LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL

LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL

1 Shall I, like a hermit, dwell, On a rock, or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be?

2 Were her tresses angel gold, If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, unafraid, To convert them to a braid, And with little more ado Work them into bracelets, too; If the mine be grown so free, What care I how rich it be?

3 Were her hand as rich a prize As her hairs, or precious eyes, If she lay them out to take Kisses, for good manners' sake, And let every lover skip From her hand unto her lip; If she seem not chaste to me, What care I how chaste she be?

4 No; she must be perfect snow, In effect as well as show; Warming but as snow-balls do, Not like fire, by burning too; But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot, Then if others share with me, Farewell her, whate'er she be!

JOSHUA SYLVESTER.

Joshua Sylvester is the next in the list of our imperfectly-known, but real poets. Very little is known of his history. He was a merchant- adventurer, and died at Middleburg, aged fifty-five, in 1618. He is said to have applied, in 1597, for the office of secretary to a trading company in Stade, and to have been, on this occasion, patronised by the Earl of Essex. He was at one time attached to the English Court as a pensioner of Prince Henry. He is said to have been driven abroad by the severity of his satires. He seems to have had a sweet flow of conversational eloquence, and hence was called 'The Silver-tongued.' He was an eminent linguist, and wrote his dedications in various languages. He published a large volume of poems, very unequal in their value, and inserted in it 'The Soul's Errand,' with interpolations, as we have seen, which prove it not to be his own. His great work is the translation of the 'Divine Weeks and Works' of the French poet, Du Bartas, which is a marvellous medley of flatness and force--of childish weakness and soaring genius--with more seed poetry in it than any poem we remember, except 'Festus,' the chaos of a hundred poetic worlds. There can be little doubt that Milton was familiar with this work in boyhood, and many remarkable coincidences have been pointed out between it and 'Paradise Lost.' Sylvester was a Puritan, and his publisher, Humphrey Lownes, who lived in the same street with Milton's father, belonged to the same sect; and, as Campbell remarks, 'it is easily to be conceived that Milton often repaired to the shop of Lownes, and there met with the pious didactic poem.' The work, therefore, some specimens of which we subjoin, is interesting, both in itself, and as having been the prima stamina of the great masterpiece of English poetry.

TO RELIGION.

1 Religion, O thou life of life, How worldlings, that profane thee rife, Can wrest thee to their appetites! How princes, who thy power deny, Pretend thee for their tyranny, And people for their false delights!

2 Under thy sacred name, all over, The vicious all their vices cover; The insolent their insolence, The proud their pride, the false their fraud, The thief his theft, her filth the bawd, The impudent, their impudence.

3 Ambition under thee aspires, And Avarice under thee desires; Sloth under thee her ease assumes, Lux under thee all overflows, Wrath under thee outrageous grows, All evil under thee presumes.

4 Religion, erst so venerable, What art thou now but made a fable, A holy mask on folly's brow, Where under lies Dissimulation, Lined with all abomination. Sacred Religion, where art thou?

5 Not in the church with Simony, Not on the bench with Bribery, Nor in the court with Machiavel, Nor in the city with deceits, Nor in the country with debates; For what hath Heaven to do with Hell?

ON MAN'S RESEMBLANCE TO GOD. (FROM DU BARTAS.)

O complete creature! who the starry spheres Canst make to move, who 'bove the heavenly bears Extend'st thy power, who guidest with thy hand The day's bright chariot, and the nightly brand: This curious lust to imitate the best And fairest works of the Almightiest, By rare effects bears record of thy lineage And high descent; and that his sacred image Was in thy soul engraven, when first his Spirit, The spring of life, did in thy limbs inspire it. For, as his beauties are past all compare, So is thy soul all beautiful and fair: As he's immortal, and is never idle, Thy soul's immortal, and can brook no bridle Of sloth, to curb her busy intellect: He ponders all; thou peizest[1] each effect: And thy mature and settled sapience Hath some alliance with his providence: He works by reason, thou by rule: he's glory Of the heavenly stages, thou of th' earthly story: He's great High Priest, thou his great vicar here: He's sovereign Prince, and thou his viceroy dear.

For soon as ever he had framed thee, Into thy hands he put this monarchy: Made all the creatures know thee for their lord, And come before thee of their own accord: And gave thee power as master, to impose Fit sense-full names unto the host that rows In watery regions; and the wand'ring herds Of forest people; and the painted birds: Oh, too, too happy! had that fall of thine Not cancell'd so the character divine.

But, since our souls' now sin-obscured light Shines through the lanthorn of our flesh so bright; What sacred splendour will this star send forth, When it shall shine without this vail of earth? The Soul here lodged is like a man that dwells In an ill air, annoy'd with noisome smells; In an old house, open to wind and weather; Never in health not half an hour together: Or, almost, like a spider who, confined In her web's centre, shakes with every wind; Moves in an instant, if the buzzing fly Stir but a string of her lawn canopy.

[1] 'Peizest:' weighest.

THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN.

Thou radiant coachman, running endless course, Fountain of heat, of light the lively source, Life of the world, lamp of this universe, Heaven's richest gem: oh, teach me where my verse May but begin thy praise: Alas! I fare Much like to one that in the clouds doth stare To count the quails, that with their shadow cover The Italian sea, when soaring hither over, Fain of a milder and more fruitful clime, They come with us to pass the summer time: No sooner he begins one shoal to sum, But, more and more, still greater shoals do come, Swarm upon swarm, that with their countless number Break off his purpose, and his sense encumber.

Day's glorious eye! even as a mighty king About his country stately progressing, Is compass'd round with dukes, earls, lords, and knights, (Orderly marshall'd in their noble rites,) Esquires and gentlemen, in courtly kind, And then his guard before him and behind. And there is nought in all his royal muster, But to his greatness addeth grace and lustre: So, while about the world thou ridest aye, Which only lives through virtue of thy ray, Six heavenly princes, mounted evermore, Wait on thy coach, three behind, three before; Besides the host of th' upper twinklers bright, To whom, for pay, thou givest only light. And, even as man (the little world of cares) Within the middle of the body bears His heart, the spring of life, which with proportion Supplieth spirits to all, and every portion: Even so, O Sun, thy golden chariot marches Amid the six lamps of the six low arches Which seele the world, that equally it might Richly impart them beauty, force, and light.

Praising thy heat, which subtilly doth pierce The solid thickness of our universe: Which in the earth's kidneys mercury doth burn, And pallid sulphur to bright metal turn; I do digress, to praise that light of thine, Which if it should but one day cease to shine, Th' unpurged air to water would resolve, And water would the mountain tops involve.

Scarce I begin to measure thy bright face Whose greatness doth so oft earth's greatness pass, And which still running the celestial ring, Is seen and felt of every living thing; But that fantastic'ly I change my theme To sing the swiftness of thy tireless team, To sing how, rising from the Indian wave, Thou seem'st (O Titan) like a bridegroom brave, Who, from his chamber early issuing out In rich array, with rarest gems about, With pleasant countenance and lovely face, With golden tresses and attractive grace, Cheers at his coming all the youthful throng That for his presence earnestly did long, Blessing the day, and with delightful glee, Singing aloud his epithalamie.

RICHARD BARNFIELD.

Of him we only know that he published several poetical volumes between 1594 and 1598. We give one beautiful piece, 'To a Nightingale,' which used to be attributed to Shakspeare.

ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

As it fell upon a day, In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made; Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn; And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. 'Fie, fie, fie,' now would she cry; 'Teru, teru,' by and by; That, to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs, so lively shown, Made me think upon mine own. Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain; None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee: King Pandion he is dead; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; All thy fellow-birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing! Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled, Thou and I were both beguiled. Every one that flatters thee Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend: But, if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal, Bountiful they will him call; And with such-like flattering, 'Pity but he were a king.' If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice; But if Fortune once do frown, Then farewell his great renown: They that fawn'd on him before Use his company no more. He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need; If thou sorrow, he will weep, If thou wake, he cannot sleep: Thus, of every grief in heart He with thee doth bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flattering foe.

ALEXANDER HUME.

This Scottish poet was the second son of Patrick, fifth Baron of Polwarth. He was born about the middle of the sixteenth century, and died in 1609. He resided for some years, in the early part of his life, in France. Returning home, he studied law, and then tried his fortune at Court. Here he was eclipsed by a rival, named Montgomery; and after assailing his rival, who rejoined, in verse, he became a clergyman in disgust, and was settled in the parish of Logie. Here he darkened into a sour and savage Calvinist, and uttered an exhortation to the youth of Scotland to forego the admiration of classical heroes, and to read no love-poetry save the 'Song of Solomon.' In another poetic walk, however, that of natural description, Hume excelled, and we print with pleasure some parts of his 'Summer's Day,' which our readers may compare with Mr Aird's fine poem under the same title, and be convinced that the sky of Scotland was as blue, and the grass as green, and Scottish eyes as quick to perceive their beauty, in the sixteenth century as now.

THANKS FOR A SUMMER'S DAY.

1 O perfect light which shade[1] away The darkness from the light, And set a ruler o'er the day, Another o'er the night.

2 Thy glory, when the day forth flies, More vively does appear, Nor[2] at mid-day unto our eyes The shining sun is clear.

3 The shadow of the earth anon Removes and drawis by, Syne[3] in the east, when it is gone, Appears a clearer sky.

4 Which soon perceive the little larks, The lapwing, and the snipe, And tune their song like Nature's clerks, O'er meadow, muir, and stripe.

5 But every bold nocturnal beast No longer may abide, They hie away both maist and least,[4] Themselves in house to hide.

* * * * *

6 The golden globe incontinent Sets up his shining head, And o'er the earth and firmament Displays his beams abroad.[5]

7 For joy the birds with boulden[6] throats, Against his visage sheen,[7] Take up their kindly music notes In woods and gardens green.

8 Upbraids[8] the careful husbandman, His corn and vines to see, And every timeous[9] artisan In booths works busily.

9 The pastor quits the slothful sleep, And passes forth with speed, His little camow-nosed[10] sheep, And rowting kye[11] to feed.

10 The passenger, from perils sure, Goes gladly forth the way, Brief, every living creäture Takes comfort of the day.

* * * * *

11 The misty reek,[12] the clouds of rain From tops of mountain skails,[13] Clear are the highest hills and plain, The vapours take the vales.

12 Begaired[14] is the sapphire pend[15] With spraings[16] of scarlet hue; And preciously from end to end, Damasked white and blue.

13 The ample heaven, of fabric sure, In clearness does surpass The crystal and the silver, pure As clearest polish'd glass.

14 The time so tranquil is and clear, That nowhere shall ye find, Save on a high and barren hill, The air of passing wind.

15 All trees and simples, great and small, That balmy leaf do bear, Than they were painted on a wall, No more they move or steir.[17]

16 The rivers fresh, the caller[18] streams, O'er rocks can swiftly rin,[19] The water clear like crystal beams, And makes a pleasant din.

* * * * *

17 Calm is the deep and purple sea, Yea, smoother than the sand; The waves, that woltering[20] wont to be, Are stable like the land.

18 So silent is the cessile air, That every cry and call, The hills and dales, and forest fair, Again repeats them all.

19 The clogged busy humming bees, That never think to drown,[21] On flowers and flourishes of trees, Collect their liquor brown.

20 The sun most like a speedy post With ardent course ascends; The beauty of our heavenly host Up to our zenith tends.

* * * * *

21 The breathless flocks draw to the shade And freshure[22] of their fauld;[23] The startling nolt, as they were mad, Run to the rivers cauld.

22 The herds beneath some leafy trees, Amidst the flowers they lie; The stable ships upon the seas Tend up their sails to dry.

23 The hart, the hind, the fallow-deer, Are tapish'd[24] at their rest; The fowls and birds that made thee beare,[25] Prepare their pretty nest.

24 The rayons dure[26] descending down, All kindle in a gleid;[27] In city, nor in burrough town, May none set forth their head.

25 Back from the blue pavemented whun,[28] And from ilk plaster wall, The hot reflexing of the sun Inflames the air and all.

26 The labourers that timely rose, All weary, faint, and weak, For heat down to their houses goes, Noon-meat and sleep to take.

27 The caller[29] wine in cave is sought, Men's brothing[30] breasts to cool; The water cold and clear is brought, And sallads steeped in ule.[31]

28 With gilded eyes and open wings, The cock his courage shows; With claps of joy his breast he dings,[32] And twenty times he crows.

29 The dove with whistling wings so blue, The winds can fast collect, Her purple pens turn many a hue Against the sun direct.

30 Now noon is gone--gone is mid-day, The heat does slake at last, The sun descends down west away, For three o'clock is past.

* * * * *

31 The rayons of the sun we see Diminish in their strength, The shade of every tower and tree Extended is in length.

32 Great is the calm, for everywhere The wind is setting down, The reek[33] throws up right in the air, From every tower and town.

33 The mavis and the philomeen,[34] The starling whistles loud, The cushats[35] on the branches green, Full quietly they crood.[36]

34 The gloamin[37] comes, the clay is spent, The sun goes out of sight, And painted is the occident With purple sanguine bright.

* * * * *

35 The scarlet nor the golden thread, Who would their beauty try, Are nothing like the colour red And beauty of the sky.

* * * * *

36 What pleasure then to walk and see, Endlong[38] a river clear, The perfect form of every tree Within the deep appear.

37 The salmon out of cruives[39] and creels[40] Uphauled into scouts;[41] The bells and circles on the weills,[42] Through leaping of the trouts.

38 O sure it were a seemly thing, While all is still and calm, The praise of God to play and sing With trumpet and with shalm.

39 Through all the land great is the gild[43] Of rustic folks that cry; Of bleating sheep, from they be fill'd, Of calves and rowting kye.

40 All labourers draw home at even, And can to others say, Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, Who sent this summer day.

[1] 'Shade:' for shaded. [2] 'Nor:' than. [3] 'Syne:' then. [4] 'Maist and least:' largest and smallest. [5] 'Abread:' abroad. [6] 'Boulden:' emboldened. [7] 'Sheen:' shining. [8] 'Upbraids:' uprises. [9] 'Timeous:' early. [10]'Camow-nosed:' flat-nosed. [11]'Rowting kye:' lowing kine. [12]'Reek:' fog. [13]'Skails:' dissipates. [14]'Begaired:' dressed out. [15]'Pend:' arch. [16]'Spraings:' streaks. [17] 'Steir:' stir. [18] 'Caller:' cool. [19] 'Rin:' run. [20] 'Woltering:' tumbling. [21] 'Drown:' drone, be idle. [22] 'Freshure:' freshness. [23] 'Fauld:' fold. [24] 'Tapish'd:' stretched as on a carpet. [25] 'Beare:' sound, music. [26] 'Rayons dure:' hard or keen rays. [27] 'Gleid:' fire. [28] 'Whun:' whinstone. [29] 'Caller:' cool. [30] 'Brothing:' burning. [31] 'Ule:' oil. [32] 'Dings:' beats. [33] 'Reek:' smoke. [34] 'The mavis and the philomeen:' thrush and nightingale. [35] 'Cushats:' wood-pigeons. [36] 'Crood:' coo. [37] 'Gloamin:' evening. [38] 'Endlong:' along. [39] 'Cruives:' cages for catching fish. [40] 'Creels:' baskets. [41] 'Scouts:' small boats or yawls. [42] 'Weills:' eddies. [43] 'Gild:' throng.

* * * * *

OTHER SCOTTISH POETS.

About the same time with Hume flourished two or three poets in Scotland of considerable merit, such as Alexander Scott, author of satires and amatory poems, and called sometimes the 'Scottish Anacreon;' Sir Richard Maitland of Lethington, father of the famous Secretary Lethington, who, in his advanced years, composed and dictated to his daughter a few moral and conversational pieces, and who collected, besides, into a MS. which bears his name, the productions of some of his contemporaries; and Alexander Montgomery, author of an allegorical poem, entitled 'The Cherry and the Slae.'

The allegory is not well managed, but some of the natural descriptions are sweet and striking. Take the two following stanzas as a specimen:--

'The cushat croods, the corbie cries, The cuckoo conks, the prattling pies To geck there they begin; The jargon of the jangling jays, The cracking craws and keckling kays, They deav'd me with their din; The painted pawn, with Argus eyes, Can on his May-cock call, The turtle wails, on wither'd trees, And Echo answers all. Repeating, with greeting, How fair Narcissus fell, By lying, and spying His shadow in the well.

'The air was sober, saft, and sweet, Nae misty vapours, wind, nor weet, But quiet, calm, and clear; To foster Flora's fragrant flowers, Whereon Apollo's paramours Had trinkled mony a tear; The which, like silver shakers, shined, Embroidering Beauty's bed, Wherewith their heavy heads declined, In Mayë's colours clad; Some knopping, some dropping Of balmy liquor sweet, Excelling and smelling Through Phoebus' wholesome heat.'

The 'Cherry and the Slae' was familiar to Burns, who often, our readers will observe, copied its form of verse.

SAMUEL DANIEL.

This ingenious person was born in 1562, near Taunton, in Somersetshire. His father was a music-master. He was patronised by the noble family of Pembroke, who probably also maintained him at college. He went to Magdalene Hall, Oxford, in 1579; and after studying there, chiefly history and poetry, for seven years, he left without a degree. When twenty-three years of age, he translated Paulus Jovius' 'Discourse of Rare Inventions.' He became tutor to Lady Anne Clifford, the elegant and accomplished daughter of the Earl of Cumberland. She, at his death, raised a monument to his memory, and recorded on it, with pride, that she had been his pupil. After Spenser died, Daniel became a 'voluntary laureat' to the Court, producing masques and pageants, but was soon supplanted by 'rare Ben Jonson.' In 1603 he was appointed Master of the Queen's Revels and Inspector of the Plays to be enacted by juvenile performers. He was also promoted to be Gentleman Extraordinary and Groom of the Chambers to the Queen. He was a varied and voluminous writer, composing plays, miscellaneous poems, and prose compositions, including a 'Defence of Rhyme' and a 'History of England,'--an honest, but somewhat dry and dull production. While composing his works he resided in Old Street, St Luke's, which was then thought a suburban residence; but he was often in town, and mingled on intimate terms with Selden and Shakspeare. When approaching sixty, he took a farm at Beckington, in Somersetshire--his native shire--and died there in 1619.

Daniel's Plays and History are now, as wholes, forgotten, although the former contained some vigorous passages, such as Richard II.'s soliloquy on the morning of his murder in Pomfret Castle. His smaller pieces and his Sonnets shew no ordinary poetic powers.

RICHARD II., THE MORNING BEFORE HIS MURDER IN POMFRET CASTLE.

Whether the soul receives intelligence, By her near genius, of the body's end, And so imparts a sadness to the sense, Foregoing ruin, whereto it doth tend; Or whether nature else hath conference With profound sleep, and so doth warning send, By prophetising dreams, what hurt is near, And gives the heavv careful heart to fear:--

However, so it is, the now sad king, Toss'd here and there his quiet to confound, Feels a strange weight of sorrows gathering Upon his trembling heart, and sees no ground; Feels sudden terror bring cold shivering; Lists not to eat, still muses, sleeps unsound; His senses droop, his steady eyes unquick, And much he ails, and yet he is not sick.

The morning of that day which was his last, After a weary rest, rising to pain, Out at a little grate his eyes he cast Upon those bordering hills and open plain, Where others' liberty makes him complain The more his own, and grieves his soul the more, Conferring captive crowns with freedom poor.

'O happy man,' saith he, 'that lo I see, Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields, If he but knew his good. How blessed he That feels not what affliction greatness yields! Other than what he is he would not be, Nor change his state with him that sceptre wields. Thine, thine is that true life: that is to live, To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve.

'Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire, And hear'st of others' harms, but fearest none: And there thou tell'st of kings, and who aspire, Who fall, who rise, who triumph, who do moan. Perhaps thou talk'st of me, and dost inquire Of my restraint, why here I live alone, And pitiest this my miserable fall; For pity must have part--envy not all.

'Thrice happy you that look as from the shore, And have no venture in the wreck you see; No interest, no occasion to deplore Other men's travails, while yourselves sit free. How much doth your sweet rest make us the more To see our misery and what we be: Whose blinded greatness, ever in turmoil, Still seeking happy life, makes life a toil.'

EARLY LOVE.

Ah, I remember well (and how can I But evermore remember well?) when first Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was The flame we felt; when as we sat and sigh'd And look'd upon each other, and conceived Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail, And yet were well, and yet we were not well, And what was our disease we could not tell. Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look: and thus In that first garden of our simpleness We spent our childhood. But when years began To reap the fruit of knowledge; ah, how then Would she with sterner looks, with graver brow, Check my presumption and my forwardness! Yet still would give me flowers, still would show What she would have me, yet not have me know.

SELECTIONS FROM SONNETS.

I must not grieve, my love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile; Flowers have time before they come to seed, And she is young, and now must sport the while. And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither; And where the sweetest blossom first appears, Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither, Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise: Pity and smiles do best become the fair; Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one.

Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair; Her brow shades frown, although her eyes are sunny; Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; And her disdains are gall, her favours honey. A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour, Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love; The wonder of all eyes that look upon her: Sacred on earth; design'd a saint above; Chastity and Beauty, which are deadly foes, Live reconciled friends within her brow; And had she Pity to conjoin with those, Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, My muse had slept, and none had known my mind.

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my anguish, and restore the light, With dark forgetting of my care, return. And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-advised youth; Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torments of the night's untruth. Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires, To model forth the passions of to-morrow; Never let the rising sun prove you liars, To add more grief, to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain, And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

SIR JOHN DAVIES.

This knight, says Campbell, 'wrote, at twenty-five years of age, a poem on the "Immortality of the Soul," and at fifty-two, when he was a judge and a statesman, another on the "Art of Dancing." Well might the teacher of that noble accomplishment, in Molière's comedy, exclaim, "La philosophie est quelque chose--mais la danse!" This, however, is more pointed than correct, since the first of these poems was written in 1592, when the author was only twenty-two years of age, and the latter appeared in 1599, when he was only twenty-nine.

Tisbury, in Wiltshire, was the birthplace of this poet, and 1570 the date of his birth. His father was a practising lawyer. John was expelled from the Temple for beating one Richard Martyn, afterwards Recorder, but was restored, and subsequently elected for Parliament. In 1592, as aforesaid, appeared his poem, 'Nosce Teipsum; or, The Immortality of the Soul.' Its fame soon travelled to Scotland; and when Davies, along with Lord Hunsdon, visited that country, James received him most graciously as the author of 'Nosce Teipsum.' His history became, for some time, a list of promotions. He was appointed, in 1603, first Solicitor and then Attorney-General in Ireland, was next made Sergeant, was then knighted, then appointed King's Sergeant, next elected representative of the county of Fermanagh, and, in fine, after a violent contest between the Roman Catholic and Protestant parties, was chosen Speaker of the House of Commons in the Protestant interest. While in Ireland he married Eleanor, a daughter of Lord Audley, who turned out a raving prophetess, and was sent, in 1649, to the Tower, and then to Bethlehem Hospital, by the Revolutionary Government. In 1616, Sir John returned to England, continued to practise as a barrister, sat in Parliament for Newcastle- under-Lyne, and received a promise of being made Chief-Justice of England; but was suddenly cut off by apoplexy in 1626.

His poem on dancing, which was written in fifteen days, and left a fragment, is a piece of beautiful, though somewhat extravagant fancy. His 'Nosce Teipsum,' if it casts little new light, and rears no demonstrative argument on the grand and difficult problem of immortality, is full of ingenuity, and has many apt and memorable similes. Feeling he happily likens to the

'subtle spider, which doth sit In middle of her web, which spreadeth wide; If aught do touch the utmost thread of it, She feels it instantly on every side.'

In answering an objection, 'Why, if souls continue to exist, do they not return and bring us news of that strange world?' he replies--

'But as Noah's pigeon, which return'd no more, Did show she footing found, for all the flood, So when good souls, departed through death's door, Come not again, it shows their dwelling good.'

The poem is interesting from the musical use he makes of the quatrain, a form of verse in which Dryden afterwards wrote his 'Annus Mirabilis,' and as one of the earliest philosophical poems in the language. It is proverbially difficult to reason in verse, but Davies reasons, if not always with conclusive result, always with energy and skill.

INTRODUCTION TO THE POEM ON THE SOUL OF MAN.

1 The lights of heaven, which are the world's fair eyes, Look down into the world, the world to see; And as they turn or wander in the skies, Survey all things that on this centre be.

2 And yet the lights which in my tower do shine, Mine eyes, which view all objects nigh and far, Look not into this little world of mine, Nor see my face, wherein they fixed are.

3 Since Nature fails us in no needful thing, Why want I means my inward self to see? Which sight the knowledge of myself might bring, Which to true wisdom is the first degree.

4 That Power, which gave me eyes the world to view, To view myself, infused an inward light, Whereby my soul, as by a mirror true, Of her own form may take a perfect sight.

5 But as the sharpest eye discerneth nought, Except the sunbeams in the air do shine; So the best soul, with her reflecting thought, Sees not herself without some light divine.

6 O light, which mak'st the light which makes the day! Which sett'st the eye without, and mind within, Lighten my spirit with one clear heavenly ray, Which now to view itself doth first begin.

7 For her true form how can my spark discern, Which, dim by nature, art did never clear, When the great wits, of whom all skill we learn, Are ignorant both what she is, and where?

8 One thinks the soul is air; another fire; Another blood, diffused about the heart; Another saith, the elements conspire, And to her essence each doth give a part.

9 Musicians think our souls are harmonies; Physicians hold that they complexions be; Epicures make them swarms of atomies, Which do by chance into our bodies flee.

10 Some think one general soul fills every brain, As the bright sun sheds light in every star; And others think the name of soul is vain, And that we only well-mix'd bodies are.

11 In judgment of her substance thus they vary; And thus they vary in judgment of her seat; For some her chair up to the brain do carry, Some thrust it down into the stomach's heat.

12 Some place it in the root of life, the heart; Some in the liver, fountain of the veins; Some say, she's all in all, and all in every part; Some say, she's not contain'd, but all contains.

13 Thus these great clerks their little wisdom show, While with their doctrines they at hazard play; Tossing their light opinions to and fro, To mock the lewd, as learn'd in this as they.

14 For no crazed brain could ever yet propound, Touching the soul, so vain and fond a thought; But some among these masters have been found, Which in their schools the selfsame thing have taught.

15 God only wise, to punish pride of wit, Among men's wits hath this confusion wrought, As the proud tower whose points the clouds did hit, By tongues' confusion was to ruin brought.

16 But thou which didst man's soul of nothing make, And when to nothing it was fallen again, 'To make it new, the form of man didst take; And, God with God, becam'st a man with men.'

17 Thou that hast fashion'd twice this soul of ours, So that she is by double title thine, Thou only know'st her nature and her powers, Her subtle form thou only canst define.

18 To judge herself, she must herself transcend, As greater circles comprehend the less; But she wants power her own powers to extend, As fetter'd men cannot their strength express.

19 But thou bright morning Star, thou rising Sun, Which in these later times hast brought to light Those mysteries that, since the world begun, Lay hid in darkness and eternal night:

20 Thou, like the sun, dost with an equal ray Into the palace and the cottage shine, And show'st the soul, both to the clerk and lay, By the clear lamp of oracle divine.

21 This lamp, through all the regions of my brain, Where my soul sits, doth spread such beams of grace, As now, methinks, I do distinguish plain Each subtle line of her immortal face.

22 The soul a substance and a spirit is, Which God himself doth in the body make, Which makes the man; for every man from this The nature of a man and name doth take.

23 And though this spirit be to the body knit, As an apt means her powers to exercise, Which are life, motion, sense, and will, and wit, Yet she survives, although the body dies.

THE SELF-SUBSISTENCE OF THE SOUL.

1 She is a substance, and a real thing, Which hath itself an actual working might, Which neither from the senses' power doth spring, Nor from the body's humours temper'd right.

2 She is a vine, which doth no propping need, To make her spread herself, or spring upright; She is a star, whose beams do not proceed From any sun, but from a native light.

3 For when she sorts things present with things past, And thereby things to come doth oft foresee; When she doth doubt at first, and choose at last, These acts her own,[1] without her body be.

4 When of the dew, which the eye and ear do take, From flowers abroad, and bring into the brain, She doth within both wax and honey make: This work is hers, this is her proper pain.

5 When she from sundry acts, one skill doth draw; Gathering from divers fights one art of war; From many cases like, one rule of law; These her collections, not the senses' are.

6 When in the effects she doth the causes know; And seeing the stream, thinks where the spring doth rise; And seeing the branch, conceives the root below: These things she views without the body's eyes.

7 When she, without a Pegasus, doth fly Swifter than lightning's fire from east to west; About the centre, and above the sky, She travels then, although the body rest.

8 When all her works she formeth first within, Proportions them, and sees their perfect end; Ere she in act doth any part begin, What instruments doth then the body lend?

9 When without hands she doth thus castles build, Sees without eyes, and without feet doth run; When she digests the world, yet is not fill'd: By her own powers these miracles are done.

10 When she defines, argues, divides, compounds, Considers virtue, vice, and general things; And marrying divers principles and grounds, Out of their match a true conclusion brings.

11 These actions in her closet, all alone, Retired within herself, she doth fulfil; Use of her body's organs she hath none, When she doth use the powers of wit and will.

12 Yet in the body's prison so she lies, As through the body's windows she must look, Her divers powers of sense to exercise, By gathering notes out of the world's great book.

13 Nor can herself discourse or judge of ought, But what the sense collects, and home doth bring; And yet the powers of her discoursing thought, From these collections is a diverse thing.

14 For though our eyes can nought but colours see, Yet colours give them not their power of sight; So, though these fruits of sense her objects be, Yet she discerns them by her proper light.

15 The workman on his stuff his skill doth show, And yet the stuff gives not the man his skill; Kings their affairs do by their servants know, But order them by their own royal will.

16 So, though this cunning mistress, and this queen, Doth, as her instruments, the senses use, To know all things that are felt, heard, or seen; Yet she herself doth only judge and choose.

17 Even as a prudent emperor, that reigns By sovereign title over sundry lands, Borrows, in mean affairs, his subjects' pains, Sees by their eyes, and writeth by their hands:

18 But things of weight and consequence indeed, Himself doth in his chamber then debate; Where all his counsellors he doth exceed, As far in judgment, as he doth in state.

19 Or as the man whom princes do advance, Upon their gracious mercy-seat to sit, Doth common things of course and circumstance, To the reports of common men commit:

20 But when the cause itself must be decreed, Himself in person in his proper court, To grave and solemn hearing doth proceed, Of every proof, and every by-report.

21 Then, like God's angel, he pronounceth right, And milk and honey from his tongue doth flow: Happy are they that still are in his sight, To reap the wisdom which his lips doth sow.

22 Right so the soul, which is a lady free, And doth the justice of her state maintain: Because the senses ready servants be, Attending nigh about her court, the brain:

23 By them the forms of outward things she learns, For they return unto the fantasy, Whatever each of them abroad discerns, And there enrol it for the mind to see.

24 But when she sits to judge the good and ill, And to discern betwixt the false and true, She is not guided by the senses' skill, But doth each thing in her own mirror view.

25 Then she the senses checks, which oft do err, And even against their false reports decrees; And oft she doth condemn what they prefer; For with a power above the sense she sees.

26 Therefore no sense the precious joys conceives, Which in her private contemplations be; For then the ravish'd spirit the senses leaves, Hath her own powers, and proper actions free.

27 Her harmonies are sweet, and full of skill, When on the body's instruments she plays; But the proportions of the wit and will, Those sweet accords are even the angels' lays.

28 These tunes of reason are Amphion's lyre, Wherewith he did the Theban city found: These are the notes wherewith the heavenly choir, The praise of Him which made the heaven doth sound.

29 Then her self-being nature shines in this, That she performs her noblest works alone: 'The work, the touchstone of the nature is; And by their operations things are known.'

[1] That the soul hath a proper operation without the body.

SPIRITUALITY OF THE SOUL.

1 But though this substance be the root of sense, Sense knows her not, which doth but bodies know: She is a spirit, and heavenly influence, Which from the fountain of God's Spirit doth flow.

2 She is a spirit, yet not like air or wind; Nor like the spirits about the heart or brain; Nor like those spirits which alchymists do find, When they in everything seek gold in vain.

3 For she all natures under heaven doth pass, Being like those spirits, which God's bright face do see, Or like Himself, whose image once she was, Though now, alas! she scarce his shadow be.

4 For of all forms, she holds the first degree, That are to gross, material bodies knit; Yet she herself is bodiless and free; And, though confined, is almost infinite.

5 Were she a body,[1] how could she remain Within this body, which is less than she? Or how could she the world's great shape contain, And in our narrow breasts contained be?

6 All bodies are confined within some place, But she all place within herself confines: All bodies have their measure and their space; But who can draw the soul's dimensive lines?

7 No body can at once two forms admit, Except the one the other do deface; But in the soul ten thousand forms do fit, And none intrudes into her neighbour's place.

8 All bodies are with other bodies fill'd, But she receives both heaven and earth together: Nor are their forms by rash encounter spill'd, For there they stand, and neither toucheth either.

9 Nor can her wide embracements filled be; For they that most and greatest things embrace, Enlarge thereby their mind's capacity, As streams enlarged, enlarge the channel's space.

10 All things received, do such proportion take, As those things have, wherein they are received: So little glasses little faces make, And narrow webs on narrow frames are weaved.

11 Then what vast body must we make the mind, Wherein are men, beasts, trees, towns, seas, and lands; And yet each thing a proper place doth find, And each thing in the true proportion stands?

12 Doubtless, this could not be, but that she turns Bodies to spirits, by sublimation strange; As fire converts to fire the things it burns: As we our meats into our nature change.

13 From their gross matter she abstracts the forms, And draws a kind of quintessence from things, Which to her proper nature she transforms, To bear them light on her celestial wings.

14 This doth she, when, from things particular, She doth abstract the universal kinds, Which bodiless and immaterial are, And can be only lodged within our minds.

15 And thus from divers accidents and acts, Which do within her observation fall, She goddesses and powers divine abstracts; As nature, fortune, and the virtues all.

16 Again; how can she several bodies know, If in herself a body's form she bear? How can a mirror sundry faces show, If from all shapes and forms it be not clear?

17 Nor could we by our eyes all colours learn, Except our eyes were of all colours void; Nor sundry tastes can any tongue discern, Which is with gross and bitter humours cloy'd.

18 Nor can a man of passions judge aright, Except his mind be from all passions free: Nor can a judge his office well acquit, If he possess'd of either party be.

19 If, lastly, this quick power a body were, Were it as swift as in the wind or fire, Whose atoms do the one down sideways bear, And the other make in pyramids aspire;

20 Her nimble body yet in time must move, And not in instants through all places slide: But she is nigh and far, beneath, above, In point of time, which thought cannot divide;

21 She's sent as soon to China as to Spain; And thence returns as soon as she is sent: She measures with one time, and with one pain. An ell of silk, and heaven's wide-spreading tent.

22 As then the soul a substance hath alone, Besides the body in which she's confined; So hath she not a body of her own, But is a spirit, and immaterial mind.

23 Since body and soul have such diversities, Well might we muse how first their match began; But that we learn, that He that spread the skies, And fix'd the earth, first form'd the soul in man.

24 This true Prometheus first made man of earth, And shed in him a beam of heavenly fire; Now in their mothers' wombs, before their birth, Doth in all sons of men their souls inspire.

25 And as Minerva is in fables said, From Jove, without a mother, to proceed; So our true Jove, without a mother's aid, Doth daily millions of Minervas breed.

[1] That it cannot be a body.

GILES FLETCHER.

Giles Fletcher was the younger brother of Phineas, and died twenty-three years before him. He was a cousin of Fletcher the dramatist, and the son of Dr Giles Fletcher, who was employed in many important missions in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and, among others, negotiated a commercial treaty with Russia greatly in the favour of his own country. Giles is supposed to have been born in 1588. He studied at Cambridge; published his noble poem, 'Christ's Victory and Triumph,' in 1610, when he was twenty- three years of age; was appointed to the living of Alderston, in Suffolk, where he died, in 1623, at the early age of thirty-five, 'equally loved,' says old Wood, 'of the Muses and the Graces.'

The poem, in four cantos, entitled 'Christ's Victory and Triumph,' is one of almost Miltonic magnificence. With a wing as easy as it is strong, he soars to heaven, and fills the austere mouth of Justice and the golden lips of Mercy with language worthy of both. He then stoops down on the Wilderness of the Temptation, and paints the Saviour and Satan in colours admirably contrasted, and which in their brightness and blackness can never decay. Nor does he fear, in fine, to pierce the gloom of Calvary, and to mingle his note with the harps of angels, saluting the Redeemer, as He sprang from the grave, with the song, 'He is risen, He is risen--and shall die no more.' The style is steeped in Spenser--equally mellifluous, figurative, and majestic. In allegory the author of the 'Fairy Queen' is hardly superior, and in the enthusiasm of devotion Fletcher surpasses him far. From the great light, thus early kindled and early quenched, Milton did not disdain to draw with his 'golden urn.' 'Paradise Regained' owes much more than the suggestion of its subject to 'Christ's Victory;' and is it too much to say that, had Fletcher lived, he might have shone in the same constellation with the bard of the 'Paradise Lost?' The plan of our 'Specimens' permits only a few extracts. Let those who wish more, along with a lengthened and glowing tribute to the author's genius, consult Blackwood for November 1835. The reading of a single sentence will convince them that the author of the paper was Christopher North.

THE NATIVITY.

I.

Who can forget, never to be forgot, The time, that all the world in slumber lies: When, like the stars, the singing angels shot To earth, and heaven awaked all his eyes, To see another sun at midnight rise On earth? was never sight of pareil fame: For God before, man like himself did frame, But God himself now like a mortal man became.

II.

A child he was, and had not learned to speak, That with his word the world before did make: His mother's arms him bore, he was so weak, That with one hand the vaults of heaven could shake. See how small room my infant Lord doth take, Whom all the world is not enough to hold. Who of his years, or of his age hath told? Never such age so young, never a child so old.

III

And yet but newly he was infanted, And yet already he was sought to die; Yet scarcely born, already banished; Not able yet to go, and forced to fly: But scarcely fled away, when by and by, The tyrant's sword with blood is all denied, And Rachel, for her sons with fury wild, Cries, O thou cruel king, and O my sweetest child!

IV.

Egypt his nurse became, where Nilus springs, Who straight, to entertain the rising sun, The hasty harvest in his bosom brings; But now for drought the fields were all undone, And now with waters all is overrun: So fast the Cynthian mountains poured their snow, When once they felt the sun so near them glow, That Nilus Egypt lost, and to a sea did grow.

V.

The angels carolled loud their song of peace, The cursed oracles were stricken dumb, To see their shepherd, the poor shepherds press, To see their king, the kingly sophics come, And them to guide unto his Master's home, A star comes dancing up the orient, That springs for joy over the strawy tent, Where gold, to make their prince a crown, they all present.

VI.

Young John, glad child, before he could be born, Leapt in the womb, his joy to prophesy: Old Anna, though with age all spent and worn, Proclaims her Saviour to posterity: And Simeon fast his dying notes doth ply. Oh, how the blessed souls about him trace! It is the fire of heaven thou dost embrace: Sing, Simeon, sing; sing, Simeon, sing apace.

VII.

With that the mighty thunder dropt away From God's unwary arm, now milder grown, And melted into tears; as if to pray For pardon, and for pity, it had known, That should have been for sacred vengeance thrown: There too the armies angelic devowed Their former rage, and all to mercy bowed, Their broken weapons at her feet they gladly strowed.

VIII.

Bring, bring, ye Graces, all your silver flaskets, Painted with every choicest flower that grows, That I may soon unflower your fragrant baskets, To strow the fields with odours where he goes, Let whatsoe'er he treads on be a rose. So down she let her eyelids fall, to shine Upon the rivers of bright Palestine, Whose woods drop honey, and her rivers skip with wine.

SONG OF SORCERESS SEEKING TO TEMPT CHRIST.

Love is the blossom where there blows Everything that lives or grows: Love doth make the heavens to move, And the sun doth burn in love: Love the strong and weak doth yoke, And makes the ivy climb the oak; Under whose shadows lions wild, Softened by love, grow tame and mild: Love no medicine can appease, He burns the fishes in the seas; Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench: Love did make the bloody spear Once a leafy coat to wear, While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love, that sing and play: And of all love's joyful flame, I the bud, and blossom am. Only bend thy knee to me, The wooing shall thy winning be.

See, see the flowers that below, Now as fresh as morning blow, And of all, the virgin rose, That as bright Aurora shows: How they all unleaved die, Losing their virginity; Like unto a summer-shade, But now born, and now they fade. Everything doth pass away, There is danger in delay: Come, come gather then the rose, Gather it, ere it you lose. All the sand of Tagus' shore Into my bosom casts his ore; All the valley's swimming corn To my house is yearly borne: Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine. While ten thousand kings, as proud, To carry up my train have bowed, And a world of ladies send me In my chambers to attend me. All the stars in heaven that shine, And ten thousand more, are mine: Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be.

CLOSE OF 'CHRIST'S VICTORY AND TRIUMPH.'

I

Here let my Lord hang up his conquering lance, And bloody armour with late slaughter warm, And looking down on his weak militants, Behold his saints, midst of their hot alarm, Hang all their golden hopes upon his arm. And in this lower field dispacing wide, Through windy thoughts, that would their sails misguide, Anchor their fleshly ships fast in his wounded side.

II.

Here may the band, that now in triumph shines, And that (before they were invested thus) In earthly bodies carried heavenly minds, Pitched round about in order glorious, Their sunny tents, and houses luminous, All their eternal day in songs employing, Joying their end, without end of their joying, While their Almighty Prince destruction is destroying.

III.

Full, yet without satiety, of that Which whets and quiets greedy appetite, Where never sun did rise, nor ever sat, But one eternal day, and endless light Gives time to those, whose time is infinite, Speaking without thought, obtaining without fee, Beholding him, whom never eye could see, Magnifying him, that cannot greater be.

IV.

How can such joy as this want words to speak? And yet what words can speak such joy as this? Far from the world, that might their quiet break, Here the glad souls the face of beauty kiss, Poured out in pleasure, on their beds of bliss, And drunk with nectar torrents, ever hold Their eyes on him, whose graces manifold The more they do behold, the more they would behold.

V.

Their sight drinks lovely fires in at their eyes, Their brain sweet incense with fine breath accloys, That on God's sweating altar burning lies; Their hungry ears feed on the heavenly noise That angels sing, to tell their untold joys; Their understanding naked truth, their wills The all, and self-sufficient goodness fills, That nothing here is wanting, but the want of ills.

VI.

No sorrow now hangs clouding on their brow, No bloodless malady empales their face, No age drops on their hairs his silver snow, No nakedness their bodies doth embase, No poverty themselves, and theirs disgrace, No fear of death the joy of life devours, No unchaste sleep their precious time deflowers, No loss, no grief, no change wait on their winged hours.

VII.

But now their naked bodies scorn the cold, And from their eyes joy looks, and laughs at pain; The infant wonders how he came so old, And old man how he came so young again; Still resting, though from sleep they still restrain; Where all are rich, and yet no gold they owe; And all are kings, and yet no subjects know; All full, and yet no time on food they do bestow.

VIII.

For things that pass are past, and in this field The indeficient spring no winter fears; The trees together fruit and blossom yield, The unfading lily leaves of silver bears, And crimson rose a scarlet garment wears: And all of these on the saints' bodies grow, Not, as they wont, on baser earth below; Three rivers here of milk, and wine, and honey flow.

IX.

About the holy city rolls a flood Of molten crystal, like a sea of glass, On which weak stream a strong foundation stood, Of living diamonds the building was That all things else, besides itself, did pass: Her streets, instead of stones, the stars did pave, And little pearls, for dust, it seemed to have, On which soft-streaming manna, like pure snow, did wave.

X.

In midst of this city celestial, Where the eternal temple should have rose, Lightened the idea beatifical: End and beginning of each thing that grows, Whose self no end, nor yet beginning knows, That hath no eyes to see, nor ears to hear; Yet sees, and hears, and is all eye, all ear; That nowhere is contained, and yet is everywhere.

XI.

Changer of all things, yet immutable; Before, and after all, the first, and last: That moving all is yet immoveable; Great without quantity, in whose forecast, Things past are present, things to come are past; Swift without motion, to whose open eye The hearts of wicked men unbreasted lie; At once absent, and present to them, far, and nigh.

XII.

It is no flaming lustre, made of light; No sweet consent, or well-timed harmony; Ambrosia, for to feast the appetite: Or flowery odour, mixed with spicery; No soft embrace, or pleasure bodily: And yet it is a kind of inward feast; A harmony that sounds within the breast; An odour, light, embrace, in which the soul doth rest.

XIII.

A heavenly feast no hunger can consume; A light unseen, yet shines in every place; A sound no time can steal; a sweet perfume No winds can scatter; an entire embrace, That no satiety can e'er unlace: Ingraced into so high a favour, there The saints, with their beau-peers, whole worlds outwear; And things unseen do see, and things unheard do hear.

XIV.

Ye blessed souls, grown richer by your spoil, Whose loss, though great, is cause of greater gains; Here may your weary spirits rest from toil, Spending your endless evening that remains, Amongst those white flocks, and celestial trains, That feed upon their Shepherd's eyes; and frame That heavenly music of so wondrous fame, Psalming aloud the holy honours of his name!

XV.

Had I a voice of steel to tune my song; Were every verse as smooth as smoothest glass; And every member turned to a tongue; And every tongue were made of sounding brass: Yet all that skill, and all this strength, alas! Should it presume to adorn (were misadvised) The place, where David hath new songs devised, As in his burning throne he sits emparadised.

XVI.

Most happy prince, whose eyes those stars behold, Treading ours underfeet, now mayst thou pour That overflowing skill, wherewith of old Thou wont'st to smooth rough speech; now mayst thou shower Fresh streams of praise upon that holy bower, Which well we heaven call, not that it rolls, But that it is the heaven of our souls: Most happy prince, whose sight so heavenly sight beholds!

XVII.

Ah, foolish shepherds! who were wont to esteem Your God all rough, and shaggy-haired to be; And yet far wiser shepherds than ye deem, For who so poor (though who so rich) as he, When sojourning with us in low degree, He washed his flocks in Jordan's spotless tide; And that his dear remembrance might abide, Did to us come, and with us lived, and for us died?

XVIII.

But now such lively colours did embeam His sparkling forehead; and such shining rays Kindled his flaming locks, that down did stream In curls along his neck, where sweetly plays (Singing his wounds of love in sacred lays) His dearest Spouse, Spouse of the dearest Lover, Knitting a thousand knots over and over, And dying still for love, but they her still recover.

XIX.

Fairest of fairs, that at his eyes doth dress Her glorious face; those eyes, from whence are shed Attractions infinite; where to express His love, high God all heaven as captive leads, And all the banners of his grace dispreads, And in those windows doth his arms englaze, And on those eyes, the angels all do gaze, And from those eyes, the lights of heaven obtain their blaze.

XX.

But let the Kentish lad,[1] that lately taught His oaten reed the trumpet's silver sound, Young Thyrsilis; and for his music brought The willing spheres from heaven, to lead around The dancing nymphs and swains, that sung, and crowned Eclecta's Hymen with ten thousand flowers Of choicest praise; and hung her heavenly bowers With saffron garlands, dressed for nuptial paramours.

XXI.

Let his shrill trumpet, with her silver blast, Of fair Eclecta, and her spousal bed, Be the sweet pipe, and smooth encomiast: But my green muse, hiding her younger head, Under old Camus' flaggy banks, that spread Their willow locks abroad, and all the day With their own watery shadows wanton play; Dares not those high amours, and love-sick songs assay.

XXII.

Impotent words, weak lines, that strive in vain; In vain, alas, to tell so heavenly sight! So heavenly sight, as none can greater feign, Feign what he can, that seems of greatest might: Could any yet compare with Infinite? Infinite sure those joys; my words but light; Light is the palace where she dwells; oh, then, how bright!

[1] The author of 'The Purple Island.'

JOHN DONNE.

John Donne was born in London, in the year 1573. He sprung from a Catholic family, and his mother was related to Sir Thomas More and to Heywood the epigrammatist. He was very early distinguished as a prodigy of boyish acquirement, and was entered, when only eleven, of Harthall, now Hertford College. He was designed for the law, but relinquished the study when he reached nineteen. About the same time, having studied the controversies between the Papists and Protestants, he deliberately went over to the latter. He next accompanied the Earl of Essex to Cadiz, and looked wistfully over the gulf dividing him from Jerusalem, with all its holy memories, to which his heart had been translated from very boyhood. He even meditated a journey to the Holy Land, but was discouraged by reports as to the dangers of the way. On his return he was received by the Lord Chancellor Ellesmere into his own house as his secretary. Here he fell in love with Miss More, the daughter of Sir George More, Lord- Lieutenant of the Tower, and the niece of the Chancellor. His passion was returned, and the pair were imprudent enough to marry privately. When the matter became known, the father-in-law became infuriated. He prevailed on Lord Ellesmere to drive Donne out of his service, and had him even for a short time imprisoned. Even when released he continued in a pitiable plight, and but for the kindness of Sir Francis Wooley, a son of Lady Ellesmere by a former marriage, who received the young couple into his family and entertained them for years, they would have perished.

When Donne reached the age of thirty-four, Dr Merton, afterwards Bishop of Durham, urged him to take orders, and offered him a benefice, which he was generously to relinquish in his favour. Donne declined, on account, he said, of some past errors of life, which, 'though repented of and pardoned by God, might not be forgotten by men, and might cast dishonour on the sacred office.'

When Sir F. Wooley died, Sir Robert Drury became his next protector. Donne attended him on an embassy to France, and his wife formed the romantic purpose of accompanying her husband in the disguise of a page. Here was a wife fit for a poet! In order to restrain her from her purpose, he had to address to her some verses, commencing,

'By our strange and fatal interview.'

Isaak Walton relates how the poet, one evening, as he sat alone in Paris, saw his wife appearing to him in vision, with a dead infant in her arms--a proof at once of the strength of his love and of his imagination. This beloved and admirable woman died in 1617, a few days after giving birth to her twelfth child, and Donne's grief approached distraction.

When he had reached the forty-second year of his age, our poet, at the instance of King James, became a clergyman, and was successively appointed Chaplain to the King, Lecturer to Lincoln's Inn, Dean of St Dunstan's in the West, and Dean of St Paul's. In the pulpit he attracted great attention, particularly from the more thoughtful and intelligent of his auditors. He continued Dean of St Paul's till his death, which took place in 1631, when he was approaching sixty. He died of consumption, a disease which seldom cuts down a man so near his grand climacteric.

'He was buried,' says Campbell, 'in St Paul's, where his figure yet remains in the vault of St Faith's, carved from a painting, for which he sat a few days' (it should be weeks) 'before his death, dressed in his winding-sheet.' He kept this portrait constantly by his bedside to remind him of his mortality.

Donne's Sermons fill a large folio, with which we were familiar in boyhood, but have not seen since. De Quincey says, alluding partly to them, and partly to his poetry,--'Few writers have shewn a more extraordinary compass of powers than Donne, for he combined--what no other man has ever done--the last sublimation of dialectical subtlety and address with the most impassioned majesty. Massy diamonds compose the very substance of his poem on the 'Metempsychosis,'--thoughts and descriptions which have the fervent and gloomy sublimity of Ezekiel or Aeschylus; while a diamond-dust of rhetorical brilliances is strewed over the whole of his occasional verses and his prose.' We beg leave to differ, in some degree, from De Quincey in his estimate of the 'Metempsychosis,' or 'The Progress of the Soul,' although we have given it entire. It has too many far-fetched conceits and obscure allegories, although redeemed, we admit, by some very precious thoughts, such as

'This soul, to whom Luther and Mahomet were Prisons of flesh.'

Or the following quaint picture of the apple in Eden--

'Prince of the orchard, fair as dawning morn, Fenced with the law, and ripe as soon as born.'

Or this--

'Nature hath no jail, though she hath law.'

If our readers, however, can admire the account the poet gives of Abel and his bitch, or see any resemblance to the severe and simple grandeur of Aeschylus and Ezekiel in the description of the soul informing a body, made of a 'female fish's sandy roe' 'newly leavened with the male's jelly,' we shall say no more.

Donne, altogether, gives us the impression of a great genius ruined by a false system. He is a charioteer run away with by his own pampered steeds. He begins generally well, but long ere the close, quibbles, conceits, and the temptation of shewing off recondite learning, prove too strong for him, and he who commenced following a serene star, ends pursuing a will-o'-wisp into a bottomless morass. Compare, for instance, the ingenious nonsense which abounds in the middle and the close of his 'Progress of the Soul' with the dark, but magnificent stanzas which are the first in the poem.

In no writings in the language is there more spilt treasure--a more lavish loss of beautiful, original, and striking things than in the poems of Donne. Every second line, indeed, is either bad, or unintelligible, or twisted into unnatural distortion, but even the worst passages discover a great, though trammelled and tasteless mind; and we question if Dr Johnson himself, who has, in his 'Life of Cowley,' criticised the school of poets to which Donne belonged so severely, and in some points so justly, possessed a tithe of the rich fancy, the sublime intuition, and the lofty spirituality of Donne. How characteristic of the difference between these two great men, that, while the one shrank from the slightest footprint of death, Donne deliberately placed the image of his dead self before his eyes, and became familiar with the shadow ere the grim reality arrived!

Donne's Satires shew, in addition to the high ideal qualities, the rugged versification, the fantastic paradox, and the perverted taste of their author, great strength and clearness of judgment, and a deep, although somewhat jaundiced, view of human nature. That there must have been something morbid in the structure of his mind is proved by the fact that he wrote an elaborate treatise, which was not published till after his death, entitled, 'Biathanatos,' to prove that suicide was not necessarily sinful.

HOLY SONNETS.

I.

Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay? Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste; I run to death, and death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday. I dare not move my dim eyes any way; Despair behind, and death before, doth cast Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh, Only thou art above, and when towards thee By thy leave I can look, I rise again; But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, That not one hour myself I can sustain: Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art, And thou, like adamant, draw mine iron heart.

II.

As due by many titles, I resign Myself to thee, O God! First I was made By thee, and for thee; and when I was decayed Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine. I am thy son, made with thyself to shine, Thy servant, whose pains thou hast still repaid, Thy sheep, thine image; and, till I betrayed Myself, a temple of thy Spirit divine. Why doth the devil then usurp on me? Why doth he steal, nay, ravish, that's thy right? Except thou rise, and for thine own work fight, Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall see That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me, And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.

III.

Oh! might these sighs and tears return again Into my breast and eyes which I have spent, That I might, in this holy discontent, Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain! In mine idolatry what showers of rain Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent! That sufferance was my sin I now repent; 'Cause I did suffer, I must suffer pain. The hydroptic drunkard, and night-scouting thief, The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud, Have th' remembrance of past joys for relief Of coming ills. To poor me is allow'd No ease; for long yet vehement grief hath been The effect and cause, the punishment and sin.

IV.

Oh! my black soul! now thou art summoned By sickness, death's herald and champion, Thou 'rt like a pilgrim which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled; Or like a thief, which, till death's doom be read, Wisheth himself delivered from prison; But damn'd, and haul'd to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned: Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack; But who shall give thee that grace to begin? Oh! make thyself with holy mourning black, And red with blushing, as thou art with sin; Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might, That, being red, it dyes red souls to white.

V.

I am a little world, made cunningly Of elements and an angelic sprite; But black sin hath betrayed to endless night My world's both parts, and oh! both parts must die. You, which beyond that heaven, which was most high, Have found new spheres, and of new land can write, Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might Drown my world with my weeping earnestly, Or wash it, if it must be drowned no more: But oh! it must be burnt; alas! the fire Of lust and envy burnt it heretofore, And made it fouler; let their flames retire, And burn me, O Lord! with a fiery zeal Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal.

VI.

This is my play's last scene; here Heavens appoint My pilgrimage's last mile; and my race, Idly yet quickly run, hath this last pace, My span's last inch, my minute's latest point, And gluttonous Death will instantly unjoint My body and soul, and I shall sleep a space: But my ever-waking part shall see that face Whose fear already shakes my every joint. Then as my soul to heaven, her first seat, takes flight, And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell, So fall my sins, that all may have their right, To where they're bred, and would press me to hell. Impute me righteous; thus purged of evil, For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil.

VII.

At the round earth's imagined corners blow Your trumpets, angels! and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go, All whom the flood did, and fire shall, overthrow; All whom war, death, age, ague's tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain; and you whose eyes Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord! and me mourn a space; For if above all these my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace When we are there. Here on this holy ground Teach me how to repent, for that's as good As if thou hadst sealed my pardon with thy blood.

VIII.

If faithful souls be alike glorified As angels, then my father's soul doth see, And adds this even to full felicity, That valiantly I hell's wide mouth o'erstride; But if our minds to these souls be descried By circumstances and by signs that be Apparent in us not immediately, How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried? They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn, And style blasphemous conjurors to call On Jesus' name, and pharisaical Dissemblers feign devotion. Then turn, O pensive soul! to God, for he knows best Thy grief, for he put it into my breast.

IX

If poisonous minerals, and if that tree Whose fruit threw death on (else immortal) us; If lecherous goats, if serpents envious, Cannot be damn'd, alas! why should I be? Why should intent or reason, born in me, Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous? And mercy being easy and glorious To God, in his stern wrath why threatens he? But who am I that dare dispute with thee! O God! oh, of thine only worthy blood, And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood, And drown in it my sins' black memory: That thou remember them some claim as debt, I think it mercy if thou wilt forget!

X

Death! be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death! nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure, then, from thee much more must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness, dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou, then? One short sleep past we wake eternally; And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

XI.

Spit in my face, you Jews, and pierce my side, Buffet and scoff, scourge and crucify me, For I have sinned, and sinned, and only he Who could do no iniquity hath died, But by my death cannot be satisfied My sins, which pass the Jews' impiety: They killed once an inglorious man, but I Crucify him daily, being now glorified. O let me then his strange love still admire. Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment; And Jacob came, clothed in vile harsh attire, But to supplant, and with gainful intent: God clothed himself in vile man's flesh, that so He might be weak enough to surfer woe.

XII.

Why are we by all creatures waited on? Why do the prodigal elements supply Life and food to me, being more pure than I, Simpler, and further from corruption? Why brook'st thou, ignorant horse, subjection? Why do you, bull and boar, so sillily Dissemble weakness, and by one man's stroke die, Whose whole kind you might swallow and feed upon? Weaker I am, woe's me! and worse than you: You have not sinned, nor need be timorous, But wonder at a greater, for to us Created nature doth these things subdue; But their Creator, whom sin nor nature tied, For us, his creatures and his foes, hath died.

XIII.

What if this present were the world's last night? Mark in my heart, O Soul! where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether his countenance can thee affright; Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light; Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell. And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell Which prayed forgiveness for his foes' fierce spite? No, no; but as in my idolatry I said to all my profane mistresses, Beauty of pity, foulness only is A sign of rigour, so I say to thee: To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned; This beauteous form assumes a piteous mind.

XIV.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend, That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurped town, to another due, Labour to admit you, but oh! to no end: Reason, your viceroy in me, we should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue; Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, But am betrothed unto your enemy. Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again; Take me to you, imprison me; for I, Except you enthral me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

XV.

Wilt thou love God as he thee? then digest, My Soul! this wholesome meditation, How God the Spirit, by angels waited on In heaven, doth make his temple in thy breast. The Father having begot a Son most blest, And still begetting, (for he ne'er begun.) Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption, Co-heir to his glory, and Sabbath's endless rest: And as a robbed man, which by search doth find His stol'n stuff sold, must lose or buy 't again; The Sun of glory came down and was slain, Us, whom he had made, and Satan stole, to unbind. 'Twas much that man was made like God before, But that God should be made like man much more.

XVI.

Father, part of his double interest Unto thy kingdom thy Son gives to me; His jointure in the knotty Trinity He keeps, and gives to me his death's conquest. This Lamb, whose death with life the world hath blest, Was from the world's beginning slain, and he Hath made two wills, which, with the legacy Of his and thy kingdom, thy sons invest: Yet such are these laws, that men argue yet Whether a man those statutes can fulfil: None doth; but thy all-healing grace and Spirit Revive again what law and letter kill: Thy law's abridgment and thy last command Is all but love; oh, let this last will stand!

THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL.

I.

I sing the progress of a deathless Soul, Whom Fate, which God made, but doth not control, Placed in most shapes. All times, before the law Yoked us, and when, and since, in this I sing, And the great World to his aged evening, From infant morn through manly noon I draw: What the gold Chaldee or silver Persian saw, Greek brass, or Roman iron, 'tis in this one, A work to outwear Seth's pillars, brick and stone, And, Holy Writ excepted, made to yield to none.

II

Thee, Eye of Heaven, this great Soul envies not; By thy male force is all we have begot. In the first east thou now beginn'st to shine, Suck'st early balm, and island spices there, And wilt anon in thy loose-reined career At Tagus, Po, Seine, Thames, and Danow, dine, And see at night this western land of mine; Yet hast thou not more nations seen than she That before thee one day began to be, And, thy frail light being quench'd, shall long, long outlive thee.

III

Nor holy Janus, in whose sovereign boat The church and all the monarchies did float; That swimming college and free hospital Of all mankind, that cage and vivary Of fowls and beasts, in whose womb Destiny Us and our latest nephews did install, (From thence are all derived that fill this all,) Didst thou in that great stewardship embark So diverse shapes into that floating park, As have been moved and inform'd by this heavenly spark.

IV.

Great Destiny! the commissary of God! Thou hast marked out a path and period For everything; who, where we offspring took, Our ways and ends seest at one instant: thou Knot of all causes; thou whose changeless brow Ne'er smiles nor frowns, oh! vouchsafe thou to look, And shew my story in thy eternal book, That (if my prayer be fit) I may understand So much myself as to know with what hand, How scant or liberal, this my life's race is spann'd.

V.

To my six lustres, almost now outwore, Except thy book owe me so many more; Except my legend be free from the lets Of steep ambition, sleepy poverty, Spirit-quenching sickness, dull captivity, Distracting business, and from beauty's nets, And all that calls from this and t'other's whets; Oh! let me not launch out, but let me save The expense of brain and spirit, that my grave His right and due, a whole unwasted man, may have.

VI.

But if my days be long and good enough, In vain this sea shall enlarge or enrough Itself; for I will through the wave and foam, And hold, in sad lone ways, a lively sprite, Make my dark heavy poem light, and light: For though through many straits and lands I roam, I launch at Paradise, and sail towards home: The course I there began shall here be stayed; Sails hoisted there struck here, and anchors laid In Thames which were at Tigris and Euphrates weighed.

VII.

For the great Soul which here amongst us now Doth dwell, and moves that hand, and tongue, and brow, Which, as the moon the sea, moves us, to hear Whose story with long patience you will long, (For 'tis the crown and last strain of my song;) This Soul, to whom Luther and Mohammed were Prisons of flesh; this Soul,--which oft did tear And mend the wrecks of the empire, and late Rome, And lived when every great change did come, Had first in Paradise a low but fatal room.

VIII.

Yet no low room, nor then the greatest, less If, as devout and sharp men fitly guess, That cross, our joy and grief, (where nails did tie That All, which always was all everywhere, Which could not sin, and yet all sins did bear, Which could not die, yet could not choose but die,) Stood in the self-same room in Calvary Where first grew the forbidden learned tree; For on that tree hung in security This Soul, made by the Maker's will from pulling free.

IX.

Prince of the orchard, fair as dawning morn, Fenced with the law, and ripe as soon as born, That apple grew which this soul did enlive, Till the then climbing serpent, that now creeps For that offence for which all mankind weeps, Took it, and t' her, whom the first man did wive, (Whom and her race only forbiddings drive,) He gave it, she to her husband; both did eat: So perished the eaters and the meat, And we, for treason taints the blood, thence die and sweat.

X.

Man all at once was there by woman slain, And one by one we're here slain o'er again By them. The mother poison'd the well-head; The daughters here corrupt us rivulets; No smallness 'scapes, no greatness breaks, their nets: She thrust us out, and by them we are led Astray from turning to whence we are fled. Were prisoners judges 't would seem rigorous; She sinned, we bear: part of our pain is thus To love them whose fault to this painful love yoked us.

XI.

So fast in us doth this corruption grow, That now we dare ask why we should be so. Would God (disputes the curious rebel) make A law, and would not have it kept? or can His creatures' will cross his? Of every man For one will God (and be just) vengeance take? Who sinned? 'twas not forbidden to the snake, Nor her, who was not then made; nor is 't writ That Adam cropt or knew the apple; yet The worm, and she, and he, and we, endure for it.

XII.

But snatch me, heavenly Spirit! from this vain Reck'ning their vanity; less is their gain Than hazard still to meditate on ill, Though with good mind; their reasons like those toys Of glassy bubbles which the gamesome boys Stretch to so nice a thinness through a quill, That they themselves break, and do themselves spill. Arguing is heretics' game, and exercise, As wrestlers, perfects them. Not liberties Of speech, but silence; hands, not tongues, and heresies.

XIII.

Just in that instant, when the serpent's gripe Broke the slight veins and tender conduit-pipe Through which this Soul from the tree's root did draw Life and growth to this apple, fled away This loose Soul, old, one and another day. As lightning, which one scarce dare say he saw, 'Tis so soon gone (and better proof the law Of sense than faith requires) swiftly she flew To a dark and foggy plot; her her fates threw There through the earth's pores, and in a plant housed her anew.

XIV.

The plant, thus abled, to itself did force A place where no place was by Nature's course, As air from water, water fleets away From thicker bodies; by this root thronged so His spungy confines gave him place to grow: Just as in our streets, when the people stay To see the prince, and so fill up the way That weasels scarce could pass; when he comes near They throng and cleave up, and a passage clear, As if for that time their round bodies flatten'd were.

XV.

His right arm he thrust out towards the east, Westward his left; the ends did themselves digest Into ten lesser strings, these fingers were: And, as a slumberer, stretching on his bed, This way he this, and that way scattered His other leg, which feet with toes upbear; Grew on his middle part, the first day, hair. To shew that in love's business he should still A dealer be, and be used, well or ill: His apples kindle, his leaves force of conception kill.

XVI.

A mouth, but dumb, he hath; blind eyes, deaf ears, And to his shoulders dangle subtle hairs; A young Colossus there he stands upright; And, as that ground by him were conquered, A lazy garland wears he on his head Enchased with little fruits so red and bright, That for them ye would call your love's lips white; So of a lone unhaunted place possess'd, Did this Soul's second inn, built by the guest, This living buried man, this quiet mandrake, rest.

XVII.

No lustful woman came this plant to grieve, But 'twas because there was none yet but Eve, And she (with other purpose) killed it quite: Her sin had now brought in infirmities, And so her cradled child the moist-red eyes Had never shut, nor slept, since it saw light: Poppy she knew, she knew the mandrake's might, And tore up both, and so cooled her child's blood. Unvirtuous weeds might long unvexed have stood, But he's short-lived that with his death can do most good.

XVIII.

To an unfettered Soul's quick nimble haste Are falling stars and heart's thoughts but slow-paced, Thinner than burnt air flies this Soul, and she, Whom four new-coming and four parting suns Had found, and left the mandrake's tenant, runs, Thoughtless of change, when her firm destiny Confined and enjailed her that seemed so free Into a small blue shell, the which a poor Warm bird o'erspread, and sat still evermore, Till her enclosed child kicked, and picked itself a door.

XIX.

Out crept a sparrow, this Soul's moving inn, On whose raw arms stiff feathers now begin, As children's teeth through gums, to break with pain: His flesh is jelly yet, and his bones threads; All a new downy mantle overspreads: A mouth he opes, which would as much contain As his late house, and the first hour speaks plain, And chirps aloud for meat: meat fit for men His father steals for him, and so feeds then One that within a month will beat him from his hen.

XX.

In this world's youth wise Nature did make haste, Things ripened sooner, and did longer last: Already this hot cock in bush and tree, In field and tent, o'erflutters his next hen: He asks her not who did so taste, nor when; Nor if his sister or his niece she be, Nor doth she pule for his inconstancy If in her sight he change; nor doth refuse The next that calls; both liberty do use. Where store is of both kinds, both kinds may freely choose.

XXI.

Men, till they took laws, which made freedom less, Their daughters and their sisters did ingress; Till now unlawful, therefore ill, 'twas not; So jolly, that it can move this Soul. Is The body so free of his kindnesses, That self-preserving it hath now forgot, And slack'neth not the Soul's and body's knot, Which temp'rance straitens? Freely on his she-friends He blood and spirit, pith and marrow, spends; Ill steward of himself, himself in three years ends.

XXII.

Else might he long have lived; man did not know Of gummy blood which doth in holly grow, How to make bird-lime, nor how to deceive, With feigned calls, his nets, or enwrapping snare, The free inhabitants of the pliant air. Man to beget, and woman to conceive, Asked not of roots, nor of cock-sparrows, leave; Yet chooseth he, though none of these he fears, Pleasantly three; then straitened twenty years To live, and to increase his race himself outwears.

XXIII.

This coal with over-blowing quenched and dead, The Soul from her too active organs fled To a brook. A female fish's sandy roe With the male's jelly newly leavened was; For they had intertouched as they did pass, And one of those small bodies, fitted so, This Soul informed, and able it to row Itself with finny oars, which she did fit, Her scales seemed yet of parchment, and as yet Perchance a fish, but by no name you could call it.

XXIV.

When goodly, like a ship in her full trim, A swan so white, that you may unto him Compare all whiteness, but himself to none, Glided along, and as he glided watched, And with his arched neck this poor fish catched: It moved with state, as if to look upon Low things it scorned; and yet before that one Could think he sought it, he had swallowed clear This and much such, and unblamed, devoured there All but who too swift, too great, or well-armed, were.

XXV.

Now swam a prison in a prison put, And now this Soul in double walls was shut, Till melted with the swan's digestive fire She left her house, the fish, and vapoured forth: Fate not affording bodies of more worth For her as yet, bids her again retire To another fish, to any new desire Made a new prey; for he that can to none Resistance make, nor complaint, is sure gone; Weakness invites, but silence feasts oppression.

XXVI.

Pace with the native stream this fish doth keep, And journeys with her towards the glassy deep, But oft retarded; once with a hidden net, Though with great windows, (for when need first taught These tricks to catch food, then they were not wrought As now, with curious greediness, to let None 'scape, but few and fit for use to get,) As in this trap a ravenous pike was ta'en, Who, though himself distress'd, would fain have slain This wretch; so hardly are ill habits left again.

XXVII.

Here by her smallness she two deaths o'erpast, Once innocence 'scaped, and left the oppressor fast; The net through swam, she keeps the liquid path, And whether she leap up sometimes to breathe And suck in air, or find it underneath, Or working parts like mills or limbecs hath, To make the water thin, and air like faith, Cares not, but safe the place she's come unto, Where fresh with salt waves meet, and what to do She knows not, but between both makes a board or two.

XXVIII.

So far from hiding her guests water is, That she shews them in bigger quantities Than they are. Thus her, doubtful of her way, For game, and not for hunger, a sea-pie Spied through his traitorous spectacle from high The silly fish, where it disputing lay, And to end her doubts and her, bears her away; Exalted, she's but to the exalter's good, (As are by great ones men which lowly stood;) It's raised to be the raiser's instrument and food.

XXIX.

Is any kind subject to rape like fish? Ill unto man they neither do nor wish; Fishers they kill not, nor with noise awake; They do not hunt, nor strive to make a prey Of beasts, nor their young sons to bear away; Fowls they pursue not, nor do undertake To spoil the nests industrious birds do make; Yet them all these unkind kinds feed upon; To kill them is an occupation, And laws make fasts and lents for their destruction.

XXX.

A sudden stiff land-wind in that self hour To sea-ward forced this bird that did devour The fish; he cares not, for with ease he flies, Fat gluttony's best orator: at last, So long he hath flown, and hath flown so fast, That, leagues o'erpast at sea, now tired he lies, And with his prey, that till then languished, dies: The souls, no longer foes, two ways did err. The fish I follow, and keep no calender Of the other: he lives yet in some great officer.

XXXI.

Into an embryo fish our Soul is thrown, And in due time thrown out again, and grown To such vastness, as if unmanacled From Greece Morea were, and that, by some Earthquake unrooted, loose Morea swam; Or seas from Afric's body had severed And torn the Hopeful promontory's head: This fish would seem these, and, when all hopes fail, A great ship overset, or without sail, Hulling, might (when this was a whelp) be like this whale.

XXXII.

At every stroke his brazen fins do take More circles in the broken sea they make Than cannons' voices when the air they tear: His ribs are pillars, and his high-arched roof Of bark, that blunts best steel, is thunder-proof: Swim in him swallowed dolphins without fear, And feel no sides, as if his vast womb were Some inland sea; and ever, as he went, He spouted rivers up, as if he meant To join our seas with seas above the firmament.

XXXIII.

He hunts not fish, but, as an officer Stays in his court, at his own net, and there All suitors of all sorts themselves enthral; So on his back lies this whale wantoning, And in his gulf-like throat sucks every thing, That passeth near. Fish chaseth fish, and all, Flier and follower, in this whirlpool fall: Oh! might not states of more equality Consist? and is it of necessity That thousand guiltless smalls to make one great must die?

XXXIV.

Now drinks he up seas, and he eats up flocks; He jostles islands, and he shakes firm rocks: Now in a roomful house this Soul doth float, And, like a prince, she sends her faculties To all her limbs, distant as provinces. The sun hath twenty times both Crab and Goat Parched, since first launched forth this living boat: 'Tis greatest now, and to destruction Nearest; there's no pause at perfection; Greatness a period hath, but hath no station.

XXXV.

Two little fishes, whom he never harmed, Nor fed on their kind, two, not th'roughly armed With hope that they could kill him, nor could do Good to themselves by his death, (they did not eat His flesh, nor suck those oils which thence outstreat,) Conspired against him; and it might undo The plot of all that the plotters were two, But that they fishes were, and could not speak. How shall a tyrant wise strong projects break, If wretches can on them the common anger wreak?

XXXVI.

The flail-finned thresher and steel-beaked sword-fish Only attempt to do what all do wish: The thresher backs him, and to beat begins; The sluggard whale leads to oppression, And t' hide himself from shame and danger, down Begins to sink: the sword-fish upwards spins, And gores him with his beak; his staff-like fins So well the one, his sword the other, plies, That, now a scoff and prey, this tyrant dies, And (his own dole) feeds with himself all companies.

XXXVII.

Who will revenge his death? or who will call Those to account that thought and wrought his fall? The heirs of slain kings we see are often so Transported with the joy of what they get, That they revenge and obsequies forget; Nor will against such men the people go, Because he's now dead to whom they should show Love in that act. Some kings, by vice, being grown So needy of subjects' love, that of their own They think they lose if love be to the dead prince shown.

XXXVIII.

This soul, now free from prison and passion, Hath yet a little indignation That so small hammers should so soon down beat So great a castle; and having for her house Got the strait cloister of a wretched mouse, (As basest men, that have not what to eat, Nor enjoy ought, do far more hate the great Than they who good reposed estates possess,) This Soul, late taught that great things might by less Be slain, to gallant mischief doth herself address.

XXXIX.

Nature's great masterpiece, an elephant, (The only harmless great thing,) the giant Of beasts, who thought none had to make him wise, But to be just and thankful, both to offend, (Yet Nature hath given him no knees to bend,) Himself he up-props, on himself relies, And, foe to none, suspects no enemies, Still sleeping stood; vexed not his fantasy Black dreams; like an unbent bow carelessly His sinewy proboscis did remissly lie.

XL.

In which, as in a gallery, this mouse Walked, and surveyed the rooms of this vast house, And to the brain, the Soul's bed-chamber, went, And gnawed the life-cords there: like a whole town Clean undermined, the slain beast tumbled down: With him the murderer dies, whom envy sent To kill, not 'scape, (for only he that meant To die did ever kill a man of better room,) And thus he made his foe his prey and tomb: Who cares not to turn back may any whither come.

XLI.

Next housed this Soul a wolf's yet unborn whelp, Till the best midwife, Nature, gave it help To issue: it could kill as soon as go. Abel, as white and mild as his sheep were, (Who, in that trade, of church and kingdoms there Was the first type,) was still infested so With this wolf, that it bred his loss and woe; And yet his bitch, his sentinel, attends The flock so near, so well warns and defends, That the wolf, hopeless else, to corrupt her intends.

XLII.

He took a course, which since successfully Great men have often taken, to espy The counsels, or to break the plots, of foes; To Abel's tent he stealeth in the dark, On whose skirts the bitch slept: ere she could bark, Attached her with strait gripes, yet he called those Embracements of love: to love's work he goes, Where deeds move more than words; nor doth she show, Nor much resist, no needs he straiten so His prey, for were she loose she would not bark nor go.

XLIII.

He hath engaged her; his she wholly bides; Who not her own, none other's secrets hides. If to the flock he come, and Abel there, She feigns hoarse barkings, but she biteth not! Her faith is quite, but not her love forgot. At last a trap, of which some everywhere Abel had placed, ends all his loss and fear By the wolf's death; and now just time it was That a quick Soul should give life to that mass Of blood in Abel's bitch, and thither this did pass.

XLIV.

Some have their wives, their sisters some begot, But in the lives of emperors you shall not Read of a lust the which may equal this: This wolf begot himself, and finished What he began alive when he was dead. Son to himself, and father too, he is A riding lust, for which schoolmen would miss A proper name. The whelp of both these lay In Abel's tent, and with soft Moaba, His sister, being young, it used to sport and play.

XLV.

He soon for her too harsh and churlish grew, And Abel (the dam dead) would use this new For the field; being of two kinds thus made, He, as his dam, from sheep drove wolves away, And, as his sire, he made them his own prey. Five years he lived, and cozened with his trade, Then, hopeless that his faults were hid, betrayed Himself by flight, and by all followed, From dogs a wolf, from wolves a dog, he fled, And, like a spy, to both sides false, he perished.

XLVI.

It quickened next a toyful ape, and so Gamesome it was, that it might freely go From tent to tent, and with the children play: His organs now so like theirs he doth find, That why he cannot laugh and speak his mind He wonders. Much with all, most he doth stay With Adam's fifth daughter, Siphatecia; Doth gaze on her, and where she passeth pass, Gathers her fruits, and tumbles on the grass; And, wisest of that kind, the first true lover was.

XLVII.

He was the first that more desired to have One than another; first that e'er did crave Love by mute signs, and had no power to speak; First that could make love-faces, or could do The vaulter's somersalts, or used to woo With hoiting gambols, his own bones to break, To make his mistress merry, or to wreak Her anger on himself. Sins against kind They easily do that can let feed their mind With outward beauty; beauty they in boys and beasts do find.

XLVIII.

By this misled too low things men have proved, And too high; beasts and angels have been loved: This ape, though else th'rough vain, in this was wise; He reached at things too high, but open way There was, and he knew not she would say Nay. His toys prevail not; likelier means he tries; He gazeth on her face with tear-shot eyes, And uplifts subtlely, with his russet paw, Her kid-skin apron without fear or awe Of Nature; Nature hath no jail, though she hath law.

XLIX.

First she was silly, and knew not what he meant: That virtue, by his touches chafed and spent, Succeeds an itchy warmth, that melts her quite; She knew not first, nor cares not what he doth; And willing half and more, more than half wrath, She neither pulls nor pushes, but outright Now cries, and now repents; when Thelemite, Her brother, entered, and a great stone threw After the ape, who thus prevented flew. This house, thus battered down, the Soul possessed anew.

L.

And whether by this change she lose or win, She comes out next where the ape would have gone in. Adam and Eve had mingled bloods, and now, Like chemic's equal fires, her temperate womb Had stewed and formed it; and part did become A spungy liver, that did richly allow, Like a free conduit on a high hill's brow, Life-keeping moisture unto every part; Part hardened itself to a thicker heart, Whose busy furnaces life's spirits do impart.

LI.

Another part became the well of sense, The tender, well-armed feeling brain, from whence Those sinew strings which do our bodies tie Are ravelled out; and fast there by one end Did this Soul limbs, these limbs a Soul attend; And now they joined, keeping some quality Of every past shape; she knew treachery, Rapine, deceit, and lust, and ills enough To be a woman: Themech she is now, Sister and wife to Cain, Cain that first did plough.

LII.

Whoe'er thou beest that read'st this sullen writ, Which just so much courts thee as thou dost it, Let me arrest thy thoughts; wonder with me Why ploughing, building, ruling, and the rest, Or most of those arts whence our lives are blest, By cursed Cain's race invented be, And blest Seth vexed us with astronomy. There's nothing simply good nor ill alone; Of every quality Comparison The only measure is, and judge Opinion.

MICHAEL DRAYTON,

The author of 'Polyolbion,' was born in the parish of Atherston, in Warwickshire, about the year 1563. He was the son of a butcher, but displayed such precocity that several persons of quality, such as Sir Walter Aston and the Countess of Bedford, patronised him. In his childhood he was eager to know what strange kind of beings poets were; and on coming to Oxford, (if, indeed, he did study there,) is said to have importuned his tutor to make him, if possible, a poet. He was supported chiefly, through his life, by the Lady Bedford. He paid court, without success, to King James. In 1593 (having long ere this become that 'strange thing a poet') he published a collection of his Pastorals, and afterwards his 'Barons' Wars' and 'England's Heroical Epistles,' which are both rhymed histories. In 1612-13 he published the first part of 'Polyolbion,' and in 1622 completed the work. In 1626 we hear of him being styled Poet Laureate, but the title then implied neither royal appointment, nor fee, nor, we presume, duty. In 1627 he published 'The Battle of Agincourt,' 'The Court of Faerie,' and other poems; and, three years later, a book called 'The Muses' Elysium.' He had at last found an asylum in the family of the Earl of Dorset; whose noble lady, Lady Anne Clifford, subsequently Countess of Pembroke, and who had been, we saw, Daniel's pupil, after Drayton's death in 1631, erected him a monument, with a gold-lettered inscription, in Westminster Abbey.

The main pillar of Drayton's fame is 'Polyolbion,' which forms a poetical description of England, in thirty songs or books, to which the learned Camden appended notes. The learning and knowledge of this poem are exten- sive, and many of the descriptions are true and spirited, but the space of ground traversed is too large, and the form of versification is too heavy, for so long a flight. Campbell justly remarks,--'On a general survey, the mass of his poetry has no strength or sustaining spirit equal to its bulk. There is a perpetual play of fancy on its surface; but the impulses of passion, and the guidance of judgment, give it no strong movements or consistent course.'

Drayton eminently suits a 'Selection' such as ours, since his parts are better than his whole.

DESCRIPTION OF MORNING.

When Phoebus lifts his head out of the winter's wave, No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave, At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring, But hunts-up to the morn the feather'd sylvans sing: And in the lower grove, as on the rising knoll, Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole, Those choristers are perch'd with many a speckled breast. Then from her burnish'd gate the goodly glitt'ring east Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morning's sight: On which the mirthful choirs, with their clear open throats, Unto the joyful morn so strain their warbling notes, That hills and valleys ring, and even the echoing air Seems all composed of sounds, about them everywhere. The throstle, with shrill sharps; as purposely he sung T'awake the lustless sun, or chiding, that so long He was in coming forth, that should the thickets thrill; The woosel near at hand, that hath a golden bill; As nature him had mark'd of purpose, t'let us see That from all other birds his tunes should different be: For, with their vocal sounds, they sing to pleasant May; Upon his dulcet pipe the merle doth only play. When in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by, In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply, As though the other birds she to her tunes would draw, And, but that nature (by her all-constraining law) Each bird to her own kind this season doth invite, They else, alone to hear that charmer of the night, (The more to use their ears,) their voices sure would spare, That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare, As man to set in parts at first had learn'd of her.

To Philomel the next, the linnet we prefer; And by that warbling bird, the wood-lark place we then, The red-sparrow, the nope, the redbreast, and the wren. The yellow-pate; which though she hurt the blooming tree, Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she. And of these chanting fowls, the goldfinch not behind, That hath so many sorts descending from her kind. The tydy for her notes as delicate as they, The laughing hecco, then the counterfeiting jay, The softer with the shrill (some hid among the leaves, Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves) Thus sing away the morn, until the mounting sun Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath run, And through the twisted tops of our close covert creeps To kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps. And near to these our thicks, the wild and frightful herds, Not hearing other noise but this of chattering birds, Feed fairly on the lawns; both sorts of season'd deer: Here walk the stately red, the freckled fallow there: The bucks and lusty stags amongst the rascals strew'd, As sometime gallant spirits amongst the multitude.

Of all the beasts which we for our venerial name, The hart among the rest, the hunter's noblest game: Of which most princely chase since none did e'er report, Or by description touch, to express that wondrous sport, (Yet might have well beseem'd the ancients' nobler songs) To our old Arden here, most fitly it belongs: Yet shall she not invoke the muses to her aid; But thee, Diana bright, a goddess and a maid: In many a huge-grown wood, and many a shady grove, Which oft hast borne thy bow (great huntress, used to rove) At many a cruel beast, and with thy darts to pierce The lion, panther, ounce, the bear, and tiger fierce; And following thy fleet game, chaste mighty forest's queen, With thy dishevell'd nymphs attired in youthful green, About the lawns hast scour'd, and wastes both far and near, Brave huntress; but no beast shall prove thy quarries here; Save those the best of chase, the tall and lusty red, The stag for goodly shape, and stateliness of head, Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom, when with his hounds The labouring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed grounds Where harbour'd is the hart; there often from his feed The dogs of him do find; or thorough skilful heed, The huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, perceives, On entering of the thick by pressing of the greaves, Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the hart doth hear The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret leir, He rousing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth drive, As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive. And through the cumbrous thicks, as fearfully he makes, He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes, That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him to weep; When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep, That all the forest rings, and every neighbouring place: And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase; Rechating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers, Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palm'd head upbears, His body showing state, with unbent knees upright, Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight. But when the approaching foes still following he perceives, That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves: And o'er the champain flies: which when the assembly find, Each follows, as his horse were footed with the wind. But being then imbost, the noble stately deer When he hath gotten ground (the kennel cast arrear) Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refreshing soil: That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foil, And makes amongst the herds, and flocks of shag-wooled sheep, Them frighting from the guard of those who had their keep. But when as all his shifts his safety still denies, Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fallows tries. Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he letteth stand To assail him with his goad: so with his hook in hand, The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hollo: When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and huntsmen follow; Until the noble deer through toil bereaved of strength, His long and sinewy legs then failing him at length, The villages attempts, enraged, not giving way To anything he meets now at his sad decay. The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunters near, This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear, Some bank or quickset finds: to which his haunch opposed, He turns upon his foes, that soon have him enclosed. The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay, And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay, With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds.

The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds, He desperately assails; until oppress'd by force, He who the mourner is to his own dying corse, Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall.

EDWARD FAIRFAX.

Edward Fairfax was the second, some say the natural, son of Sir Thomas Fairfax of Denton, in Yorkshire. The dates of his birth and of his death are unknown, although he was living in 1631. While his brothers were pursuing military glory in the field, Edward married early, and settled in Fuystone, a place near Knaresborough Forest. Here he spent part of his time in managing his elder brother, Lord Fairfax's property, and partly in literary pursuits. He wrote a strange treatise on Demonology, a History of Edward the Black Prince, which has never been printed, some poor Eclogues, and a most beautiful translation of Tasso, which stamps him a true poet as well as a benefactor to the English language, and on account of which Collins calls him--

'Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung.'

RINALDO AT MOUNT OLIVET.

1 It was the time, when 'gainst the breaking day Rebellious night yet strove, and still repined; For in the east appear'd the morning gray, And yet some lamps in Jove's high palace shined, When to Mount Olivet he took his way, And saw, as round about his eyes he twined, Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's shine; This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine:

2 Thus to himself he thought: 'How many bright And splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple high! Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night, Her fix'd and wandering stars the azure sky; So framed all by their Creator's might, That still they live and shine, and ne'er shall die, Till, in a moment, with the last day's brand They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land.'

3 Thus as he mused, to the top he went, And there kneel'd down with reverence and fear; His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent; His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were-- 'The sins and errors, which I now repent, Of my unbridled youth, O Father dear, Remember not, but let thy mercy fall, And purge my faults and my offences all.'

4 Thus prayed he; with purple wings up-flew In golden weed the morning's lusty queen, Begilding, with the radiant beams she threw, His helm, his harness, and the mountain green: Upon his breast and forehead gently blew The air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen; And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies, A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies:

5 The heavenly dew was on his garments spread, To which compared, his clothes pale ashes seem, And sprinkled so, that all that paleness fled, And thence of purest white bright rays outstream: So cheered are the flowers, late withered, With the sweet comfort of the morning beam; And so, return'd to youth, a serpent old Adorns herself in new and native gold.

6 The lovely whiteness of his changed weed The prince perceived well and long admired; Toward, the forest march'd he on with speed, Resolved, as such adventures great required: Thither he came, whence, shrinking back for dread Of that strange desert's sight, the first retired; But not to him fearful or loathsome made That forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade.

7 Forward he pass'd, and in the grove before He heard a sound, that strange, sweet, pleasing was; There roll'd a crystal brook with gentle roar, There sigh'd the winds, as through the leaves they pass; There did the nightingale her wrongs deplore, There sung the swan, and singing died, alas! There lute, harp, cittern, human voice, he heard, And all these sounds one sound right well declared.

8 A dreadful thunder-clap at last he heard, The aged trees and plants well-nigh that rent, Yet heard the nymphs and sirens afterward, Birds, winds, and waters, sing with sweet consent; Whereat amazed, he stay'd, and well prepared For his defence, heedful and slow forth-went; Nor in his way his passage ought withstood, Except a quiet, still, transparent flood:

9 On the green banks, which that fair stream inbound, Flowers and odours sweetly smiled and smell'd, Which reaching out his stretched arms around, All the large desert in his bosom held, And through the grove one channel passage found; This in the wood, in that the forest dwell'd: Trees clad the streams, streams green those trees aye made, And so exchanged their moisture and their shade.

10 The knight some way sought out the flood to pass, And as he sought, a wondrous bridge appear'd; A bridge of gold, a huge and mighty mass, On arches great of that rich metal rear'd: When through that golden way he enter'd was, Down fell the bridge; swelled the stream, and wear'd The work away, nor sign left, where it stood, And of a river calm became a flood.

11 He turn'd, amazed to see it troubled so, Like sudden brooks, increased with molten snow; The billows fierce, that tossed to and fro, The whirlpools suck'd down to their bosoms low; But on he went to search for wonders mo,[1] Through the thick trees, there high and broad which grow; And in that forest huge, and desert wide, The more he sought, more wonders still he spied:

12 Where'er he stepp'd, it seem'd the joyful ground Renew'd the verdure of her flowery weed; A fountain here, a well-spring there he found; Here bud the roses, there the lilies spread: The aged wood o'er and about him round Flourish'd with blossoms new, new leaves, new seed; And on the boughs and branches of those treen The bark was soften'd, and renew'd the green.

13 The manna on each leaf did pearled lie; The honey stilled[2] from the tender rind: Again he heard that wonderful harmony Of songs and sweet complaints of lovers kind; The human voices sung a treble high, To which respond the birds, the streams, the wind; But yet unseen those nymphs, those singers were, Unseen the lutes, harps, viols which they bear.

14 He look'd, he listen'd, yet his thoughts denied To think that true which he did hear and see: A myrtle in an ample plain he spied, And thither by a beaten path went he; The myrtle spread her mighty branches wide, Higher than pine, or palm, or cypress tree, And far above all other plants was seen That forest's lady, and that desert's queen.

15 Upon the tree his eyes Rinaldo bent, And there a marvel great and strange began; An aged oak beside him cleft and rent, And from his fertile, hollow womb, forth ran, Clad in rare weeds and strange habiliment, A nymph, for age able to go to man; An hundred plants beside, even in his sight, Childed an hundred nymphs, so great, so dight.[3]

16 Such as on stages play, such as we see The dryads painted, whom wild satyrs love, Whose arms half naked, locks untrussed be, With buskins laced on their legs above, And silken robes tuck'd short above their knee, Such seem'd the sylvan daughters of this grove; Save, that instead of shafts and bows of tree, She bore a lute, a harp or cittern she;

17 And wantonly they cast them in a ring, And sung and danced to move his weaker sense, Rinaldo round about environing, As does its centre the circumference; The tree they compass'd eke, and 'gan to sing, That woods and streams admired their excellence-- 'Welcome, dear Lord, welcome to this sweet grove, Welcome, our lady's hope, welcome, her love!

18 'Thou com'st to cure our princess, faint and sick For love, for love of thee, faint, sick, distress'd; Late black, late dreadful was this forest thick, Fit dwelling for sad folk, with grief oppress'd; See, with thy coming how the branches quick Revived are, and in new blossoms dress'd!' This was their song; and after from it went First a sweet sound, and then the myrtle rent.

19 If antique times admired Silenus old, Who oft appear'd set on his lazy ass, How would they wonder, if they had behold Such sights, as from the myrtle high did pass! Thence came a lady fair with locks of gold, That like in shape, in face, and beauty was To fair Armida; Rinald thinks he spies Her gestures, smiles, and glances of her eyes:

20 On him a sad and smiling look she cast, Which twenty passions strange at once bewrays; 'And art thou come,' quoth she, 'return'd at last' To her, from whom but late thou ran'st thy ways? Com'st thou to comfort me for sorrows past, To ease my widow nights, and careful days? Or comest thou to work me grief and harm? Why nilt thou speak, why not thy face disarm?

21 'Com'st thou a friend or foe? I did not frame That golden bridge to entertain my foe; Nor open'd flowers and fountains, as you came, To welcome him with joy who brings me woe: Put off thy helm: rejoice me with the flame Of thy bright eyes, whence first my fires did grow; Kiss me, embrace me; if you further venture, Love keeps the gate, the fort is eath[4] to enter.'

22 Thus as she woos, she rolls her rueful eyes With piteous look, and changeth oft her chere,[5] An hundred sighs from her false heart up-flies; She sobs, she mourns, it is great ruth to hear: The hardest breast sweet pity mollifies; What stony heart resists a woman's tear? But yet the knight, wise, wary, not unkind, Drew forth his sword, and from her careless twined:[6]

23 Towards the tree he march'd; she thither start, Before him stepp'd, embraced the plant, and cried-- 'Ah! never do me such a spiteful part, To cut my tree, this forest's joy and pride; Put up thy sword, else pierce therewith the heart Of thy forsaken and despised Armide; For through this breast, and through this heart, unkind, To this fair tree thy sword shall passage find.'

24 He lift his brand, nor cared, though oft she pray'd, And she her form to other shape did change; Such monsters huge, when men in dreams are laid, Oft in their idle fancies roam and range: Her body swell'd, her face obscure was made; Vanish'd her garments rich, and vestures strange; A giantess before him high she stands, Arm'd, like Briareus, with an hundred hands.

25 With fifty swords, and fifty targets bright, She threaten'd death, she roar'd, she cried and fought; Each other nymph, in armour likewise dight, A Cyclops great became; he fear'd them nought, But on the myrtle smote with all his might, Which groan'd, like living souls, to death nigh brought; The sky seem'd Pluto's court, the air seem'd hell, Therein such monsters roar, such spirits yell:

26 Lighten'd the heaven above, the earth below Roared aloud; that thunder'd, and this shook: Bluster'd the tempests strong; the whirlwinds blow; The bitter storm drove hailstones in his look; But yet his arm grew neither weak nor slow, Nor of that fury heed or care he took, Till low to earth the wounded tree down bended; en fled the spirits all, the charms all ended.

27 The heavens grew clear, the air wax'd calm and still, The wood returned to its wonted state, Of witchcrafts free, quite void of spirits ill, Of horror full, but horror there innate: He further tried, if ought withstood his will To cut those trees, as did the charms of late, And finding nought to stop him, smiled and said-- 'O shadows vain! O fools, of shades afraid!'

28 From thence home to the camp-ward turn'd the knight; The hermit cried, upstarting from his seat, 'Now of the wood the charms have lost their might; The sprites are conquer'd, ended is the feat; See where he comes!'--Array'd in glittering white Appear'd the man, bold, stately, high, and great; His eagle's silver wings to shine begun With wondrous splendour 'gainst the golden sun.

29 The camp received him with a joyful cry,-- A cry, the hills and dales about that fill'd; Then Godfrey welcomed him with honours high; His glory quench'd all spite, all envy kill'd: 'To yonder dreadful grove,' quoth he, 'went I, And from the fearful wood, as me you will'd, Have driven the sprites away; thither let be Your people sent, the way is safe and free.'

[1] 'Mo:' more. [2] 'Stilled:' dropped. [3] 'Dight:' aparelled. [4] 'Eath:' easy. [5] 'Chere:' expression. [6] 'Twined:' separated.

SIR HENRY WOTTON

Was born in Kent, in 1568; educated at Winchester and Oxford; and, after travelling on the Continent, became the Secretary of Essex, but had the sagacity to foresee his downfall, and withdrew from the kingdom in time. On his return he became a favourite of James I., who employed him to be ambassador to Venice,--a post he held long, and occupied with great skill and adroitness. Toward the end of his days, in order to gain the Provost- ship of Eton, he took orders, and died in that situation, in 1639, in the 72d year of his age. His writings were published in 1651, under the title of 'Reliquitae Wottonianae,' and Izaak Walton has written an entertaining account of his life. His poetry has a few pleasing and smooth-flowing passages; but perhaps the best thing recorded of him is his viva voce account of an English ambassador, as 'an honest gentleman sent to LIE abroad for the good of his country.'

FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.

1 Farewell, ye gilded follies! pleasing troubles; Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles; Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay, Honour the darling but of one short day, Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damask'd skin, State but a golden prison to live in And torture free-born minds; embroider'd trains Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins; And blood, allied to greatness, is alone Inherited, not purchased, nor our own. Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth, Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.

2 I would be great, but that the sun doth still Level his rays against the rising hill; I would be high, but see the proudest oak Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke; I would be rich, but see men too unkind Dig in the bowels of the richest mind; I would be wise, but that I often see The fox suspected while the ass goes free; I would be fair, but see the fair and proud, Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud; I would be poor, but know the humble grass Still trampled on by each unworthy ass; Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor; Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, still envied more. I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair--poor I'll be rather.

3 Would the world now adopt me for her heir, Would beauty's queen entitle me 'the fair,' Fame speak me Fortune's minion, could I vie Angels[1] with India; with a speaking eye Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike Justice dumb As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue To stones by epitaphs; be call'd great master In the loose rhymes of every poetaster; Could I be more than any man that lives, Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives: Yet I more freely would these gifts resign, Than ever fortune would have made them mine; And hold one minute of this holy leisure Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

4 Welcome, pure thoughts! welcome, ye silent groves! These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves. Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring; A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass, In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face; Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares, No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears: Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly, And learn to affect a holy melancholy; And if Contentment be a stranger then, I'll ne'er look for it but in heaven again.

[1] 'Angels:' a species of coin.

A MEDITATION.

O thou great Power! in whom we move, By whom we live, to whom we die, Behold me through thy beams of love, Whilst on this couch of tears I lie, And cleanse my sordid soul within By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin.

No hallow'd oils, no gums I need, No new-born drams of purging fire; One rosy drop from David's seed Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire: O precious ransom! which once paid, That Consummatum est was said.

And said by him, that said no more, But seal'd it with his sacred breath: Thou then, that has dispurged our score, And dying wert the death of death, Be now, whilst on thy name we call, Our life, our strength, our joy, our all!

RICHARD CORBET.

This witty and good-natured bishop was born in 1582. He was the son of a gardener, who, however, had the honour to be known to and sung by Ben Jonson. He was educated at Westminster and Oxford; and having received orders, was made successively Bishop of Oxford and of Norwich. He was a most facetious and rather too convivial person; and a collection of anecdotes about him might be made, little inferior, in point of wit and coarseness, to that famous one, once so popular in Scotland, relating to the sayings and doings of George Buchanan. He is said, on one occasion, to have aided an unfortunate ballad-singer in his professional duty by arraying himself in his leathern jacket and vending the stock, being possessed of a fine presence and a clear, full, ringing voice. Occasionally doffing his clerical costume he adjourned with his chaplain, Dr Lushington, to the wine-cellar, where care and ceremony were both speedily drowned, the one of the pair exclaiming, 'Here's to thee, Lushington,' and the other, 'Here's to thee, Corbet.' Men winked at these irregularities, probably on the principle mentioned by Scott, in reference to Prior Aymer, in 'Ivanhoe,'--'If Prior Aymer rode hard in the chase, or remained late at the banquet, men only shrugged up their shoulders by recollecting that the same irregularities were practised by many of his brethren, who had no redeeming qualities whatsoever to atone for them.' Corbet, on the other hand, was a kind as well as a convivial --a warm-hearted as well as an eccentric man. He was tolerant to the Puritans and sectaries; his attention to his duties was respectable; his talents were of a high order, and he had in him a vein of genius of no ordinary kind. He died in 1635, but his poems were not published till 1647. They are of various merit, and treat of various subjects. In his 'Journey to France,' you see the humorist, who, on one occasion, when the country people were flocking to be confirmed, cried, 'Bear off there, or I'll confirm ye with my staff.' In his lines to his son Vincent, we see, notwithstanding all his foibles, the good man; and in his 'Farewell to the Fairies' the fine and fanciful poet.

DR CORBET'S JOURNEY INTO FRANCE.

1 I went from England into France, Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance, Nor yet to ride nor fence; Nor did I go like one of those That do return with half a nose, They carried from hence.

2 But I to Paris rode along, Much like John Dory in the song, Upon a holy tide; I on an ambling nag did jet, (I trust he is not paid for yet,) And spurr'd him on each side.

3 And to St Denis fast we came, To see the sights of Notre Dame, (The man that shows them snuffles,) Where who is apt for to believe, May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve, And eke her old pantofles;

4 Her breast, her milk, her very gown That she did wear in Bethlehem town, When in the inn she lay; Yet all the world knows that's a fable, For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable, Upon a lock of hay.

5 No carpenter could by his trade Gain so much coin as to have made A gown of so rich stuff; Yet they, poor souls, think, for their credit, That they believe old Joseph did it, 'Cause he deserved enough.

6 There is one of the cross's nails, Which whoso sees, his bonnet vails, And, if he will, may kneel; Some say 'twas false,'twas never so, Yet, feeling it, thus much I know, It is as true as steel.

7 There is a Ianthorn which the Jews, When Judas led them forth, did use, It weighs my weight downright; But to believe it, you must think The Jews did put a candle in 't, And then 'twas very light.

8 There's one saint there hath lost his nose, Another's head, but not his toes, His elbow and his thumb; But when that we had seen the rags, We went to th' inn and took our nags, And so away did come.

9 We came to Paris, on the Seine, 'Tis wondrous fair,'tis nothing clean, 'Tis Europe's greatest town; How strong it is I need not tell it, For all the world may easily smell it, That walk it up and down.

10 There many strange things are to see, The palace and great gallery, The Place Royal doth excel, The New Bridge, and the statutes there, At Notre Dame St Q. Pater, The steeple bears the bell.

11 For learning the University, And for old clothes the Frippery, The house the queen did build. St Innocence, whose earth devours Dead corps in four-and-twenty hours, And there the king was kill'd.

12 The Bastille and St Denis Street, The Shafflenist like London Fleet, The Arsenal no toy; But if you'll see the prettiest thing, Go to the court and see the king-- Oh, 'tis a hopeful boy!

13 He is, of all his dukes and peers, Reverenced for much wit at's years, Nor must you think it much; For he with little switch doth play, And make fine dirty pies of clay, Oh, never king made such!

14 A bird that can but kill a fly, Or prate, doth please his majesty, Tis known to every one; The Duke of Guise gave him a parrot, And he had twenty cannons for it, For his new galleon.

15 Oh that I e'er might have the hap To get the bird which in the map Is call'd the Indian ruck! I'd give it him, and hope to be As rich as Guise or Liviné, Or else I had ill-luck.

16 Birds round about his chamber stand, And he them feeds with his own hand, 'Tis his humility; And if they do want anything, They need but whistle for their king, And he comes presently.

17 But now, then, for these parts he must Be enstyled Lewis the Just, Great Henry's lawful heir; When to his style to add more words, They'd better call him King of Birds, Than of the great Navarre.

18 He hath besides a pretty quirk, Taught him by nature, how to work In iron with much ease; Sometimes to the forge he goes, There he knocks and there he blows, And makes both locks and keys;

19 Which puts a doubt in every one, Whether he be Mars' or Vulcan's son, Some few believe his mother; But let them all say what they will, I came resolved, and so think still, As much the one as th' other.

20 The people too dislike the youth, Alleging reasons, for, in truth, Mothers should honour'd be; Yet others say, he loves her rather As well as ere she loved her father, And that's notoriously.

21 His queen,[1] a pretty little wench, Was born in Spain, speaks little French, She's ne'er like to be mother; For her incestuous house could not Have children which were not begot By uncle or by brother.

22 Nor why should Lewis, being so just, Content himself to take his lust With his Lucina's mate, And suffer his little pretty queen, From all her race that yet hath been, So to degenerate?

23 'Twere charity for to be known To love others' children as his own, And why? it is no shame, Unless that he would greater be Than was his father Henery, Who, men thought, did the same.

[1] Anne of Austria.

FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES.

1 Farewell, rewards and fairies, Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they. And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late, for cleanliness, Finds sixpence in her shoe?

2 Lament, lament, old Abbeys, The fairies lost command; They did but change priests' babies, But some have changed your land; And all your children sprung from thence Are now grown Puritans; Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your domains.

3 At morning and at evening both, You merry were and glad, So little care of sleep or sloth These pretty ladies had; When Tom came home from labour, Or Cis to milking rose, Then merrily went their tabor, And nimbly went their toes.

4 Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain; But since of late Elizabeth, And later, James came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been.

5 By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession, Their songs were Ave-Maries, Their dances were procession: But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas; Or further for religion fled, Or else they take their ease.

6 A tell-tale in their company They never could endure, And whoso kept not secretly Their mirth, was punish'd sure; It was a just and Christian deed, To pinch such black and blue: Oh, how the commonwealth doth need Such justices as you!

BEN JONSON.

As 'rare Ben' chiefly shone as a dramatist, we need not recount at length the events of his life. He was born in 1574; his father, who had been a clergyman in Westminster, and was sprung from a Scotch family in Annandale, having died before his birth. His mother marrying a bricklayer, Ben was brought up to the same employment. Disliking this, he enlisted in the army, and served with credit in the Low Countries. When he came home, he entered St John's College, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short, since he is found in London at the age of twenty, married, and acting on the stage. He began at the same time to write dramas. He was unlucky enough to quarrel with and kill another performer, for which he was committed to prison, but released without a trial. He resumed his labours as a writer for the stage; but having failed in the acting department, he forsook it for ever. His first hit was, 'Every Man in his Humour,' a play enacted in 1598, Shakspeare being one of the actors. His course afterwards was chequered. He quarrelled with Marston and Dekker,--he was imprisoned for some reflections on the Scottish nation in one of his comedies,--he was appointed in 1619 poet- laureate, with a pension of 100 marks,--he made the same year a journey to Scotland on foot, where he visited Drummond at Hawthornden, and they seem to have mutually loathed each other,'--he fell into habits of intemperance, and acquired, as he said himself,

'A mountain belly and a rocky face.'

His favourite haunts were the Mermaid, and the Falcon Tavern, Southwark. He was engaged in constant squabbles with his contemporaries, and died at last, in 1637, in miserably poor circumstances. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, under a square tablet, where one of his admirers afterwards inscribed the words,

'O rare Ben Jonson!'

Of his powers as a dramatist we need not speak, but present our readers with some rough and racy specimens of his poetry.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; Death! ere thou hast slain another, Learn'd and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee!

THE PICTURE OF THE BODY.

Sitting, and ready to be drawn, What make these velvets, silks, and lawn, Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace, Where every limb takes like a face?

Send these suspected helps to aid Some form defective, or decay'd; This beauty, without falsehood fair, Needs nought to clothe it but the air.

Yet something to the painter's view, Were fitly interposed; so new, He shall, if he can understand, Work by my fancy, with his hand.

Draw first a cloud, all save her neck, And, out of that, make day to break; Till like her face it do appear, And men may think all light rose there.

Then let the beams of that disperse The cloud, and show the universe; But at such distance, as the eye May rather yet adore, than spy.

TO PENSHURST.

(FROM 'THE FOREST')

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row Of polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold: Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told; Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile, And these grudged at, are reverenced the while. Thou joy'st in better marks of soil and air, Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair. Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport; Thy mount to which the dryads do resort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade; That taller tree which of a nut was set At his great birth where all the Muses met. There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names Of many a Sylvan token with his flames. And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke The lighter Fauns to reach thy Ladies' Oak. Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast here That never fails, to serve thee, season'd deer, When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land that to the river bends, Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed: The middle ground thy mares and horses breed. Each bank doth yield thee conies, and the tops Fertile of wood. Ashore, and Sidney's copse, To crown thy open table doth provide The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side: The painted partridge lies in every field, And, for thy mess, is willing to be kill'd. And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish, Fat, aged carps that run into thy net, And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, As both the second draught or cast to stay, Officiously, at first, themselves betray. Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land, Before the fisher, or into his hand. Thou hast thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. The early cherry with the later plum, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come: The blushing apricot and woolly peach Hang on thy walls that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan; There's none that dwell about them wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make The better cheeses, bring them, or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves, in plum or pear. But what can this (more than express their love) Add to thy free provision, far above The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow With all that hospitality doth know! Where comes no guest but is allow'd to eat Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat: Where the same beer, and bread, and selfsame wine That is his lordship's shall be also mine. And I not fain to sit (as some this day At great men's tables) and yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, A waiter doth my gluttony envy: But gives me what I call, and lets me eat; He knows below he shall find plenty of meat; Thy tables hoard not up for the next day, Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray For fire, or lights, or livery: all is there, As if thou, then, wert mine, or I reign'd here. There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay. This found King James, when hunting late this way With his brave son, the Prince; they saw thy fires Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires Of thy Penates had been set on flame To entertain them; or the country came, With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here. What (great, I will not say, but) sudden cheer Did'st thou then make them! and what praise was heap'd On thy good lady then, who therein reap'd The just reward of her high housewifery; To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh, When she was far; and not a room but drest As if it had expected such a guest! These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all; Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal. His children * * * * * have been taught religion; thence Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence. Each morn and even they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Head, in their virtuous parents' noble parts, The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts. Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor Muse can praise too much, 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these would light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise. But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin: Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakspeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further off, to make thee room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great but disproportion'd Muses: For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, Or sporting Kyd or Marlow's mighty line, And though thou had small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee I will not seek For names; but call forth thund'ring Aeschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To live again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage: or when thy socks were on Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all, that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury, to charm! Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines, Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of nature's family, Yet must I not give nature all; thy art, My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part, For though the poet's matter nature be, His art doth give the fashion; and, that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same, And himself with it, that he thinks to frame; Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn; For a good poet's made as well as born, And such wert thou! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well-turned and true-filed lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames That so did take Eliza and our James! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there! Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, Which since thy flight from hence hath mourn'd like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light!

ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPEARE.

(UNDER THE FRONTISPIECE TO THE FIRST EDITION OF HIS WORKS: 1623.)

This figure that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakspeare cut, Wherein the graver had a strife With nature, to outdo the life: Oh, could he but have drawn his wit, As well in brass, as he hath hit His face; the print would then surpass All that was ever writ in 'brass: But since he cannot, reader, look Not on his picture but his book.

VERE, STORRER, &c.

In the same age of fertile, seething mind which produced Jonson and the rest of the Elizabethan giants, there flourished some minor poets, whose names we merely chronicle: such as Edward Vere, Earl of Oxford, born 1534, and dying 1604, who travelled in Italy in his youth, and returned the 'most accomplished coxcomb in Europe,' who sat as Grand Chamberlain of England upon the trial of Mary Queen of Scots, and who has left, in the 'Paradise of Dainty Devices,' some rather beautiful verses, entitled, 'Fancy and Desire;'--as Thomas Storrer, a student of Christ Church, Oxford, and the author of a versified 'History of Cardinal Wolsey,' in three parts, who died in 1604;--as William Warner, a native of Oxfordshire, born in 1558, who became an attorney of the Common Pleas in London, and died suddenly in 1609, having made himself famous for a time by a poem, entitled 'Albion's England,' called by Campbell 'an enormous ballad on the history, or rather the fables appendant to the history of England,' with some fine touches, but heavy and prolix as a whole;--as Sir John Harrington, who was the son of a poet and the favourite of Essex, who was created a Knight of the Bath by James I., and who wrote some pointed epigrams and a miserable translation of Ariosto, in which heeffectually tamed that wild Pegasus; --as Henry Perrot, who collected, in 1613, a book of epigrams, entitled, 'Springes for Woodcocks;'--as Sir Thomas Overbury, whose dreadful and mysterious fate, well known to all who read English history, excited such a sympathy for him, that his poems, 'A Wife,' and 'The Choice of a Wife,' passed through sixteen editions before the year 1653, although his prose 'Characters,' such as the exquisite and well-known 'Fair and Happy Milkmaid,' are far better than his poetry;--as Samuel Rowlandes, a prolific pamphleteer in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I., author also of several plays and of a book of epigrams;--as Thomas Picke, who belonged to the Middle Temple, and published, in 1631, a number of songs, sonnets, and elegies;--as Henry Constable, born in 1568, and a well-known sonneteer of his day;--as Nicholas Breton, author of some pretty pastorals, who, it is conjectured, was born in 1555, and died in 1624;--and as Dr Thomas Lodge, born in 1556, and who died in 1625, after translating Josephus into English, and writing some tolerable poetical pieces.

THOMAS RANDOLPH.

This was a true poet, although his power comes forth principally in the drama. He was born at Newnham, near Daventry, Northamptonshire, in 1605, being the you of Lord Zouch's steward. He became a King's Scholar at Westminster, and subsequently a Fellow in Trinity College, Cambridge. Ben Jonson loved him, and he reciprocated the attachment. Whether from natural tendency or in imitation of Jonson, who called him, as well as Cartwright, his adopted son, he learned intemperate habits, and died, in 1634, at the age of twenty-nine. His death took place at the house of W. Stafford, Esq. of Blatherwyke, in his native county, and he was buried in the church beside, where Sir Christopher, afterwards Lord Hatton, signalised the spot of his rest by a monument. He wrote five dramas, which are imperfect and formal in plan, but written with considerable power. Some of his miscellaneous poems discover feeling and genius.

THE PRAISE OF WOMAN.

He is a parricide to his mother's name, And with an impious hand murders her fame, That wrongs the praise of women; that dares write Libels on saints, or with foul ink requite The milk they lent us! Better sex! command To your defence my more religious hand, At sword or pen; yours was the nobler birth, For you of man were made, man but of earth-- The sun of dust; and though your sin did breed His fall, again you raised him in your seed. Adam, in's sleep again full loss sustain'd, That for one rib a better half regain'd, Who, had he not your blest creation seen In Paradise, an anchorite had been. Why in this work did the creation rest, But that Eternal Providence thought you best Of all his six days' labour? Beasts should do Homage to man, but man shall wait on you; You are of comelier sight, of daintier touch, A tender flesh, and colour bright, and such As Parians see in marble; skin more fair, More glorious head, and far more glorious hair; Eyes full of grace and quickness; purer roses Blush in your cheeks; a milder white composes Your stately fronts; your breath, more sweet than his, Breathes spice, and nectar drops at every kiss.

* * * * *

If, then, in bodies where the souls do dwell, You better us, do then our souls excel?

No. * * * * Boast we of knowledge, you are more than we, You were the first ventured to pluck the tree; And that more rhetoric in your tongues do lie, Let him dispute against that dares deny Your least commands; and not persuaded be, With Samson's strength and David's piety, To be your willing captives.

* * * * *

Thus, perfect creatures, if detraction rise Against your sex, dispute but with your eyes, Your hand, your lip, your brow, there will be sent So subtle and so strong an argument, Will teach the stoic his affections too, And call the cynic from his tub to woo.

TO MY PICTURE.

When age hath made me what I am not now, And every wrinkle tells me where the plough Of Time hath furrow'd, when an ice shall flow Through every vein, and all my head be snow; When Death displays his coldness in my cheek, And I, myself, in my own picture seek, Not finding what I am, but what I was, In doubt which to believe, this or my glass; Yet though I alter, this remains the same As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame, And first complexion; here will still be seen, Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin: Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye, The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye. Behold what frailty we in man may see, Whose shadow is less given to change than he.

TO A LADY ADMIRING HERSELF IN A LOOKING-GLASS.

Fair lady, when you see the grace Of beauty in your looking-glass; A stately forehead, smooth and high, And full of princely majesty; A sparkling eye, no gem so fair, Whose lustre dims the Cyprian star; A glorious cheek, divinely sweet, Wherein both roses kindly meet; A cherry lip that would entice Even gods to kiss at any price; You think no beauty is so rare That with your shadow might compare; That your reflection is alone The thing that men must dote upon. Madam, alas! your glass doth lie, And you are much deceived; for I A beauty know of richer grace,-- (Sweet, be not angry,) 'tis your face. Hence, then, oh, learn more mild to be, And leave to lay your blame on me: If me your real substance move, When you so much your shadow love, Wise Nature would not let your eye Look on her own bright majesty; Which, had you once but gazed upon, You could, except yourself, love none: What then you cannot love, let me, That face I can, you cannot see.

'Now you have what to love,' you'll say, 'What then is left for me, I pray?' My face, sweet heart, if it please thee; That which you can, I cannot see: So either love shall gain his due, Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you.

ROBERT BURTON.

The great, though whimsical author of the 'Anatomy of Melancholy' was born at Lindley, in Leicestershire, 1576, and educated at Christ Church, Oxford. He became Rector of Seagrave, in his native shire. He was a man of vast erudition, of integrity and benevolence, but his happiness, like that of Burns, although in a less measure, 'was blasted ab origine by an incurable taint of hypochondria;' and although at times a most delightful companion, at other times he was so miserable, even when a young student at Oxford, that he had no resource but to go down to the river-side, where the coarse jests of the bargemen threw him into fits of laughter. This surely was a violent remedy, and one that must have reacted into deeper depression. In 1621, he wrote and published, as a safety-valve to his morbid feelings, his famous 'Anatomie of Melancholy, by Democritus Junior.' It became instantly popular, and sold so well, that the publisher is said to have made a fortune by it. Nothing more of consequence is recorded of the author, who died in 1640. Although

'Melancholy mark'd him for her own,'

she failed to kill him till he had passed his grand climacteric. He was buried in Christ Church, with the following epitaph, said to have been composed by himself:--

'Paucis notus, paucioribus ignotus. Hic jacet Democritus Junior, Cui vitam pariter et mortem Dedit Melancholia!

'Known [by name] to few, unknown [as the author of the "Anatomy"] to fewer, here lies D. J., who owes his death [as a man] and his life [as an author] to Melancholy.'

His work is certainly a most curious and bewitching medley of thought, information, wit, learning, personal interest, and poetic fancy. We all know it was the only book which ever drew the lazy Johnson from his bed an hour sooner than he wished to rise. The subject, like the flesh of that 'melancholy' creature the hare, may be dry, but, as with that, an astute cookery prevails to make it exceedingly piquant; the sauce is better than the substance. Burton's melancholy is not, like Johnson's, a deep, hopeless, 'inspissated gloom,' thickened by memories of remorse, and lighted up by the lurid fires of feared perdition; it is not, like Byron's, dashed with the demoniac element, and fretted into universal misanthropy; it is not, like Foster's, the sad, fixed fascination of a pure intelligence contemplating the darker side of things, as by a necessity of nature, and ignoring, without denying, the existence of the bright; nor is it, like that of the 'melancholy Jacques,' in 'As you Like it,' a wild, woodland, fantastical habit of thought, as of one living collaterally and aside to the world, and which often explodes into laughter at itself and at all things else;--Burton's is a wide- spread but tender shade, like twilight, diffused over the whole horizon of his thought, and is nourished at times into a luxury, and at times paraded as a peculiar possession. In his form of melancholy there are pleasures as well as pains. 'Most pleasant it is,' he says, 'to such as are to melancholy given, to lie in bed whole days and keep their chambers; to walk alone in some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by a brook-side, to meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject; and a most incomparable delight it is so to melancholise and build castles in the air.' Religious considerations have little to do with Burton's melancholy, and remorse or fear apparently nothing. Hence his book, although its theme be sadness, never shadows the spirit, but, on the contrary, from his dark, Lethean poppies, his readers are made to extract an element of joyful excitement, and the anatomy, and the cure, of the evil, are one and the same.

As a writer, Burton ranks, in some points, with Montaigne, and in others with Sir Thomas Browne. He resembles the first in simplicity, bonhommie, and miscellaneous learning, and the other in rambling manner, quaint phraseology, and fantastic imagination. Neither of the three could be said to write books, but they accumulated vast storehouses, whence thousands of volumes might be, and have been compiled. There is nothing in Burton so low as in many of the 'Essays' of Montaigne, but there is nothing so lofty as in passages of Browne's 'Religio Medici' and 'Urn-Burial.' Burton has been a favourite quarry to literary thieves, among whom Sterne, in his 'Tristram Shandy,' stands pre-eminent. To his 'Anatomy' he prefixes a poem, a few stanzas of which we extract.

ON MELANCHOLY.

1 When I go musing all alone, Thinking of divers things foreknown, When I build castles in the air, Void of sorrow, void of fear, Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet Methinks the time runs very fleet. All my joys to this are folly; Nought so sweet as melancholy.

2 When I go walking all alone, Recounting what I have ill-done, My thoughts on me then tyrannise, Fear and sorrow me surprise; Whether I tarry still, or go, Methinks the time moves very slow. All my griefs to this are jolly; Nought so sad as melancholy.

3 When to myself I act and smile, With pleasing thoughts the time beguile, By a brook-side or wood so green, Unheard, unsought for, or unseen, A thousand pleasures do me bless, And crown my soul with happiness. All my joys besides are folly; None so sweet as melancholy.

4 When I lie, sit, or walk alone, I sigh, I grieve, making great moan; In a dark grove or irksome den, With discontents and furies then, A thousand miseries at once Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce. All my griefs to this are jolly; None so sour as melancholy.

5 Methinks I hear, methinks I see Sweet music, wondrous melody, Towns, palaces, and cities, fine; Here now, then there, the world is mine, Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine, Whate'er is lovely is divine. All other joys to this are folly; None so sweet as melancholy,

6 Methinks I hear, methinks I see Ghosts, goblins, fiends: my fantasy Presents a thousand ugly shapes; Headless bears, black men, and apes; Doleful outcries and fearful sights My sad and dismal soul affrights. All my griefs to this are jolly; None so damn'd as melancholy.

THOMAS CAREW.

This delectable versifier was born in 1589, in Gloucestershire, from an old family in which he sprung. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, but neither matriculated nor took a degree. After finishing his travels, he returned to England, and became soon highly distinguished, in the Court of Charles I., for his manners, accomplishments, and wit. He was appointed Gentleman of the Privy Chamber and Sewer in Ordinary to the King. He spent the rest of his life as a gay and gallant courtier; and in the intervals of pleasure produced some light but exquisite poetry. He is said, ere his death, which took place in 1639, to have become very devout, and bitterly to have deplored the licentiousness of some of his verses.

Indelicate choice of subject is often, in Carew, combined with great delicacy of execution. No one touches dangerous themes with so light and glove-guarded a hand. His pieces are all fugitive, but they suggest great possibilities, which his mode of life and his premature removal did not permit to be realised. Had he, at an earlier period, renounced, like George Herbert, 'the painted pleasures of a court,' and, like Prospero, dedicated himself to 'closeness,' with his marvellous facility of verse, his laboured levity of style, and his nice exuberance of fancy, he might have produced some work of Horatian merit and classic permanence.

PERSUASIONS TO LOVE.

Think not, 'cause men flattering say, Y'are fresh as April, sweet as May, Bright as is the morning-star, That you are so;--or though you are, Be not therefore proud, and deem All men unworthy your esteem:

* * * * *

Starve not yourself, because you may Thereby make me pine away; Nor let brittle beauty make You your wiser thoughts forsake: For that lovely face will fail; Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail; 'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done, Than summer's rain, or winter's sun: Most fleeting, when it is most dear; 'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis here. These curious locks so aptly twined, Whose every hair a soul doth bind, Will change their auburn hue, and grow White and cold as winter's snow. That eye which now is Cupid's nest Will prove his grave, and all the rest Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose, Nor lily shall be found, nor rose; And what will then become of all Those, whom now you servants call? Like swallows, when your summer's done They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun.

* * * * *

The snake each year fresh skin resumes, And eagles change their aged plumes; The faded rose each spring receives A fresh red tincture on her leaves; But if your beauties once decay, You never know a second May. Oh, then be wise, and whilst your season Affords you days for sport, do reason; Spend not in vain your life's short hour, But crop in time your beauty's flower: Which will away, and doth together Both bud and fade, both blow and wither.

SONG.

Give me more love, or more disdain, The torrid, or the frozen zone Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none; Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danaë in a golden shower, I swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possess'd Of heaven that's but from hell released: Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love, or more disdain.

TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVER'S SIDE.

Mark how yon eddy steals away From the rude stream into the bay; There lock'd up safe, she doth divorce Her waters from the channel's course, And scorns the torrent that did bring Her headlong from her native spring. Now doth she with her new love play, Whilst he runs murmuring away. Mark how she courts the banks, whilst they As amorously their arms display, To embrace and clip her silver waves: See how she strokes their sides, and craves An entrance there, which they deny; Whereat she frowns, threatening to fly Home to her stream, and 'gins to swim Backward, but from the channel's brim Smiling returns into the creek, With thousand dimples on her cheek. Be thou this eddy, and I'll make My breast thy shore, where thou shalt take Secure repose, and never dream Of the quite forsaken stream: Let him to the wide ocean haste, There lose his colour, name, and taste; Thou shalt save all, and, safe from him, Within these arms for ever swim.

SONG.

If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish, and anon must die; If every sweet, and every grace, Must fly from that forsaken face: Then, Celia, let us reap our joys, Ere time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow For ever, free from aged snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade; Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What still being gather'd still must grow. Thus, either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.

SHEPHERD, NYMPH, CHORUS.

Shep. This mossy bank they press'd. _Nym._That aged oak Did canopy the happy pair All night from the damp air. Cho. Here let us sit, and sing the words they spoke, Till the day-breaking their embraces broke.

Shep. See, love, the blushes of the morn appear: And now she hangs her pearly store (Robb'd from the eastern shore) I' th' cowslip's bell and rose's ear: Sweet, I must stay no longer here.

Nym. Those streaks of doubtful light usher not day, But show my sun must set; no morn Shall shine till thou return: The yellow planets, and the gray Dawn, shall attend thee on thy way.

Shep. If thine eyes gild my paths, they may forbear Their useless shine. Nym. My tears will quite Extinguish their faint light. Shep. Those drops will make their beams more clear, Love's flames will shine in every tear.

Cho. They kiss'd, and wept; and from their lips and eyes, In a mix'd dew of briny sweet, Their joys and sorrows meet; But she cries out. Nym. Shepherd, arise, The sun betrays us else to spies.

Shep. The winged hours fly fast whilst we embrace; But when we want their help to meet, They move with leaden feet. Nym. Then let us pinion time, and chase The day for ever from this place.

Shep. Hark! Nym. Ah me, stay! Shep. For ever Nym. No, arise; We must be gone. Shep. My nest of spice Nym. My soul. Shep. My paradise. Cho. Neither could say farewell, but through their eyes Grief interrupted speech with tears supplies.

SONG.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

This witty baronet was born in 1608. He was the son of the Comptroller of the Household of Charles I. He was uncommonly precocious; at five is said to have spoken Latin, and at sixteen had entered into the service of Gustavus Adolphus, 'the lion of the North, and the bulwark of the Protestant faith.'

On his return to England, he was favoured by Charles, and became, in his turn, a most enthusiastic supporter of the Royal cause; writing plays for the amusement of the Court; and when the Civil War broke out, raising, at his own expense of £1200, a regiment for the King, which is said to have been distinguished only by its 'finery and cowardice.' When the Earl of Strafford came into trouble, Suckling, along with some other cavaliers, intrigued for his deliverance, was impeached by the House of Commons, and had to flee to France. Here an early death awaited him. His servant having robbed him, he drew on, in vehement haste, his boots, to pursue the defaulter, when a rusty nail, or, some say, the blade of a knife, which was concealed in one of them, pierced his heel. A mortification ensued, and he died, in 1641, at thirty-three years of age.

Suckling has written five plays, various poems, besides letters, speeches, and tracts, which have all been collected into one thin volume. They are of various merit; none, in fact, being worthy of print, or at least of preservation, except one or two of his songs, and his 'Ballad upon a Wedding'. This last is an admirable expression of what were his principal qualities--naiveté, sly humour, gay badinage, and a delicious vein of fancy, coming out occasionally by stealth, even as in his own exquisite lines about the bride,

'Her feet, beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light.'

SONG.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover! Prithee why so pale? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do 't? Prithee why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her-- The devil take her!

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

1 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest things have seen: Oh, things without compare! Such sights again cannot be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair.

2 At Charing-Cross, hard by the way Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs: And there did I see coming down Such folks as are not in our town, Vorty at least, in pairs.

3 Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, (His beard no bigger though than thine,) Walk'd on before the rest: Our landlord looks like nothing to him: The king (God bless him)'twould undo him, Should he go still so dress'd.

4 At Course-a-park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' the town: Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the Green, Or Vincent of the Crown.

5 But wot you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing; The parson for him staid: Yet by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past (Perchance) as did the maid.

6 The maid--and thereby hangs a tale-- For such a maid no Whitsun-ale Could ever yet produce: No grape that's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice.

7 Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring, It was too wide a peck: And to say truth (for out it must) It look'd like the great collar (just) About our young colt's neck.

8 Her feet, beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they fear'd the light: But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight.

9 He would have kiss'd her once or twice, But she would not, she was so nice, She would not do 't in sight; And then she look'd as who should say. I will do what I list to-day; And you shall do 't at night.

10 Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison, (Who sees them is undone,) For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Katherine pear, The side that's next the sun.

11 Her lips were red, and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin; Some bee had stung it newly. But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July.

12 Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit.

13 If wishing should be any sin, The parson himself had guilty been, She look'd that day so purely: And did the youth so oft the feat At night, as some did in conceit, It would have spoil'd him, surely.

14 Passion o'me! how I run on! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, beside the bride: The business of the kitchen's great, For it is fit that men should eat; Nor was it there denied.

15 Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving-man with dish in hand, March'd boldly up, like our train'd band, Presented and away.

16 When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife, or teeth, was able To stay to be entreated? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace, The company were seated.

17 Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; Healths first go round, and then the house, The bride's came thick and thick; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, And who could help it, Dick?

18 O' the sudden up they rise and dance; Then sit again, and sigh and glance: Then dance again and kiss. Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, Whil'st every woman wish'd her place, And every man wish'd his.

19 By this time all were stol'n aside To counsel and undress the bride; But that he must not know; But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so.

20 When in he came (Dick), there she lay, Like new-fall'n snow melting away, 'Twas time, I trow, to part. Kisses were now the only stay, Which soon she gave, as who would say, Good-bye, with all my heart.

21 But just as heavens would have to cross it, In came the bridemaids with the posset; The bridegroom eat in spite; For had he left the women to 't It would have cost two hours to do 't, Which were too much that night.

22 At length the candle's out, and now All that they had not done, they do! What that is, who can tell? But I believe it was no more Than thou and I have done before With Bridget and with Nell!

SONG.

I pray thee send me back my heart, Since I can not have thine, For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on 't, let it lie, To find it were in vain; For thou'st a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe, I will no longer pine; For I'll believe I have her heart As much as she has mine.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

Cartwright was born in 1611, and was the son of an innkeeper--once a gentleman--in Cirencester. He became a King's scholar at Westminster, and afterwards took orders at Oxford, where he distinguished himself, according to Wood, as a 'most florid and seraphic preacher.' One is reminded of the description given of Jeremy Taylor, who, when he first began to preach, by his 'young and florid beauty, and his sublime and raised discourses, made men take him for an angel newly descended from the climes of Paradise.' Cartwright was appointed, through his friend Bishop Duppa, Succentor of the Church of Salisbury in 1642. He was one of a council of war appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops in the King's cause, to protect, or some said to overawe, the Universities. He was imprisoned by the Parliamentary forces on account of his zeal in the Royal cause, but soon liberated on bail. In 1643, he was appointed Junior Proctor of his University, and also Reader in Metaphysics. At this time he is said to have studied sixteen hours a-day. This, however, seems to have weakened his constitution, and rendered him an easy victim to what was called the camp-fever, then prevalent in Oxford. He died December 23, 1643, aged thirty-two. The King, then in Oxford, went into mourning for him. His works were published in 1651, and to them were prefixed fifty copies of encomiastic verses from the wits and poets of the time. They scarcely justify the praises they have received, being somewhat crude and harsh, and all of them occasional. His private character, his eloquence as a preacher, and his zeal as a Royalist, seem to have supplemented his claims as a poet. He enjoyed, too, in his earlier life, the friendship of Ben Jonson, who used to say of him, 'My son Cartwright writes all like a man;' and such a sentence from such an authority was at that time fame.

LOVE'S DARTS.

1 Where is that learned wretch that knows What are those darts the veil'd god throws? Oh, let him tell me ere I die When 'twas he saw or heard them fly; Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's, Wing them for various loves; And whether gold or lead, Quicken or dull the head: I will anoint and keep them warm, And make the weapons heal the harm.

2 Fond that I am to ask! whoe'er Did yet see thought? or silence hear? Safe from the search of human eye These arrows (as their ways are) fly: The flights of angels part Not air with so much art; And snows on streams, we may Say, louder fall than they. So hopeless I must now endure, And neither know the shaft nor cure.

3 A sudden fire of blushes shed To dye white paths with hasty red; A glance's lightning swiftly thrown, Or from a true or seeming frown; A subtle taking smile From passion, or from guile; The spirit, life, and grace Of motion, limbs, and face; These misconceit entitles darts, And tears the bleedings of our hearts.

4 But as the feathers in the wing Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring, And harmless twigs no bloodshed know, Till art doth fit them for the bow; So lights of flowing graces Sparkling in several places, Only adorn the parts, Till that we make them darts; Themselves are only twigs and quills: We give them shape and force for ills.

5 Beauty's our grief, but in the ore, We mint, and stamp, and then adore: Like heathen we the image crown, And indiscreetly then fall down: Those graces all were meant Our joy, not discontent; But with untaught desires We turn those lights to fires, Thus Nature's healing herbs we take, And out of cures do poisons make.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE.

Not to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride, To a compliance with the thriving side; Not to take arms for love of change, or spite, But only to maintain afflicted right; Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame, Perversely seeking after voice and name; Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do, And thus did he, soldier and martyr too.

* * * * *

When now the incensed legions proudly came Down like a torrent without bank or dam: When undeserved success urged on their force; That thunder must come down to stop their course, Or Grenville must step in; then Grenville stood, And with himself opposed and check'd the flood. Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire: His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about, Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out; Not any pike on that renowned stand, But took new force from his inspiring hand: Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man, And he urged all; so much example can; Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call, He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all: His soul this while retired from cell to cell, At last flew up from all, and then he fell. But the devoted stand enraged more From that his fate, plied hotter than before, And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield, Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the field. Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew: And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.

This was not nature's courage, not that thing We valour call, which time and reason bring; But a diviner fury, fierce and high, Valour transported into ecstasy, Which angels, looking on us from above, Use to convey into the souls they love. You now that boast the spirit, and its sway, Shew us his second, and we'll give the day: We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly; Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die: And though you thank God that you lost none there, 'Cause they were such who lived not when they were; Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall, As his successes do, whom you dare call, As fame unto you doth reports dispense, Either a -------- or his excellence) Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws, Could wish his fate together with his cause.

And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame, As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name, Whose life affords what doth content both eyes, Glory for people, substance for the wise, Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat: And when thou seest an happy period sent To these distractions, and the storm quite spent, Look down and say, I have my share in all, Much good grew from my life, much from my fall.

A VALEDICTION.

Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers Do make or cherish flowers; Where discontented things in sadness lie, And Nature grieves as I. When I am parted from those eyes, From which my better day doth rise, Though some propitious power Should plant me in a bower, Where amongst happy lovers I might see How showers and sunbeams bring One everlasting spring, Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to me; Nature herself to him is lost, Who loseth her he honours most. Then, fairest, to my parting view display Your graces all in one full day; Whose blessed shapes I'll snatch and keep till when I do return and view again: So by this art fancy shall fortune cross, And lovers live by thinking on their loss.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

This pastoral poet was born, in 1590, at Tavistock, in Devonshire, a lovely part of a lovely county. He was educated at Oxford, and went thence to the Inner Temple. He was at one time tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, and afterwards, when that nobleman perished in the battle of Newbury, in 1643, he was patronised by the Earl of Pembroke, in whose house he resided, and is even said to have become so rich that he purchased an estate. In 1645 he died, at Ottery St Mary, the parish where, in 1772, Coleridge was born.

Browne began his poetical career early, and closed it soon. He published the first part of 'Britannia's Pastorals' in 1613, the second in 1616; shortly after, his 'Shepherd's Pipe;' and, in 1620, produced his 'Inner Temple Masque' which was then enacted, but not printed till a hundred and twenty years after the author's death, when Dr Farmer transcribed it from a MS. of the Bodleian Library, and it appeared in Tom Davies' edition of Browne's poems. Browne has no constructive power, and no human interest in his pastorals, but he has an eye for nature, and we quote from him some excellent specimens of descriptive poetry.

SONG.

Gentle nymphs, be not refusing, Love's neglect is Time's abusing, They and beauty are but lent you; Take the one, and keep the other: Love keeps fresh what age doth smother, Beauty gone, you will repent you.

'Twill be said, when ye have proved, Never swains more truly loved: Oh, then, fly all nice behaviour! Pity fain would (as her duty) Be attending still on Beauty, Let her not be out of favour.

SONG.

1 Shall I tell you whom I love? Hearken then a while to me, And if such a woman move As I now shall versify; Be assured, 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.

2 Nature did her so much right, As she scorns the help of art. In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart; So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified.

3 Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath; And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though perhaps not so to me.

4 Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth: Lovely as all excellence, Modest in her most of mirth: Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love.

5 Such she is: and if you know Such a one as I have sung; Be she brown, or fair, or so, That she be but somewhile young; Be assured, 'tis she, or none, That I love, and love alone.

POWER OF GENIUS OVER ENVY.

'Tis not the rancour of a canker'd heart That can debase the excellence of art, Nor great in titles makes our worth obey, Since we have lines far more esteem'd than they. For there is hidden in a poet's name A spell that can command the wings of Fame, And maugre all oblivion's hated birth Begin their immortality on earth, When he that 'gainst a muse with hate combines May raise his tomb in vain to reach our lines.

EVENING.

As in an evening when the gentle air Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair, I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank to hear My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear, When he hath play'd (as well he can) some strain That likes me, straight I ask the same again, And he, as gladly granting, strikes it o'er With some sweet relish was forgot before: I would have been content, if he would play, In that one strain to pass the night away; But fearing much to do his patience wrong, Unwillingly have ask'd some other song: So in this differing key though I could well A many hours but as few minutes tell, Yet lest mine own delight might injure you (Though both so soon) I take my song anew.

FROM 'BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS.'

Between two rocks (immortal, without mother) That stand as if outfacing one another, There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, As if the waters hid them from the wind, Which never wash'd but at a higher tide The frizzled cotes which do the mountains hide, Where never gale was longer known to stay Than from the smooth wave it had swept away The new divorced leaves, that from each side Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide. At further end the creek, a stately wood Gave a kind shadow (to the brackish flood) Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff Than that sky-scaling peak of Teneriffe, Upon whose tops the hernshew bred her young, And hoary moss upon their branches hung; Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to show, Without their height, what time they 'gan to grow. And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears, None could allot them less than Nestor's years. As under their command the thronged creek Ran lessen'd up. Here did the shepherd seek Where he his little boat might safely hide, Till it was fraught with what the world beside Could not outvalue; nor give equal weight Though in the time when Greece was at her height.

* * * * *

Yet that their happy voyage might not be Without Time's shortener, heaven-taught melody, (Music that lent feet to the stable woods, And in their currents turn'd the mighty floods, Sorrow's sweet nurse, yet keeping Joy alive, Sad Discontent's most welcome corrosive, The soul of art, best loved when love is by, The kind inspirer of sweet poesy, Least thou shouldst wanting be, when swans would fain Have sung one song, and never sung again,) The gentle shepherd, hasting to the shore, Began this lay, and timed it with his oar:

Nevermore let holy Dee O'er other rivers brave, Or boast how (in his jollity) Kings row'd upon his wave. But silent be, and ever know That Neptune for my fare would row.

* * * * *

Swell then, gently swell, ye floods, As proud of what ye bear, And nymphs that in low coral woods String pearls upon your hair, Ascend; and tell if ere this day A fairer prize was seen at sea.

See the salmons leap and bound To please us as we pass, Each mermaid on the rocks around Lets fall her brittle glass, As they their beauties did despise And loved no mirror but your eyes,

Blow, but gently blow, fair wind, From the forsaken shore, And be as to the halcyon kind, Till we have ferried o'er: So mayst thou still have leave to blow, And fan the way where she shall go.

A DESCRIPTIVE SKETCH.

Oh, what a rapture have I gotten now! That age of gold, this of the lovely brow, Have drawn me from my song! I onward run, (Clean from the end to which I first begun,) But ye, the heavenly creatures of the West, In whom the virtues and the graces rest, Pardon! that I have run astray so long, And grow so tedious in so rude a song. If you yourselves should come to add one grace Unto a pleasant grove or such like place, Where, here, the curious cutting of a hedge, There in a pond, the trimming of the sedge; Here the fine setting of well-shaded trees, The walks their mounting up by small degrees, The gravel and the green so equal lie, It, with the rest, draws on your lingering eye: Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air, Arising from the infinite repair Of odoriferous buds, and herbs of price, (As if it were another paradise,) So please the smelling sense, that you are fain Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again. There the small birds with their harmonious notes Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats: For in her face a many dimples show, And often skips as it did dancing go: Here further down an over-arched alley That from a hill goes winding in a valley, You spy at end thereof a standing lake, Where some ingenious artist strives to make The water (brought in turning pipes of lead Through birds of earth most lively fashioned) To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all In singing well their own set madrigal. This with no small delight retains your ear, And makes you think none blest but who live there. Then in another place the fruits that be In gallant clusters decking each good tree Invite your hand to crop them from the stem, And liking one, taste every sort of them: Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers, Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers, Then to the birds, and to the clear spring thence, Now pleasing one, and then another sense: Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th, As if it were some hidden labyrinth.

WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING.

This eminent Scotchman was born in 1580. He travelled on the Continent as tutor to the Duke of Argyle. After his return to Scotland, he fell in love with a lady, whom he calls 'Aurora,' and to whom he addressed some beautiful sonnets. She refused his hand, however, and he married the daughter of Sir William Erskine. He repaired to the Court of James I., and became a distinguished favourite, being appointed Gentleman Usher to Charles I., and created a knight. He concocted a scheme for colonising Nova Scotia, in which he was encouraged by both James and Charles; but the difficulties seemed too formidable, and it was in consequence dropped. Charles appointed him Lord-Lieutenant of Nova Scotia, and, in 1633, he created him Lord Stirling. Fifteen years (from 1626 to 1641) our poet was Secretary of State for Scotland. These were the years during which Laud was foolishly seeking to force his liturgy upon the Presbyterians, but Stirling gained the praise of being moderate in his share of the business. In the course of this time he contrived to amass an ample fortune, and spent part of it in building a fine mansion in Stirling, which is still, we believe, standing. He died in 1641.

Besides his smaller pieces, Stirling wrote several tragedies, including one on Julius Caesar; an heroic poem; a poem addressed to Prince Henry, the son of James I.; another heroic poem, entitled 'Jonathan;' and a poem, in twelve parts, on the 'Day of Judgment.' These are all forgotten, and, notwithstanding vigorous parts, deserve to be forgotten; but his little sonnets, which are, if not brilliant, true things, and inspired by a true passion, may long survive. He was, on the whole, rather a man of great talent than of genius.

SONNET.

I swear, Aurora, by thy starry eyes, And by those golden locks, whose lock none slips, And by the coral of thy rosy lips, And by the naked snows which beauty dyes; I swear by all the jewels of thy mind, Whose like yet never worldly treasure bought, Thy solid judgment, and thy generous thought,

Which in this darken'd age have clearly shined; I swear by those, and by my spotless love, And by my secret, yet most fervent fires, That I have never nursed but chaste desires, And such as modesty might well approve. Then, since I love those virtuous parts in thee, Shouldst thou not love this virtuous mind in me?

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

A man of much finer gifts than Stirling, was the famous Drummond. He was born, December 13, 1585, at Hawthornden, his father's estate, in Mid- Lothian. It is one of the most beautiful spots, along the sides of one of the fairest streams in all Scotland, and well fitted to be the home of genius. He studied civil law for four years in France, but, in 1611, the estate of Hawthornden became his own, and here he fixed his residence, and applied himself to literature. At this time he courted, and was upon the point of marrying, a lady named Cunningham, who died; and the melancholy which preyed on his mind after this event, drove him abroad in search of solace. He visited Italy, Germany, and France; and during his eight years of residence on the Continent, used his time well, conversing with the learned, admiring all that was admirable in the scenery and the life of foreign lands, and collecting rare books and manuscripts. He had, before his departure, published, first, a volume of occasional poems; next, a moral treatise, in prose, entitled, 'The Cypress Grove;' and then another work, in verse, 'The Flowers of Zion.' Returned once more to Scotland, he retired to the seat of his brother- in-law, Sir John Scott of Scotstarvet, and there wrote a 'History of the Five James's of Scotland,' a book abounding in bombast and slavish principles. When he returned to his own lovely Hawthornden, he met a lady named Logan, of the house of Restalrig, whom he fancied to bear a striking resemblance to his dead mistress. On that hint he spake, and she became his wife. He proceeded to repair the house of Hawthornden, and would have spent his days there in great peace, had it not been for the distracted times. His politics were of the Royalist complexion; and the party in power, belonging to the Presbyterians, used every method to annoy him, compelling him, for instance, to furnish his quota of men and arms to support the cause which he opposed. In 1619, Ben Jonson visited him at Hawthornden. The pair were not well assorted. Brawny Ben and dreaming Drummond seem, in the expressive coinage of De Quincey, to have 'interdespised;' and is not their feud, with all its circumstances, recorded in the chronicles of the 'Quarrels of Authors' compiled by the elder Disraeli? The death of a lady sent Drummond travelling over Europe --the death of a King sent him away on a farther and a final journey. His grief for the execution of Charles I. is said to have shortened his days. At all events, in December of the year of the so-called 'Martyrdom,' (1649,) he breathed his last.

He was a genuine poet as well as a brilliant humorist. His 'Polemo Middinia,' a grotesque mixture of bad Latin and semi-Latinised Scotch, has created, among many generations, inextinguishable laughter. His 'Wandering Muses; or, The River of Forth Feasting,' has some gorgeous descriptions, particularly of Scotland's lakes and rivers, at a time when

'She lay, like some unkenn'd of isle, Ayont New Holland;'

but his sonnets are unquestionably his finest productions. They breathe a spirit of genuine poetry. Each one of them is a rose lightly wet with the dew of tenderness, and one or two suggest irresistibly the recollection of our Great Dramatist's sonnets, although we feel that 'a less than Shakspeare is here.'

THE RIVER OF FORTH FEASTING.

A PANEGYRIC TO THE HIGH AND MIGHTY PRINCE JAMES, KING Or GREAT BRITAIN, FRANCE, AND IRELAND.

To His Sacred Majesty.

If in this storm of joy and pompous throng, This nymph (great king) doth come to thee so near That thy harmonious ears her accents hear, Give pardon to her hoarse and lowly song: Fain would she trophies to thy virtues rear; But for this stately task she is not strong, And her defects her high attempts do wrong, Yet as she could she makes thy worth appear. So in a map is shown this flowery place; So wrought in arras by a virgin's hand With heaven and blazing stars doth Atlas stand, So drawn by charcoal is Narcissus' face: She like the morn may be to some bright sun, The day to perfect that's by her begun.

* * * * *

What blustering noise now interrupts my sleep? What echoing shouts thus cleave my crystal deep, And seem to call me from my watery court? What melody, what sounds of joy and sport, Are convey'd hither from each neighbouring spring? With what loud rumours do the mountains ring, Which in unusual pomp on tiptoes stand, And (full of wonder) overlook the land? Whence come these glittering throngs, these meteors bright, This golden people glancing in my sight? Whence doth this praise, applause, and love arise, What load-star eastward draweth thus all eyes? Am I awake? or have some dreams conspired To mock my sense with what I most desired? View I that living face, see I those looks, Which with delight were wont t'amaze my brooks? Do I behold that worth, that man divine, This age's glory, by these banks of mine? Then find I true what long I wish'd in vain, My much beloved prince is come again; So unto them whose zenith is the pole, When six black months are past, the sun doth roll: So after tempest to sea-tossed wights Fair Helen's brothers show their cheering lights: So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods, And far, far off is seen by Memphis' floods; The feather'd Sylvans, cloud-like, by her fly, And with triumphing plaudits beat the sky; Nile marvels, Seraph's priests, entranced, rave, And in Mydonian stone her shape engrave; In lasting cedars they do mark the time In which Apollo's bird came to their clime. Let Mother Earth now deck'd with flowers be seen, And sweet-breath'd zephyrs curl the meadows green, Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower, Such as on India's shores they use to pour: Or with that golden storm the fields adorn, Which Jove rain'd when his blue-eyed maid was born. May never hours the web of day outweave, May never night rise from her sable cave. Swell proud, my billows, faint not to declare Your joys as ample as their causes are: For murmurs hoarse sound like Arion's harp, Now delicately flat, now sweetly sharp; And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist repair; Strow all your springs and grots with lilies fair: Some swiftest-footed, get them hence, and pray Our floods and lakes come keep this holiday; Whate'er beneath Albania's hills do run, Which see the rising or the setting sun, Which drink stern Grampius' mists, or Ochil's snows: Stone-rolling Tay, Tyne tortoise-like that flows, The pearly Don, the Dees, the fertile Spey, Wild Neverne, which doth see our longest day; Ness smoking sulphur, Leave with mountains crown'd, Strange Lomond for his floating isles renown'd: The Irish Rian, Ken, the silver Ayr, The snaky Dun, the Ore with rushy hair, The crystal-streaming Nid, loud-bellowing Clyde, Tweed which no more our kingdoms shall divide; Rank-swelling Annan, Lid with curled streams, The Esks, the Solway, where they lose their names, To every one proclaim our joys and feasts, Our triumphs; bid all come and be our guests: And as they meet in Neptune's azure hall, Bid them bid sea-gods keep this festival; This day shall by our currents be renown'd, Our hills about shall still this day resound; Nay, that our love more to this day appear, Let us with it henceforth begin our year. To virgins, flowers; to sunburnt earth, the rain; To mariners, fair winds amidst the main; Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn, Are not so pleasing as thy blest return. That day, dear prince, which robb'd us of thy sight, (Day, no, but darkness and a dusky night,) Did fill our breasts with sighs, our eyes with tears, Turn'd minutes to sad months, sad months to years, Trees left to flourish, meadows to bear flowers, Brooks hid their heads within their sedgy bowers, Fair Ceres cursed our fields with barren frost, As if again she had her daughter lost: The muses left our groves, and for sweet songs Sat sadly silent, or did weep their wrongs. You know it, meads; your murmuring woods it know, Hill, dales, and caves, copartners of their woe; And you it know, my streams, which from their een Oft on your glass received their pearly brine; O Naiads dear, (said they,) Napeas fair, O nymphs of trees, nymphs which on hills repair! Gone are those maiden glories, gone that state, Which made all eyes admire our bliss of late. As looks the heaven when never star appears, But slow and weary shroud them in their spheres, While Titon's wife embosom'd by him lies, And world doth languish in a dreary guise: As looks a garden of its beauty spoil'd, As woods in winter by rough Boreas foil'd, As portraits razed of colours used to be: So look'd these abject bounds deprived of thee.

While as my rills enjoy'd thy royal gleams, They did not envy Tiber's haughty streams, Nor wealthy Tagus with his golden ore, Nor clear Hydaspes which on pearls doth roar, Nor golden Gange that sees the sun new born, Nor Achelous with his flowery horn, Nor floods which near Elysian fields do fall: For why? thy sight did serve to them for all. No place there is so desert, so alone, Even from the frozen to the torrid zone, From flaming Hecla to great Quinsey's lake, Which thy abode could not most happy make; All those perfections which by bounteous Heaven To divers worlds in divers times were given, The starry senate pour'd at once on thee, That thou exemplar mightst to others be. Thy life was kept till the Three Sisters spun Their threads of gold, and then it was begun. With chequer'd clouds when skies do look most fair, And no disordered blasts disturb the air, When lilies do them deck in azure gowns; And new-born roses blush with golden crowns, To prove how calm we under thee should live, What halcyonian days thy reign should give, And to two flowery diadems thy right; The heavens thee made a partner of the light. Scarce wast thou born when, join'd in friendly bands, Two mortal foes with other clasped hands; With Virtue Fortune strove, which most should grace Thy place for thee, thee for so high a place; One vow'd thy sacred breast not to forsake, The other on thee not to turn her back; And that thou more her love's effects mightst feel, For thee she left her globe, and broke her wheel.

When years thee vigour gave, oh, then, how clear Did smother'd sparkles in bright flames appear! Amongst the woods to force the flying hart, To pierce the mountain wolf with feather'd dart; See falcons climb the clouds, the fox ensnare, Outrun the wind-outrunning Doedale hare, To breathe thy fiery steed on every plain, And in meand'ring gyres him bring again, The press thee making place, and vulgar things, In Admiration's air, on Glory's wings; Oh, thou far from the common pitch didst rise, With thy designs to dazzle Envy's eyes: Thou soughtst to know this All's eternal source, Of ever-turning heaven the restless course, Their fixed lamps, their lights which wandering run, Whence moon her silver hath, his gold the sun; If Fate there be or no, if planets can By fierce aspects force the free will of man; The light aspiring fire, the liquid air, The flaming dragons, comets with red hair, Heaven's tilting lances, artillery, and bow, Loud-sounding trumpets, darts of hail and snow, The roaring elements, with people dumb, The earth with what conceived is in her womb. What on her moves were set unto thy sight, Till thou didst find their causes, essence, might. But unto nought thou so thy mind didst strain, As to be read in man, and learn to reign: To know the weight and Atlas of a crown, To spare the humble, proud ones tumble down. When from those piercing cares which thrones invest, As thorns the rose, thou wearied wouldst thee rest, With lute in hand, full of celestial fire, To the Pierian groves thou didst retire: There garlanded with all Urania's flowers, In sweeter lays than builded Thebes' towers, Or them which charm'd the dolphins in the main, Or which did call Eurydice again, Thou sung'st away the hours, till from their sphere Stars seem'd to shoot thy melody to hear. The god with golden hair, the sister maids, Did leave their Helicon, and Tempe's shades, To see thine isle, here lost their native tongue, And in thy world-divided language sung.

Who of thine after age can count the deeds, With all that Fame in Time's huge annals reads? How, by example more than any law, This people fierce thou didst to goodness draw; How, while the neighbour world, toss'd by the Fates, So many Phaëtons had in their states, Which turn'd to heedless flames their burnish'd thrones, Thou, as ensphered, kept'st temperate thy zones; In Afric shores the sands that ebb and flow, The shady leaves on Arden's trees that grow, He sure may count, with all the waves that meet To wash the Mauritanian Atlas' feet. Though crown'd thou wert not, nor a king by birth, Thy worth deserves the richest crown on earth. Search this half sphere, and the Antarctic ground, Where is such wit and bounty to be found? As into silent night, when near the Bear, The virgin huntress shines at full most clear, And strives to match her brother's golden light, The host of stars doth vanish in her sight, Arcturus dies; cool'd is the Lion's ire, Po burns no more with Phaëtontal fire: Orion faints to see his arms grow black, And that his flaming sword he now doth lack: So Europe's lights, all bright in their degree, Lose all their lustre parallel'd with thee; By just descent thou from more kings dost shine, Than many can name men in all their line: What most they toil to find, and finding hold, Thou scornest--orient gems, and flattering gold; Esteeming treasure surer in men's breasts, Than when immured with marble, closed in chests; No stormy passions do disturb thy mind, No mists of greatness ever could thee blind: Who yet hath been so meek? thou life didst give To them who did repine to see thee live; What prince by goodness hath such kingdoms gain'd? Who hath so long his people's peace maintain'd? Their swords are turn'd to scythes, to coulters spears, Some giant post their antique armour bears: Now, where the wounded knight his life did bleed, The wanton swain sits piping on a reed; And where the cannon did Jove's thunder scorn, The gaudy huntsman winds his shrill-tuned horn: Her green locks Ceres doth to yellow dye, The pilgrim safely in the shade doth lie, Both Pan and Pales careless keep their flocks, Seas have no dangers save the wind and rocks: Thou art this isle's Palladium, neither can (Whiles thou dost live) it be o'erthrown by man.

Let others boast of blood and spoils of foes, Fierce rapines, murders, Iliads of woes, Of hated pomp, and trophies reared fair, Gore-spangled ensigns streaming in the air, Count how they make the Scythian them adore, The Gaditan and soldier of Aurore. Unhappy boasting! to enlarge their bounds, That charge themselves with cares, their friends with wounds; Who have no law to their ambitious will, But, man-plagues, born are human blood to spill! Thou a true victor art, sent from above What others strain by force, to gain by love; World-wandering Fame this praise to thee imparts, To be the only monarch of all hearts. They many fear who are of many fear'd, And kingdoms got by wrongs, by wrongs are tear'd; Such thrones as blood doth raise, blood throweth down, No guard so sure as love unto a crown.

Eye of our western world, Mars-daunting king, With whose renown the earth's seven climates ring, Thy deeds not only claim these diadems, To which Thame, Liftey, Tay, subject their streams; But to thy virtues rare, and gifts, is due All that the planet of the year doth view; Sure if the world above did want a prince, The world above to it would take thee hence.

That Murder, Rapine, Lust, are fled to hell, And in their rooms with us the Graces dwell; That honour more than riches men respect, That worthiness than gold doth more effect, That Piety unmasked shows her face, That Innocency keeps with Power her place, That long-exiled Astrea leaves the heaven, And turneth right her sword, her weights holds even, That the Saturnian world is come again, Are wish'd effects of thy most happy reign. That daily, Peace, Love, Truth, Delights increase, And Discord, Hate, Fraud, with Incumbers, cease; That men use strength not to shed others' blood, But use their strength now to do others good; That Fury is enchain'd, disarmed Wrath, That (save by Nature's hand) there is no death; That late grim foes like brothers other love, That vultures prey not on the harmless dove, That wolves with lambs do friendship entertain, Are wish'd effects of thy most happy reign. That towns increase, that ruin'd temples rise, That their wind-moving vanes do kiss the skies; That Ignorance and Sloth hence run away, That buried Arts now rouse them to the day, That Hyperion far beyond his bed Doth see our lions ramp, our roses spread; That Iber courts us, Tiber not us charms, That Rhine with hence-brought beams his bosom warms; That ill doth fear, and good doth us maintain, Are wish'd effects of thy most happy reign.

O Virtue's pattern, glory of our times, Sent of past days to expiate the crimes, Great king, but better far than thou art great, Whom state not honours, but who honours state, By wonder born, by wonder first install'd, By wonder after to new kingdoms call'd; Young, kept by wonder from home-bred alarms, Old, saved by wonder from pale traitors' harms, To be for this thy reign, which wonders brings, A king of wonder, wonder unto kings. If Pict, Dane, Norman, thy smooth yoke had seen, Pict, Dane, and Norman had thy subjects been; If Brutus knew the bliss thy rule doth give, Even Brutus joy would under thee to live, For thou thy people dost so dearly love, That they a father, more than prince, thee prove.

O days to be desired! Age happy thrice! If you your heaven-sent good could duly prize; But we (half palsy-sick) think never right Of what we hold, till it be from our sight, Prize only summer's sweet and musked breath, When armed winters threaten us with death, In pallid sickness do esteem of health, And by sad poverty discern of wealth: I see an age when, after some few years, And revolutions of the slow-paced spheres, These days shall be 'bove other far esteem'd, And like Augustus' palmy reign be deem'd. The names of Arthur, fabulous Paladines, Graven in Time's surly brows, in wrinkled lines, Of Henrys, Edwards, famous for their fights, Their neighbour conquests, orders new of knights, Shall by this prince's name be pass'd as far As meteors are by the Idalian star. If gray-hair'd Proteus' songs the truth not miss-- And gray-hair'd Proteus oft a prophet is-- There is a land hence distant many miles, Outreaching fiction and Atlantic isles, Which (homelings) from this little world we name, That shall emblazon with strange rites his fame, Shall rear him statues all of purest gold, Such as men gave unto the gods of old, Name by him temples, palaces, and towns, With some great river, which their fields renowns: This is that king who should make right each wrong, Of whom the bards and mystic Sibyls sung, The man long promised, by whose glorious reign This isle should yet her ancient name regain, And more of fortunate deserve the style, Than those whose heavens with double summers smile.

Run on, great prince, thy course in glory's way, The end the life, the evening crowns the day; Heap worth on worth, and strongly soar above Those heights which made the world thee first to love; Surmount thyself, and make thine actions past Be but as gleams or lightnings of thy last, Let them exceed those of thy younger time, As far as autumn; doth the flowery prime. Through this thy empire range, like world's bright eye, That once each year surveys all earth and sky, Now glances on the slow and resty Bears, Then turns to dry the weeping Auster's tears, Hurries to both the poles, and moveth even In the figured circle of the heaven: Oh, long, long haunt these bounds which by thy sight Have now regain'd their former heat and light. Here grow green woods, here silver brooks do glide, Here meadows stretch them out with painted pride, Embroidering all the banks, here hills aspire To crown their heads with the ethereal fire, Hills, bulwarks of our freedom, giant walls, Which never friends did slight, nor sword made thralls: Each circling flood to Thetis tribute pays, Men here in health outlive old Nestor's days: Grim Saturn yet amongst our rocks remains, Bound in our caves, with many metall'd chains, Bulls haunt our shade like Leda's lover white, Which yet might breed Pesiphae delight, Our flocks fair fleeces bear, with which for sport Endymion of old the moon did court, High-palmed harts amidst our forests run, And, not impaled, the deep-mouth'd hounds do shun; The rough-foot hare safe in our bushes shrouds, And long-wing'd hawks do perch amidst our clouds. The wanton wood-nymphs of the verdant spring, Blue, golden, purple flowers shall to thee bring, Pomona's fruits the Panisks, Thetis' girls, The Thule's amber, with the ocean pearls; The Tritons, herdsmen of the glassy field, Shall give thee what far-distant shores can yield, The Serean fleeces, Erythrean gems, Vast Plata's silver, gold of Peru streams, Antarctic parrots, Ethiopian plumes, Sabasan odours, myrrh, and sweet perfumes: And I myself, wrapt in a watchet gown Of reeds and lilies, on mine head a crown, Shall incense to thee burn, green altars raise, And yearly sing due paeans to thy praise.

Ah! why should Isis only see thee shine? Is not thy Forth, as well as Isis, thine? Though Isis vaunt she hath more wealth in store, Let it suffice thy Forth doth love thee more: Though she for beauty may compare with Seine, For swans, and sea-nymphs with imperial Rhine, Yet for the title may be claim'd in thee, Nor she nor all the world can match with me. Now when, by honour drawn, them shalt away To her, already jealous of thy stay, When in her amorous arms she doth thee fold, And dries thy dewy hairs with hers of gold, Much asking of thy fare, much of thy sport, Much of thine absence, long, howe'er so short, And chides, perhaps, thy coming to the north, Loathe not to think on thy much-loving Forth: Oh, love these bounds, where of thy royal stem More than an hundred wore a diadem. So ever gold and bays thy brows adorn, So never time may see thy race outworn, So of thine own still mayst thou be desired, Of strangers fear'd, redoubted, and admired; So Memory thee praise, so precious hours May character thy name in starry flowers; So may thy high exploits at last make even, With earth thy empire, glory with the heaven.

SONNETS.

I.

I know that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought, In Time's great periods shall return to nought; That fairest states have fatal nights and days; I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays, With toil of sp'rit, which are so dearly bought, As idle sounds, of few, or none, are sought, That there is nothing lighter than vain praise; I know frail beauty like the purple flower, To which one morn oft birth and death affords, That love a jarring is of minds' accords, Where sense and will envassal Reason's power; Know what I list, all this can not me move, But that, alas! I both must write and love.

II.

Ah me! and I am now the man whose muse In happier times was wont to laugh at love, And those who suffer'd that blind boy abuse The noble gifts were given them from above. What metamorphose strange is this I prove I Myself now scarce I find myself to be, And think no fable Circe's tyranny, And all the tales are told of changed Jove; Virtue hath taught with her philosophy My mind into a better course to move: Reason may chide her fill, and oft reprove Affection's power, but what is that to me? Who ever think, and never think on ought But that bright cherubim which thralls my thought.

III.

How that vast heaven, entitled first, is roll'd, If any glancing towers beyond it be, And people living in eternity, Or essence pure that doth this all uphold: What motion have those fixed sparks of gold, The wandering carbuncles which shine from high, By sp'rits, or bodies crossways in the sky, If they be turn'd, and mortal things behold; How sun posts heaven about, how night's pale queen With borrow'd beams looks on this hanging round, What cause fair Iris hath, and monsters seen In air's large field of light, and seas profound, Did hold my wandering thoughts, when thy sweet eye Bade me leave all, and only think on thee.

IV.

If cross'd with all mishaps be my poor life, If one short day I never spent in mirth, If my sp'rit with itself holds lasting strife, If sorrow's death is but new sorrow's birth; If this vain world be but a mournful stage, Where slave-born man plays to the scoffing stars, If youth be toss'd with love, with weakness age; If knowledge serves to hold our thoughts in wars, If Time can close the hundred mouths of Fame, And make what's long since past, like that's to be; If virtue only be an idle name, If being born I was but born to die; Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days? The fairest rose in shortest time decays.

V.

Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends, Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light, Such sad, lamenting strains, that night attends, Become all ear; stars stay to hear thy plight, If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends, Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight, May thee importune who like case pretends, And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite. Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains, Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky, Enamour'd, smiles on woods and flowery plains? The bird, as if my questions did her move, With trembling wings sigh'd forth, 'I love, I love.'

VI.

Sweet soul, which, in the April of thy years, For to enrich the heaven mad'st poor this round, And now, with flaming rays of glory crown'd, Most blest abides above the sphere of spheres; If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee bound From looking to this globe that all upbears, If ruth and pity there above be found, Oh, deign to lend a look unto these tears, Do not disdain, dear ghost, this sacrifice, And though I raise not pillars to thy praise, My offerings take, let this for me suffice, My heart a living pyramid I raise: And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green, Thine shall with myrtles and these flowers be seen.

SPIRITUAL POEMS.

I.

Look, how the flower which ling'ringly doth fade, The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green, As high as it did raise, bows low the head: Right so the pleasures of my life being dead, Or in their contraries but only seen, With swifter speed declines than erst it spread, And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been. As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the night By darkness would imprison on his way, Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright, Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day; Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, And twice it is not given thee to be born.

II.

The weary mariner so fast not flies A howling tempest, harbour to attain; Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise, So fast to fold, to save his bleating train, As I, wing'd with contempt and just disdain, Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize, And sanctuary seek, free to remain From wounds of abject times, and Envy's eyes. To me this world did once seem sweet and fair, While senses' light mind's prospective kept blind, Now, like imagined landscape in the air, And weeping rainbows, her best joys I find: Or if aught here is had that praise should have, It is a life obscure, and silent grave.

III.

The last and greatest herald of heaven's King, Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he more harmless found than man, and mild; His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, With honey that from virgin hives distill'd; Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled; There burst he forth; 'All ye whose hopes rely On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn; Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!' Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry? Only the echoes, which he made relent, Rung from their flinty caves, 'Repent, repent!'

IV.

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past or coming, void of care, Well-pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers: To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs, Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

V.

As when it happ'neth that some lovely town Unto a barbarous besieger falls, Who both by sword and flame himself installs, And, shameless, it in tears and blood doth drown Her beauty spoil'd, her citizens made thralls, His spite yet cannot so her all throw down, But that some statue, pillar of renown, Yet lurks unmaim'd within her weeping walls: So, after all the spoil, disgrace, and wreck, That time, the world, and death, could bring combined, Amidst that mass of ruins they did make, Safe and all scarless yet remains my mind: From this so high transcending rapture springs, That I, all else defaced, not envy kings.

PHINEAS FLETCHER

We have already spoken of Giles Fletcher, the brother of Phineas. Of Phineas we know nothing except that he was born in 1584, educated at Eton and Cambridge, became Rector at Hilgay, in Norfolk, where he remained for twenty-nine years, surviving his brother; that he wrote an account of the founders and learned men of his university; that in 1633, he published 'The Purple Island;' and that in 1650 he died.

His 'Purple Island' (with which we first became acquainted in the writings of James Hervey, author of the 'Meditations,' who was its fervent admirer) is a curious, complex, and highly ingenious allegory, forming an elaborate picture of Man, in his body and soul; and for subtlety and infinite flexibility, both of fancy and verse, deserves great praise, although it cannot, for a moment, be compared with his brother's 'Christ's Victory and Triumph,' either in interest of subject or in splendour of genius.

DESCRIPTION OF PARTHENIA.

With her, her sister went, a warlike maid, Parthenia, all in steel and gilded arms; In needle's stead, a mighty spear she sway'd, With which in bloody fields and fierce alarms, The boldest champion she down would bear, And like a thunderbolt wide passage tear, Flinging all to the earth with her enchanted spear.

Her goodly armour seem'd a garden green, Where thousand spotless lilies freshly blew; And on her shield the lone bird might be seen, The Arabian bird, shining in colours new; Itself unto itself was only mate; Ever the same, but new in newer date: And underneath was writ, 'Such is chaste single state.'

Thus hid in arms she seem'd a goodly knight, And fit for any warlike exercise: But when she list lay down her armour bright, And back resume her peaceful maiden's guise; The fairest maid she was, that ever yet Prison'd her locks within a golden net, Or let them waving hang, with roses fair beset.

Choice nymph! the crown of chaste Diana's train, Thou beauty's lily, set in heavenly earth; Thy fairs, unpattern'd, all perfection stain: Sure heaven with curious pencil at thy birth In thy rare face her own full picture drew: It is a strong verse here to write, but true, Hyperboles in others are but half thy due.

Upon her forehead Love his trophies fits, A thousand spoils in silver arch displaying: And in the midst himself full proudly sits, Himself in awful majesty arraying: Upon her brows lies his bent ebon bow, And ready shafts; deadly those weapons show; Yet sweet the death appear'd, lovely that deadly blow.

* * * * *

A bed of lilies flower upon her cheek, And in the midst was set a circling rose; Whose sweet aspect would force Narcissus seek New liveries, and fresher colours choose To deck his beauteous head in snowy 'tire; But all in vain: for who can hope t' aspire To such a fair, which none attain, but all admire?

Her ruby lips lock up from gazing sight A troop of pearls, which march in goodly row: But when she deigns those precious bones undight, Soon heavenly notes from those divisions flow, And with rare music charm the ravish'd ears, Daunting bold thoughts, but cheering modest fears: The spheres so only sing, so only charm the spheres.

Yet all these stars which deck this beauteous sky By force of th'inward sun both shine and move; Throned in her heart sits love's high majesty; In highest majesty the highest love. As when a taper shines in glassy frame, The sparkling crystal burns in glittering flame, So does that brightest love brighten this lovely dame.

INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GREATNESS.

Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness, And here long seeks what here is never found! For all our good we hold from Heaven by lease, With many forfeits and conditions bound; Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due: Though now but writ and seal'd, and given anew, Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew.

Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good, At every loss against Heaven's face repining? Do but behold where glorious cities stood, With gilded tops, and silver turrets shining; Where now the hart fearless of greyhound feeds, And loving pelican in safety breeds; Where screeching satyrs fill the people's empty steads.

Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide, That all the East once grasp'd in lordly paw? Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw? Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard, Through all the world with nimble pinions fared, And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shared?

Hardly the place of such antiquity, Or note of these great monarchies we find: Only a fading verbal memory, An empty name in writ is left behind: But when this second life and glory fades, And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, A second fall succeeds, and double death invades.

That monstrous Beast, which nursed in Tiber's fen, Did all the world with hideous shape affray; That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den, And trod down all the rest to dust and clay: His battering horns pull'd out by civil hands, And iron teeth lie scatter'd on the sands; Backed, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked stands.

And that black Vulture,[1] which with deathful wing O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight Frighten'd the Muses from their native spring, Already stoops, and flags with weary flight: Who then shall look for happiness beneath? Where each new day proclaims chance, change, and death, And life itself's as fleet as is the air we breathe.

[1] 'Black Vulture:' the Turk.

HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state! When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns! His cottage low and safely humble gate Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep: Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep; Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride: His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need, Not in that proud Sidonian tineture dyed: No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright, Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite; But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music, and base flattering tongues, Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise, The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes: In country plays is all the strife he uses, Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses, And but in music's sports all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him, Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content; The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him With coolest shades, till noontide rage is spent; His life is neither toss'd in boisterous seas Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease; Pleased, and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, While by his side his faithful spouse hath place; His little son into his bosom creeps, The lively picture of his father's face: Never his humble house nor state torment him; Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content him.

MARRIAGE OF CHRIST AND THE CHURCH.

'Ah, dearest Lord! does my rapt soul behold thee? Am I awake, and sure I do not dream? Do these thrice-blessed arms again enfold thee? Too much delight makes true things feigned seem. Thee, thee I see; thou, thou thus folded art: For deep thy stamp is printed on my heart, And thousand ne'er-felt joys stream in each melting part.'

Thus with glad sorrow did she sweetly 'plain her, Upon his neck a welcome load depending; While he with equal joy did entertain her, Herself, her champions, highly all commending: So all in triumph to his palace went; Whose work in narrow words may not be pent: For boundless thought is less than is that glorious tent.

There sweet delights, which know nor end nor measure; No chance is there, nor eating times succeeding: No wasteful spending can impair their treasure; Pleasure full grown, yet ever freshly breeding: Fulness of sweets excludes not more receiving; The soul still big of joy, yet still conceiving; Beyond slow tongue's report, beyond quick thought's perceiving.

There are they gone; there will they ever bide; Swimming in waves of joys and heavenly loves: He still a bridegroom, she a gladsome bride; Their hearts in love, like spheres still constant moving; No change, no grief, no age can them befall; Their bridal bed is in that heavenly hall, Where all days are but one, and only one is all.

And as in his state they thus in triumph ride, The boys and damsels their just praises chant; The boys the bridegroom sing, the maids the bride, While all the hills glad hymens loudly vaunt: Heaven's winged shoals, greeting this glorious spring, Attune their higher notes, and hymens sing: Each thought to pass, and each did pass thought's loftiest wing.

Upon his lightning brow love proudly sitting Flames out in power, shines out in majesty; There all his lofty spoils and trophies fitting, Displays the marks of highest Deity: There full of strength in lordly arms he stands, And every heart and every soul commands: No heart, no soul, his strength and lordly force withstands.

Upon her forehead thousand cheerful graces, Seated on thrones of spotless ivory; There gentle Love his armed hand unbraces; His bow unbent disclaims all tyranny; There by his play a thousand souls beguiles, Persuading more by simple, modest smiles, Than ever he could force by arms or crafty wiles.

Upon her cheek doth Beauty's self implant The freshest garden of her choicest flowers; On which, if Envy might but glance askant, Her eyes would swell, and burst, and melt in showers: Thrice fairer both than ever fairest eyed; Heaven never such a bridegroom yet descried; Nor ever earth so fair, so undefiled a bride.

Full of his Father shines his glorious face, As far the sun surpassing in his light, As doth the sun the earth with flaming blaze: Sweet influence streams from his quickening sight: His beams from nought did all this All display; And when to less than nought they fell away, He soon restored again by his new orient ray.

All heaven shines forth in her sweet face's frame: Her seeing stars (which we miscall bright eyes) More bright than is the morning's brightest flame, More fruitful than the May-time Geminies: These, back restore the timely summer's fire; Those, springing thoughts in winter hearts inspire, Inspiriting dead souls, and quickening warm desire.

These two fair suns in heavenly spheres are placed, Where in the centre joy triumphing sits: Thus in all high perfections fully graced, Her mid-day bliss no future night admits; But in the mirrors of her Spouse's eyes Her fairest self she dresses; there where lies All sweets, a glorious beauty to emparadise.

His locks like raven's plumes, or shining jet, Fall down in curls along his ivory neck; Within their circlets hundred graces set, And with love-knots their comely hangings deck: His mighty shoulders, like that giant swain, All heaven and earth, and all in both sustain; Yet knows no weariness, nor feels oppressing pain.

Her amber hair like to the sunny ray, With gold enamels fair the silver white; There heavenly loves their pretty sportings play, Firing their darts in that wide flaming light: Her dainty neck, spread with that silver mould, Where double beauty doth itself unfold, In the own fair silver shines, and fairer borrow'd gold.

His breast a rock of purest alabaster, Where loves self-sailing, shipwreck'd, often sitteth. Hers a twin-rock, unknown but to the shipmaster; Which harbours him alone, all other splitteth. Where better could her love than here have nested, Or he his thoughts than here more sweetly feasted? Then both their love and thoughts in each are ever rested.

Run now, you shepherd swains; ah! run you thither, Where this fair bridegroom leads the blessed way: And haste, you lovely maids, haste you together With this sweet bride, while yet the sunshine day Guides your blind steps; while yet loud summons call, That every wood and hill resounds withal, Come, Hymen, Hymen, come, dress'd in thy golden pall.

The sounding echo back the music flung, While heavenly spheres unto the voices play'd. But see! the day is ended with my song, And sporting bathes with that fair ocean maid: Stoop now thy wing, my muse, now stoop thee low: Hence mayst thou freely play, and rest thee now; While here I hang my pipe upon the willow bough.

So up they rose, while all the shepherds' throng With their loud pipes a country triumph blew, And led their Thirsil home with joyful song: Meantime the lovely nymphs, with garlands new His locks in bay and honour'd palm-tree bound, With lilies set, and hyacinths around, And lord of all the year and their May sportings crown'd.

END OF VOL. I.

SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS.

With an Introductory Essay,

By

THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.

IN THREE VOLS.

VOL. II.

CONTENTS

SECOND PERIOD--FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN. (CONTINUED.)

WILLIAM HABINGTON Epistle addressed to the Honourable W. E. To his Noblest Friend, J. C., Esq. A Description of Castara

JOSEPH HALL, BISHOP OF NORWICH Satire I. Satire VII.

RICHARD LOVELACE Song--To Althea, from Prison Song A Loose Saraband

ROBERT HERRICK Song Cherry-Ripe The Kiss: A Dialogue To Daffodils To Primroses To Blossoms Oberon's Palace Oberon's Feast The Mad Maid's Song Corinna's going a-Maying Jephthah's Daughter The Country Life

SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE The Spring, a Sonnet--From the Spanish

ABRAHAM COWLEY The Chronicle, a Ballad The Complaint The Despair Of Wit Of Solitude The Wish Upon the Shortness of Man's Life On the Praise of Poetry The Motto--'Tentanda via est,' &c Davideis-Book II Life The Plagues of Egypt

GEORGE WITHER From 'The Shepherd's Hunting' The Shepherd's Resolution The Steadfast Shepherd From 'The Shepherd's Hunting'

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT From 'Gondibert'--Canto II From 'Gondibert'--Canto IV

DR HENRY KING Sic Vita Song Life

JOHN CHALKHILL Arcadia Thealma, a Deserted Shepherdess Priestess of Diana Thealma in Full Dress Dwelling of the Witch Orandra

CATHARINE PHILLIPS The Inquiry A Friend

MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE Melancholy described by Mirth Melancholy describing herself

THOMAS STANLEY Celia Singing Speaking and Kissing La Belle Confidante The Loss Note on Anacreon

ANDREW MARVELL The Emigrants The Nymph complaining of the Death of her Fawn On 'Paradise Lost' Thoughts in a Garden Satire on Holland

IZAAK WALTON The Angler's Wish

JOHN WILMOT, EARL or ROCHESTER Song Song

THE EARL OP ROSCOMMON From 'An Essay on Translated Verse'

CHARLES COTTON Invitation to Izaak Walton A Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque

DR HENRY MORE Opening of Second Part of 'Psychozoia' Exordium of Third Part Destruction and Renovation of all things A Distempered Fancy Soul compared to a Lantern

WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE Argalia taken Prisoner by the Turks

HENRY VAUGHAN On a Charnel-house On Gombauld's 'Endymion' Apostrophe to Fletcher the Dramatist Picture of the Town The Golden Age Regeneration Resurrection and Immortality The Search Isaac's Marriage Man's Fall and Recovery The Shower Burial Cheerfulness The Passion Rules and Lessons Repentance The Dawning The Tempest The World The Constellation Misery Mount of Olives Ascension-day Cock-crowing The Palm-tree The Garland Love-sick Psalm civ The Timber The Jews Palm-Sunday Providence St Mary Magdalene The Rainbow The Seed Growing Secretly (Mark iv. 26) Childhood Abel's Blood Righteousness Jacob's Pillow and Pillar The Feast The Waterfall

DR JOSEPH BEAUMONT Hell Joseph's Dream Paradise Eve To the Memory of his Wife Imperial Borne Personified End

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES--

FROM ROBERT HEATH-- What is Love? Protest of Love To Clarastella

BY VARIOUS AUTHORS-- My Mind to me a Kingdom is The Old and Young Courtier There is a Garden in her Face Hallo, my Fancy The Fairy Queen

* * * * *

SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS.

SECOND PERIOD--FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN. (CONTINUED.)

* * * * *

WILLIAM HABINGTON.

This poet might have been expected to have belonged to the 'Spasmodic school,' judging by his parental antecedents. His father was accused of having a share in Babington's conspiracy, but was released because he was godson to Queen Elizabeth. Soon after, however, he was imprisoned a second time, and condemned to death on the charge of having concealed some of the Gunpowder-plot conspirators; but was pardoned through the interest of Lord Morley. His uncle, however, was less fortunate, suffering death for his complicity with Babington. The poet's mother, the daughter of Lord Morley, was more loyal than her husband or his brother, and is said to have written the celebrated letter to Lord Monteagle, in consequence of which the execution of the Gunpowder-plot was arrested.

Our poet was born at Hindlip, Worcestershire, on the very day of the discovery of the plot, 5th November 1605. The family were Papists, and William was sent to St Omers to be educated. He was pressed to become a Jesuit, but declined. On his return to England, his father became preceptor to the poet. As he grew up, instead of displaying any taste for 'treasons, stratagems, and spoils,' he chose the better part, and lived a private and happy life. He fell in love with Lucia, daughter of William Herbert, the first Lord Powis, and celebrated her in his long and curious poem entitled 'Castara.' This lady he afterwards married, and from her society appears to have derived much happiness. In 1634, he published 'Castara.' He also, at different times, produced 'The Queen of Arragon,' a tragedy; a History of Edward IV.; and 'Observations upon History.' He died in 1654, (not as Southey, by a strange oversight, says, 'when he had just completed his fortieth year,') forty-nine years of age, and was buried in the family vault at Hindlip.

'Castara' is not a consecutive poem, but consists of a great variety of small pieces, in all sorts of style and rhythm, and of all varieties of merit; many of them addressed to his mistress under the name of Castara, and many to his friends; with reflective poems, elegies, and panegyrics, intermingled with verses sacred to love. Habington is distinguished by purity of tone if not of taste. He has many conceits, but no obscenities. His love is as holy as it is ardent. He has, besides, a vein of sentiment which sometimes approaches the moral sublime. To prove this, in addition to the 'Selections' below, we copy some verses entitled--

'NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM.'--David.

When I survey the bright Celestial sphere, So rich with jewels hung, that Night Doth like an Ethiop bride appear,

My soul her wings doth spread, And heavenward flies, The Almighty's mysteries to read In the large volume of the skies;

For the bright firmament Shoots forth no flame So silent, but is eloquent In speaking the Creator's name.

No unregarded star Contracts its light Into so small a character, Removed far from our human sight,

But if we steadfast look, We shall discern In it, as in some holy book, How man may heavenly knowledge learn.

It tells the conqueror That far-stretch'd power, Which his proud dangers traffic for, Is but the triumph of an hour;

That, from the furthest North, Some nation may, Yet undiscover'd, issue forth, And o'er his new-got conquest sway,--

Some nation, yet shut in With hills of ice, May be let out to scourge his sin Till they shall equal him in vice;

And then they likewise shall Their ruin brave; For, as yourselves, your empires fall, And every kingdom hath a grave.

Thus those celestial fires, Though seeming mute, The fallacy of our desires, And all the pride of life, confute;

For they have watch'd since first The world had birth, And found sin in itself accurst, And nothing permanent on earth.

There is something to us particularly interesting in the history of this poet. Even as it is pleasant to see the sides of a volcano covered with verdure, and its mouth filled with flowers, so we like to find the fierce elements, which were inherited by Habington from his fathers, softened and subdued in him,--the blood of the conspirator mellowed into that of the gentle bard, who derived all his inspiration from a pure love and a mild and thoughtful religion.

EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO THE HONOURABLE W.E.

He who is good is happy. Let the loud Artillery of heaven break through a cloud, And dart its thunder at him, he'll remain Unmoved, and nobler comfort entertain, In welcoming the approach of death, than Vice E'er found in her fictitious paradise. Time mocks our youth, and (while we number past Delights, and raise our appetite to taste Ensuing) brings us to unflatter'd age, Where we are left to satisfy the rage Of threat'ning death: pomp, beauty, wealth, and all Our friendships, shrinking from the funeral. The thought of this begets that brave disdain With which thou view'st the world, and makes those vain Treasures of fancy, serious fools so court, And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport. What should we covet here? Why interpose A cloud 'twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature chose Man's soul the exchequer where to hoard her wealth, And lodge all her rich secrets; but by the stealth Of her own vanity, we're left so poor, The creature merely sensual knows more. The learned halcyon, by her wisdom, finds A gentle season, when the seas and winds Are silenced by a calm, and then brings forth The happy miracle of her rare birth, Leaving with wonder all our arts possess'd, That view the architecture of her nest. Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestow Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow By age to dotage; while the sensitive Part of the world in its first strength doth live. Folly! what dost thou in thy power contain Deserves our study? Merchants plough the main And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more, By avarice in the possession poor. And yet that idol wealth we all admit Into the soul's great temple; busy wit Invents new orgies, fancy frames new rites To show its superstition; anxious nights Are watch'd to win its favour: while the beast Content with nature's courtesy doth rest. Let man then boast no more a soul, since he Hath lost that great prerogative. But thee, Whom fortune hath exempted from the herd Of vulgar men, whom virtue hath preferr'd Far higher than thy birth, I must commend, Rich in the purchase of so sweet a friend. And though my fate conducts me to the shade Of humble quiet, my ambition paid With safe content, while a pure virgin fame Doth raise me trophies in Castara's name; No thought of glory swelling me above The hope of being famed for virtuous love; Yet wish I thee, guided by the better stars, To purchase unsafe honour in the wars, Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race, And merits, well may challenge the highest place. Yet know, what busy path soe'er you tread To greatness, you must sleep among the dead.

TO HIS NOBLEST FRIEND, J.C., ESQ.

I hate the country's dirt and manners, yet I love the silence; I embrace the wit And courtship, flowing here in a full tide, But loathe the expense, the vanity, and pride. No place each way is happy. Here I hold Commerce with some, who to my care unfold (After a due oath minister'd) the height And greatness of each star shines in the state, The brightness, the eclipse, the influence. With others I commune, who tell me whence The torrent doth of foreign discord flow; Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow, Soon as they happen; and by rote can tell Those German towns, even puzzle me to spell. The cross or prosperous fate of princes they Ascribe to rashness, cunning, or delay; And on each action comment, with more skill Than upon Livy did old Machiavel. O busy folly! why do I my brain Perplex with the dull policies of Spain, Or quick designs of France? Why not repair To the pure innocence o' the country air, And neighbour thee, dear friend? Who so dost give Thy thoughts to worth and virtue, that to live Blest, is to trace thy ways. There might not we Arm against passion with philosophy; And, by the aid of leisure, so control Whate'er is earth in us, to grow all soul? Knowledge doth ignorance engender, when We study mysteries of other men, And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shad (Thy head upon some flow'ry pillow laid, Kind Nature's housewifery,) contemplate all His stratagems, who labours to enthrall The world to his great master, and you'll find Ambition mocks itself, and grasps the wind. Not conquest makes us great. Blood is too dear A price for glory. Honour doth appear To statesmen like a vision in the night; And, juggler-like, works o' the deluded sight. The unbusied only wise: for no respect Endangers them to error; they affect Truth in her naked beauty, and behold Man with an equal eye, not bright in gold, Or tall in little; so much him they weigh As virtue raiseth him above his clay. Thus let us value things: and since we find Time bend us toward death, let's in our mind Create new youth, and arm against the rude Assaults of age; that no dull solitude O' the country dead our thoughts, nor busy care O' the town make us to think, where now we are, And whither we are bound. Time ne'er forgot His journey, though his steps we number'd not.

A DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.

1 Like the violet which, alone, Prospers in some happy shade, My Castara lives unknown, To no looser's eye betray'd, For she's to herself untrue, Who delights i' the public view.

2 Such is her beauty, as no arts Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace; Her high birth no pride imparts, For she blushes in her place. Folly boasts a glorious blood, She is noblest, being good.

3 Cautious, she knew never yet What a wanton courtship meant; Nor speaks loud, to boast her wit; In her silence eloquent: Of herself survey she takes, But 'tween men no difference makes.

4 She obeys with speedy will Her grave parents' wise commands; And so innocent, that ill She nor acts, nor understands: Women's feet run still astray, If once to ill they know the way.

5 She sails by that rock, the court, Where oft Honour splits her mast: And retiredness thinks the port Where her fame may anchor cast: Virtue safely cannot sit, Where vice is enthroned for wit.

6 She holds that day's pleasure best, Where sin waits not on delight; Without mask, or ball, or feast, Sweetly spends a winter's night: O'er that darkness, whence is thrust Prayer and sleep, oft governs lust.

7 She her throne makes reason climb; While wild passions captive lie: And, each article of time, Her pure thoughts to heaven fly: All her vows religious be, And her love she vows to me.

JOSEPH HALL, BISHOP OF NORWICH.

This distinguished man must not be confounded with John Hall, of whom all we know is, that he was born at Durham in 1627,--that he was educated at Cambridge, where he published a volume of poems,--that he practised at the bar, and that he died in 1656, in his twenty-ninth year. One specimen of John's verses we shall quote:--

THE MORNING STAR.

Still herald of the morn: whose ray Being page and usher to the day, Doth mourn behind the sun, before him play; Who sett'st a golden signal ere The dark retire, the lark appear; The early cooks cry comfort, screech-owls fear; Who wink'st while lovers plight their troth, Then falls asleep, while they are both To part without a more engaging oath: Steal in a message to the eyes Of Julia; tell her that she lies Too long; thy lord, the Sun, will quickly rise. Yet it is midnight still with me; Nay, worse, unless that kinder she Smile day, and in my zenith seated be, I needs a calenture must shun, And, like an Ethiopian, hate my sun.

John's more celebrated namesake, Joseph, was born at Bristowe Park, parish of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire, in 1574. He studied and took orders at Cambridge. He acted for some time as master of the school of Tiverton, in Devonshire. It is said that the accidental preaching of a sermon before Prince Henry first attracted attention to this eminent divine. Promotion followed with a sure and steady course. He was chosen to accompany King James to Scotland as one of his chaplains, and subsequently attended the famous Synod of Dort as a representative of the English Church. He had before this, while quite a young man, (in 1597,) published, under the title of 'Virgidemiarum,' his Satires. In the year 1600 he produced a satirical fiction, entitled, 'Mundus alter et idem;' in which, while pretending to describe a certain terra australis incognita, he hits hard at the existent evils of the actual world. Hall was subsequently created Bishop of Exeter, where he exposed himself to obloquy by his mildness to the Puritans. 'Had,' Campbell justly remarked, 'such conduct been, at this critical period, pursued by the High Churchmen in general, the history of a bloody age might have been changed into that of peace; but the violence of Laud prevailed over the milder counsels of a Hall, an Usher, and a Corbet.' Yet Hall was a zealous Episcopalian, and defended that form of government in a variety of pamphlets. In the course of this controversy he carne in collision with the mighty Milton himself, who, unable to deny the ability and learning of his opponent, tried to cover him with a deluge of derision.

Besides these pamphlets, the Bishop produced a number of Epistles in prose, of Sermons, of Paraphrases, and a remarkable series of 'Occasional Meditations,' which became soon, and continue to be, popular.

Hall, who had in his early days struggled hard with narrow circumstances and neglect, seemed to reach the climax of prosperity when he was, in 1641, created by the King Bishop of Norwich. But having, soon after, unfortunately added his name to the Protest of the twelve prelates against the authority of any laws which should be passed during their compulsory absence from Parliament, he was thrown into the Tower, and subsequently threatened with sequestration. After enduring great privations, he at last was permitted to retire to Higham, near Norwich, where, reduced to a very miserable allowance, he continued to labour as a pastor, with unwearied assiduity, till, in 1656, death closed his eyes, at the advanced age of eighty-two. Bishop Hall, if not fully competent to mate with Milton, was nevertheless a giant, conspicuous even in an age when giants were rife. He has been called the Christian Seneca, from the pith and clear sententiousness of his prose style. His 'Meditations,' ranging over almost the whole compass of Scripture, as well as an incredible variety of ordinary topics, are distinguished by their fertile fancy, their glowing language, and by thought which, if seldom profound, is never commonplace, and seems always the spontaneous and easy outcome of the author's mind. In no form of composition does excellence depend more on spontaneity than in the meditation. The ruin of such writers as Hervey, and, to some extent, Boyle, has been, that they seem to have set themselves elaborately and convulsively to extract sentiment out of every object which met their eye. They seem to say, 'We will, and we must meditate, whether the objects be interesting or not, and whether our own moods be propitious to the exercise, or the reverse.' Hence have come exaggeration, extravagance, and that shape of the ridiculous which mimics the sublime, and has been so admirably exposed in Swift's 'Meditation on a Broomstick.' Hall's method is, in general, the opposite of this. The objects on which he muses seem to have sought him, and not he them. He surrounds himself with his thoughts unconsciously, as one gathers burs and other herbage about him by the mere act of walking in the woods. Sometimes, indeed, he is quaint and fantastic, as in his meditation

'UPON THE SIGHT OF TWO SNAILS.'

'There is much variety even in creatures of the same kind. See these two snails: one hath a house, the other wants it; yet both are snails, and it is a question whether case is the better; that which hath a house hath more shelter, but that which wants it hath more freedom; the privilege of that cover is but a burden--you see if it hath but a stone to climb over with what stress it draws up that artificial load, and if the passage proves strait finds no entrance, whereas the empty snail makes no difference of way. Surely it is always an ease and sometimes a happiness to have nothing. No man is so worthy of envy as he that can be cheerful in want.'

In a very different style he discourses

'UPON HEARING OF MUSIC BY NIGHT.'

'How sweetly doth this music sound in this dead season! In the daytime it would not, it could not so much affect the ear. All harmonious sounds are advanced by a silent darkness: thus it is with the glad tidings of salvation. The gospel never sounds so sweet as in the night of preservation or of our own private affliction--it is ever the same, the difference is in our disposition to receive it. O God, whose praise it is to give songs in the night, make my prosperity conscionable and my crosses cheerful!'

Hall fulfilled one test of lofty genius: he was in several departments an originator. He first gave an example of epistolary composition in prose,--an example the imitation of which has produced many of the most interesting, instructive, and beautiful writings in the language. He is our first popular author of Meditations and Contemplations, and a large school has followed in his path--too often, in truth, passibus iniquis. And he is unquestionably the father of British satire. It is remarkable that all his satires were written in youth. Too often the satirical spirit grows in authors with the advance of life; and it is a pitiful sight, that of those who have passed the meridian of years and reputation, grinning back in helpless mockery and toothless laughter upon the brilliant way they have traversed, but to which they can return no more. Hall, on the other hand, exhausted long ere he was thirty the sarcastic material that was in him; and during the rest of his career, wielded his powers with as much lenity as strength.

Perhaps no satirist had a more thorough conception than our author of what is the real mission of satire in the moral history of mankind; --that is, to shew vice its own image--to scourge impudent imposture --to expose hypocrisy--to laugh down solemn quackery of every kind--to create blushes on brazen brows and fears of scorn in hollow hearts--to make iniquity, as ashamed, hide its face--to apply caustic, nay cautery, to the sores of society--and to destroy sin by shewing both the ridicule which attaches to its progress and the wretched consequences which are its end. But various causes prevented him from fully realising his own ideal, and thus becoming the best as well as the first of our satirical poets. His style--imitated from Persius and Juvenal--is too elliptical, and it becomes true of him as well as of Persius that his points are often sheathed through the remoteness of his allusions and the perplexity of his diction. He is very recondite in his images, and you are sometimes reminded of one storming in English at a Hindoo--it is pointless fury, boltless thunder. At other times the stream of his satiric vein flows on with a blended clearness and energy, which has commanded the warm encomium of Campbell, and which prompted the diligent study of Pope. There is more courage required in attacking the follies than the vices of an age, and Hall shews a peculiar daring when he derides the vulgar forms of astrology and alchymy which were then prevalent, and the wretched fustian which infected the language both of literature and the stage. Whatever be the merits or defects of Hall's satires, the world is indebted to him as the founder of a school which were itself sufficient to cover British literature with glory, and which, in the course of ages, has included such writers as Samuel Butler, with his keen sense of the grotesque and ridiculous--his wit, unequalled in its abundance and point--his vast assortment of ludicrous fancies and language--and his form of versification, seemingly shaped by the Genius of Satire for his own purposes, and resembling heroic rhyme broken off in the middle by shouts of laughter;--Dryden, with the ease, the animus, and the masterly force of his satirical dissections--the vein of humour which is stealthily visible at times in the intervals of his wrathful mood --and the occasional passing and profound touches, worthy of Juvenal, and reminding one of the fires of Egypt, which ran along the ground, scorching all things while they pursued their unabated speed;--the spirit of satire, strong as death, and cruel as the grave, which became incarnate in Swift;--Pope, with his minute and microscopic vision of human infirmities, his polish, delicate strokes, damning hints, and annihilating whispers, where 'more is meant than meets the ear;' --Johnson, with his crushing contempt and sacrificial dignity of scorn; --Cowper, with the tenderness of a lover combined in his verse with the terrible indignation of an ancient prophet;--Wolcot, with his infinite fund of coarse wit and humour;--Burns, with that strange mixture of jaw and genius--the spirit of a caird with that of a poet--which marked all his satirical pieces;--Crabbe, with his caustic vein and sternly-literal descriptions, behind which are seen, half-skulking from view, kindness, pity, and love;--Byron, with the clever Billingsgate of his earlier, and the more than Swiftian ferocity of his later satires;--and Moore, with the smartness, sparkle, tiny splendour, and minikin speed of his witty shafts. In comparison with even these masters of the art, the good Bishop does not dwindle; and he challenges precedence over most of them in the purpose, tact, and good sense which blend with the whole of his satiric poetry.

SATIRE I.

Time was, and that was term'd the time of gold, When world and time were young, that now are old, (When quiet Saturn sway'd the mace of lead, And pride was yet unborn, and yet unbred;) Time was, that whiles the autumn fall did last, Our hungry sires gaped for the falling mast Of the Dodonian oaks; Could no unhusked acorn leave the tree, But there was challenge made whose it might be; And if some nice and liquorous appetite Desired more dainty dish of rare delight, They scaled the stored crab with clasped knee, Till they had sated their delicious eye: Or search'd the hopeful thicks of hedgy rows, For briary berries, or haws, or sourer sloes: Or when they meant to fare the fin'st of all, They lick'd oak-leaves besprint with honey fall. As for the thrice three-angled beech nutshell, Or chestnut's armed husk, and hide kernel, No squire durst touch, the law would not afford, Kept for the court, and for the king's own board. Their royal plate was clay, or wood, or stone; The vulgar, save his hand, else he had none. Their only cellar was the neighbour brook: None did for better care, for better look. Was then no plaining of the brewer's 'scape, Nor greedy vintner mix'd the stained grape. The king's pavilion was the grassy green, Under safe shelter of the shady treen. Under each bank men laid their limbs along, Not wishing any ease, not fearing wrong: Clad with their own, as they were made of old, Not fearing shame, not feeling any cold. But when by Ceres' huswifery and pain, Men learn'd to bury the reviving grain, And father Janus taught the new-found vine Rise on the elm, with many a friendly twine: And base desire bade men to delven low, For needless metals, then 'gan mischief grow. Then farewell, fairest age, the world's best days, Thriving in all as it in age decays. Then crept in pride, and peevish covetise, And men grew greedy, discordous, and nice. Now man, that erst hail-fellow was with beast, Wox on to ween himself a god at least. Nor aery fowl can take so high a flight, Though she her daring wings in clouds have dight; Nor fish can dive so deep in yielding sea, Though Thetis' self should swear her safëty; Nor fearful beast can dig his cave so low, As could he further than earth's centre go; As that the air, the earth, or ocean, Should shield them from the gorge of greedy man. Hath utmost Ind ought better than his own? Then utmost Ind is near, and rife to gone, O nature! was the world ordain'd for nought But fill man's maw, and feed man's idle thought? Thy grandsire's words savour'd of thrifty leeks, Or manly garlic; but thy furnace reeks Hot steams of wine; and can aloof descry The drunken draughts of sweet autumnitie. They naked went; or clad in ruder hide, Or home-spun russet, void of foreign pride: But thou canst mask in garish gauderie To suit a fool's far-fetched livery. A French head join'd to neck Italian: Thy thighs from Germany, and breast from Spain: An Englishman in none, a fool in all: Many in one, and one in several. Then men were men; but now the greater part Beasts are in life, and women are in heart. Good Saturn self, that homely emperor, In proudest pomp was not so clad of yore, As is the under-groom of the ostlery, Husbanding it in work-day yeomanry. Lo! the long date of those expired days, Which the inspired Merlin's word foresays; When dunghill peasants shall be dight as kings, Then one confusion another brings: Then farewell, fairest age, the world's best days, Thriving in ill, as it in age decays.

SATIRE VII.

Seest thou how gaily my young master goes, Vaunting himself upon his rising toes; And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side, And picks his glutted teeth since late noontide? 'Tis Ruffio: Trow'st thou where he dined to-day? In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphray. Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer, Keeps he for every straggling cavalier, And open house, haunted with great resort; Long service mix'd with musical disport. Many fair younker with a feather'd crest, Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest, To fare so freely with so little cost, Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host. Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say He touch'd no meat of all this livelong day. For sure methought, yet that was but a guess, His eyes seem'd sunk for very hollowness; But could he have (as I did it mistake) So little in his purse, so much upon his back? So nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his belt, That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt. Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hip? Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip; Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by, All trapped in the new-found bravery. The nuns of new-won Calais his bonnet lent, In lieu of their so kind a conquerment. What needed he fetch that from furthest Spain. His grandam could have lent with lesser pain? Though he perhaps ne'er pass'd the English shore, Yet fain would counted be a conqueror. His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head, One lock, Amazon-like, dishevelled, As if he meant to wear a native cord, If chance his fates should him that bane afford. All British bare upon the bristled skin, Close notched is his beard both lip and chin; His linen collar labyrinthian set, Whose thousand double turnings never met: His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings, As if he meant to fly with linen wings. But when I look, and cast mine eyes below, What monster meets mine eyes in human show? So slender waist with such an abbot's loin, Did never sober nature sure conjoin, Lik'st a strawn scarecrow in the new-sown field, Rear'd on some stick, the tender corn to shield; Or if that semblance suit not every deal, Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel. Despised nature, suit them once aright, Their body to their coat, both now misdight. Their body to their clothës might shapen be, That nill their clothës shape to their body. Meanwhile I wonder at so proud a back, Whiles the empty guts loud rumblen for long lack: The belly envieth the back's bright glee, And murmurs at such inequality. The back appears unto the partial eyne, The plaintive belly pleads they bribed been: And he, for want of better advocate, Doth to the ear his injury relate. The back, insulting o'er the belly's need, Says, Thou thyself, I others' eyes must feed. The maw, the guts, all inward parts complain The back's great pride, and their own secret pain. Ye witless gallants, I beshrew your hearts, That sets such discord 'twixt agreeing parts, Which never can be set at onement more, Until the maw's wide mouth be stopt with store.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

This unlucky cavalier and bard was born in 1618. He was the son of Sir William Lovelace, of Woolwich, in Kent. He was educated some say at Oxford, and others at Cambridge--took a master's degree, and was afterwards presented at Court. Anthony Wood thus describes his personal appearance at the age of sixteen:--'He was the most amiable and beautiful person that eye ever beheld,--a person also of innate modesty, virtue, and courtly deportment, which made him then, but especially after when he retired to the great city, much admired and adored by the fair sex.' Soon after this, he was chosen by the county of Kent to deliver a petition from the inhabitants to the House of Commons, praying them to restore the King to his rights, and to settle the government. Such offence was given by this to the Long Parliament, that Lovelace was thrown into prison, and only liberated on heavy bail. His paternal estate, which amounted to £500 a-year, was soon exhausted in his efforts to promote the royal cause. In 1646, he formed a regiment for the service of the King of France, became its colonel, and was wounded at Dunkirk. Ere leaving England, he had formed a strong attachment to a Miss Lucy Sacheverell, and had written much poetry in her praise, designating her as Lux-Casta. Unfortunately, hearing a report that Lovelace had died at Dunkirk of his wounds, she married another, so that, on his return home in 1648, he met a deep disappointment; and to complete his misery, the ruling powers cast him again into prison, where he lay till the death of Charles. Like some other men of genius, he beguiled his confinement by literary employment; and in 1649, he published a book under the title of 'Lucasta,' consisting of odes, sonnets, songs, and miscellaneous poems, most of which had been previously composed. After the execution of the King, he was liberated; but his funds were exhausted, his heart broken, and his constitution probably injured. He gradually sunk; and Wood says that he became very poor in body and purse, was the object of charity, 'went in ragged clothes, and mostly lodged in obscure and dirty places.' Alas for the Adonis of sixteen, the beloved of Lucasta, and the envied of all! Some have doubted these stories about his extreme poverty; and one of his biographers asserts, that his daughter and sole heir (but who, pray, was his wife and her mother?) married the son of Lord Chief-Justice Coke, and brought to her husband the estates of her father at Kingsdown, in Kent. Aubrey however, corroborates the statements of Wood; and, at all events, Lovelace seems to have died, in 1658, in a wretched alley near Shoe Lane.

There is not much to be said about his poetry. It may be compared to his person--beautiful, but dressed in a stiff mode. We do not, in every point, homologate the opinions of Prynne, as to the 'unloveliness of love-locks;' but we do certainly look with a mixture of contempt and pity on the self-imposed trammels of affectation in style and manner which bound many of the poets of that period. The wits of Charles II. were more disgustingly licentious; but their very carelessness saved them from the conceits of their predecessors; and, while lowering the tone of morality, they raised unwittingly the standard of taste. Some of the songs of Lovelace, however, such as 'To Althea, from Prison,' are exquisitely simple, as well as pure. Sir Egerton Brydges has found out that Byron, in one of his be-praised paradoxical beauties, either copied, or coincided with, our poet. In the 'Bride of Abydos' he says of Zuleika--

'The mind, the music breathing from her face.'

Lovelace had, long before, in the song of 'Orpheus Mourning for his Wife,' employed the words--

'Oh, could you view the melody Of every grace, And music of her face, You'd drop a tear; Seeing more harmony In her bright eye Than now you hear.'

While many have praised, others have called this idea nonsense; although, if we are permitted to speak of the harmony of the tones of a cloud, why not of the harmony produced by the consenting lines of a countenance, where every grace melts into another, and the various features and expressions fluctuate into a fine whole? Whatever, whether it be the beauty of the human face, or the quiet lustre of statuary, or the mild glory of moonlight, gives the effects of music, and, like that divine art,

'Pours on mortals a beautiful disdain,'

may surely become music's metaphor and poetic analogy.

SONG.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.

1 When Love, with unconfined wings, Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fetter'd to her eye, The birds, that wanton in the air, Know no such liberty.

2 When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes, that tipple in the deep, Know no such liberty.

3 When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my king;[1] When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.

4 Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage. If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

[1] Charles I., in whose cause Lovelace was then in prison.

SONG.

1 Amarantha, sweet and fair, Forbear to braid that shining hair; As my curious hand or eye, Hovering round thee, let it fly:

2 Let it fly as unconfined As its ravisher, the wind, Who has left his darling east, To wanton o'er this spicy nest.

3 Every tress must be confess'd But neatly tangled at the best, Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled:

4 Do not then wind up that light In ribands, and o'ercloud the night; Like the sun in his early ray, But shake your head and scatter day.

A LOOSE SARABAND.

1 Ah me! the little tyrant thief, As once my heart was playing, He snatch'd it up, and flew away, Laughing at all my praying.

2 Proud of his purchase, he surveys, And curiously sounds it; And though he sees it full of wounds, Cruel, still on he wounds it.

3 And now this heart is all his sport, Which as a ball he boundeth, From hand to hand, from breast to lip, And all its rest confoundeth.

4 Then as a top he sets it up, And pitifully whips it; Sometimes he clothes it gay and fine, Then straight again he strips it.

5 He cover'd it with false belief, Which gloriously show'd it; And for a morning cushionet On's mother he bestow'd it.

6 Each day with her small brazen stings A thousand times she raced it; But then at night, bright with her gems, Once near her breast she placed it.

7 Then warm it 'gan to throb and bleed, She knew that smart, and grieved; At length this poor condemned heart, With these rich drugs reprieved.

8 She wash'd the wound with a fresh tear, Which my Lucasta dropped; And in the sleeve silk of her hair 'Twas hard bound up and wrapped.

9 She probed it with her constancy, And found no rancour nigh it; Only the anger of her eye Had wrought some proud flesh nigh it.

10 Then press'd she hard in every vein, Which from her kisses thrilled, And with the balm heal'd all its pain That from her hand distilled.

11 But yet this heart avoids me still, Will not by me be owned; But, fled to its physician's breast, There proudly sits enthroned.

ROBERT HERRICK.

This poet--a bird with tropical plumage, and norland sweetness of song --was born in Cheapside, London, in 1591. His father, was an eminent goldsmith. Herrick was sent to Cambridge; and having entered into holy orders, and being patronised by the Earl of Exeter, he was, in 1629, presented by Charles I. to the vicarage of Dean Prior, in Devonshire. Here he resided for twenty years, till ejected by the civil war. He seems all this time to have felt little relish either for his profession or parishioners. In the former, the cast of his poems shews that he must have been 'detained before the Lord;' and the latter he describes as a 'wild, amphibious race,' rude almost as 'salvages,' and 'churlish as the seas.' When he quitted his charge, he became an author at the mature age of fifty-six--publishing first, in 1647, his 'Noble Numbers; or, Pious Pieces;' and next, in 1648, his 'Hesperides; or, Works both Human and Divine of Robert Herrick, Esq.'--his ministerial prefix being now laid aside. Some of these poems were sufficiently unclerical--being wild and licentious in cast--although he himself alleges that his life was, sexually at least, blameless. Till the Restoration he lived in Westminster, supported by the rich among the Royalists, and keeping company with the popular dramatists and poets. It would seem that he had been in the habit of visiting London previously, while still acting as a clergyman, and had become a boon companion of Ben Jonson. Hence his well-known lines--

'Ah, Ben! Say how or when Shall we, thy guests, Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the "Sun," The "Dog," the "Triple Tun," Where we such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad? And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine. My Ben! Or come again, Or send to us, Thy wit's great overplus. But teach us yet Wisely to husband it; Lest we that talent spend, And having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of such a wit, the world should have no more.'

With the Restoration, fortune began again to smile on our poet. He was replaced in his old charge, and seems to have spent the rest of his life quietly in the country, enjoying the fresh air and the old English sports--'repenting at leisure moments,' as Shakspeare has it, of the early pruriencies of his muse; or, as the same immortal bard says of Falstaff, 'patching up his old body' for a better place. The date of his death is not exactly ascertained; but he seems to have got considerably to the shady side of seventy years of age.

Herrick's poetry was for a long time little known, till worthy Nathan Drake, in his 'Literary Hours,' performed to him, as to some others, the part of a friendly resurrectionist. He may be called the English Anacreon, and resembles the Greek poet, not only in graceful, lively, and voluptuous elegance and richness, but also in that deeper sentiment which often underlies the lighter surface of his verse. It is a great mistake to suppose that Anacreon was a mere contented sensualist and shallow songster of love and wine. Some of his odes shew that, if he yielded to the destiny of being a Cicada, singing amidst the vines of Bacchus, it was despair--the despair produced by a degraded age and a bad religion--which reduced him to the necessity. He was by nature an eagle; but he was an eagle in a sky where there was no sun. The cry of a noble being, placed in the most untoward circumstances, is here and there heard in his verses, and reminds you of the voice of one of the transmuted victims of Circe, or of Ariel from that cloven pine, where he

'howl'd away twelve winters.'

Herrick might be by constitution a voluptuary,--and he has unquestionably degraded his genius in not a few of his rhymes,--but in him, as well as in Anacreon, Horace, and Burns, there lay a better and a higher nature, which the critics have ignored, because it has not found a frequent or full utterance in his poetry. In proof that our author possessed profound sentiment, mingling and sometimes half-lost in the loose, luxuriant leafage of his imagery, we need only refer our readers to his 'Blossoms' and his 'Daffodils.' Besides gaiety and gracefulness, his verse is exceedingly musical--his lines not only move but dance.

SONG.

1 Gather the rose-buds, while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.

2 The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.

3 The age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst Times, still succeed the former.

4 Then be not coy, but use your time, And, whilst ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

CHERRY-RIPE.

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry; Full and fair ones; come, and buy! If so be you ask me where They do grow? I answer, there, Where my Julia's lips do smile; There's the land or cherry isle, Whose plantations fully show, All the year, where cherries grow.

THE KISS: A DIALOGUE.

1. Among thy fancies, tell me this: What is the thing we call a kiss?-- 2. I shall resolve ye what it is:

It is a creature, born and bred Between the lips, all cherry red; By love and warm desires 'tis fed; Chor.--And makes more soft the bridal bed:

2. It is an active flame, that flies First to the babies of the eyes, And charms them there with lullabies; Chor.--And stills the bride too when she cries:

2. Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks and flies; now here, now there; 'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near; Chor.--And here, and there, and everywhere.

1. Has it a speaking virtue?--2. Yes. 1. How speaks it, say?--2. Do you but this, Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss; Chor.--And this love's sweetest language is.

1. Has it a body?--2. Aye, and wings, With thousand rare encolourings; And, as it flies, it gently sings, Chor.--Love honey yields, but never stings.

TO DAFFODILS.

1 Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon: Stay, stay Until the hast'ning day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along!

2 We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring, As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything: We die, As your hours do; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew Ne'er to be found again.

TO PRIMROSES.

1 Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who are but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower That mars a flower; Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp'd, as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears before ye have a tongue.

2 Speak, whimpering younglings; and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep. Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no; this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, 'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.'

TO BLOSSOMS.

1 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile And go at last.

2 What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good night? 'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite.

3 But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave.

OBERON'S PALACE.

Thus to a grove Sometimes devoted unto love, Tinsell'd with twilight, he and they, Led by the shine of snails, a way Beat with their num'rous feet, which by Many a neat perplexity, Many a turn, and many a cross Tract, they redeem a bank of moss, Spongy and swelling, and far more Soft than the finest Lemster ore, Mildly disparkling like those fires Which break from the enjewell'd tires Of curious brides, or like those mites Of candied dew in moony nights; Upon this convex all the flowers Nature begets by the sun and showers, Are to a wild digestion brought; As if Love's sampler here was wrought Or Cytherea's ceston, which All with temptation doth bewitch. Sweet airs move here, and more divine Made by the breath of great-eyed kine Who, as they low, impearl with milk The four-leaved grass, or moss-like silk. The breath of monkeys, met to mix With musk-flies, are the aromatics Which cense this arch; and here and there, And further off, and everywhere Throughout that brave mosaic yard, Those picks or diamonds in the card, With pips of hearts, of club, and spade, Are here most neatly interlaid. Many a counter, many a die, Half-rotten and without an eye, Lies hereabout; and for to pave The excellency of this cave, Squirrels' and children's teeth, late shed, Are neatly here inchequered With brownest toadstones, and the gum That shines upon the bluer plumb.

* * * * *

Art's Wise hand enchasing here those warts Which we to others from ourselves Sell, and brought hither by the elves. The tempting mole, stolen from the neck Of some shy virgin, seems to deck The holy entrance; where within The room is hung with the blue skin Of shifted snake, enfriezed throughout With eyes of peacocks' trains, and trout-- Flies' curious wings; and these among Those silver pence, that cut the tongue Of the red infant, neatly hung. The glow-worm's eyes, the shining scales Of silvery fish, wheat-straws, the snail's Soft candlelight, the kitling's eyne, Corrupted wood, serve here for shine; No glaring light of broad-faced day, Or other over-radiant ray Ransacks this room, but what weak beams Can make reflected from these gems, And multiply; such is the light, But ever doubtful, day or night. By this quaint taper-light he winds His errors up; and now he finds His moon-tann'd Mab as somewhat sick, And, love knows, tender as a chick. Upon six plump dandelions high- Rear'd lies her elvish majesty, Whose woolly bubbles seem'd to drown Her Mabship in obedient down.

* * * * *

And next to these two blankets, o'er- Cast of the finest gossamer; And then a rug of carded wool, Which, sponge-like, drinking in the dull Light of the moon, seem'd to comply, Cloud-like, the dainty deity: Thus soft she lies; and overhead A spinner's circle is bespread With cobweb curtains, from the roof So neatly sunk, as that no proof Of any tackling can declare What gives it hanging in the air.

* * * * *

OBERON'S FEAST.

Shapcot, to thee the fairy state I with discretion dedicate; Because thou prizest things that are Curious and unfamiliar. Take first the feast; these dishes gone, We'll see the fairy court anon.

A little mushroom table spread; After short prayers, they set on bread, A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat, With some small glittering grit, to eat His choicest bits with; then in a trice They make a feast less great than nice. But, all this while his eye is served, We must not think his ear was starved; But there was in place, to stir His spleen, the chirring grasshopper, The merry cricket, puling fly, The piping gnat, for minstrelsy. And now we must imagine first The elves present, to quench his thirst, A pure seed-pearl of infant dew, Brought and besweeten'd in a blue And pregnant violet; which done, His kitling eyes begin to run Quite through the table, where he spies The horns of pap'ry butterflies, Of which he eats; and tastes a little Of what we call the cuckoo's spittle: A little furze-ball pudding stands By, yet not blessed by his hands-- That was too coarse; but then forthwith He ventures boldly on the pith Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sag And well-bestrutted bee's sweet bag; Gladding his palate with some store Of emmets' eggs: what would he more But beards of mice, a newt's stew'd thigh, A bloated earwig, and a fly: With the red-capp'd worm, that is shut Within the concave of a nut, Brown as his tooth; a little moth, Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth; With wither'd cherries; mandrakes' ears; Moles' eyes; to these, the slain stag's tears; The unctuous dewlaps of a snail; The broke heart of a nightingale O'ercome in music; with a wine Ne'er ravish'd from the flatt'ring rine, But gently press'd from the soft side Of the most sweet and dainty bride, Brought in a dainty daisy, which He fully quaffs up to bewitch His blood to height? This done, commended Grace by his priest, the feast is ended.

THE MAD MAID'S SONG.

1 Good-morrow to the day so fair; Good-morning, sir, to you; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew:

2 Good-morning to this primrose too; Good-morrow to each maid, That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid.

3 Ah, woe is me; woe, woe is me! Alack, and well-a-day! For pity, sir, find out this bee Which bore my love away.

4 I'll seek him in your bonnet brave, I'll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think they've made his grave I' th' bed of strawberries:

5 I'll seek him there; I know ere this The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him.

6 Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, He knows well who do love him, And who with green turfs rear his head, And who do rudely move him.

7 He's soft and tender, pray take heed, With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home;--but 'tis decreed That I shall never find him!

CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING.

1 Get up, get up for shame; the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn: See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air: Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree: Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since; yet you are not drest; Nay, not so much as out of bed; When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns; 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in; When as a thousand virgins on this day, Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May!

2 Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown, or hair: Fear not, the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept: Come and receive them, while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night, And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying; Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying!

3 Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how Devotion gives each house a bough, Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this An ark, a tabernacle is Made up of whitethorn newly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey The proclamation made for May, And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying!

4 There's not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up, and gone to bring in May: A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with whitethorn laden home: Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream; And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green gown has been given; Many a kiss, both odd and even; Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament; Many a jest told of the key's betraying This night, and locks pick'd; yet we're not a-Maying!

5 Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time: We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty: Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun: And, as a vapour, or a drop of rain, Once lost, can ne'er be found again, So when or you, or I, are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drown'd with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying!

JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER.

1 O thou, the wonder of all days! O paragon and pearl of praise! O Virgin Martyr! ever bless'd Above the rest Of all the maiden train! we come, And bring fresh strewings to thy tomb.

2 Thus, thus, and thus we compass round Thy harmless and enchanted ground; And, as we sing thy dirge, we will The daffodil And other flowers lay upon The altar of our love, thy stone.

3 Thou wonder of all maids! list here, Of daughters all the dearest dear; The eye of virgins, nay, the queen Of this smooth green, And all sweet meads, from whence we get The primrose and the violet.

4 Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy, By thy sad loss, our liberty: His was the bond and cov'nant; yet Thou paid'st the debt, Lamented maid! He won the day, But for the conquest thou didst pay.

5 Thy father brought with him along The olive branch and victor's song: He slew the Ammonites, we know, But to thy woe; And, in the purchase of our peace, The cure was worse than the disease.

6 For which obedient zeal of thine, We offer thee, before thy shrine, Our sighs for storax, tears for wine; And to make fine And fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will here Four times bestrew thee every year.

7 Receive, for this thy praise, our tears; Receive this offering of our hairs; Receive these crystal vials, fill'd With tears distill'd From teeming eyes; to these we bring, Each maid, her silver filleting,

8 To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls, These laces, ribands, and these fauls, These veils, wherewith we used to hide The bashful bride, When we conduct her to her groom: All, all, we lay upon thy tomb.

9 No more, no more, since thou art dead, Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed; No more at yearly festivals We cowslip balls Or chains of columbines shall make For this or that occasion's sake.

10 No, no; our maiden pleasures be Wrapt in a winding-sheet with thee; 'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave, Or if we have One seed of life left,'tis to keep A Lent for thee, to fast and weep.

11 Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all paradise: May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence Fat frankincense. Let balm and cassia send their scent From out thy maiden-monument.

12 May no wolf howl or screech-owl stir A wing upon thy sepulchre! No boisterous winds or storms To starve or wither Thy soft, sweet earth! but, like a spring, Love keep it ever flourishing.

13 May all thy maids, at wonted hours, Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers: May virgins, when they come to mourn, Male-incense burn Upon thine altar! then return And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.

THE COUNTRY LIFE.

Sweet country life, to such unknown Whose lives are others', not their own! But serving courts and cities, be Less happy, less enjoying thee! Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam To seek and bring rough pepper home; Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove, To bring from thence the scorched clove: Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest, Bring'st home the ingot from the West. No: thy ambition's masterpiece Flies no thought higher than a fleece; Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear All scores, and so to end the year; But walk'st about thy own dear bounds, Not envying others' larger grounds: For well thou know'st, 'tis not the extent Of land makes life, but sweet content. When now the cock, the ploughman's horn, Calls forth the lily-wristed morn, Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go, Which though well-soil'd, yet thou dost know That the best compost for the lands Is the wise master's feet and hands. There at the plough thou find'st thy team, With a hind whistling there to them; And cheer'st them up by singing how The kingdom's portion is the plough. This done, then to th' enamell'd meads, Thou go'st; and as thy foot there treads, Thou seest a present godlike power Imprinted in each herb and flower; And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine, Sweet as the blossoms of the vine. Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat Unto the dewlaps up in meat; And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer, The heifer, cow, and ox, draw near, To make a pleasing pastime there. These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox; And find'st their bellies there as full Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool; And leav'st them as they feed and fill; A shepherd piping on a hill. For sports, for pageantry, and plays, Thou hast thy eves and holidays; On which the young men and maids meet, To exercise their dancing feet; Tripping the comely country round, With daffodils and daisies crown'd. Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast; Thy May-poles too, with garlands graced; Thy morris-dance, thy Whitsun-ale, Thy shearing feast, which never fail; Thy harvest-home, thy wassail-bowl, That's toss'd up after fox i' the hole; Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-night kings And queens, thy Christmas revellings; Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit; And no man pays too dear for it. To these thou hast thy times to go, And trace the hare in the treacherous snow; Thy witty wiles to draw, and get The lark into the trammel net; Thou hast thy cockrood, and thy glade To take the precious pheasant made; Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pitfalls, then, To catch the pilfering birds, not men.

O happy life, if that their good The husbandmen but understood! Who all the day themselves do please, And younglings, with such sports as these; And, lying down, have nought to affright Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.

SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE.

This gallant knight was son to Sir Henry Fanshawe, who was Remembrancer to the Irish Exchequer, and brother to Thomas Lord Fanshawe. He was born at Ware, in Hertfordshire, in 1607-8. He became a vehement Royalist, and acted for some time as Secretary to Prince Rupert, and was, in truth, a kindred spirit, worthy of recording the orders of that fiery spirit--the Murat of the Royal cause--to whom the dust of the mêlée of battle was the very breath of life. After the Restoration, Fanshawe was appointed ambassador to Spain and Portugal. He acted in this capacity at Madrid in 1666. He had issued translations of the 'Lusiad' of Camoens, and the 'Pastor Fido' of Guarini. Along with the latter, which appeared in 1648, he published some original poems of considerable merit. He holds altogether a respectable, if not a very high place among our early translators and minor poets.

THE SPRING, A SONNET. FROM THE SPANISH.

Those whiter lilies which the early morn Seems to have newly woven of sleaved silk, To which, on banks of wealthy Tagus born, Gold was their cradle, liquid pearl their milk.

These blushing roses, with whose virgin leaves The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes.

Both those and these my Caelia's pretty foot Trod up; but if she should her face display, And fragrant breast, they'd dry again to the root, As with the blasting of the mid-day's ray; And this soft wind, which both perfumes and cools, Pass like the unregarded breath of fools.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

The 'melancholy' and musical Cowley was born in London in the year 1618. He was the posthumous son of a worthy grocer, who lived in Fleet Street, near the end of Chancery Lane, and who is supposed, from the omission of his name in the register of St Dunstan's parish, to have been a Dissenter. His mother was left poor, but had a strong desire for her son's education, and influence to get him admitted as a king's scholar into Westminster. His mind was almost preternaturally precocious, and received early a strong and peculiar stimulus. A copy of Spenser lay in the window of his mother's apartment, and in it he delighted to read, and became the devoted slave of poetry ever after. When only ten he wrote 'The Tragical History of Pyramus and Thisbe,' and at twelve 'Constantia and Philetus.' Pope wrote a lampoon about the same age as Cowley these romantic narratives; and we have seen a pretty good copy of verses on Napoleon, written at the age of seven, by one of the most distinguished rising poets of our own day. When fifteen (Johnson calls it thirteen, but he and some other biographers were misled by the portrait of the poet being, by mistake, marked thirteen) Cowley published some of his early effusions, under the title of 'Poetical Blossoms.' While at school he produced a comedy of a pastoral kind, entitled, 'Love's Riddle,' but it was not published till he went to Cambridge. To that university he proceeded in 1636, and two years after, there appeared the above-mentioned comedy, with a poetical dedication to Sir Kenelm Digby, one of the marvellous men of that age; and also 'Naufragium Joculare,' a comedy in Latin, inscribed to Dr Comber, master of the college. When the Prince of Wales afterwards visited Cambridge, the fertile Cowley got up the rough draft of another comedy, called 'The Guardian,' which was repeated to His Royal Highness by the scholars. This was afterwards, to the poet's great annoyance, printed during his absence from the country. In 1643 he took his degree of A.M., and was, the same year, through the prevailing influence of the Parliament, ejected, with many others, from Cambridge. He took refuge in St John's College, Oxford, where he published a satire, entitled 'The Puritan and Papist,' and where, by his loyalty and genius, he gained the favour of such distinguished courtiers as Lord Falkland. During this agitated period he resided a good deal in the family of the Lord St Albans; and when Oxford fell into the hands of the Parliament he followed the Queen to Paris, and there acted as Secretary to the same noble lord. He remained abroad about ten years, and during that period made various journeys in the furtherance of the Royal cause, visiting Flanders, Holland, Jersey, Scotland, &c. His chief employment, however, was carrying on a correspondence in cipher between the King and the Queen. Sprat says, 'he ciphered and deciphered with his own hand the greatest part of the letters that passed between their Majesties, and managed a vast intelligence in other parts, which, for some years together, took up all his days and two or three nights every week.' This does not seem employment very suitable to a man of genius. He seems, however, to have found time for more congenial avocations; and, in 1647, he published his 'Mistress,' a work which seems to glow with amorous fire, although Barnes relates of the author that he was never in love but once, and then had not resolution to reveal his passion. And yet he wrote 'The Chronicle,' from which we might infer that his heart was completely tinder, and that his series of love attachments had been an infinite one!

In 1556, being of no more use in Paris, Cowley was sent back to England, that 'under pretence of privacy and retirement he might take occasion of giving notice of the posture of things in this nation.' For some time he lay concealed in London, but was at length seized by mistake for another gentleman of the Royal party; and being thus discovered, he was continued in confinement, was several times examined, and ultimately succeeded, although with some difficulty, in obtaining his liberation, Dr Scarborough becoming his bail for a thousand pounds. In the same year he published a collection of his poems, with a querulous preface, in which he expresses a strong desire to 'retire to some of the American plantations, and to forsake the world for ever.' Meanwhile he gave himself out as a physician till the death of Cromwell, when he returned to France, resumed his former occupation, and remained till the Restoration. In 1657 he was created Doctor of Medicine at Oxford. Having studied botany to qualify himself for his physician's degree, he was induced to publish in Latin some books on plants, flowers, and trees.

The Restoration brought him less advantage than he had anticipated. Probably he expected too much, and had expressed his sanguine hopes in a song of triumph on the occasion. He had been promised, both by Charles I. and Charles II., the Mastership of the Savoy, (a forgotten sinecure office;) but lost it, says Wood, 'by certain persons, enemies to the Muses.' He brought on the stage at this time his old comedy of 'The Guardian,' under the title of 'Cutter of Coleman Street;' but it was thought a satire on the debauchery of the King's party, and was received with coldness. Cowley, according to Dryden, 'received the news of his ill success not with so much firmness as might have been expected from so great a man.' There are few who, like Dr Johnson, have been able to declare, after the rejection of a play or poem, that they felt 'like the Monument.' Cowley not only entertained, but printed his dissatisfaction, in the form of a poem called 'The Complaint,' which, like all selfish complaints, attracted little sympathy or attention. In this he calls himself the 'melancholy Cowley,' an epithet which has stuck to his memory.

He had always, according to his own statement, loved retirement. When he was a young boy at school, instead of running about on holidays, and playing with his fellows, he was wont to steal from them, and walk into the fields alone with a book. This passion had been overlaid, but not extinguished, during his public life; and now, swelled by disgust, it came back upon him in great strength. He seems, too, if we can believe Sprat, to have had an extraordinary attachment to Nature, as it 'was God's;' to the whole 'compass of the creation, and all the wonderful effects of the Divine wisdom.' At all events, he retired first to Barn Elms, and then to Chertsey in Surrey. He had obtained, through Lord St Albans and the Duke of Buckingham, the lease of some lands belonging to the Queen, which brought him in an income of £300 a year. Here, then, having, at the age of forty-two, reached the peaceful hermitage,' he set himself with all his might to enjoy it. He cultivated his fields, and renewed his botanical studies in his woods and garden. He wrote letters to his friends, which are said to have been admirable, and might have ranked with those of Gray and Cowper, but unfortunately they have not been preserved. He renewed his intimacy with the Greek and Latin poets, and he set himself to retouch the 'Davideis,' which he had begun in early youth, but which he never lived to finish, and to compose his beautiful prose essays. But he soon found that Chertsey, no more than Paris, was Paradise. He had no wife nor children. He had sweet solitude, but no one near him to whom to whisper 'how sweet this solitude is!' The peasants were boors. His tenants would pay him no rent, and the cattle of his neighbours devoured his meadows. He was troubled with rheums and colds. He met a severe fall when he first came to Chertsey, of which he says, half in jest and half in earnest--'What this signifies, or may come to in time, God knows; if it be ominous, it can end in nothing less than hanging.' Robert Hall said of Bishop Watson that he seemed to have wedded political integrity in early life, and to have spent all the rest of his days in quarrelling with his wife. So Cowley wedded his long- sought-for bride, Solitude, and led a miserable life with her ever after. Fortunately for him, if not for the world, his career soon came to a close.

One hot day in summer, he stayed too long among his labourers in the meadows, and was seized with a cold, which, being neglected, carried him off on the 28th of July 1667. He was not forty-nine years old. He died at the Porch House, Chertsey, and his remains were buried with great pomp near Chaucer and Spenser; and King Charles, who had neglected him during life, pronounced his panegyric after death, declaring that 'Mr Cowley had not left behind him a better man in England.' It was in keeping with the character of Charles to make up for his deficiency in action, by his felicity of phrase.

If we may differ from such a high authority as 'Old Rowley,' we would venture to doubt whether Cowley was the best--certainly he was not the greatest--man then in England. Milton was alive, and the 'Paradise Lost' appeared in the very year when the author of the 'Davideis' departed. Cowley gives us the impression of having been an amiable and blameless, rather than a good or great man. At all events, there was nothing active in his goodness, and his greatness could not be called magnanimity. He was a scholar and a poet misplaced during early life; and when he gained that retirement for which he sighed, he had, by his habits of life, lost his capacity of relishing it. 'He that would enjoy solitude,' it has been said, 'must either be a wild beast or a god;' and Cowley was neither. How different his grounds of dissatisfaction with the world from those of Milton! Cowley was wearied of ciphering, and his 'Cutter of Coleman Street' had been cut; that was nearly the whole matter of his complaint; while Milton had fallen from being the second man in England into poverty, blindness, contempt, danger, and the disappointment of the most glorious hopes which ever heaved the bosom of patriot or saint.

We find the want of greatness which marked the man characterising the poet. Infinite ingenuity, a charming flexibility and abundance of fancy, a perception of remote analogies almost unrivalled, great command of versification and language, learning without bounds, and an occasional gracefulness and sparkling ease (as in 'The Chronicle') superior to even Herrick or Suckling, are qualities that must be conceded to Cowley. But the most of his writings are cold and glittering as the sun-smitten glacier. He is seldom warm, except when he is proclaiming his own merits, or bewailing his own misfortunes. Hence his 'Wish,' and even his 'Complaint,' are very pleasing and natural specimens of poetry. But his 'Pindaric Odes,' his 'Hymn to Light,' and most of his 'Davideis,' while displaying great power, shew at least equal perversion, and are more memorable for their faults than for their beauties. In the 'Davideis,' he describes the attire of Gabriel in the spirit and language of a tailor; and there is no path so sacred or so lofty but he must sow it with conceits,--forced, false, and chilly. His 'Anacreontics,' on the other hand, are in general felicitous in style and aerial in motion. And in his Translations, although too free, he is uniformly graceful and spirited; and his vast command of language and imagery enables him often to improve his author--to gild the refined gold, to paint the lily, and to throw a new perfume on the violet, of the Grecian and Roman masters.

In prose, Cowley is uniformly excellent. The prefaces to his poems, especially his defence of sacred song in the prefix to the 'Davideis,' his short autobiography, the fragments of his letters which remain, and his posthumous essays, are all distinguished by a rich simplicity of style and by a copiousness of matter which excite in equal measure delight and surprise. He had written, it appears, three books on the Civil War, to the time of the battle of Newbury, which he destroyed. It is a pity, perhaps, that he had not preserved and completed the work. His intimacy with many of the leading characters and the secret springs of that remarkable period,--his clear and solid judgment, always so except when he was following the Daedalus Pindar upon waxen Icarian wings, or competing with Dr Donne in the number of conceits which he could stuff, like cloves, into his subject-matter,--and the bewitching ease and elegance of his prose style, would have combined to render it an important contribution to English history, and a worthy monument of its author's highly-accomplished and diversified powers.

THE CHRONICLE, A BALLAD.

1 Margarita first possess'd, If I remember well, my breast, Margarita first of all; But when a while the wanton maid With my restless heart had play'd, Martha took the flying ball.

2 Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine: Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loth and angry she to part With the possession of my heart) To Eliza's conquering face.

3 Eliza till this hour might reign, Had she not evil counsels ta'en: Fundamental laws she broke And still new favourites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose, And cast away her yoke.

4 Mary then, and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began; Alternately they sway'd, And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the crown did wear, And sometimes both I obey'd.

5 Another Mary then arose, And did rigorous laws impose; A mighty tyrant she! Long, alas! should I have been Under that iron-sceptred queen, Had not Rebecca set me free.

6 When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden time with me: But soon those pleasures fled; For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride, And Judith reign'd in her stead.

7 One month, three days, and half an hour, Judith held the sovereign power: Wondrous beautiful her face, But so weak and small her wit, That she to govern was unfit, And so Susanna took her place.

8 But when Isabella came, Arm'd with a resistless flame, And the artillery of her eye, Whilst she proudly march'd about, Greater conquests to find out, She beat out Susan by the bye.

9 But in her place I then obey'd Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy made, To whom ensued a vacancy. Thousand worst passions then possess'd The interregnum of my breast. Bless me from such an anarchy!

10 Gentle Henrietta then, And a third Mary, next began: Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria; And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catharine, And then a long et caetera.

11 But should I now to you relate The strength and riches of their state, The powder, patches, and the pins, The ribands, jewels, and the rings, The lace, the paint, and warlike things, That make up all their magazines:

12 If I should tell the politic arts To take and keep men's hearts, The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, the smiles, and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, Numberless, nameless mysteries!

13 And all the little lime-twigs laid By Mach'avel the waiting-maid; I more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I like them should tell All change of weathers that befell) Than Holinshed or Stow.

14 But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with me. An higher and a nobler strain My present Emperess does claim, Heleonora! first o' the name, Whom God grant long to reign.

THE COMPLAINT.

In a deep vision's intellectual scene, Beneath a bower for sorrow made, The uncomfortable shade Of the black yew's unlucky green, Mixed with the mourning willow's careful gray, Where rev'rend Cam cuts out his famous way, The melancholy Cowley lay; And, lo! a Muse appeared to his closed sight (The Muses oft in lands of vision play,) Bodied, arrayed, and seen by an internal light: A golden harp with silver strings she bore, A wondrous hieroglyphic robe she wore, In which all colours and all figures were That Nature or that Fancy can create. That Art can never imitate, And with loose pride it wantoned in the air, In such a dress, in such a well-clothed dream, She used of old near fair Ismenus' stream Pindar, her Theban favourite, to meet; A crown was on her head, and wings were on her feet.

She touched him with her harp and raised him from the ground; The shaken strings melodiously resound. 'Art thou returned at last,' said she, 'To this forsaken place and me? Thou prodigal! who didst so loosely waste Of all thy youthful years the good estate; Art thou returned here, to repent too late? And gather husks of learning up at last, Now the rich harvest-time of life is past, And winter marches on so fast? But when I meant to adopt thee for my son, And did as learned a portion assign As ever any of the mighty nine Had to their dearest children done; When I resolved to exalt thy anointed name Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame; Thou changeling! thou, bewitch'd with noise and show, Wouldst into courts and cities from me go; Wouldst see the world abroad, and have a share In all the follies and the tumults there; Thou wouldst, forsooth, be something in a state, And business thou wouldst find, and wouldst create: Business! the frivolous pretence Of human lusts, to shake off innocence; Business! the grave impertinence; Business! the thing which I of all things hate; Business! the contradiction of thy fate.

'Go, renegado! cast up thy account, And see to what amount Thy foolish gains by quitting me: The sale of knowledge, fame, and liberty, The fruits of thy unlearned apostasy. Thou thoughtst, if once the public storm were past, All thy remaining life should sunshine be: Behold the public storm is spent at last, The sovereign is tossed at sea no more, And thou, with all the noble company, Art got at last to shore: But whilst thy fellow-voyagers I see, All marched up to possess the promised land, Thou still alone, alas! dost gaping stand, Upon the naked beach, upon the barren sand. As a fair morning of the blessed spring, After a tedious, stormy night, Such was the glorious entry of our king; Enriching moisture dropped on every thing: Plenty he sowed below, and cast about him light. But then, alas! to thee alone One of old Gideon's miracles was shown, For every tree, and every hand around, With pearly dew was crowned, And upon all the quickened ground The fruitful seed of heaven did brooding lie, And nothing but the Muse's fleece was dry. It did all other threats surpass, When God to his own people said, The men whom through long wanderings he had led, That he would give them even a heaven of brass: They looked up to that heaven in vain, That bounteous heaven! which God did not restrain Upon the most unjust to shine and rain.

'The Rachel, for which twice seven years and more, Thou didst with faith and labour serve, And didst (if faith and labour can) deserve, Though she contracted was to thee, Given to another, thou didst see, who had store Of fairer and of richer wives before, And not a Loah left, thy recompense to be. Go on, twice seven years more, thy fortune try, Twice seven years more God in his bounty may Give thee to fling away Into the court's deceitful lottery: But think how likely 'tis that thou, With the dull work of thy unwieldy plough, Shouldst in a hard and barren season thrive, Shouldst even able be to live; Thou! to whose share so little bread did fall In the miraculous year, when manna rain'd on all.'

Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile, That seemed at once to pity and revile: And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head, The melancholy Cowley said: 'Ah, wanton foe! dost thou upbraid The ills which thou thyself hast made? When in the cradle innocent I lay, Thou, wicked spirit, stolest me away, And my abused soul didst bear Into thy new-found worlds, I know not where, Thy golden Indies in the air; And ever since I strive in vain My ravished freedom to regain; Still I rebel, still thou dost reign; Lo, still in verse, against thee I complain. There is a sort of stubborn weeds, Which, if the earth but once it ever breeds, No wholesome herb can near them thrive, No useful plant can keep alive: The foolish sports I did on thee bestow Make all my art and labour fruitless now; Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth ever grow.

'When my new mind had no infusion known, Thou gavest so deep a tincture of thine own, That ever since I vainly try To wash away the inherent dye: Long work, perhaps, may spoil thy colours quite, But never will reduce the native white. To all the ports of honour and of gain I often steer my course in vain; Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again, Thou slacken'st all my nerves of industry, By making them so oft to be The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsy. Whoever this world's happiness would see Must as entirely cast off thee, As they who only heaven desire Do from the world retire. This was my error, this my gross mistake, Myself a demi-votary to make. Thus with Sapphira and her husband's fate, (A fault which I, like them, am taught too late,) For all that I give up I nothing gain, And perish for the part which I retain. Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse! The court and better king t' accuse; The heaven under which I live is fair, The fertile soil will a full harvest bear: Thine, thine is all the barrenness, if thou Makest me sit still and sing when I should plough. When I but think how many a tedious year Our patient sovereign did attend His long misfortune's fatal end; How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear, On the Great Sovereign's will he did depend, I ought to be accursed if I refuse To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse! Kings have long hands, they say, and though I be So distant, they may reach at length to me. However, of all princes thou Shouldst not reproach rewards for being small or slow; Thou! who rewardest but with popular breath, And that, too, after death!'

THE DESPAIR.

1 Beneath this gloomy shade, By Nature only for my sorrows made, I'll spend this voice in cries, In tears I'll waste these eyes, By love so vainly fed; So lust of old the deluge punished. Ah, wretched youth, said I; Ah, wretched youth! twice did I sadly cry; Ah, wretched youth! the fields and floods reply.

2 When thoughts of love I entertain, I meet no words but Never, and In vain: Never! alas! that dreadful name Which fuels the infernal flame: Never! my time to come must waste; In vain! torments the present and the past: In vain, in vain! said I, In vain, in vain! twice did I sadly cry; In vain, in vain! the fields and floods reply.

3 No more shall fields or floods do so, For I to shades more dark and silent go: All this world's noise appears to me A dull, ill-acted comedy: No comfort to my wounded sight, In the sun's busy and impert'nent light. Then down I laid my head, Down on cold earth, and for a while was dead, And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled.

4 Ah, sottish soul! said I, When back to its cage again I saw it fly: Fool! to resume her broken chain, And row her galley here again! Fool! to that body to return, Where it condemned and destined is to burn! Once dead, how can it be Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee, That thou shouldst come to live it o'er again in me?

OF WIT.

1 Tell me, O tell! what kind of thing is Wit, Thou who master art of it; For the first matter loves variety less; Less women love it, either in love or dress: A thousand different shapes it bears, Comely in thousand shapes appears: Yonder we saw it plain, and here 'tis now, Like spirits, in a place, we know not how.

2 London, that vends of false ware so much store, In no ware deceives us more: For men, led by the colour and the shape, Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape. Some things do through our judgment pass, As through a multiplying-glass; And sometimes, if the object be too far, We take a falling meteor for a star.

3 Hence 'tis a wit, that greatest word of fame, Grows such a common name; And wits by our creation they become, Just so as tit'lar bishops made at Rome. 'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest, Admired with laughter at a feast, Nor florid talk, which can that title gain; The proofs of wit for ever must remain.

4 'Tis not to force some lifeless verses meet With their five gouty feet; All everywhere, like man's, must be the soul, And reason the inferior powers control. Such were the numbers which could call The stones into the Theban wall. Such miracles are ceased; and now we see No towns or houses raised by poetry.

5 Yet 'tis not to adorn and gild each part; That shows more cost than art. Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear; Rather than all things wit, let none be there. Several lights will not be seen, If there be nothing else between. Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' the sky, If those be stars which paint the galaxy.

6 'Tis not when two like words make up one noise, Jests for Dutch men and English boys; In which who finds out wit, the same may see In an'grams and acrostics poetry. Much less can that have any place At which a virgin hides her face; Such dross the fire must purge away; 'tis just The author blush there where the reader must.

7 'Tis not such lines as almost crack the stage, When Bajazet begins to rage: Nor a tall met'phor in the bombast way, Nor the dry chips of short-lunged Seneca: Nor upon all things to obtrude And force some old similitude. What is it then, which, like the Power Divine, We only can by negatives define?

8 In a true piece of wit all things must be, Yet all things there agree: As in the ark, joined without force or strife, All creatures dwelt, all creatures that had life. Or as the primitive forms of all, If we compare great things with small, Which without discord or confusion lie, In that strange mirror of the Deity.

OF SOLITUDE.

1 Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Hail, ye plebeian underwood! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food Pay with their grateful voice.

2 Hail the poor Muse's richest manor-seat! Ye country houses and retreat, Which all the happy gods so love, That for you oft they quit their bright and great Metropolis above.

3 Here Nature does a house for me erect, Nature! the fairest architect, Who those fond artists does despise That can the fair and living trees neglect, Yet the dead timber prize.

4 Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds above me flying, With all their wanton boughs dispute, And the more tuneful birds to both replying, Nor be myself, too, mute.

5 A silver stream shall roll his waters near, Gilt with the sunbeams here and there, On whose enamelled bank I'll walk, And see how prettily they smile, And hear how prettily they talk.

6 Ah! wretched, and too solitary he, Who loves not his own company! He'll feel the weight of it many a day, Unless he calls in sin or vanity To help to bear it away.

7 O Solitude! first state of humankind! Which bless'd remained till man did find Even his own helper's company: As soon as two, alas! together joined, The serpent made up three.

8 Though God himself, through countless ages, thee His sole companion chose to be, Thee, sacred Solitude! alone, Before the branchy head of number's tree Sprang from the trunk of one;

9 Thou (though men think thine an unactive part) Dost break and tame the unruly heart, Which else would know no settled pace, Making it move, well managed by thy art, With swiftness and with grace.

10 Thou the faint beams of reason's scattered light Dost, like a burning glass, unite, Dost multiply the feeble heat, And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright And noble fires beget.

11 Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I see The monster London laugh at me; I should at thee, too, foolish city! If it were fit to laugh at misery; But thy estate I pity.

12 Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, And all the fools that crowd thee so, Even thou, who dost thy millions boast, A village less than Islington wilt grow, A solitude almost.

THE WISH.

I.

Lest the misjudging world should chance to say I durst not but in secret murmurs pray, To whisper in Jove's ear How much I wish that funeral, Or gape at such a great one's fall; This let all ages hear, And future times in my soul's picture see What I abhor, what I desire to be.

II.

I would not be a Puritan, though he Can preach two hours, and yet his sermon be But half a quarter long; Though from his old mechanic trade By vision he's a pastor made, His faith was grown so strong; Nay, though he think to gain salvation By calling the Pope the Whore of Babylon.

III.

I would not be a Schoolmaster, though to him His rods no less than Consuls' fasces seem; Though he in many a place, Turns Lily oftener than his gowns, Till at the last he makes the nouns Fight with the verbs apace; Nay, though he can, in a poetic heat, Figures, born since, out of poor Virgil beat.

IV.

I would not be a Justice of Peace, though he Can with equality divide the fee, And stakes with his clerk draw; Nay, though he sits upon the place Of judgment, with a learned face Intricate as the law; And whilst he mulcts enormities demurely, Breaks Priscian's head with sentences securely.

V.

I would not be a Courtier, though he Makes his whole life the truest comedy; Although he be a man In whom the tailor's forming art, And nimble barber, claim more part Than Nature herself can; Though, as he uses men, 'tis his intent To put off Death too with a compliment.

VI.

From Lawyers' tongues, though they can spin with ease The shortest cause into a paraphrase, From Usurers' conscience (For swallowing up young heirs so fast, Without all doubt they'll choke at last) Make me all innocence, Good Heaven! and from thy eyes, O Justice! keep; For though they be not blind, they're oft asleep.

VII.

From Singing-men's religion, who are Always at church, just like the crows, 'cause there They build themselves a nest; From too much poetry, which shines With gold in nothing but its lines, Free, O you Powers! my breast; And from astronomy, which in the skies Finds fish and bulls, yet doth but tantalise.

VIII.

From your Court-madam's beauty, which doth carry At morning May, at night a January; From the grave City-brow (For though it want an R, it has The letter of Pythagoras) Keep me, O Fortune! now, And chines of beef innumerable send me, Or from the stomach of the guard defend me.

IX.

This only grant me, that my means may lie Too low for envy, for contempt too high. Some honour I would have, Not from great deeds, but good alone: The unknown are better than ill known: Rumour can ope the grave. Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends Not from the number, but the choice of friends.

X.

Books should, not business, entertain the light, And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. My house a cottage more Than palace, and should fitting be For all my use, not luxury; My garden, painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's, that pleasure yield Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

XI.

Thus would I double my life's fading space; For he that runs it well twice runs his race; And in this true delight, These unbought sports, and happy state, I would not fear, nor wish my fate, But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them, I have lived to-day.

UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE.

1 Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts the air, How it outruns thy following eye! Use all persuasions now, and try If thou canst call it back, or stay it there. That way it went, but thou shalt find No track is left behind.

2 Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou. Of all the time thou'st shot away, I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday, And it shall be too hard a task to do. Besides repentance, what canst find That it hath left behind?

3 Our life is carried with too strong a tide, A doubtful cloud our substance bears, And is the horse of all our years: Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride. We and our glass run out, and must Both render up our dust.

4 But his past life who without grief can see, Who never thinks his end too near, But says to Fame, Thou art mine heir; That man extends life's natural brevity-- This is, this is the only way To outlive Nestor in a day.

ON THE PRAISE OF POETRY.

'Tis not a pyramid of marble stone, Though high as our ambition; 'Tis not a tomb cut out in brass, which can Give life to the ashes of a man, But verses only; they shall fresh appear, Whilst there are men to read or hear, When time shall make the lasting brass decay, And eat the pyramid away, Turning that monument wherein men trust Their names, to what it keeps, poor dust; Then shall the epitaph remain, and be New graven in eternity. Poets by death are conquered, but the wit Of poets triumph over it. What cannot verse? When Thracian Orpheus took His lyre, and gently on it strook, The learned stones came dancing all along, And kept time to the charming song. With artificial pace the warlike pine, The elm and his wife, the ivy-twine, With all the better trees which erst had stood Unmoved, forsook their native wood. The laurel to the poet's hand did bow, Craving the honour of his brow; And every loving arm embraced, and made With their officious leaves a shade. The beasts, too, strove his auditors to be, Forgetting their old tyranny. The fearful hart next to the lion came, And wolf was shepherd to the lamb. Nightingales, harmless Syrens of the air, And Muses of the place, were there; Who, when their little windpipes they had found Unequal to so strange a sound, O'ercome by art and grief, they did expire, And fell upon the conquering lyre. Happy, oh happy they! whose tomb might be, Mausolus! envied by thee!

THE MOTTO.

TENTANDA VIA EST, ETC.

What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own? I shall like beasts or common people die, Unless you write my elegy; Whilst others great by being born are grown, Their mother's labour, not their own. In this scale gold, in the other fame does lie; The weight of that mounts this so high. These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright, Brought forth with their own fire and light. If I, her vulgar stone, for either look, Out of myself it must be strook. Yet I must on: What sound is't strikes mine ear? Sure I Fame's trumpet hear: It sounds like the last trumpet, for it can Raise up the buried man. Unpass'd Alps stop me, but I'll cut through all, And march, the Muse's Hannibal. Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay Nets of roses in the way; Hence, the desire of honours or estate, And all that is not above Fate; Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days, Which intercepts my coming praise. Come, my best friends! my books! and lead me on, 'Tis time that I were gone. Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now All I was born to know: Thy scholar's victories thou dost far outdo; He conquered th' earth, the whole world you, Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose bless'd tongue and wit Preserves Rome's greatness yet; Thou art the first of orators; only he Who best can praise thee next must be. Welcome the Mantuan swan! Virgil the wise, Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age, And made that art which was a rage. Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do To be like one of you? But you have climb'd the mountain's top, there sit On the calm flourishing head of it, And whilst, with wearied steps, we upward go, See us and clouds below.

DAVIDEIS.

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