusual lustre; the sudden appearance of cloudless skies, and the unexpected warmth of a tepid atmosphere, after the gloom and the inclemencies of a tedious winter, fill our hearts with the visionary prospect of a speedy summer, and we fondly anticipate a long continuance of gentle gales and vernal serenity. But winter returns with redoubled horrors; the clouds condense more formidably than before, and those tender buds and early blossoms which were called forth by the transient gleam of a temporary sunshine, are nipped by frosts and torn by tempests.' These sentences are, after all, rather pompous, and express, in the most verbose style of the Rambler, the simple fact, that after Chaucer's death the ground lay fallow, and that for a while in England (in Scotland it was otherwise) there were few poets, and little poetry.
JOHN LYDGATE
This copious and versatile writer flourished in the reign of Henry VI. Warton affirms that he reached his highest point of eminence in 1430, although some of his poems had appeared before. He was a monk of the Benedictine Abbey at Bury, in Suffolk. He received his education at Oxford; and when it was finished, he travelled through France and Italy, mastering the languages and literature of both countries, and studying their poets, particularly Dante, Boccaccio, and Alain Chartier. When he returned, he opened a school in his monastery for teaching the sons of the nobility composition and the art of versification. His acquirements were, for the age, universal. He was a poet, a rhetorician, an astronomer, a mathematician, a public disputant, and a theologian. He was born in 1370, ordained sub-deacon in 1389, deacon in 1393, and priest in 1397. The time of his death is uncertain. His great patron was Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, to whom he complains sometimes of necessitous circumstances, which were, perhaps, produced by indulgence, since he confesses himself to be 'a lover of wine.'
The great merit of Lydgate is his versatility. This Warton has happily expressed in a few sentences, which we shall quote:--
'He moves with equal ease in every form of composition. His hymns and his ballads have the same degree of merit; and whether his subject be the life of a hermit or a hero, of Saint Austin or Guy, Earl of Warwick, ludicrous or legendary, religious or romantic, a history or an allegory, he writes with facility. His transitions were rapid, from works of the most serious and laborious kind, to sallies of levity and pieces of popular entertainment. His muse was of universal access; and he was not only the poet of his monastery, but of the world in general. If a disguising was intended by the Company of Goldsmiths, a mask before His Majesty at Eltham, a May game for the sheriffs and aldermen of London, a mumming before the Lord Mayor, a procession of pageants, from the "Creation," for the Festival of Corpus Christi, or a carol for the coronation, Lydgate was consulted, and gave the poetry.'
Lydgate is, so far as we know, the first British bard who wrote for hire. At the request of Whethamstede, the Abbot of St Alban's, he translated a 'Life of St Alban' from Latin into English rhymes, and received for the whole work one hundred shillings. His principal poems, all founded on the works of other authors, are the 'Fall of Princes,' the 'Siege of Thebes,' and the 'Destruction of Troy.' They are written in a diffuse and verbose style, but are generally clear in sense, and often very luxuriant in description. 'The London Lyckpenny' is a fugitive poem, in which the author describes himself coming up to town in search of legal redress for a wrong, and gives some curious particulars of the condition of that city in the early part of the fifteenth century.
CANACE, CONDEMNED TO DEATH BY HER FATHER AEOLUS, SENDS TO HER GUILTY BROTHER MACAREUS THE LAST TESTIMONY OF HER UNHAPPY PASSION.
Out of her swoonë when she did abraid,[1] Knowing no mean but death in her distrèss, To her brothèr full piteously she said, 'Cause of my sorrow, root of my heaviness, That whilom were the source of my gladness, When both our joys by will were so disposed, Under one key our hearts to be enclosed.--
* * * * *
This is mine end, I may it not astart;[2] O brother mine, there is no more to say; Lowly beseeching with mine wholë heart For to remember specially, I pray, If it befall my little son to dey[3] That thou mayst after some mind on us have, Suffer us both be buried in one grave. I hold him strictly 'tween my armës twain, Thou and Natùrë laid on me this charge; He, guiltless, mustë with me suffer pain, And, since thou art at freedom and at large, Let kindness ourë love not so discharge, But have a mind, wherever that thou be, Once on a day upon my child and me. On thee and me dependeth the trespàce Touching our guilt and our great offence, But, welaway! most àngelic of face Our childë, young in his pure innocence, Shall against right suffer death's violence, Tender of limbs, God wot, full guiltëless The goodly fair, that lieth here speechlèss.
A mouth he has, but wordës hath he none; Cannot complain, alas! for none outràge: Nor grutcheth[4] not, but lies here all alone Still as a lamb, most meek of his visàge. What heart of steel could do to him damàge, Or suffer him die, beholding the mannère And look benign of his twain even clear.'--
* * * * *
Writing her letter, awhapped[5] all in drede, In her right hand her pen began to quake, And a sharp sword to make her heartë bleed, In her left hand her father hath her take, And most her sorrow was for her childë's sake, Upon whose facë in her barme[6] sleepíng Full many a tear she wept in complainíng. After all this so as she stood and quoke, Her child beholding mid of her paines' smart, Without abode the sharpë sword she took, And rove herselfë even to the heart; Her child fell down, which mightë not astart, Having no help to succour him nor save, But in her blood theself began to bathe.
[1] 'Abraid:' awake. [2] 'Astart:' escape. [3] 'Dey:' die. [4] 'Grutcheth:' murmureth. [5] 'Awhapped:' confounded. [6] 'Barme:' lap.
THE LONDON LYCKPENNY
Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor Would do for me ought, although I should die: Which seeing, I gat me out of the door, Where Flemings began on me for to cry, 'Master, what will you copen[1] or buy? Fine felt hats? or spectacles to read? Lay down your silver, and here you may speed.
Then to Westminster gate I presently went, When the sun was at high prime: Cooks to me they took good intent,[2] And proffered me bread, with ale and wine, Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine; A fair cloth they 'gan for to spread, But, wanting money, I might not be sped.
Then unto London I did me hie, Of all the land it beareth the price; 'Hot peascods!' one began to cry, 'Strawberry ripe, and cherries in the rise!'[3] One bade me come near and buy some spice; Pepper, and saffron they 'gan me beed;[4] But, for lack of money, I might not speed.
Then to the Cheap I 'gan me drawn, Where much people I saw for to stand; One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn, Another he taketh me by the hand, 'Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!' I never was used to such things, indeed; And, wanting money, I might not speed.
Then went I forth by London Stone, Throughout all Canwick Street: Drapers much cloth me offered anon; Then comes me one cried 'Hot sheep's feet;' One cried mackerel, rushes green, another 'gan greet,[5] One bade me buy a hood to cover my head; But, for want of money, I might not be sped.
Then I hied me unto East-Cheap, One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie; Pewter pots they clattered on a heap; There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsy; Yea by cock! nay by cock! some began cry; Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed; But, for lack of money, I might not speed.
Then into Cornhill anon I yode,[6] Where was much stolen gear among; I saw where hung mine ownë hood, That I had lost among the throng; To buy my own hood I thought it wrong: I knew it well, as I did my creed; But, for lack of money, I could not speed.
The taverner took me by the sleeve, 'Sir,' saith he, 'will you our wine assay?' I answered, 'That can not much me grieve, A penny can do no more than it may;' I drank a pint, and for it did pay; Yet, sore a-hungered from thence I yede,[7] And, wanting money, I could not speed.
[1] 'Copen:' koopen(Flem.) to buy. [2] 'Took good intent:' took notice; paid attention. [3] 'In the rise:' on the branch. [4] 'Beed:' offer. [5] 'Greet:' cry. [6] 'Yode:' went. [7] 'Yede:' went.
HARDING, KAY, &c
John Harding flourished about the year 1403. He fought at the battle of Shrewsbury on the Percy side. He is the author of a poem entitled 'The Chronicle of England unto the Reign of King Edward the Fourth, in Verse.' It has no poetic merit, and little interest, except to the antiquary. In the reign of the above king we find the first mention of a Poet Laureate. John Kay was appointed by Edward, when he returned from Italy, Poet Laureate to the king, but has, perhaps fortunately for the world, left behind him no poems. Would that the same had been the case with some of his successors in the office! There is reason to believe, that for nearly two centuries ere this date, there had existed in the court a personage, entitled the King's Versifier, (versificator,) to whom one hundred shillings a-year was the salary, and that the title was, by and by, changed to that of Poet Laureate, i.e., Laurelled Poet. It had long been customary in the universities to crown scholars when they graduated with laurel, and Warton thinks that from these the first poet laureates were selected, less for their general genius than for their skill in Latin verse. Certainly the earliest of the Laureate poems, such as those by Baston and Gulielmus, who acted as royal poets to Richard I. and Edward II., and wrote, the one on Richard's Crusade, and the other on Edward's Siege of Stirling Castle, are in Latin. So too are the productions of Andrew Bernard, who was the Poet Laureate successively to Henry VII. and Henry VIII. It was not till after the Reformation had lessened the superstitious veneration for the Latin tongue that the laureates began to write in English. It is almost a pity, we are sometimes disposed to think, that, in reference to such odes as those of Pye, Whitehead, Colley Cibber, and even some of Southey's, the old practice had not continued; since thus, in the first place, we might have had a chance of elegant Latinity, in the absence of poetry and sense; and since, secondly, the deficiencies of the laureate poems would have been disguised, from the general eye at least, under the veil of an unknown tongue. It is curious to notice about this period the uprise of two didactic poets, both writing on alchymy, the chemistry of that day, and neither displaying a spark of genius. These are John Norton and George Ripley, both renowned for learning and knowledge of their beloved occult sciences. Their poems, that by Norton, entitled 'The Ordinal,' and that by Ripley, entitled 'The Compound of Alchemie,' are dry and rugged treatises, done into indifferent verse. One rather fine fancy occurs in the first of these. It is that of an alchymist who projected a bridge of gold over the Thames, near London, crowned with pinnacles of gold, which, being studded with carbuncles, should diffuse a blaze of light in the dark! Alchymy has had other and nobler singers than Ripley and Norton. It has, as Warton remarks, 'enriched the store- house of Arabian romance with many magnificent imageries.' It is the inspiration of two of the noblest romances in this or any language --'St. Leon' and 'Zanoni.' And its idea, transfigured into a transcen- dental form, gave light and life and fire, and the loftiest poetry, to the eloquence of the lamented Samuel Brown, whose tongue, as he talked on his favourite theme, seemed transmuted into gold; nay, whose lips, like the touch of Midas, seemed to create the effects of alchymy upon every subject they approached, and upon every heart over which they wielded their sorcery.
We pass now from this comparatively barren age in the history of English poetry to a cluster of Scottish bards. The first of these is ROBERT HENRYSON. He was schoolmaster at Dunfermline, and died some time before 1508. He is supposed by Lord Hailes to have been preceptor of youth in the Benedictine convent in that place. He is the author of 'Robene and Makyne,' a pastoral ballad of very considerable merit, and of which Campbell says, somewhat too warmly, 'It is the first known pastoral,' (he means in the Scottish language of course,) 'and one of the best, in a dialect rich with the favours of the pastoral muse.' He wrote also a sequel to Chaucer's 'Troilus and Cresseide' entitled 'The Testament of Cresseide,' and thirteen Fables, of which copies, in MS., are preserved in the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh. One of these, 'The Town and Country Mouse,' tells that old story with considerable spirit and humour. 'The Garment of Good Ladies' is an ingenious and beautiful strain, written in that quaint style of allegorising which continued popular as far down as the days of Cowley, and even later.
DINNER GIVEN BY THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE
* * * Their harboury was ta'en Into a spence,[1] where victual was plenty, Both cheese and butter on long shelves right high, With fish and flesh enough, both fresh and salt, And pockis full of groats, both meal and malt.
After, when they disposed were to dine, Withouten grace they wuish[2] and went to meat, On every dish that cookmen can divine, Mutton and beef stricken out in telyies grit;[3] A lordë's fare thus can they counterfeit, Except one thing--they drank the water clear Instead of wine, but yet they made good cheer.
With blithe upcast and merry countenance, The elder sister then spier'd[4] at her guest, If that she thought by reason difference Betwixt that chamber and her sairy[5] nest. 'Yea, dame,' quoth she, 'but how long will this last?' 'For evermore, I wait,[6] and longer too;' 'If that be true, ye are at ease,' quoth she.
To eke the cheer, in plenty forth they brought A plate of groatis and a dish of meal, A threif[7] of cakes, I trow she spared them nought, Abundantly about her for to deal. Furmage full fine she brought instead of jeil, A white candle out of a coffer staw,[8] Instead of spice, to creish[9] their teeth witha'.
Thus made they merry, till they might nae mair, And, 'Hail, Yule, hail!' they cryit up on high; But after joy oftentimes comes care, And trouble after great prosperity. Thus as they sat in all their jollity, The spencer came with keyis in his hand, Open'd the door, and them at dinner fand.
They tarried not to wash, as I suppose, But on to go, who might the foremost win: The burgess had a hole, and in she goes, Her sister had no place to hide her in; To see that silly mouse it was great sin, So desolate and wild of all good rede,[10] For very fear she fell in swoon, near dead.
Then as God would it fell in happy case, The spencer had no leisure for to bide, Neither to force, to seek, nor scare, nor chase, But on he went and cast the door up-wide. This burgess mouse his passage well has spied. Out of her hole she came and cried on high, 'How, fair sister, cry peep, where'er thou be.'
The rural mouse lay flatlings on the ground, And for the death she was full dreadand, For to her heart struck many woful stound, As in a fever trembling foot and hand; And when her sister in such plight her fand, For very pity she began to greet, Syne[11] comfort gave, with words as honey sweet.
'Why lie ye thus? Rise up, my sister dear, Come to your meat, this peril is o'erpast.' The other answer'd with a heavy cheer, 'I may nought eat, so sore I am aghast. Lever[12] I had this forty dayis fast, With water kail, and green beans and peas, Than all your feast with this dread and disease.'
With fair 'treaty, yet gart she her arise; To board they went, and on together sat, But scantly had they drunken once or twice, When in came Gib Huntér, our jolly cat, And bade God speed. The burgess up then gat, And to her hole she fled as fire of flint; Bawdrons[13] the other by the back has hent.[14]
From foot to foot he cast her to and frae, Whiles up, whiles down, as cant[15] as any kid; Whiles would he let her run under the strae[16] Whiles would he wink and play with her buik-hid;[17] Thus to the silly mouse great harm he did; Till at the last, through fair fortune and hap, Betwixt the dresser and the wall she crap.[18]
Syne up in haste behind the panelling, So high she clamb, that Gilbert might not get her, And by the cluiks[19] craftily can hing, Till he was gone, her cheer was all the better: Syne down she lap, when there was none to let her; Then on the burgess mouse loud could she cry, 'Farewell, sister, here I thy feast defy.
Thy mangery is minget[20] all with care, Thy guise is good, thy gane-full[21] sour as gall; The fashion of thy feris is but fair, So shall thou find hereafterward may fall. I thank yon curtain, and yon parpane[22] wall, Of my defence now from yon cruel beast; Almighty God, keep me from such a feast!
Were I into the place that I came frae, For weal nor woe I should ne'er come again.' With that she took her leave, and forth can gae, Till through the corn, till through the plain. When she was forth and free she was right fain, And merrily linkit unto the muir, I cannot tell how afterward she fure.[23]
But I heard syne she passed to her den, As warm as wool, suppose it was not grit, Full beinly[24] stuffed was both butt and ben, With peas and nuts, and beans, and rye and wheat; Whene'er she liked, she had enough of meat, In quiet and ease, withouten [any] dread, But to her sister's feast no more she gaed.
[FROM THE MORAL.]
Blessed be simple life, withouten dreid; Blessed be sober feast in quieté; Who has enough, of no more has he need, Though it be little into quantity. Great abundance, and blind prosperity, Ofttimës make an evil conclusion; The sweetest life, therefore, in this country, Is of sickerness,[25] with small possession.
[1] 'Spence:' pantry. [2] 'Wuish:' washed. [3] 'Telyies grit:' great pieces. [4] 'Spier'd;' asked. [5] 'Sairy:' sorry. [6] 'Wait:' expect. [7] 'Threif:' a set of twenty-four. [8] 'Staw:' stole. [9] 'Creish:' grease. [10] 'rede:' counsel. [11] 'Syne:' then. [12] 'Lever:' rather. [13] 'Bawdrons:' the cat. [14] 'Hent:' seized. [15] 'Cant:' lively. [16] 'Strae:' straw. [17] 'Buik-hid:' body. [18] 'Crap:' crept. [19] 'Cluiks:' claws. [20] 'Minget:' mixed. [21] 'Gane-full:' mouthful. [22] 'Parpane:' partition. [23] 'Fure:' went. [24] 'Beinly:' snugly. [25] 'Sickerness:' security.
THE GARMENT OF GOOD LADIES
Would my good lady love me best, And work after my will, I should a garment goodliest Gar[1] make her body till.[2]
Of high honoùr should be her hood, Upon her head to wear, Garnish'd with governance, so good No deeming[3] should her deir,[4]
Her sark[5] should be her body next, Of chastity so white: With shame and dread together mixt, The same should be perfite.[6]
Her kirtle should be of clean constance, Laced with lesum[7] love; The mailies[8] of continuance, For never to remove.
Her gown should be of goodliness, Well ribbon'd with renown; Purfill'd[9] with pleasure in ilk[10] place, Furred with fine fashioùn.
Her belt should be of benignity, About her middle meet; Her mantle of humility, To thole[11] both wind and weet.[12]
Her hat should be of fair havìng, And her tippet of truth; Her patelet of good pansìng,[13] Her hals-ribbon of ruth.[14]
Her sleeves should be of esperance, To keep her from despair; Her glovës of good governance, To hide her fingers fair.
Her shoes should be of sickerness,[15] In sign that she not slide; Her hose of honesty, I guess, I should for her provide.
Would she put on this garment gay, I durst swear by my seill,[16] That she wore never green nor gray That set[17] her half so weel.
[1] 'Gar:' cause. [2] 'Till:' to. [3] 'Deeming:' opinion. [4] 'Deir:' injure. [5] 'Sark:' shift. [6] 'Perfite:' perfect. [7] 'Lesum:' lawful. [8] 'Mailies:' eyelet-holes. [9] 'Purfill'd:' fringed. [10] 'Ilk:' each. [11] 'Thole:' endure. [12] 'Weet:': wet. [13] 'Pansing:' thinking. [14] 'Her hals-ribbon of ruth:' her neck-ribbon of pity. [15] 'Sickerness:' firmness. [16] 'Seill:' salvation. [17] 'Set:' became.
WILLIAM DUNBAR
This was a man of the true and sovereign seed of genius. Sir Walter Scott calls Dunbar 'a poet unrivalled by any--that Scotland has ever produced.' We venture to call him the Dante of Scotland; nay, we question if any English poet has surpassed 'The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell' in its peculiarly Dantesque qualities of severe and purged grandeur; of deep sincerity, and in that air of moral disappointment and sorrow, approaching despair, which distinguished the sad-hearted lover of Beatrice, who might almost have exclaimed, with one yet mightier than he in his misery and more miserable in his might,
'Where'er I am is Hell--myself am Hell.'
Foster, in an entry in his journal, (we quote from memory,) says, 'I have just seen the moon rising, and wish the impression to be eternal. What a look she casts upon earth, like that of a celestial being who loves our planet still, but has given up all hope of ever doing her any good or seeing her become any better--so serene she seems in her settled and unutterable sadness.' Such, we have often fancied, was the feeling of the great Florentine toward the world, and which--pained, pitying, yearning enthusiast that he was!--escaped irresistibly from those deep- set eyes, that adamantine jaw, and that brow, wearing the laurel, proudly yet painfully, as if it were a crown of everlasting fire! Dunbar was not altogether a Dante, either in melancholy or in power, but his 'Dance' reveals kindred moods, operating at times on a kindred genius.
In Dante humour existed too, but ere it could come up from his deep nature to the surface, it must freeze and stiffen into monumental scorn --a laughter that seemed, while mocking at all things else, to mock at its own mockery most of all. Aird speaks in his 'Demoniac,' of a smile upon his hero's brow,
'Like the lightning of a hope about to DIE For ever from the furrow'd brows of Hell's Eternity.'
Dante's smile may rather be compared to the RISING of a false and self- detected hope upon the lost brows where it is never to come to dawn, and where, nevertheless, it remains for ever, like a smile carved upon a sepulchre. Dunbar has a more joyous disposition than his Italian prototype and master, and he indulges himself to the top of his bent, but in a style (particularly in his 'Twa Married Women and the Widow,' and in 'The Friars of Berwick,' which is not, however, quite certainly his) too coarse and prurient for the taste of this age.
'The Merle and the Nightingale' is one of the finest of Moelibean poems. Beautiful is the contest between the two sweet singers as to whether the love of man or the love of God be the nobler, and more beautiful still their reconciliation, when
'Then sang they both with voices loud and clear, The Merle sang, "Man, love God that has thee wrought." The Nightingale sang, "Man, love the Lord most dear, That thee and all this world made of nought." The Merle said, "Love him that thy love has sought From heaven to earth, and here took flesh and bone." The Nightingale sang. "And with his death thee bought: All love is lost, but upon him alone."
_'Then flew these birds over the boughis sheen, Singing of love among the leaves small.'_
William Dunbar is said to have been born about the year 1465. He received his education at St Andrews, and took there the degree of M.A. in 1479. He became then a friar of the Franciscan order, (Grey Friars,) and in the exercise of his profession seems to have rambled over all Scotland, England, and France, preaching, begging, and, according to his own confession, cheating, lying, and cajoling. Yet if this kind of life was not propitious, in his case, to morality, it must have been to the development of the poetic faculty. It enabled him to see all varieties of life and of scenery, although here and there, in his verses, you find symptoms of that bitterness which is apt to arise in the heart of a wanderer. He was subsequently employed by James IV. in some official work connected with various foreign embassies, which led him to Spain, Italy, and Germany, as well as England and France. This proves that he was no less a man of business-capacity and habits than a poet. For these services he, in 1500, received from the King a pension of ten pounds, afterwards increased to twenty, and, in fine, to eighty. He is said to have been employed in the negotiations preparatory to the marriage of James with Margaret Tudor, daughter of Henry VII., which took place in 1503, and which our poet celebrated in his verses, 'The Thistle and the Rose.' He continued ever afterwards in the Court, hovering in position between a laureate and a court-fool, charming James with his witty conversation as well as his verses, but refused the benefices for which he petitioned, and gradually devoured by chagrin and disappointment. Seldom has genius so great been placed in a falser position, and this has given a querulous tinge to many of his poems. He seems to have died about 1520. Even after his death, misfortune pursued him. His works were, with the exception of two or three pieces, locked up in an obscure MS. till the middle of last century. Since then, however, their fame has been still increasing. In 1834, Mr David Laing, so favourably known as one of our first antiquarians, published a complete and elaborate edition of Dunbar's works; and in a newspaper this very day (May 23) we see another edition announced, in a popular and modernised shape, of the poetry of this great old Scottish Makkar.
THE DANCE OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS THROUGH HELL
I.
Of Februar' the fifteenth night, Full long before the dayis light, I lay into a trance; And then I saw both Heaven and Hell; Methought among the fiendis fell, Mahoun[1] gart[2] cry a Dance, Of shrewis[3] that were never shrevin,[4] Against the feast of Fastern's even, To make their observànce: He bade gallants go graith[5] a guise,[6] And cast up gamounts[7] in the skies, As varlets do in France.
II. * * * * * Holy harlottis in hautane[8] wise, Came in with many sundry guise, But yet laugh'd never Mahòun, Till priests came in with bare shaven necks, Then all the fiends laugh'd and made gecks,[9] Black-Belly and Bawsy-Broun.[10] * * * * *
III.
'Let's see,' quoth he, 'now who begins:' With that the foul Seven Deadly Sins Began to leap at anis.[11] And first of all in dance was Pride, With hair wyld[12] back, and bonnet on side, Like to make wasty weanis;[13] And round about him, as a wheel, Hang all in rumples to the heel, His kethat[14] for the nanis.[15] Many proud trompour[16] with him tripped, Through scalding fire aye as they skipped, They girn'd[17] with hideous granis.[18]
IV.
Then Ire came in with sturt[19] and strife, His hand was aye upon his knife, He brandish'd like a beir; Boasters, braggers, and barganeris,[20] After him passed into pairis,[21] All bodin in feir of weir.[22] In jackis, scripis, and bonnets of steel, Their legs were chenyiet[23] to the heel, Froward was their affeir,[24] Some upon other with brands beft,[25] Some jaggit[26] others to the heft[27] With knives that sharp could shear.
V.
Next in the dance follow'd Envy, Fill'd full of feud and felony, Hid malice and despite, For privy hatred that traitor trembled; Him follow'd many freik[28] dissembled, With feigned wordis white. And flatterers into men's faces, And backbiters in secret places To lie that had delight, And rowneris[29] of false lesìngs;[30] Alas, that courts of noble kings Of them can never be quite![31]
VI.
Next him in dance came Covetice, Root of all evil and ground of vice, That never could be content, Caitiffs, wretches, and ockerars,[32] Hood-pikes,[33] hoarders, and gatherers, All with that warlock went. Out of their throats they shot on other Hot molten gold, methought, a fother,[34] As fire-flaucht[35] most fervènt; Aye as they tumit[36] them of shot, Fiends fill'd them new up to the throat With gold of all kind prent.[37]
VII.
Syne[38] Sweirness[39] at the second bidding Came like a sow out of a midding,[40] Full sleepy was his grunyie.[41] Many sweir bumbard[42] belly-huddroun,[43] Many slute daw[44] and sleepy duddroun,[45] Him served aye with sounyie.[46] He drew them forth into a chenyie,[47] And Belial with a bridle-rennyie,[48] Ever lash'd them on the lunyie.[49] In dance they were so slow of feet They gave them in the fire a heat, And made them quicker of counyie.[50]
VIII.
Then Lechery, that loathly corse, Came bearing like a bagged horse,[51] And Idleness did him lead; There was with him an ugly sort[52] And many stinking foul tramort,[53] That had in sin been dead. When they were enter'd in the dance, They were full strange of countenance, Like torches burning reid. * * * * *
IX.
Then the foul monster Gluttony, Of wame[54] insatiable and greedy, To dance he did him dress; Him followed many a foul drunkàrt With can and collep, cop and quart,[55] In surfeit and excess. Full many a waistless wally-drag[56] With wames unwieldable did forth drag, In creish[57] that did incress; Drink, aye they cried, with many a gape, The fiends gave them hot lead to laip,[58] Their leveray[59] was no less.
X. * * * * * No minstrels play'd to them but[60] doubt, For gleemen there were holden out, By day and eke by night, Except a minstrel that slew a man; So till his heritage he wan,[61] And enter'd by brief of right. * * * * *
XI.
Then cried Mahoun for a Highland padyane,[62] Syne ran a fiend to fetch Mac Fadyane,[63] Far northward in a nook, By he the Correnoch had done shout,[64] Ersch-men[65] so gather'd him about In hell great room they took: These termagants, with tag and tatter, Full loud in Ersch began to clatter, And roup[66] like raven and rook. The devil so deaved[67] was with their yell, That in the deepest pot of hell He smored[68] them with smoke.
[1] 'Mahoun:' the devil. [2] 'Gart:' caused. [3] 'Shrewis:' sinners. [4] 'Shrevin:' confessed. [5] 'Graith:' prepare. [6] 'Guise:' masque. [7] 'Gamounts:' dances. [8] 'Hautane:' haughty. [9] 'Gecks:' mocks. [10] 'Black-Belly and Bawsy-Broun:' names of spirits. [11] 'Anis:' once. [12] 'Wyld:' combed. [13] 'Wasty weanis:' wasteful children. [14] 'Kethat:' cassock. [15] 'Nanis:' nonce. [16] 'Trompour:' impostor. [17] 'Girn'd:' grinned. [18] 'Granis:' groans. [19] 'Sturt:' violence. [20] 'Barganeris:' bullies. [21] 'Into pairis:' in pairs. [22] 'Bodin in feir of weir:' arrayed in trappings of war. [23] 'Chenyiet:' covered with chain-mail. [24] 'Affeir:' aspect. [25] 'Beft:' struck. [26] 'Jaggit:' stabbed. [27] 'Heft:' hilt. [28] 'Freik:' fellows. [29] 'Rowneris:' whisperers. [30] 'Lesìngs:' lies. [31] 'Quite:' quit. [32] 'Ockerars:' usurers. [33] 'Hood-pikes:' misers. [34] 'Fother:' quantity. [35] 'Flaucht:' flake. [36] 'Tumit:' emptied. [37] 'Prent:' stamp. [38] 'Syne:' then. [39] 'Sweirness:' laziness. [40] 'Midding:' dunghill. [41] 'Grunyie:' grunt. [42] 'Bumbard:' indolent. [43] 'Belly-huddroun:' gluttonous sloven. [44] 'Slute daw:' slovenly drab. [45] 'Duddroun:' sloven. [46] 'Sounyie:' care. [47] 'Chenyie:' chain. [48] 'Rennyie:' rein. [49] 'Lunyie:' back. [50] 'Counyie:' apprehension. [51] 'Bagged horse:' stallion. [52] 'Sort:' number. [53] 'Tramort:' corpse. [54] 'Wame:' belly. [55] 'Can and collep, cop and quart:' different names of drinking-vessels. [56] 'Wally-drag:' sot. [57] 'Creish:' grease. [58] 'Laip:' lap. [59] 'Leveray:' desire to drink. [60] 'But:' without. [61] 'Wan:' got. [62] 'Padyane:' pageant. [63] 'Mac Fadyane:' name of some Highland laird. [64] 'By he the Correnoch had done shout:' by the time that he had raised the Correnoch, or cry of help. [65] 'Ersch-men:' Highlanders. [66] 'Roup:' croak. [67] 'Deaved:' deafened. [68] 'Smored:' smothered.
THE MERLE AND NIGHTINGALE
In May, as that Aurora did upspring, With crystal een[1] chasing the cluddës sable, I heard a Merle[2] with merry notës sing A song of love, with voice right comfortáble, Against the orient beamis, amiable, Upon a blissful branch of laurel green; This was her sentence, sweet and delectable, 'A lusty life in Lovë's service been.'
Under this branch ran down a river bright, Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue, Against the heavenly azure skyis light, Where did upon the other side pursue A Nightingale, with sugar'd notës new, Whose angel feathers as the peacock shone; This was her song, and of a sentence true, 'All love is lost but upon God alone.'
With notës glad, and glorious harmony, This joyful merle, so salust[3] she the day, While rung the woodis of her melody, Saying, 'Awake, ye lovers of this May; Lo, fresh Flora has flourish'd every spray, As nature, has her taught, the noble queen, The fields be clothed in a new array; A lusty life in Lovë's service been.'
Ne'er sweeter noise was heard with living man, Than made this merry gentle nightingale; Her sound went with the river as it ran, Out through the fresh and flourish'd lusty vale; 'O Merle!' quoth she, 'O fool! stint of thy tale, For in thy song good sentence is there none, For both is tint,[4] the time and the travail, Of every love but upon God alone.'
'Cease,' quoth the Merle, 'thy preaching, Nightingale: Shall folk their youth spend into holiness? Of young saintis, grow old fiendis, but[5] fable; Fy, hypocrite, in yearis' tenderness, Against the law of kind[6] thou goes express, That crooked age makes one with youth serene, Whom nature of conditions made diverse: A lusty life in Lovë's service been.'
The Nightingale said, 'Fool, remember thee, That both in youth and eild,[7] and every hour, The love of God most dear to man should be; That him, of nought, wrought like his own figour, And died himself, from death him to succour; Oh, whether was kythit[8] there true love or none? He is most true and steadfast paramour, And love is lost but upon him alone.'
The Merle said, 'Why put God so great beauty In ladies, with such womanly havíng, But if he would that they should loved be? To love eke nature gave them incliníng, And He of nature that worker was and king, Would nothing frustir[9] put, nor let be seen, Into his creature of his own making; A lusty life in Lovë's service been.'
The Nightingale said, 'Not to that behoof Put God such beauty in a lady's face, That she should have the thank therefor or love, But He, the worker, that put in her such grace; Of beauty, bounty, riches, time, or space, And every goodness that been to come or gone The thank redounds to him in every place: All love is lost but upon God alone.'
'O Nightingale! it were a story nice, That love should not depend on charity; And, if that virtue contrar' be to vice, Then love must be a virtue, as thinks me; For, aye, to love envy must contrar' be: God bade eke love thy neighbour from the spleen;[10] And who than ladies sweeter neighbours be? A lusty life in Lovë's service been.'
The Nightingale said, 'Bird, why does thou rave? Man may take in his lady such delight, Him to forget that her such virtue gave, And for his heaven receive her colour white: Her golden tressed hairis redomite,[11] Like to Apollo's beamis though they shone, Should not him blind from love that is perfite; All love is lost but upon God alone.'
The Merle said, 'Love is cause of honour aye, Love makis cowards manhood to purchase, Love makis knightis hardy at essay, Love makis wretches full of largëness, Love makis sweir[12] folks full of business, Love makis sluggards fresh and well beseen,[13] Love changes vice in virtuous nobleness; A lusty life in Lovë's service been.'
The Nightingale said, 'True is the contrary; Such frustis love it blindis men so far, Into their minds it makis them to vary; In false vain-glory they so drunken are, Their wit is went, of woe they are not 'ware, Till that all worship away be from them gone, Fame, goods, and strength; wherefore well say I dare, All love is lost but upon God alone.'
Then said the Merle, 'Mine error I confess: This frustis love is all but vanity: Blind ignorance me gave such hardiness, To argue so against the verity; Wherefore I counsel every man that he With love not in the fiendis net be tone,[14] But love the love that did for his love die: All love is lost but upon God alone.'
Then sang they both with voices loud and clear, The Merle sang, 'Man, love God that has thee wrought.' The Nightingale sang, 'Man, love the Lord most dear, That thee and all this world made of nought.' The Merle said, 'Love him that thy love has sought From heaven to earth, and here took flesh and bone.' The Nightingale sang, 'And with his death thee bought: All love is lost but upon him alone.'
Then flew these birds over the boughis sheen, Singing of love among the leavës small; Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein,[15] Both sleeping, waking, in rest and in travail; Me to recomfort most it does avail, Again for love, when love I can find none, To think how sung this Merle and Nightingale; 'All love is lost but upon God alone.'
[1] 'Een:' eyes. [2] 'Merle:' blackbird. [3] 'Salust:' saluted. [4] 'Tint:' lost. [5] 'But:' without. [6] 'Kind:' nature. [7] 'Eild:' age. [8] 'Kythit:' shewn. [9] 'Frustrir:' in vain. [10] 'Spleen:' from the heart. [11] 'Redomite:' bound, encircled. [12] 'Sweir:' slothful. [13] 'Well beseen:' of good appearance. [14] 'Tone:' taken. [15] 'Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein:' whose close disputation made my thoughts yearn.
GAVIN DOUGLAS
This eminent prelate was a younger son of Archibald, the fifth Earl of Angus. He was born in Brechin about the year 1474. He studied at the University of Paris. He became a churchman, and yet united with attention to the duties of his calling great proficiency in polite learning. In 1513 he finished a translation, into Scottish verse, of Virgil's 'Aeneid,' which, considering the age, is an extraordinary performance. It occupied him only sixteen months. The multitude of obsolete terms, however, in which it abounds, renders it now, as a whole, illegible. After passing through various subordinate offices, such as the 'Provostship' of St Giles's, Edinburgh, and the 'Abbotship' of Arbroath, he was at length appointed Bishop of Dunkeld. Dunkeld was not then the paradise it has become, but Birnam hill and the other mountains then, as now, stood round about it, the old Cathedral rose up in mediaeval majesty, and the broad, smooth Tay flowed onward to the ocean. And, doubtless, Douglas felt the poetic inspiration from it quite as warmly as did Thomas Brown, when, three centuries afterwards, he set up the staff of his summer rest at the beautiful Invar inn, and thence delighted to diverge to the hundred scenes of enchantment which stretch around. The good Bishop was an ardent politician as well as a poet, and was driven, by his share in the troubles of the times, to flee from his native land, and take refuge in the Court of Henry VIII. The King received him kindly, and treated him with much liberality. In 1522 he died at London of the plague, and was interred in the Savoy Church. He was, according to Buchanan, about to proceed to Rome to vindicate himself before the Pope against certain charges brought by his enemies. Besides the translation of the 'Aeneid,' Douglas is the author of a long poem entitled the 'Palace of Honour;' it is an allegory, describing a large company making a pilgrimage to Honour's Palace. It bears considerable resemblance to the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and some suppose that Bunyan had seen it before composing his allegory. 'King Hart' is another production of our poet's, of considerable length and merit. It gives, metaphorically, a view of human life. Perhaps his best pieces are his 'Prologues,' affixed to each book of the 'Aeneid.' From them we have selected 'Morning in May' as a specimen. The closing lines are fine.
'Welcome the lord of light, and lamp of day, Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green, Welcome quickener of flourish'd flowers sheen, Welcome support of every root and vein, Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain,' &c.
Douglas must not be named with Dunbar in strength and grandeur of genius. His power is more in expression than in conception, and hence he has shone so much in translation. His version of the 'Aeneid' is the first made of any classic into a British tongue, and is the worthy progenitor of such minor miracles of poetical talent--all somewhat more mechanical than inspired, and yet giving a real, though subordinate glory to our literature-as Fairfax's 'Tasso,' Dryden's 'Virgil,' and Pope's, Coper's, and Sotheby's 'Homer.' The fire in Douglas' original verses is occasionally lost in smoke, and the meaning buried in flowery verbiage. Still he was an honour alike to the Episcopal bench and the Muse of Scotland. He was of amiable manners, gentle temperament, and a noble and commanding appearance.
MORNING IN MAY
As fresh Aurore, to mighty Tithon spouse, Ished of[1] her saffron bed and ivor' house, In cram'sy clad and grained violate, With sanguine cape, and selvage purpurate, Unshet[2] the windows of her largë hall, Spread all with roses, and full of balm royal, And eke the heavenly portis crystalline Unwarps broad, the world to illumine; The twinkling streamers of the orient Shed purpour spraings,[3] with gold and azure ment;[4] Eous, the steed, with ruby harness red, Above the seas liftis forth his head, Of colour sore,[5] and somedeal brown as berry, For to alighten and glad our hemispery; The flame out-bursten at the neisthirls,[6] So fast Phaeton with the whip him whirls. * * While shortly, with the blazing torch of day, Abulyit[7] in his lemand[8] fresh array, Forth of his palace royal ished Phoebus, With golden crown and visage glorious, Crisp hairs, bright as chrysolite or topaz; For whose hue might none behold his face. * * The aureate vanes of his throne soverain With glittering glance o'erspread the oceane; The largë floodës, lemand all of light, But with one blink of his supernal sight. For to behold, it was a glore to see The stabled windis, and the calmed sea, The soft season, the firmament serene, The loune[9] illuminate air and firth amene. * * And lusty Flora did her bloomis spread Under the feet of Phoebus' sulyart[10] steed; The swarded soil embrode with selcouth[11] hues, Wood and forest, obumbratë with bews.[12] * * Towers, turrets, kirnals,[13] and pinnacles high, Of kirks, castles, and ilk fair city, Stood painted, every fane, phiol,[14] and stage,[15] Upon the plain ground by their own umbrage. Of Aeolus' north blasts having no dreid, The soil spread her broad bosom on-breid; The corn crops and the beir new-braird With gladsome garment revesting the yerd.[16] * * The prai[17] besprent with springing sprouts disperse For caller humours[18] on the dewy night Rendering some place the gersë-piles[19] their light; As far as cattle the lang summer's day Had in their pasture eat and nip away; And blissful blossoms in the bloomed yerd, Submit their heads to the young sun's safeguard. Ivy-leaves rank o'erspread the barmkin wall; The bloomed hawthorn clad his pikis all; Forth of fresh bourgeons[20] the wine grapës ying[21] Endlong the trellis did on twistis hing; The loukit buttons on the gemmed trees O'erspreading leaves of nature's tapestries; Soft grassy verdure after balmy showers, On curling stalkis smiling to their flowers. * * The daisy did on-breid her crownal small, And every flower unlapped in the dale. * * Sere downis small on dentilion sprang. The young green bloomed strawberry leaves amang; Jimp jeryflowers thereon leaves unshet, Fresh primrose and the purpour violet; * * Heavenly lilies, with lockerand toppis white, Open'd and shew their crestis redemite. * * A paradise it seemed to draw near These galyard gardens and each green herbere. Most amiable wax the emerald meads; Swarmis soughis throughout the respand reeds, Over the lochis and the floodis gray, Searching by kind a place where they should lay. Phoebus' red fowl,[22] his cural crest can steer, Oft stretching forth his heckle, crowing clear. Amid the wortis and the rootis gent Picking his meat in alleys where he went, His wivës Toppa and Partolet him by-- A bird all-time that hauntis bigamy. The painted powne[23] pacing with plumës gym, Cast up his tail a proud pleasand wheel-rim, Yshrouded in his feathering bright and sheen, Shaping the print of Argus' hundred een. Among the bowis of the olive twists, Sere[24] small fowls, working crafty nests, Endlong the hedges thick, and on rank aiks[25] Ilk bird rejoicing with their mirthful makes. In corners and clear fenestres[26] of glass, Full busily Arachne weaving was, To knit her nettis and her webbis sly, Therewith to catch the little midge or fly. So dusty powder upstours[27] in every street, While corby gasped for the fervent heat. Under the boughis bene[28] in lovely vales, Within fermance and parkis close of pales, The busteous buckis rakis forth on raw, Herdis of hartis through the thick wood-shaw. The young fawns following the dun does, Kids, skipping through, runnis after roes. In leisurs and on leais, little lambs Full tait and trig sought bleating to their dams. On salt streams wolk[29] Dorida and Thetis, By running strandis, Nymphis and Naiadis, Such as we clepe wenches and damasels, In gersy[30] groves wandering by spring wells; Of bloomed branches and flowers white and red, Platting their lusty chaplets for their head. Some sang ring-songës, dances, leids,[31] and rounds. With voices shrill, while all thel dale resounds. Whereso they walk into their carolling, For amorous lays does all the rockis ring. One sang, 'The ship sails over the salt faem, Will bring the merchants and my leman hame.' Some other sings, 'I will be blithe and light, My heart is lent upon so goodly wight.'[32] And thoughtful lovers rounis[33] to and fro, To leis[34] their pain, and plain their jolly woe; After their guise, now singing, now in sorrow, With heartis pensive the long summer's morrow. Some ballads list indite of his lady; Some lives in hope; and some all utterly Despaired is, and so quite out of grace, His purgatory he finds in every place. * * Dame Nature's minstrels, on that other part, Their blissful lay intoning every art, * * And all small fowlis singis on the spray, Welcome the lord of light, and lamp of day, Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green, Welcome quickener of flourish'd flowers sheen, Welcome support of every root and vein, Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain, Welcome the birdis' bield[35] upon the brier, Welcome master and ruler of the year, Welcome welfare of husbands at the ploughs, Welcome repairer of woods, trees, and boughs, Welcome depainter of the bloomed meads, Welcome the life of every thing that spreads, Welcome storer of all kind bestial, Welcome be thy bright beamis, gladding all. * *
[1] 'Ished of:' issued from. [2] 'Unshet:' opened. [3] 'Spraings:' streaks. [4] 'Ment:' mingled. [5] 'Sore:' yellowish brown. [6] 'Neisthirls:' nostrils. [7] 'Abulyit:' attired. [8] 'Lemand:' glittering. [9] 'Loune:' calm. [10] 'Sulyart:' sultry. [11] 'Selcouth:' uncommon. [12] 'Bews:' boughs. [13] 'Kirnals:' battlements. [14] 'Phiol:' cupola. [15] 'Stage:' storey. [16] 'Yerd:' earth. [17] 'Prai:' meadow. [18] 'Caller humours:' cool vapours. [19] 'Gersë:' grass. [20] 'Bourgeons:' sprouts. [21] 'Ying:' young. [22] 'Red fowl:' the cook. [23] 'Powne:' the peacock. [24] 'Sere:' many. [25] 'Aiks:' oaks. [26] 'Fenestres:' windows. [27] 'Upstours:' rises in clouds. [28] 'Bene:' snug. [29] 'Wolk:' walked. [30] 'Gersy:' grassy. [31] 'Leids:' lays. [32] Songs then popular. [33] 'Rounis:' whisper. [34] 'Leis:' relieve. [35] 'Bield:' shelter.
HAWES, BARCLAY, &c
Stephen Hawes, a native of Suffolk, wrote about the close of the fifteenth century. He studied at Oxford, and travelled much in France, where he became a master of French and Italian poetry. King Henry VII., struck with his conversation and the readiness with which he repeated old English poets, especially Lydgate, created him groom of the privy chamber. Hawes has written a number of poems, such as 'The Temple of Glasse,' 'The Conversion of Swearers,' 'The Consolation of Lovers,' 'The Pastime of Pleasure,' &c. Those who wish to see specimens of the strange allegories and curious devices of thought in which it abounds, may find them in Warton's 'History of English Poetry.'
In that same valuable work we find an account of Alexander Barclay, author of 'The Ship of Fools.' He was educated at Oriel College in Oxford, and after travelling abroad, was appointed one of the priests or prebendaries of the College of St Mary Ottery, in Devonshire--a parish famous in later days for the birth of Coleridge. Barclay became afterwards a Benedictine monk of Ely monastery; and at length a brother of the Order of St Francis, at Canterbury. He died, a very old man, at Croydon, in Surrey, in the year 1552. His principal work, 'The Ship of Fools,' is a satire upon the vices and absurdities of his age, and shews considerable wit and power of sarcasm.
SKELTON
John Skelton is the name of the next poet. He flourished in the earlier part of the reign of Henry VIII. Having studied both at Oxford and Cambridge, and been laureated at the former university in 1489, he was promoted to the rectory of Diss or Dysse, in Norfolk. Some say he had acted previously as tutor to Henry VIII. At Dysse he attracted attention by satirical ballads against the mendicants, as well as by licences of buffoonery in the pulpit. For these he was censured, and even, it is said, suspended, by Nykke, Bishop of Norwich. Undaunted by this, he flew at higher game--ventured to ridicule Cardinal Wolsey, then in his power, and had to take refuge from the myrmidons of the prelate in Westminster Abbey. There Abbot Islip kindly entertained and protected him till his dying day. He breathed his last in the year 1529, and was buried in the adjacent church of St Margaret's.
Skelton as well as Barclay enjoyed considerable popularity in his own age. Erasmus calls him 'Britannicarum literarum lumen et decus!' How dark must have been the night in which such a Will-o'-wisp was mistaken for a star! He has wit, indeed, and satirical observation; but his wit is wilder than it is strong, and his satire is dashed with personality and obscenity. His style, Campbell observes, is 'almost a texture of slang phrases, patched with shreds of French and Latin.' His verses on Margaret Hussey, which we have quoted, are in his happiest vein. The following lines, too, on Cardinal Wolsey, are as true as they are terse:--
'Then in the Chamber of Stars All matter there he mars. Clapping his rod on the board, No man dare speak a word. For he hath all the saying, Without any renaying. He rolleth in his recòrds; He sayeth, How say ye, my Lords? Is not my reason good? Good even, good Robin Hood. Some say, Yes; and some Sit still, as they were dumb.'
It is curious that Wolsey's enemies, in one of their charges against him in the Parliament of 1529, have repeated, almost in the words of Skelton, the same accusation.
TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.
Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower; With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly, Her demeaning, In everything, Far, far passing, That I can indite, Or suffice to write, Of merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower; As patient and as still, And as full of good-will, As fair Isiphil, Coliander, Sweet Pomander, Good Cassander; Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought. Far may be sought, Ere you can find So courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower.
SIR DAVID LYNDSAY
Returning to Scotland, we find a Skelton of a higher order and a brawnier make in Sir David Lyndsay, or, as our forefathers were wont familiarly to denominate him, 'Davie Lyndsay.' Lyndsay was descended from a noble family, a younger branch of Lyndsay of the Byres, and born in 1490, probably at the Mount, the family-seat, near Cupar-Fife. He entered the University of St Andrews in the year 1505, and four years later left it to travel in Italy. He must, however, have returned to Scotland before the 12th of October 1511, since we learn from the records of the Lord Treasurer that he was presented with a quantity of 'blue and yellow taffety to be a playcoat for the play performed in the King and Queen's presence in the Abbey of Holyrood.' On the 12th of April 1512, Lyndsay, then twenty-two years of age, was appointed gentleman-usher to James V., who had been born that very day. In his poem called 'The Dream,' he reminds the King of his having borne him in his arms ere he could walk; of having wrapped him up warmly in his little bed; of having sung to him with his lute, danced before him to make him laugh, and having carried him on his shoulders like a 'pedlar his pack.' He continued to be page and companion to the King till 1524, when, in consequence of the unprincipled machinations of the Queen- mother--who was acting as Regent--he, as well as Bellenden, the learned translator of Livy and Boece, was ejected from his office. When, however, in 1528, the young King, by a noble effort, emancipated himself from the thraldom of his mother and the Douglasses, Lyndsay wrote his 'Dream,' in which, amidst much poetic or fantastic matter, he congratulates James on his deliverance; reminds him, as aforesaid, of his early services; and takes occasion to paint the evils the country had endured during his minority, and to give him some bold and salutary advice as to his future conduct. The next year (1529) he produced 'The Complaint,' a poem in which he recurs to former themes, and remonstrates with great freedom and severity against the treatment he had undergone. Here, too, the religious reformer peeps out. He exhorts the King to compel the clergy to attend to the duties of their office; to preach more earnestly; to administer the sacraments according to the institution of Christ; and not to deceive their people with superstitious pilgrimages, vain traditions, and prayers to graven images, contrary to the written command of God. He with quaint iron says, that if his Grace will lend him
'Of gold ane thousand pound or tway,'
he will give him a sealed bond, obliging himself to repay the loan when the Bass and the Isle of May are set upon Mount Sinai; or the Lomond hills, near Falkland, are removed to Northumberland; or
'When kirkmen yairnis [desire] na dignity, Nor wives na soveranitie.'
Still finer the last lines of the poem. 'If not,' he says, 'my God
'Shall cause me stand content With quiet life and sober rent, And take me, in my latter age, Unto my simple hermitage, To spend the gear my elders won, As did Diogenes in his tun.'
This 'Complaint' proved successful, and in the next year (1530) Lyndsay was appointed Lion King-at-Arms--an office of great dignity in these days. The Lion was the chief judge of all matters connected with heraldry in the realm; was also the official ambassador from his sovereign to foreign countries; and was inaugurated in his office with a pomp and circumstance little inferior to those of a royal coronation, the King crowning him with his own hands, anointing him with wine instead of oil, and putting on his head the Royal Crown of Scotland, which he continued to wear till the close of the feast. It is of Lyndsay in the full accoutrements of this office that Sir Walter Scott speaks in his 'Marmion,' although he antedates by sixteen years the time when he assumed it:--
'He was a man of middle age, In aspect manly, grave, and sage, As on king's errand come; But in the glances of his eye, A penetrating, keen, and sly Expression found its home-- The flash of that satiric rage Which, bursting on the early stage, Branded the vices of the age, And broke the keys of Rome. On milk-white palfrey forth he paced; His cap of maintenance was graced With the proud heron-plume; From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast Silk housings swept the ground, With Scotland's arms, device, and crest Embroider'd round and round. The double treasure might you see, First by Achaius borne, The thistle and the fleur-de-lis, And gallant unicorn. So bright the king's armorial coat, That scarce the dazzled eye could note; In living colours, blazon'd brave, The lion, which his title gave. A train which well beseem'd his state, But all unarm'd, around him wait; Still is thy name in high account, And still thy verse has charms, Sir David Lyndsay of the Mount, Lord Lion King-at-Arms.'
Soon after this appointment, Lyndsay wrote 'The Complaint of the King's Papingo,' in which, through the mouth of a dying parrot, he gives some sharp counsel to the king, his courtiers and nobles, and administers severe satirical chastisement to the corruptions of the clergy. It is an exceedingly clever production, and has some beautiful poetry as well as stinging sarcasm. Take the following address to Edinburgh, Stirling, Linlithgow, and Falkland:--
Adieu, Edinburgh! thou high triumphant town, Within whose bounds right blitheful have I been; Of true merchandis, the rule of this region, Most ready to receive court, king, and queen; Thy policy and justice may be seen; Were devotion, wisdom, and honesty, And credence tint, they micht be found in thee.
Adieu, fair Snawdoun! [Stirling] with thy towers hie, Thy chapel-royal, park, and table round; May, June, and July would I dwell in thee, Were I a man to hear the birdis sound, Which doth against the royal rock rebound. Adieu, Lithgow! whose palace of pleasance Meets not its peer in Portingale or France.
Farewell, Falkland! the forteress of Fife, Thy velvet park under the Lomond Law; Sometime in thee I led a lusty life. The fallow deer to see them raik on raw [walk in a row], Caust men to come to thee, they have great awe, &c.
In the year 1535, Lyndsay wrote his remarkable drama, 'The Satire of the Three Estates'--Monarch, namely, Barons, and Clergy. It is made up in nearly three equal parts of ingenuity, wit, and grossness. It is a drama, and was acted several times--first, in 1535, at Cupar-Fife, on a large green mound called Moot-hill; then, in 1539, in an open park near Linlithgow, by the express desire of the king, who with all the ladies of the Court attended the representation; then in the amphitheatre of St Johnston in Perth; and in 1554, at Edinburgh, in the village of Greenside, which skirted the northern base of the Calton Hill, in the presence of the Queen Regent and an enormous concourse of spectators. Its exhibition appears to have occupied nearly the whole day. In the 'Pictorial History of Scotland,' chapter xxiv., our readers will find a full and able analysis with extracts of this extraordinary performance. It is said to have done much good in opening the eyes of the people to the evils of the Papacy, and in paving the way for the Reformation.
In 1536 Sir David, in company with Sir John Campbell of Lundie, was sent to the Court of France to demand in marriage for James V. a daughter of the House of Vendome; but the King chose rather to take the matter in his own hands, and, going over in person, wedded Magdalene, daughter of Francis. She died two months after her arrival in Scotland, universally regretted; and Lyndsay made the sad event the subject of a poem, entitled 'Deploration of the Death of Queen Magdalene,' whom he designates
'The flower of France, and comfort of Scotland.'
When James subsequently married Mary of Guise, Sir David's ingenuity was strained to the utmost in providing pageants, masques, and shows to welcome her Majesty. For forty days in St Andrews, festivities continued; and it was during this prolonged festival that the Lion King, as if sick and satiated with vanities, wrote two poems, one entitled 'The Justing between James Watson and John Barbour,' a dull satire on tournaments, &c., and the other a somewhat cleverer piece, entitled 'Supplication directed to the King's Grace in Contemptioun of Side Tails,' the long trains then worn by the ladies. It met, we presume,with the fate of Punch's sarcasms against crinoline,--the 'phylacteries' would for a season, instead of being lessened, be enlarged, till Fashion lifted up her omnipotent rod, and told it to be otherwise.
King James died prematurely on the 14th of December 1542, and Lyndsay closed his eyes at Falkland, and mourned for him as a brother. From that day forth he probably felt that there was 'less sunshine in the sky for him.' In the troublous times which succeeded this, he had to retire for a season from the Court, having become obnoxious to the rigid Papists on account of his writings. After the death of Cardinal Beatoun he wrote the tragedy of 'The Cardinal,' a poem in which the spectre of the Cardinal is the spokesman, and which teems with good advice to all and sundry. The execution, however, is not so felicitous as the plan. In 1548 Lyndsay went to Denmark to negotiate a free trade with Scotland. On his return in 1550 he wrote his very pleasing and chivalric 'History of Squire Meldrum,' founded on the actual adventures of William Meldrum, the Laird of Cleish and Binns, a distinguished friend of the poet, who had gained laurels as a warrior both in Scotland and in France. This poem is, in a measure, an anticipation of the rhymed romances of Scott, and is full of picturesque description and spirit-stirring adventure. In 1553 he completed his last and most elaborate work, which had occupied him for years, entitled 'The Monarchic,' containing an account of the most famous monarchies which have existed on earth, and carrying on the history to the general judgment. From this date we almost entirely lose sight of our poet. He seems to have retired into private life, and is supposed to have died about the close of 1557. He was probably buried in the family vault at Ceres, but no stone marks the spot. Dying without issue, his estates passed to his brother Alexander, and were continued in the possession of his descendants till the middle of last century. They now belong to the Hopes of Rankeillour. The office of Lord Lion was held by two of the poet's relatives successively--Sir David, his nephew, who became Lion King in 1591, and his son-in-law, Sir Jerome Lyndsay, who succeeded to it in 1621.
Sir David Lyndsay, unlike most satirists, was a good, a blameless, and a religious man. The occasional loftiness of his poetic vein, the breadth of his humour, the purity of his purpose, and his strong reforming zeal combined to make his poetry exceedingly popular in Scotland for a number of ages, particularly among the lower orders. Scott introduces Andrew Fairservice, in 'Rob Roy,' saying, in reference to Francis Osbaldistone's poetical efforts, 'Gude help him! twa lines o' Davie Lyndsay wad ding a' he ever clerkit,' and even still there are districts of the country where his name is a household word.
MELDRUM'S DUEL WITH THE ENGLISH CHAMPION TALBART
Then clarions and trumpets blew, And warriors many hither drew; On every side came many man To behold who the battle wan. The field was in the meadow green, Where every man might well be seen: The heralds put them so in order, That no man pass'd within the border, Nor press'd to come within the green, But heralds and the champions keen; The order and the circumstance Were long to put in remembrance. When these two noble men of weir Were well accoutred in their geir, And in their handis strong burdouns,[1] Then trumpets blew and clariouns, And heralds cried high on height, 'Now let them go--God show the right.'
* * * * *
Then trumpets blew triumphantly, And these two champions eagerly, They spurr'd their horse with spear on breast, Pertly[2] to prove their pith they press'd. That round rink-room[3] was at utterance, But Talbart's horse with a mischance He outterit,[4] and to run was loth; Whereof Talbart was wonder wroth. The Squier forth his rink[5] he ran, Commended well with every man, And him discharged of his spear Honestly, like a man of weir.
* * * * *
The trenchour[6] of the Squier's spear Stuck still into Sir Talbart's geir; Then every man into that stead[7] Did all believe that he was dead. The Squier leap'd right hastily From his courser deliverly,[8] And to Sir Talbart made support, And humillie[9] did him comfort. When Talbart saw into his shield An otter in a silver field, 'This race,' said he, 'I sore may rue, For I see well my dream was true; Methought yon otter gart[10] me bleed, And bore me backward from my steed; But here I vow to God soverain, That I shall never joust again.' And sweetly to the Squier said, 'Thou know'st the cunning[11] that we made, Which of us two should tyne[12] the field, He should both horse and armour yield To him that won, wherefore I will My horse and harness give thee till.' Then said the Squier, courteously, 'Brother, I thank you heartfully; Of you, forsooth, nothing I crave, For I have gotten that I would have.'
[1] 'Burdouns:' spears. [2] 'Pertly:' boldly. [3] 'Rink-room:' course-room. [4] 'Outterit:' swerved. [5] 'Kink:' course. [6] 'Trencliour:' head. [7] 'Stead:' place. [8] 'Deliverly:' actively. [9] 'Humillie:' humbly. [10] 'Gart:' made. [11] 'Cunning:' agreement. [12] 'Tyne:' lose.
SUPPLICATION IN CONTEMPTION OF SIDE TAILS,[1] (1538.)
Sovereign, I mene[2] of these side tails, Whilk through the dust and dubbës trails, Three quarters lang behind their heels, Express against all commonweals. Though bishops, in their pontificals, Have men for to bear up their tails, For dignity of their office; Right so a queen or an emprice; Howbeit they use such gravity, Conforming to their majesty, Though their robe-royals be upborne, I think it is a very scorn, That every lady of the land Should have her tail so side trailand; Howbeit they be of high estate, The queen they should not counterfeit.
Wherever they go it may be seen How kirk and causey they sweep clean. The images into the kirk May think of their side tailës irk;[3] For when the weather be most fair, The dust flies highest into the air, And all their faces does begary, If they could speak, they would them wary. * * But I have most into despite Poor claggocks[4] clad in raploch[5] white, Whilk has scant two merks for their fees, Will have two ells beneath their knees. Kittock that cleckit[6] was yestreen, The morn will counterfeit the queen. * * In barn nor byre she will not bide, Without her kirtle tail be side. In burghs, wanton burgess wives Who may have sidest tailës strives, Well bordered with velvet fine, But following them it is a pine: In summer, when the streetës dries, They raise the dust above the skies; None may go near them at their ease, Without they cover mouth and neese. * * I think most pain after a rain, To see them tucked up again; Then when they step forth through the street, Their faldings flaps about their feet; They waste more cloth, within few years, Nor would cleid[7] fifty score of freirs. * * Of tails I will no more indite, For dread some duddron[8] me despite: Notwithstanding, I will conclude, That of side tails can come no good, Sider nor[9] may their ankles hide, The remanent proceeds of pride, And pride proceedis of the devil; Thus alway they proceed of evil.
Another fault, Sir, may be seen, They hide their face all but the een; When gentlemen bid them good-day, Without reverence they slide away. * * Without their faults be soon amended, My flyting,[10] Sir, shall never be ended; But would your grace my counsel take, A proclamation ye should make, Both through the land and burrowstowns, To show their face and cut their gowns. Women will say, This is no bourds,[11] To write such vile and filthy words; But would they cleanse their filthy tails, Whilk over the mires and middings[12] trails, Then should my writing cleansed be, None other' mends they get of me.
Quoth Lyndsay, in contempt of the side tails, That duddrons[13] and duntibours[14] through the dubbës trails.
[1] 'Side tails:' long skirts. [2] 'Mene:' complain. [3] 'Irk:' May feel annoyed. [4] 'Claggocks:' draggle-tails. [5] 'Raploch:' homespun. [6] 'Cleckit:' born. [7] 'Cleid:' clothe. [8] 'Duddron:' slut. [9] 'Nor:' than. [10] 'Flyting:' scolding. [11] 'Bourds:' jest. [12] 'Middings:' dunghills. [13] 'Duddrons:' sluts. [14] 'Duntibours:' harlots.
THOMAS TUSSER
Of Tusser we know only that he was horn in the year 1523, was well educated, commenced life as a courtier under the patronage of Lord Paget, but became a farmer, pursuing agriculture at Ratwood in Sussex, Ipswich, Fairsted in Essex, Norwich, and other places; that he was not successful, and had to betake himself to other occupations, such as those of a chorister, fiddler, &c.; and that, finally, he died a poor man in London in the year 1580. Tusser has left only one work, published in 1557, entitled 'A Hundred Good Points of Husbandrie,' written in simple but sometimes strong verse. It is our first, and not our worst didactic poem.
DIRECTIONS FOR CULTIVATING A HOP-GARDEN
Whom fancy persuadeth, among other crops, To have for his spending sufficient of hops, Must willingly follow, of choices to choose, Such lessons approved as skilful do use.
Ground gravelly, sandy, and mixed with clay, Is naughty for hops, any manner of way. Or if it be mingled with rubbish and stone, For dryness and barrenness let it alone.
Choose soil for the hop of the rottenest mould, Well dunged and wrought, as a garden-plot should; Not far from the water, but not overflown, This lesson, well noted, is meet to be known.
The sun in the south, or else southly and west, Is joy to the hop, as a welcomed guest; But wind in the north, or else northerly east, To the hop is as ill as a fray in a feast.
Meet plot for a hop-yard once found as is told, Make thereof account, as of jewel of gold; Now dig it, and leave it, the sun for to burn, And afterwards fence it, to serve for that turn.
The hop for his profit I thus do exalt, It strengtheneth drink, and it favoureth malt; And being well brew'd, long kept it will last, And drawing abide--if ye draw not too fast.
HOUSEWIFELY PHYSIC
Good housewife provides, ere a sickness do come, Of sundry good things in her house to have some. Good aqua composita, and vinegar tart, Rose-water, and treacle, to comfort thine heart. Cold herbs in her garden, for agues that burn, That over-strong heat to good temper may turn. White endive, and succory, with spinach enow; All such with good pot-herbs, should follow the plough. Get water of fumitory, liver to cool, And others the like, or else lie like a fool. Conserves of barbary, quinces, and such, With sirops, that easeth the sickly so much. Ask Medicus' counsel, ere medicine ye take, And honour that man for necessity's sake. Though thousands hate physic, because of the cost, Yet thousands it helpeth, that else should be lost. Good broth, and good keeping, do much now and than: Good diet, with wisdom, best comforteth man. In health, to be stirring shall profit thee best; In sickness, hate trouble; seek quiet and rest. Remember thy soul; let no fancy prevail; Make ready to God-ward; let faith never quail: The sooner thyself thou submittest to God, The sooner he ceaseth to scourge with his rod.
MORAL REFLECTIONS ON THE WIND
Though winds do rage, as winds were wood,[1] And cause spring-tides to raise great flood; And lofty ships leave anchor in mud, Bereaving many of life and of blood: Yet, true it is, as cow chews cud, And trees, at spring, doth yield forth bud, Except wind stands as never it stood, It is an ill wind turns none to good.
[1] 'Wood:' mad.
VAUX, EDWARDS, &c
In Tottell's 'Miscellany,' the first of the sort in the English language, published in 1557, although the names of many of the authors are not given, the following writers are understood to have contributed:--Sir Francis Bryan, a friend of Wyatt's, one of the principal ornaments of the Court of Henry VIII., and who died, in 1548, Chief Justiciary of Ireland; George Boleyn, Earl of Rochford, the amiable brother of the famous Anne Boleyn, and who fell a victim to the insane jealousy of Henry, being beheaded in 1536; and Lord Thomas Vaux, son of Nicholas Vaux, who died in the latter end of Queen Mary's reign. In the same Miscellany is found 'Phillide and Harpalus,' the 'first true pastoral,' says Warton, 'in the English language,' (see 'Specimens.') To it are annexed, too, a collection of 'Songes, written by N. G.,' which means Nicholas Grimoald, an Oxford man, renowned for his rhetorical lectures in Christ Church, and for being, after Surrey, our first writer of blank verse, in the modulation of which he excelled even Surrey. Henry himself, who was an expert musician, is said also to have composed a book of sonnets and one madrigal in praise of Anne Boleyn. In the same reign occur the names of Borde, Bale, Bryan, Annesley, John Rastell, Wilfred Holme, and Charles Bansley, all writers of minor and forgotten poems. John Heywood, called the Epigrammatist, was of a somewhat higher order. He was the favourite of Sir Thomas More and the pensioner of Henry VIII. He gained favour partly through his conversational humour, and partly through his writings. He is the author of various comedies; of six hundred epigrams, most of them very poor; of a dialogue, in verse, containing all the proverbs then afloat in the language; of an apologue, entitled 'The Spider and the Fly,' &c. Heywood, who was a rigid Papist, left the kingdom after the decease of Queen Mary, and died at Mechlin, in Brabant, in 1565. Warton has preserved some specimens of Sir Thomas More's poetry, which do not add much to our conception of his genius. In 1542, one Robert Vaughan wrote an alliterative poem, entitled 'The Falcon and the Pie.' In 1521, 'The Not-browne Maid,' (given by us in 'Percy's Reliques,') appeared in a curious collection, called 'Arnolde's Chronicle, or Customs of London.' In the same year Wynkyn de Worde printed a set of 'Christmas Carols,' and in 1529 'A Treatise of Merlin, or his Prophecies in Verse.' In Henry's days, too, there commences the long line of translators of the Psalms into English metre, commencing with Thomas Sternhold, groom of the robes to the King, who versified fifty-one psalms, which were published in 1549, and with John Hopkins, a clergyman and schoolmaster in Suffolk, who added fifty-eight more, and progressing with Whyttingham, Thomas Norton, (the joint author, along with Lord Buckhurst, of the curious old tragedy of 'Gorboduc,') Robert Wisdome, William Hunnis, William Baldwyn, Parker, the scholarly and celebrated Archbishop of Canterbury, &c. &c. Parker trans- lated all the Psalms himself; and John Day published in 1562, and attached to the Book of Common Prayer, the whole of Sternhold and Hopkins' 'Psalms, with apt notes to sing them withall.' In Edward's reign appeared a very different strain--the first drinking-song of merit in the language, 'Back and sides go bare'--(see 'Specimens,' vol. 2.) This song occurs at the opening of the second act of 'Gammer Gurton's Needle,' a comedy written (by a 'Mr S.') and printed in 1551, and afterwards acted at Christ's College in Cambridge.
In the reign of Mary, flourished Richard Edwards, a man of no small versatility of genius. He was a native of Somersetshire, was born about 1523, and died in 1566. He wrote two comedies, one entitled 'Damon and Pythias,' and the other 'Palamon and Arcité,' both of which were acted before Queen Elizabeth. He also contrived masques and wrote verses for pageants, and is said to have been the first fiddler, the most elegant sonnetteer, and the most amusing mimic of the Court. He is the author of a pleasing poem, entitled 'Amantium irae,' and of some lines under the title, 'He requesteth some friendly comfort, affirming his constancy.' We quote a few of them:--
'The mountains nigh, whose lofty tops do meet the haughty sky, The craggy rock, that to the sea free passage doth deny, The aged oak, that doth resist the force of blust'ring blast, The pleasant herb, that everywhere a pleasant smell doth cast, The lion's force, whose courage stout declares a prince-like might, The eagle, that for worthiness is borne of kings in fight-- Then these, I say, and thousands more, by tract of time decay, And, like to time, do quite consume and fade from form to clay; But my true heart and service vow'd shall last time out of mind, And still remain, as thine by doom, as Cupid hath assign'd.'
Edwards also contributed some beautiful things to the well-known old collection, 'The Paradise of Dainty Devices.'
GEORGE GASCOIGNE
Gascoigne was born in 1540, in Essex, of an ancient family. He was educated at Cambridge, and entered at Gray's Inn, but was disinherited by his father for extravagance, and betook himself to Holland, where he obtained a commission from the Prince of Orange. After various vicissitudes of fortune, being at one time taken prisoner by the Spaniards, and at another receiving a reward from the Prince of three hundred guilders above his pay for his brave conduct at the siege of Middleburg, he returned to England. In 1575, he accompanied Queen Elizabeth in one of her progresses, and wrote for her a mask, entitled 'The Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth.' He is said to have died at Stamford in 1578. He is the author of two or three translated dramas, such as 'The Supposes,' a comedy from Ariosto, and 'Jocasta,' a tragedy from Euripides, besides some graceful and lively minor pieces, one or two of which we append.
GOOD-MORROW
You that have spent the silent night In sleep and quiet rest, And joy to see the cheerful light That riseth in the east; Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart, Come help me now to sing: Each willing wight come, bear a part, To praise the heavenly King.
And you whom care in prison keeps, Or sickness doth suppress, Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps, Or dolours do distress; Yet bear a part in doleful wise, Yea, think it good accord, And acceptable sacrifice, Each sprite to praise the Lord.
The dreadful night with darksomeness Had overspread the light; And sluggish sleep with drowsiness Had overpress'd our might: A glass wherein you may behold Each storm that stops our breath, Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould, And sleep like dreadful death.
Yet as this deadly night did last But for a little space, And heavenly day, now night is past, Doth show his pleasant face: So must we hope to see God's face, At last in heaven on high, When we have changed this mortal place For immortality.
And of such haps and heavenly joys As then we hope to hold, All earthly sights, and worldly toys, Are tokens to behold. The day is like the day of doom, The sun, the Son of man; The skies, the heavens; the earth, the tomb, Wherein we rest till than.
The rainbow bending in the sky, Bedcck'd with sundry hues, Is like the seat of God on high, And seems to tell these news: That as thereby He promised To drown the world no more, So by the blood which Christ hath shed, He will our health restore.
The misty clouds that fall sometime, And overcast the skies, Are like to troubles of our time, Which do but dim our eyes. But as such dews are dried up quite, When Phoebus shows his face, So are such fancies put to flight, Where God doth guide by grace.
The carrion crow, that loathsome beast, Which cries against the rain, Both for her hue, and for the rest, The devil resembleth plain: And as with guns we kill the crow, For spoiling our relief, The devil so must we o'erthrow, With gunshot of belief.
The little birds which sing so sweet, Are like the angels' voice, Which renders God His praises meet, And teach[1] us to rejoice: And as they more esteem that mirth, Than dread the night's annoy, So much we deem our days on earth But hell to heavenly joy.
Unto which joys for to attain, God grant us all His grace, And send us, after worldly pain, In heaven to have a place, When we may still enjoy that light, Which never shall decay: Lord, for thy mercy lend us might, To see that joyful day.
[1] 'Teach:' for teacheth.
GOOD-NIGHT
When thou hast spent the ling'ring day In pleasure and delight, Or after toil and weary way, Dost seek to rest at night; Unto thy pains or pleasures past, Add this one labour yet, Ere sleep close up thine eyes too fast, Do not thy God forget,
But search within thy secret thoughts, What deeds did thee befall, And if thou find amiss in aught, To God for mercy call. Yea, though thou findest nought amiss Which thou canst call to mind, Yet evermore remember this, There is the more behind:
And think how well soe'er it be That thou hast spent the day, It came of God, and not of thee, So to direct thy way. Thus if thou try thy daily deeds, And pleasure in this pain, Thy life shall cleanse thy corn from weeds, And thine shall be the gain:
But if thy sinful, sluggish eye, Will venture for to wink, Before thy wading will may try How far thy soul may sink, Beware and wake,[1] for else thy bed, Which soft and smooth is made, May heap more harm upon thy head Than blows of en'my's blade.
Thus if this pain procure thine ease, In bed as thou dost lie, Perhaps it shall not God displease, To sing thus soberly: 'I see that sleep is lent me here, To ease my weary bones, As death at last shall eke appear, To ease my grievous groans.
'My daily sports, my paunch full fed, Have caused my drowsy eye, As careless life, in quiet led, Might cause my soul to die: The stretching arms, the yawning breath, Which I to bedward use, Are patterns of the pangs of death, When life will me refuse;
'And of my bed each sundry part, In shadows, doth resemble The sundry shapes of death, whose dart Shall make my flesh to tremble. My bed it safe is, like the grave, My sheets the winding-sheet, My clothes the mould which I must have, To cover me most meet.
'The hungry fleas, which frisk so fresh, To worms I can compare, Which greedily shall gnaw my flesh, And leave the bones full bare: The waking cock that early crows, To wear the night away, Puts in my mind the trump that blows Before the latter day.
'And as I rise up lustily, When sluggish sleep is past, So hope I to rise joyfully, To judgment at the last. Thus will I wake, thus will I sleep, Thus will I hope to rise, Thus will I neither wail nor weep, But sing in godly wise.
'My bones shall in this bed remain My soul in God shall trust, By whom I hope to rise again From, death and earthly dust.'
[1] 'Wake:' watch.
THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST AND EARL OF DORSET
This was a man of remarkable powers. He was the son of Sir Richard Sackville, and born at Withyam, in Sussex, in 1527. He was educated and became distinguished at both the universities. While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote, some say in conjunction with Thomas Norton, the tragedy of 'Gorboduc,' which is probably the earliest original tragedy in the English language. It was first played as part of a Christmas entertainment by the young students, and subsequently before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall in 1561. Sackville was elected to Parliament when thirty years of age. In the same year (1557) he formed the plan of a magnificent poem, which, had he fully accomplished it, would have ranked his name with Dante, Spenser, and Bunyan. This was his 'Mirrour for Magistrates,' a poem intended to celebrate the chief of the illustrious unfortunates in British history, such as King Richard II., Owen Glendower, James I. of Scotland, Henry VI., Jack Cade, the Duke of Buckingham, &c., in a series of legends, supposed to be spoken by the characters them- selves, and with epilogues interspersed to connect the stories. The work aspired to be the English 'Decameron' of doom, and the part of it extant is truly called by Campbell 'a bold and gloomy landscape, on which the sun never shines.' Sackville had coadjutors in the work, all men of considerable mark, such as Skelton, Baldwyn, a learned ecclesiastic, and Ferrers, a man of rank. The first edition of the 'Mirrour for Magistrates' appeared in 1559, and was wholly composed by Baldwyn and Ferrers. In the second, which was issued in 1563, appeared the 'Induction and Legend of Henry Duke of Buckingham' from Sackville's own pen. He lays the scene in hell, and descends there under the guidance of Sorrow. His pictures are more condensed than those of Spenser, although less so than those of Dante, and are often startling in their power, and deep, desolate grandeur. Take this, for instance, of 'Old Age:'--
'Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed, Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four, With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; His scalp all piled, and he with eld forelore, His wither'd fist still knocking at Deaths door; Fumbling and drivelling, as he draws his breath; For brief--the shape and messenger of Death.'
Politics diverted Sackville from poetry. This is deeply to be regretted, as his poetic gift was of a very rare order. In 1566, on the death of his father, he was promoted to the title of Lord Buckhurst. In the fourteenth year of Elizabeth's reign he was employed by her in an embassy to Charles IX. of France. In 1587 he went as an ambassador to the United Provinces. He was subsequently made Knight of the Garter and Chancellor of Oxford. On the death of Lord Burleigh he became Lord High Treasurer of England. In March 1604 he was created Earl of Dorset by James I., but died suddenly soon after, at the council table, of a disease of the brain. He was, as a statesman, almost immaculate in reputation. Like Burke and Canning, in later days, he carried taste and literary exactitude into his political functions, and, on account of his eloquence, was called 'the Bell of the Star-Chamber.' Even in that Augustan age of our history, and in that most brilliantly intellectual Court, it may be doubted if, with the sole exception of Lord Bacon, there was a man to be compared to Thomas Sackville for genius.
ALLEGORICAL CHARACTERS FROM THE MIRROR FOR MAGISTRATES.
And first, within the porch and jaws of hell, Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent With tears; and to herself oft would she tell Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament With thoughtful care; as she that, all in vain, Would wear and waste continually in pain:
Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there, Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance brought, So was her mind continually in fear, Toss'd and tormented with the tedious thought Of those detested crimes which she had wrought; With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, Wishing for death, and yet she could not die.
Next saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook, With foot uncertain, proffer'd here and there; Benumb'd with speech; and, with a ghastly look, Search'd every place, all pale and dead for fear, His cap borne up with staring of his hair; 'Stoin'd and amaz'd at his own shade for dread, And fearing greater dangers than was need.
And next, within the entry of this lake, Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire; Devising means how she may vengeance take; Never in rest, till she have her desire; But frets within so far forth with the fire Of wreaking flames, that now determines she To die by death, or Veng'd by death to be.
When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence, Had show'd herself, as next in order set, With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, Till in our eyes another set we met; When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet, Ruing, alas! upon the woeful plight Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight:
His face was lean, and some deal pined away And eke his hands consumed to the bone; But what his body was I cannot say, For on his carcase raiment had he none, Save clouts and patches pieced one by one; With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, His chief defence against the winter's blast:
His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree, Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share, Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he, As on the which full daint'ly would he fare; His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground: To this poor life was Misery ybound.
Whose wretched state when we had well beheld, With tender ruth on him, and on his feres, In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held; And, by and by, another shape appears Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers; His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dinted in With tawed hands, and hard ytanned skin:
The morrow gray no sooner hath begun To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes, But he is up, and to his work yrun; But let the night's black misty mantles rise, And with foul dark never so much disguise The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, But hath his candles to prolong his toil.
By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath; Small keep took he, whom Fortune frowned on, Or whom she lifted up into the throne Of high renown, but, as a living death, So dead alive, of life he drew the breath:
The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, The travel's ease, the still night's fere was he, And of our life in earth the better part; Riever of sight, and yet in whom we see Things oft that [tyde] and oft that never be; Without respect, esteeming equally King Croesus' pomp and Irus' poverty.
And next in order sad, Old Age we found: His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind; With drooping cheer still poring on the ground, As on the place where nature him assign'd To rest, when that the sisters had untwined His vital thread, and ended with their knife The fleeting course of fast declining life:
There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint. Rue with himself his end approaching fast, And all for nought his wretched mind torment With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past. And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste; Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek, And to be young again of Jove beseek!
But, an the cruel fates so fixed be That time forepast cannot return again, This one request of Jove yet prayed he That in such wither'd plight, and wretched pain, As eld, accompanied with her loathsome train, Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief, He might a while yet linger forth his life,
And not so soon descend into the pit; Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain, With reckless hand in grave doth cover it: Thereafter never to enjoy again The gladsome light, but, in the ground ylain, In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought, As he had ne'er into the world been brought:
But who had seen him sobbing how he stood Unto himself, and how he would bemoan His youth forepast--as though it wrought him good To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone-- He would have mused, and marvell'd much whereon This wretched Age should life desire so fain, And knows full well life doth but length his pain:
Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed; Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four; With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; His scalp all piled,[1] and he with eld forelore, His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door; Fumbling, and drivelling, as he draws his breath; For brief, the shape and messenger of Death.
And fast by him pale Malady was placed: Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone; Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste, Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone; Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one Abhorring her; her sickness past recure, Detesting physic, and all physic's cure.
But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see! We turn'd our look, and on the other side A grisly shape of Famine might we see: With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried And roar'd for meat, as she should there have died; Her body thin and bare as any bone, Whereto was left nought but the case alone.
And that, alas! was gnawen everywhere, All full of holes; that I ne might refrain From tears, to see how she her arms could tear, And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain, When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain Her starven corpse, that rather seem'd a shade Than any substance of a creature made:
Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay: Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw; With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay Be satisfied from hunger of her maw, But eats herself as she that hath no law; Gnawing, alas! her carcase all in vain, Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein.
On her while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes, That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight, Lo, suddenly she shriek'd in so huge wise As made hell-gates to shiver with the might; Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death Enthirling[2] it, to rieve her of her breath:
And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw, Heavy and cold, the shape of Death aright, That daunts all earthly creatures to his law, Against whose force in vain it is to fight; No peers, nor princes, nor no mortal wight, No towns, nor realms, cities, nor strongest tower, But all, perforce, must yield unto his power:
His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took, And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see) With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook, That most of all my fears affrayed me; His body dight with nought but bones, pardy; The naked shape of man there saw I plain, All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein.
Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad, With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued: In his right hand a naked sword he had, That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued; And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) Famine and fire he held, and therewithal He razed towns, and threw down towers and all:
Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilom flower'd In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest) He overwhelm'd, and all their fame devour'd, Consumed, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceased, Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd: His face forhew'd with wounds; and by his side There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide.
[1] 'Piled:' bare. [2] 'Enthirling:' piercing.
HENRY DUKE OP BUCKINGHAM IN THE INFERNAL REGIONS.
Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham, His cloak of black all piled,[1] and quite forlorn, Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth blame, Which of a duke had made him now her scorn; With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn, Oft spread his arms, stretch'd hands he joins as fast With rueful cheer, and vapour'd eyes upcast.
His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat; His hair all torn, about the place it lain: My heart so molt to see his grief so great, As feelingly, methought, it dropp'd away: His eyes they whirl'd about withouten stay: With stormy sighs the place did so complain, As if his heart at each had burst in twain.
Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale, And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice; At each of which he shrieked so withal, As though the heavens rived with the noise; Till at the last, recovering of his voice, Supping the tears that all his breast berain'd, On cruel Fortune weeping thus he plain'd.
[1] 'Piled:' bare.
JOHN HARRINGTON
Of Harrington we know only that he was born in 1534 and died in 1582; that he was imprisoned in the Tower by Queen Mary for holding correspondence with Elizabeth; and after the accession of the latter to the throne, was favoured and promoted by her; and that he has written some pretty verses of an amatory kind.
SONNET ON ISABELLA MARKHAM,
WHEN I FIRST THOUGHT HER FAIR, AS SHE STOOD AT THE PRINCESS'S WINDOW, IN GOODLY ATTIRE, AND TALKED TO DIVERS IN THE COURT-YARD.
Whence comes my love? O heart, disclose; It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze: Whence comes my woe? as freely own; Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.
The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, The lips befitting words most kind, The eye does tempt to love's desire, And seems to say, ''Tis Cupid's fire;' Yet all so fair but speak my moan, Since nought doth say the heart of stone.
Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek Yet not a heart to save my pain; O Venus, take thy gifts again; Make not so fair to cause our moan, Or make a heart that's like our own.
VERSES ON A MOST STONY-HEARTED MAIDEN WHO DID SORELY BEGUILE THE NOBLE KNIGHT, MY TRUE FRIEND.
I.
Why didst thou raise such woeful wail, And waste in briny tears thy days? 'Cause she that wont to flout and rail, At last gave proof of woman's ways; She did, in sooth, display the heart That might have wrought thee greater smart.
II.
Why, thank her then, not weep or moan; Let others guard their careless heart, And praise the day that thus made known The faithless hold on woman's art; Their lips can gloze and gain such root, That gentle youth hath hope of fruit.
III.
But, ere the blossom fair doth rise, To shoot its sweetness o'er the taste, Creepeth disdain in canker-wise, And chilling scorn the fruit doth blast: There is no hope of all our toil; There is no fruit from such a soil.
IV.
Give o'er thy plaint, the danger's o'er; She might have poison'd all thy life; Such wayward mind had bred thee more Of sorrow, had she proved thy wife: Leave her to meet all hopeless meed, And bless thyself that so art freed.
V.
No youth shall sue such one to win. Unmark'd by all the shining fair, Save for her pride and scorn, such sin As heart of love can never bear; Like leafless plant in blasted shade, So liveth she--a barren maid.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
All hail to Sidney!--the pink of chivalry--the hero of Zutphen--the author of the 'Arcadia,'--the gifted, courteous, genial and noble-minded man! He was born November 29, 1554, at Penshurst, Kent. His father's name was Henry. He studied at Shrewsbury, at Trinity College, Cambridge, and at Christ Church, Oxford. At the age of eighteen he set out on his travels, and, in the course of three years, visited France, Flanders, Germany, Hungary, and Italy. On his return he was introduced at Court, and became a favourite with Queen Elizabeth, who sent him on an embassy to Germany. He returned home, and shortly after had a quarrel at a tournament with Lord Oxford. But for the interference of the Queen, a duel would have taken place. Sidney was displeased at the issue of the affair, and retired, in 1580, to Wilton, in Wiltshire, where he wrote his famous 'Arcadia,'--that true prose-poem, and a work which, with all its faults, no mere sulky and spoiled child (as some have called him in the matter of this retreat) could ever have produced. This production, written as an outflow of his mind in its self-sought solitude, was never meant for publication, and did not appear till after its author's death. As it was written partly for his sister's amusement, he entitled it 'The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia.' In 1581, Sidney reappeared in Court, and distinguished himself in the jousts and tournaments celebrated in honour of the Duke of Anjou; and on the return of that prince to the Continent, he accompanied him to Antwerp. In 1583 he received the honour of knighthood. He published about this time a tract entitled 'The Defence of Poesy,' which abounds in the element the praise of which it celebrates, and which is, besides, distinguished by acuteness of argument and felicity of expression. In 1585 he was named one of the candidates for the crown of Poland; but Queen Elizabeth, afraid of 'losing the jewel of her times,' prevented him from accepting this honour, and prevented him also from accompanying Sir Francis Drake on an expedition against the Spanish settlements in America. In the same year, however, she made him Governor of Flushing, and subsequently General of the Cavalry, under his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, who commanded the troops sent to assist the oppressed Dutch Protestants against the Spaniards. Here our hero greatly distinguished himself, particularly when capturing, in 1586, the town of Axel. His career, however, was destined to be short. On the 22d of September of the same year he accidentally encountered a convoy of the enemy marching toward Zutphen. In the engagement which followed, his party triumphed; but their brave commander received a shot in the thigh, which shattered the bone. As he was carried from the field, overcome with thirst, he called for water, but while about to apply it to his lips, he saw a wounded soldier carried by who was eagerly eyeing the cup. Sidney, perceiving this, instantly delivered to him the water, saying, in words which would have made an ordinary man immortal, but which give Sir Philip a twofold immortality, 'Thy necessity is greater than mine.' He was carried to Arnheim, and lingered on till October 17, when he died. He was only thirty-two years of age. His death was an earthquake at home. All England wore mourning for him. Queen Elizabeth ordered his remains to be carried to London, and to receive a public funeral in St Paul's. He was identified with the land's Poetry, Politeness, and Protestantism; and all who admired any of the three, sorrowed for Sidney.
Sidney's 'Sonnets and other Poems' contain much that is quaint, but also much that is beautiful and true; yet they are the least poetical of his works. His 'Arcadia' is a glorious unfinished and unpolished wilderness of fancy. It is a vineyard, the scattered clusters of which are so heavy, that, like the grapes of Eshcol of old, they must be carried on a staff. Here is one of those rich clusters:--
'There were hills, which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets, which, being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so, too, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security; while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dams' comfort; here a shepherd's boy, piping as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess, knitting and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice-music.'
From 'The Defence of Poesy' we could cull, did space permit, a hundred passages even superior to the above, full of dexterous reasoning, splendid rhetoric, and subtle fancy, and substantiating all that has been said in favour of Sir Philip Sidney's accomplishments, chivalric earnestness, and richly-endowed genius.
TO SLEEP
FROM THE 'ARCADIA.'
Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe; The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low.
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease[1] Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw: Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease! I will good tribute pay if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland and a weary head; And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.
[1] 'Prease:' press, throng.
SONNETS.
I.
Because I oft in dark abstracted guise Seem most alone in greatest company, With dearth of words, or answers quite awry To them that would make speech of speech arise, They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies, That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie So in my swelling breast, that only I Fawn on myself, and others do despise. Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess, Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass; But one worse fault, Ambition, I confess, That makes me oft my best friends overpass, Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace.
II.
With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and with how wan a face! What! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace, To me that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
III.
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enemy France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance; Townfolks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think nature me a man of arms did make. How far they shot awry! the true cause is, Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
IV.
In martial sports I had my cunning tried, And yet to break more staves did me address; While with the people's shouts, I must confess, Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins with pride. When Cupid, having me (his slave) descried In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, 'What now, Sir Fool,' said he, 'I would no less. Look here, I say.' I look'd, and Stella spied, Who hard by made a window send forth light. My heart then quaked, then dazzled were mine eyes; One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight; Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries; My foe came on, and beat the air for me, Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.
V.
Of all the kings that ever here did reign, Edward named Fourth as first in praise I name; Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain, Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame: Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain, And, gain'd by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame, That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain: Nor that he made the Flower-de-luce so 'fraid, Though strongly hedged of bloody Lion's paws, That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid. Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause-- But only for this worthy knight durst prove To lose his crown, rather than fail his love.
VI.
O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear! I saw thee with full many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did shine. The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Ravish'd, stay'd not, till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison!) twine: And fain those Oeol's youth there would their stay Have made; but, forced by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She, so dishevell'd, blush'd. From window I, With sight thereof, cried out, 'O fair disgrace; Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place.'
ROBERT SOUTHWELL
Robert Southwell was born in 1560, at St. Faith's, Norfolk. His parents were Roman Catholics, and sent him when very young to be educated at the English College of Douay, in Flanders. Thence he went to Borne, and when sixteen years of age he joined the Society of the Jesuits--a strange bed for the rearing of a poet. In 1585, he was appointed Prefect of Studies, and was soon after despatched as a missionary of his order to England. There, notwithstanding a law condemning to death all members of his profession found in this country, he laboured on for eight years, residing chiefly with Anne, Countess of Arundel, who died afterwards in the Tower. In July 1592, Southwell was arrested in a gentleman's house at Uxendon in Middlesex. He was thrust into a dungeon so filthy that when he was brought out to be examined his clothes were covered with vermin. This made his father--a man of good family--petition Queen Elizabeth that if his son was guilty of anything deserving death he might suffer it, but that, meanwhile, being a gentleman, he should be treated as a gentleman. In consequence of this he was somewhat better lodged, but continued for nearly three years strictly confined to prison; and as the Queen's agents imagined that he was in the secret of some conspiracies against the Government, he was put to the torture ten times. In despair, he entreated to be brought to trial, whereupon Cecil coolly remarked, 'that if he was in such haste to be hanged, he should quickly have his desire.' On the 20th of February 1595, he was brought to trial at King's Bench, and having confessed himself a Papist and a Jesuit, he was condemned to death, and executed at Tyburn next day, with all the nameless barbarities enjoined by the treason laws of these unhappy times. He is believed to have borne all his sufferings with unalterable serenity of mind and sweetness of temper. 'It is fitting,' says Burke, 'that those made to suffer should suffer well.' And suffer well throughout all his short life of sorrow, Southwell did.
He was, undoubtedly, although in a false position, a true man, and a true poet. To hope all things and believe all things, in reference to a Jesuit, is a difficult task for Protestant charity. Yet what system so vile but it has sometimes been gloriously misrepresented by its votaries? Who that ever read Edward Irving's 'Preface to Ben Ezra'--that modern Areopagitica--combining the essence of a hundred theological treatises with the spirit and grandeur of a Pindaric or Homeric ode--has forgot the pictures of Ben Ezra, or Lacunza the Jesuit? His work, 'The Coming of the Messiah in Glory and Majesty,' Irving translated from Spanish into his own noble English prose, and he describes the author as a man of primitive manners, ardent piety, and enormous erudition, and expresses a hope, long since we trust fulfilled, of meeting with the 'good old Jesuit' in a better world. To this probably small class of exceptions to a general rule (it surely is no uncharity to say this, since the annals of Jesuitism have confessedly been so stained with falsehood, treachery, every insidious art, and every detestable crime) seems to have belonged our poet. No proof was produced that he had any connexion with the treacherous and bloody designs of his party, although he had plied his priestly labours with unwearied assiduity. He was too sincere-minded a man to have ever been admitted to the darker secrets of the Jesuits.
His verses are ingenious, simpler in style than was common in his time --distinguished here by homely picturesqueness, and there by solemn moralising. A shade of deep but serene and unrepining sadness, connected partly with his position and partly with his foreseen destiny, (his larger works were written in prison,) rests on the most of his poems.
LOOK HOME
Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights, As beauty doth in self-beholding eye: Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights, A brief wherein all miracles summ'd lie; Of fairest forms, and sweetest shapes the store, Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them more.
The mind a creature is, yet can create, To nature's patterns adding higher skill Of finest works; wit better could the state, If force of wit had equal power of will. Device of man in working hath no end; What thought can think, another thought can mend.
Man's soul of endless beauties image is, Drawn by the work of endless skill and might: This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss, And, to discern this bliss, a native light, To frame God's image as his worth required; His might, his skill, his word and will conspired.
All that he had, his image should present; All that it should present, he could afford; To that he could afford his will was bent; His will was follow'd with performing word. Let this suffice, by this conceive the rest, He should, he could, he would, he did the best.
THE IMAGE OF DEATH
Before my face the picture hangs, That daily should put me in mind Of those cold names and bitter pangs That shortly I am like to find; But yet, alas! full little I Do think hereon, that I must die.
I often look upon a face Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin; I often view the hollow place Where eyes and nose had sometime been; I see the bones across that lie, Yet little think that I must die.
I read the label underneath, That telleth me whereto I must; I see the sentence too, that saith, 'Remember, man, thou art but dust.' But yet, alas! how seldom I Do think, indeed, that I must die!
Continually at my bed's head A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I ere morning may be dead, Though now I feel myself full well; But yet, alas! for all this, I Have little mind that I must die!
The gown which I am used to wear, The knife wherewith I cut my meat; And eke that old and ancient chair, Which is my only usual seat; All these do tell me I must die, And yet my life amend not I.
My ancestors are turn'd to clay, And many of my mates are gone; My youngers daily drop away, And can I think to 'scape alone? No, no; I know that I must die, And yet my life amend not I.
* * * * *
If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart; If rich and poor his beck obey; If strong, if wise, if all do smart, Then I to 'scape shall have no way: Then grant me grace, O God! that I My life may mend, since I must die.
LOVE'S SERVILE LOT
Love mistress is of many minds, Yet few know whom they serve; They reckon least how little hope Their service doth deserve.
The will she robbeth from the wit, The sense from reason's lore; She is delightful in the rind, Corrupted in the core.
* * * * *
May never was the month of love; For May is full of flowers: But rather April, wet by kind; For love is full of showers.
With soothing words, inthralled souls She chains in servile bands! Her eye in silence hath a speech Which eye best understands.
Her little sweet hath many sours, Short hap, immortal harms Her loving looks are murdering darts, Her songs bewitching charms.
Like winter rose, and summer ice, Her joys are still untimely; Before her hope, behind remorse, Fair first, in fine[1] unseemly.
Plough not the seas, sow not the sands, Leave off your idle pain; Seek other mistress for your minds, Love's service is in vain.
[1] 'Fine:' end.
TIMES GO BY TURNS
The lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.
The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; She draws her favours to the lowest ebb: Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web: No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, Not endless night, yet not eternal day: The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.
THOMAS WATSON
He was born in 1560, and died about 1592. All besides known certainly of him is, that he was a native of London, and studied the common law, but seems to have spent much of his time in the practice of rhyme. His sonnets--one or two of which we subjoin--have considerable merit; but we agree with Campbell in thinking that Stevens has surely overrated them when he prefers them to Shakspeare's.
THE NYMPHS TO THEIR MAY-QUEEN
With fragrant flowers we strew the way, And make this our chief holiday: For though this clime was blest of yore, Yet was it never proud before. O beauteous queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeigned joy.
Now the air is sweeter than sweet balm, And satyrs dance about the palm; Now earth with verdure newly dight, Gives perfect signs of her delight: O beauteous queen!
Now birds record new harmony, And trees do whistle melody: And everything that nature breeds Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds.
SONNET.
Actaeon lost, in middle of his sport, Both shape and life for looking but awry: Diana was afraid he would report What secrets he had seen in passing by. To tell the truth, the self-same hurt have I, By viewing her for whom I daily die; I lose my wonted shape, in that my mind Doth suffer wreck upon the stony rock Of her disdain, who, contrary to kind, Does bear a breast more hard than any stock; And former form of limbs is changed quite By cares in love, and want of due delight. I leave my life, in that each secret thought Which I conceive through wanton fond regard, Doth make me say that life availeth nought, Where service cannot have a due reward. I dare not name the nymph that works my smart, Though love hath graven her name within my heart.
THOMAS TURBERVILLE
Of this author--Thomas Turberville--once famous in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, but now almost totally forgotten, and whose works are altogether omitted in most selections, we have preserved a little. He was a voluminous author, having produced, besides many original pieces, a translation of Ovid's Heroical Epistles, from which Warton has selected a short specimen.
IN PRAISE OP THE RENOWNED LADY ANNE, COUNTESS OF WARWICK.
When Nature first in hand did take The clay to frame this Countess' corse, The earth a while she did forsake, And was compell'd of very force, With mould in hand, to flee to skies, To end the work she did devise.
The gods that then in council sate, Were half-amazed, against their kind,[1] To see so near the stool of state Dame Nature stand, that was assign'd Among her worldly imps[2] to wonne,[3] As she until that day had done.
First Jove began: 'What, daughter dear, Hath made thee scorn thy father's will? Why do I see thee, Nature, here, That ought'st of duty to fulfil Thy undertaken charge at home? What makes thee thus abroad to roam?
'Disdainful dame, how didst thou dare, So reckless to depart the ground That is allotted to thy share?' And therewithal his godhead frown'd. 'I will,' quoth Nature, 'out of hand, Declare the cause I fled the land.
'I undertook of late a piece Of clay a featured face to frame, To match the courtly dames of Greece, That for their beauty bear the name; But, O good father, now I see This work of mine it will not be.
'Vicegerent, since you me assign'd Below in earth, and gave me laws On mortal wights, and will'd that kind Should make and mar, as she saw cause: Of right, I think, I may appeal, And crave your help in this to deal.'
When Jove saw how the case did stand, And that the work was well begun, He pray'd to have the helping hand Of other gods till he had done: With willing minds they all agreed, And set upon the clay with speed.
First Jove each limb did well dispose, And makes a creature of the clay; Next, Lady Venus she bestows Her gallant gifts as best she may; From face to foot, from top to toe, She let no whit untouch'd to go.
When Venus had done what she could In making of her carcase brave, Then Pallas thought she might be bold Among the rest a share to have; A passing wit she did convey Into this passing piece of clay.
Of Bacchus she no member had, Save fingers fine and feat[4] to see; Her head with hair Apollo clad, That gods had thought it gold to be: So glist'ring was the tress in sight Of this new form'd and featured wight.
Diana held her peace a space, Until those other gods had done; 'At last,' quoth she, 'in Dian's chase With bow in hand this nymph shall run; And chief of all my noble train I will this virgin entertain.'
Then joyful Juno came and said, 'Since you to her so friendly are, I do appoint this noble maid To match with Mars his peer for war; She shall the Countess Warwick be, And yield Diana's bow to me.'
When to so good effect it came, And every member had his grace, There wanted nothing but a name: By hap was Mercury then in place, That said, 'I pray you all agree, Pandora grant her name to be.
'For since your godheads forged have With one assent this noble dame, And each to her a virtue gave, This term agreeth to the same.' The gods that heard Mercurius tell This tale, did like it passing well.
Report was summon'd then in haste, And will'd to bring his trump in hand, To blow therewith a sounding blast, That might be heard through Brutus' land. Pandora straight the trumpet blew, That each this Countess Warwick knew.
O seely[5] Nature, born to pain, O woful, wretched kind (I say), That to forsake the soil were fain To make this Countess out of clay: But, O most friendly gods, that wold, Vouchsafe to set your hands to mould.
[1] 'Kind:' nature. [2] 'Imps:' children. [3] 'Wonne:' dwell. [4] 'Feat:' neat. [5] 'Seely:' simple.
* * * * *
In reference to the Miscellaneous Pieces which close this period, we need only say that the best of them is 'The Soul's Errand,' and that its authorship is uncertain. It has, with very little evidence in any of the cases, been ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh, to Francis Davison, (author of a compilation entitled 'A Poetical Rhapsody,' published in 1593, and where 'The Soul's Errand' first appeared,) and to Joshua Sylvester, who prints it in his volume of verses, with vile interpolations of his own. Its outspoken energy and pithy language render it worthy of any of our poets.
HARPALUS' COMPLAINT OF PHILLIDA'S LOVE BESTOWED ON CORIN, WHO LOVED HER NOT, AND DENIED HIM THAT LOVED HER.
1 Phillida was a fair maid, As fresh as any flower; Whom Harpalus the herdman pray'd To be his paramour.
2 Harpalus, and eke Corin, Were herdmen both yfere:[1] And Phillida would twist and spin, And thereto sing full clear.
3 But Phillida was all too coy For Harpalus to win; For Corin was her only joy, Who forced[2] her not a pin.
4 How often would she flowers twine, How often garlands make Of cowslips and of columbine, And all for Conn's sake!
5 But Corin he had hawks to lure, And forced more the field: Of lovers' law he took no cure; For once he was beguiled.
6 Harpalus prevailed nought, His labour all was lost; For he was furthest from her thought, And yet he loved her most.
7 Therefore was he both pale and lean, And dry as clod of clay: His flesh it was consumed clean; His colour gone away.
8 His beard it not long be shave; His hair hung all unkempt: A man most fit even for the grave, Whom spiteful love had shent.[3]
9 His eyes were red, and all forwacht;[4] It seem'd unhap had him long hatcht, His face besprent with tears: In midst of his despairs.
10 His clothes were black, and also bare; As one forlorn was he; Upon his head always he ware A wreath of willow tree.
11 His beasts he kept upon the hill, And he sat in the dale; And thus with sighs and sorrows shrill He 'gan to tell his tale.
12 'O Harpalus!' thus would he say; Unhappiest under sun! The cause of thine unhappy day By love was first begun.
13 'For thou went'st first by suit to seek A tiger to make tame, That sets not by thy love a leek, But makes thy grief a game.
14 'As easy it were for to convert The frost into the flame; As for to turn a froward hert, Whom thou so fain wouldst frame.
15 'Cerin he liveth carëless: He leaps among the leaves: He eats the fruits of thy redress: Thou reap'st, he takes the sheaves.
16 'My beasts, a while your food refrain, And hark your herdman's sound; Whom spiteful love, alas! hath slain, Through girt with many a wound,
17 'O happy be ye, beastes wild, That here your pasture takes: I see that ye be not beguiled Of these your faithful makes,[5]
18 'The hart he feedeth by the hind: The buck hard by the doe: The turtle-dove is not unkind To him that loves her so.
19 'The ewe she hath by her the ram: The young cow hath the bull: The calf with many a lusty lamb Do feed their hunger full.
20 'But, well-a-way! that nature wrought Thee, Phillida, so fair: For I may say that I have bought Thy beauty all too dear.
21 'What reason is that cruelty With, beauty should have part? Or else that such great tyranny Should dwell in woman's heart?
22 'I see therefore to shape my death She cruelly is prest,[6] To the end that I may want my breath: My days be at the best.
23 'O Cupid, grant this my request, And do not stop thine ears: That she may feel within her breast The pains of my despairs:
24 'Of Corin that is careless, That she may crave her fee: As I have done in great distress, That loved her faithfully.
25 'But since that I shall die her slave, Her slave, and eke her thrall, Write you, my friends, upon my grave This chance that is befall:
26 '"Here lieth unhappy Harpalus, By cruel love now slain: Whom Phillida unjustly thus Hath murder'd with disdain."'
[1] 'Yfere' together. [2] 'Forced' cared for. [3] 'Shent:' spoiled. [4] 'Forwacht:' from much watching. [5] 'Makes:' mates. [6] 'Prest:' ready.
A PRAISE OF HIS LADY
1 Give place, you ladies, and begone, Boast not yourselves at all, For here at hand approacheth one Whose face will stain you all.
2 The virtue of her lively looks Excels the precious stone; I wish to have none other books To read or look upon.
3 In each of her two crystal eyes Smileth a naked boy; It would you all in heart suffice To see that lamp of joy.
4 I think Nature hath lost the mould Where she her shape did take; Or else I doubt if Nature could So fair a creature make.
5 She may be well compared Unto the phoenix kind, Whose like was never seen nor heard, That any man can find.
6 In life she is Diana chaste, In truth Penelope; In word, and eke in deed, steadfast; What will you more we say?
7 If all the world were sought so far, Who could find such a wight? Her beauty twinkleth like a star Within the frosty night.
8 Her rosial colour comes and goes "With such a comely grace, More ruddier, too, than doth the rose, Within her lively face."
9 At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet, Nor at no wanton play, Nor gazing in an open street, Nor gadding, as astray.
10 The modest mirth that she doth use, Is mix'd with shamefastness; All vice she doth wholly refuse, And hateth idleness.
11 O Lord, it is a world to see How virtue can repair, And deck in her such honesty, Whom Nature made so fair.
12 Truly she doth as far exceed Our women now-a-days, As doth the gilliflower a wreed, And more a thousand ways.
13 How might I do to get a graff Of this unspotted tree? For all the rest are plain but chaff Which seem good corn to be.
14 This gift alone I shall her give, When death doth what he can: Her honest fame shall ever live Within the mouth of man.
THAT ALL THINGS SOMETIME FIND EASE OF THEIR PAIN, SAVE ONLY THE LOVER.
1 I see there is no sort Of things that live in grief, Which at sometime may not resort Where as they have relief.
2 The stricken deer by kind Of death that stands in awe, For his recure an herb can find The arrow to withdraw.
3 The chased deer hath soil To cool him in his heat; The ass, after his weary toil. In stable is up set.
4 The coney hath its cave, The little bird his nest, From heat and cold themselves to save At all times as they list.
5 The owl, with feeble sight, Lies lurking in the leaves, The sparrow in the frosty night May shroud her in the eaves.
6 But woe to me, alas! In sun nor yet in shade, I cannot find a resting-place, My burden to unlade.
7 But day by day still bears The burden on my back, With weeping eyes and wat'ry tears, To hold my hope aback.
8 All things I see have place Wherein they bow or bend, Save this, alas! my woful case, Which nowhere findeth end.
FROM 'THE PHOENIX' NEST.'
O Night, O jealous Night, repugnant to my pleasure, O Night so long desired, yet cross to my content, There's none but only thou can guide me to my treasure, Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent.
Sweet Night, withhold thy beams, withhold them till to-morrow, Whose joy, in lack so long, a hell of torment breeds, Sweet Night, sweet gentle Night, do not prolong my sorrow, Desire is guide to me, and love no loadstar needs.
Let sailors gaze on stars and moon so freshly shining, Let them that miss the way be guided by the light, I know my lady's bower, there needs no more divining, Affection sees in dark, and love hath eyes by night.
Dame Cynthia, couch a while; hold in thy horns for shining, And glad not low'ring Night with thy too glorious rays; But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and repining, That in her spite my sport may work thy endless praise.
And when my will is done, then, Cynthia, shine, good lady, All other nights and days in honour of that night, That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and shady, Wherein my love had eyes that lighted my delight.
FROM THE SAME.
1 The gentle season of the year Hath made my blooming branch appear, And beautified the land with flowers; The air doth savour with delight, The heavens do smile to see the sight, And yet mine eyes augment their showers.
2 The meads are mantled all with green, The trembling leaves have clothed the treen, The birds with feathers new do sing; But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack, Attire myself in mourning black, Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring.
3 And as you see the scarlet rose In his sweet prime his buds disclose, Whose hue is with the sun revived; So, in the April of mine age, My lively colours do assuage, Because my sunshine is deprived.
4 My heart, that wonted was of yore, Light as the winds, abroad to soar Amongst the buds, when beauty springs, Now only hovers over you, As doth the bird that's taken new, And mourns when all her neighbours sings.
5 When every man is bent to sport, Then, pensive, I alone resort Into some solitary walk, As doth the doleful turtle-dove, Who, having lost her faithful love, Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk.
6 There to myself I do recount How far my woes my joys surmount, How love requiteth me with hate, How all my pleasures end in pain, How hate doth say my hope is vain, How fortune frowns upon my state.
7 And in this mood, charged with despair, With vapour'd sighs I dim the air, And to the gods make this request, That by the ending of my life, I may have truce with this strange strife, And bring my soul to better rest.
THE SOUL'S ERRAND
1 Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand, Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant; Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie.
2 Go tell the Court it glows, And shines like rotten wood; Go, tell the Church it shows What's good and doth no good; If Church and Court reply, Then give them both the lie.
3 Tell potentates they live, Acting by others' actions, Not loved, unless they give, Not strong, but by their factions; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie.
4 Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie.
5 Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending; And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie.
6 Tell Zeal it lacks devotion, Tell Love it is but lust, Tell Time it is but motion, Tell Flesh it is but dust; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.
7 Tell Age it daily wasteth, Tell Honour how it alters, Tell Beauty how she blasteth, Tell Favour how she falters; And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie.
8 Tell Wit how much it wrangles In treble points of niceness, Tell Wisdom she entangles Herself in overwiseness; And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie.
9 Tell Physic of her boldness, Tell Skill it is pretension, Tell Charity of coldness, Tell Law it is contention; And as they do reply, So give them still the lie.
10 Tell Fortune of her blindness, Tell Nature of decay, Tell Friendship of unkindness, Tell Justice of delay; And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie.
11 Tell Arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming, Tell Schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming; If Arts and Schools reply, Give Arts and Schools the lie.
12 Tell Faith it's fled the city, Tell how the country erreth, Tell Manhood shakes off pity, Tell Virtue least preferreth; And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie.
13 And when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing; Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the Soul can kill.
* * * * *
SECOND PERIOD
FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT
This remarkable man, from his intimate connexion with Fletcher, is better known as a dramatist than as a poet. He was the son of Judge Beaumont, and descended from an ancient family, which was settled at Grace Dieu in Leicestershire. He was born in 1585-86, and educated at Cambridge. Thence he passed to study in the Inner Temple, but seems to have preferred poetry and the drama to law. He was married to the daughter of Sir Henry Isley of Kent, who bore him two daughters. He died in his 30th year, and was buried March 9, 1615-16, in St Benedict's Chapel, Westminster Abbey. More of his connexion with Fletcher afterwards.
After his death, his brother published a collection of his miscellaneous pieces. We extract a few, of no little merit. His verses to Ben Jonson, written before their author came to London, and first appended to a play entitled 'Nice Valour,' are picturesque and interesting, as illustrating the period.