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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9668-8.txt b/9668-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..122a2fa --- /dev/null +++ b/9668-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12869 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known +British Poets, Vol. 2, by George Gilfillan + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Vol. 2 + +Author: George Gilfillan + +Posting Date: November 25, 2011 [EBook #9668] +Release Date: January, 2006 +First Posted: October 14, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL 2 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe and the PG +Online Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + + + +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 safėty; +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 clothės might shapen be, +That nill their clothės 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 _mźlée_ 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. + +BOOK II. + + THE CONTENTS. + + The friendship betwixt Jonathan and David; and, upon that occasion, + a digression concerning the nature of love. A discourse between + Jonathan and David, upon which the latter absents himself from court, + and the former goes thither to inform himself of Saul's resolution. + The feast of the New-moon; the manner of the celebration of it; and + therein a digression of the history of Abraham. Saul's speech upon + David's absence from the feast, and his anger against Jonathan. + David's resolution to fly away. He parts with Jonathan, and falls + asleep under a tree. A description of Fancy. An angel makes up a + vision in David's head. The vision itself; which is a prophecy of + all the succession of his race, till Christ's time, with their most + remarkable actions. At his awaking, Gabriel assumes a human shape, + and confirms to him the truth of his vision. + +But now the early birds began to call +The morning forth; up rose the sun and Saul: +Both, as men thought, rose fresh from sweet repose; +But both, alas! from restless labours rose: +For in Saul's breast Envy, the toilsome sin, +Had all that night active and tyrannous been: +She expelled all forms of kindness, virtue, grace, +Of the past day no footstep left, or trace; +The new-blown sparks of his old rage appear, +Nor could his love dwell longer with his fear. +So near a storm wise David would not stay, +Nor trust the glittering of a faithless day: +He saw the sun call in his beams apace, +And angry clouds march up into their place: +The sea itself smooths his rough brow awhile, +Flatt'ring the greedy merchant with a smile; +But he whose shipwrecked bark it drank before, +Sees the deceit, and knows it would have more. +Such is the sea, and such was Saul; +But Jonathan his son, and only good, +Was gentle as fair Jordan's useful flood; +Whose innocent stream, as it in silence goes, +Fresh honours and a sudden spring bestows +On both his banks, to every flower and tree; +The manner how lies hid, the effect we see: +But more than all, more than himself, he loved +The man whose worth his father's hatred moved; +For when the noble youth at Dammin stood, +Adorned with sweat, and painted gay with blood, +Jonathan pierced him through with greedy eye, +And understood the future majesty +Then destined in the glories of his look: +He saw, and straight was with amazement strook, +To see the strength, the feature, and the grace +Of his young limbs; he saw his comely face, +Where love and reverence so well-mingled were, +And head, already crowned with golden hair: +He saw what mildness his bold sp'rit did tame, +Gentler than light, yet powerful as a flame: +He saw his valour by their safety proved; +He saw all this, and as he saw, he loved. + +What art thou, Love! thou great mysterious thing? +From what hid stock does thy strange nature spring? +'Tis thou that movst the world through every part, +And holdst the vast frame close, that nothing start +From the due place and office first ordained; +By thee were all things made, and are sustained. +Sometimes we see thee fully, and can say +From hence thou tookst thy rise, and wentst that way; +But oftener the short beams of Reason's eye +See only there thou art, not how, nor why. +How is the loadstone, Nature's subtle pride, +By the rude iron woo'd, and made a bride? +How was the weapon wounded? what hid flame +The strong and conquering metal overcame? +Love (this world's grace) exalts his natural state; +He feels thee, Love! and feels no more his weight. +Ye learned heads whom ivy garlands grace, +Why does that twining plant the oak embrace? +The oak, for courtship most of all unfit, +And rough as are the winds that fight with it. +How does the absent pole the needle move? +How does his cold and ice beget hot love? +Which are the wings of lightness to ascend? +Or why does weight to the centre downwards bend? +Thus creatures void of life obey thy laws, +And seldom we, they never, know the cause. +In thy large state, life gives the next degree, +Where sense and good apparent places thee; +But thy chief palace is man's heart alone; +Here are thy triumphs and full glories shown: +Handsome desires, and rest, about thee flee, +Union, inheritance, zeal, and ecstasy, +With thousand joys, cluster around thine head, +O'er which a gall-less dove her wings does spread: +A gentle lamb, purer and whiter far +Than consciences of thine own martyrs are, +Lies at thy feet; and thy right hand does hold +The mystic sceptre of a cross of gold. +Thus dost thou sit (like men, ere sin had framed +A guilty blush) naked, but not ashamed. +What cause, then, did the fab'lous ancients find, +When first their superstition made thee blind? +'Twas they, alas! 'twas they who could not see, +When they mistook that monster, Lust, for thee. +Thou art a bright, but not consuming, flame; +Such in the amazed bush to Moses came, +When that, secure, its new-crown'd head did rear, +And chid the trembling branches' needless fear; +Thy darts are healthful gold, and downwards fall, +Soft as the feathers that they are fletched withal. +Such, and no other, were those secret darts +Which sweetly touched this noblest pair of hearts: +Still to one end they both so justly drew, +As courteous doves together yoked would do: +No weight of birth did on one side prevail; +Two twins less even lie in Nature's scale: +They mingled fates, and both in each did share; +They both were servants, they both princes were. +If any joy to one of them was sent, +It was most his to whom it least was meant; +And Fortune's malice betwixt both was cross'd, +For striking one, it wounded the other most. +Never did marriage such true union find, +Or men's desires with so glad violence bind; +For there is still some tincture left of sin, +And still the sex will needs be stealing in. +Those joys are full of dross, and thicker far; +These, without matter, clear and liquid are. +Such sacred love does heaven's bright spirits fill, +Where love is but to understand and will, +With swift and unseen motions such as we +Somewhat express in heighten'd charity. +O ye bless'd One! whose love on earth became +So pure, that still in heaven 'tis but the same! +There now ye sit, and with mix'd souls embrace, +Gazing upon great Love's mysterious face, +And pity this base world, where friendship's made +A bait for sin, or else at best a trade. +Ah, wondrous prince! who a true friend couldst be +When a crown flatter'd, and Saul threaten'd thee! +Who held'st him dear whose stars thy birth did cross, +And bought'st him nobly at a kingdom's loss! +Israel's bright sceptre far less glory brings, +There have been fewer friends on earth than kings. + +To this strong pitch their high affections flew, +Till Nature's self scarce looked on them as two. +Hither flies David for advice and aid, +As swift as love and danger could persuade; +As safe in Jonathan's trust his thoughts remain, +As when himself but dreams them o'er again. + +'My dearest lord! farewell,' said he, 'farewell; +Heaven bless the King; may no misfortune tell +The injustice of his hate when I am dead: +They're coming now; perhaps my guiltless head +Here, in your sight, must then a-bleeding lie, +And scarce your own stand safe for being nigh. +Think me not scared with death, howe'er 't appear; +I know thou canst not think so: it is a fear +From which thy love and Dammin speaks me free; +I've met him face to face, and ne'er could see +One terror in his looks to make me fly +When virtue bids me stand; but I would die +So as becomes my life, so as may prove +Saul's malice, and at least excuse your love.' + +He stopped, and spoke some passion with his eyes. +'Excellent friend!' the gallant prince replies; +'Thou hast so proved thy virtues, that they're known +To all good men, more than to each his own. +Who lives in Israel that can doubtful be +Of thy great actions? for he lives by thee. +Such is thy valour, and thy vast success, +That all things but thy loyalty are less; +And should my father at thy ruin aim, +'Twould wound as much his safety as his fame. +Think them not coming, then, to slay thee here, +But doubt mishaps as little as you fear; +For, by thy loving God, whoe'er design +Against thy life, must strike at it through mine, +But I my royal father must acquit +From such base guilt, or the low thought of it. +Think on his softness, when from death he freed +The faithless king of Am'lek's cursed seed; +Can he t' a friend, t' a son, so bloody grow, +He who even sinned but now to spare a foe? +Admit he could; but with what strength or art +Could he so long close and seal up his heart? +Such counsels jealous of themselves become, +And dare not fix without consent of some; +Few men so boldly ill great sins to do, +Till licensed and approved by others too. +No more (believe it) could he hide this from me, +Than I, had he discovered it, from thee.' + +Here they embraces join, and almost tears, +Till gentle David thus new-proved his fears: +'The praise you pleased, great prince! on me to spend, +Was all outspoken, when you styled me friend: +That name alone does dangerous glories bring, +And gives excuse to the envy of a king. +What did his spear, force, and dark plots, impart +But some eternal rancour in his heart? +Still does he glance the fortune of that day +When, drowned in his own blood, Goliath lay, +And covered half the plain; still hears the sound +How that vast monster fell, and strook the around: +The dance, and, David his ten thousand slew, +Still wound his sickly soul, and still are new. +Great acts t' ambitious princes treason grow, +So much they hate that safety which they owe. +Tyrants dread all whom they raise high in place; +From the good danger, from the bad disgrace. +They doubt the lords, mistrust the people's hate, +Till blood become a principle of state. +Secured not by their guards nor by their right, +But still they fear even more than they affright, +Pardon me, sir; your father's rough and stern; +His will too strong to bend, too proud to learn. +Remember, sir, the honey's deadly sting! +Think on that savage justice of the King, +When the same day that saw you do before +Things above man, should see you man no more. +'Tis true, the accursed Agag moved his ruth; +He pitied his tall limbs and comely youth; +Had seen, alas! the proof of Heaven's fierce hate, +And feared no mischief from his powerless fate; +Remember how the old seer came raging down, +And taught him boldly to suspect his crown. +Since then, his pride quakes at the Almighty's rod, +Nor dares he love the man beloved by God. +Hence his deep rage and trembling envy springs; +Nothing so wild as jealousy of kings. +Whom should he counsel ask, with whom advise, +Who reason and God's counsel does despise? +Whose headstrong will no law or conscience daunt, +Dares he not sin, do you think, without your grant? +Yes, if the truth of our fixed love he knew, +He would not doubt, believe it, to kill even you.' + +The prince is moved, and straight prepares to find +The deep resolves of his grieved father's mind. +The danger now appears, love can soon show it, +And force his stubborn piety to know it. +They agree that David should concealed abide, +Till his great friend had the Court's temper tried; +Till he had Saul's most sacred purpose found, +And searched the depth and rancour of his wound. + +'Twas the year's seventh-born moon; the solemn feast, +That with most noise its sacred mirth express'd. +From opening morn till night shuts in the day, +On trumpets and shrill horns the Levites play: +Whether by this in mystic type we see +The new-year's day of great eternity, +When the changed moon shall no more changes make, +And scattered death's by trumpets' sound awake; +Or that the law be kept in memory still, +Given with like noise on Sinai's shining hill; +Or that (as some men teach) it did arise +From faithful Abram's righteous sacrifice, +Who, whilst the ram on Isaac's fire did fry, +His horn with joyful tunes stood sounding by; +Obscure the cause, but God his will declared, +And all nice knowledge then with ease is spared. +At the third hour Saul to the hallowed tent, +'Midst a large train of priests and courtiers, went; +The sacred herd marched proud and softly by, +Too fat and gay to think their deaths so nigh. +Hard fate of beasts more innocent than we! +Prey to our luxury and our piety! +Whose guiltless blood on boards and altars spilt, +Serves both to make and expiate, too, our guilt! +Three bullocks of free neck, two gilded rams, +Two well-washed goats, and fourteen spotless lambs, +With the three vital fruits, wine, oil, and bread, +(Small fees to Heaven of all by which we're fed) +Are offered up: the hallowed flames arise, +And faithful prayers mount with them to the skies. +From thence the King to the utmost court is brought, +Where heavenly things an inspired prophet taught, +And from the sacred tent to his palace gates, +With glad kind shouts the assembly on him waits; +The cheerful horns before him loudly play, +And fresh-strewed flowers paint his triumphant way. +Thus in slow pace to the palace-hall they go, +Rich dressed for solemn luxury and show: +Ten pieces of bright tapestry hung the room, +The noblest work e'er stretched on Syrian loom, +For wealthy Adriel in proud Sidon wrought, +And given to Saul when Saul's best gift he sought, +The bright-eyed Merab; for that mindful day +No ornament so proper seemed as they. + +There all old Abram's story you might see, +And still some angel bore him company. +His painful but well-guided travels show +The fate of all his sons, the church below. +Here beauteous Sarah to great Pharaoh came; +He blushed with sudden passion, she with shame: +Troubled she seemed, and labouring in the strife, +'Twixt her own honour and her husband's life. +Here on a conquering host, that careless lay, +Drowned in the joys of their new-gotten prey, +The patriarch falls; well-mingled might you see +The confused marks of death and luxury. +In the next piece bless'd Salem's mystic king +Does sacred presents to the victor bring; +Like Him whose type he bears, his rights receives, +Strictly requires his due, yet freely gives: +Even in his port, his habit, and his face, +The mild and great, the priest and prince, had place. +Here all their starry host the heavens display; +And, lo! a heavenly youth, more fair than they, +Leads Abram forth; points upwards; 'Such,' said he, +'So bright and numberless thy seed shall be.' +Here he with God a new alliance makes, +And in his flesh the marks of homage takes: +Here he the three mysterious persons feasts, +Well paid with joyful tidings by his guests: +Here for the wicked town he prays, and near, +Scarce did the wicked town through flames appear: +And all his fate, and all his deeds, were wrought, +Since he from Ur to Ephron's cave was brought. +But none 'mongst all the forms drew then their eyes +Like faithful Abram's righteous sacrifice: +The sad old man mounts slowly to the place, +With Nature's power triumphant in his face +O'er the mind's courage; for, in spite of all, +From his swoln eyes resistless waters fall. +The innocent boy his cruel burden bore +With smiling looks, and sometimes walked before, +And sometimes turned to talk: above was made +The altar's fatal pile, and on it laid +The hope of mankind: patiently he lay, +And did his sire, as he his God, obey. +The mournful sire lifts up at last the knife, +And on one moment's string depends his life, +In whose young loins such brooding wonders lie. +A thousand sp'rits peeped from the affrighted sky, +Amazed at this strange scene, and almost fear'd, +For all those joyful prophecies they'd heard; +Till one leaped nimbly forth, by God's command, +Like lightning from a cloud, and stopped his hand. +The gentle sp'rit smiled kindly as he spoke; +New beams of joy through Abram's wonder broke +The angel points to a tuft of bushes near, +Where an entangled ram does half appear, +And struggles vainly with that fatal net, +Which, though but slightly wrought, was firmly set: +For, lo! anon, to this sad glory doomed, +The useful beast on Isaac's pile consumed; +Whilst on his horns the ransomed couple played, +And the glad boy danced to the tunes he made. + +Near this hall's end a shittim table stood, +Yet well-wrought plate strove to conceal the wood; +For from the foot a golden vine did sprout, +And cast his fruitful riches all about. +Well might that beauteous ore the grape express, +Which does weak man intoxicate no less. +Of the same wood the gilded beds were made, +And on them large embroidered carpets laid, +From Egypt, the rich shop of follies, brought; +But arts of pride all nations soon are taught. +Behold seven comely blooming youths appear, +And in their hands seven silver washpots bear, +Curled, and gay clad, the choicest sons that be +Of Gibeon's race, and slaves of high degree. +Seven beauteous maids marched softly in behind, +Bright scarves their clothes, their hair fresh garlands bind, +And whilst the princes wash, they on them shed +Rich ointments, which their costly odours spread +O'er the whole room; from their small prisons free, +With such glad haste through the wide air they flee. +The King was placed alone, and o'er his head +A well-wrought heaven of silk and gold was spread, +Azure the ground, the sun in gold shone bright, +But pierced the wandering clouds with silver light. +The right-hand bed the King's three sons did grace, +The third was Abner's, Adriel's, David's place: +And twelve large tables more were filled below, +With the prime men Saul's court and camp could show. +The palace did with mirth and music sound, +And the crowned goblets nimbly moved around: +But though bright joy in every guest did shine, +The plenty, state, music, and sprightful wine, +Were lost on Saul: an angry care did dwell +In his dark breast, and all gay forms expel. +David's unusual absence from the feast, +To his sick sp'rit did jealous thoughts suggest: +Long lay he still, nor drank, nor ate, nor spoke, +And thus at last his troubled silence broke. + +'Where can he be?' said he. 'It must be so.' +With that he paused awhile. 'Too well we know +His boundless pride: he grieves, and hates to see +The solemn triumphs of my court and me. +Believe me, friends! and trust what I can show +From thousand proofs; the ambitious David now +Does those vast things in his proud soul design, +That too much business give for mirth or wine. +He's kindling now, perhaps, rebellious fire +Among the tribes, and does even now conspire +Against my crown, and all our lives, whilst we +Are loth even to suspect what we might see. +By the Great Name 'tis true.' +With that he strook the board, and no man there, +But Jonathan, durst undertake to clear +The blameless prince: and scarce ten words he spoke, +When thus his speech the enraged tyrant broke: + +'Disloyal wretch! thy gentle mother's shame! +Whose cold, pale ghost even blushes at thy name! +Who fears lest her chaste bed should doubted be, +And her white fame stained by black deeds of thee! +Canst thou be mine? A crown sometimes does hire +Even sons against their parents to conspire; +But ne'er did story yet, or fable, tell +Of one so wild who, merely to rebel, +Quitted the unquestioned birthright of a throne, +And bought his father's ruin with his own. +Thou need'st not plead the ambitious youth's defence; +Thy crime clears his, and makes that innocence: +Nor can his foul ingratitude appear, +Whilst thy unnatural guilt is placed so near. +Is this that noble friendship you pretend? +Mine, thine own foe, and thy worst enemy's friend? +If thy low spirit can thy great birthright quit, +The thing's but just, so ill deserv'st thou it. +I, and thy brethren here, have no such mind, +Nor such prodigious worth in David find, +That we to him should our just rights resign, +Or think God's choice not made so well as thine. +Shame of thy house and tribe! hence from mine eye; +To thy false friend and servile master fly; +He's ere this time in arms expecting thee; +Haste, for those arms are raised to ruin me. +Thy sin that way will nobler much appear, +Than to remain his spy and agent here. +When I think this, Nature, by thee forsook, +Forsakes me too.' With that his spear he took +To strike at him: the mirth and music cease; +The guests all rise this sudden storm t' appease. +The prince his danger and his duty knew, +And low he bowed, and silently withdrew. + +To David straight, who in a forest nigh +Waits his advice, the royal friend does fly. +The sole advice, now, like the danger clear, +Was in some foreign land this storm t' outwear. +All marks of comely grief in both are seen, +And mournful kind discourses passed between. +Now generous tears their hasty tongues restrain; +Now they begin, and talk all o'er again: +A reverent oath of constant love they take, +And God's high name their dreaded witness make: +Not that at all their faiths could doubtful prove, +But 'twas the tedious zeal of endless love. +Thus, ere they part, they the short time bestow +In all the pomp friendship and grief could show. +And David now, with doubtful cares oppressed, +Beneath a shade borrows some little rest; +When by command divine thick mists arise, +And stop the sense, and close the conquered eyes. +There is a place which man most high doth rear, +The small world's heaven, where reason moves the sphere; +Here in a robe which does all colours show, +(The envy of birds, and the clouds' gaudy bow,) +Fancy, wild dame, with much lascivious pride, +By twin-chameleons drawn, does gaily ride: +Her coach there follows, and throngs round about +Of shapes and airy forms an endless rout. +A sea rolls on with harmless fury here; +Straight 'tis a field, and trees and herbs appear. +Here in a moment are vast armies made, +And a quick scene of war and blood displayed. +Here sparkling wines, and brighter maids come in, +The bawds for Sense, and lying baits of sin. +Some things arise of strange and quarrelling kind, +The forepart lion, and a snake behind. +Here golden mountains swell the covetous place, +And Centaurs ride themselves, a painted race. +Of these slight wonders Nature sees the store, +And only then accounts herself but poor. +Hither an angel comes in David's trance, +And finds them mingled in an antique dance; +Of all the numerous forms fit choice he takes, +And joins them wisely, and this vision makes. + +First, David there appears in kingly state, +Whilst the Twelve Tribes his dread commands await: +Straight to the wars with his joined strength he goes, +Settles new friends, and frights his ancient foes. +To Solima, Canaan's old head, they came, +(Since high in note, then not unknown to Fame,) +The blind and lame the undoubted wall defend, +And no new wounds or dangers apprehend. +The busy image of great Joab there +Disdains the mock, and teaches them to fear: +He climbs the airy walls, leaps raging down, +New-minted shapes of slaughter fill the town. +They curse the guards their mirth and bravery chose, +All of them now are slain, or made like those. +Far through an inward scene an army lay, +Which with full banners a fair Fish display. +From Sidon plains to happy Egypt's coast +They seem all met, a vast and warlike host. +Thither hastes David to his destined prey, +Honour and noble danger lead the way. +The conscious trees shook with a reverent fear +Their unblown tops: God walked before him there. +Slaughter the wearied Rephaims' bosom fills, +Dead corpse emboss the vale with little hills. +On the other side, Sophenes' mighty king +Numberless troops of the bless'd East does bring: +Twice are his men cut off, and chariots ta'en; +Damascus and rich Adad help in vain; +Here Nabathaean troops in battle stand, +With all the lusty youth of Syrian land; +Undaunted Joab rushes on with speed, +Gallantly mounted on his fiery steed; +He hews down all, and deals his deaths around; +The Syrians leave, or possess, dead, the ground. +On the other wing does brave Abishai ride, +Reeking in blood and dust: on every side +The perjured sons of Ammon quit the field; +Some basely die, and some more basely yield. +Through a thick wood the wretched Hanun flies, +And far more justly then fears Hebrew spies. +Moloch, their bloody god, thrusts out his head, +Grinning through a black cloud: him they'd long fed +In his seven chambers, and he still did eat +New-roasted babes, his dear delicious meat. +Again they rise, more angered and dismayed; +Euphrates and swift Tigris sends them aid: +In vain they send it, for again they're slain, +And feast the greedy birds on Healy plain. +Here Rabba with proud towers affronts the sky, +And round about great Joab's trenches lie: +They force the walls, and sack the helpless town; +On David's head shines Ammon's massy crown. +'Midst various torments the cursed race expires; +David himself his severe wrath admires. + +Next upon Israel's throne does bravely sit +A comely youth, endowed with wondrous wit: +Far, from the parched line, a royal dame, +To hear his tongue and boundless wisdom, came: +She carried back in her triumphant womb +The glorious stock of thousand kings to come. +Here brightest forms his pomp and wealth display; +Here they a temple's vast foundations lay; +A mighty work; and with fit glories filled, +For God to inhabit, and that King to build. +Some from the quarries hew out massy stone, +Some draw it up with cranes; some breathe and groan +In order o'er the anvil; some cut down +Tall cedars, the proud mountain's ancient crown; +Some carve the trunks, and breathing shapes bestow, +Giving the trees more life than when they grow. +But, oh! alas! what sudden cloud is spread +About this glorious King's eclipsed head? +It all his fame benights, and all his store, +Wrapping him round; and now he's seen no more. + +When straight his son appears at Sichem crown'd, +With young and heedless council circled round; +Unseemly object! but a falling state +Has always its own errors joined with Fate. +Ten tribes at once forsake the Jessian throne, +And bold Adoram at his message stone; +'Brethren of Israel!'--More he fain would say, +But a flint stopped his mouth, and speech in the way. +Here this fond king's disasters but begin; +He's destined to more shame by his father's sin. +Susac comes up, and under his command +A dreadful army from scorched Afric's sand, +As numberless as that: all is his prey; +The temple's sacred wealth they bear away; +Adrazar's shields and golden loss they take; +Even David in his dream does sweat and shake. +Thus fails this wretched prince; his loins appear +Of less weight now than Solomon's fingers were. + +Abijah next seeks Israel to regain, +And wash in seas of blood his father's stain. +Ne'er saw the aged sun so cruel sight; +Scarce saw he this, but hid his bashful light. +Nebat's cursed son fled with not half his men; +Where were his gods of Dan and Bethel then? +Yet could not this the fatal strife decide; +God punished one, but blessed not the other side. + +Asan, a just and virtuous prince, succeeds, +High raised by Fame for great and godly deeds: +He cut the solemn groves where idols stood, +And sacrificed the gods with their own wood. +He vanquished thus the proud weak powers of hell; +Before him next their doting servants fell: +So huge an host of Zerah's men he slew, +As made even that Arabia desert too. +Why feared he then the perjured Baasha's sight? +Or bought the dangerous aid of Syrian's might? +Conquest, Heaven's gift, cannot by man be sold; +Alas! what weakness trusts he? man and gold. + +Next Josaphat possessed the royal state; +A happy prince, well worthy of his fate: +His oft oblations on God's altar, made +With thousand flocks, and thousand herds, are paid, +Arabian tribute! What mad troops are those, +Those mighty troops that dare to be his foes? +He prays them dead; with mutual wounds they fall; +One fury brought, one fury slays them all. +Thus sits he still, and sees himself to win, +Never o'ercome but by his friend Ahab's sin; +On whose disguise Fates then did only look, +And had almost their God's command mistook: +Him from whose danger Heaven securely brings, +And for his sake too ripely wicked kings. +Their armies languish, burnt with thirst, at Seere, +Sighs all their cold, tears all their moisture there: +They fix their greedy eyes on the empty sky, +And fancy clouds, and so become more dry. +Elisha calls for waters from afar +To come; Elisha calls, and here they are. +In helmets they quaff round the welcome flood, +And the decrease repair with Moab's blood. +Jehoram next, and Ochoziah, throng +For Judah's sceptre; both shortlived too long. +A woman, too, from murder title claims; +Both with her sins and sex the crown she shames. +Proud, cursed woman! but her fall at last +To doubting men clears Heaven for what was past. +Joas at first does bright and glorious show; +In life's fresh morn his fame did early crow: +Fair was the promise of his dawning ray, +But prophet's angry blood o'ercast his day: +From thence his clouds, from thence his storms, begin, +It cries aloud, and twice lets Aram in. +So Amaziah lives, so ends his reign, +Both by their traitorous servants justly slain. +Edom at first dreads his victorious hand; +Before him thousand captives trembling stand. +Down a precipice, deep down he casts them all; +The mimic shapes in several postures fall: +But then (mad fool!) he does those gods adore, +Which when plucked down had worshipped him before. +Thus all his life to come is loss and shame: +No help from gods, who themselves helped not, came. + +All this Uzziah's strength and wit repairs, +Leaving a well-built greatness to his heirs; +Till leprous scurf, o'er his whole body cast, +Takes him at first from men, from earth at last. +As virtuous was his son, and happier far; +Buildings his peace, and trophies graced his war: +But Achaz heaps up sins, as if he meant +To make his worst forefathers innocent: +He burns his son at Hinnon, whilst around +The roaring child drums and loud trumpets sound: +This to the boy a barbarous mercy grew, +And snatched him from all miseries to ensue. +Here Peca comes, and hundred thousands fall; +Here Rezin marches up, and sweeps up all; +Till like a sea the great Belochus' son +Breaks upon both, and both does overrun. +The last of Adad's ancient stock is slain, +Israel captived, and rich Damascus ta'en; +All his wild rage to revenge Judah's wrong; +But woe to kingdoms that have friends too strong! + +Thus Hezekiah the torn empire took, +And Assur's king with his worse gods forsook; +Who to poor Judah worlds of nations brings, +There rages, utters vain and mighty things. +Some dream of triumphs, and exalted names, +Some of dear gold, and some of beauteous dames; +Whilst in the midst of their huge sleepy boast, +An angel scatters death through all the host. +The affrighted tyrant back to Babel hies, +There meets an end far worse than that he flies. +Here Hezekiah's life is almost done! +So good, and yet, alas! so short 'tis spun. +The end of the line was ravelled, weak, and old; +Time must go back, and afford better hold, +To tie a new thread to it of fifteen years. +'Tis done; the almighty power of prayer and tears! +Backward the sun, an unknown motion, went; +The stars gazed on, and wondered what he meant. +Manasses next (forgetful man!) begins, +Enslaved and sold to Ashur by his sins; +Till by the rod of learned Misery taught, +Home to his God and country both he's brought. +It taught not Ammon, nor his hardness brake, +He's made the example he refused to take. + +Yet from this root a goodly scion springs, +Josiah! best of men, as well as kings. +Down went the calves, with all their gold and cost; +The priests then truly grieved, Osiris lost. +These mad Egyptian rites till now remained; +Fools! they their worser thraldom still retained! +In his own fires Moloch to ashes fell, +And no more flames must have besides his hell. +Like end Astartes' horned image found, +And Baal's spired stone to dust was ground. +No more were men in female habit seen, +Or they in men's, by the lewd Syrian queen; +No lustful maids at Benos' temple sit, +And with their body's shame their marriage get. +The double Dagon neither nature saves, +Nor flies she back to the Erythraean waves. +The travelling sun sees gladly from on high +His chariots burn, and Nergal quenched lie. +The King's impartial anger lights on all, +From fly-blown Accaron to the thundering Baal. +Here David's joy unruly grows and bold, +Nor could sleep's silken chain its violence hold, +Had not the angel, to seal fast his eyes, +The humours stirred, and bid more mists arise; +When straight a chariot hurries swift away, +And in it good Josiah bleeding lay: +One hand's held up, one stops the wound; in vain +They both are used. Alas! he's slain, he's slain. + +Jehoias and Jehoiakim next appear; +Both urge that vengeance which before was near. +He in Egyptian fetters captive dies, +This by more courteous Anger murdered lies. +His son and brother next to bonds sustain, +Israel's now solemn and imperial chain. +Here's the last scene of this proud city's state; +All ills are met, tied in one knot of Fate. +Their endless slavery in this trial lay; +Great God had heaped up ages in one day: +Strong works around the walls the Chaldees build, +The town with grief and dreadful business filled: +To their carved gods the frantic women pray, +Gods which as near their ruin were as they: +At last in rushes the prevailing foe, +Does all the mischief of proud conquest show. +The wondering babes from mothers' breasts are rent, +And suffer ills they neither feared nor meant. +No silver reverence guards the stooping age, +No rule or method ties their boundless rage. +The glorious temple shines in flames all o'er, +Yet not so bright as in its gold before. +Nothing but fire or slaughter meets the eyes; +Nothing the ear but groans and dismal cries. +The walls and towers are levelled with the ground, +And scarce aught now of that vast city's found, +But shards and rubbish, which weak signs might keep, +Of forepast glory, and bid travellers weep. +Thus did triumphant Assur homewards pass, +And thus Jerus'lem left, Jerusalem that was! + +Thus Zedechia saw, and this not all; +Before his face his friends and children fall, +The sport of insolent victors: this he views, +A king and father once: ill Fate could use +His eyes no more to do their master spite; +All to be seen she took, and next his sight. +Thus a long death in prison he outwears, +Bereft of grief's last solace, even his tears. + +Then Jeconiah's son did foremost come, +And he who brought the captived nation home; +A row of Worthies in long order passed +O'er the short stage; of all old Joseph last. +Fair angels passed by next in seemly bands, +All gilt, with gilded baskets in their hands. +Some as they went the blue-eyed violets strew, +Some spotless lilies in loose order threw. +Some did the way with full-blown roses spread, +Their smell divine, and colour strangely red; +Not such as our dull gardens proudly wear, +Whom weather's taint, and wind's rude kisses tear. +Such, I believe, was the first rose's hue, +Which, at God's word, in beauteous Eden grew; +Queen of the flowers, which made that orchard gay, +The morning-blushes of the Spring's new day. + +With sober pace an heavenly maid walks in, +Her looks all fair, no sign of native sin +Through her whole body writ; immoderate grace +Spoke things far more than human in her face: +It casts a dusky gloom o'er all the flowers, +And with full beams their mingled light devours. +An angel straight broke from a shining cloud, +And pressed his wings, and with much reverence bowed; +Again he bowed, and grave approach he made, +And thus his sacred message sweetly said: + +'Hail! full of grace! thee the whole world shall call +Above all bless'd; thee, who shall bless them all. +Thy virgin womb in wondrous sort shall shroud +Jesus the God; (and then again he bowed) +Conception the great Spirit shall breathe on thee: +Hail thou! who must God's wife, God's mother be.' +With that his seeming form to heaven he reared, +(She low obeisance made) and disappeared. +Lo! a new star three Eastern sages see; +(For why should only earth a gainer be?) +They saw this Phosphor's infant light, and knew +It bravely ushered in a sun as new; +They hasted all this rising sun t' adore; +With them rich myrrh, and early spices, bore. +Wise men! no fitter gift your zeal could bring; +You'll in a noisome stable find your king. +Anon a thousand devils run roaring in; +Some with a dreadful smile deform'dly grin; +Some stamp their cloven paws, some frown, and tear +The gaping snakes from their black-knotted hair; +As if all grief, and all the rage of hell +Were doubled now, or that just now they fell: +But when the dreaded maid they entering saw, +All fled with trembling fear and silent awe: +In her chaste arms the Eternal Infant lies, +The Almighty Voice changed into feeble cries. +Heaven contained virgins oft, and will do more; +Never did virgin contain Heaven before. +Angels peep round to view this mystic thing, +And halleluiah round, all halleluiah sing. + +No longer could good David quiet bear +The unwieldy pleasure which o'erflowed him here: +It broke the fetter, and burst ope his eye; +Away the timorous Forms together fly. +Fixed with amaze he stood, and time must take, +To learn if yet he were at last awake. +Sometimes he thinks that Heaven this vision sent, +And ordered all the pageants as they went: +Sometimes that only 'twas wild Fancy's play, +The loose and scattered relics of the day. + +When Gabriel (no bless'd sp'rit more kind or fair) +Bodies and clothes himself with thickened air; +All like a comely youth in life's fresh bloom, +Rare workmanship, and wrought by heavenly loom! +He took for skin a cloud most soft and bright +That e'er the mid-day sun pierced through with light; +Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread, +Washed from the morning beauty's deepest red; +A harmless flaming meteor shone for hair, +And fell adown his shoulders with loose care: +He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies. +Where the most sprightly azure please the eyes; +This he with starry vapours spangles all, +Took in their prime ere they grow ripe, and fall: +Of a new rainbow, ere it fret or fade, +The choicest piece took out, a scarf is made; +Small streaming clouds he does for wings display, +Not virtuous lovers' sighs more soft than they; +These he gilds o'er with the sun's richest rays, +Caught gliding o'er pure streams on which he plays. + +Thus dressed, the joyful Gabriel posts away, +And carries with him his own glorious day +Through the thick woods; the gloomy shades a while +Put on fresh, looks, and wonder why they smile; +The trembling serpents close and silent lie; +The birds obscene far from his passage fly; +A sudden spring waits on him as he goes, +Sudden as that which by creation rose. +Thus he appears to David; at first sight +All earth-bred fears and sorrows take their flight: +In rushes joy divine, and hope, and rest; +A sacred calm shines through his peaceful breast. +'Hail, man belov'd! from highest heaven,' said he. +'My mighty Master sends thee health by me. +The things thou saw'st are full of truth and light, +Shaped in the glass of the divine foresight. +Even now old Time is harnessing the Years +To go in order thus: hence, empty fears! +Thy fate's all white; from thy bless'd seed shall spring +The promised Shilo, the great mystic King. +Round the whole earth his dreaded Name shall sound. +And reach to worlds that must not yet be found: +The Southern clime him her sole Lord shall style, +Him all the North, even Albion's stubborn isle. +My fellow-servant, credit what I tell.' +Straight into shapeless air unseen he fell. + + +LIFE. + +'NASCENTES MORIMUR.'--_Manil_. + +1 We're ill by these grammarians used: + We are abused by words, grossly abused; + From the maternal tomb + To the grave's fruitful womb + We call here Life; but Life's a name + That nothing here can truly claim: + This wretched inn, where we scarce stay to bait, + We call our dwelling-place; + We call one step a race: + But angels in their full-enlightened state, + Angels who live, and know what 'tis to be, + Who all the nonsense of our language see, + Who speak things, and our words their ill-drawn picture scorn. + When we by a foolish figure say, + Behold an old man dead! then they + Speak properly, and cry, Behold a man-child born! + +2 My eyes are opened, and I see + Through the transparent fallacy: + Because we seem wisely to talk + Like men of business, and for business walk + From place to place, + And mighty voyages we take, + And mighty journeys seem to make + O'er sea and land, the little point that has no space; + Because we fight, and battles gain, + Some captives call, and say the rest are slain; + Because we heap up yellow earth, and so + Rich, valiant, wise, and virtuous seem to grow; + Because we draw a long nobility + From hieroglyphic proofs of heraldry, + And impudently talk of a posterity; + And, like Egyptian chroniclers, + Who write of twenty thousand years, + With maravedies make the account, + That single time might to a sum amount; + We grow at last by custom to believe + That really we live; + Whilst all these shadows that for things we take, + Are but the empty dreams which in death's sleep we make. + +3 But these fantastic errors of our dream + Lead us to solid wrong; + We pray God our friends' torments to prolong. + And wish uncharitably for them + To be as long a-dying as Methusalem. + The ripened soul longs from his prison to come, + But we would seal and sew up, if we could, the womb. + We seek to close and plaster up by art + The cracks and breaches of the extended shell, + And in that narrow cell + Would rudely force to dwell + The noble, vigorous bird already winged to part. + + +THE PLAGUES OF EGYPT. + +I. + +Is this thy bravery, Man! is this thy pride! +Rebel to God, and slave to all beside! +Captived by everything! and only free +To fly from thine own liberty! +All creatures, the Creator said, were thine; +No creature but might since say, Man is mine! +In black Egyptian slavery we lie, +And sweat and toil in the vain dru +Of tyrant Sin, +To which we trophies raise, and wear out all our breath +In building up the monuments of death. +We, the choice race, to God and angels kin! +In vain the prophets and apostles come +To call us home, +Home to the promised Canaan above, +Which does with nourishing milk and pleasant honey flow, +And even i' th' way to which we should be fed +With angels' tasteful bread: +But we, alas! the flesh-pots love; +We love the very leeks and sordid roots below. + +II. + +In vain we judgments feel, and wonders see; +In vain did God to descend hither deign, +He was his own Ambassador in vain, +Our Moses and our guide himself to be. +We will not let ourselves to go, +And with worse hardened hearts, do our own Pharaohs grow; +Ah! lest at last we perish so, +Think, stubborn Man! think of the Egyptian prince, +(Hard of belief and will, but not so hard as thou,) +Think with what dreadful proofs God did convince +The feeble arguments that human power could show; +Think what plagues attend on thee, +Who Moses' God dost now refuse more oft than Moses he. + +III. + +'If from some God you come,' said the proud king, +With half a smile and half a frown, +'But what God can to Egypt be unknown? +What sign, what powers, what credence do you bring?' +'Behold his seal! behold his hand!' +Cries Moses, and casts down the almighty wand: +The almighty wand scarce touched the earth, +When, with an undiscerned birth, +The almighty wand a serpent grew, +And his long half in painted folds behind him drew: +Upwards his threatening tail he threw, +Upwards he cast his threatening head, +He gaped and hissed aloud, +With flaming eyes surveyed the trembling crowd, +And, like a basilisk, almost looked the assembly dead: +Swift fled the amazed king, the guards before him fled. + +IV. + +Jannes and Jambres stopped their flight, +And with proud words allayed the affright. +'The God of slaves!' said they, 'how can he be +More powerful than their master's deity?' +And down they cast their rods, +And muttered secret sounds that charm the servile gods, +The evil spirits their charms obey, +And in a subtle cloud they snatch the rods away, +And serpents in their place the airy jugglers lay: +Serpents in Egypt's monstrous land +Were ready still at hand, +And all at the Old Serpent's first command: +And they, too, gaped, and they, too, hissed, +And they their threatening tails did twist; +But straight on both the Hebrew serpent flew, +Broke both their active backs, and both it slew, +And both almost at once devoured; +So much was overpowered +By God's miraculous creation +His servant Nature's slightly wrought and feeble generation. + +V. + +On the famed bank the prophets stood, +Touched with their rod, and wounded all the flood; +Flood now no more, but a long vein of putrid blood; +The helpless fish were found +In their strange current drowned; +The herbs and trees washed by the mortal tide +About it blushed and died: +The amazed crocodiles made haste to ground; +From their vast trunks the dropping gore they spied, +Thought it their own, and dreadfully aloud they cried: +Nor all thy priests, nor thou, +O King! couldst ever show +From whence thy wandering Nile begins his course; +Of this new Nile thou seest the sacred source, +And as thy land that does o'erflow, +Take heed lest this do so. +What plague more just could on thy waters fall? +The Hebrew infants' murder stains them all. +The kind, instructing punishment enjoy; +Whom the red river cannot mend, the Red Sea shall destroy. + +VI. + +The river yet gave one instruction more, +And from the rotting fish and unconcocted gore, +Which was but water just before, +A loathsome host was quickly made, +That scaled the banks, and with loud noise did all the country invade; +As Nilus when he quits his sacred bed, +(But like a friend he visits all the land +With welcome presents in his hand,) +So did this living tide the fields o'erspread. +In vain the alarmed country tries +To kill their noisome enemies, +From the unexhausted source still new recruits arise: +Nor does the earth these greedy troops suffice; +The towns and houses they possess, +The temples and the palaces, +Nor Pharaoh nor his gods they fear, +Both their importune croakings hear: +Unsatiate yet they mount up higher, +Where never sun-born frog durst to aspire, +And in the silken beds their slimy members place, +A luxury unknown before to all the watery race. + +VII. + +The water thus her wonders did produce, +But both were to no use: +As yet the sorcerer's mimic power served for excuse. +Try what the earth will do, said God, and lo! +They struck the earth a fertile blow, +And all the dust did straight to stir begin, +One would have thought some sudden wind had been, +But, lo! 'twas nimble life was got within! +And all the little springs did move, +And every dust did an armed vermin prove, +Of an unknown and new-created kind, +Such as the magic gods could neither make or find. +The wretched shameful foe allowed no rest +Either to man or beast; +Not Pharaoh from the unquiet plague could be, +With all his change of raiments, free; +The devils themselves confessed +This was God's hand; and 'twas but just +To punish thus man's pride, to punish dust with dust. + +VIII. + +Lo! the third element does his plagues prepare, +And swarming clouds of insects fill the air; +With sullen noise they take their flight, +And march in bodies infinite; +In vain 'tis day above, 'tis still beneath them night; +Of harmful flies the nations numberless +Composed this mighty army's spacious boast; +Of different manners, different languages, +And different habits, too, they wore, +And different arms they bore: +And some, like Scythians, lived on blood, +And some on green, and some on flowery food, +And Accaron, the airy prince, led on this various host. +Houses secure not men; the populous ill +Did all the houses fill: +The country all around, +Did with the cries of tortured cattle sound; +About the fields enraged they flew, +And wished the plague that was t' ensue. + +IX. + +From poisonous stars a mortal influence came, +(The mingled malice of their flame,) +A skilful angel did the ingredients take, +And with just hands the sad composure make, +And over all the land did the full viol shake. +Thirst, giddiness, faintness, and putrid heats, +And pining pains, and shivering sweats, +On all the cattle, all the beasts, did fall; +With deformed death the country's covered all. +The labouring ox drops down before the plough; +The crowned victims to the altar led +Sink, and prevent the lifted blow: +The generous horse from the full manger turns his head, +Does his loved floods and pastures scorn, +Hates the shrill trumpet and the horn, +Nor can his lifeless nostril please +With the once-ravishing smell of all his dappled mistresses; +The starving sheep refuse to feed, +They bleat their innocent souls out into air; +The faithful dogs lie gasping by them there; +The astonished shepherd weeps, and breaks his tuneful reed. + +X. + +Thus did the beasts for man's rebellion die; +God did on man a gentler medicine try, +And a disease for physic did apply. +Warm ashes from the furnace Moses took, +The sorcerers did with wonder on him look, +And smiled at the unaccustomed spell +Which no Egyptian rituals tell. +He flings the pregnant ashes through the air, +And speaks a mighty prayer, +Both which the minist'ring winds around all Egypt bear; +As gentle western blasts, with downy wings +Hatching the tender springs, +To the unborn buds with vital whispers say, +Ye living buds, why do ye stay? +The passionate buds break through the bark their way; +So wheresoe'er this tainted wind but blew, +Swelling pains and ulcers grew; +It from the body called all sleeping poisons out, +And to them added new; +A noisome spring of sores as thick as leaves did sprout. + +XI. + +Heaven itself is angry next; +Woe to man when Heaven is vexed; +With sullen brow it frowned, +And murmured first in an imperfect sound; +Till Moses, lifting up his hand, +Waves the expected signal of his wand, +And all the full-charged clouds in ranged squadrons move, +And fill the spacious plains above; +Through which the rolling thunder first does play, +And opens wide the tempest's noisy way: +And straight a stony shower +Of monstrous hail does downward pour, +Such as ne'er Winter yet brought forth, +From all her stormy magazines of the north: +It all the beasts and men abroad did slay, +O'er the defaced corpse, like monuments, lay; +The houses and strong-bodied trees it broke, +Nor asked aid from the thunder's stroke: +The thunder but for terror through it flew, +The hail alone the work could do. +The dismal lightnings all around, +Some flying through the air, some running on the ground, +Some swimming o'er the waters' face, +Filled with bright horror every place; +One would have thought, their dreadful day to have seen, +The very hail and rain itself had kindled been. + +XII. + +The infant corn, which yet did scarce appear, +Escaped this general massacre +Of every thing that grew, +And the well-stored Egyptian year +Began to clothe her fields and trees anew; +When, lo! a scorching wind from the burnt countries blew, +And endless legions with it drew +Of greedy locusts, who, where'er +With sounding wings they flew, +Left all the earth depopulate and bare, +As if Winter itself had marched by there, +Whate'er the sun and Nile +Gave with large bounty to the thankful soil, +The wretched pillagers bore away, +And the whole Summer was their prey; +Till Moses with a prayer, +Breathed forth a violent western wind, +Which all these living clouds did headlong bear +(No stragglers left behind) +Into the purple sea, and there bestow +On the luxurious fish a feast they ne'er did know. +With untaught joy Pharaoh the news does hear, +And little thinks their fate attends on him and his so near. + +XIII. + +What blindness and what darkness did there e'er +Like this undocile king's appear? +Whate'er but that which now does represent +And paint the crime out in the punishment? +From the deep baleful caves of hell below, +Where the old mother Night does grow, +Substantial Night, that does disclaim +Privation's empty name, +Through secret conduits monstrous shapes arose, +Such as the sun's whole force could not oppose; +They with a solid cloud +All heaven's eclipsed face did shroud; +Seemed with large wings spread o'er the sea and earth, +To brood up a new Chaos his deformed birth; +And every lamp, and every fire, +Did, at the dreadful sight, wink and expire, +To the empyrean source all streams of light seemed to retire. +The living men were in their standing houses buried, +But the long night no slumber knows, +But the short death finds no repose. +Ten thousand terrors through the darkness fled, +And ghosts complained, and spirits murmured, +And fancy's multiplying sight +Viewed all the scenes invisible of night. + +XIV. + +Of God's dreadful anger these +Were but the first light skirmishes; +The shock and bloody battle now begins, +The plenteous harvest of full-ripened sins. +It was the time when the still moon +Was mounted softly to her noon, +And dewy sleep, which from Night's secret springs arose, +Gently as Nile the land o'erflows; +When, lo! from the high countries of refined day, +The golden heaven without allay, +Whose dross, in the creation purged away, +Made up the sun's adulterate ray, +Michael, the warlike prince, does downwards fly, +Swift as the journeys of the sight, +Swift as the race of light, +And with his winged will cuts through the yielding sky. +He passed through many a star, and as he passed +Shone (like a star in them) more brightly there +Than they did in their sphere: +On a tall pyramid's pointed head he stopped at last, +And a mild look of sacred pity cast +Down on the sinful land where he was sent +To inflict the tardy punishment. +'Ah! yet,' said he, 'yet, stubborn King! repent, +Whilst thus unarmed I stand, +Ere the keen sword of God fill my commanded hand; +Suffer but yet thyself and thine to live. +Who would, alas! believe +That it for man,' said he, +'So hard to be forgiven should be, +And yet for God so easy to forgive!' + +XV. + +He spoke, and downwards flew, +And o'er his shining form a well-cut cloud he threw, +Made of the blackest fleece of night, +And close-wrought to keep in the powerful light; +Yet, wrought so fine, it hindered not his flight, +But through the key-holes and the chinks of doors, +And through the narrowest walks of crooked pores, +He passed more swift and free +Than in wide air the wanton swallows flee: +He took a pointed pestilence in his hand, +The spirits of thousand mortal poisons made +The strongly-tempered blade, +The sharpest sword that e'er was laid +Up in the magazines of God to scourge a wicked land: +Through Egypt's wicked land his march he took, +And as he marched the sacred first-born struck +Of every womb; none did he spare; +None from the meanest beast to Cenchre's purple heir. + +XVI. + +The swift approach of endless night +Breaks ope the wounded sleepers' rolling eyes; +They awake the rest with dying cries, +And darkness doubles the affright. +The mixed sounds of scattered deaths they hear, +And lose their parted souls 'twixt grief and fear. +Louder than all, the shrieking women's voice +Pierces this chaos of confused noise; +As brighter lightning cuts a way, +Clear and distinguished through the day: +With less complaints the Zoan temples sound +When the adored heifer's drowned, +And no true marked successor to be found: +While health, and strength, and gladness does possess +The festal Hebrew cottages; +The bless'd destroyer comes not there, +To interrupt the sacred cheer, +That new begins their well-reformed year. +Upon their doors he read and understood +God's protection writ in blood; +Well was he skilled i' th' character divine, +And though he passed by it in haste, +He bowed, and worshipped as he passed +The mighty mystery through its humble sign. + +XVII. + +The sword strikes now too deep and near, +Longer with its edge to play, +No diligence or cost they spare +To haste the Hebrews now away, +Pharaoh himself chides their delay; +So kind and bountiful is fear! +But, oh! the bounty which to fear we owe, +Is but like fire struck out of stone, +So hardly got, and quickly gone, +That it scarce outlives the blow. +Sorrow and fear soon quit the tyrant's breast, +Rage and revenge their place possess'd: +With a vast host of chariots and of horse, +And all his powerful kingdom's ready force, +The travelling nation he pursues, +Ten times o'ercome, he still the unequal war renews. +Filled with proud hopes, 'At least,' said he, +'The Egyptian gods, from Syrian magic free, +Will now revenge themselves and me; +Behold what passless rocks on either hand, +Like prison walls, about them stand! +Whilst the sea bounds their flight before, +And in our injured justice they must find +A far worse stop than rocks and seas behind; +Which shall with crimson gore +New paint the water's name, and double dye the shore.' + +XVIII. + +He spoke; and all his host +Approved with shouts the unhappy boast; +A bidden wind bore his vain words away, +And drowned them in the neighbouring sea. +No means to escape the faithless travellers spy, +And with degenerous fear to die, +Curse their new-gotten liberty: +But the great Guide well knew he led them right, +And saw a path hid yet from human sight: +He strikes the raging waves; the waves on either side +Unloose their close embraces, and divide, +And backwards press, as in some solemn show +The crowding people do, +(Though just before no space was seen,) +To let the admired triumph pass between. +The wondering army saw, on either hand, +The no less wondering waves like rocks of crystal stand. +They marched betwixt, and boldly trod +The secret paths of God: +And here and there, all scattered in their way, +The sea's old spoils and gaping fishes lay +Deserted on the sandy plain: +The sun did with astonishment behold +The inmost chambers of the opened main, +For whatsoe'er of old +By his own priests, the poets, has been said, +He never sunk till then into the Ocean's bed. + +XIX. + +Led cheerfully by a bright captain, Flame, +To the other shore at morning-dawn they came, +And saw behind the unguided foe +March disorderly and slow: +The prophet straight from the Idumean strand +Shakes his imperious wand; +The upper waves, that highest crowded lie, +The beckoning wand espy; +Straight their first right-hand files begin to move, +And with a murmuring wind +Give the word march to all behind; +The left-hand squadrons no less ready prove, +But with a joyful, louder noise, +Answer their distant fellows' voice, +And haste to meet them make, +As several troops do all at once a common signal take. +What tongue the amazement and the affright can tell, +Which on the Chamian army fell, +When on both sides they saw the roaring main +Broke loose from his invisible chain? +They saw the monstrous death and watery war +Come rolling down loud ruin from afar; +In vain some backward and some forwards fly +With helpless haste, in vain they cry +To their celestial beasts for aid; +In vain their guilty king they upbraid, +In vain on Moses he, and Moses' God, does call, +With a repentance true too late: +They're compassed round with a devouring fate +That draws, like a strong net, the mighty sea upon them all. + + + + +GEORGE WITHER + + +This remarkable man was born in Hampshire, at Bentworth, near Alton, in +1588. He was sent to Magdalene College, Oxford, but had hardly been +there till his father remanded him home to hold the plough--a reversal +of the case of Cincinnatus which did not please the aspiring spirit of +our poet. He took an early opportunity of breaking loose from this +occupation, and of going to London with the romantic intention of making +his fortune at Court. Finding that to rise at Court, flattery was +indispensable, and determined not to flatter, he, in 1613, published his +'Abuses Whipt and Stript,' for which he was committed for some months +to the Marshalsea. Here he wrote his beautiful poem, 'The Shepherd's +Hunting;' and is said to have gained his manumission by a satire to +the King, in which he defends his former writings. Soon after his +liberation, he published his 'Hymns and Songs of the Church,' a book +which embroiled him with the clergy, but procured him the favour of King +James, who encouraged him to finish a translation of the Psalms. He +travelled to the court of the Queen of Bohemia, (James's daughter,) in +fulfilment of a vow, and presented her with a copy of his completed +translation. + +In 1639, he was a captain of horse in the expedition against the Scotch. +When the Civil War broke out, he sold his estate to raise a troop of +horse on the Parliamentary side, and soon after was made a major. In +1642, he was appointed captain and commander of Farnham Castle, in +Surrey; but owing to some neglect or cowardice on his part, it was ceded +the same year to Sir William Waller. He was made prisoner by the +Royalists some time after this, and would have been put to death had not +Denham interfered, alleging that as long as Wither survived, he (Denham) +could not be accounted the worst poet in England. He was afterwards +appointed Cromwell's major-general of all the horse and foot in the +county of Surrey. He made money at this time by Royalist sequestrations, +but lost it all at the Restoration. He had, on the death of Cromwell, +hailed Richard with enthusiasm, and predicted him a happy reign; which +makes Campbell remark, 'He never but once in his life foreboded good, +and in that prophecy he was mistaken.' Wither was by no means pleased +with the loss of his fortune, and remonstrated bitterly; but for so +doing he was thrown into prison again. Here his mind continued as active +as ever, and he poured out treatises, poems, and satires--sometimes, +when pen and ink were denied him, inscribing his thoughts with red ochre +upon a trencher. After three years, he was, in 1663, released from +Newgate, under bond for good behaviour; and four years afterwards he +died in London. This was on the 2d of May 1667. He was buried between +the east door and the south end of the Savoy church, in the Strand. + +Wither was a man of real genius, but seems to have been partially +insane. His political zeal was a frenzy; and his religion was deeply +tinged with puritanic gloom. His 'Collection of Emblems' never became so +popular as those of Quarles, and are now nearly as much forgotten as his +satires, his psalms, and his controversial treatises. But his early +poems are delightful--full of elegant and playful fancy, ease of +language, and delicacy of sentiment. Some passages in 'The Shepherd's +Hunting,' and in the 'Address to Poetry,' resemble the style of Milton +in his 'L'Allegro' and 'Penseroso.' His 'Christmas' catches the full +spirit of that joyous carnival of Christian England. Altogether, it is +refreshing to turn from the gnarled oak of Wither's struggling and +unhappy life, to the beautiful flowers, nodding over it, of his poesy. + + +FROM 'THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.' + +See'st thou not, in clearest days, +Oft thick fogs could heavens raise? +And the vapours that do breathe +From the earth's gross womb beneath, +Seem they not with their black steams +To pollute the sun's bright beams, +And yet vanish into air, +Leaving it unblemished, fair? +So, my Willy, shall it be +With Detraction's breath and thee: +It shall never rise so high +As to stain thy poesy. +As that sun doth oft exhale +Vapours from each rotten vale; +Poesy so sometimes drains +Gross conceits from muddy brains; +Mists of envy, fogs of spite, +'Twixt men's judgments and her light; +But so much her power may do +That she can dissolve them too. +If thy verse do bravely tower, +As she makes wing, she gets power! +Yet the higher she doth soar, +She's affronted still the more: +Till she to the high'st hath past, +Then she rests with Fame at last. +Let nought therefore thee affright, +But make forward in thy flight: +For if I could match thy rhyme, +To the very stars I'd climb; +There begin again, and fly +Till I reached eternity. +But, alas! my Muse is slow; +For thy pace she flags too low. +Yes, the more's her hapless fate, +Her short wings were clipped of late; +And poor I, her fortune ruing, +Am myself put up a-muing. +But if I my cage can rid, +I'll fly where I never did. +And though for her sake I'm cross'd, +Though my best hopes I have lost, +And knew she would make my trouble +Ten times more than ten times double; +I would love and keep her too, +Spite of all the world could do. +For though banished from my flocks, +And confined within these rocks, +Here I waste away the light, +And consume the sullen night; +She doth for my comfort stay, +And keeps many cares away. +Though I miss the flowery fields, +With those sweets the springtide yields; +Though I may not see those groves, +Where the shepherds chant their loves, +And the lasses more excel +Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; +Though of all those pleasures past, +Nothing now remains at last, +But remembrance, poor relief, +That more makes than mends my grief: +She's my mind's companion still, +Maugre Envy's evil will: +Whence she should be driven too, +Were 't in mortals' power to do. +She doth tell me where to borrow +Comfort in the midst of sorrow; +Makes the desolatest place +To her presence be a grace, +And the blackest discontents +Be her fairest ornaments. +In my former days of bliss, +His divine skill taught me this, +That from everything I saw, +I could some invention draw; +And raise pleasure to her height +Through the meanest object's sight: +By the murmur of a spring, +Or the least bough's rustling; +By a daisy, whose leaves spread, +Shut when Titan goes to bed; +Or a shady bush or tree, +She could more infuse in me, +Than all Nature's beauties can, +In some other wiser man. +By her help I also now +Make this churlish place allow +Some things that may sweeten gladness +In the very gall of sadness: +The dull loneness, the black shade +That these hanging vaults have made, +The strange music of the waves, +Beating on these hollow caves, +This black den, which rocks emboss, +Overgrown with eldest moss; +The rude portals, that give light +More to terror than delight, +This my chamber of neglect, +Walled about with disrespect, +From all these, and this dull air, +A fit object for despair, +She hath taught me by her might +To draw comfort and delight. + +Therefore, then, best earthly bliss, +I will cherish thee for this! +Poesy, thou sweet'st content +That e'er Heaven to mortals lent; +Though they as a trifle leave thee, +Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee, +Though thou be to them a scorn +That to nought but earth are born; +Let my life no longer be +Than I am in love with thee! +Though our wise ones call it madness, +Let me never taste of gladness +If I love not thy madd'st fits +Above all their greatest wits! +And though some, too seeming holy, +Do account thy raptures folly, +Thou dost teach me to contemn +What makes knaves and fools of them! + + +THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. + +1 Shall I, wasting in despair, + Die because a woman's fair? + Or make pale my cheeks with care, + 'Cause another's rosy are? + Be she fairer than the day, + Or the flowery meads in May; + If she be not so to me, + What care I how fair she be? + +2 Shall my foolish heart be pined, + 'Cause I see a woman kind? + Or a well-disposed nature + Joined with a lovely feature? + Be she meeker, kinder, than + The turtle-dove or pelican; + If she be not so to me, + What care I how kind she be? + +3 Shall a woman's virtues move + Me to perish for her love? + Or, her well-deservings known, + Make me quite forget mine own? + Be she with that goodness blest, + Which may merit name of Best; + If she be not such to me, + What care I how good she be? + +4 'Cause her fortune seems too high, + Shall I play the fool and die? + Those that bear a noble mind, + Where they want of riches find, + Think what with them they would do, + That without them dare to woo; + And, unless that mind I see, + What care I how great she be? + +5 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, + I will ne'er the more despair: + If she love me, this believe-- + I will die ere she shall grieve. + If she slight me when I woo, + I can scorn and let her go: + If she be not fit for me, + What care I for whom she be? + + +THE STEADFAST SHEPHERD. + +1 Hence away, thou Siren, leave me, + Pish! unclasp these wanton arms; + Sugared words can ne'er deceive me, + Though thou prove a thousand charms. + Fie, fie, forbear; + No common snare + Can ever my affection chain: + Thy painted baits, + And poor deceits, + Are all bestowed on me in vain. + +2 I'm no slave to such as you be; + Neither shall that snowy breast, + Rolling eye, and lip of ruby, + Ever rob me of my rest: + Go, go, display + Thy beauty's ray + To some more soon enamoured swain: + Those common wiles + Of sighs and smiles + Are all bestowed on me in vain. + +3 I have elsewhere vowed a duty; + Turn away thy tempting eye: + Show not me a painted beauty: + These impostures I defy: + My spirit loathes + Where gaudy clothes + And feigned oaths may love obtain: + I love her so, + Whose look swears No, + That all your labours will be vain. + +4 Can he prize the tainted posies + Which on every breast are worn, + That may pluck the virgin roses + From their never-touched thorn? + I can go rest + On her sweet breast + That is the pride of Cynthia's train: + Then stay thy tongue, + Thy mermaid song + Is all bestowed on me in vain. + +5 He's a fool that basely dallies, + Where each peasant mates with him: + Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, + Whilst there's noble hills to climb? + No, no, though clowns + Are scared with frowns, + I know the best can but disdain; + And those I'll prove: + So will thy love + Be all bestowed on me in vain. + +6 I do scorn to vow a duty + Where each lustful lad may woo; + Give me her whose sun-like beauty + Buzzards dare not soar unto: + She, she it is + Affords that bliss + For which I would refuse no pain: + But such as you, + Fond fools, adieu! + You seek to captive me in vain. + +7 Leave me then, you Siren, leave me: + Seek no more to work my harms: + Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, + Who am proof against your charms: + You labour may + To lead astray + The heart that constant shall remain; + And I the while + Will sit and smile + To see you spend your time in vain. + + +THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING. + + ARGUMENT. + + Cuddy tells how all the swains + Pity Roget on the plains; + Who, requested, doth relate + The true cause of his estate; + Which broke off, because 'twas long, + They begin a three-man song. + + WILLY. CUDDY. ROGET. + +WILLY. + +Roget, thy old friend Cuddy here, and I, +Are come to visit thee in these thy bands, +Whilst both our flocks in an enclosure by +Do pick the thin grass from the fallowed lands. +He tells me thy restraint of liberty, +Each one throughout the country understands: + And there is not a gentle-natured lad, + On all these downs, but for thy sake is sad. + +CUDDY. + +Not thy acquaintance and thy friends alone +Pity thy close restraint, as friends should do: +But some that have but seen thee for thee moan: +Yea, many that did never see thee too. +Some deem thee in a fault, and most in none; +So divers ways do divers rumours go: + And at all meetings where our shepherds be, + Now the main news that's extant is of thee. + +ROGET. + +Why, this is somewhat yet: had I but kept +Sheep on the mountains till the day of doom, +My name should in obscurity have slept, +In brakes, in briars, shrubbed furze and broom. +Into the world's wide care it had not crept, +Nor in so many men's thoughts found a room: + But what cause of my sufferings do they know? + Good Cuddy, tell me how doth rumour go? + +CUDDY. + +Faith, 'tis uncertain; some speak this, some that: +Some dare say nought, yet seem to think a cause, +And many a one, prating he knows not what, +Comes out with proverbs and old ancient saws, +As if he thought thee guiltless, and yet not: +Then doth he speak half-sentences, then pause: + That what the most would say, we may suppose: + But what to say, the rumour is, none knows. + +ROGET. + +Nor care I greatly, for it skills not much +What the unsteady common-people deems; +His conscience doth not always feel least touch, +That blameless in the sight of others seems: +My cause is honest, and because 'tis such +I hold it so, and not for men's esteems: + If they speak justly well of me, I'm glad; + If falsely evil, it ne'er makes me sad. + +WILLY. + +I like that mind; but, Roget, you are quite +Beside the matter that I long to hear: +Remember what you promised yesternight, +You'd put us off with other talk, I fear; +Thou know'st that honest Cuddy's heart's upright, +And none but he, except myself, is near: + Come therefore, and betwixt us two relate, + The true occasion of thy present state. + +ROGET. + +My friends, I will; you know I am a swain, +That keep a poor flock here upon this plain: +Who, though it seems I could do nothing less, +Can make a song, and woo a shepherdess; +And not alone the fairest where I live +Have heard me sing, and favours deigned to give; +But though I say't, the noblest nymph of Thame, +Hath graced my verse unto my greater fame. +Yet being young, and not much seeking praise, +I was not noted out for shepherds' lays, +Nor feeding flocks, as you know others be: +For the delight that most possessed me +Was hunting foxes, wolves, and beasts of prey; +That spoil our folds, and bear our lambs away. +For this, as also for the love I bear +Unto my country, I laid by all care +Of gain, or of preferment, with desire +Only to keep that state I had entire, +And like a true-grown huntsman sought to speed +Myself with hounds of rare and choicest breed, +Whose names and natures ere I further go, +Because you are my friends, I'll let you know. +My first esteemed dog that I did find, +Was by descent of old Actaeon's kind; +A brach, which if I do not aim amiss, +For all the world is just like one of his: +She's named Love, and scarce yet knows her duty; +Her dam's my lady's pretty beagle Beauty, +I bred her up myself with wondrous charge, +Until she grew to be exceeding large, +And waxed so wanton that I did abhor it, +And put her out amongst my neighbours for it. +The next is Lust, a hound that's kept abroad, +'Mongst some of mine acquaintance, but a toad +Is not more loathsome: 'tis a cur will range +Extremely, and is ever full of mange; +And 'cause it is infectious, she's not wont +To come among the rest, but when they hunt. +Hate is the third, a hound both deep and long. +His sire is true or else supposed Wrong. +He'll have a snap at all that pass him by, +And yet pursues his game most eagerly. +With him goes Envy coupled, a lean cur, +And she'll hold out, hunt we ne'er so far: +She pineth much, and feedeth little too, +Yet stands and snarleth at the rest that do. +Then there's Revenge, a wondrous deep-mouthed dog, +So fleet, I'm fain to hunt him with a clog, +Yet many times he'll much outstrip his bounds, +And hunts not closely with the other hounds: +He'll venture on a lion in his ire; +Curst Choler was his dam, and Wrong his sire. +This Choler is a brach that's very old, +And spends her mouth too much to have it hold: +She's very testy, an unpleasing cur, +That bites the very stones, if they but stur: +Or when that ought but her displeasure moves, +She'll bite and snap at any one she loves: +But my quick-scented'st dog is Jealousy, +The truest of this breed's in Italy: +The dam of mine would hardly fill a glove, +It was a lady's little dog, called Love: +The sire, a poor deformed cur, named Fear, +As shagged and as rough as is a bear: +And yet the whelp turned after neither kind, +For he is very large, and near-hand blind; +At the first sight he hath a pretty colour, +But doth not seem so, when you view him fuller; +A vile suspicious beast, his looks are bad, +And I do fear in time he will grow mad. +To him I couple Avarice, still poor; +Yet she devours as much as twenty more: +A thousand horse she in her paunch can put, +Yet whine as if she had an empty gut: +And having gorged what might a land have found, +She'll catch for more, and hide it in the ground. +Ambition is a hound as greedy full; +But he for all the daintiest bits doth cull: +He scorns to lick up crumbs beneath the table, +He'll fetch 't from boards and shelves, if he be able: +Nay, he can climb if need be; and for that, +With him I hunt the martin and the cat: +And yet sometimes in mounting he's so quick, +He fetches falls are like to break his neck. +Fear is well-mouth'd, but subject to distrust; +A stranger cannot make him take a crust: +A little thing will soon his courage quail, +And 'twixt his legs he ever claps his tail; +With him Despair now often coupled goes, +Which by his roaring mouth each huntsman knows. +None hath a better mind unto the game, +But he gives off, and always seemeth lame. +My bloodhound Cruelty, as swift as wind, +Hunts to the death, and never comes behind; +Who but she's strapp'd and muzzled too withal, +Would eat her fellows, and the prey and all; +And yet she cares not much for any food, +Unless it be the purest harmless blood. +All these are kept abroad at charge of many, +They do not cost me in a year a penny. +But there's two couple of a middling size, +That seldom pass the sight of my own eyes. +Hope, on whose head I've laid my life to pawn; +Compassion, that on every one will fawn. +This would, when 'twas a whelp, with rabbits play +Or lambs, and let them go unhurt away: +Nay, now she is of growth, she'll now and then +Catch you a hare, and let her go again. +The two last, Joy and Sorrow, 'tis a wonder, +Can ne'er agree, nor ne'er bide far asunder. +Joy's ever wanton, and no order knows: +She'll run at larks, or stand and bark at crows. +Sorrow goes by her, and ne'er moves his eye; +Yet both do serve to help make up the cry. +Then comes behind all these to bear the base, +Two couple more of a far larger race, +Such wide-mouth'd trollops, that 'twould do you good +To hear their loud loud echoes tear the wood. +There's Vanity, who, by her gaudy hide, +May far away from all the rest be spied, +Though huge, yet quick, for she's now here, now there; +Nay, look about you, and she's everywhere: +Yet ever with the rest, and still in chase. +Right so, Inconstancy fills every place; +And yet so strange a fickle-natured hound, +Look for her, and she's nowhere to be found. +Weakness is no fair dog unto the eye, +And yet she hath her proper quality; +But there's Presumption, when he heat hath got, +He drowns the thunder and the cannon-shot: +And when at start he his full roaring makes, +The earth doth tremble, and the heaven shakes. +These were my dogs, ten couple just in all, +Whom by the name of Satyrs I do call: +Mad curs they be, and I can ne'er come nigh them, +But I'm in danger to be bitten by them. +Much pains I took, and spent days not a few, +To make them keep together, and hunt true: +Which yet I do suppose had never been, +But that I had a scourge to keep them in. +Now when that I this kennel first had got, +Out of my own demesnes I hunted not, +Save on these downs, or among yonder rocks, +After those beasts that spoiled our parish flocks; +Nor during that time was I ever wont +With all my kennel in one day to hunt: +Nor had done yet, but that this other year, +Some beasts of prey, that haunt the deserts here, +Did not alone for many nights together +Devour, sometime a lamb, sometime a wether, +And so disquiet many a poor man's herd, +But that of losing all they were afeard: +Yea, I among the rest did fare as bad, +Or rather worse, for the best ewes[1] I had +(Whose breed should be my means of life and gain) +Were in one evening by these monsters slain: +Which mischief I resolved to repay, +Or else grow desperate, and hunt all away; +For in a fury (such as you shall see +Huntsmen in missing of their sport will be) +I vowed a monster should not lurk about, +In all this province, but I'd find him out, +And thereupon, without respect or care, +How lame, how full, or how unfit they were, +In haste unkennell'd all my roaring crew, +Who were as mad as if my mind they knew, +And ere they trail'd a flight-shot, the fierce curs +Had roused a hart, and thorough brakes and furs +Follow'd at gaze so close, that Love and Fear +Got in together, so had surely there +Quite overthrown him, but that Hope thrust in +'Twixt both, and saved the pinching of his skin, +Whereby he 'scaped, till coursing o'erthwart, +Despair came in, and griped him to the heart: +I hallowed in the res'due to the fall, +And for an entrance, there I fleshed them all: +Which having done, I dipped my staff in blood, +And onward led my thunder to the wood; +Where what they did, I'll tell you out anon, +My keeper calls me, and I must be gone. +Go if you please a while, attend your flocks, +And when the sun is over yonder rocks, +Come to this cave again, where I will be, +If that my guardian so much favour me. +Yet if you please, let us three sing a strain, +Before you turn your sheep into the plain. + +WILLY. + +I am content. + +CUDDY. + + As well content am I. + +ROGET. + +Then, Will, begin, and we'll the rest supply. + + +SONG. + +WILLY. + + Shepherd, would these gates were ope, + Thou might'st take with us thy fortune. + +ROGET. + + No, I'll make this narrow scope, + Since my fate doth so importune + Means unto a wider hope. + +CUDDY. + + Would thy shepherdess were here, + Who belov'd, loves thee so dearly! + +ROGET. + + Not for both your flocks, I swear, + And the gain they yield you yearly, + Would I so much wrong my dear. + Yet to me, nor to this place, + Would she now be long a stranger; + She would hold it no disgrace, + (If she feared not more my danger,) + Where I am to show her face. + +WILLY. + + Shepherd, we would wish no harms, + But something that might content thee. + +ROGET. + + Wish me then within her arms, + And that wish will ne'er repent me, + If your wishes might prove charms. + +WILLY. + + Be thy prison her embrace, + Be thy air her sweetest breathing. + +CUDDY. + + Be thy prospect her fair face, + For each look a kiss bequeathing, + And appoint thyself the place. + +ROGET. + + Nay pray, hold there, for I should scantly then + Come meet you here this afternoon again: + But fare you well, since wishes have no power, + Let us depart, and keep the 'pointed hour. + +[1] 'Ewes:' hopes. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT, + + +The author of 'Gondibert,' was the son of a vintner in Oxford, and born +in February 1605. Gossip says--but says with her usual carelessness about +truth--that he was the son of no less a person than William Shakspeare, +who used, in his journeys between London and Stratford, to stop at the +Crown, an inn kept by Davenant's reputed father. This story is hinted at +by Wood, was told to Pope by Betterton the player, and believed by Malone, +but seems to be a piece of mere scandal. It is true that Davenant had a +great veneration for Shakspeare, and expressed it, when only ten years +old, in lines 'In remembrance of Master William Shakspeare,' beginning +thus:-- + + 'Beware, delighted poets, when you sing, + To welcome nature in the early spring, + Your numerous feet not tread + The banks of Avon, for each flower + (As it ne'er knew a sun or shower) + Hangs there the pensive head.' + +Southey says--'The father was a man of melancholy temperament, the mother +handsome and lively; and as Shakspeare used to put up at the house on his +journeys between Stratford and London, Davenant is said to have affected +the reputation of being Shakspeare's son. If he really did this, there +was a levity, or rather a want of feeling, in the boast, for which social +pleasantry, and the spirits which are induced by wine, afford but little +excuse.' + +He was entered at Lincoln College; he next became page to the Duchess of +Richmond; and we find him afterwards in the family of Fulk Greville, Lord +Brooke--famous as the friend of Sir Philip Sidney. He began to write for +the stage in 1628; and on the death of Ben Jonson he was made Poet Laureate +--to the disappointment of Thomas May, so much praised by Johnson and +others for his proficiency in Latin poetry, as displayed in his supplement +to Lucan's 'Pharsalia.' He became afterwards manager of Drury Lane; but +owing to his connexion with the intrigues of that unhappy period, he was +imprisoned in the Tower, and subsequently made his escape to France. On his +return to England, he distinguished himself greatly in the Royal cause; and +when that became desperate, he again took refuge in France, and wrote part +of his 'Gondibert.' He projected a scheme for carrying over a colony to +Virginia; but his vessel was seized by one of the Parliamentary ships--he +himself was conveyed a prisoner to Cowes Castle, in the Isle of Wight, and +thence to the Tower, preparatory to being tried by the High Commission. But +a giant hand, worthy of having saved him had he been Shakspeare's veritable +son, was now stretched forth to his rescue--the hand of Milton. In this +generous act Milton was seconded by Whitelocke, and by two aldermen of +York, to whom our poet had rendered some services. Liberated from the +Tower, Davenant was also permitted, through the influence of Whitelocke, +to open, in defiance of Puritanic prohibition, a kind of theatre at Rutland +House, and by enacting his own plays there, he managed to support himself +till the Restoration. He then, it is supposed, repaid to Milton his +friendly service, and shielded him from the wrath of the Court. From this +period Davenant continued to write for the stage--having received the +patent of the Duke's Theatre, in Lincoln's Inn--till his death. This event +took place on April 7, 1668. His last play, written in conjunction with +Dryden, was an alteration and pollution of Shakspeare's 'Tempest,' which +was more worthy of Trincula than of the authors of 'Absalom and Ahithophel' +and of 'Gondibert.' Supposing Davenant the son of Shakspeare, his act to +his father's masterpiece reminds us, in the excess of its filial impiety, +of Ham's conduct to Noah. + +'Gondibert' is a large and able, without being a great poem. It has the +incurable and indefensible defect of dulness. 'The line labours, and the +words move slow.' The story is interesting of itself, but is lost in the +labyrinthine details. It has many lines, and some highly and successfully +wrought passages; but as a whole we may say of it as Porson said of +certain better productions, 'It will be read when the works of Homer and +Virgil are forgotten--but _not till then_.' + + +FROM 'GONDIBERT'--CANTO II. + +THE ARGUMENT. + +The hunting which did yearly celebrate +The Lombards' glory, and the Vandals' fate: +The hunters praised; how true to love they are, +How calm in peace and tempest-like in war. +The stag is by the numerous chase subdued, +And straight his hunters are as hard pursued. + +1 Small are the seeds Fate does unheeded sow + Of slight beginnings to important ends; + Whilst wonder, which does best our reverence show + To Heaven, all reason's sight in gazing spends. + +2 For from a day's brief pleasure did proceed, + A day grown black in Lombard histories, + Such lasting griefs as thou shalt weep to read, + Though even thine own sad love had drained thine eyes. + +3 In a fair forest, near Verona's plain, + Fresh as if Nature's youth chose there a shade, + The Duke, with many lovers in his train, + Loyal and young, a solemn hunting made. + +4 Much was his train enlarged by their resort + Who much his grandsire loved, and hither came + To celebrate this day with annual sport, + On which by battle here he earned his fame, + +5 And many of these noble hunters bore + Command amongst the youth at Bergamo; + Whose fathers gathered here the wreaths they wore, + When in this forest they interred the foe. + +6 Count Hurgonil, a youth of high descent, + Was listed here, and in the story great; + He followed honour, when towards death it went; + Fierce in a charge, but temperate in retreat. + +7 His wondrous beauty, which the world approved, + He blushing hid, and now no more would own + (Since he the Duke's unequalled sister loved) + Than an old wreath when newly overthrown. + +8 And she, Orna the shy! did seem in life + So bashful too, to have her beauty shown, + As I may doubt her shade with Fame at strife, + That in these vicious times would make it known. + +9 Not less in public voice was Arnold here; + He that on Tuscan tombs his trophies raised; + And now Love's power so willingly did bear, + That even his arbitrary reign he praised. + +10 Laura, the Duke's fair niece, enthralled his heart, + Who was in court the public morning glass, + Where those, who would reduce nature to art, + Practised by dress the conquests of the face. + +11 And here was Hugo, whom Duke Gondibert + For stout and steadfast kindness did approve; + Of stature small, but was all over heart, + And, though unhappy, all that heart was love. + +12 In gentle sonnets he for Laura pined, + Soft as the murmurs of a weeping spring, + Which ruthless she did as those murmurs mind: + So, ere their death, sick swans unheeded sing. + +13 Yet, whilst she Arnold favoured, he so grieved, + As loyal subjects quietly bemoan + Their yoke, but raise no war to be relieved, + Nor through the envied fav'rite wound the throne. + +14 Young Goltho next these rivals we may name, + Whose manhood dawned early as summer light; + As sure and soon did his fair day proclaim, + And was no less the joy of public sight. + +15 If love's just power he did not early see, + Some small excuse we may his error give; + Since few, though learn'd, know yet blest love to be + That secret vital heat by which we live: + +16 But such it is; and though we may be thought + To have in childhood life, ere love we know, + Yet life is useless till by reason taught, + And love and reason up together grow. + +17 Nor more the old show they outlive their love, + If, when their love's decayed, some signs they give + Of life, because we see them pained and move, + Than snakes, long cut, by torment show they live. + +18 If we call living, life, when love is gone, + We then to souls, God's coin, vain reverence pay; + Since reason, which is love, and his best known + And current image, age has worn away. + +19 And I, that love and reason thus unite, + May, if I old philosophers control, + Confirm the new by some new poet's light, + Who, finding love, thinks he has found the soul. + +20 From Goltho, to whom love yet tasteless seemed, + We to ripe Tybalt are by order led; + Tybalt, who love and valour both esteemed, + And he alike from either's wounds had bled. + +21 Public his valour was, but not his love, + One filled the world, the other he contained; + Yet quietly alike in both did move, + Of that ne'er boasted, nor of this complained. + +22 With these, whose special names verse shall preserve, + Many to this recorded hunting came; + Whose worth authentic mention did deserve, + But from Time's deluge few are saved by Fame. + +23 New like a giant lover rose the sun + From the ocean queen, fine in his fires and great; + Seemed all the morn for show, for strength at noon, + As if last night she had not quenched his heat. + +24 And the sun's servants, who his rising wait, + His pensioners, for so all lovers are, + And all maintained by him at a high rate + With daily fire, now for the chase prepare. + +25 All were, like hunters, clad in cheerful green, + Young Nature's livery, and each at strife + Who most adorned in favours should be seen, + Wrought kindly by the lady of his life. + +26 These martial favours on their waists they wear, + On which, for now they conquest celebrate, + In an embroidered history appear + Like life, the vanquished in their fears and fate. + +27 And on these belts, wrought with their ladies' care, + Hung cimeters of Akon's trusty steel; + Goodly to see, and he who durst compare + Those ladies' eyes, might soon their temper feel. + +28 Cheered as the woods, where new-waked choirs they meet, + Are all; and now dispose their choice relays + Of horse and hounds, each like each other fleet; + Which best, when with themselves compared, we praise. + +29 To them old forest spies, the harbourers, + With haste approach, wet as still weeping night, + Or deer that mourn their growth of head with tears, + When the defenceless weight does hinder flight. + +30 And dogs, such whose cold secrecy was meant + By Nature for surprise, on these attend; + Wise, temperate lime-hounds that proclaim no scent, + Nor harb'ring will their mouths in boasting spend. + +31 Yet vainlier far than traitors boast their prize, + On which their vehemence vast rates does lay, + Since in that worth their treason's credit lies, + These harb'rers praise that which they now betray. + +32 Boast they have lodged a stag, that all the race + Outruns of Croton horse, or Rhegian hounds; + A stag made long since royal in the chase, + If kings can honour give by giving wounds. + +33 For Aribert had pierced him at a bay, + Yet 'scaped he by the vigour of his head; + And many a summer since has won the day, + And often left his Rhegian followers dead. + +34 His spacious beam, that even the rights outgrew, + From antler to his troch had all allowed, + By which his age the aged woodmen knew, + Who more than he were of that beauty proud. + +35 Now each relay a several station finds, + Ere the triumphant train the copse surrounds; + Relays of horse, long breathed as winter winds, + And their deep cannon-mouthed experienced hounds. + +36 The huntsmen, busily concerned in show, + As if the world were by this beast undone, + And they against him hired as Nature's foe, + In haste uncouple, and their hounds outrun. + +37 Now wind they a recheat, the roused deer's knell, + And through the forest all the beasts are awed; + Alarmed by Echo, Nature's sentinel, + Which shows that murderous man is come abroad. + +38 Tyrannic man! thy subjects' enemy! + And more through wantonness than need or hate, + From whom the winged to their coverts fly, + And to their dens even those that lay in wait. + +39 So this, the most successful of his kind, + Whose forehead's force oft his opposers pressed, + Whose swiftness left pursuers' shafts behind, + Is now of all the forest most distressed! + +40 The herd deny him shelter, as if taught + To know their safety is to yield him lost; + Which shows they want not the results of thought, + But speech, by which we ours for reason boast. + +41 We blush to see our politics in beasts, + Who many saved by this one sacrifice; + And since through blood they follow interests, + Like us when cruel should be counted wise. + +42 His rivals, that his fury used to fear + For his loved female, now his faintness shun; + But were his season hot, and she but near, + (O mighty love!) his hunters were undone. + +43 From thence, well blown, he comes to the relay, + Where man's famed reason proves but cowardice, + And only serves him meanly to betray; + Even for the flying, man in ambush lies. + +44 But now, as his last remedy to live, + (For every shift for life kind Nature makes, + Since life the utmost is which she can give,) + Cool Adice from the swoln bank he takes. + +45 But this fresh bath the dogs will make him leave, + Whom he sure-nosed as fasting tigers found; + Their scent no north-east wind could e'er deceive + Which drives the air, nor flocks that soil the ground. + +46 Swift here the fliers and pursuers seem; + The frighted fish swim from their Adice, + The dogs pursue the deer, he the fleet stream, + And that hastes too to the Adriatic sea. + +47 Refreshed thus in this fleeting element, + He up the steadfast shore did boldly rise; + And soon escaped their view, but not their scent, + That faithful guide, which even conducts their eyes. + +48 This frail relief was like short gales of breath, + Which oft at sea a long dead calm prepare; + Or like our curtains drawn at point of death, + When all our lungs are spent, to give us air. + +49 For on the shore the hunters him attend: + And whilst the chase grew warm as is the day, + (Which now from the hot zenith does descend,) + He is embossed, and wearied to a bay. + +50 The jewel, life, he must surrender here, + Which the world's mistress, Nature, does not give, + But like dropped favours suffers us to wear, + Such as by which pleased lovers think they live. + +51 Yet life he so esteems, that he allows + It all defence his force and rage can make; + And to the eager dogs such fury shows, + As their last blood some unrevenged forsake. + +52 But now the monarch murderer comes in, + Destructive man! whom Nature would not arm, + As when in madness mischief is foreseen, + We leave it weaponless for fear of harm. + +53 For she defenceless made him, that he might + Less readily offend; but art arms all, + From single strife makes us in numbers fight; + And by such art this royal stag did fall. + +54 He weeps till grief does even his murderers pierce; + Grief which so nobly through his anger strove, + That it deserved the dignity of verse, + And had it words, as humanly would move. + +55 Thrice from the ground his vanquished head he reared, + And with last looks his forest walks did view; + Where sixty summers he had ruled the herd, + And where sharp dittany now vainly grew: + +56 Whose hoary leaves no more his wounds shall heal; + For with a sigh (a blast of all his breath) + That viewless thing, called life, did from him steal, + And with their bugle-horns they wind his death. + +57 Then with their annual wanton sacrifice, + Taught by old custom, whose decrees are vain, + And we, like humorous antiquaries, that prize + Age, though deformed, they hasten to the plain. + +58 Thence homeward bend as westward as the sun, + Where Gondibert's allies proud feasts prepare, + That day to honour which his grandsire won; + Though feasts the eyes to funerals often are. + +59 One from the forest now approached their sight, + Who them did swiftly on the spur pursue; + One there still resident as day and night, + And known as the eldest oak which in it grew: + +60 Who, with his utmost breath advancing, cries, + (And such a vehemence no heart could feign,) + 'Away! happy the man that fastest flies! + Fly, famous Duke! fly with thy noble train!' + +61 The Duke replied: 'Though with thy fears disguised, + Thou dost my sire's old ranger's image bear, + And for thy kindness shalt not be despised; + Though counsels are but weak which come from fear. + +62 'Were dangers here, great as thy love can shape, + And love with fear can danger multiply, + Yet when by flight thou bidst us meanly 'scape, + Bid trees take wings, and rooted forests fly.' + +63 Then said the ranger: 'You are bravely lost!' + (And like high anger his complexion rose.) + 'As little know I fear as how to boast; + But shall attend you through your many foes. + +64 'See where in ambush mighty Oswald lay! + And see, from yonder lawn he moves apace, + With lances armed to intercept thy way, + Now thy sure steeds are wearied with the chase. + +65 'His purple banners you may there behold, + Which, proudly spread, the fatal raven bear; + And full five hundred I by rank have told, + Who in their gilded helms his colours wear.' + +66 The Duke this falling storm does now discern; + Bids little Hugo fly! but 'tis to view + The foe, and timely their first count'nance learn, + Whilst firm he in a square his hunters drew. + +67 And Hugo soon, light as his courser's heels, + Was in their faces troublesome as wind; + And like to it so wingedly he wheels, + No one could catch, what all with trouble find. + +68 But everywhere the leaders and the led + He temperately observed with a slow sight; + Judged by their looks how hopes and fears were fed, + And by their order their success in fight. + +69 Their number, 'mounting to the ranger's guess, + In three divisions evenly was disposed; + And that their enemies might judge it less, + It seemed one gross with all the spaces closed. + +70 The van fierce Oswald led, where Paradine + And manly Dargonet, both of his blood, + Outshined the noon, and their minds' stock within + Promised to make that outward glory good. + +71 The next, bold, but unlucky Hubert led, + Brother to Oswald, and no less allied + To the ambitions which his soul did wed; + Lowly without, but lined with costly pride. + +72 Most to himself his valour fatal was, + Whose glories oft to others dreadful were; + So comets, though supposed destruction's cause, + But waste themselves to make their gazers fear. + +73 And though his valour seldom did succeed, + His speech was such as could in storms persuade; + Sweet as the hopes on which starved lovers feed, + Breathed in the whispers of a yielding maid. + +74 The bloody Borgio did conduct the rear, + Whom sullen Vasco heedfully attends; + To all but to themselves they cruel were, + And to themselves chiefly by mischief friends. + +75 War, the world's art, nature to them became; + In camps begot, born, and in anger bred; + The living vexed till death, and then their fame, + Because even fame some life is to the dead. + +76 Cities, wise statesmen's folds for civil sheep, + They sacked, as painful shearers of the wise; + For they like careful wolves would lose their sleep, + When others' prosperous toils might be their prize. + +77 Hugo amongst these troops spied many more, + Who had, as brave destroyers, got renown; + And many forward wounds in boast they wore, + Which, if not well revenged, had ne'er been shown. + +78 Such the bold leaders of these lancers were, + Which of the Brescian veterans did consist; + Whose practised age might charge of armies bear, + And claim some rank in Fame's eternal list. + +79 Back to his Duke the dexterous Hugo flies, + What he observed he cheerfully declares; + With noble pride did what he liked despise; + For wounds he threatened whilst he praised their scars. + +80 Lord Arnold cried, 'Vain is the bugle-horn, + Where trumpets men to manly work invite! + That distant summons seems to say, in scorn, + We hunters may be hunted hard ere night.' + +81 'Those beasts are hunted hard that hard can fly,' + Replied aloud the noble Hurgonil; + 'But we, not used to flight, know best to die; + And those who know to die, know how to kill. + +82 'Victors through number never gained applause; + If they exceed our count in arms and men, + It is not just to think that odds, because + One lover equals any other ten.' + + +FROM 'GONDIBERT'--CANTO IV. + +1 The King, who never time nor power misspent + In subject's bashfulness, whiling great deeds + Like coward councils, who too late consent, + Thus to his secret will aloud proceeds: + +2 'If to thy fame, brave youth, I could add wings, + Or make her trumpet louder by my voice, + I would, as an example drawn for kings, + Proclaim the cause why thou art now my choice. + + * * * * * + +3 'For she is yours, as your adoption free; + And in that gift my remnant life I give; + But 'tis to you, brave youth! who now are she; + And she that heaven where secondly I live. + +4 'And richer than that crown, which shall be thine + When life's long progress I have gone with fame, + Take all her love; which scarce forbears to shine, + And own thee, through her virgin curtain, shame.' + +5 Thus spake the king; and Rhodalind appeared + Through published love, with so much bashfulness, + As young kings show, when by surprise o'erheard, + Moaning to favourite ears a deep distress. + +6 For love is a distress, and would be hid + Like monarchs' griefs, by which they bashful grow; + And in that shame beholders they forbid; + Since those blush most, who most their blushes show. + +7 And Gondibert, with dying eyes, did grieve + At her vailed love, a wound he cannot heal, + As great minds mourn, who cannot then relieve + The virtuous, when through shame they want conceal. + +8 And now cold Birtha's rosy looks decay; + Who in fear's frost had like her beauty died, + But that attendant hope persuades her stay + A while, to hear her Duke; who thus replied: + +9 'Victorious King! abroad your subjects are, + Like legates, safe; at home like altars free! + Even by your fame they conquer, as by war; + And by your laws safe from each other be. + +10 'A king you are o'er subjects so, as wise + And noble husbands seem o'er loyal wives; + Who claim not, yet confess their liberties, + And brag to strangers of their happy lives. + +11 'To foes a winter storm; whilst your friends bow, + Like summer trees, beneath your bounty's load; + To me, next him whom your great self, with low + And cheerful duty, serves, a giving God. + +12 'Since this is you, and Rhodalind, the light + By which her sex fled virtue find, is yours, + Your diamond, which tests of jealous sight, + The stroke, and fire, and Oisel's juice endures; + +13 'Since she so precious is, I shall appear + All counterfeit, of art's disguises made; + And never dare approach her lustre near, + Who scarce can hold my value in the shade. + +14 'Forgive me that I am not what I seem; + But falsely have dissembled an excess + Of all such virtues as you most esteem; + But now grow good but as I ills confess. + +15 'Far in ambition's fever am I gone! + Like raging flame aspiring is my love; + Like flame destructive too, and, like the sun, + Does round the world tow'rds change of objects move. + +16 'Nor is this now through virtuous shame confessed; + But Rhodalind does force my conjured fear, + As men whom evil spirits have possessed, + Tell all when saintly votaries appear. + +17 'When she will grace the bridal dignity, + It will be soon to all young monarchs known; + Who then by posting through the world will try + Who first can at her feet present his crown. + +18 'Then will Verona seem the inn of kings, + And Rhodalind shall at her palace gate + Smile, when great love these royal suitors brings; + Who for that smile would as for empire wait. + +19 'Amongst this ruling race she choice may take + For warmth of valour, coolness of the mind, + Eyes that in empire's drowsy calms can wake, + In storms look out, in darkness dangers find; + +20 'A prince who more enlarges power than lands, + Whose greatness is not what his map contains; + But thinks that his where he at full commands, + Not where his coin does pass, but power remains. + +21 'Who knows that power can never be too high; + When by the good possessed, for 'tis in them + The swelling Nile, from which though people fly, + They prosper most by rising of the stream. + +22 'Thus, princes, you should choose; and you will find, + Even he, since men are wolves, must civilise, + As light does tame some beasts of savage kind, + Himself yet more, by dwelling in your eyes.' + +23 Such was the Duke's reply; which did produce + Thoughts of a diverse shape through several ears: + His jealous rivals mourn at his excuse; + But Astragon it cures of all his fears, + +24 Birtha his praise of Rhodalind bewails; + And now her hope a weak physician seems; + For hope, the common comforter, prevails + Like common medicines, slowly in extremes. + +25 The King (secure in offered empire) takes + This forced excuse as troubled bashfulness, + And a disguise which sudden passion makes, + To hide more joy than prudence should express. + +26 And Rhodalind, who never loved before, + Nor could suspect his love was given away, + Thought not the treasure of his breast so poor, + But that it might his debts of honour pay. + +27 To hasten the rewards of his desert, + The King does to Verona him command; + And, kindness so imposed, not all his art + Can now instruct his duty to withstand. + +28 Yet whilst the King does now his time dispose + In seeing wonders, in this palace shown, + He would a parting kindness pay to those + Who of their wounds are yet not perfect grown. + +29 And by this fair pretence, whilst on the King + Lord Astragon through all the house attends, + Young Orgo does the Duke to Birtha bring, + Who thus her sorrows to his bosom sends: + +30 'Why should my storm your life's calm voyage vex? + Destroying wholly virtue's race in one: + So by the first of my unlucky sex, + All in a single ruin were undone. + +31 'Make heavenly Rhodalind your bride! whilst I, + Your once loved maid, excuse you, since I know + That virtuous men forsake so willingly + Long-cherished life, because to heaven they go. + +32 'Let me her servant be: a dignity, + Which if your pity in my fall procures, + I still shall value the advancement high, + Not as the crown is hers, but she is yours.' + +33 Ere this high sorrow up to dying grew, + The Duke the casket opened, and from thence, + Formed like a heart, a cheerful emerald drew; + Cheerful, as if the lively stone had sense. + +34 The thirtieth caract it had doubled twice; + Not taken from the Attic silver mine, + Nor from the brass, though such, of nobler price, + Did on the necks of Parthian ladies shine: + +35 Nor yet of those which make the Ethiop proud; + Nor taken from those rocks where Bactrians climb: + But from the Scythian, and without a cloud; + Not sick at fire, nor languishing with time. + +36 Then thus he spake: 'This, Birtha, from my male + Progenitors, was to the loyal she + On whose kind heart they did in love prevail, + The nuptial pledge, and this I give to thee: + +37 'Seven centuries have passed, since it from bride + To bride did first succeed; and though 'tis known + From ancient lore, that gems much virtue hide, + And that the emerald is the bridal stone: + +38 'Though much renowned because it chastens loves, + And will, when worn by the neglected wife, + Show when her absent lord disloyal proves, + By faintness, and a pale decay of life. + +39 'Though emeralds serve as spies to jealous brides, + Yet each compared to this does counsel keep; + Like a false stone, the husband's falsehood hides, + Or seems born blind, or feigns a dying sleep. + +40 'With this take Orgo, as a better spy, + Who may in all your kinder fears be sent + To watch at court, if I deserve to die + By making this to fade, and you lament.' + +41 Had now an artful pencil Birtha drawn, + With grief all dark, then straight with joy all light, + He must have fancied first, in early dawn, + A sudden break of beauty out of night. + +42 Or first he must have marked what paleness fear, + Like nipping frost, did to her visage bring; + Then think he sees, in a cold backward year, + A rosy morn begin a sudden spring. + +43 Her joys, too vast to be contained in speech, + Thus she a little spake: 'Why stoop you down, + My plighted lord, to lowly Birtha's reach, + Since Rhodalind would lift you to a crown? + +44 'Or why do I, when I this plight embrace, + Boldly aspire to take what you have given? + But that your virtue has with angels place, + And 'tis a virtue to aspire to heaven. + +45 'And as towards heaven all travel on their knees, + So I towards you, though love aspire, will move: + And were you crowned, what could you better please + Then awed obedience led by bolder love? + +46 'If I forget the depth from whence I rise, + Far from your bosom banished be my heart; + Or claim a right by beauty to your eyes; + Or proudly think my chastity desert. + +47 'But thus ascending from your humble maid + To be your plighted bride, and then your wife, + Will be a debt that shall be hourly paid, + Till time my duty cancel with my life. + +48 'And fruitfully, if heaven e'er make me bring + Your image to the world, you then my pride + No more shall blame than you can tax the spring + For boasting of those flowers she cannot hide. + +49 'Orgo I so receive as I am taught + By duty to esteem whate'er you love; + And hope the joy he in this jewel brought + Will luckier than his former triumphs prove. + +50 'For though but twice he has approached my sight, + He twice made haste to drown me in my tears: + But now I am above his planet's spite, + And as for sin beg pardon for my fears.' + +51 Thus spake she: and with fixed, continued sight + The Duke did all her bashful beauties view; + Then they with kisses sealed their sacred plight, + Like flowers, still sweeter as they thicker grew. + +52 Yet must these pleasures feel, though innocent, + The sickness of extremes, and cannot last; + For power, love's shunned impediment, has sent + To tell the Duke his monarch is in haste: + +53 And calls him to that triumph which he fears + So as a saint forgiven, whose breast does all + Heaven's joys contain, wisely loved pomp forbears, + Lest tempted nature should from blessings fall. + +54 He often takes his leave, with love's delay, + And bids her hope he with the King shall find, + By now appearing forward to obey, + A means to serve him less in Rhodalind. + +55 She weeping to her closet window hies, + Where she with tears doth Rhodalind survey; + As dying men, who grieve that they have eyes, + When they through curtains spy the rising day. + + + + +DR HENRY KING. + + +Of this poetical divine we know nothing, except that he was born in +1591, and died in 1669,--that he was chaplain to James I., and Bishop of +Chichester,--and that he indited some poetry as pious in design as it is +pretty in execution. + + +SIC VITA. + +Like to the falling of a star, +Or as the flights of eagles are; +Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, +Or silver drops of morning dew; +Or like a wind that chafes the flood, +Or bubbles which on water stood: +Even such is man, whose borrowed light +Is straight called in, and paid to-night. + +The wind blows out, the bubble dies; +The spring entombed in autumn lies; +The dew dries up, the star is shot: +The flight is past--and man forgot. + + +SONG. + +1 Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, + Which like growing fountains rise + To drown their banks! Grief's sullen brooks + Would better flow in furrowed looks: + Thy lovely face was never meant + To be the shore of discontent. + +2 Then clear those waterish stars again, + Which else portend a lasting rain; + Lest the clouds which settle there + Prolong my winter all the year, + And thy example others make + In love with sorrow, for thy sake. + + +LIFE. + +1 What is the existence of man's life + But open war or slumbered strife? + Where sickness to his sense presents + The combat of the elements, + And never feels a perfect peace + Till death's cold hand signs his release. + +2 It is a storm--where the hot blood + Outvies in rage the boiling flood: + And each loud passion of the mind + Is like a furious gust of wind, + Which beats the bark with many a wave, + Till he casts anchor in the grave. + +3 It is a flower--which buds, and grows, + And withers as the leaves disclose; + Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, + Like fits of waking before sleep, + Then shrinks into that fatal mould + Where its first being was enrolled. + +4 It is a dream--whose seeming truth + Is moralised in age and youth; + Where all the comforts he can share + As wandering as his fancies are, + Till in a mist of dark decay + The dreamer vanish quite away. + +5 It is a dial--which points out + The sunset as it moves about; + And shadows out in lines of night + The subtle stages of Time's flight, + Till all-obscuring earth hath laid + His body in perpetual shade. + +6 It is a weary interlude-- + Which doth short joys, long woes, include: + The world the stage, the prologue tears; + The acts vain hopes and varied fears; + The scene shuts up with loss of breath, + And leaves no epilogue but Death! + + + + +JOHN CHALKHILL. + + +This author was of the age of Spenser, and is said to have been an +acquaintance and friend of that poet. It was not, however, till 1683 +that good old Izaak Walton published 'Thealma and Clearchus,' a pas- +toral romance, which, he stated, had been written long since by John +Chalkhill, Esq. He says of the author, 'that he was in his time a man +generally known, and as well beloved; for he was humble and obliging +in his behaviour--a gentleman, a scholar, very innocent and prudent, +and indeed his whole life was useful, quiet, and virtuous.' Some have +suspected that this production proceeded from the pen of Walton himself. +This, however, is rendered extremely unlikely--first, by the fact that +Walton, when he printed 'Thealma,' was ninety years of age; and, +secondly, by the difference in style and purpose between that poem and +Walton's avowed productions. The mind of Walton was quietly ingenious; +that of the author of 'Thealma' is adventurous and fantastic. Walton +loved 'the green pastures and the still waters' of the Present; the +other, the golden groves and ideal wildernesses of the Golden Age in +the Past. + +'Thealma and Clearchus' may be called an 'Arcadia' in rhyme. It +resembles that work of Sir Philip Sidney, not only in subject, but in +execution. Its plot is dark and puzzling, its descriptions are rich to +luxuriance, its narrative is tedious, and its characters are mere +shadows. But although a dream, it is a dream of genius, and brings +beautifully before our imagination that early period in the world's +history, in which poets and painters have taught us to believe, when the +heavens were nearer, the skies clearer, the fat of the earth richer, the +foam of the sea brighter, than in our degenerate days;--when shepherds, +reposing under broad, umbrageous oaks, saw, or thought they saw, in the +groves the shadow of angels, and on the mountain-summits the descending +footsteps of God. Chalkhill resembles, of all our modern poets, perhaps +Shelley most, in the ideality of his conception, the enthusiasm of his +spirit, and the unmitigated gorgeousness of his imagination. + + +ARCADIA. + + Arcadia, was of old, a state, +Subject to none but their own laws and fate; +Superior there was none, but what old age +And hoary hairs had raised; the wise and sage, +Whose gravity, when they are rich in years, +Begat a civil reverence more than fears +In the well-mannered people; at that day, +All was in common, every man bare sway +O'er his own family; the jars that rose +Were soon appeased by such grave men as those: +This mine and thine, that we so cavil for, +Was then not heard of; he that was most poor +Was rich in his content, and lived as free +As they whose flocks were greatest; nor did he +Envy his great abundance, nor the other +Disdain the low condition of his brother, +But lent him from his store to mend his state, +And with his love he quits him, thanks his fate; +And, taught by his example, seeks out such +As want his help, that they may do as much. +Their laws, e'en from their childhood, rich and poor +Had written in their hearts, by conning o'er +The legacies of good old men, whose memories +Outlive their monuments, the grave advice +They left behind in writing;--this was that +That made Arcadia then so blest a state; +Their wholesome laws had linked them so in one, +They lived in peace and sweet communion. +Peace brought forth plenty, plenty bred content, +And that crowned all their plans with merriment. +They had no foe, secure they lived in tents, +All was their own they had, they paid no rents; +Their sheep found clothing, earth provided food, +And labour dressed them as their wills thought good; +On unbought delicates their hunger fed, +And for their drink the swelling clusters bled; +The valleys rang with their delicious strains, +And pleasure revelled on those happy plains; +Content and labour gave them length of days, +And peace served in delight a thousand ways. + + +THEALMA, A DESERTED SHEPHERDESS. + +Scarce had the ploughman yoked his horned team, +And locked their traces to the crooked beam, +When fair Thealma, with a maiden scorn, +That day before her rise, outblushed the morn; +Scarce had the sun gilded the mountain-tops, +When forth she leads her tender ewes. + + * * * * * + +Down in a valley, 'twixt two rising hills, +From whence the dew in silver drops distils +To enrich the lowly plain, a river ran, +Hight Cygnus, (as some think, from Leda's swan +That there frequented;) gently on it glides, +And makes indentures in her crooked sides, +And with her silent murmurs rocks asleep +Her watery inmates; 'twas not very deep, +But clear as that Narcissus looked in, when +His self-love made him cease to live with men. +Close by the river was a thick-leafed grove, +Where swains of old sang stories of their love, +But unfrequented now since Colin died-- +Colin, that king of shepherds, and the pride +Of all Arcadia;--here Thealma used +To feed her milky droves; and as they browsed, +Under the friendly shadow of a beech +She sat her down; grief had tongue-tied her speech, +Her words were sighs and tears--dumb eloquence-- +Heard only by the sobs, and not the sense. +With folded arms she sat, as if she meant +To hug those woes which in her breast were pent; +Her looks were nailed to earth, that drank +Her tears with greediness, and seemed to thank +Her for those briny showers, and in lieu +Returns her flowery sweetness for her dew. + + * * * * * + +'O my Clearchus!' said she, and with tears +Embalms his name: 'oh, if the ghosts have ears, +Or souls departed condescend so low, +To sympathise with mortals in their woe, +Vouchsafe to lend a gentle ear to me, +Whose life is worse than death, since not with thee. +What privilege have they that are born great +Move than the meanest swain? The proud waves beat +With more impetuousness upon high lands, +Than on the flat and less-resisting strands: +The lofty cedar, and the knotty oak, +Are subject more unto the thunder-stroke, +Than the low shrubs that no such shocks endure; +Even their contempt doth make them live secure. +Had I been born the child of some poor swain, +Whose thoughts aspire no higher than the plain, +I had been happy then; t'have kept these sheep, +Had been a princely pleasure; quiet sleep +Had drowned my cares, or sweetened them with dreams: +Love and content had been my music's themes; +Or had Clearchus lived the life I lead, +I had been blest!' + + + PRIESTESS OF DIANA. + + Within a little silent grove hard by, + Upon a small ascent, he might espy + A stately chapel, richly gilt without, + Beset with shady sycamores about: + And ever and anon he might well hear + A sound of music steal in at his ear + As the wind gave it being; so sweet an air + Would strike a syren mute.-- + + * * * * * + +A hundred virgins there he might espy +Prostrate before a marble deity, +Which, by its portraiture, appeared to be +The image of Diana; on their knee +They tendered their devotions, with sweet airs, +Offering the incense of their praise and prayers. +Their garments all alike; beneath their paps +Buckled together with a silver claps, +And 'cross their snowy silken robes, they wore +An azure scarf, with stars embroidered o'er. +Their hair in curious tresses was knit up, +Crowned with a silver crescent on the top. +A silver bow their left hand held, their right, +For their defence, held a sharp-headed flight +Drawn from their broidered quiver, neatly tied +In silken cords, and fastened to their side. +Under their vestments, something short before, +White buskins, laced with ribanding, they wore. +It was a catching sight for a young eye, +That love had fired before. He might espy +One, whom the rest had sphere-like circled round, +Whose head was with a golden chaplet crowned. +He could not see her face, only his ear +Was blessed with the sweet sounds that came from her. + + +THEALMA IN FULL DRESS. + +----Tricked herself in all her best attire, +As if she meant this day to invite desire +To fall in love with her; her loose hair +Hung on her shoulders, sporting with the air; +Her brow a coronet of rosebuds crowned, +With loving woodbines' sweet embraces bound. +Two globe-like pearls were pendant to her ears, +And on her breast a costly gem she wears, +An adamant, in fashion like a heart, +Whereon Love sat, a-plucking out a dart, +With this same motto graven round about, +On a gold border, 'Sooner in than out.' +This gem Clearchus gave her, when, unknown, +At tilt his valour won her for his own. +Instead of bracelets on her wrists, she wore +A pair of golden shackles, chained before +Unto a silver ring, enamelled blue, +Whereon in golden letters to the view +This motto was presented, 'Bound, yet free,' +And in a true-love's knot, a T and C +Buckled it fast together; her silk gown +Of grassy green, in equal plaits hung down +Unto the earth; and as she went, the flowers, +Which she had broidered on it at spare hours, +Were wrought so to the life, they seemed to grow +In a green field; and as the wind did blow, +Sometimes a lily, then a rose, takes place, +And blushing seems to hide it in the grass: +And here and there good oats 'mong pearls she strew, +That seemed like spinning glow-worms in the dew. +Her sleeves were tinsel, wrought with leaves of green +In equal distance spangeled between, +And shadowed over with a thin lawn cloud, +Through which her workmanship more graceful showed. + + +DWELLING OF THE WITCH ORANDRA. + +Down in a gloomy valley, thick with shade, +Which two aspiring hanging rocks had made, +That shut out day, and barred the glorious sun +From prying into the actions there done; +Set full of box and cypress, poplar, yew, +And hateful elder that in thickets grew, +Among whose boughs the screech-owl and night-crow +Sadly recount their prophecies of woe, +Where leather-winged bats, that hate the light, +Fan the thick air, more sooty than the night. +The ground o'ergrown with weeds and bushy shrubs, +Where milky hedgehogs nurse their prickly cubs: +And here and there a mandrake grows, that strikes +The hearers dead with their loud fatal shrieks; +Under whose spreading leaves the ugly toad, +The adder, and the snake, make their abode. +Here dwelt Orandra; so the witch was hight, +And hither had she toiled him by a sleight: +She knew Anaxus was to go to court, +And, envying virtue, she made it her sport +To hinder him, sending her airy spies +Forth with delusion to entrap his eyes, +As would have fired a hermit's chill desires +Into a flame; his greedy eye admires +The more than human beauty of her face, +And much ado he had to shun the grace; +Conceit had shaped her out so like his love, +That he was once about in vain to prove +Whether 'twas his Clarinda, yea or no, +But he bethought him of his herb, and so +The shadow vanished; many a weary step +It led the prince, that pace with it still kept, +Until it brought him by a hellish power +Unto the entrance of Orandra's bower, +Where underneath an elder-tree he spied +His man Pandevius, pale and hollow-eyed; +Inquiring of the cunning witch what fate +Betid his master; they were newly sate +When his approach disturbed them; up she rose, +And toward Anaxus (envious hag) she goes; +Pandevius she had charmed into a maze, +And struck him mute, all he could do was gaze. +He called him by his name, but all in vain, +Echo returns 'Pandevius' back again; +Which made him wonder, when a sudden fear +Shook all his joints: she, cunning hag, drew near, +And smelling to his herb, he recollects +His wandering spirits, and with anger checks +His coward fears; resolved now to outdare +The worst of dangers, whatsoe'er they were; +He eyed her o'er and o'er, and still his eye +Found some addition to deformity. +An old decrepit hag she was, grown white +With frosty age, and withered with despite +And self-consuming hate; in furs yclad, +And on her head a thrummy cap she had. +Her knotty locks, like to Alecto's snakes, + +Hang down about her shoulders, which she shakes +Into disorder; on her furrowed brow +One might perceive Time had been long at plough. +Her eyes, like candle-snuffs, by age sunk quite +Into their sockets, yet like cats' eyes bright: +And in the darkest night like fire they shined, +The ever-open windows of her mind. +Her swarthy cheeks, Time, that all things consumes, +Had hollowed flat into her toothless gums. +Her hairy brows did meet above her nose, +That like an eagle's beak so crooked grows, +It well-nigh kissed her chin; thick bristled hair +Grew on her upper lip, and here and there +A rugged wart with grisly hairs behung; +Her breasts shrunk up, her nails and fingers long; +Her left leant on a staff, in her right hand +She always carried her enchanting wand. +Splay-footed, beyond nature, every part +So patternless deformed, 'twould puzzle art +To make her counterfeit; only her tongue, +Nature had that most exquisitely strung, +Her oily language came so smoothly from her, +And her quaint action did so well become her, +Her winning rhetoric met with no trips, +But chained the dull'st attention to her lips. +With greediness he heard, and though he strove +To shake her off, the more her words did move. +She wooed him to her cell, called him her son, +And with fair promises she quickly won +Him to her beck; or rather he, to try +What she could do, did willingly comply, +With her request. * * * +Her cell was hewn out of the marble rock +By more than human art; she did not knock, +The door stood always open, large and wide, +Grown o'er with woolly moss on either side, +And interwove with ivy's nattering twines, +Through which the carbuncle and diamond shines. +Not set by Art, but there by Nature sown +At the world's birth, so star-like bright they shone. +They served instead of tapers to give light +To the dark entry, where perpetual Night, +Friend to black deeds, and sire of Ignorance, +Shuts out all knowledge, lest her eye by chance +Might bring to light her follies: in they went, +The ground was strewed with flowers, whose sweet scent, +Mixed with the choice perfumes from India brought, +Intoxicates his brain, and quickly caught +His credulous sense; the walls were gilt, and set +With precious stones, and all the roof was fret +With a gold vine, whose straggling branches spread +All o'er the arch; the swelling grapes were red; +This Art had made of rubies, clustered so, +To the quick'st eye they more than seemed to grow; +About the wall lascivious pictures hung, +Such as were of loose Ovid sometimes sung. +On either side a crew of dwarfish elves +Held waxen tapers, taller than themselves: +Yet so well shaped unto their little stature, +So angel-like in face, so sweet in feature; +Their rich attire so differing; yet so well +Becoming her that wore it, none could tell +Which was the fairest, which the handsomest decked, +Or which of them desire would soon'st affect. +After a low salute they all 'gan sing, +And circle in the stranger in a ring. +Orandra to her charms was stepped aside, +Leaving her guest half won and wanton-eyed. +He had forgot his herb: cunning delight +Had so bewitched his ears, and bleared his sight, +And captivated all his senses so, +That he was not himself; nor did he know +What place he was in, or how he came there, +But greedily he feeds his eye and ear +With what would ruin him;-- + * * * * * + Next unto his view +She represents a banquet, ushered in +By such a shape as she was sure would win +His appetite to taste; so like she was +To his Clarinda, both in shape and face; +So voiced, so habited, of the same gait +And comely gesture; on her brow in state +Sat such a princely majesty, as he +Had noted in Clarinda; save that she +Had a more wanton eye, that here and there +Rolled up and down, not settling any where. +Down on the ground she falls his hand to kiss, +And with her tears bedews it; cold as ice +He felt her lips, that yet inflamed him so, +That he was all on fire the truth to know, +Whether she was the same she did appear, +Or whether some fantastic form it were, +Fashioned in his imagination +By his still working thoughts, so fixed upon +His loved Clarinda, that his fancy strove, +Even with her shadow, to express his love. + + + + +CATHARINE PHILLIPS. + + +Very little is known of the life of this lady-poet. She was born in +1631. Her maiden name was Fowler. She married James Phillips, Esq., of +the Priory of Cardigan. Her poems, published under the name of "Orinda," +were very popular in her lifetime, although it was said they were +published without her consent. She translated two of the tragedies of +Corneille, and left a volume of letters to Sir Charles Cotterell. These, +however, did not appear till after her death. She died of small-pox +--then a deadly disease--in 1664. She seems to have been a favourite +alike with the wits and the divines of her age. Jeremy Taylor addressed +to her his "Measures and Offices of Friendship;" Dryden praised her; and +Flatman and Cowley, besides imitating her poems while she was living, +paid rhymed tributes to her memory when dead. Her verses are never +commonplace, and always sensible, if they hardly attain to the measure +and the stature of lofty poetry, + + +THE INQUIRY. + +1 If we no old historian's name + Authentic will admit, + But think all said of friendship's fame + But poetry or wit; + Yet what's revered by minds so pure + Must be a bright idea sure. + +2 But as our immortality + By inward sense we find, + Judging that if it could not be, + It would not be designed: + So here how could such copies fall, + If there were no original? + +3 But if truth be in ancient song, + Or story we believe; + If the inspired and greater throng + Have scorned to deceive; + There have been hearts whose friendship gave + Them thoughts at once both soft and grave. + +4 Among that consecrated crew + Some more seraphic shade + Lend me a favourable clew, + Now mists my eyes invade. + Why, having filled the world with fame, + Left you so little of your flame? + +5 Why is't so difficult to see + Two bodies and one mind? + And why are those who else agree + So difficultly kind? + Hath Nature such fantastic art, + That she can vary every heart? + +6 Why are the bands of friendship tied + With so remiss a knot, + That by the most it is defied, + And by the most forgot? + Why do we step with so light sense + From friendship to indifference? + +7 If friendship sympathy impart, + Why this ill-shuffled game, + That heart can never meet with heart, + Or flame encounter flame? + What does this cruelty create? + Is't the intrigue of love or fate? + +8 Had friendship ne'er been known to men, + (The ghost at last confessed) + The world had then a stranger been + To all that heaven possessed. + But could it all be here acquired, + Not heaven itself would be desired. + + +A FRIEND. + +1 Love, nature's plot, this great creation's soul, + The being and the harmony of things, + Doth still preserve and propagate the whole, + From whence man's happiness and safety springs: + The earliest, whitest, blessed'st times did draw + From her alone their universal law. + +2 Friendship's an abstract of this noble flame, + 'Tis love refined and purged from all its dross, + The next to angels' love, if not the same, + As strong in passion is, though not so gross: + It antedates a glad eternity, + And is an heaven in epitome. + + * * * * * + +3 Essential honour must be in a friend, + Not such as every breath fans to and fro; + But born within, is its own judge and end, + And dares not sin though sure that none should know. + Where friendship's spoke, honesty's understood; + For none can be a friend that is not good. + + * * * * * + +4 Thick waters show no images of things; + Friends are each other's mirrors, and should be + Clearer than crystal or the mountain springs, + And free from clouds, design, or flattery. + For vulgar souls no part of friendship share; + Poets and friends are born to what they are. + + + + +MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. + + +This lady, if not more of a woman than Mrs Phillips, was considerably +more of a poet. She was born (probably) about 1625. She was the daughter +of Sir Charles Lucas, and became a maid-of-honour to Henrietta Maria. +Accompanying the Queen to France, she met with the Marquis, afterwards +Duke of Newcastle, and married him at Paris in 1645. They removed to +Antwerp, and there, in 1653, this lady published a volume, entitled +'Poems and Fancies.' The pair aided each other in their studies, and the +result was a number of enormous folios of poems, plays, speeches, and +philosophical disquisitions. These volumes were, we are told, great +favourites of Coleridge and Charles Lamb, for the sake, we presume, of +the wild sparks of insight and genius which break irresistibly through +the scholastic smoke and bewildered nonsense. When Charles II. was +restored, the Marquis and his wife returned to England, and spent their +life in great harmony. She died in 1673, leaving behind her some +beautiful fantasias, where the meaning is often finer than the music, +such as the 'Pastime and Recreation of Fairies in Fairy-land.' Her +poetry, particularly her contrasted pictures of Mirth and Melancholy, +present fine accumulations of imagery drawn direct from nature, and +shewn now in brightest sunshine, and now in softest moonlight, as the +change of her subject and her tone of feeling require. + + +MELANCHOLY DESCRIBED BY MIRTH. + +Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound; +She hates the light, and is in darkness found; +Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small, +Which various shadows make against the wall. +She loves nought else but noise which discord makes, +As croaking frogs, whose dwelling is in lakes; +The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan, +And shrieking owls which fly i' the night alone; +The tolling bell, which for the dead rings out; +A mill, where rushing waters run about; +The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall, +Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal. +She loves to walk in the still moonshine night, +And in a thick dark grove she takes delight; +In hollow caves, thatched houses, and low cells, +She loves to live, and there alone she dwells. + + +MELANCHOLY DESCRIBING HERSELF. + +I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun; +Sit on the banks by which clear waters run; +In summers hot, down in a shade I lie; +My music is the buzzing of a fly; +I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass; +In fields, where corn is high, I often pass; +Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see, +Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be; +Returning back, I in fresh pastures go, +To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low; +In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, +Then I do live in a small house alone; +Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within, +Like to a soul that's pure, and clear from sin; +And there I dwell in quiet and still peace, +Not filled with cares how riches to increase; +I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures; +No riches are, but what the mind intreasures. +Thus am I solitary, live alone, +Yet better loved, the more that I am known; +And though my face ill-favoured at first sight, +After acquaintance, it will give delight. +Refuse me not, for I shall constant be; +Maintain your credit and your dignity. + + + + +THOMAS STANLEY. + + +Thomas Stanley, like Thomas Brown in later days, was both a philosopher +and a poet; but his philosophical reputation at the time eclipsed his +poetical. He was the only son of Sir Thomas Stanley of Camberlow Green, +in Hertfordshire, and was born in 1620. He received his education at +Pembroke College, Oxford; and after travelling for some years abroad, +he took up his abode in the Middle Temple. Here he seems to have spent +the rest of his life in patient and multifarious studies. He made +translations of some merit from Anacreon, Bion, Moschus, and the +'Kisses' of Secundus, as well as from Marino, Boscan, Tristan, and +Gongora. He wrote a work of great pretensions as a compilation, entitled +'The History of Philosophy,' containing the lives, opinions, actions, +and discourses of philosophers of every sect, of which he published the +first volume in 1655, and completed it in a fourth in 1662. It is rather +a vast collection of the materials for a history, than a history itself. +He is a Cudworth in magnitude and learning, but not in strength and +comprehension, and is destitute of precision and clearness of style. +Stanley also wrote some poems, which discover powers that might have +been better employed in original composition than in translation. +His style, rich of itself, is enriched to repletion by conceits, and +sometimes by voluptuous sentiments and language. He adds a new flush to +the cheek of Anacreon himself; and his grapes are so heavy, that not a +staff, but a wain were required to bear them. Stanley died in 1678. + + +CELIA SINGING. + +1 Roses in breathing forth their scent, + Or stars their borrowed ornament; + Nymphs in their watery sphere that move, + Or angels in their orbs above; + The winged chariot of the light, + Or the slow, silent wheels of night; + The shade which from the swifter sun + Doth in a swifter motion run, + Or souls that their eternal rest do keep, + Make far less noise than Celia's breath in sleep. + +2 But if the angel which inspires + This subtle flame with active fires, + Should mould this breath to words, and those + Into a harmony dispose, + The music of this heavenly sphere + Would steal each soul (in) at the ear, + And into plants and stones infuse + A life that cherubim would choose, + And with new powers invert the laws of fate, + Kill those that live, and dead things animate. + + +SPEAKING AND KISSING. + +1 The air which thy smooth voice doth break, + Into my soul like lightning flies; + My life retires while thou dost speak, + And thy soft breath its room supplies. + +2 Lost in this pleasing ecstasy, + I join my trembling lips to thine, + And back receive that life from thee + Which I so gladly did resign. + +3 Forbear, Platonic fools! t'inquire + What numbers do the soul compose; + No harmony can life inspire, + But that which from these accents flows. + + +LA BELLE CONFIDANTE. + +You earthly souls that court a wanton flame + Whose pale, weak influence +Can rise no higher than the humble name + And narrow laws of sense, +Learn, by our friendship, to create + An immaterial fire, +Whose brightness angels may admire, + But cannot emulate. +Sickness may fright the roses from her cheek, + Or make the lilies fade, +But all the subtle ways that death doth seek + Cannot my love invade. + + +THE LOSS. + +1 Yet ere I go, + Disdainful Beauty, thou shalt be + So wretched as to know + What joys thou fling'st away with me. + +2 A faith so bright, + As Time or Fortune could not rust; + So firm, that lovers might + Have read thy story in my dust, + +3 And crowned thy name + With laurel verdant as thy youth, + Whilst the shrill voice of Fame + Spread wide thy beauty and my truth. + +4 This thou hast lost, + For all true lovers, when they find + That my just aims were crossed, + Will speak thee lighter than the wind. + +5 And none will lay + Any oblation on thy shrine, + But such as would betray + Thy faith to faiths as false as thine. + +6 Yet, if thou choose + On such thy freedom to bestow, + Affection may excuse, + For love from sympathy doth flow. + + +NOTE ON ANACREON. + +Let's not rhyme the hours away; +Friends! we must no longer play: +Brisk Lyaeus--see!--invites +To more ravishing delights. +Let's give o'er this fool Apollo, +Nor his fiddle longer follow: +Fie upon his forked hill, +With his fiddlestick and quill; +And the Muses, though they're gamesome, +They are neither young nor handsome; +And their freaks in sober sadness +Are a mere poetic madness: +Pegasus is but a horse; +He that follows him is worse. +See, the rain soaks to the skin, +Make it rain as well within. +Wine, my boy; we'll sing and laugh, +All night revel, rant, and quaff; +Till the morn, stealing behind us, +At the table sleepless find us. +When our bones, alas! shall have +A cold lodging in the grave; +When swift Death shall overtake us, +We shall sleep and none can wake us. +Drink we then the juice o' the vine +Make our breasts Lyaeus' shrine; +Bacchus, our debauch beholding, +By thy image I am moulding, +Whilst my brains I do replenish +With this draught of unmixed Rhenish; +By thy full-branched ivy twine; +By this sparkling glass of wine; +By thy Thyrsus so renowned: +By the healths with which th' art crowned; +By the feasts which thou dost prize; +By thy numerous victories; +By the howls by Moenads made; +By this haut-gout carbonade; +By thy colours red and white; +By the tavern, thy delight; +By the sound thy orgies spread; +By the shine of noses red; +By thy table free for all; +By the jovial carnival; +By thy language cabalistic; +By thy cymbal, drum, and his stick; +By the tunes thy quart-pots strike up; +By thy sighs, the broken hiccup; +By thy mystic set of ranters; +By thy never-tamed panthers; +By this sweet, this fresh and free air; +By thy goat, as chaste as we are; +By thy fulsome Cretan lass; +By the old man on the ass; +By thy cousins in mixed shapes; +By the flower of fairest grapes; +By thy bisks famed far and wide; +By thy store of neats'-tongues dried; +By thy incense, Indian smoke; +By the joys thou dost provoke; +By this salt Westphalia gammon; +By these sausages that inflame one; +By thy tall majestic flagons; +By mass, tope, and thy flapdragons; +By this olive's unctuous savour; +By this orange, the wine's flavour; +By this cheese o'errun with mites; +By thy dearest favourites; +To thy frolic order call us, +Knights of the deep bowl install us; +And to show thyself divine, +Never let it want for wine. + + + + +ANDREW MARVELL. + + +This noble-minded patriot and poet, the friend of Milton, the Abdiel of a +dark and corrupt age,--'faithful found among the faithless, faithful only +he,'--was born in Hull in 1620. He was sent to Cambridge, and is said +there to have nearly fallen a victim to the proselytising Jesuits, who +enticed him to London. His father, however, a clergyman in Hull, went +in search of and brought him back to his university, where speedily, by +extensive culture and the vigorous exercise of his powerful faculties, +he emancipated himself for ever from the dominion, and the danger of the +dominion, of superstition and bigotry. We know little more about the early +days of our poet. When only twenty, he lost his father in remarkable +circumstances. In 1640, he had embarked on the Humber in company with a +youthful pair whom he was to marry at Barrow, in Lincolnshire. The weather +was calm; but Marvell, seized with a sudden presentiment of danger, threw +his staff ashore, and cried out, 'Ho for heaven!' A storm came on, and the +whole company perished. In consequence of this sad event, the gentleman, +whose daughter was to have been married, conceiving that the father had +sacrificed his life while performing an act of friendship, adopted young +Marvell as his son. Owing to this, he received a better education, and +was sent abroad to travel. It is said that at Rome he met and formed a +friendship with Milton, then engaged on his immortal continental tour. +We find Marvell next at Constantinople, as Secretary to the English +Embassy at that Court. We then lose sight of him till 1653, when he was +engaged by the Protector to superintend the education of a Mr Dutton at +Eton. For a year and a half after Cromwell's death, Marvell assisted +Milton as Latin Secretary to the Protector. Our readers are all familiar +with the print of Cromwell and Milton seated together at the council-table, +--the one the express image of active power and rugged grandeur, the other +of thoughtful majesty and ethereal grace. Marvell might have been added as +a third, and become the emblem of strong English sense and incorruptible +integrity. A letter of Milton's was, not long since, discovered, dated +February 1652, in which he speaks of Marvell as fitted, by his knowledge +of Latin and his experience of teaching, to be his assistant. He was not +appointed, however, till 1657. In 1660, he became member for Hull, and was +re-elected as long as he lived. He was absent, however, from England for +two years, in the beginning of the reign, in Germany and Holland. After- +wards he sought leave from his constituents to act as Ambassador's +Secretary to Lord Carlisle at the Northern Courts; but from the year 1665 +to his death, his attention to his parliamentary duties was unremitting. +He constantly corresponded with his constituents; and after the longest +sittings, he used to write out for their use a minute account of public +proceedings ere he went to bed, or took any refreshment. He was one of +the last members who received pay from the town he represented; (2s. +a-day was probably the sum;) and his constituents were wont, besides, to +send him barrels of ale as tokens of their regard. Marvell spoke little +in the House; but his heart and vote were always in the right place. Even +Prince Eupert continually consulted him, and was sometimes persuaded by +him to support the popular side; and King Charles having met him once in +private, was so delighted with his wit and agreeable manners, that he +thought him worth trying to bribe. He sent Lord Danby to offer him a mark +of his Majesty's consideration. Marvell, who was seated in a dingy room +up several flights of stairs, declined the proffer, and, it is said, +called his servant to witness that he had dined for three successive days +on the same shoulder of mutton, and was not likely, therefore, to care +for or need a bribe. When the Treasurer was gone, he had to send to a +friend to borrow a guinea. Although, a silent senator, Marvell was a +copious and popular writer. He attacked Bishop Parker for his slavish +principles, in a piece entitled 'The Rehearsal Transposed,' in which he +takes occasion to vindicate and panegyrise his old colleague Milton. His +anonymous 'Account of the Growth of Arbitrary Power and Popery in England' +excited a sensation, and a reward was offered for the apprehension of the +author and printer. Marvell had many of the elements of a first-rate +political pamphleteer. He had wit of a most pungent kind, great though +coarse fertility of fancy, and a spirit of independence that nothing could +subdue or damp. He was the undoubted ancestor of the Defoes, Swifts, +Steeles, Juniuses, and Burkes, in whom this kind of authorship reached its +perfection, ceased to be fugitive, and assumed classical rank. + +Marvell had been repeatedly threatened with assassination, and hence, +when he died suddenly on the 16th of August 1678, it was surmised that +he had been removed by poison. The Corporation of Hull voted a sum to +defray his funeral expenses, and for raising a monument to his memory; +but owing to the interference of the Court, through the rector of the +parish, this votive tablet was not at the time erected. He was buried in +St Giles-in-the-Fields. + +'Out of the strong came forth sweetness,' saith the Hebrew record. And +so from the sturdy Andrew Marvell have proceeded such soft and lovely +strains as 'The Emigrants,' 'The Nymph complaining for the Death of her +Fawn,' 'Young Love,' &c. The statue of Memnon became musical at the dawn; +and the stern patriot, whom no bribe could buy and no flattery melt, is +found sympathising in song with a boatful of banished Englishmen in the +remote Bermudas, and inditing 'Thoughts in a Garden,' from which you might +suppose that he had spent his life more with melons than with men, and was +better acquainted with the motions of a bee-hive than with the contests of +Parliament, and the distractions of a most distracted age. It was said +(not with thorough truth) of Milton, that he could cut out a Colossus from +a rock, but could not carve heads upon cherry-stones--a task which his +assistant may be said to have performed in his stead, in his small but +delectable copies of verse. + + +THE EMIGRANTS. + +1 Where the remote Bermudas ride, + In the ocean's bosom unespied, + From a small boat that rowed along, + The listening winds received this song. + +2 'What should we do but sing His praise + That led us through the watery maze, + Unto an isle so long unknown, + And yet far kinder than our own! + +3 'Where he the huge sea-monsters racks, + That lift the deep upon their backs; + He lands us on a grassy stage, + Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. + +4 'He gave us this eternal spring + Which here enamels everything, + And sends the fowls to us in care, + On daily visits through the air. + +5 'He hangs in shades the orange bright, + Like golden lamps in a green night: + * * * * * + And in these rocks for us did frame + A temple where to sound his name. + +6 'Oh, let our voice his praise exalt + Till it arrive at heaven's vault, + Which then perhaps rebounding may + Echo beyond the Mexique bay.' + +7 Thus sung they in the English boat, + A holy and a cheerful note; + And all the way, to guide their chime, + With falling oars they kept the time. + + +THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. + +The wanton troopers riding by +Have shot my fawn, and it will die. +Ungentle men! they cannot thrive +Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive +Them any harm; alas! nor could +Thy death to them do any good. +I'm sure I never wished them ill; +Nor do I for all this; nor will: +But, if my simple prayers may yet +Prevail with Heaven to forget +Thy murder, I will join my tears, +Rather than fail. But, O my fears! +It cannot die so. Heaven's King +Keeps register of every thing, +And nothing may we use in vain: +Even beasts must be with justice slain. + + * * * * * + +Inconstant Sylvio, when yet +I had not found him counterfeit, +One morning (I remember well) +Tied in this silver chain and bell, +Gave it to me: nay, and I know +What he said then: I'm sure I do. +Said he, 'Look how your huntsman here +Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.' +But Sylvio soon had me beguiled. +This waxed tame while he grew wild, +And, quite regardless of my smart, +Left me his fawn, but took his heart. +Thenceforth I set myself to play +My solitary time away +With this, and very well content +Could so my idle life have spent; +For it was full of sport, and light +Of foot and heart; and did invite +Me to its game; it seemed to bless +Itself in me. How could I less +Than love it? Oh, I cannot be +Unkind to a beast that loveth me! +Had it lived long, I do not know +Whether it too might have done so +As Sylvio did; his gifts might be +Perhaps as false, or more, than he. +But I am sure, for aught that I +Could in so short a time espy, +Thy love was far more better than +The love of false and cruel man. +With sweetest milk and sugar first +I it at my own fingers nursed; +And as it grew, so every day +It waxed more white and sweet than they: +It had so sweet a breath; and oft +I blushed to see its foot more soft +And white, shall I say, than my hand? +Nay, any lady's of the land. +It is a wondrous thing how fleet +'Twas on those little silver feet; +With what a pretty skipping grace +It oft would challenge me the race; +And when't had left me far away, +'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; +For it was nimbler much than hinds, +And trod as if on the four winds. +I have a garden of my own, +But so with roses overgrown, +And lilies, that you would it guess +To be a little wilderness, +And all the spring-time of the year +It only loved to be there. +Among the beds of lilies I +Have sought it oft where it should lie, +Yet could not, till itself would rise, +Find it, although before mine eyes; +For in the flaxen lilies' shade +It like a bank of lilies laid; +Upon the roses it would feed, +Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed; +And then to me 'twould boldly trip, +And print those roses on my lip. +But all its chief delight was still +On roses thus itself to fill, +And its pure virgin limbs to fold +In whitest sheets of lilies cold. +Had it lived long, it would have been +Lilies without, roses within. * * * + + +ON PARADISE LOST. + +When I beheld the poet blind, yet bold, +In slender book his vast design unfold, +Messiah crowned, God's reconciled decree, +Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree, +Heaven, Hell, Earth, Chaos, all; the argument +Held me a while misdoubting his intent, +That he would ruin (for I saw him strong) +The sacred truths to fable and old song; +(So Sampson groped the temple's posts in spite) +The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight. + +Yet as I read, still growing less severe, +I liked his project, the success did fear; +Through that wild field how he his way should find, +O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind; +Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain, +And what was easy he should render vain. + +Or if a work so infinite be spanned, +Jealous I was that some less skilful hand +(Such as disquiet always what is well, +And, by ill imitating, would excel) +Might hence presume the whole creation's day +To change in scenes, and show it in a play. + +Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise +My causeless, yet not impious, surmise. +But I am now convinced, and none will dare +Within thy labours to pretend a share. +Thou hast not missed one thought that could be fit. +And all that was improper dost omit; +So that no room is here for writers left, +But to detect their ignorance or theft. + +That majesty, which through thy work doth reign, +Draws the devout, deterring the profane. +And things divine thou treat'st of in such state +As them preserves, and thee, inviolate. +At once delight and horror on us seize, +Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease; +And above human flight dost soar aloft +With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft. +The bird named from that Paradise you sing, +So never flags, but always keeps on wing. + +Where couldst thou words of such a compass find? +Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind? +Just Heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite, +Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight. + +Well mightst thou scorn thy readers to allure +With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure; +While the Town-Bays writes all the while and spells, +And like a pack-horse tires without his bells: +Their fancies like our bushy points appear; +The poets tag them, we for fashion wear. +I too, transported by the mode, offend, +And while I meant to praise thee, must commend. +Thy verse created, like thy theme, sublime, +In number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme. + + +THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. + +1 How vainly men themselves amaze, + To win the palm, the oak, or bays! + And their incessant labours see + Crowned from some single herb or tree, + Whose short and narrow-verged shade + Does prudently their toils upbraid; + While all the flowers and trees do close, + To weave the garlands of repose. + +2 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, + And Innocence, thy sister dear? + Mistaken long, I sought you then + In busy companies of men. + Your sacred plants, if here below, + Only among the plants will grow. + Society is all but rude + To this delicious solitude. + +3 No white nor red was ever seen + So amorous as this lovely green. + Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, + Cut in these trees their mistress' name. + Little, alas, they know or heed, + How far these beauties her exceed! + Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, + No name shall but your own be found. + +4 What wondrous life in this I lead! + Ripe apples drop about my head. + The luscious clusters of the vine + Upon my mouth do crush their wine. + The nectarine, and curious peach, + Into my hands themselves do reach. + Stumbling on melons as I pass, + Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. + +5 Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less + Withdraws into its happiness. + The mind, that ocean where each kind + Does straight its own resemblance find; + Yet it creates, transcending these, + Far other worlds and other seas; + Annihilating all that's made + To a green thought in a green shade. + +6 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, + Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, + Casting the body's vest aside, + My soul into the boughs does glide; + There, like a bird, it sits and sings, + Then whets and claps its silver wings, + And, till prepared for longer flight, + Waves in its plumes the various light. + +7 Such was the happy garden state, + While man there walked without a mate: + After a place so pure and sweet, + What other help could yet be meet! + But 'twas beyond a mortal's share + To wander solitary there: + Two paradises are in one, + To live in paradise alone. + +8 How well the skilful gard'ner drew + Of flowers and herbs this dial new! + Where, from above, the milder sun + Does through a fragrant zodiac run: + And, as it works, the industrious bee + Computes its time as well as we. + How could such sweet and wholesome hours + Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers? + + +SATIRE ON HOLLAND. + +Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, +As but the offscouring of the British sand; +And so much earth as was contributed +By English pilots when they heaved the lead; +Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell, +Of shipwrecked cockle and the mussel-shell; +This indigested vomit of the sea +Fell to the Dutch by just propriety. +Glad then, as miners who have found the ore, +They, with mad labour, fished the land to shore: +And dived as desperately for each piece +Of earth, as if't had been of ambergris; +Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, +Less than what building swallows bear away; +Or than those pills which sordid beetles roll, +Transfusing into them their dunghill soul. +How did they rivet, with gigantic piles, +Thorough the centre their new-catched miles; +And to the stake a struggling country bound, +Where barking waves still bait the forced ground; +Building their watery Babel far more high +To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky. +Yet still his claim the injured Ocean laid, +And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played; +As if on purpose it on land had come +To show them what's their _mare liberum_. +A daily deluge over them does boil; +The earth and water play at level-coil. +The fish oft-times the burgher dispossessed, +And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest; +And oft the Tritons, and the sea-nymphs, saw +Whole shoals of Dutch served up for Cabillau; +Or, as they over the new level ranged, +For pickled herring, pickled heeren changed. +Nature, it seemed, ashamed of her mistake, +Would throw their land away at duck and drake, +Therefore necessity, that first made kings, +Something like government among them brings. +For, as with Pigmies, who best kills the crane, +Among the hungry he that treasures grain, +Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns, +So rules among the drowned he that drains. +Not who first see the rising sun commands, +But who could first discern the rising lands. +Who best could know to pump an earth so leak, +Him they their lord, and country's father, speak. +To make a bank was a great plot of state; +Invent a shovel, and be a magistrate. +Hence some small dikegrave unperceived invades +The power, and grows, as 'twere, a king of spades; +But, for less envy some joined states endures, +Who look like a commission of the sewers: +For these half-anders, half-wet and half-dry, +Nor bear strict service, nor pure liberty. +'Tis probable religion, after this, +Came next in order; which they could not miss. +How could the Dutch but be converted, when +The apostles were so many fishermen? +Besides, the waters of themselves did rise, +And, as their land, so them did re-baptize; +Though herring for their God few voices missed, +And Poor-John to have been the Evangelist. +Faith, that could never twins conceive before, +Never so fertile, spawned upon this shore +More pregnant than their Marg'ret, that laid down +For Hands-in-Kelder of a whole Hans-Town. +Sure, when religion did itself embark, +And from the east would westward steer its ark, +It struck, and splitting on this unknown ground, +Each one thence pillaged the first piece he found: +Hence Amsterdam, Turk, Christian, Pagan, Jew, +Staple of sects, and mint of schism grew; +That bank of conscience, where not one so strange +Opinion, but finds credit, and exchange. +In vain for Catholics ourselves we bear: +The universal church is only there. * * * + + + + +IZAAK WALTON. + + +This amiable enemy of the finny tribe was born in Stafford, in August +1593. We hear of him first as settled in London, following the trade +of a sempster, or linen-draper, having a shop in the Royal Burse, in +Cornhill, which was 'seven feet and a half long, and five wide,' and +where he became possessed of a moderate fortune. He spent his leisure +time in fishing 'with honest Nat and R. Roe.' From the Royal Burse, he +removed to Fleet Street, where he had 'one half of a shop,' a hosier +occupying the other half. In 1632, he married Anne, the daughter of +Thomas Ken of Furnival's Inn, and sister of Dr Ken, the celebrated +Bishop of Bath and Wells. Through her and her kindred, he became +acquainted with many eminent men of the day. His wife, 'a woman of +remarkable prudence and primitive piety,' died long before him. He +retired from business in 1643, and lived, for forty years after, a life +of leisure and quiet enjoyment, spending much of his time in the houses +of his friends, and much of it by the still waters, which he so dearly +loved. Walton commenced his literary career by writing a Life of Dr +Donne, and followed with another of Sir Henry Wotton, prefixed to his +literary remains. In 1653 appeared his 'Complete Angler,' four editions +of which were called for before his decease. He wrote, in 1662, a Life +of Richard Hooker; in 1670, a Life of George Herbert; and, in 1678, a +Life of Bishop Sanderson--all distinguished by _naļveté_ and heart. In +1680, he published an anonymous discourse on the 'Distempers of the +Times.' In 1683, he printed, as we have seen, Chalkhill's 'Thealma and +Clearchus;' and on the 15th of December in the same year, he died at +Winchester, while residing with his son-in-law, Dr Hawkins, Prebendary +of Winchester Cathedral. + +Walton is one of the most loveable of all authors. Your admiration of +him is always melting into affection. Red as his and is with the blood +of fish, you pant to grasp it and press it to yours. You go with him +to the fishing as you would with a bright-eyed boy, relishing his +simple-hearted enthusiasm, and leaning down to listen to his precocious +remarks, and to pat his curly head. It is the prevalence of the +childlike element which makes Walton's 'Angler' rank with Bunyan's +'Pilgrim,' 'Robinson Crusoe,' and White's 'Natural History of Selborne,' +as among the most delightful books in the language. Its descriptions of +nature, too, are so fresh, that you smell to them as to a green leaf. +Walton would not have been at home fishing in the Forth or Clyde, or in +such rivers as are found in Norway, the milk-blue Logen, or the grass- +green Rauma, uniting, with its rich mediation, Romsdale Horn to the +tremendous Witch-Peaks which lower on the opposite side of the valley; +--the waters of his own dear England, going softly and somewhat drowsily +on their path, are the sources of his inspiration, and seem to sound like +the echoes of his own subdued but gladsome spirit. Johnson defined angling +as a rod with a fish at one end, and a fool at the other; in Walton's +case, we may correct the expression to 'a rod with a fish at one end, and +a fine old fellow--the "ae best fellow in the world"--at the other'-- + + 'In wit a man, simplicity a child.' + +We have given a specimen of the verse he intersperses sparingly in a +book which _is itself a complete poem._ + + +THE ANGLER'S WISH. + +1 I in these flowery meads would be: + These crystal streams should solace me, + To whose harmonious bubbling noise + I with my angle would rejoice: + Sit here and see the turtle-dove + Court his chaste mate to acts of love: + +2 Or on that bank feel the west wind + Breathe health and plenty: please my mind + To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, + And then washed off by April showers! + Here hear my Kenna sing a song, + There see a blackbird feed her young, + +3 Or a leverock build her nest: + Here give my weary spirits rest, + And raise my low-pitched thoughts above + Earth, or what poor mortals love; + Or, with my Bryan[1] and my book, + Loiter long days near Shawford brook: + +4 There sit by him and eat my meat, + There see the sun both rise and set, + There bid good morning to next day, + There meditate my time away, + And angle on, and beg to have + A quiet passage to the grave. + +[1] Probably his dog. + + + + +JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER + + +We hear of the Spirit of Evil on one occasion entering into swine, but, +if possible, a stranger sight is that of the Spirit of Poesy finding a +similar incarnation. Certainly the connexion of genius in the Earl of +Rochester with a life of the most degrading and desperate debauchery is +one of the chief marvels of this marvellous world. + +John Wilmot was the son of Henry, Lord Rochester, and was born April 10, +1647, at Ditchley in Oxfordshire. He was taught grammar at the school of +Burford. He then 'entered a nobleman' into Wadham College, when twelve +years old, and at 1661, when only fourteen, he was, in conjunction with +some others of rank, made M.A. by Lord Clarendon in person. Pursuing his +travels in France and Italy, he went in 1665 to sea with the Earl of +Sandwich, and distinguished himself at Bergen in an attack on the Dutch +fleet. Next year, while serving under Sir Edward Spragge, his commander +sent him in the heat of an engagement with a reproof to one of his +captains--a duty which Wilmot gallantly accomplished amidst a storm of +shot. With this early courage some of his biographers have contrasted +his subsequent reputation for cowardice, his slinking away out of +street-quarrels, his refusing to fight the Duke of Buckingham, &c. This +diversity at different periods may perhaps be accounted for on the +ground of the nervousness which continued dissipation produces, and +perhaps from his poetical temperament. A poet, we are persuaded, is +often the bravest, and often the most pusillanimous of men. Byron was +unquestionably in general a brave, almost a pugnacious man; and yet he +confesses that at certain times, had one proceeded to horsewhip him, +he would not have had the hardihood to resist. Shelley, who, in a +tremendous storm, behaved with dauntless heroism, and who would at any +time have acted on the example of his own character in 'Prometheus,' +who, in a shipwreck, + + 'gave an enemy + His plank, then plunged aside to die,' + +was yet subject to paroxysms of nervous horror, which made him perspire +and tremble like a spirit-seeing steed. Rochester had the same +temperament, and a similar creed, with these men, although inferior to +them both in _morale_ and in genius. + +His character was certainly very depraved. He told Burnet on his +deathbed that for five years he had not known the sensation of sobriety, +having been all that time either totally drunk, or mad through the dregs +of drunkenness. He on one occasion, while in this state, erected a stage +on Tower Hill, and addressed the mob as a naked mountebank. Even after +he became more temperate, he continued and even increased his +licentiousness--one devil went out, and seven entered in. He pursued low +amours in disguise; he practised occasionally as a quack doctor; and at +other times he retired to the country, and, like Byron, amused himself +by libelling all his acquaintances--every line in each libel being a +lie. Notwithstanding all this, he was a favourite with Charles II., who +made him one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, and comptroller of +Woodstock Park. In his lucid intervals he recurred to his studies, wrote +occasional verses, read in French Boileau and in English Cowley, and is +called by Wood the best scholar among all the nobility. + +At last, ere he was thirty-one, the 'dreary old sort of feel,' and the +'rigid fibre and stiffening limbs,' of which Byron and Burns, when +scarcely older, complained, began to assail Rochester. He had exhausted +his capacity of enjoyment by excess, and had deprived himself of the +consolations of religion by infidelity. His unbelief was not like +Shelley's--the growth of his own mind, and the fruit of unbridled, +though earnest, speculation;--it was merely a drug which he snatched +from the laboratories of others to deaden his remorse, and enable him to +look with desperate calmness to the blotted Past and the lowering +Future. At this stage of his career, he became acquainted with Bishop +Burnet, who has recorded his conversion and edifying end in a book +which, says Johnson, 'the critic ought to read for its elegance, the +philosopher for its arguments, and the saint for its piety.' To this, +after Johnson's example, we refer our readers. Eochester died July 26, +1680, before he had completed his thirty-fourth year. He was married, +and left three daughters and a son named Charles, who did not long +survive his father. With him the male line ceased, and the title was +conferred on a younger son of Lord Clarendon. His poems appeared in the +year of his death, professing on the title-page to be printed at +Antwerp. They contain much that is spurious, but some productions that +are undoubtedly Rochester's. They are at the best, poor fragmentary +exhibitions of a vigorous, but undisciplined mind. His songs are rather +easy than lively. His imitations are distinguished by grace and spirit. +His 'Nothing' is a tissue of clever conceits, like gaudy weeds growing +on a sterile soil, but here and there contains a grand and gloomy image, +such as-- + + 'And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face.' + +His 'Satire against Man' might be praised for its vigorous misanthropy, +but is chiefly copied from Boileau. + +Rochester may be signalised as the first thoroughly depraved and vicious +person, so far as we remember, who assumed the office of the satirist, +--the first, although not, alas! the last human imitator of 'Satan +accusing Sin.' Some satirists before him had been faulty characters, +while rather inconsistently assailing the faults of others; but here, +for the first time, was a man of no virtue, or belief in virtue whatever, +(his tenderness to his family, revealed in his letters, is just that of +the tiger fondling his cubs, and seeming, perhaps, to _them_ a 'much- +misrepresented character,') and whose life was one mass of wounds, +bruises, and putrefying sores,--a naked satyr who gloried in his shame, +--becoming a severe castigator of public morals and of private character. +Surely there was a gross anomaly implied in this, which far greater +genius than Rochester's could never have redeemed. + + +SONG. + +1 Too late, alas! I must confess, + You need not arts to move me; + Such charms by nature you possess, + 'Twere madness not to love ye. + +2 Then spare a heart you may surprise, + And give my tongue the glory + To boast, though my unfaithful eyes + Betray a tender story. + + +SONG. + +1 My dear mistress has a heart + Soft as those kind looks she gave me, + When with love's resistless art, + And her eyes, she did enslave me. + But her constancy's so weak, + She's so wild and apt to wander, + That my jealous heart would break + Should we live one day asunder. + +2 Melting joys about her move, + Killing pleasures, wounding blisses: + She can dress her eyes in love, + And her lips can warm with kisses. + Angels listen when she speaks, + She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; + But my jealous heart would break, + Should we live one day asunder. + + + + +THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON. + + +Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, was the son of James Dillon and +Elizabeth Wentworth. She was the sister of the infamous Strafford, who +was at once uncle and godfather to our poet. In what exact year Dillon +was born is uncertain, but it was some time about 1633. His father had +been converted from Popery by Usher; and when the Irish Rebellion broke +out, Strafford, afraid of the fury of the Irish, sent for his godson, +and took him to his own seat in Yorkshire, where he was taught Latin +with great care. He was sent afterwards to Caen, where he studied under +Bochart. It is said that while playing extravagantly there at the +customary games of boys, he suddenly paused, became grave, and cried +out, 'My father is dead,' and that a fortnight after arrived tidings +from Ireland confirming his impression. Johnson is inclined to believe +this story, and we are more than inclined. Since the lexicographer's +day, many of what used to be called his 'superstitions' have been +established as certain facts, although their explanation is still +shrouded in darkness. Roscommon was then only ten years of age. + +From Caen he travelled to Italy, where he obtained a profound knowledge +of medals. At the Restoration he returned to England, where he was made +Captain of the Band of Pensioners, and subsequently Master of the Horse +to the Duchess of York. He became unfortunately addicted to gambling, +and, through this miserable habit, he got embroiled in endless quarrels, +as well as in pecuniary embarassments. + +Business compelled him to visit Ireland, where the Duke of Orrnond made +him Captain of the Guards. On his return to England in 1662, he married +the Lady Frances, daughter of the Earl of Burlington. By her he had no +issue. His second wife, whom he married in 1674, was Isabella, daughter +of Matthew Beynton of Barmister, in Yorkshire. + +Roscommon now began to meditate and execute literary projects. He +produced an 'Essay on Translated Verse,' (in 1681,) a translation of +Horace's 'Art of Poetry,' and other pieces. He projected, in conjunction +with his friend Dryden, a plan for refining our language and fixing its +standard, as if Time were not the great refiner, fixer, and enricher of +a tongue. While busy with these schemes and occupations, the troubles of +James II.'s reign commenced. Roscommon determined to retire to Rome, +saying, 'It is best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smokes.' +Death, however, prevented him from reaching the beloved and desired +focus of Roman Catholic darkness. He was assailed by gout, and an +ignorant French empiric, whom he consulted, contrived to drive the +disease into the bowels. Roscommon expired, uttering with great fervour +two lines from his own translation of the 'Dies Irae,'-- + + 'My God, my Father, and my Friend, + Do not forsake me in my end.' + +This was in 1684. He received a pompous interment in Westminster Abbey. + +Roscommon does not deserve the name of a great poet. He was a man of +varied accomplishments and exquisite taste rather than of genius. His +'Essay on Translated Verse' is a sound and sensible, not a profound and +brilliant production. In one point he went before his age. He praises +Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' although unfortunately he selects for encomium +the passage in the sixth book describing the angels fighting against +each other with fire-arms--a passage which most critics have considered +a blot upon the poem. + + +FROM "AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE." + +Immodest words admit of no defence; +For want of decency is want of sense. +What moderate fop would rake the park or stews, +Who among troops of faultless nymphs may choose? +Variety of such is to be found: +Take then a subject proper to expound; +But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice; +For men of sense despise a trivial choice; +And such applause it must expect to meet, +As would some painter busy in a street, +To copy bulls and bears, and every sign +That calls the staring sots to nasty wine. + +Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good: +It must delight us when 'tis understood. +He that brings fulsome objects to my view, +As many old have done, and many new, +With nauseous images my fancy fills, +And all goes down like oxymel of squills. +Instruct the listening world how Maro sings +Of useful subjects and of lofty things. +These will such true, such bright ideas raise, +As merit gratitude, as well as praise: +But foul descriptions are offensive still, +Either for being like, or being ill: +For who, without a qualm, hath ever looked +On holy garbage, though by Homer cooked? +Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded gods +Make some suspect he snores, as well as nods. +But I offend--Virgil begins to frown, +And Horace looks with indignation down: +My blushing Muse with conscious fear retires, +And whom they like implicitly admires. + +On sure foundations let your fabric rise, +And with attractive majesty surprise; +Not by affected meretricious arts, +But strict harmonious symmetry of parts; +Which through the whole insensibly must pass, +With vital heat to animate the mass: +A pure, an active, an auspicious flame; +And bright as heaven, from whence the blessing came: +But few, oh! few souls, preordained by fate, +The race of gods, have reached that envied height. +No rebel Titan's sacrilegious crime, +By heaping hills on hills can hither climb: +The grizzly ferryman of hell denied +Aeneas entrance, till he knew his guide. +How justly then will impious mortals fall, +Whose pride would soar to heaven without a call! + +Pride, of all others the most dangerous fault, +Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought. +The men who labour and digest things most, +Will be much apter to despond than boast: +For if your author be profoundly good, +'Twill cost you dear before he's understood. +How many ages since has Virgil writ! +How few are they who understand him yet! +Approach his altars with religious fear: +No vulgar deity inhabits there. +Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod, +Than poets should before their Mantuan god. +Hail, mighty Maro! may that sacred name +Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame, +Sublime ideas and apt words infuse; +The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the Muse! + +What I have instanced only in the best, +Is, in proportion, true of all the rest. +Take pains the genuine meaning to explore! +There sweat, there strain: tug the laborious oar; +Search every comment that your care can find; +Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind: +Yet be not blindly guided by the throng: +The multitude is always in the wrong. +When things appear unnatural or hard, +Consult your author, with himself compared. +Who knows what blessing Phoebus may bestow, +And future ages to your labour owe? +Such secrets are not easily found out; +But, once discovered, leave no room for doubt. + +Truth stamps conviction in your ravished breast; +And peace and joy attend the glorious guest. +Truth still is one; Truth is divinely bright; +No cloudy doubts obscure her native light; +While in your thoughts you find the least debase, +You may confound, but never can translate. +Your style will this through all disguises show; +For none explain more clearly than they know. +He only proves he understands a text, +Whose exposition leaves it unperplexed. +They who too faithfully on names insist, +Rather create than dissipate the mist; +And grow unjust by being over nice, +For superstitious virtue turns to vice. +Let Crassus' ghost and Labienus tell +How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell. +Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame +That few know Pacorus' or Monaeses' name. + +Words in one language elegantly used, +Will hardly in another be excused; +And some that Rome admired in Caesar's time, +May neither suit our genius nor our clime. +The genuine sense, intelligibly told, +Shows a translator both discreet and bold. + +Excursions are inexpiably bad; +And 'tis much safer to leave out than add. +Abstruse and mystic thought you must express +With painful care, but seeming easiness; +For truth shines brightest through the plainest dress. +The Aenean Muse, when she appears in state, +Makes all Jove's thunder on her verses wait; +Yet writes sometimes as soft and moving things +As Venus speaks, or Philomela sings. +Your author always will the best advise, +Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise. +Affected noise is the most wretched thing, +That to contempt can empty scribblers bring. +Vowels and accents, regularly placed, +On even syllables (and still the last) +Though gross innumerable faults abound, +In spite of nonsense, never fail of sound, +But this is meant of even verse alone, +As being most harmonious and most known: +For if you will unequal numbers try, +There accents on odd syllables must lie. +Whatever sister of the learned Nine +Does to your suit a willing ear incline, +Urge your success, deserve a lasting name, +She'll crown a grateful and a constant flame. +But if a wild uncertainty prevail, +And turn your veering heart with every gale, +You lose the fruit of all your former care, +For the sad prospect of a just despair. + +A quack, too scandalously mean to name, +Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame; +As if Lucina had forgot her trade, +The labouring wife invokes his surer aid. +Well-seasoned bowls the gossip's spirits raise, +Who, while she guzzles, chats the doctor's praise; +And largely, what she wants in words, supplies, +With maudlin eloquence of trickling eyes. +But what a thoughtless animal is man! +How very active in his own trepan! +For, greedy of physicians' frequent fees, +From female mellow praise he takes degrees; +Struts in a new unlicensed gown, and then +From saving women falls to killing men. +Another such had left the nation thin, +In spite of all the children he brought in. +His pills as thick as hand grenadoes flew; +And where they fell, as certainly they slew: +His name struck everywhere as great a damp, +As Archimedes' through the Roman camp. +With this, the doctor's pride began to cool; +For smarting soundly may convince a fool. +But now repentance came too late for grace; +And meagre famine stared him in the face: +Fain would he to the wives be reconciled, +But found no husband left to own a child. +The friends, that got the brats, were poisoned too: +In this sad case, what could our vermin do? +Worried with debts, and past all hope of bail, +The unpitied wretch lies rotting in a jail: +And there, with basket-alms scarce kept alive, +Shows how mistaken talents ought to thrive. + +I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, +Compelled by want to prostitute their pen; +Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, +And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead! +But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pampered heirs, +Who to your country owe your swords and cares, +Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, +For rich ill poets are without excuse; +'Tis very dangerous tampering with the Muse, +The profit's small, and you have much to lose; +For though true wit adorns your birth or place, +Degenerate lines degrade the attainted race. +No poet any passion can excite, +But what they feel transport them when they write. +Have you been led through the Cumaean cave, +And heard the impatient maid divinely rave? +I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes; +And panting, 'Lo! the God, the God,' she cries: +With words not hers, and more than human sound, +She makes the obedient ghosts peep trembling through the ground. +But, though we must obey when Heaven commands, +And man in vain the sacred call withstands, +Beware what spirit rages in your breast; +For ten inspired, ten thousand are possess'd: +Thus make the proper use of each extreme, +And write with fury, but correct with phlegm. +As when the cheerful hours too freely pass, +And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass, +Your pulse advises, and begins to beat +Through every swelling vein a loud retreat: +So when a Muse propitiously invites, +Improve her favours, and indulge her flights; +But when you find that vigorous heat abate, +Leave off, and for another summons wait. +Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp, +Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp, +Appear not meaner than mere human lines, +Compared with those whose inspiration shines: +These, nervous, bold; those, languid and remiss; +There cold salutes; but here a lover's kiss. +Thus have I seen a rapid headlong tide, +With foaming waves the passive Saone divide; +Whose lazy waters without motion lay, +While he, with eager force, urged his impetuous way. + + + + +CHARLES COTTON. + + +Hearty, careless 'Charley Cotton' was born in 1630. His father, Sir +George Cotton, was improvident and intemperate in his latter days, and +left the poet an encumbered estate situated at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, +near the river Dove. This place will recall the words quoted by O'Connell +in Parliament in reference to the present Lord Derby:-- + + 'Down thy fair banks, romantic Ashbourne, glides + The Derby dilly, with its six insides.' + +Charles studied at Cambridge; and after travelling abroad, married the +daughter of Sir Thomas Owthorp in Nottinghamshire, who does not appear +to have lived long. His extravagance keeping him poor, he was compelled +to eke out his means by translating works from the French and Italian, +including those of a spirit somewhat kindred to his own--Montaigne. At +the age of forty, he obtained a captain's commission in the army, and +went to Ireland. There he met with his second wife, Mary, Countess +Dowager of Ardglass, the widow of Lord Cornwall. She possessed a +jointure of £1500 a-year, secured, however, after marriage, from her +husband's imprudent and reckless management. He returned to his English +estate, where he became passionately fond of fishing,--intimate with +Izaak Walton, whom he invited in a poem, although now eighty-three years +old, to visit him in the country--and where he built a fishing-house, +with the initials of Izaak's name and his own united in ciphers over +the door; the walls, too, being painted with fishing scenes, and the +portraits of Cotton and Walton appearing upon the beaufet. Poor Charles +had a less fortunate career than his friend, dying insolvent at +Westminster in 1687. + +Careless gaiety and reckless extravagance, blended with heart, sense, +and sincerity, were the characteristics of Cotton as a man, and were, as +is usually the case, transferred to his poetry. He squandered his pence +and his powers with equal profusion. His travestie of the 'Aeneid' is +pronounced by Christopher North (who must have read it, however,) a +beastly book. Campbell says, with striking justice, of another of +Cotton's productions, 'His imitations of Lucian betray the grossest +misconception of humorous effect, when he attempts to burlesque that +which is ludicrous already.' It is like trying to turn the 'Tale of +a Tub' into ridicule. But Cotton's own vein, as exhibited in his +'Invitation to Walton,' his 'New Year,' and his 'Voyage to Ireland,' +(which anticipates in some measure the style of Anstey in the 'New Bath +Guide,') is very rich and varied, full of ease, picturesque spirit, and +humour, and stamps him a genuine, if not a great poet. + + +INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON. + +1 Whilst in this cold and blustering clime, + Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, + We pass away the roughest time + Has been of many years before; + +2 Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks + The dullest blasts our peace invade, + And by great rains our smallest brooks + Are almost navigable made; + +3 Whilst all the ills are so improved + Of this dead quarter of the year, + That even you, so much beloved, + We would not now wish with us here: + +4 In this estate, I say, it is + Some comfort to us to suppose, + That in a better clime than this, + You, our dear friend, have more repose; + +5 And some delight to me the while, + Though Nature now does weep in rain, + To think that I have seen her smile, + And haply may I do again. + +6 If the all-ruling Power please + We live to see another May, + We'll recompense an age of these + Foul days in one fine fishing day. + +7 We then shall have a day or two, + Perhaps a week, wherein to try + What the best master's hand can do + With the most deadly killing fly. + +8 A day with not too bright a beam; + A warm, but not a scorching sun; + A southern gale to curl the stream; + And, master, half our work is done. + +9 Then, whilst behind some bush we wait + The scaly people to betray, + We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait, + To make the preying trout our prey; + +10 And think ourselves, in such an hour, + Happier than those, though not so high, + Who, like leviathans, devour + Of meaner men the smaller fry. + +11 This, my best friend, at my poor home, + Shall be our pastime and our theme; + But then--should you not deign to come, + You make all this a flattering dream. + + + +A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE. + +CANTO I. + +The lives of frail men are compared by the sages +Or unto short journeys, or pilgrimages, +As men to their inns do come sooner or later, +That is, to their ends, to be plain in my matter; +From whence when one dead is, it currently follows, +He has run his race, though his goal be the gallows; +And this 'tis, I fancy, sets folks so a-madding, +And makes men and women so eager of gadding; +Truth is, in my youth I was one of these people +Would have gone a great way to have seen a high steeple, +And though I was bred 'mongst the wonders o' th' Peak, +Would have thrown away money, and ventured my neck +To have seen a great hill, a rock, or a cave, +And thought there was nothing so pleasant and brave: +But at forty years old you may, if you please, +Think me wiser than run such errands as these; +Or had the same humour still run in my toes, +A voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have chose; +But to tell you the truth on 't, indeed it was neither +Improvement nor pleasure for which I went thither; +I know then you'll presently ask me for what? +Why, faith, it was that makes the old woman trot; +And therefore I think I'm not much to be blamed +If I went to the place whereof Nick was ashamed. + +O Coryate! thou traveller famed as Ulysses, +In such a stupendous labour as this is, +Come lend me the aids of thy hands and thy feet, +Though the first be pedantic, the other not sweet, +Yet both are so restless in peregrination, +They'll help both my journey, and eke my relation. + +'Twas now the most beautiful time of the year, +The days were now long, and the sky was now clear, +And May, that fair lady of splendid renown, +Had dressed herself fine, in her flowered tabby gown, +When about some two hours and an half after noon, +When it grew something late, though I thought it too soon, +With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart, +I tuned up my pipes to sing _'loth to depart;_' +The ditty concluded, I called for my horse, +And with a good pack did the jument endorse, +Till he groaned and he f----d under the burden, +For sorrow had made me a cumbersome lurden: +And now farewell, Dove, where I've caught such brave dishes +Of over-grown, golden, and silver-scaled fishes; +Thy trout and thy grayling may now feed securely, +I've left none behind me can take 'em so surely; +Feed on then, and breed on, until the next year, +But if I return I expect my arrear. + +By pacing and trotting betimes in the even, +Ere the sun had forsaken one half of the heaven, +We all at fair Congerton took up our inn, +Where the sign of a king kept a King and his queen: +But who do you think came to welcome me there'? +No worse a man, marry, than good master mayor, +With his staff of command, yet the man was not lame, +But he needed it more when he went, than he came; +After three or four hours of friendly potation, +We took leave each of other in courteous fashion, +When each one, to keep his brains fast in his head, +Put on a good nightcap, and straightway to bed. + +Next morn, having paid for boiled, roasted, and bacon, +And of sovereign hostess our leaves kindly taken, +(For her king, as 'twas rumoured, by late pouring down, +This morning had got a foul flaw in his crown,) +We mounted again, and full soberly riding, +Three miles we had rid ere we met with a biding; +But there, having over-night plied the tap well, +We now must needs water at a place called Holmes Chapel: +'A hay!' quoth the foremost, 'ho! who keeps the house?' +Which said, out an host comes as brisk as a louse; +His hair combed as sleek as a barber he'd been, +A cravat with black ribbon tied under his chin; +Though by what I saw in him, I straight 'gan to fear +That knot would be one day slipped under his ear. +Quoth he (with low conge), 'What lack you, my lord?' +'The best liquor,' quoth I, 'that the house will afford.' +'You shall straight,' quoth he; and then calls out, 'Mary? +Come quickly, and bring us a quart of Canary.' +'Hold, hold, my spruce host! for i' th' morning so early, +I never drink liquor but what's made of barley.' +Which words were scarce out, but, which made me admire, +My lordship was presently turned into 'squire: + +'Ale, 'squire, you mean?' quoth he nimbly again, +'What, must it be purled'--'No, I love it best plain.' +'Why, if you'll drink ale, sir, pray take my advice, +Here's the best ale i' th' land, if you'll go to the price; +Better, I sure am, ne'er blew out a stopple; +But then, in plain truth, it is sixpence a bottle.' +'Why, faith,' quoth I, 'friend, if your liquor be such, +For the best ale in England, it is not too much: +Let's have it, and quickly.'--'o sir! you may stay; +A pot in your pate is a mile in your way: +Come, bring out a bottle here presently, wife, +Of the best Cheshire hum he e'er drank in his life.' +Straight out comes the mistress in waistcoat of silk, +As clear as a milkmaid, as white as her milk, +With visage as oval and sleek as an egg, +As straight as an arrow, as right as my leg: +A curtsey she made, as demure as a sister, +I could not forbear, but alighted and kissed her: +Then ducking another, with most modest mien, +The first word she said was, 'Will 't please you walk in? +I thanked her; but told her, I then could not stay, +For the haste of my business did call me away. +She said, she was sorry it fell out so odd, +But if, when again I should travel that road, +I would stay there a night, she assured me the nation +Should nowhere afford better accommodation: +Meanwhile my spruce landlord has broken the cork, +And called for a bodkin, though he had a fork; +But I showed him a screw, which I told my brisk gull +A trepan was for bottles had broken their skull; +Which, as it was true, he believed without doubt, +But 'twas I that applied it, and pulled the cork out. +Bounce, quoth the bottle, the work being done, +It roared, and it smoked, like a new-fired gun; +But the shot missed us all, or else we'd been routed, +Which yet was a wonder, we were so about it. +Mine host poured and filled, till he could fill no fuller: +'Look here, sir,' quoth he, 'both for nap and for colour, +Sans bragging, I hate it, nor will I e'er do 't; +I defy Leek, and Lambhith, and Sandwich, to boot.' +By my troth, he said true, for I speak it with tears, +Though I have been a toss-pot these twenty good years, +And have drank so much liquor has made me a debtor, +In my days, that I know of, I never drank better: +We found it so good and we drank so profoundly, +That four good round shillings were whipt away roundly; +And then I conceived it was time to be jogging, +For our work had been done, had we stay'd t' other noggin. + +From thence we set forth with more metal and spright, +Our horses were empty, our coxcombs were light; +O'er Dellamore forest we, tantivy, posted, +Till our horses were basted as if they were roasted: +In truth, we pursued might have been by our haste, +And I think Sir George Booth did not gallop so fast, +Till about two o'clock after noon, God be blest, +We came, safe and sound, all to Chester i' th' west. + +And now in high time 'twas to call for some meat, +Though drinking does well, yet some time we must eat: +And i' faith we had victuals both plenty and good, +Where we all laid about us as if we were wood: +Go thy ways, Mistress Anderton, for a good woman, +Thy guests shall by thee ne'er be turned to a common; +And whoever of thy entertainment complains, +Let him lie with a drab, and be poxed for his pains. + +And here I must stop the career of my Muse, +The poor jade is weary, 'las! how should she choose? +And if I should further here spur on my course, +I should, questionless, tire both my wits and my horse: +To-night let us rest, for 'tis good Sunday's even, +To-morrow to church, and ask pardon of Heaven. +Thus far we our time spent, as here I have penned it, +An odd kind of life, and 'tis well if we mend it: +But to-morrow (God willing) we'll have t' other bout, +And better or worse be 't, for murder will out, +Our future adventures we'll lay down before ye, +For my Muse is deep sworn to use truth of the story. + + +CANTO II + +After seven hours' sleep, to commute for pains taken, +A man of himself, one would think, might awaken; +But riding, and drinking hard, were two such spells, +I doubt I'd slept on, but for jangling of bells, +Which, ringing to matins all over the town, +Made me leap out of bed, and put on my gown. +With intent (so God mend me) t' have gone to the choir, +When straight I perceived myself all on a fire; +For the two forenamed things had so heated my blood, +That a little phlebotomy would do me good: +I sent for chirurgeon, who came in a trice, +And swift to shed blood, needed not be called twice, +But tilted stiletto quite thorough the vein, +From whence issued out the ill humours amain; +When having twelve ounces, he bound up my arm, +And I gave him two Georges, which did him no harm: +But after my bleeding, I soon understood +It had cooled my devotion as well as my blood; +For I had no more mind to look on my psalter, +Than (saving your presence) I had to a halter; +But, like a most wicked and obstinate sinner, +Then sat in my chamber till folks came to dinner: +I dined with good stomach, and very good cheer, +With a very fine woman, and good ale and beer; +When myself having stuffed than a bagpipe more full, +I fell to my smoking until I grew dull; +And, therefore, to take a fine nap thought it best, +For when belly full is, bones would be at rest: +I tumbled me down on my bed like a swad, +Where, oh! the delicious dream that I had! +Till the bells, that had been my morning molesters, +Now waked me again, chiming all in to vespers: +With that starting up, for my man I did whistle, +And combed out and powdered my locks that were grizzle; +Had my clothes neatly brushed, and then put on my sword, +Resolved now to go and attend on the word. + +Thus tricked, and thus trim, to set forth I begin, +Neat and cleanly without, but scarce cleanly within; +For why, Heaven knows it, I long time had been +A most humble obedient servant to sin; +And now in devotion was even so proud, +I scorned forsooth to join prayer with the crowd; +For though courted by all the bells as I went, +I was deaf, and regarded not the compliment, +But to the cathedral still held on my pace, +As't were, scorning to kneel but in the best place. +I there made myself sure of good music at least, +But was something deceived, for 'twas none of the best: +But however I stay'd at the church's commanding +Till we came to the 'Peace passes all understanding,' +Which no sooner was ended, but whir and away, +Like boys in a school when they've leave got to play; +All save master mayor, who still gravely stays +Till the rest had made room for his worship and's mace: +Then he and his brethren in order appear, +I out of my stall, and fell into his rear; +For why, 'tis much safer appearing, no doubt, +In authority's tail, than the head of a rout. + +In this rev'rend order we marched from prayer; +The mace before me borne as well as the mayor; +Who looking behind him, and seeing most plain +A glorious gold belt in the rear of his train, +Made such a low congé, forgetting his place, +I was never so honoured before in my days: +But then off went my scalp-case, and down went my fist, +Till the pavement, too hard, by my knuckles was kissed; +By which, though thick-skulled, he must understand this, +That I was a most humble servant of his; +Which also so wonderful kindly he took, +(As I well perceived both b' his gesture and look,) +That to have me dogg'd home he straightway appointed, +Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted. +I was scarce in my quarters, and set down on crupper, +But his man was there too, to invite me to supper: +I start up, and after most respective fashion +Gave his worship much thanks for his kind invitation; +But begged his excuse, for my stomach was small, +And I never did eat any supper at all; +But that after supper I would kiss his hands, +And would come to receive his worship's commands. +Sure no one will say, but a patron of slander, +That this was not pretty well for a Moorlander: +And since on such reasons to sup I refused, +I nothing did doubt to be holden excused; +But my quaint repartee had his worship possess'd +With so wonderful good a conceit of the rest, +That with mere impatience he hoped in his breeches +To see the fine fellow that made such fine speeches: +'Go, sirrah!' quoth he, 'get you to him again, +And will and require, in his Majesty's name, +That he come; and tell him, obey he were best, or +I'll teach him to know that he's now in West-Chester.' +The man, upon this, comes me running again, +But yet minced his message, and was not so plain; +Saying to me only, 'Good sir, I am sorry +To tell you my master has sent again for you; +And has such a longing to have you his guest, +That I, with these ears, heard him swear and protest, +He would neither say grace, nor sit down on his bum, +Nor open his napkin, until you do come.' +With that I perceived no excuse would avail, +And, seeing there was no defence for a flail, +I said I was ready master may'r to obey, +And therefore desired him to lead me the way. +We went, and ere Malkin could well lick her ear, +(For it but the next door was, forsooth) we were there; +Where lights being brought me, I mounted the stairs, +The worst I e'er saw in my life at a mayor's: +But everything else must be highly commended. +I there found his worship most nobly attended, +Besides such a supper as well did convince, +A may'r in his province to be a great prince; +As he sat in his chair, he did not much vary, +In state nor in face, from our eighth English Harry; +But whether his face was swelled up with fat, +Or puffed up with glory, I cannot tell that. +Being entered the chamber half length of a pike, +And cutting of faces exceedingly like +One of those little gentlemen brought from the Indies, +And screwing myself into congés and cringes, +By then I was half-way advanced in the room, +His worship most rev'rendly rose from his bum, +And with the more honour to grace and to greet me, +Advanced a whole step and a half for to meet me; +Where leisurely doffing a hat worth a tester, +He bade me most heartily welcome to Chester. +I thanked him in language the best I was able, +And so we forthwith sat us all down to table. + +Now here you must note, and 'tis worth observation, +That as his chair at one end o' th' table had station; +So sweet mistress may'ress, in just such another, +Like the fair queen of hearts, sat in state at the other; +By which I perceived, though it seemed a riddle, +The lower end of this must be just in the middle: +But perhaps 'tis a rule there, and one that would mind it +Amongst the town-statutes 'tis likely might find it. +But now into the pottage each deep his spoon claps, +As in truth one might safely for burning one's chaps, +When straight, with the look and the tone of a scold, +Mistress may'ress complained that the pottage was cold; +'And all 'long of your fiddle-faddle,' quoth she. +'Why, what then, Goody Two-Shoes, what if it be? +Hold you, if you can, your tittle-tattle,' quoth he. +I was glad she was snapped thus, and guessed by th' discourse, +The may'r, not the gray mare, was the better horse, +And yet for all that, there is reason to fear, +She submitted but out of respect to his year: +However 'twas well she had now so much grace, +Though not to the man, to submit to his place; +For had she proceeded, I verily thought +My turn would the next be, for I was in fault: +But this brush being past, we fell to our diet, +And every one there filled his belly in quiet. +Supper being ended, and things away taken, +Master mayor's curiosity 'gan to awaken; +Wherefore making me draw something nearer his chair, +He willed and required me there to declare +My country, my birth, my estate, and my parts, +And whether I was not a master of arts; +And eke what the business was had brought me thither, +With what I was going about now, and whither: +Giving me caution, no lie should escape me, +For if I should trip, he should certainly trap me. +I answered, my country was famed Staffordshire; +That in deeds, bills, and bonds, I was ever writ squire; +That of land I had both sorts, some good, and some evil, +But that a great part on't was pawned to the devil; +That as for my parts, they were such as he saw; +That, indeed, I had a small smatt'ring of law, +Which I lately had got more by practice than reading, +By sitting o' th' bench, whilst others were pleading; +But that arms I had ever more studied than arts, +And was now to a captain raised by my deserts; +That the business which led me through Palatine ground +Into Ireland was, whither now I was bound; +Where his worship's great favour I loud will proclaim, +And in all other places wherever I came. +He said, as to that, I might do what I list, +But that I was welcome, and gave me his fist; +When having my fingers made crack with his gripes, +He called to his man for some bottles and pipes. + +To trouble you here with a longer narration +Of the several parts of our confabulation, +Perhaps would be tedious; I'll therefore remit ye +Even to the most rev'rend records of the city, +Where, doubtless, the acts of the may'rs are recorded, +And if not more truly, yet much better worded. + +In short, then, we piped and we tippled Canary, +Till my watch pointed one in the circle horary; +When thinking it now was high time to depart, +His worship I thanked with a most grateful heart; +And because to great men presents are acceptable, +I presented the may'r, ere I rose from the table, +With a certain fantastical box and a stopper; +And he having kindly accepted my offer, +I took my fair leave, such my visage adorning, +And to bed, for I was to rise early i' th' morning. + + +CANTO III. + +The sun in the morning disclosed his light, +With complexion as ruddy as mine over night; +And o'er th' eastern mountains peeping up's head, +The casement being open, espied me in bed; +With his rays he so tickled my lids that I waked, +And was half ashamed, for I found myself naked; +But up I soon start, and was dressed in a trice, +And called for a draught of ale, sugar, and spice; +Which having turned off, I then call to pay, +And packing my nawls, whipt to horse, and away. +A guide I had got, who demanded great vails, +For conducting me over the mountains of Wales: +Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is; +Yet that would not serve, but I must bear his charges; +And yet for all that, rode astride on a beast, +The worst that e'er went on three legs, I protest: +It certainly was the most ugly of jades, +His hips and his rump made a right ace of spades; +His sides were two ladders, well spur-galled withal; +His neck was a helve, and his head was a mall; +For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll spare, +For the creature was wholly denuded of hair; +And, except for two things, as bare as my nail, +A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail; +And by these the true colour one can no more know, +Than by mouse-skins above stairs, the merkin below. +Now such as the beast was, even such was the rider, +With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider; +A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, +The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat: +Even such was my guide and his beast; let them pass, +The one for a horse, and the other an ass. +But now with our horses, what sound and what rotten, +Down to the shore, you must know, we were gotten; +And there we were told, it concerned us to ride, +Unless we did mean to encounter the tide; +And then my guide lab'ring with heels and with hands, +With two up and one down, hopped over the sands, +Till his horse, finding the labour for three legs too sore, +Foaled out a new leg, and then he had four: +And now by plain dint of hard spurring and whipping, +Dry-shod we came where folks sometimes take shipping; +And where the salt sea, as the devil were in 't, +Came roaring t' have hindered our journey to Flint; +But we, by good luck, before him got thither, +He else would have carried us, no man knows whither. + +And now her in Wales is, Saint Taph be her speed, +Gott splutter her taste, some Welsh ale her had need; +For her ride in great haste, and * * +For fear of her being catched up by the fishes: +But the lord of Flint castle's no lord worth a louse, +For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his house; +But in a small house near unto 't there was store +Of such ale as, thank God, I ne'er tasted before; +And surely the Welsh are not wise of their fuddle, +For this had the taste and complexion of puddle. +From thence then we marched, full as dry as we came, +My guide before prancing, his steed no more lame, +O'er hills and o'er valleys uncouth and uneven, +Until 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven, +More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell, +We happily came to Saint Winifred's well: +I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been, +By the cripples lay there; but I went to my inn +To speak for some meat, for so stomach did motion, +Before I did further proceed in devotion: +I went into th' kitchen, where victuals I saw, +Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on 't was raw; +And some on't alive, but soon went to slaughter, +For four chickens were slain by my dame and her daughter; +Of which to Saint Win. ere my vows I had paid, +They said I should find a rare fricasée made: +I thanked them, and straight to the well did repair, +Where some I found cursing, and others at prayer; +Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some in, +Some naked, where botches and boils might be seen; +Of which some were fevers of Venus I'm sure, +And therefore unfit for the virgin to cure: +But the fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight, +The beautiful virgin's own tears not more bright; +Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear, +Her conscience, her name, nor herself, were more clear. +In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white, +But streaked with pure red, as the morning with light, +Which they say is her blood, and so it may be, +But for that, let who shed it look to it for me. +Over the fountain a chapel there stands, +Which I wonder has 'scaped master Oliver's hands; +The floor's not ill paved, and the margin o' th' spring +Is inclosed with a certain octagonal ring; +From each angle of which a pillar does rise, +Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice +To support and uphold from falling to ground +A cupola wherewith the virgin is crowned. +Now 'twixt the two angles that fork to the north, +And where the cold nymph does her basin pour forth, +Under ground is a place where they bathe, as 'tis said, +And 'tis true, for I heard folks' teeth hack in their head; +For you are to know, that the rogues and the * * +Are not let to pollute the spring-head with their sores. +But one thing I chiefly admired in the place, +That a saint and a virgin endued with such grace, +Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer +To that whoring and filching trade of a miller, +As within a few paces to furnish the wheels +Of I cannot tell how many water-mills: +I've studied that point much, you cannot guess why, +But the virgin was, doubtless, more righteous than I. +And now for my welcome, four, five, or six lasses, +With as many crystalline liberal glasses, +Did all importune me to drink of the water +Of Saint Winifreda, good Thewith's fair daughter. +A while I was doubtful, and stood in a muse, +Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to choose. +Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight, +From the rest o' th' fair maidens did carry me quite; +I took the glass from her, and whip, off it went, +I half doubt I fancied a health to the saint: +But he was a great villain committed the slaughter, +For Saint Winifred made most delicate water. +I slipped a hard shilling into her soft hand, +Which had like to have made me the place have profaned; +And giving two more to the poor that were there, +Did, sharp as a hawk, to my quarters repair. + +My dinner was ready, and to it I fell, +I never ate better meat, that I can tell; +When having half dined, there comes in my host, +A catholic good, and a rare drunken toast; +This man, by his drinking, inflamed the scot, +And told me strange stories, which I have forgot; +But this I remember, 'twas much on's own life, +And one thing, that he had converted his wife. + +But now my guide told me, it time was to go, +For that to our beds we must both ride and row; +Wherefore calling to pay, and having accounted, +I soon was down-stairs, and as suddenly mounted: +On then we travelled, our guide still before, +Sometimes on three legs, and sometimes on four, +Coasting the sea, and over hills crawling, +Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall in; +For underneath Neptune lay skulking to watch us, +And, had we but slipped once, was ready to catch us. +Thus in places of danger taking more heed, +And in safer travelling mending our speed: +Redland Castle and Abergoney we past, +And o'er against Connoway came at the last: +Just over against a castle there stood, +O' th' right hand the town, and o' th' left hand a wood; +'Twixt the wood and the castle they see at high water +The storm, the place makes it a dangerous matter; +And besides, upon such a steep rock it is founded, +As would break a man's neck, should he'scape being drowned: +Perhaps though in time one may make them to yield, +But 'tis prettiest Cob-castle e'er I beheld. + +The sun now was going t' unharness his steeds, +When the ferry-boat brasking her sides 'gainst the weeds, +Came in as good time as good time could be, +To give us a cast o'er an arm of the sea; +And bestowing our horses before and abaft, +O'er god Neptune's wide cod-piece gave us a waft; +Where scurvily landing at foot of the fort, +Within very few paces we entered the port, +Where another King's Head invited me down, +For indeed I have ever been true to the crown. + + + + +DR HENRY MORE. + + +This eminent man was the son of a gentleman of good family and estate +in Grantham, Lincolnshire. He was born in 1614. His father sent him to +study at Eton, and thence, in 1631, he repaired to Cambridge, where he +was destined to spend the most of his life. Philosophy attracted him +early, in preference to science or literature, and he became a follower +of Plato, so decided and enthusiastic as to gain for himself the title +of 'The Platonist' _par excellence_. In 1639, he graduated M.A.; and the +next year, he published the first part of 'Psychozoia; or, The Song of +the Soul,' containing a Christiano-Platonical account of Man and Life. +In preparing the materials of this poem, he had studied all the +principal Platonists and mystical writers, and is said to have read +himself almost to a shadow. And not only was his body emaciated, but +his mind was so overstrung, that he imagined himself to see spiritual +beings, to hear supernatural voices, and to converse, like Socrates, +with a particular genius. He thought, too, that his body 'exhaled the +perfume of violets!' Notwithstanding these little peculiarities, his +genius and his learning, the simplicity of his character, and the +innocence of his life, rendered him a general favourite; he was made +a fellow of his college, and became a tutor to various persons of +distinguished rank. One of these was Sir John Finch, whose sister, Lady +Conway, an enthusiast herself, brought More acquainted with the famous +John Baptist Van Helment, a man after whom, in the beginning of the +seventeenth century, the whole of Europe wondered. He was a follower and +imitator of Paracelsus, like him affected universal knowledge, aspired +to revolutionise the science of medicine, and died with the reputation +of one who, with great powers and acquirements, instead of becoming a +great man, ended as a brilliant pretender, and was rather an 'architect +of ruin' to the systems of others, than the founder of a solid fabric of +his own. More admired, of course, not the quackery, but the adventurous +boldness of Helment's genius, and his devotion to chemistry; which is +certainly the most spiritual of all the sciences, and must, especially +in its transcendental forms, have had a great charm for a Platonic +thinker. Our author was entirely devoted to study, and resisted every +inducement to leave what he called his 'Paradise' at Cambridge. His +friends once tried to decoy him into a bishopric, and got him the length +of Whitehall to kiss the king's hand on the occasion; but when he +understood their purpose, he refused to go a single step further. His +life was a long, learned, happy, and holy dream. He was of the most +benevolent disposition; and once observed to a friend, 'that he was +thought by some to have a soft head, but he thanked God he had a soft +heart.' In the heat of the Rebellion, the Republicans spared More, +although he had refused to take the Covenant. Campbell says of him, +'He corresponded with Descartes, was the friend of Cudworth, and, as a +divine and a moralist, was not only popular in his own time, but has +been mentioned with admiration both by Addison and Blair.' One is rather +amused at the latter clause. That a man of More's massive learning, +noble eloquence, and divine genius should need the testimony of a mere +elegant wordmonger like Blair, seems ludicrous enough; and Addison +himself, except in wit and humour, was not worthy to have untied the +shoelatchets of the old Platonist. We were first introduced to this +writer by good Dr John Brown, late of Broughton Place, Edinburgh, and +shall never forget hearing him, in his library, read some splendid +passages from More's work, in those deep, mellow, antique tones which +flavoured whatever he read, like the crust on old wine. His chief works +are, 'A Discourse on the Immortality of the Soul,' 'The Mystery of +Godliness,' 'The Mystery of Iniquity,' 'Divine Dialogues,' 'An Antidote +against Atheism,' 'Ethical and Metaphysical Manuals,' &c. In writing +such books, and pursuing the recondite studies of which they were the +fruit, More spent his life happily. In 1661, he became a Fellow of +the Royal Society. For twenty years after the Restoration, his works +are said to have sold better than any of their day--a curious and +unaccountable fact, considering the levity and licentiousness of the +period. In September 1687, the fine old spiritualist, aged seventy- +three, went away to that land of 'ideas' to which his heart had been +translated long before. + +More's prose writings give us, on the whole, a higher idea of his powers +than his poem. This is not exactly, as a recent critic calls it, 'dull +and tedious,' but it is in some parts prosaic, and in others obscure. +The gleams of fancy in it are genuine, but few and far between. But his +prose works constitute, like those of Cudworth, Charnock, Jeremy Taylor, +and John Scott, a vast old quarry, abounding both in blocks and in gems +--blocks of granite solidity, and gems of starry lustre. The peculiarity +of More is in that poetico-philosophic mist which, like the autumnal +gossamer, hangs in light and beautiful festoons over his thoughts, and +which suggests pleasing memories of Plato and the Alexandrian school. +Like all the followers of the Grecian sage, he dwells in a region of +'ideas,' which are to him the only realities, and are not cold, but +warm; he sees all things in Divine solution; the visible is lost in the +invisible, and nature retires before her God. Surely they are splendid +reveries those of the Platonic school; but it is sad to reflect that +they have not cast the slightest gleam of light on the dark, frightful, +faith-shattering mysteries which perplex all inquirers. The old shadows +of sin, death, damnation, evil, and hell, are found to darken the 'ideas' +of Plato's world quite as deeply as they do the actualities of this weary, +work-day earth, into which men have, for some inscrutable purpose, been +sent to be, on the whole, miserable,--so often to toil without compen- +sation, to suffer without benefit, and to hope without fulfilment. + + +OPENING OF SECOND PART OF 'PSYCHOZOIA.' + +1 Whatever man he be that dares to deem + True poets' skill to spring of earthly race, + I must him tell, that he doth mis-esteem + Their strange estate, and eke himself disgrace + By his rude ignorance. For there's no place + For forced labour, or slow industry, + Of flagging wits, in that high fiery chase; + So soon as of the Muse they quickened be, + At once they rise, and lively sing like lark in sky. + +2 Like to a meteor, whose material + Is low unwieldy earth, base unctuous slime, + Whose inward hidden parts ethereal + Lie close upwrapt in that dull sluggish fime, + Lie fast asleep, till at some fatal time + Great Phoebus' lamp has fired its inward sprite, + And then even of itself on high doth climb: + That erst was dark becomes all eye, all sight, + Bright star, that to the wise of future things gives light. + +3 Even so the weaker mind, that languid lies, + Knit up in rags of dirt, dark, cold, and blind, + So soon that purer flame of love unties + Her clogging chains, and doth her sprite unbind, + She soars aloft; for she herself doth find + Well plumed; so raised upon her spreaden wing, + She softly plays, and warbles in the wind, + And carols out her inward life and spring + Of overflowing joy, and of pure love doth sing. + + +EXORDIUM OF THIRD PART. + +1 Hence, hence, unhallowed ears, arid hearts more hard + Than winter clods fast froze with northern wind, + But most of all, foul tongue! I thee discard, + That blamest all that thy dark straitened mind + Cannot conceive: but that no blame thou find; + Whate'er my pregnant muse brings forth to light, + She'll not acknowledge to be of her kind, + Till eagle-like she turn them to the sight + Of the eternal Word, all decked with glory bright. + +2 Strange sights do straggle in my restless thoughts, + And lively forms with orient colours clad + Walk in my boundless mind, as men ybrought + Into some spacious room, who when they've had + A turn or two, go out, although unbade. + All these I see and know, but entertain + None to my friend but who's most sober sad; + Although, the time my roof doth them contain + Their presence doth possess me till they out again. + +3 And thus possessed, in silver trump I sound + Their guise, their shape, their gesture, and array; + But as in silver trumpet nought is found + When once the piercing sound is passed away, + (Though while the mighty blast therein did stay, + Its tearing noise so terribly did shrill, + That it the heavens did shake, and earth dismay,) + As empty I of what my flowing quill + In needless haste elsewhere, or here, may hap to spill. + +4 For 'tis of force, and not of a set will, + Nor dare my wary mind afford assent + To what is placed above all mortal skill; + But yet, our various thoughts to represent, + Each gentle wight will deem of good intent. + Wherefore, with leave the infinity I'll sing + Of time, of space; or without leave; I'm brent + With eager rage, my heart for joy doth spring, + And all my spirits move with pleasant trembeling. + +5 An inward triumph doth my soul upheave + And spread abroad through endless 'spersed air. + My nimble mind this clammy clod doth leave, + And lightly stepping on from star to star + Swifter than lightning, passeth wide and far, + Measuring the unbounded heavens and wasteful sky; + Nor aught she finds her passage to debar, + For still the azure orb as she draws nigh + Gives back, new stars appear, the world's walls 'fore her fly. + + +DESTRUCTION AND RENOVATION OF ALL THINGS. + +1 As the seas, + Boiling with swelling waves, aloft did rise, + And met with mighty showers and pouring rain + From heaven's spouts; so the broad flashing skies, + With brimstone thick and clouds of fiery bane, + Shall meet with raging Etna's and Vesuvius' flame. + +2 The burning bowels of this wasting ball + Shall gallup up great flakes of rolling fire, + And belch out pitchy flames, till over all + Having long raged, Vulcan himself shall tire, + And (the earth an ash-heap made) shall then expire: + Here Nature, laid asleep in her own urn, + With gentle rest right easily will respire, + Till to her pristine task she do return + As fresh as Phoenix young under the Arabian morn. + +3 Oh, happy they that then the first are born, + While yet the world is in her vernal pride; + For old corruption quite away is worn, + As metal pure so is her mould well tried. + Sweet dews, cool-breathing airs, and spaces wide + Of precious spicery, wafted with soft wind: + Fair comely bodies goodly beautified. + +4 For all the while her purged ashes rest, + These relics dry suck in the heavenly dew, + And roscid manna rains upon her breast, + And fills with sacred milk, sweet, fresh, and new, + Where all take life and doth the world renew; + And then renewed with pleasure be yfed. + A green, soft mantle doth her bosom strew + With fragrant herbs and flowers embellished, + Where without fault or shame all living creatures bed. + + +A DISTEMPERED FANCY. + +1 Then the wild fancy from her horrid womb + Will senden forth foul shapes. O dreadful sight! + Overgrown toads, fierce serpents, thence will come, + Red-scaled dragons, with deep burning light + In their hollow eye-pits: with these she must fight: + Then think herself ill wounded, sorely stung. + Old fulsome hags, with scabs and scurf bedight, + Foul tarry spittle tumbling with their tongue + On their raw leather lips, these near will to her clung, + +2 And lovingly salute against her will, + Closely embrace, and make her mad with woe: + She'd lever thousand times they did her kill, + Than force her such vile baseness undergo. + Anon some giant his huge self will show, + Gaping with mouth as vast as any cave, + With stony, staring eyes, and footing slow: + She surely deems him her live, walking grave, + From that dern hollow pit knows not herself to save. + +3 After a while, tossed on the ocean main, + A boundless sea she finds of misery; + The fiery snorts of the leviathan, + That makes the boiling waves before him fly, + She hears, she sees his blazing morn-bright eye: + If here she 'scape, deep gulfs and threatening rocks + Her frighted self do straightway terrify; + Steel-coloured clouds with rattling thunder knocks, + With these she is amazed, and thousand such-like mocks. + + +SOUL COMPARED TO A LANTERN. + +1 Like to a light fast locked in lantern dark, + Whereby by night our wary steps we guide + In slabby streets, and dirty channels mark, + Some weaker rays through the black top do glide, + And flusher streams perhaps from horny side. + But when we've passed the peril of the way, + Arrived at home, and laid that case aside, + The naked light how clearly doth it ray, + And spread its joyful beams as bright as summer's day. + +2 Even so, the soul, in this contracted state, + Confined to these strait instruments of sense, + More dull and narrowly doth operate. + At this hole hears, the sight must ray from thence, + Here tastes, there smells; but when she's gone from hence, + Like naked lamp, she is one shining sphere, + And round about has perfect cognoscence + Whate'er in her horizon doth appear: + She is one orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear. + + + + +WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE. + + +Chamberlayne was, during life, a poor man, and, till long after his +death, an unappreciated poet. He was a physician at Shaftesbury, +Dorsetshire; born in 1619, and died in 1689. He appears to have been +present among the Royalists at the battle of Newbury. He complains +bitterly of his narrow circumstances, and yet he lived to a long age. +He published, in 1658, a tragic comedy, entitled 'Love's Victory,' and +in 1659, 'Pharonnida,' a heroic poem. + +The latter is the main support of his literary reputation. It was +discovered to be good by Thomas Campbell, who might say, + + 'I was the first that ever burst + Into that silent sea.' + +Silent, however, it continues since, and can never be expected to be +thronged by visitors. The story is interesting, and many of the separate +thoughts, expressions, and passages are beautiful, as, for instance-- + + 'The scholar stews his catholic brains for food;' + +and this-- + + 'Harsh poverty, + That moth which frets the sacred robe of wit;' + +but the style is often elliptical and involved; the story meanders too +much, and is too long and intricate; and, on the whole, a few mutilated +fragments are all that are likely to remain of an original and highly +elaborate poem. + + +ARGALIA TAKEN PRISONER BY THE TURKS. + + * * The Turks had ought +Made desperate onslaughts on the isle, but brought +Nought back but wounds and infamy; but now, +Wearied with toil, they are resolved to bow +Their stubborn resolutions with the strength +Of not-to-be-resisted want: the length +Of the chronical disease extended had +To some few months, since to oppress the sad +But constant islanders, the army lay, +Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious stay +From battle rusts the soldier's valour in +His tainted cabin, there had often been, +With all variety of fortune, fought +Brave single combats, whose success had brought +Honour's unwithered laurels on the brow +Of either party; but the balance, now +Forced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclined +Wholly to them. Thrice had his valour shined +In victory's refulgent rays, thrice heard +The shouts of conquest; thrice on his lance appeared +The heads of noble Rhodians, which had struck +A general sorrow 'mongst the knights. All look +Who next the lists should enter; each desires +The task were his, but honour now requires +A spirit more than vulgar, or she dies +The next attempt, their valour's sacrifice; +To prop whose ruins, chosen by the free +Consent of all, Argalia comes to be +Their happy champion. Truce proclaimed, until +The combat ends, the expecting people fill +The spacious battlements; the Turks forsake +Their tents, of whom the city ladies take +A dreadful view, till a more noble sight +Diverts their looks; each part behold their knight +With various wishes, whilst in blood and sweat +They toil for victory. The conflict's heat +Raged in their veins, which honour more inflamed +Than burning calentures could do; both blamed +The feeble influence of their stars, that gave +No speedier conquest; each neglects to save +Himself, to seek advantage to offend +His eager foe * * * * +* * * But now so long +The Turks' proud champion had endured the strong +Assaults of the stout Christian, till his strength +Cooled, on the ground, with his blood--he fell at length, +Beneath his conquering sword. The barbarous crew +O' the villains that did at a distance view +Their champion's fall, all bands of truce forgot, +Running to succour him, begin a hot +And desperate combat with those knights that stand +To aid Argalia, by whose conquering hand +Whole squadrons of them fall, but here he spent +His mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rent +His scattered troops. + + * * * * * + +Argalia lies in chains, ordained to die +A sacrifice unto the cruelty +Of the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite in +The combat late he slew; yet had not been +In that so much unhappy, had not he +That honoured then his sword with victory, +Half-brother to Janusa been, a bright +But cruel lady, whose refined delight +Her slave (though husband), Ammurat, durst not +Ruffle with discontent; wherefore, to cool that hot +Contention of her blood, which he foresaw +That heavy news would from her anger draw, +To quench with the brave Christian's death, he sent +Him living to her, that her anger, spent +In flaming torments, might not settle in +The dregs of discontent. Staying to win +Some Rhodian castles, all the prisoners were +Sent with a guard into Sardinia, there +To meet their wretched thraldom. From the rest +Argalia severed, soon hopes to be bless'd +With speedy death, though waited on by all +The hell-instructed torments that could fall +Within invention's reach; but he's not yet +Arrived to his period, his unmoved stars sit +Thus in their orbs secured. It was the use +Of the Turkish pride, which triumphs in the abuse +Of suffering Christians, once, before they take +The ornaments of nature off, to make +Their prisoners public to the view, that all +Might mock their miseries: this sight did call +Janusa to her palace-window, where, +Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bear +Her ruin on her treacherous eye-beams, till +Her heart infected grew; their orbs did fill, +As the most pleasing object, with the sight +Of him whose sword opened a way for the flight +Of her loved brother's soul. + + + + +HENRY VAUGHAN. + + +Vaughan was torn in Wales, on the banks of the Uske, in Brecknockshire, +in 1614. His father was a gentleman, but, we presume, poor, as his son +was bred to a profession. Young Vaughan became first a lawyer, and then +a physician; and we suppose, had it not been for his advanced life, he +would have become latterly a clergyman, since he grew, when old, +exceedingly devout. In life, he was not fortunate, and we find him, like +Chamberlayne, complaining bitterly of the poverty of the poetical tribe. +In 1651, he published a volume of verse, in which nascent excellence +struggles with dim obscurities, like a young moon with heavy clouds. But +his 'Silex Scintillans,' or 'Sacred Poems,' produced in later life, +attests at once the depth of his devotion, and the truth and originality +of his genius. He died in 1695. + +Campbell, always prone to be rather severe on pious poets, and whose +taste, too, was finical at times, says of Vaughan--'He is one of the +harshest even of the inferior order of the school of conceit; but he has +some few scattered thoughts that meet the eye amidst his harsh pages, +like wild flowers on a barren heath.' Surely this is rather 'harsh' +judgment. At the same time, it is not a little laughable to find that +Campbell has himself appropriated one of these 'wild flowers.' In his +beautiful 'Rainbow,' he cries-- + + 'How came the world's gray fathers forth + To mark thy sacred sign!' + +Vaughan had said-- + + 'How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye, + Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry; + When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, + The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, + Did with intentive looks watch every hour + For thy new light, and trembled at each shower!' + +Indeed, all Campbell's 'Rainbow' is just a reflection of Vaughan's, and +reminds you of those faint, pale shadows of the heavenly bow you +sometimes see in the darkened and disarranged skies of spring. To steal +from, and then strike down the victim, is more suitable to robbers than +to poets. + +Perhaps the best criticism on Vaughan may be found in the title of his +own poems, 'Silex Scintillans.' He had a good deal of the dulness and +hardness of the flint about his mind, but the influence of poverty and +suffering,--for true it is that + + 'Wretched men + Are cradled into poetry by wrong; + They learn in suffering what they teach in song,'-- + +and latterly the power of a genuine, though somewhat narrow piety, +struck out glorious scintillations from the bare but rich rock. He ranks +with Crashaw, Quarles, and Herbert, as one of the best of our early +religious poets; like them in their faults, and superior to all of them +in refinement and beauty, if not in strength of genius. + + +ON A CHARNEL-HOUSE. + +Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast-tentered[1] hope, +Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope, +Whose stretched excess runs on a string too high, +And on the rack of self-extension die? +Chameleons of state, air-mongering[2] band, +Whose breath, like gunpowder, blows up a land, +Come, see your dissolution, and weigh +What a loathed nothing you shall be one day. +As the elements by circulation pass +From one to the other, and that which first was +Is so again, so 'tis with you. The grave +And nature but complete: what the one gave, +The other takes. Think, then, that in this bed +There sleep the relics of as proud a head, +As stern and subtle as your own; that hath +Performed or forced as much; whose tempest-wrath +Hath levelled kings with slaves; and wisely, then, +Calm these high furies, and descend to men. +Thus Cyrus tamed the Macedon; a tomb +Checked him who thought the world too strait a room. +Have I obeyed the powers of a face, +A beauty, able to undo the race +Of easy man? I look but here, and straight +I am informed; the lovely counterfeit +Was but a smoother clay. That famished slave, +Beggared by wealth, who starves that he may save, +Brings hither but his sheet. Nay, the ostrich-man, +That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can +Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough +To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff, +Is chapfallen here: worms, without wit or fear, +Defy him now; death has disarmed the bear. +Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score +Of erring men, and having done, meet more. +Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents, +Fantastic humours, perilous ascents, +False, empty honours, traitorous delights, +And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites,-- +But these, and more, which the weak vermins swell, +Are couched in this accumulative cell, +Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun +Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone: +Day leaves me in a double night, and I +Must bid farewell to my sad library, +Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of thee +I'll season all succeeding jollity, +Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit: +Excess hath no religion, nor wit; +But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, +One check from thee shall channel it again. + +[1] Vast-tentered: extended. +[2] Air-mongering: dealing in air or unsubstantial visions. + + +ON GOMBAULD'S ENDYMION. + +I've read thy soul's fair night-piece, and have seen +The amours and courtship of the silent queen; +Her stolen descents to earth, and what did move her +To juggle first with heaven, then with a lover; +With Latmos' louder rescue, and, alas! +To find her out, a hue and cry in brass; +Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad +Nocturnal pilgrimage; with thy dreams, clad +In fancies darker than thy cave; thy glass +Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass +In her calm voyage, what discourse she heard +Of spirits; what dark groves and ill-shaped guard +Ismena led thee through; with thy proud flight +O'er Periardes, and deep-musing night +Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green +The neighbour shades wear; and what forms are seen +In their large bowers; with that sad path and seat +Which none but light-heeled nymphs and fairies beat, +Their solitary life, and how exempt +From common frailty, the severe contempt +They have of man, their privilege to live +A tree or fountain, and in that reprieve +What ages they consume: with the sad vale +Of Diophania; and the mournful tale +Of the bleeding, vocal myrtle:--these and more, +Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score +To thy rare fancy for. Nor dost thou fall +From thy first majesty, or ought at all +Betray consumption. Thy full vigorous bays +Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays +Of style or matter; just as I have known +Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down +Derived her birth, in gentle murmurs steal +To the next vale, and proudly there reveal +Her streams in louder accents, adding still +More noise and waters to her channel, till +At last, swollen with increase, she glides along +The lawns and meadows, in a wanton throng +Of frothy billows, and in one great name +Swallows the tributary brooks' drowned fame. +Nor are they mere inventions, for we +In the same piece find scattered philosophy, +And hidden, dispersed truths, that folded lie +In the dark shades of deep allegory, +So neatly weaved, like arras, they descry +Fables with truth, fancy with history. +So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould, +Cast that commended mixture wished of old, +Which shall these contemplations render far +Less mutable, and lasting as their star; +And while there is a people, or a sun, +Endymion's story with the moon shall run. + + +APOSTROPHE TO FLETCHER THE DRAMATIST. + +I did believe, great Beaumont being dead, +Thy widowed muse slept on his flowery bed. +But I am richly cozened, and can see +Wit transmigrates--his spirit stayed with thee; +Which, doubly advantaged by thy single pen, +In life and death now treads the stage again. +And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit +Which starved the land, since into schisms split, +Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess +Wit's last edition is now i' the press. +For thou hast drained invention, and he +That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee. +But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain +At the designs of such a tragic brain? +Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see +Thy most abominable policy? +Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit +Their synod fast and pray against thy wit? +But they'll not tire in such an idle quest-- +Thou dost but kill and circumvent in jest; +And when thy angered muse swells to a blow, +Tis but for Field's or Swansteed's overthrow. +Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive +Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve +The peace of spirits; and when such deeds fail +Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail. +But, happy! thou ne'er saw'st these storms our air +Teemed with, even in thy time, though seeming fair. +Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease +Withdrew betimes into the land of peace. +So, nested in some hospitable shore, +The hermit-angler, when the mid seas roar, +Packs up his lines, and ere the tempest raves, +Retires, and leaves his station to the waves. +Thus thou diedst almost with our peace; and we, +This breathing time, thy last fair issue see, +Which I think such, if needless ink not soil +So choice a muse, others are but thy foil; +This or that age may write, but never see +A wit that dares run parallel with thee. +True Ben must live; but bate him, and thou hast +Undone all future wits, and matched the past. + + +PICTURE OF THE TOWN. + +Abominable face of things!--here's noise +Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys, +Pigs, dogs, and drums; with the hoarse, hellish notes +Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats; +With new fine worships, and the old cast team +Of justices, vexed with the cough and phlegm. +'Midst these, the cross looks sad; and in the shire- +Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, +With brotherly rufts and beards, and a strange sight +Of high, monumental hats, ta'en at the fight +Of Eighty-eight; while every burgess foots +The mortal pavement in eternal boots. +Hadst thou been bachelor, I had soon divined +Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; +Perhaps some nymph had been to visit; or +The beauteous churl was to be waited for, +And, like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, +You stayed and stroked the distaff for a kiss. + + * * * * * + +Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus, +Thy memory will scarce remain with us. +The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim +They have not seen thee here since Charles' reign; +Or, if they mention thee, like some old man +That at each word inserts--Sir, as I can +Remember--so the cipherers puzzle me +With a dark, cloudy character of thee; +That, certes, I fear thou wilt be lost, and we +Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee. +Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine +And precious wit lie dead for want of thine. +Shall the dull market landlord, with his rout +Of sneaking tenants, dirtily swill out +This harmless liquor shall they knock and beat +For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat? +Oh, let not such preposterous tippling be; +In our metropolis, may I ne'er see +Such tavern sacrilege, nor lend a line +To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine! +Here lives that chemic quick-fire, which betrays +Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays; +I have reserved, 'gainst thy approach, a cup, +That, were thy muse stark dead, should raise her up, +And teach her yet more charming words and skill, +Than ever Coelia, Chloris, Astrophil, +Or any of the threadbare names inspired +Poor rhyming lovers, with a mistress fired. +Come, then, and while the snow-icicle hangs +At the stiff thatch, and winter's frosty fangs +Benumb the year, blithe as of old, let us, +'Midst noise and war, of peace and mirth discuss. +This portion thou wert born for: why should we +Vex at the times' ridiculous misery? +An age that thus hath fooled itself, and will, +Spite of thy teeth and mine, persist so still. +Let's sit, then, at this fire, and while we steal +A revel in the town, let others seal, +Purchase, or cheat, and who can, let them pay, +Till those black deeds bring on a darksome day. +Innocent spenders we! A better use +Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse +Rout to their husks: they and their bags, at best, +Have cares in earnest--we care for a jest. + + +THE GOLDEN AGE. + +Happy that first white age! when we +Lived by the earth's mere charity; +No soft luxurious diet then +Had effeminated men-- +No other meat nor wine had any +Than the coarse mast, or simple honey; +And, by the parents' care laid up, +Cheap berries did the children sup. +No pompous wear was in those days, +Of gummy silks, or scarlet baize. +Their beds were on some flowery brink, +And clear spring water was their drink. +The shady pine, in the sun's heat, +Was their cool and known retreat; +For then 'twas not cut down, but stood +The youth and glory of the wood. +The daring sailor with his slaves +Then had not cut the swelling waves, +Nor, for desire of foreign store, +Seen any but his native shore. +No stirring drum had scared that age, +Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage; +No wounds, by bitter hatred made, +With warm blood soiled the shining blade; +For how could hostile madness arm +An age of love to public harm, +When common justice none withstood, +Nor sought rewards for spilling blood? +Oh that at length our age would raise +Into the temper of those days! +But--worse than Aetna's fires!--debate +And avarice inflame our state. +Alas! who was it that first found +Gold hid of purpose under ground-- +That sought out pearls, and dived to find +Such precious perils for mankind? + + +REGENERATION. + +1 A ward, and still in bonds, one day + I stole abroad; + It was high spring, and all the way + Primrosed, and hung with shade; + Yet was it frost within, + And surly wind + Blasted my infant buds, and sin, + Like clouds, eclipsed my mind. + +2 Stormed thus, I straight perceived my spring + Mere stage and show, + My walk a monstrous, mountained thing, + Rough-cast with rocks and snow; + And as a pilgrim's eye, + Far from relief, + Measures the melancholy sky, + Then drops, and rains for grief, + +3 So sighed I upwards still; at last, + 'Twixt steps and falls, + I reached the pinnacle, where placed + I found a pair of scales; + I took them up, and laid + In the one late pains, + The other smoke and pleasures weighed, + But proved the heavier grains. + +4 With that some cried, Away; straight I + Obeyed, and led + Full east, a fair, fresh field could spy-- + Some called it Jacob's Bed-- + A virgin soil, which no + Rude feet e'er trod, + Where, since he stept there, only go + Prophets and friends of God. + +5 Here I reposed, but scarce well set, + A grove descried + Of stately height, whose branches met + And mixed on every side; + I entered, and, once in, + (Amazed to see 't;) + Found all was changed, and a new spring + Did all my senses greet. + +6 The unthrift sun shot vital gold + A thousand pieces, + And heaven its azure did unfold, + Chequered with snowy fleeces. + The air was all in spice, + And every bush + A garland wore; thus fed my eyes, + But all the ear lay hush. + +7 Only a little fountain lent + Some use for ears, + And on the dumb shades language spent, + The music of her tears; + I drew her near, and found + The cistern full + Of divers stones, some bright and round, + Others ill-shaped and dull. + +8 The first, (pray mark,) as quick as light + Danced through the flood; + But the last, more heavy than the night, + Nailed to the centre stood; + I wondered much, but tired + At last with thought, + My restless eye, that still desired, + As strange an object brought. + +9 It was a bank of flowers, where I descried + (Though 'twas mid-day) + Some fast asleep, others broad-eyed + And taking in the ray; + Here musing long I heard + A rushing wind, + Which still increased, but whence it stirred, + Nowhere I could not find. + +10 I turned me round, and to each shade + Despatched an eye, + To see if any leaf had made + Least motion or reply; + But while I, listening, sought + My mind to ease + By knowing where 'twas, or where not, + It whispered, 'Where I please.' + + 'Lord,' then said I, 'on me one breath, + And let me die before my death!' + +'Arise, O north, and come, thou south wind; and blow upon my garden, +that the spices thereof may flow out.'--CANT. iv. 16. + + +RESURRECTION AND IMMORTALITY. + +'By that new and living way, which he hath prepared for us, through the +veil, which is his flesh.'--HEB. x. 20. + +BODY. + +1 Oft have I seen, when that renewing breath + That binds and loosens death + Inspired a quickening power through the dead + Creatures abed, + Some drowrsy silk-worm creep + From that long sleep, + And in weak, infant hummings chime and knell + About her silent cell, + Until at last, full with the vital ray, + She winged away, + And, proud with life and sense, + Heaven's rich expense, + Esteemed (vain things!) of two whole elements + As mean, and span-extents. + Shall I then think such providence will be + Less friend to me, + Or that he can endure to be unjust + Who keeps his covenant even with our dust? + +SOUL + +2 Poor querulous handful! was't for this + I taught thee all that is? + Unbowelled nature, showed thee her recruits, + And change of suits, + And how of death we make + A mere mistake; + For no thing can-to nothing fall, but still + Incorporates by skill, + And then returns, and from the womb of things + Such treasure brings, + As pheenix-like renew'th + Both life and youth; + For a preserving spirit doth still pass + Untainted through this mass, + Which doth resolve, produce, and ripen all + That to it fall; + Nor are those births, which we + Thus suffering see, + Destroyed at all; but when time's restless wave + Their substance doth deprave, + And the more noble essence finds his house + Sickly and loose, + He, ever young, doth wing + Unto that spring + And source of spirits, where he takes his lot, + Till time no more shall rot + His passive cottage; which, (though laid aside,) + Like some spruce bride, + Shall one day rise, and, clothed with shining light, + All pure and bright, + Remarry to the soul, for'tis most plain + Thou only fall'st to be refined again. + +3 Then I that here saw darkly in a glass + But mists and shadows pass, + And, by their own weak shine, did search the springs + And course of things, + Shall with enlightened rays + Pierce all their ways; + And as thou saw'st, I in a thought could go + To heaven or earth below, + To read some star, or mineral, and in state + There often sate; + So shalt thou then with me, + Both winged and free, + Rove in that mighty and eternal light, + Where no rude shade or night + Shall dare approach us; we shall there no more + Watch stars, or pore + Through melancholy clouds, and say, + 'Would it were day!' + One everlasting Sabbath there shall run + Without succession, and without a sun. + +'But go thou thy way until the end be: for thou shalt rest, and stand +in thy lot at the end of the days.'--DAN. xii. 13. + + +THE SEARCH. + +'Tis now clear day: I see a rose +Bud in the bright east, and disclose +The pilgrim-sun. All night have I +Spent in a roving ecstasy +To find my Saviour. I have been +As far as Bethlehem, and have seen +His inn and cradle; being there +I met the wise men, asked them where +He might be found, or what star can +Now point him out, grown up a man? +To Egypt hence I fled, ran o'er +All her parched bosom to Nile's shore, +Her yearly nurse; came back, inquired +Amongst the doctors, and desired +To see the temple, but was shown +A little dust, and for the town +A heap of ashes, where, some said, +A small bright sparkle was abed, +Which would one day (beneath the pole) +Awake, and then refine the whole. + +Tired here, I came to Sychar, thence +To Jacob's well, bequeathed since +Unto his sons, where often they, +In those calm, golden evenings, lay +Watering their flocks, and having spent +Those white days, drove home to the tent +Their well-fleeced train; and here (O fate!) +I sit where once my Saviour sate. +The angry spring in bubbles swelled, +Which broke in sighs still, as they filled, +And whispered, Jesus had been there, +But Jacob's children would not hear. +Loth hence to part, at last I rise, +But with the fountain in mine eyes, +And here a fresh search is decreed: +He must be found where he did bleed. +I walk the garden, and there see +Ideas of his agony, +And moving anguishments, that set +His blest face in a bloody sweat; +I climbed the hill, perused the cross, +Hung with my gain, and his great loss: +Never did tree bear fruit like this, +Balsam of souls, the body's bliss. +But, O his grave! where I saw lent +(For he had none) a monument, +An undefiled, a new-hewed one, +But there was not the Corner-stone. +Sure then, said I, my quest is vain, +He'll not be found where he was slain; +So mild a Lamb can never be +'Midst so much blood and cruelty. +I'll to the wilderness, and can +Find beasts more merciful than man; +He lived there safe, 'twas his retreat +From the fierce Jew, and Herod's heat, +And forty days withstood the fell +And high temptations of hell; +With seraphim there talked he, +His Father's flaming ministry, +He heavened their walks, and with his eyes +Made those wild shades a paradise. +Thus was the desert sanctified +To be the refuge of his bride. +I'll thither then; see, it is day! +The sun's broke through to guide my way. + +But as I urged thus, and writ down +What pleasures should my journey crown, +What silent paths, what shades and cells, +Fair virgin-flowers and hallowed wells, +I should rove in, and rest my head +Where my dear Lord did often tread, +Sugaring all dangers with success, +Methought I heard one singing thus: + + +1 Leave, leave thy gadding thoughts; + Who pores + And spies + Still out of doors, + Descries + Within them nought. + +2 The skin and shell of things, + Though fair, + Are not + Thy wish nor prayer, + But got + By mere despair + Of wings. + +3 To rack old elements, + Or dust, + And say, + Sure here he must + Needs stay, + Is not the way, + Nor just. + +Search well another world; who studies this, +Travels in clouds, seeks manna where none is. + +'That they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, +and find him, though he be not far off from every one of us: for in +him we live, and move, and have our being.'--ACTS xvii. 27, 28. + + +ISAAC'S MARRIAGE. + +'And Isaac went out to pray in the field at the eventide, and he +lifted up his eyes, and saw, and, behold, the camels were coming.' +--GEN. xxiv. 63. + +Praying! and to be married! It was rare, +But now 'tis monstrous; and that pious care +Though of ourselves, is so much out of date, +That to renew't were to degenerate. +But thou a chosen sacrifice wert given, +And offered up so early unto Heaven, +Thy flames could not be out; religion was +Hayed into thee like beams into a glass; +Where, as thou grew'st, it multiplied, and shined +The sacred constellation of thy mind. + +But being for a bride, prayer was such +A decried course, sure it prevailed not much. +Hadst ne'er an oath nor compliment? thou wert +An odd, dull suitor; hadst thou but the art +Of these our days, thou couldst have coined thee twenty +New several oaths, and compliments, too, plenty. +O sad and wild excess! and happy those +White days, that durst no impious mirth expose: +When conscience by lewd use had not lost sense, +Nor bold-faced custom banished innocence! +Thou hadst no pompous train, nor antic crowd +Of young, gay swearers, with their needless, loud +Retinue; all was here smooth as thy bride, +And calm like her, or that mild evening-tide. +Yet hadst thou nobler guests: angels did wind +And rove about thee, guardians of thy mind; +These fetched thee home thy bride, and all the way +Advised thy servant what to do and say; +These taught him at the well, and thither brought +The chaste and lovely object of thy thought. +But here was ne'er a compliment, not one +Spruce, supple cringe, or studied look put on. +All was plain, modest truth: nor did she come +In rolls and curls, mincing and stately dumb; +But in a virgin's native blush and fears, +Fresh as those roses which the day-spring wears. +O sweet, divine simplicity! O grace +Beyond a curled lock or painted face! +A pitcher too she had, nor thought it much +To carry that, which some would scorn to touch; +With, which in mild, chaste language she did woo +To draw him drink, and for his camels too. + +And now thou knew'st her coming, it was time +To get thee wings on, and devoutly climb +Unto thy God; for marriage of all states +Makes most unhappy, or most fortunates. +This brought thee forth, where now thou didst undress +Thy soul, and with new pinions refresh +Her wearied wings, which, so restored, did fly +Above the stars, a track unknown and high; +And in her piercing flight perfumed the air, +Scattering the myrrh and incense of thy prayer. +So from Lahai-roi[1]'s well some spicy cloud, +Wooed by the sun, swells up to be his shroud, +And from her moist womb weeps a fragrant shower, +Which, scattered in a thousand pearls, each flower +And herb partakes; where having stood awhile, +And something cooled the parched and thirsty isle, +The thankful earth unlocks herself, and blends +A thousand odours, which, all mixed, she sends +Up in one cloud, and so returns the skies +That dew they lent, a breathing sacrifice. + +Thus soared thy soul, who, though young, didst inherit +Together with his blood thy father's spirit, +Whose active zeal and tried faith were to thee +Familiar ever since thy infancy. +Others were timed and trained up to't, but thou +Didst thy swift years in piety outgrow. +Age made them reverend and a snowy head, +But thou wert so, ere time his snow could shed. +Then who would truly limn thee out must paint +First a young patriarch, then a married saint. + +[1] 'Lahai-roi:' a well in the south country where Jacob dwelt, between +Kadesh and Bered; _Heb.,_ The well of him that liveth and seeth me. + + +MAN'S FALL AND RECOVERY. + +Farewell, you everlasting hills! I'm cast +Here under clouds, where storms and tempests blast + This sullied flower, +Robbed of your calm; nor can I ever make, +Transplanted thus, one leaf of his t'awake; + But every hour +He sleeps and droops; and in this drowsy state +Leaves me a slave to passions and my fate. + Besides I've lost +A train of lights, which in those sunshine days +Were my sure guides; and only with me stays, + Unto my cost, +One sullen beam, whose charge is to dispense +More punishment than knowledge to my sense. + Two thousand years +I sojourned thus. At last Jeshurun's king +Those famous tables did from Sinai bring. + These swelled my fears, +Guilts, trespasses, and all this inward awe; +For sin took strength and vigour from the law. + Yet have I found +A plenteous way, (thanks to that Holy One!) +To cancel all that e'er was writ in stone. + His saving wound +Wept blood that broke this adamant, and gave +To sinners confidence, life to the grave. + This makes me span +My fathers' journeys, and in one fair step +O'er all their pilgrimage and labours leap. + For God, made man, +Reduced the extent of works of faith; so made +Of their Red Sea a spring: I wash, they wade. + +'As by the offence of one the fault came on all men to condemnation; +so by the righteousness of one, the benefit abounded towards all men +to the justification of life.'--ROM. v. 18. + + +THE SHOWER. + +1 'Twas so; I saw thy birth. That drowsy lake + From her faint bosom breathed thee, the disease + Of her sick waters, and infectious ease. + But now at even, + Too gross for heaven, + Thou fall'st in tears, and weep'st for thy mistake. + +2 Ah! it is so with me; oft have I pressed + Heaven with a lazy breath; but fruitless this + Pierced not; love only can with quick access + Unlock the way, + When all else stray, + The smoke and exhalations of the breast. + +3 Yet if, as thou dost melt, and, with thy train + Of drops, make soft the earth, my eyes could weep + O'er my hard heart, that's bound up and asleep, + Perhaps at last, + Some such showers past, + My God would give a sunshine after rain. + + +BURIAL. + +1 O thou! the first-fruits of the dead, + And their dark bed, + When I am cast into that deep + And senseless sleep, + The wages of my sin, + O then, + Thou great Preserver of all men, + Watch o'er that loose + And empty house, + Which I sometime lived in! + +2 It is in truth a ruined piece, + Not worth thy eyes; + And scarce a room, but wind and rain + Beat through and stain + The seats and cells within; + Yet thou, + Led by thy love, wouldst stoop thus low, + And in this cot, + All filth and spot, + Didst with thy servant inn. + +3 And nothing can, I hourly see, + Drive thee from me. + Thou art the same, faithful and just, + In life or dust. + Though then, thus crumbed, I stray + In blasts, + Or exhalations, and wastes, + Beyond all eyes, + Yet thy love spies + That change, and knows thy clay. + +4 The world's thy box: how then, there tossed, + Can I be lost? + But the delay is all; Time now + Is old and slow; + His wings are dull and sickly. + Yet he + Thy servant is, and waits on thee. + Cut then the sum, + Lord, haste, Lord, come, + O come, Lord Jesus, quickly! + +'And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the first-fruits of +the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.'--ROM. viii. 23. + + +CHEERFULNESS. + +1 Lord, with what courage and delight + I do each thing, + When thy least breath sustains my wing! + I shine and move + Like those above, + And, with much gladness + Quitting sadness, + Make me fair days of every night. + +2 Affliction thus mere pleasure is; + And hap what will, + If thou be in't,'tis welcome still. + But since thy rays + In sunny days + Thou dost thus lend, + And freely spend, + Ah! what shall I return for this? + +3 Oh that I were all soul! that thou + Wouldst make each part + Of this poor sinful frame pure heart! + Then would I drown + My single one; + And to thy praise + A concert raise + Of hallelujahs here below. + + +THE PASSION. + +1 O my chief good! + My dear, dear God! + When thy blest blood + Did issue forth, forced by the rod, + What pain didst thou + Feel in each blow! + How didst thou weep, + And thyself steep + In thy own precious, saving tears! + What cruel smart + Did tear thy heart! + How didst thou groan it + In the spirit, + O thou whom my soul loves and fears! + +2 Most blessed Vine! + Whose juice so good + I feel as wine, + But thy fair branches felt as blood, + How wert thou pressed + To be my feast! + In what deep anguish + Didst thou languish! + What springs of sweat and blood did drown thee! + How in one path + Did the full wrath + Of thy great Father + Crowd and gather, + Doubling thy griefs, when none would own thee! + +3 How did the weight + Of all our sins, + And death unite + To wrench and rack thy blessed limbs! + How pale and bloody + Looked thy body! + How bruised and broke, + With every stroke! + How meek and patient was thy spirit! + How didst thou cry, + And groan on high, + 'Father, forgive, + And let them live! + I die to make my foes inherit!' + +4 O blessed Lamb! + That took'st my sin, + That took'st my shame, + How shall thy dust thy praises sing? + I would I were + One hearty tear! + One constant spring! + Then would I bring + Thee two small mites, and be at strife + Which should most vie, + My heart or eye, + Teaching my years + In smiles and tears + To weep, to sing, thy death, my life. + + +RULES AND LESSONS. + +1 When first thy eyes unvail, give thy soul leave + To do the like; our bodies but forerun + The spirit's duty. True hearts spread and heave + Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun. + Give him thy first thoughts then; so shalt thou keep + Him company all day, and in him sleep. + +2 Yet never sleep the sun up. Prayer should + Dawn with the day. There are set, awful hours + 'Twixt Heaven and us. The manna was not good + After sun-rising; far-day sullies flowers. + Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, + And heaven's gate opens when this world's is shut. + +3 Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush + And whispers amongst them. There's not a spring + Or leaf but hath his morning-hymn. Each bush + And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing? + Oh, leave thy cares and follies! go this way, + And thou art sure to prosper all the day. + +4 Serve God before the world; let him not go + Until thou hast a blessing; then resign + The whole unto him, and remember who + Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine; + Pour oil upon the stones; weep for thy sin; + Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. + +5 Mornings are mysteries; the first world's youth, + Man's resurrection and the future's bud + Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth + Is styled their star, the stone, and hidden food. + Three blessings wait upon them, two of which + Should move. They make us holy, happy, rich. + +6 When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, + Keep thou thy temper; mix not with each clay; + Despatch necessities; life hath a load + Which must be carried on, and safely may. + Yet keep those cares without thee, let the heart + Be God's alone, and choose the better part. + +7 Through all thy actions, counsels, and discourse, + Let mildness and religion guide thee out; + If truth be thine, what needs a brutish force? + But what's not good and just ne'er go about. + Wrong not thy conscience for a rotten stick; + That gain is dreadful which makes spirits sick. + +8 To God, thy country, and thy friend be true; + If priest and people change, keep thou thy ground. + Who sells religion is a Judas Jew; + And, oaths once broke, the soul cannot be sound. + The perjurer's a devil let loose: what can + Tie up his hands that dares mock God and man? + +9 Seek not the same steps with the crowd; stick thou + To thy sure trot; a constant, humble mind + Is both his own joy, and his Maker's too; + Let folly dust it on, or lag behind. + A sweet self-privacy in a right soul + Outruns the earth, and lines the utmost pole. + +10 To all that seek thee bear an open heart; + Make not thy breast a labyrinth or trap; + If trials come, this will make good thy part, + For honesty is safe, come what can hap; + It is the good man's feast, the prince of flowers, + Which thrives in storms, and smells best after showers. + +11 Seal not thy eyes up from the poor, but give + Proportion to their merits, and thy purse; + Thou may'st in rags a mighty prince relieve, + Who, when thy sins call for't, can fence a curse. + Thou shalt not lose one mite. Though waters stray, + The bread we cast returns in fraughts one day. + +12 Spend not an hour so as to weep another, + For tears are not thine own; if thou giv'st words, + Dash not with them thy friend, nor Heaven; oh, smother + A viperous thought; some syllables are swords. + Unbitted tongues are in their penance double; + They shame their owners, and their hearers trouble. + +13 Injure not modest blood, while spirits rise + In judgment against lewdness; that's base wit + That voids but filth and stench. Hast thou no prize + But sickness or infection? stifle it. + Who makes his jest of sins, must be at least, + If not a very devil, worse than beast. + +14 Yet fly no friend, if he be such indeed; + But meet to quench his longings, and thy thirst; + Allow your joys, religion: that done, speed, + And bring the same man back thou wert at first. + Who so returns not, cannot pray aright, + But shuts his door, and leaves God out all night. + +15 To heighten thy devotions, and keep low + All mutinous thoughts, what business e'er thou hast, + Observe God in his works; here fountains flow, + Birds sing, beasts feed, fish leap, and the earth stands fast; + Above are restless motions, running lights, + Vast circling azure, giddy clouds, days, nights. + +16 When seasons change, then lay before thine eyes + His wondrous method; mark the various scenes + In heaven; hail, thunder, rainbows, snow, and ice, + Calms, tempests, light, and darkness, by his means; + Thou canst not miss his praise; each tree, herb, flower + Are shadows of his wisdom and his power. + +17 To meals when thou dost come, give him the praise + Whose arm supplied thee; take what may suffice, + And then be thankful; oh, admire his ways + Who fills the world's unemptied granaries! + A thankless feeder is a thief, his feast + A very robbery, and himself no guest. + +18 High-noon thus past, thy time decays; provide + Thee other thoughts; away with friends and mirth; + The sun now stoops, and hastes his beams to hide + Under the dark and melancholy earth. + All but preludes thy end. Thou art the man + Whose rise, height, and descent is but a span. + +19 Yet, set as he doth, and 'tis well. Have all + Thy beams home with thee: trim thy lamp, buy oil, + And then set forth; who is thus dressed, the fall + Furthers his glory, and gives death the foil. + Man is a summer's day; whose youth and fire + Cool to a glorious evening, and expire. + +20 When night comes, list[1] thy deeds; make plain the way + 'Twixt heaven and thee; block it not with delays; + But perfect all before thou sleep'st; then say + 'There's one sun more strung on my bead of days.' + What's good score up for joy; the bad, well scanned, + Wash off with tears, and get thy Master's hand. + +21 Thy accounts thus made, spend in the grave one hour + Before thy time; be not a stranger there, + Where thou may'st sleep whole ages; life's poor flower + Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad spirits fear + This conversation; but the good man lies + Entombed many days before he dies. + +22 Being laid, and dressed for sleep, close not thy eyes + Up with thy curtains; give thy soul the wing + In some good thoughts; so, when the day shall rise, + And thou unrak'st thy fire, those sparks will bring + New flames; besides where these lodge, vain heats mourn + And die; that bush where God is shall not burn. + +23 When thy nap's over, stir thy fire, and rake + In that dead age; one beam i' the dark outvies + Two in the day; then from the damps and ache + Of night shut up thy leaves; be chaste; God pries + Through thickest nights; though then the sun be far, + Do thou the works of day, and rise a star. + +24 Briefly, do as thou wouldst be done unto, + Love God, and love thy neighbour; watch and pray. + These are the words and works of life; this do, + And live; who doth not thus, hath lost heaven's way. + Oh, lose it not! look up, wilt change those lights + For chains of darkness and eternal nights? + +[1] 'List:' weigh. + + +REPENTANCE. + +Lord, since thou didst in this vile clay + That sacred ray, +Thy Spirit, plant, quickening the whole + With that one grain's infused wealth, +My forward flesh crept on, and subtly stole + Both growth and power; checking the health +And heat of thine. That little gate + And narrow way, by which to thee +The passage is, he termed a grate + And entrance to captivity; +Thy laws but nets, where some small birds, + And those but seldom too, were caught; +Thy promises but empty words, + Which none but children heard or taught. +This I believed: and though a friend + Came oft from far, and whispered, No; +Yet, that not sorting to my end, + I wholly listened to my foe. +Wherefore, pierced through with grief, my sad, + Seduced soul sighs up to thee; +To thee, who with true light art clad, + And seest all things just as they be. +Look from thy throne upon this roll + Of heavy sins, my high transgressions, +Which I confess with all my soul; + My God, accept of my confession! + It was last day, +Touched with the guilt of my own way, +I sat alone, and taking up, + The bitter cup, +Through all thy fair and various store, +Sought out what might outvie my score. + The blades of grass thy creatures feeding; + The trees, their leaves; the flowers, their seeding; + The dust, of which I am a part; + The stones, much softer than my heart; + The drops of rain, the sighs of wind, + The stars, to which I am stark blind; + The dew thy herbs drink up by night, + The beams they warm them at i' the light; + All that have signature or life + I summoned to decide this strife; + And lest I should lack for arrears, + A spring ran by, I told her tears; + But when these came unto the scale, + My sins alone outweighed them all. + O my dear God! my life, my love! + Most blessed Lamb! and mildest Dove! + Forgive your penitent offender, + And no more his sins remember; + Scatter these shades of death, and give + Light to my soul, that it may live; + Cut me not off for my transgressions, + Wilful rebellions, and suppressions; + But give them in those streams a part + Whose spring is in my Saviour's heart. + Lord, I confess the heinous score, + And pray I may do so no more; + Though then all sinners I exceed, + Oh, think on this, thy Son did bleed! + Oh, call to mind his wounds, his woes, + His agony, and bloody throes; + Then look on all that thou hast made, + And mark how they do fail and fade; + The heavens themselves, though fair and bright, + Are dark and unclean in thy sight; + How then, with thee, can man be holy, + Who dost thine angels charge with folly? + Oh, what am I, that I should breed + Figs on a thorn, flowers on a weed? + I am the gourd of sin and sorrow, + Growing o'er night, and gone to-morrow. + In all this round of life and death + Nothing's more vile than is my breath; + Profaneness on my tongue doth rest, + Defects and darkness in my breast; + Pollutions all my body wed, + And even my soul to thee is dead; + Only in him, on whom I feast, + Both soul and body are well dressed; + His pure perfection quits all score, + And fills the boxes of his poor; +He is the centre of long life and light; +I am but finite, he is infinite. +Oh, let thy justice then in him confine, +And through his merits make thy mercy mine! + + +THE DAWNING. + +Ah! what time wilt thou come? when shall that cry, + 'The Bridegroom's coming!' fill the skyl? + Shall it in the evening run + When our words and works are done? + Or will thy all-surprising light + Break at midnight, + When either sleep or some dark pleasure + Possesseth mad man without measure? + Or shall these early, fragrant hours + Unlock thy bowers, + And with their blush of light descry + Thy locks crowned with eternity? + Indeed, it is the only time + That with thy glory doth best chime; + All now are stirring, every field + Full hymns doth yield; + The whole creation shakes off night, + And for thy shadow looks the light; + Stars now vanish without number, + Sleepy planets set and slumber, + The pursy clouds disband and scatter, + All expect some sudden matter; + Not one beam triumphs, but from far + That morning-star. + + Oh, at what time soever thou, + Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow, + And, with thy angels in the van, + Descend to judge poor careless man, + Grant I may not like puddle lie + In a corrupt security, + Where, if a traveller water crave, + He finds it dead, and in a grave. + But as this restless, vocal spring + All day and night doth run and sing, + And though here born, yet is acquainted + Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted; + So let me all my busy age + In thy free services engage; + And though, while here, of force I must + Have commerce sometimes with poor dust, + And in my flesh, though vile and low, + As this doth in her channel flow, + Yet let my course, my aim, my love, + And chief acquaintance be above; + So when that day and hour shall come + In which thyself will be the Sun, + Thou'lt find me dressed and on my way, + Watching the break of thy great day. + + +THE TEMPEST. + +1 How is man parcelled out! how every hour + Shows him himself, or something he should see! + This late, long heat may his instruction be; + And tempests have more in them than a shower. + + When nature on her bosom saw + Her infants die, + And all her flowers withered to straw, + Her breasts grown dry; + She made the earth, their nurse and tomb, + Sigh to the sky, + Till to those sighs, fetched from her womb, + Rain did reply; + So in the midst of all her fears + And faint requests, + Her earnest sighs procured her tears + And filled her breasts. + +2 Oh that man could do so! that he would hear + The world read to him! all the vast expense + In the creation shed and slaved to sense, + Makes up but lectures for his eye and ear. + +3 Sure mighty Love, foreseeing the descent + Of this poor creature, by a gracious art + Hid in these low things snares to gain his heart, + And laid surprises in each element. + +4 All things here show him heaven; waters that fall + Chide and fly up; mists of corruptest foam + Quit their first beds and mount; trees, herbs, flowers, all + Strive upwards still, and point him the way home. + +5 How do they cast off grossness? only earth + And man, like Issachar, in loads delight, + Water's refined to motion, air to light, + Fire to all three,[1] but man hath no such mirth. + +6 Plants in the root with earth do most comply, + Their leaves with water and humidity, + The flowers to air draw near and subtilty, + And seeds a kindred fire have with the sky. + +7 All have their keys and set ascents; but man + Though he knows these, and hath more of his own, + Sleeps at the ladder's foot; alas! what can + These new discoveries do, except they drown? + +8 Thus, grovelling in the shade and darkness, he + Sinks to a dead oblivion; and though all + He sees, like pyramids, shoot from this ball, + And lessening still, grow up invisibly, + +9 Yet hugs he still his dirt; the stuff he wears, + And painted trimming, takes down both his eyes; + Heaven hath less beauty than the dust he spies, + And money better music than the spheres. + +10 Life's but a blast; he knows it; what? shall straw + And bulrush-fetters temper his short hour? + Must he nor sip nor sing? grows ne'er a flower + To crown his temples? shall dreams be his law? + +11 O foolish man! how hast thou lost thy sight? + How is it that the sun to thee alone + Is grown thick darkness, and thy bread a stone? + Hath flesh no softness now? mid-day no light? + +12 Lord! thou didst put a soul here. If I must + Be broke again, for flints will give no fire + Without a steel, oh, let thy power clear + Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust! + +[1] 'All three:' light, motion, heat + + +THE WORLD. + +1 I saw eternity the other night, + Like a great ring of pure and endless light, + All calm, as it was bright; + And round beneath it, time, in hours, days, years, + Driven by the spheres, + Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world + And all her train were hurled. + The doting lover in his quaintest strain + Did there complain; + Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, + Wit's sour delights; + With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure, + Yet his dear treasure, + All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour + Upon a flower. + +2 The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe, + Like a thick midnight fog, moved there so slow, + He did nor stay, nor go; + Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses, scowl + Upon his soul, + And clouds of crying witnesses without + Pursued him with one shout. + Yet digged the mole, and, lest his ways be found, + Worked under ground, + Where he did clutch his prey. But one did see + That policy. + Churches and altars fed him; perjuries + Were gnats and flies; + It rained about him blood and tears; but he + Drank them as free. + +3 The fearful miser on a heap of rust + Sat pining all his life there, did scarce trust + His own hands with the dust, + Yet would not place one piece above, but lives + In fear of thieves. + Thousands there were as frantic as himself, + And hugged each one his pelf; + The downright epicure placed heaven in sense, + And scorned pretence; + While others, slipped into a wide excess, + Said little less; + The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave, + Who think them brave, + And poor, despised truth sat counting by + Their victory. + +4 Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, + And sing and weep, soared up into the ring; + But most would use no wing. + 'O fools,' said I,'thus to prefer dark night + Before true light! + To live in grots and caves, and hate the day + Because it shows the way, + The way, which from this dead and dark abode + Leads up to God, + A way where you might tread the sun, and be + More bright than he!' + But, as I did their madness so discuss, + One whispered thus, + 'This ring the bridegroom did for none provide, + But for his bride.' + + +'All that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, +and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And +the world passeth away, and the lusts thereof; but he that doeth the +will of God abideth for ever.'--1 JOHN ii. 16, 17. + + +THE CONSTELLATION. + +1 Fair, ordered lights, whose motion without noise + Resembles those true joys, + Whose spring is on that hill where you do grow, + And we here taste sometimes below. + +2 With what exact obedience do you move, + Now beneath, and now above! + And in your vast progressions overlook + The darkest night and closest nook! + +3 Some nights I see you in the gladsome east, + Some others near the west, + And when I cannot see, yet do you shine, + And beat about your endless line. + +4 Silence and light and watchfulness with you + Attend and wind the clue; + No sleep nor sloth assails you, but poor man + Still either sleeps, or slips his span. + +5 He gropes beneath here, and with restless care, + First makes, then hugs a snare; + Adores dead dust, sets heart on corn and grass, + But seldom doth make heaven his glass. + +6 Music and mirth, if there be music here, + Take up and tune his ear; + These things are kin to him, and must be had; + Who kneels, or sighs a life, is mad. + +7 Perhaps some nights he'll watch with you, and peep + When it were best to sleep; + Dares know effects, and judge them long before, + When the herb he treads knows much, much more. + +8 But seeks he your obedience, order, light, + Your calm and well-trained flight? + Where, though the glory differ in each star, + Yet is there peace still and no war. + +9 Since placed by him, who calls you by your names, + And fixed there all your flames, + Without command you never acted ought, + And then you in your courses fought. + +10 But here, commissioned by a black self-will, + The sons the father kill, + The children chase the mother, and would heal + The wounds they give by crying zeal. + +11 Then cast her blood and tears upon thy book, + Where they for fashion look; + And, like that lamb, which had the dragon's voice, + Seem mild, but are known by their noise. + +12 Thus by our lusts disordered into wars, + Our guides prove wandering stars, + Which for these mists and black days were reserved, + What time we from our first love swerved. + +13 Yet oh, for his sake who sits now by thee + All crowned with victory, + So guide us through this darkness, that we may + Be more and more in love with day! + +14 Settle and fix our hearts, that we may move + In order, peace, and love; + And, taught obedience by thy whole creation, + Become an humble, holy nation! + +15 Give to thy spouse her perfect and pure dress, + Beauty and holiness; + And so repair these rents, that men may see + And say, 'Where God is, all agree.' + + +MISERY. + +Lord, bind me up, and let me lie +A prisoner to my liberty, +If such a state at all can be +As an impris'ment serving thee; +The wind, though gathered in thy fist, +Yet doth it blow still where it list, +And yet shouldst thou let go thy hold, +Those gusts might quarrel and grow bold. + +As waters here, headlong and loose, +The lower grounds still chase and choose, +Where spreading ail the way they seek +And search out every hole and creek; +So my spilt thoughts, winding from thee, +Take the down-road to vanity, +Where they all stray, and strive which shall +Find out the first and steepest fall. +I cheer their flow, giving supply +To what's already grown too high, +And having thus performed that part, +Feed on those vomits of my heart. +I break the fence my own hands made +Then lay that trespass in the shade; +Some fig-leaves still I do devise, +As if thou hadst not ears nor eyes. +Excess of friends, of words, and wine +Take up my day, while thou dost shine +All unregarded, and thy book +Hath not so much as one poor look. +If thou steal in amidst the mirth +And kindly tell me, I am earth, +I shut thee out, and let that slip; +Such music spoils good fellowship. +Thus wretched I and most unkind, +Exclude my dear God from my mind, +Exclude him thence, who of that cell +Would make a court, should he there dwell. +He goes, he yields; and troubled sore +His Holy Spirit grieves therefore; +The mighty God, the eternal King +Doth grieve for dust, and dust doth sing. +But I go on, haste to divest +Myself of reason, till oppressed +And buried in my surfeits, I +Prove my own shame and misery. +Next day I call and cry for thee +Who shouldst not then come near to me; +But now it is thy servant's pleasure, +Thou must and dost give him his measure. +Thou dost, thou com'st, and in a shower +Of healing sweets thyself dost pour +Into my wounds; and now thy grace +(I know it well) fills all the place; +I sit with thee by this new light, +And for that hour thou'rt my delight; +No man can more the world despise, +Or thy great mercies better prize. +I school my eyes, and strictly dwell +Within the circle of my cell; +That calm and silence are my joys, +Which to thy peace are but mere noise. +At length I feel my head to ache, +My fingers itch, and burn to take +Some new employment, I begin +To swell and foam and fret within: + 'The age, the present times are not + To snudge in and embrace a cot; + Action and blood now get the game, + Disdain treads on the peaceful name; + Who sits at home too bears a load + Greater than those that gad abroad.' +Thus do I make thy gifts given me +The only quarrellers with thee; +I'd loose those knots thy hands did tie, +Then would go travel, fight, or die. +Thousands of wild and waste infusions +Like waves beat on my resolutions; +As flames about their fuel run, +And work and wind till all be done, +So my fierce soul bustles about, +And never rests till all be out. +Thus wilded by a peevish heart, +Which in thy music bears no part, +I storm at thee, calling my peace +A lethargy, and mere disease; +Nay those bright beams shot from thy eyes +To calm me in these mutinies, +I style mere tempers, which take place +At some set times, but are thy grace. + +Such is man's life, and such is mine, +The worst of men, and yet still thine, +Still thine, thou know'st, and if not so, +Then give me over to my foe. +Yet since as easy 'tis for thee +To make man good as bid him be, +And with one glance, could he that gain, +To look him out of all his pain, +Oh, send me from thy holy hill +So much of strength as may fulfil +All thy delights, whate'er they be, +And sacred institutes in me! +Open my rocky heart, and fill +It with obedience to thy will; +Then seal it up, that as none see, +So none may enter there but thee. + +Oh, hear, my God! hear him, whose blood +Speaks more and better for my good! +Oh, let my cry come to thy throne! +My cry not poured with tears alone, +(For tears alone are often foul,) +But with the blood of all my soul; +With spirit-sighs, and earnest groans, +Faithful and most repenting moans, +With these I cry, and crying pine, +Till thou both mend, and make me thine. + + +MOUNT OF OLIVES. + +When first I saw true beauty, and thy joys, +Active as light, and calm without all noise, +Shined on my soul, I felt through all my powers +Such a rich air of sweets, as evening showers, +Fanned by a gentle gale, convey, and breathe +On some parched bank, crowned with a flowery wreath; +Odours, and myrrh, and balm in one rich flood +O'erran my heart, and spirited my blood; +My thoughts did swim in comforts, and mine eye +Confessed, 'The world did only paint and lie.' +And where before I did no safe course steer, +But wandered under tempests all the year; +Went bleak and bare in body as in mind, +And was blown through by every storm and wind, +I am so warmed now by this glance on me, +That 'midst all storms I feel a ray of thee. +So have I known some beauteous passage rise +In sudden flowers and arbours to my eyes, +And in the depth and dead of winter bring +To my cold thoughts a lively sense of spring. + +Thus fed by thee, who dost all beings nourish, +My withered leaves again look green and flourish; +I shine and shelter underneath thy wing, +Where, sick with love, I strive thy name to sing; +Thy glorious name! which grant I may so do, +That these may be thy praise, and my joy too! + + +ASCENSION-DAY. + +Lord Jesus! with what sweetness and delights, +Sure, holy hopes, high joys, and quickening flights, +Dost thou feed thine! O thou! the hand that lifts +To him who gives all good and perfect gifts, +Thy glorious, bright ascension, though removed +So many ages from me, is so proved +And by thy Spirit sealed to me, that I +Feel me a sharer in thy victory! + I soar and rise + Up to the skies, + Leaving the world their day; + And in my flight + For the true light + Go seeking all the way; +I greet thy sepulchre, salute thy grave, +That blest enclosure, where the angels gave +The first glad tidings of thy early light, +And resurrection from the earth and night, +I see that morning in thy convert's[1] tears, +Fresh as the dew, which but this dawning wears. +I smell her spices; and her ointment yields +As rich a scent as the now primrosed fields. +The day-star smiles, and light with the deceased +Now shines in all the chambers of the east. +What stirs, what posting intercourse and mirth +Of saints and angels glorify the earth? +What sighs, what whispers, busy stops and stays, +Private and holy talk, fill all the ways? +They pass as at the last great day, and run +In their white robes to seek the risen Sun; +I see them, hear them, mark their haste, and move +Amongst them, with them, winged with faith and love. +Thy forty days' more secret commerce here +After thy death and funeral, so clear +And indisputable, shows to my sight +As the sun doth, which to those days gave light. +I walk the fields of Bethany, which shine +All now as fresh as Eden, and as fine. +Such was the bright world on the first seventh day, +Before man brought forth sin, and sin decay; +When like a virgin clad in flowers and green +The pure earth sat, and the fair woods had seen +No frost, but flourished in that youthful vest +With which their great Creator had them dressed: +When heaven above them shined like molten glass, +While all the planets did unclouded pass; +And springs, like dissolved pearls, their streams did pour, +Ne'er marred with floods, nor angered with a shower. +With these fair thoughts I move in this fair place, +And the last steps of my mild Master trace. +I see him leading out his chosen train +All sad with tears, which like warm summer rain +In silent drops steal from their holy eyes, +Fixed lately on the cross, now on the skies. +And now, eternal Jesus! thou dost heave +Thy blessed hands to bless those thou dost leave. +The cloud doth now receive thee, and their sight +Having lost thee, behold two men in white! +Two and no more: 'What two attest is true,' +Was thine own answer to the stubborn Jew. +Come then, thou faithful Witness! come, dear Lord, +Upon the clouds again to judge this world! + +[1] 'Thy convert:' St Mary Magdalene. + + +COCK-CROWING. + +1 Father of lights! what sunny seed, + What glance of day hast thou confined + Into this bird? To all the breed + This busy ray thou hast assigned; + Their magnetism works all night, + And dreams of paradise and light. + +2 Their eyes watch for the morning hue, + Their little grain-expelling night + So shines and sings, as if it knew + The path unto the house of light. + It seems their candle, howe'er done, + Was tinned and lighted at the sun. + +3 If such a tincture, such a touch, + So firm a longing can empower, + Shall thy own image think it much + To watch for thy appearing hour? + If a mere blast so fill the sail, + Shall not the breath of God prevail? + +4 O thou immortal light and heat! + Whose hand so shines through all this frame, + That by the beauty of the seat, + We plainly see who made the same, + Seeing thy seed abides in me, + Dwell thou in it, and I in thee! + +5 To sleep without thee is to die; + Yea,'tis a death partakes of hell: + For where thou dost not close the eye + It never opens, I can tell. + In such a dark, Egyptian border, + The shades of death dwell, and disorder. + +6 If joys, and hopes, and earnest throes, + And hearts, whose pulse beats still for light, + Are given to birds; who, but thee, knows + A love-sick soul's exalted flight? + Can souls be tracked by any eye + But his, who gave them wings to fly? + +7 Only this veil which thou hast broke, + And must be broken yet in me, + This veil, I say, is all the cloak + And cloud which shadows me from thee. + This veil thy full-eyed love denies, + And only gleams and fractions spies. + +8 Oh, take it off! make no delay; + But brush me with thy light, that I + May shine unto a perfect day, + And warm me at thy glorious eye! + Oh, take it off! or till it flee, + Though with no lily, stay with me! + + +THE PALM-TREE. + +1 Dear friend, sit down, and bear awhile this shade, + As I have yours long since. This plant you see + So pressed and bowed, before sin did degrade + Both you and it, had equal liberty + +2 With other trees; but now, shut from the breath + And air of Eden, like a malcontent + It thrives nowhere. This makes these weights, like death + And sin, hang at him; for the more he's bent + +3 The more he grows. Celestial natures still + Aspire for home. This Solomon of old, + By flowers, and carvings, and mysterious skill + Of wings, and cherubims, and palms, foretold. + +4 This is the life which, hid above with Christ + In God, doth always (hidden) multiply, + And spring, and grow, a tree ne'er to be priced, + A tree whose fruit is immortality. + +5 Here spirits that have run their race, and fought, + And won the fight, and have not feared the frowns + Nor loved the smiles of greatness, but have wrought + Their Master's will, meet to receive their crowns. + +6 Here is the patience of the saints: this tree + Is watered by their tears, as flowers are fed + With dew by night; but One you cannot see + Sits here, and numbers all the tears they shed. + +7 Here is their faith too, which if you will keep + When we two part, I will a journey make + To pluck a garland hence while you do sleep, + And weave it for your head against you wake. + + +THE GARLAND. + +1 Thou, who dost flow and flourish here below, + To whom a falling star and nine days' glory, + Or some frail beauty, makes the bravest show, + Hark, and make use of this ensuing story. + + When first my youthful, sinful age + Grew master of my ways, + Appointing error for my page, + And darkness for my days; + I flung away, and with full cry + Of wild affections, rid + In post for pleasures, bent to try + All gamesters that would bid. + I played with fire, did counsel spurn, + Made life my common stake; + But never thought that fire would burn, + Or that a soul could ache. + Glorious deceptions, gilded mists, + False joys, fantastic flights, + Pieces of sackcloth with silk lists, + These were my prime delights. + I sought choice bowers, haunted the spring, + Culled flowers and made me posies; + Gave my fond humours their full wing, + And crowned my head with roses. + But at the height of this career + I met with a dead man, + Who, noting well my vain abear, + Thus unto me began: + 'Desist, fond fool, be not undone; + What thou hast cut to-day + Will fade at night, and with this sun + Quite vanish and decay.' + +2 Flowers gathered in this world, die here; if thou + Wouldst have a wreath that fades not, let them grow, + And grow for thee. Who spares them here, shall find + A garland, where comes neither rain nor wind. + + +LOVE-SICK. + +Jesus, my life! how shall I truly love thee! +Oh that thy Spirit would so strongly move me, +That thou wert pleased to shed thy grace so far +As to make man all pure love, flesh a star! +A star that would ne'er set, but ever rise, +So rise and run, as to outrun these skies, +These narrow skies (narrow to me) that bar, +So bar me in, that I am still at war, +At constant war with them. Oh, come, and rend +Or bow the heavens! Lord, bow them and descend, +And at thy presence make these mountains flow, +These mountains of cold ice in me! Thou art +Refining fire; oh, then, refine my heart, +My foul, foul heart! Thou art immortal heat; +Heat motion gives; then warm it, till it beat; +So beat for thee, till thou in mercy hear; +So hear, that thou must open; open to +A sinful wretch, a wretch that caused thy woe; +Thy woe, who caused his weal; so far his weal +That thou forgott'st thine own, for thou didst seal +Mine with thy blood, thy blood which makes thee mine, +Mine ever, ever; and me ever thine. + + +PSALM CIV. + +1 Up, O my soul, and bless the Lord! O God, + My God, how great, how very great art thou! + Honour and majesty have their abode + With thee, and crown thy brow. + +2 Thou cloth'st thyself with light as with a robe, + And the high, glorious heavens thy mighty hand + Doth spread like curtains round about this globe + Of air, and sea, and land. + +3 The beams of thy bright chambers thou dost lay + In the deep waters, which no eye can find; + The clouds thy chariots are, and thy pathway + The wings of the swift wind. + +4 In thy celestial, gladsome messages + Despatched to holy souls, sick with desire + And love of thee, each willing angel is + Thy minister in fire. + +5 Thy arm unmoveable for ever laid + And founded the firm earth; then with the deep + As with a vail thou hidd'st it; thy floods played + Above the mountains steep. + +6 At thy rebuke they fled, at the known voice + Of their Lord's thunder they retired apace: + Some up the mountains passed by secret ways, + Some downwards to their place. + +7 For thou to them a bound hast set, a bound + Which, though but sand, keeps in and curbs whole seas: + There all their fury, foam, and hideous sound, + Must languish and decrease. + +8 And as thy care bounds these, so thy rich love + Doth broach the earth; and lesser brooks lets forth, + Which run from hills to valleys, and improve + Their pleasure and their worth. + +9 These to the beasts of every field give drink; + There the wild asses swallow the cool spring: + And birds amongst the branches on their brink + Their dwellings have, and sing. + +10 Thou from thy upper springs above, from those + Chambers of rain, where heaven's large bottles lie, + Dost water the parched hills, whose breaches close, + Healed by the showers from high. + +11 Grass for the cattle, and herbs for man's use + Thou mak'st to grow; these, blessed by thee, the earth + Brings forth, with wine, oil, bread; all which infuse + To man's heart strength and mirth. + +12 Thou giv'st the trees their greenness, even to those + Cedars in Lebanon, in whose thick boughs + The birds their nests build; though the stork doth choose + The fir-trees for her house. + +13 To the wild goats the high hills serve for folds, + The rocks give conies a retiring place: + Above them the cool moon her known course holds, + And the sun runs his race. + +14 Thou makest darkness, and then comes the night, + In whose thick shades and silence each wild beast + Creeps forth, and, pinched for food, with scent and sight + Hunts in an eager quest. + +15 The lion's whelps, impatient of delay, + Roar in the covert of the woods, and seek + Their meat from thee, who dost appoint the prey, + And feed'st them all the week. + +16 This past, the sun shines on the earth; and they + Retire into their dens; man goes abroad + Unto his work, and at the close of day + Returns home with his load. + +17 O Lord my God, how many and how rare + Are thy great works! In wisdom hast thou made + Them all; and this the earth, and every blade + Of grass we tread declare. + +18 So doth the deep and wide sea, wherein are + Innumerable creeping things, both small + And great; there ships go, and the shipmen's fear, + The comely, spacious whale. + +19 These all upon thee wait, that thou mayst feed + Them in due season: what thou giv'st they take; + Thy bounteous open hand helps them at need, + And plenteous meals they make. + +20 When thou dost hide thy face, (thy face which keeps + All things in being,) they consume and mourn: + When thou withdraw'st their breath their vigour sleeps, + And they to dust return. + +21 Thou send'st thy Spirit forth, and they revive, + The frozen earth's dead face thou dost renew. + Thus thou thy glory through the world dost drive, + And to thy works art true. + +22 Thine eyes behold the earth, and the whole stage + Is moved and trembles, the hills melt and smoke + With thy least touch; lightnings and winds that rage + At thy rebuke are broke. + +23 Therefore as long as thou wilt give me breath + I will in songs to thy great name employ + That gift of thine, and to my day of death + Thou shalt be all my joy. + +24 I'll spice my thoughts with thee, and from thy word + Gather true comforts; but the wicked liver + Shall be consumed. O my soul, bless thy Lord! + Yea, bless thou him for ever! + + +THE TIMBER. + +1 Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, + Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers + Passed o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, + Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers. + +2 And still a new succession sings and flies; + Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot + Towards the old and still-enduring skies, + While the low violet thrives at their root. + +3 But thou, beneath the sad and heavy line + Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; + Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, + Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark. + +4 And yet, as if some deep hate and dissent, + Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, + Were still alive, thou dost great storms resent, + Before they come, and know'st how near they be. + +5 Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath + Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; + But this thy strange resentment after death + Means only those who broke in life thy peace. + +6 So murdered man, when lovely life is done, + And his blood freezed, keeps in the centre still + Some secret sense, which makes the dead blood run + At his approach that did the body kill. + +7 And is there any murderer worse than sin? + Or any storms more foul than a lewd life? + Or what resentient can work more within + Than true remorse, when with past sins at strife? + +8 He that hath left life's vain joys and vain care, + And truly hates to be detained on earth, + Hath got an house where many mansions are, + And keeps his soul unto eternal mirth. + +9 But though thus dead unto the world, and ceased + From sin, he walks a narrow, private way; + Yet grief and old wounds make him sore displeased, + And all his life a rainy, weeping day. + +10 For though he should forsake the world, and live + As mere a stranger as men long since dead; + Yet joy itself will make a right soul grieve + To think he should be so long vainly led. + +11 But as shades set off light, so tears and grief, + Though of themselves but a sad blubbered story, + By showing the sin great, show the relief + Far greater, and so speak my Saviour's glory. + +12 If my way lies through deserts and wild woods, + Where all the land with scorching heat is cursed; + Better the pools should flow with rain and floods + To fill my bottle, than I die with thirst. + +13 Blest showers they are, and streams sent from above; + Begetting virgins where they use to flow; + The trees of life no other waters love, + Than upper springs, and none else make them grow. + +14 But these chaste fountains flow not till we die. + Some drops may fall before; but a clear spring + And ever running, till we leave to fling + Dirt in her way, will keep above the sky. + +'He that is dead is freed from sin.'--ROM. vi. 7. + + +THE JEWS. + +1 When the fair year + Of your Deliverer comes, + And that long frost which now benumbs + Your hearts shall thaw; when angels here + Shall yet to man appear, + And familiarly confer + Beneath the oak and juniper; + When the bright Dove, + Which now these many, many springs + Hath kept above, + Shall with spread wings + Descend, and living waters flow + To make dry dust, and dead trees grow; + +2 Oh, then, that I + Might live, and see the olive bear + Her proper branches! which now lie + Scattered each where; + And, without root and sap, decay; + Cast by the husbandman away. + And sure it is not far! + For as your fast and foul decays, + Forerunning the bright morning star, + Did sadly note his healing rays + Would shine elsewhere, since you were blind, + And would be cross, when God was kind,-- + +3 So by all signs + Our fulness too is now come in; + And the same sun, which here declines + And sets, will few hours hence begin + To rise on you again, and look + Towards old Mamre and Eshcol's brook. + For surely he + Who loved the world so as to give + His only Son to make it free, + Whose Spirit too doth mourn and grieve + To see man lost, will for old love + From your dark hearts this veil remove. + +4 Faith sojourned first on earth in you, + You were the dear and chosen stock: + The arm of God, glorious and true, + Was first revealed to be your rock. + +5 You were the eldest child, and when + Your stony hearts despised love, + The youngest, even the Gentiles, then, + Were cheered your jealousy to move. + +6 Thus, righteous Father! dost thou deal + With brutish men; thy gifts go round + By turns, and timely, and so heal + The lost son by the newly found. + + +PALM-SUNDAY. + +1 Come, drop your branches, strew the way, + Plants of the day! + Whom sufferings make most green and gay. + The King of grief, the Man of sorrow, + Weeping still like the wet morrow, + Your shades and freshness comes to borrow. + +2 Put on, put on your best array; + Let the joyed road make holyday, + And flowers, that into fields do stray, + Or secret groves, keep the highway. + +3 Trees, flowers, and herbs; birds, beasts, and stones, + That since man fell expect with groans + To see the Lamb, come all at once, + Lift up your heads and leave your moans; + For here comes he + Whose death will be + Man's life, and your full liberty. + +4 Hark! how the children shrill and high + 'Hosanna' cry; + Their joys provoke the distant sky, + Where thrones and seraphim reply; + And their own angels shine and sing, + In a bright ring: + Such young, sweet mirth + Makes heaven and earth + Join in a joyful symphony. + +5 The harmless, young, and happy ass, + (Seen long before[1] this came to pass,) + Is in these joys a high partaker, + Ordained and made to bear his Maker. + +6 Dear Feast of Palms, of flowers and dew! + Whose fruitful dawn sheds hopes and lights; + Thy bright solemnities did shew + The third glad day through two sad nights. + +7 I'll get me up before the sun, + I'll cut me boughs off many a tree, + And all alone full early run + To gather flowers to welcome thee. + +8 Then, like the palm, though wronged I'll bear, + I will be still a child, still meek + As the poor ass which the proud jeer, + And only my dear Jesus seek. + +9 If I lose all, and must endure + The proverbed griefs of holy Job, + I care not, so I may secure + But one green branch and a white robe. + +[1] Zechariah ix. 9. + + +PROVIDENCE. + +1 Sacred and secret hand! + By whose assisting, swift command + The angel showed that holy well + Which freed poor Hagar from her fears, + And turned to smiles the begging tears + Of young, distressed Ishmael. + +2 How, in a mystic cloud, + Which doth thy strange, sure mercies shroud, + Dost thou convey man food and money, + Unseen by him till they arrive + Just at his mouth, that thankless hive, + Which kills thy bees, and eats thy honey! + +3 If I thy servant be, + Whose service makes even captives free, + A fish shall all my tribute pay, + The swift-winged raven shall bring me meat, + And I, like flowers, shall still go neat, + As if I knew no month but May. + +4 I will not fear what man + With all his plots and power can. + Bags that wax old may plundered be; + But none can sequester or let + A state that with the sun doth set, + And comes next morning fresh as he. + +5 Poor birds this doctrine sing, + And herbs which on dry hills do spring, + Or in the howling wilderness + Do know thy dewy morning hours, + And watch all night for mists or showers, + Then drink and praise thy bounteousness. + +6 May he for ever die + Who trusts not thee, but wretchedly + Hunts gold and wealth, and will not lend + Thy service nor his soul one day! + May his crown, like his hopes, be clay; + And what he saves may his foes spend! + +7 If all my portion here, + The measure given by thee each year, + Were by my causeless enemies + Usurped; it never should me grieve, + Who know how well thou canst relieve, + Whose hands are open as thine eyes. + +8 Great King of love and truth! + Who wouldst not hate my froward youth, + And wilt not leave me when grown old, + Gladly will I, like Pontic sheep, + Unto my wormwood diet keep, + Since thou hast made thy arm my fold. + + +ST MARY MAGDALENE. + +Dear, beauteous saint! more white than day, +When in his naked, pure array; +Fresher than morning-flowers, which shew, +As thou in tears dost, best in dew. +How art thou changed, how lively, fair, +Pleasing, and innocent an air, +Not tutored by thy glass, but free, +Native, and pure, shines now in thee! +But since thy beauty doth still keep +Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep? +This dusky state of sighs and tears +Durst not look on those smiling years, +When Magdal-castle was thy seat, +Where all was sumptuous, rare, and neat. +Why lies this hair despised now +Which once thy care and art did show? +Who then did dress the much-loved toy +In spires, globes, angry curls and coy, +Which with skilled negligence seemed shed +About thy curious, wild, young head? +Why is this rich, this pistic nard +Spilt, and the box quite broke and marred? +What pretty sullenness did haste +Thy easy hands to do this waste? +Why art thou humbled thus, and low +As earth thy lovely head dost bow? +Dear soul! thou knew'st flowers here on earth +At their Lord's footstool have their birth; +Therefore thy withered self in haste +Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast, +That at the root of this green tree +Thy great decays restored might be. +Thy curious vanities, and rare +Odorous ointments kept with care, +And dearly bought, when thou didst see +They could not cure nor comfort thee; +Like a wise, early penitent, +Thou sadly didst to him present, +Whose interceding, meek, and calm +Blood, is the world's all-healing balm. +This, this divine restorative +Called forth thy tears, which ran in live +And hasty drops, as if they had +(Their Lord so near) sense to be glad. +Learn, ladies, here the faithful cure +Makes beauty lasting, fresh, and pure; +Learn Mary's art of tears, and then +Say you have got the day from men. +Cheap, mighty art! her art of love, +Who loved much, and much more could move; +Her art! whose memory must last +Till truth through all the world be passed; +Till his abused, despised flame +Return to heaven, from whence it came, +And send a fire down, that shall bring +Destruction on his ruddy wing. +Her art! whose pensive, weeping eyes, +Were once sin's loose and tempting spies; +But now are fixed stars, whose light +Helps such dark stragglers to their sight. + +Self-boasting Pharisee! how blind +A judge wert thou, and how unkind! +It was impossible that thou, +Who wert all false, shouldst true grief know. +Is't just to judge her faithful tears +By that foul rheum thy false eye wears? +'This woman,' sayst thou, 'is a sinner!' +And sat there none such at thy dinner? +Go, leper, go! wash till thy flesh +Comes like a child's, spotless and fresh; +He is still leprous that still paints: +Who saint themselves, they are no saints. + + +THE RAINBOW. + +Still young and fine! but what is still in view +We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. +How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye +Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry! +When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, +The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, +Did with intentive looks watch every hour +For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! +When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair, +Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air: +Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours +Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. +Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie +Of thy Lord's hand, the object[1] of his eye! +When I behold thee, though my light be dim, +Distant, and low, I can in thine see him, +Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, +And minds the covenant 'twixt all and one. +O foul, deceitful men! my God doth keep +His promise still, but we break ours and sleep. +After the fall the first sin was in blood, +And drunkenness quickly did succeed the flood; +But since Christ died, (as if we did devise +To lose him too, as well as paradise,) +These two grand sins we join and act together, +Though blood and drunkenness make but foul, foul weather. +Water, though both heaven's windows and the deep +Full forty days o'er the drowned world did weep, +Could not reform us, and blood in despite, +Yea, God's own blood, we tread upon and slight. +So those bad daughters, which God saved from fire, +While Sodom yet did smoke, lay with their sire. + +Then, peaceful, signal bow, but in a cloud +Still lodged, where all thy unseen arrows shroud; +I will on thee as on a comet look, +A comet, the sad world's ill-boding book; +Thy light as luctual and stained with woes +I'll judge, where penal flames sit mixed and close. +For though some think thou shin'st but to restrain +Bold storms, and simply dost attend on rain; +Yet I know well, and so our sins require, +Thou dost but court cold rain, till rain turns fire. + +[1] Genesis ix. 16. + + +THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY. + +MARK IV. 26. + +1 If this world's friends might see but once + What some poor man may often feel, + Glory and gold and crowns and thrones + They would soon quit, and learn to kneel. + +2 My dew, my dew! my early love, + My soul's bright food, thy absence kills! + Hover not long, eternal Dove! + Life without thee is loose and spills. + +3 Something I had, which long ago + Did learn to suck and sip and taste; + But now grown sickly, sad, and slow, + Doth fret and wrangle, pine and waste. + +4 Oh, spread thy sacred wings, and shake + One living drop! one drop life keeps! + If pious griefs heaven's joys awake, + Oh, fill his bottle! thy child weeps! + +5 Slowly and sadly doth he grow, + And soon as left shrinks back to ill; + Oh, feed that life, which makes him blow + And spread and open to thy will! + +6 For thy eternal, living wells + None stained or withered shall come near: + A fresh, immortal green there dwells, + And spotless white is all the wear. + +7 Dear, secret greenness! nursed below + Tempests and winds and winter nights! + Vex not that but One sees thee grow, + That One made all these lesser lights. + +8 If those bright joys he singly sheds + On thee, were all met in one crown, + Both sun and stars would hide their heads; + And moons, though full, would get them down. + +9 Let glory be their bait whose minds + Are all too high for a low cell: + Though hawks can prey through storms and winds, + The poor bee in her hive must dwell. + +10 Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still + To what most takes them is a drudge; + And they too oft take good for ill, + And thriving vice for virtue judge. + +11 What needs a conscience calm and bright + Within itself an outward test? + Who breaks his glass to take more light, + Makes way for storms into his rest. + +12 Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch + At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; + Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch, + Till the white-winged reapers come! + + +CHILDHOOD. + +I cannot reach it; and my striving eye +Dazzles at it, as at eternity. + Were now that chronicle alive, +Those white designs which children drive, +And the thoughts of each harmless hour, +With their content too in my power, +Quickly would I make my path even, +And by mere playing go to heaven. + + Why should men love +A wolf more than a lamb or dove? +Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams +Before bright stars and God's own beams? +Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face, +But flowers do both refresh and grace; +And sweetly living (fie on men!) +Are, when dead, medicinal then. +If seeing much should make staid eyes, +And long experience should make wise, +Since all that age doth teach is ill, +Why should I not love childhood still? +Why, if I see a rock or shelf, +Shall I from thence cast down myself, +Or by complying with the world, +From the same precipice be hurled? +Those observations are but foul, +Which make me wise to lose my soul. + +And yet the practice worldlings call +Business and weighty action all, +Checking the poor child for his play, +But gravely cast themselves away. + +Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span +Where weeping virtue parts with man; +Where love without lust dwells, and bends +What way we please without self-ends. + +An age of mysteries! which he +Must live twice that would God's face see; +Which angels guard, and with it play, +Angels! which foul men drive away. + +How do I study now, and scan +Thee more than ere I studied man, +And only see through a long night +Thy edges and thy bordering light! +Oh for thy centre and mid-day! +For sure that is the narrow way! + + +ABEL'S BLOOD. + +Sad, purple well! whose bubbling eye +Did first against a murderer cry; +Whose streams, still vocal, still complain + Of bloody Cain; +And now at evening are as red +As in the morning when first shed. + If single thou, +Though single voices are but low, +Couldst such a shrill and long cry rear +As speaks still in thy Maker's ear, +What thunders shall those men arraign +Who cannot count those they have slain, +Who bathe not in a shallow flood, +But in a deep, wide sea of blood-- +A sea whose loud waves cannot sleep, +But deep still calleth upon deep; +Whose urgent sound, like unto that +Of many waters, beateth at +The everlasting doors above, +Where souls behind the altar move, +And with one strong, incessant cry +Inquire 'How long?' of the Most High? + Almighty Judge! +At whose just laws no just men grudge; +Whose blessed, sweet commands do pour +Comforts and joys and hopes each hour +On those that keep them; oh, accept +Of his vowed heart, whom thou hast kept +From bloody men! and grant I may +That sworn memorial duly pay +To thy bright arm, which was my light +And leader through thick death and night! + Aye may that flood, +That proudly spilt and despised blood, +Speechless and calm as infants sleep! +Or if it watch, forgive and weep +For those that spilt it! May no cries +From the low earth to high heaven rise, +But what, like his whose blood peace brings, +Shall, when they rise, speak better things +Than Abel's doth! May Abel be +Still single heard, while these agree +With his mild blood in voice and will, +Who prayed for those that did him kill! + + +RIGHTEOUSNESS. + +1 Fair, solitary path! whose blessed shades + The old, white prophets planted first and dressed; + Leaving for us, whose goodness quickly fades, + A shelter all the way, and bowers to rest; + +2 Who is the man that walks in thee? who loves + Heaven's secret solitude, those fair abodes, + Where turtles build, and careless sparrows move, + Without to-morrow's evils and future loads? + +3 Who hath the upright heart, the single eye, + The clean, pure hand, which never meddled pitch? + Who sees invisibles, and doth comply + With hidden treasures that make truly rich? + +4 He that doth seek and love + The things above, + Whose spirit ever poor is, meek, and low; + Who simple still and wise, + Still homeward flies, + Quick to advance, and to retreat most slow. + +5 Whose acts, words, and pretence + Have all one sense, + One aim and end; who walks not by his sight; + Whose eyes are both put out, + And goes about + Guided by faith, not by exterior light. + +6 Who spills no blood, nor spreads + Thorns in the beds + Of the distressed, hasting their overthrow; + Making the time they had + Bitter and sad, + Like chronic pains, which surely kill, though slow. + +7 Who knows earth nothing hath + Worth love or wrath, + But in his Hope and Rock is ever glad. + Who seeks and follows peace, + When with the ease + And health of conscience it is to be had. + +8 Who bears his cross with joy, + And doth employ + His heart and tongue in prayers for his foes; + Who lends not to be paid, + And gives full aid + Without that bribe which usurers impose. + +9 Who never looks on man + Fearful and wan, + But firmly trusts in God; the great man's measure, + Though high and haughty, must + Be ta'en in dust; + But the good man is God's peculiar treasure. + +10 Who doth thus, and doth not + These good deeds blot + With bad, or with neglect; and heaps not wrath + By secret filth, nor feeds + Some snake, or weeds, + Cheating himself--That man walks in this path. + + +JACOB'S PILLOW AND PILLAR. + +I see the temple in thy pillar reared, +And that dread glory which thy children feared, +In mild, clear visions, without a frown, +Unto thy solitary self is shown. +'Tis number makes a schism: throngs are rude, +And God himself died by the multitude. +This made him put on clouds, and fire, and smoke; +Hence he in thunder to thy offspring spoke. +The small, still voice at some low cottage knocks, +But a strong wind must break thy lofty rocks. + +The first true worship of the world's great King +From private and selected hearts did spring; +But he most willing to save all mankind, +Enlarged that light, and to the bad was kind. +Hence catholic or universal came +A most fair notion, but a very name. +For this rich pearl, like some more common stone, +When once made public, is esteemed by none. +Man slights his Maker when familiar grown, +And sets up laws to pull his honour down. +This God foresaw: and when slain by the crowd, +Under that stately and mysterious cloud +Which his death scattered, he foretold the place +And form to serve him in should be true grace, +And the meek heart; not in a mount, nor at +Jerusalem, with blood of beasts and fat. +A heart is that dread place, that awful cell, +That secret ark, where the mild Dove doth dwell, +When the proud waters rage: when heathens rule +By God's permission, and man turns a mule, +This little Goshen, in the midst of night +And Satan's seat, in all her coasts hath light; +Yea, Bethel shall have tithes, saith Israel's stone, +And vows and visions, though her foes cry, None. +Thus is the solemn temple sunk again +Into a pillar, and concealed from men. +And glory be to his eternal name, +Who is contented that this holy flame +Shall lodge in such a narrow pit, till he +With his strong arm turns our captivity! + +But blessed Jacob, though thy sad distress +Was just the same with ours, and nothing less; +For thou a brother, and bloodthirsty too, + +Didst fly,[1] whose children wrought thy children's woe: +Yet thou in all thy solitude and grief, +On stones didst sleep, and found'st but cold relief; +Thou from the Day-star a long way didst stand, +And all that distance was law and command. +But we a healing Sun, by day and night, +Have our sure guardian and our leading light. +What thou didst hope for and believe we find +And feel, a Friend most ready, sure, and kind. +Thy pillow was but type and shade at best, +But we the substance have, and on him rest. + +[1] Obadiah 10; Amos i, 11. + + +THE FEAST. + +1 Oh, come away, + Make no delay, + Come while my heart is clean and steady! + While faith and grace + Adorn the place, + Making dust and ashes ready! + +2 No bliss here lent + Is permanent, + Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit; + Short sips and sights + Endear delights: + Who seeks for more he would inherit. + +3 Come then, true bread, + Quickening the dead, + Whose eater shall not, cannot die! + Come, antedate + On me that state, + Which brings poor dust the victory. + +4 Aye victory, + Which from thine eye + Breaks as the day doth from the east, + When the spilt dew + Like tears doth shew + The sad world wept to be released. + +5 Spring up, O wine, + And springing shine + With some glad message from his heart, + Who did, when slain, + These means ordain + For me to have in him a part! + +6 Such a sure part + In his blest heart, + The well where living waters spring, + That, with it fed, + Poor dust, though dead, + Shall rise again, and live, and sing. + +7 O drink and bread, + Which strikes death dead, + The food of man's immortal being! + Under veils here + Thou art my cheer, + Present and sure without my seeing. + +8 How dost thou fly + And search and pry + Through all my parts, and, like a quick + And knowing lamp, + Hunt out each damp, + Whose shadow makes me sad or sick! + +9 O what high joys! + The turtle's voice + And songs I hear! O quickening showers + Of my Lord's blood, + You make rocks bud, + And crown dry hills with wells and flowers! + +10 For this true ease, + This healing peace, + For this [brief] taste of living glory, + My soul and all, + Kneel down and fall, + And sing his sad victorious story! + +11 O thorny crown, + More soft than down! + O painful cross, my bed of rest! + O spear, the key + Opening the way! + O thy worst state, my only best! + +12 O all thy griefs + Are my reliefs, + As all my sins thy sorrows were! + And what can I, + To this reply? + What, O God! but a silent tear? + +13 Some toil and sow + That wealth may flow, + And dress this earth for next year's meat: + But let me heed + Why thou didst bleed, + And what in the next world to eat. + +'Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the +Lamb.'--Rev. xix. 9. + + +THE WATERFALL. + +With what deep murmurs, through time's silent stealth, +Does thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth + Here flowing fall, + And chide and call, +As if his liquid, loose retinue staid +Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid; + The common pass, + Where, clear as glass, + All must descend, + Not to an end, +But quickened by this deep and rocky grave, +Rise to a longer course more bright and brave. + + Dear stream! dear bank! where often I + Have sat, and pleased my pensive eye; + Why, since each drop of thy quick store + Runs thither whence it flowed before, + Should poor souls fear a shade or night, + Who came (sure) from a sea of light? + Or, since those drops are all sent back + So sure to thee that none doth lack, + Why should frail flesh doubt any more + That what God takes he'll not restore? + + O useful element and clear! + My sacred wash and cleanser here; + My first consigner unto those + Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes! + What sublime truths and wholesome themes + Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams! + Such as dull man can never find, + Unless that Spirit lead his mind, + Which first upon thy face did move + And hatched all with his quickening love. + As this loud brook's incessant fall + In streaming rings re-stagnates all, + Which reach by course the bank, and then + Are no more seen: just so pass men. + O my invisible estate, + My glorious liberty, still late! + Thou art the channel my soul seeks, + Not this with cataracts and creeks. + + + + +DR JOSEPH BEAUMONT. + + +This writer, though little known, appears to us to stand as high almost +as any name in the present volume, and we are proud to reprint here some +considerable specimens of his magnificent poetry. + +Joseph Beaumont was sprung from a collateral branch of the ancient +family of the Beaumonts, that family from which sprung Sir John Beaumont, +the author of 'Bosworth Field,' and Francis Beaumont, the celebrated +dramatist. He was born at Hadleigh, in Suffolk. Of his early life nothing +is known. He received his education at Cambridge, where, during the Civil +War, he was fellow and tutor of Peterhouse. Ejected by the Republicans +from his offices, he retired to Hadleigh, and spent his time in the com- +position of his _magnum opus_, 'Psyche.' This poem appeared in 1648; and +in 1702, three years after the author's death, his son published a second +edition, with numerous corrections, and the addition of four cantos by the +author. Beaumont also wrote several minor pieces in English and Latin, a +controversial tract in reply to Henry More's 'Mystery of Godliness,' and +several theological works which are still in MS., according to a provision +in his will to that effect. Peace and perpetuity to their slumbers! + +After the Restoration, our author was not only reinstated in his former +situations, but received from his patron, Bishop Wren, several valuable +pieces of preferment besides. Afterwards, he exercised successively the +offices of Master of Jesus and of Peterhouse, and was King's Professor +of Divinity from 1670 to 1699. In the latter year he died. + +While praising the genius of Beaumont, we are far from commending his +'Psyche,' either as an artistic whole, or as a readable book. It is, +sooth to say, a dull allegory, in twenty-four immense cantos, studded +with the rarest beauties. It is considerably longer than the 'Faery +Queen,' nearly four times the length of the 'Paradise Lost,' and five or +six times as long as the 'Excursion.' To read it through now-a-days were +to perform a purgatorial penance. But the imagination and fancy are +Spenserian, his colouring is often Titianesque in gorgeousness, and his +pictures of shadows, abstractions, and all fantastic forms, are so +forcible as to seem to start from the canvas. In painting the beautiful, +his verse becomes careless and flowing as a loosened zone; in painting +the frightful and the infernal, his language, like his feeling, seems to +curdle and stiffen in horror, as where, speaking of Satan, he says-- + + 'His tawny teeth + Were ragged grown, by endless _gnashing at + The dismal riddle of his living death._' + +The 'Psyche' may be compared to a palace of Fairyland, where successive +doors fly open to the visitor--one revealing a banqueting-room filled +with the materials of exuberant mirth; another, an enchanted garden, +with streams stealing from grottos, and nymphs gliding through groves; +a third conducting you to a dungeon full of dead men's bones and all +uncleanness; a fourth, to a pit which seems the mouth of hell, and +whence cries of torture come up, shaking the smoke that ascendeth up for +ever and ever; and a fifth, to the open roof, over which the stars are +seen bending, and the far-off heavens are opening in glory; and of these +doors there is no end. We saw, when lately in Copenhagen, the famous +tower of the Trinity Church, remarkable for the grand view commanded +from the summit, and for the broad spiral ascent winding within it +almost to the top, up which it is said Peter the Great, in 1716, used to +drive himself and his Empress in a coach-and-four. It was curious to +feel ourselves ascending on a path nearly level, and without the +slightest perspiration or fatigue; and here, we thought, is the +desiderated 'royal road' to difficulties fairly found. Large poems +should be constructed on the same principle; their quiet, broad interest +should beguile their readers alike to their length and their loftiness. +It is exactly the reverse with 'Psyche.' But if any reader is wearied of +some of the extracts we have given, such as his verses on 'Eve,' on +'Paradise,' on 'End,' on 'The Death of his Wife,' and on 'Imperial +Rome,' we shall be very much disposed to question his capacity for +appreciating true poetry. + + +HELL. + +1 Hell's court is built deep in a gloomy vale, + High walled with strong damnation, moated round + With flaming brimstone: full against the hall + Roars a burnt bridge of brass: the yards abound + With all envenomed herbs and trees, more rank + And fruitless than on Asphaltite's bank. + +2 The gate, where Fire and Smoke the porters be, + Stands always ope with gaping greedy jaws. + Hither flocked all the states of misery; + As younger snakes, when their old serpent draws + Them by a summoning hiss, haste down her throat + Of patent poison their awed selves to shoot. + +3 The hall was roofed with everlasting pride, + Deep paved with despair, checkered with spite, + And hanged round with torments far and wide: + The front displayed a goodly-dreadful sight, + Great Satan's arms stamped on an iron shield, + A crowned dragon, gules, in sable field. + +4 There on's immortal throne of death they see + Their mounted lord; whose left hand proudly held + His globe, (for all the world he claims to be + His proper realm,) whose bloody right did wield + His mace, on which ten thousand serpents knit, + With restless madness gnawed themselves and it. + +5 His awful horns above his crown did rise, + And force his fiends to shrink in theirs: his face + Was triply-plated impudence: his eyes + Were hell reflected in a double glass, + Two comets staring in their bloody stream, + Two beacons boiling in their pitch and flame. + +6 His mouth in breadth vied with his palace gate + And conquered it in soot: his tawny teeth + Were ragged grown, by endless gnashing at + The dismal riddle of his living death: + His grizzly beard a singed confession made + What fiery breath through his black lips did trade. + +7 Which as he oped, the centre, on whose back + His chair of ever-fretting pain was set, + Frighted beside itself, began to quake: + Throughout all hell the barking hydras shut + Their awed mouths: the silent peers, in fear, + Hung down their tails, and on their lord did stare. + + +JOSEPH'S DREAM. + +1 When this last night had sealed up mine eyes, + And opened heaven's, whose countenance now was clear, + And trimmed with every star; on his soft wing + A nimble vision me did thither bring. + +2 Quite through the storehouse of the air I passed + Where choice of every weather treasured lies: + Here, rain is bottled up; there, hail is cast + In candied heaps: here, banks of snow do rise; + There, furnaces of lightning burn, and those + Long-bearded stars which light us to our woes. + +3 Hence towered I to a dainty world: the air + Was sweet and calm, and in my memory + Waked my serener mother's looks: this fair + Canaan now fled from my discerning eye; + The earth was shrunk so small, methought I read, + By that due prospect, what it was indeed. + +4 But then, arriving at an orb whose flames, + Like an unbounded ocean, flowed about, + Fool as I was, I quaked; till its kind beams + Gave me a harmless kiss. I little thought + Fire could have been so mild; but surely here + It rageth, 'cause we keep it from its sphere. + +5 There, reverend sire, it flamed, but with as sweet + An ardency as in your noble heart + That heavenly zeal doth burn, whose fostering heat + Makes you Heaven's living holocaust: no part + Of my dream's tender wing felt any harm; + Our journey, not the fire, did keep us warm. + +6 But here my guide, his wings' soft oars to spare, + On the moon's lower horn clasped hold, and whirled + Me up into a region as far, + In splendid worth, surmounting this low world + As in its place: for liquid crystal here + Was the tralucid matter of each sphere. + +7 The moon was kind, and, as we scoured by, + Showed us the deed whereby the great Creator + Instated her in that large monarchy + She holdeth over all the ocean's water: + To which a schedule was annexed, which o'er + All other humid bodies gives her power. + +8 Now complimental Mercury was come + To the quaint margin of his courtly sphere, + And bid us eloquent welcome to his home. + Scarce could we pass, so great a crowd was there + Of points and lines; and nimble Wit beside + Upon the back of thousand shapes did ride. + +9 Next Venus' face, heaven's joy and sweetest pride, + (Which brought again my mother to my mind,) + Into her region lured my ravished guide. + This strewed with youth, and smiles, and love we find; + And those all chaste: 'tis this foul world below + Adulterates what from thence doth spotless flow. + +10 Then rapt to Phoebus' orb, all paved with gold, + The rich reflection of his own aspect: + Most gladly there I would have stayed, and told + How many crowns and thorns his dwelling decked, + What life, what verdure, what heroic might, + What pearly spirits, what sons of active light. + +11 But I was hurried into Mars his sphere, + Where Envy, (oh, how cursed was its grim face!) + And Jealousy, and Fear, and Wrath, and War + Quarrelled, although in heaven, about their place. + Yea, engines there to vomit fire I saw, + Whose flame and thunder earth at length must know. + +12 Nay, in a corner, 'twas my hap to spy + Something which looked but frowardly on me: + And sure my watchful guide read in mine eye + My musing troubled sense; for straightway he, + Lest I should start and wake upon the fright, + Speeded from thence his seasonable flight. + +13 Welcome was Jupiter's dominion, where + Illustrious Mildness round about did flow; + Religion had built her temple there, + And sacred honours on its walks did grow: + No mitre ever priest's grave head shall crown, + Which in those mystic gardens was not sown. + +14 At length, we found old Saturn in his bed; + And much I wondered how, and he so dull, + Could climb thus high: his house was lumpish lead, + Of dark and solitary comers full; + Where Discontent and Sickness dwellers be, + Damned Melancholy and dead Lethargy. + +15 Hasting from hence into a boundless field, + Innumerable stars we marshalled found + In fair array: this earth did never yield + Such choice of flowery pride, when she had crowned + The plains of Shechem, where the gaudy Spring + Smiles on the beauties of each verdant thing. + + +PARADISE. + +1 Within, rose hills of spice and frankincense, + Which smiled upon the flowery vales below, + Where living crystal found a sweet pretence + With musical impatience to flow, + And delicately chide the gems beneath + Because no smoother they had paved its path. + +2 The nymphs which sported on this current's side + Were milky Thoughts, tralucid, pure Desires, + Soft turtles' Kisses, Looks of virgin brides, + Sweet Coolness which nor needs nor feareth fires, + Snowy Embraces, cheerly-sober Eyes, + Gentleness, Mildness, Ingenuities. + +3 The early gales knocked gently at the door + Of every flower, to bid the odours wake; + Which, catching in their softest arms, they bore + From bed to bed, and so returned them back + To their own lodgings, doubled by the blisses + They sipped from their delicious brethren's kisses. + +4 Upon the wings of those enamouring breaths + Refreshment, vigour, nimbleness attended; + Which, wheresoe'er they flew, cheered up their paths, + And with fresh airs of life all things befriended: + For Heaven's sweet Spirit deigned his breath to join + And make the powers of these blasts divine. + +5 The goodly trees' bent arms their nobler load + Of fruit which blest oppression overbore: + That orchard where the dragon warder stood, + For all its golden boughs, to this was poor, + To this, in which the greater serpent lay, + Though not to guard the trees, but to betray. + +6 Of fortitude there rose a stately row; + Here, of munificence a thickset grove; + There, of wise industry a quickset grew; + Here, flourished a dainty copse of love; + There, sprang up pleasant twigs of ready wit; + Here, larger trees of gravity were set, + +7 Here, temperance; and wide-spread justice there, + Under whose sheltering shadow piety, + Devotion, mildness, friendship planted were; + Next stood renown with head exalted high; + Then twined together plenty, fatness, peace. + O blessed place, where grew such things as these! + + +EVE. + +1 Her spacious, polished forehead was the fair + And lovely plain where gentle majesty + Walked in delicious state: her temples clear + Pomegranate fragments, which rejoiced to lie + In dainty ambush, and peep through their cover + Of amber-locks whose volume curled over. + +2 The fuller stream of her luxuriant hair + Poured down itself upon her ivory back: + In which soft flood ten thousand graces were + Sporting and dallying with every lock; + The rival winds for kisses fell to fight, + And raised a ruffling tempest of delight. + +3 Two princely arches, of most equal measures, + Held up the canopy above her eyes, + And opened to the heavens far richer treasures, + Than with their stars or sun e'er learn'd to rise: + Those beams can ravish but the body's sight, + These dazzle stoutest souls with mystic light. + +4 Two garrisons were these of conquering love; + Two founts of life, of spirit, of joy, of grace; + Two easts in one fair heaven, no more above, + But in the hemisphere of her own face; + Two thrones of gallantry; two shops of miracles; + Two shrines of deities; two silent oracles. + +5 For silence here could eloquently plead; + Here might the unseen soul be clearly read: + Though gentle humours their mild mixture made, + They proved a double burning-glass which shed + Those living flames which, with enlivening darts, + Shoot deaths of love into spectators' hearts. + +6 'Twixt these, an alabaster promontory + Sloped gently down to part each cheek from other; + Where white and red strove for the fairer glory, + Blending in sweet confusion together. + The rose and lily never joined were + In so divine a marriage as there. + +7 Couchant upon these precious cushionets + Were thousand beauties, and as many smiles, + Chaste blandishments, and modest cooling heats, + Harmless temptations, and honest guiles. + For heaven, though up betimes the maid to deck, + Ne'er made Aurora's cheeks so fair and sleek. + +8 Enamouring neatness, softness, pleasure, at + Her gracious mouth in full retinue stood; + For, next the eyes' bright glass, the soul at that + Takes most delight to look and walk abroad. + But at her lips two threads of scarlet lay, + Or two warm corals, to adorn the way,-- + +9 The precious way whereby her breath and tongue, + Her odours and her honey, travelled, + Which nicest critics would have judged among + Arabian or Hyblaean mountains bred. + Indeed, the richer Araby in her + Dear mouth and sweeter Hybla dwelling were. + +10 More gracefully its golden chapiter + No column of white marble e'er sustained + Than her round polished neck supported her + Illustrious head, which there in triumph reigned. + Yet neither would this pillar hardness know, + Nor suffer cold to dwell amongst its snow. + +11 Her blessed bosom moderately rose + With two soft mounts of lilies, whose fair top + A pair of pretty sister cherries chose, + And there their living crimson lifted up. + The milky countenance of the hills confessed + What kind of springs within had made their nest. + +12 So leggiadrous were her snowy hands + That pleasure moved as any finger stirred: + Her virgin waxen arms were precious bands + And chains of love: her waist itself did gird + With its own graceful slenderness, and tie + Up delicacy's best epitome. + +13 Fair politure walked all her body over, + And symmetry rejoiced in every part; + Soft and white sweetness was her native cover, + From every member beauty shot a dart: + From heaven to earth, from head to foot I mean, + No blemish could by envy's self be seen. + +14 This was the first-born queen of gallantry; + All gems compounded into one rich stone, + All sweets knit into one conspiracy; + A constellation of all stars in one; + Who, when she was presented to their view, + Both paradise and nature dazzled grew. + +15 Phoebus, who rode in glorious scorn's career + About the world, no sooner spied her face, + But fain he would have lingered, from his sphere + On this, though less, yet sweeter, heaven, to gaze + Till shame enforced him to lash on again, + And clearer wash him in the western main. + +16 The smiling air was tickled with his high + Prerogative of uncontrolled bliss, + Embracing with entirest liberty + A body soft, and sweet, and chaste as his. + All odorous gales that had but strength to stir + Came flocking in to beg perfumes of her. + +17 The marigold her garish love forgot, + And turned her homage to these fairer eyes; + All flowers looked up, and dutifully shot + Their wonder hither, whence they saw arise + Unparching courteous lustre, which instead + Of fire, soft joy's irradiations spread. + +18 The sturdiest trees, affected by her dear + Delightful presence, could not choose but melt + At their hard pith; whilst all the birds whose clear + Pipes tossed mirth about the branches, felt + The influence of her looks; for having let + Their song fall down, their eyes on her they set. + + +TO THE MEMORY OF HIS WIFE. + +1 Sweet soul, how goodly was the temple which + Heaven pleased to make thy earthly habitation! + Built all of graceful delicacy, rich + In symmetry, and of a dangerous fashion + For youthful eyes, had not the saint within + Governed the charms of her enamouring shrine. + +2 How happily compendious didst thou make + My study when I was the lines to draw + Of genuine beauty! never put to take + Long journeys was my fancy; still I saw + At home my copy, and I knew 'twould be + But beauty's wrong further to seek than thee. + +3 Full little knew the world (for I as yet + In studied silence hugged my secret bliss) + How facile was my Muse's task, when set + Virtue's and grace's features to express! + For whilst accomplished thou wert in my sight + I nothing had to do, but look and write. + +4 How sadly parted are those words; since I + Must now be writing, but no more can look! + Yet in my heart thy precious memory, + So deep is graved, that from this faithful book, + Truly transcribed, thy character shall shine; + Nor shall thy death devour what was divine. + +5 Hear then, O all soft-hearted turtles, hear + What you alone profoundly will resent: + A bird of your pure feather 'tis whom here + Her desolate mate remaineth to lament, + Whilst she is flown to meet her dearer love, + And sing among the winged choir above. + +6 Twelve times the glorious sovereign of day + Had made his progress, and in every inn + Whose golden signs through all his radiant way + So high are hung, as often lodged been, + Since in the sacred knot this noble she + Deigned to be tied to (then how happy) me. + +7 Tied, tied we were so intimately, that + We straight were sweetly lost in one another. + Thus when two notes in music's wedlock knit, + They in one concord blended are together: + For nothing now our life but music was; + Her soul the treble made, and mine the base. + +8 How at the needless question would she smile, + When asked what she desired or counted fit? + Still bidding me examine mine own will, + And read the surest answer ready writ. + So centred was her heart in mine, that she + Would own no wish, if first not wished by me. + +9 Delight was no such thing to her, if I + Relished it not: the palate of her pleasure + Carefully watched what mine could taste, and by + That standard her content resolved to measure. + By this rare art of sweetness did she prove + That though she joyed, yet all her joy was love. + +10 So was her grief: for wronged herself she held + If I were sad alone; her share, alas! + And more than so, in all my sorrows' field + She duly reaped: and here alone she was + Unjust to me. Ah! dear injustice, which + Mak'st me complain that I was loved too much! + + * * * * * + +11 She ne'er took post to keep an equal pace + Still with the newest modes, which swiftly run: + She never was perplexed to hear her lace + Accused for six months' old, when first put on: + She laid no watchful leaguers, costly vain, + Intelligence with fashions to maintain. + +12 On a pin's point she ne'er held consultation, + Nor at her glass's strict tribunal brought + Each plait to scrupulous examination: + Ashamed she was that Titan's coach about + Half heaven should sooner wheel, than she could pass + Through all the petty stages of her dress. + +13 No gadding itch e'er spurred her to delight + In needless sallies; none but civil care + Of friendly correspondence could invite + Her out of doors; unless she 'pointed were + By visitations from Heaven's hand, where she + Might make her own in tender sympathy. + +14 Abroad, she counted but her prison: home, + Home was the region of her liberty. + Abroad diverson thronged, and left no room + For zeal's set task, and virtue's business free: + Home was her less encumbered scene, though there + Angels and gods she knew spectators were. + + * * * * * + +15 This weaned her heart from things below, + And kindled it with strong desire to gain + Her hope's high aim. Life could no longer now + Flatter her love, or make her prayers refrain + From begging, yet with humble resignation, + To be dismissed from her mortal station. + +16 Oh, how she welcomed her courteous pain, + And languished with most serene content! + No paroxysms could make her once complain, + Nor suffered she her patience to be spent + Before her life; contriving thus to yield + To her disease, and yet not lose the field. + +17 This trying furnace wasted day by day + (What she herself had always counted dross) + Her mortal mansion, which so ruined lay, + That of the goodly fabric nothing was + Remaining now, but skin and bone; refined + Together were her body and her mind. + +18 At length the fatal hour--sad hour to me!-- + Released the longing soul: no ejulation + Tolled her knell; no dying agony + Frowned in her death; but in that lamb-like fashion + In which she lived ('O righteous heaven!' said I, + Who closed her dear eyes,) she had leave to die. + +19 O ever-precious soul! yet shall that flight + Of thine not snatch thee from thy wonted nest: + Here shalt thou dwell, here shalt thou live in spite + Of any death--here in this faithful breast. + Unworthy 'tis, I know, by being mine; + Yet nothing less, since long it has been thine. + +20 Accept thy dearer portraiture, which I + Have on my other Psyche fixed here; + Since her ideal beauties signify + The truth of thine: as for her spots, they are + Thy useful foil, and shall inservient be + But to enhance and more illustrate thee. + + +IMPERIAL ROME PERSONIFIED. + +1 Thus came the monster to his dearest place + On earth, a palace wondrous large and high, + Which on seven mountains' heads enthroned was; + Thus, by its sevenfold tumour, copying + The number of the horns which crowned its king. + +2 Of dead men's bones were all the exterior walls, + Raised to a fair but formidable height; + In answer to which strange materials, + A graff of dreadful depth and breadth + Upon the works, filled with a piteous flood + Of innocently-pure and holy blood. + +3 Those awful birds, whose joy is ravenous war, + Strong-taloned eagles, perched upon the head + Of every turret, took their prospect far + And wide about the world; and questioned + Each wind that travelled by, to know if they + Could tell them news of any bloody prey. + +4 The inner bulwarks, raised of shining brass, + With firmitude and pride were buttressed. + The gate of polished steel wide opened was + To entertain those throngs, who offered + Their slavish necks to take the yoke, and which + That city's tyrant did the world bewitch. + +5 For she had wisely ordered it to be + Gilded with Liberty's enchanting name; + Whence cheated nations, who before were free, + Into her flattering chains for freedom came. + Thus her strange conquests overtook the sun + Who rose and set in her dominion. + +6 But thick within the line erected were + Innumerable prisons, plated round + With massy iron and with jealous fear: + And in those forts of barbarism, profound + And miry dungeons, where contagious stink, + Cold, anguish, horror, had their dismal sink. + +7 In these, pressed down with chains of fretting brass, + Ten thousand innocent lambs did bleating lie; + Whose groans, reported by the hollow place, + Summoned compassion from the passers by; + Whom they, alas! no less relentless found, + Than was the brass which them to sorrow bound. + +8 For they designed for the shambles were + To feast the tyrant's greedy cruelty, + Who could be gratified with no fare + But such delight of savage luxury. + + +END. + +1 Sweet End, thou sea of satisfaction, which + The weary streams unto thy bosom tak'st; + The springs unto the spring thou first doth reach, + And, by thine inexhausted kindness, mak'st + Them fall so deep in love with thee, that through + All rocks and mountains to thy arms they flow. + +2 Thou art the centre, in whose close embrace, + From all the wild circumference, each line + Directly runs to find its resting-place: + Upon their swiftest wings, to perch on thine + Ennobling breast, which is their only butt, + The arrows of all high desires are shot. + +3 All labours pant and languish after thee, + Stretching their longest arms to catch their bliss; + Which in the way, how sweet soe'er it be, + They never find; and therefore on they press + Further and further, till desired thou, + Their only crown, meet'st their ambition's brow. + +4 With smiles the ploughman to the smiling spring + Returns not answer, but is jealous till + His patient hopes thy happy season bring + Unto their ripeness with his corn, and fill + His barns with plenteous sheaves, with joy his heart; + For thou, and none but thou, his harvest art. + +5 The no less sweating and industrious lover + Lays not his panting heart to rest upon + Kind looks and gracious promises, which hover + On love's outside, and may as soon be gone + As easily they came; but strives to see + His hopes and nuptials ratified by thee. + + 6 The traveller suspecteth every way, + Though they thick traced and fairly beaten be; + Nor is secure but that his leader may + Step into some mistake as well as he; + Or that his strength may fail him; till he win + Possession of thee, his wished inn. + + 7 Nobly besmeared with Olympic dust, + The hardy runner prosecutes his race + With obstinate celerity, in trust + That thou wilt wipe and glorify his face: + His prize's soul art thou, whose precious sake + Makes him those mighty pains with pleasure take. + + 8 The mariner will trust no winds, although + Upon his sails they blow fair flattery; + No tides which, with all fawning smoothness, flow + Can charm his fears into security; + He credits none but thee, who art his bay, + To which, through calms and storms, he hunts his way. + + 9 And so have I, cheered up with hopes at last + To double thee, endured a tedious sea; + Through public foaming tempests have I passed; + Through flattering calms of private suavity; + Through interrupting company's thick press; + And through the lake of mine own laziness: + +10 Through many sirens' charms, which me invited + To dance to ease's tunes, the tunes in fashion; + Through many cross, misgiving thoughts, which frighted + My jealous pen; and through the conjuration + Of ignorant and envious censures, which + Implacably against all poems itch: + +11 But chiefly those which venture in a way + That yet no Muse's feet have chose to trace; + Which trust that Psyche and her Jesus may + Adorn a verse with as becoming grace + As Venus and her son; that truth may be + A nobler theme than lies and vanity. + +12 Which broach no Aganippe's streams, but those + Where virgin souls without a blush may bathe; + Which dare the boisterous multitude oppose + With gentle numbers; which despise the wrath + Of galled sin; which think not fit to trace + Or Greek or Roman song with slavish pace. + +13 And seeing now I am in ken of thee, + The harbour which inflamed my desire, + And with this steady patience ballas'd[1] me + In my uneven road; I am on fire, + Till into thy embrace myself I throw, + And on the shore hang up my finished vow. + +[1] 'Ballas'd:' ballasted. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. + + +FROM ROBERT HEATH. + + +WHAT IS LOVE? + +1 Tis a child of fancy's getting, + Brought up between hope and fear, + Fed with smiles, grown by uniting + Strong, and so kept by desire: + 'Tis a perpetual vestal fire + Never dying, + Whose smoke like incense doth aspire, + Upwards flying. + +2 It is a soft magnetic stone, + Attracting hearts by sympathy, + Binding up close two souls in one, + Both discoursing secretly: + 'Tis the true Gordian knot, that ties + Yet ne'er unbinds, + Fixing thus two lovers' eyes, + As well as minds. + +3 Tis the spheres' heavenly harmony, + Where two skilful hands do strike; + And every sound expressively + Marries sweetly with the like: + 'Tis the world's everlasting chain + That all things tied, + And bid them, like the fixed wain, + Unmoved to bide. + + +PROTEST OF LOVE. + +When I thee all o'er do view +I all o'er must love thee too. +By that smooth forehead, where's expressed +The candour of thy peaceful breast, +By those fair twin-like stars that shine, +And by those apples of thine eyne: +By the lambkins and the kids +Playing 'bout thy fair eyelids: +By each peachy-blossomed cheek, +And thy satin skin, more sleek +And white than Flora's whitest lilies, +Or the maiden daffodillies: +By that ivory porch, thy nose: +By those double-blanched rows +Of teeth, as in pure coral set: +By each azure rivulet, +Running in thy temples, and +Those flowery meadows 'twixt them stand: +By each pearl-tipt ear by nature, as +On each a jewel pendent was: +By those lips all dewed with bliss, +Made happy in each other's kiss. + + +TO CLARASTELLA. + +Oh, those smooth, soft, and ruby lips, + * * * * * +Whose rosy and vermilion hue +Betrays the blushing thoughts in you: +Whose fragrant, aromatic breath +Would revive dying saints from death, +Whose siren-like, harmonious air +Speaks music and enchants the ear; +Who would not hang, and fixed there +Wish he might know no other sphere? +Oh for a charm to make the sun +Drunk, and forget his motion! +Oh that some palsy or lame gout +Would cramp old Time's diseased foot! +Or that I might or mould or clip +His speedy wings, whilst on her lip +I quench my thirsty appetite +With the life-honey dwells on it! + * * * * * +Then on his holy altar, I +Would sacrifice eternally, +Offering one long-continued mine +Of golden pleasures to thy shrine. + + + +BY VARIOUS AUTHORS. + + +MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. +(FROM BYRD'S 'PSALMS, SONNETS,' ETC. 1588.) + +1 My mind to me a kingdom is, + Such perfect joy therein I find, + That it excels all other bliss + That God or nature hath assigned: + Though much I want that most would have, + Yet still my mind forbids to crave. + +2 No princely port, nor wealthy store, + Nor force to win a victory; + No wily wit to salve a sore, + No shape to win a loving eye; + To none of these I yield as thrall, + For why, my mind despise them all. + +3 I see that plenty surfeits oft, + And hasty climbers soonest fall; + I see that such as are aloft, + Mishap doth threaten most of all; + These get with toil, and keep with fear: + Such cares my mind can never bear. + +4 I press to bear no haughty sway; + I wish no more than may suffice; + I do no more than well I may. + Look what I want, my mind supplies; + Lo, thus I triumph like a king, + My mind's content with anything. + +5 I laugh not at another's loss, + Nor grudge not at another's gain; + No worldly waves my mind can toss; + I brook that is another's bane; + I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; + I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. + +6 My wealth is health and perfect ease, + And conscience clear my chief defence; + I never seek by bribes to please, + Nor by desert to give offence; + Thus do I live, thus will I die; + Would all do so as well as I! + + +THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. + +1 An old song made by an aged old pate, + Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate, + That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, + And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate: + Like an old courtier of the queen's, + And the queen's old courtier. + +2 With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages; + They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, + And never knew what belonged to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, + But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +3 With an old study filled full of learned old books, + With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, + With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, + And an old kitchen, that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +4 With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, + With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, + And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk-hose, + And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +5 With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, + To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, + With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, + And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +6 With an old falconer, huntsmen, and a kennel of hounds, + That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds; + Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, + And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +7 But to his eldest son his house and lands he assigned, + Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind, + To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: + But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclined: + Like a young courtier of the king's, + And the king's young courtier. + +8 Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, + Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, + And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land, + And gets drunk in a tavern till he can neither go nor stand: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +9 With a newfangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, + Who never knew what belonged to good housekeeping or care, + Who buys gaudy-coloured fans to play with wanton air, + And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +10 With a new-fashioned hall, built where the old one stood, + Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good, + With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, + And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victual ne'er stood: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +11 With a new study, stuffed full of pamphlets and plays, + And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, + With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, + And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +12 With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, + On a new journey to London straight we all must begone, + And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John, + Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +13 With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is complete, + With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, + With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, + Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +14 With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold, + For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; + And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, + Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold + Among the young courtiers of the king, + Or the king's young courtiers. + + +THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. + +(FROM 'AN HOUR'S RECREATION IN MUSIC,' BY RICH. ALISON. 1606.) + +1 There is a garden in her face, + Where roses and white lilies grow; + A heavenly paradise is that place, + Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; + There cherries grow that none may buy, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + +2 Those cherries fairly do enclose + Of orient pearl a double row, + Which when her lovely laughter shows, + They look like rose-buds filled with snow: + Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + +3 Her eyes like angels watch them still; + Her brows like bended bows do stand, + Threatening with piercing frowns to kill + All that approach with eye or hand + These sacred cherries to come nigh, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + + +HALLO, MY FANCY. + +1 In melancholic fancy, + Out of myself, + In the vulcan dancy, + All the world surveying, + Nowhere staying, + Just like a fairy elf; + Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping, + Out o'er the hills, the trees, and valleys tripping, + Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +2 Amidst the misty vapours, + Fain would I know + What doth cause the tapers; + Why the clouds benight us + And affright us, + While we travel here below. + Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunder, + And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds asunder, + And what these comets are on which we gaze and wonder. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +3 Fain would I know the reason + Why the little ant, + All the summer season, + Layeth up provision + On condition + To know no winter's want; + And how housewives, that are so good and painful, + Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainful; + And why the lazy drones to them do prove disdainful. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go 1 + +4 Ships, ships, I will descry you + Amidst the main; + I will come and try you + What you are protecting, + And projecting, + What's your end and aim. + One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, + Another stays to keep his country from invading, + A third is coming home with rich wealth of lading. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +5 When I look before me, + There I do behold + There's none that sees or knows me; + All the world's a-gadding, + Running madding; + None doth his station hold. + He that is below envieth him that riseth, + And he that is above, him that's below despiseth, + So every man his plot and counter-plot deviseth. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +6 Look, look, what bustling + Here I do espy; + Each another jostling, + Every one turmoiling, + The other spoiling, + As I did pass them by. + One sitteth musing in a dumpish passion, + Another hangs his head, because he's out of fashion, + A third is fully bent on sport and recreation. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +7 Amidst the foamy ocean, + Fain would I know + What doth cause the motion, + And returning + In its journeying, + And doth so seldom swerve! + And how these little fishes that swim beneath salt water, + Do never blind their eye; methinks it is a matter + An inch above the reach of old Erra Pater! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + + +8 Fain would I be resolved + How things are done; + And where the bull was calved + Of bloody Phalaris, + And where the tailor is + That works to the man i' the moon! + Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly; + And how these little fairies do dance and leap so lightly; + And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go! + +9 In conceit like Phaeton, + I'll mount Phoebus' chair; + Having ne'er a hat on, + All my hair a-burning + In my journeying, + Hurrying through the air. + Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing, + And see how they on foamy bits are playing; + All the stars and planets I will be surveying! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +10 Oh, from what ground of nature + Doth the pelican, + That self-devouring creature, + Prove so froward + And untoward, + Her vitals for to strain? + And why the subtle fox, while in death's wounds is lying, + Doth not lament his pangs by howling and by crying; + And why the milk-white swan doth sing when she's a-dying. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou got + +11 Fain would I conclude this, + At least make essay, + What similitude is; + Why fowls of a feather + Flock and fly together, + And lambs know beasts of prey: + How Nature's alchemists, these small laborious creatures, + Acknowledge still a prince in ordering their matters, + And suffer none to live, who slothing lose their features. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +12 I'm rapt with admiration, + When I do ruminate, + Men of an occupation, + How each one calls him brother, + Yet each envieth other, + And yet still intimate! + Yea, I admire to see some natures further sundered, + Than antipodes to us. Is it not to be wondered, + In myriads ye'll find, of one mind scarce a hundred! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +13 What multitude of notions + Doth perturb my pate, + Considering the motions, + How the heavens are preserved, + And this world served, + In moisture, light, and heat! + If one spirit sits the outmost circle turning, + Or one turns another continuing in journeying, + If rapid circles' motion be that which they call burning! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +14 Fain also would I prove this, + By considering + What that which you call love is: + Whether it be a folly + Or a melancholy, + Or some heroic thing! + Fain I'd have it proved, by one whom love hath wounded, + And fully upon one his desire hath founded, + Whom nothing else could please though the world were rounded. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +15 To know this world's centre, + Height, depth, breadth, and length, + Fain would I adventure + To search the hid attractions + Of magnetic actions, + And adamantic strength. + Fain would I know, if in some lofty mountain, + Where the moon sojourns, if there be trees or fountain; + If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to hunt in. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +16 Fain would I have it tried + By experiment, + By none can be denied; + If in this bulk of nature, + There be voids less or greater, + Or all remains complete? + Fain would I know if beasts have any reason; + If falcons killing eagles do commit a treason; + If fear of winter's want makes swallows fly the season. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go; + +17 Hallo, my fancy, hallo, + Stay, stay at home with me, + I can thee no longer follow, + For thou hast betrayed me, + And bewrayed me; + It is too much for thee. + Stay, stay at home with me; leave off thy lofty soaring; + Stay thou at home with me, and on thy books be poring; + For he that goes abroad, lays little up in storing: + Thou'rt welcome home, my fancy, welcome home to me. + + 'Alas, poor scholar! + Whither wilt thou go?' + or + 'Strange alterations which at this time be, + There's many did think they never should see.' + + +THE FAIRY QUEEN. + +1 Come, follow, follow me, + You, fairy elves that be; + Which circle on the green, + Come, follow Mab, your queen. + Hand in hand let's dance around, + For this place is fairy ground. + +2 When mortals are at rest, + And snoring in their nest; + Unheard and unespied, + Through keyholes we do glide; + Over tables, stools, and shelves, + We trip it with our fairy elves. + +3 And if the house be foul + With platter, dish, or bowl, + Up-stairs we nimbly creep, + And find the sluts asleep; + There we pinch their arms and thighs; + None escapes, nor none espies. + +4 But if the house be swept, + And from uncleanness kept, + We praise the household maid, + And duly she is paid; + For we use, before we go, + To drop a tester in her shoe. + +5 Upon a mushroom's head + Our tablecloth we spread; + A grain of rye or wheat + Is manchet which we eat; + Pearly drops of dew we drink, + In acorn cups filled to the brink. + +6 The brains of nightingales, + With unctuous fat of snails, + Between two cockles stewed, + Is meat that's easily chewed; + Tails of worms, and marrow of mice, + Do make a dish that's wondrous nice. + +7 The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, + Serve us for our minstrelsy; + Grace said, we dance a while, + And so the time beguile; + And if the moon doth hide her head, + The glow-worm lights us home to bed. + +8 On tops of dewy grass + So nimbly do we pass, + The young and tender stalk + Ne'er bends when we do walk; + Yet in the morning may be seen + Where we the night before have been. + +END OF VOL. 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Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/9668-8.zip b/9668-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9e132ea --- /dev/null +++ b/9668-8.zip diff --git a/9668.txt b/9668.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1c9df85 --- /dev/null +++ b/9668.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12869 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known +British Poets, Vol. 2, by George Gilfillan + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Vol. 2 + +Author: George Gilfillan + +Posting Date: November 25, 2011 [EBook #9668] +Release Date: January, 2006 +First Posted: October 14, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL 2 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe and the PG +Online Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + + + +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 safety; +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 clothes might shapen be, +That nill their clothes 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 L500 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 _melee_ 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 L300 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. + +BOOK II. + + THE CONTENTS. + + The friendship betwixt Jonathan and David; and, upon that occasion, + a digression concerning the nature of love. A discourse between + Jonathan and David, upon which the latter absents himself from court, + and the former goes thither to inform himself of Saul's resolution. + The feast of the New-moon; the manner of the celebration of it; and + therein a digression of the history of Abraham. Saul's speech upon + David's absence from the feast, and his anger against Jonathan. + David's resolution to fly away. He parts with Jonathan, and falls + asleep under a tree. A description of Fancy. An angel makes up a + vision in David's head. The vision itself; which is a prophecy of + all the succession of his race, till Christ's time, with their most + remarkable actions. At his awaking, Gabriel assumes a human shape, + and confirms to him the truth of his vision. + +But now the early birds began to call +The morning forth; up rose the sun and Saul: +Both, as men thought, rose fresh from sweet repose; +But both, alas! from restless labours rose: +For in Saul's breast Envy, the toilsome sin, +Had all that night active and tyrannous been: +She expelled all forms of kindness, virtue, grace, +Of the past day no footstep left, or trace; +The new-blown sparks of his old rage appear, +Nor could his love dwell longer with his fear. +So near a storm wise David would not stay, +Nor trust the glittering of a faithless day: +He saw the sun call in his beams apace, +And angry clouds march up into their place: +The sea itself smooths his rough brow awhile, +Flatt'ring the greedy merchant with a smile; +But he whose shipwrecked bark it drank before, +Sees the deceit, and knows it would have more. +Such is the sea, and such was Saul; +But Jonathan his son, and only good, +Was gentle as fair Jordan's useful flood; +Whose innocent stream, as it in silence goes, +Fresh honours and a sudden spring bestows +On both his banks, to every flower and tree; +The manner how lies hid, the effect we see: +But more than all, more than himself, he loved +The man whose worth his father's hatred moved; +For when the noble youth at Dammin stood, +Adorned with sweat, and painted gay with blood, +Jonathan pierced him through with greedy eye, +And understood the future majesty +Then destined in the glories of his look: +He saw, and straight was with amazement strook, +To see the strength, the feature, and the grace +Of his young limbs; he saw his comely face, +Where love and reverence so well-mingled were, +And head, already crowned with golden hair: +He saw what mildness his bold sp'rit did tame, +Gentler than light, yet powerful as a flame: +He saw his valour by their safety proved; +He saw all this, and as he saw, he loved. + +What art thou, Love! thou great mysterious thing? +From what hid stock does thy strange nature spring? +'Tis thou that movst the world through every part, +And holdst the vast frame close, that nothing start +From the due place and office first ordained; +By thee were all things made, and are sustained. +Sometimes we see thee fully, and can say +From hence thou tookst thy rise, and wentst that way; +But oftener the short beams of Reason's eye +See only there thou art, not how, nor why. +How is the loadstone, Nature's subtle pride, +By the rude iron woo'd, and made a bride? +How was the weapon wounded? what hid flame +The strong and conquering metal overcame? +Love (this world's grace) exalts his natural state; +He feels thee, Love! and feels no more his weight. +Ye learned heads whom ivy garlands grace, +Why does that twining plant the oak embrace? +The oak, for courtship most of all unfit, +And rough as are the winds that fight with it. +How does the absent pole the needle move? +How does his cold and ice beget hot love? +Which are the wings of lightness to ascend? +Or why does weight to the centre downwards bend? +Thus creatures void of life obey thy laws, +And seldom we, they never, know the cause. +In thy large state, life gives the next degree, +Where sense and good apparent places thee; +But thy chief palace is man's heart alone; +Here are thy triumphs and full glories shown: +Handsome desires, and rest, about thee flee, +Union, inheritance, zeal, and ecstasy, +With thousand joys, cluster around thine head, +O'er which a gall-less dove her wings does spread: +A gentle lamb, purer and whiter far +Than consciences of thine own martyrs are, +Lies at thy feet; and thy right hand does hold +The mystic sceptre of a cross of gold. +Thus dost thou sit (like men, ere sin had framed +A guilty blush) naked, but not ashamed. +What cause, then, did the fab'lous ancients find, +When first their superstition made thee blind? +'Twas they, alas! 'twas they who could not see, +When they mistook that monster, Lust, for thee. +Thou art a bright, but not consuming, flame; +Such in the amazed bush to Moses came, +When that, secure, its new-crown'd head did rear, +And chid the trembling branches' needless fear; +Thy darts are healthful gold, and downwards fall, +Soft as the feathers that they are fletched withal. +Such, and no other, were those secret darts +Which sweetly touched this noblest pair of hearts: +Still to one end they both so justly drew, +As courteous doves together yoked would do: +No weight of birth did on one side prevail; +Two twins less even lie in Nature's scale: +They mingled fates, and both in each did share; +They both were servants, they both princes were. +If any joy to one of them was sent, +It was most his to whom it least was meant; +And Fortune's malice betwixt both was cross'd, +For striking one, it wounded the other most. +Never did marriage such true union find, +Or men's desires with so glad violence bind; +For there is still some tincture left of sin, +And still the sex will needs be stealing in. +Those joys are full of dross, and thicker far; +These, without matter, clear and liquid are. +Such sacred love does heaven's bright spirits fill, +Where love is but to understand and will, +With swift and unseen motions such as we +Somewhat express in heighten'd charity. +O ye bless'd One! whose love on earth became +So pure, that still in heaven 'tis but the same! +There now ye sit, and with mix'd souls embrace, +Gazing upon great Love's mysterious face, +And pity this base world, where friendship's made +A bait for sin, or else at best a trade. +Ah, wondrous prince! who a true friend couldst be +When a crown flatter'd, and Saul threaten'd thee! +Who held'st him dear whose stars thy birth did cross, +And bought'st him nobly at a kingdom's loss! +Israel's bright sceptre far less glory brings, +There have been fewer friends on earth than kings. + +To this strong pitch their high affections flew, +Till Nature's self scarce looked on them as two. +Hither flies David for advice and aid, +As swift as love and danger could persuade; +As safe in Jonathan's trust his thoughts remain, +As when himself but dreams them o'er again. + +'My dearest lord! farewell,' said he, 'farewell; +Heaven bless the King; may no misfortune tell +The injustice of his hate when I am dead: +They're coming now; perhaps my guiltless head +Here, in your sight, must then a-bleeding lie, +And scarce your own stand safe for being nigh. +Think me not scared with death, howe'er 't appear; +I know thou canst not think so: it is a fear +From which thy love and Dammin speaks me free; +I've met him face to face, and ne'er could see +One terror in his looks to make me fly +When virtue bids me stand; but I would die +So as becomes my life, so as may prove +Saul's malice, and at least excuse your love.' + +He stopped, and spoke some passion with his eyes. +'Excellent friend!' the gallant prince replies; +'Thou hast so proved thy virtues, that they're known +To all good men, more than to each his own. +Who lives in Israel that can doubtful be +Of thy great actions? for he lives by thee. +Such is thy valour, and thy vast success, +That all things but thy loyalty are less; +And should my father at thy ruin aim, +'Twould wound as much his safety as his fame. +Think them not coming, then, to slay thee here, +But doubt mishaps as little as you fear; +For, by thy loving God, whoe'er design +Against thy life, must strike at it through mine, +But I my royal father must acquit +From such base guilt, or the low thought of it. +Think on his softness, when from death he freed +The faithless king of Am'lek's cursed seed; +Can he t' a friend, t' a son, so bloody grow, +He who even sinned but now to spare a foe? +Admit he could; but with what strength or art +Could he so long close and seal up his heart? +Such counsels jealous of themselves become, +And dare not fix without consent of some; +Few men so boldly ill great sins to do, +Till licensed and approved by others too. +No more (believe it) could he hide this from me, +Than I, had he discovered it, from thee.' + +Here they embraces join, and almost tears, +Till gentle David thus new-proved his fears: +'The praise you pleased, great prince! on me to spend, +Was all outspoken, when you styled me friend: +That name alone does dangerous glories bring, +And gives excuse to the envy of a king. +What did his spear, force, and dark plots, impart +But some eternal rancour in his heart? +Still does he glance the fortune of that day +When, drowned in his own blood, Goliath lay, +And covered half the plain; still hears the sound +How that vast monster fell, and strook the around: +The dance, and, David his ten thousand slew, +Still wound his sickly soul, and still are new. +Great acts t' ambitious princes treason grow, +So much they hate that safety which they owe. +Tyrants dread all whom they raise high in place; +From the good danger, from the bad disgrace. +They doubt the lords, mistrust the people's hate, +Till blood become a principle of state. +Secured not by their guards nor by their right, +But still they fear even more than they affright, +Pardon me, sir; your father's rough and stern; +His will too strong to bend, too proud to learn. +Remember, sir, the honey's deadly sting! +Think on that savage justice of the King, +When the same day that saw you do before +Things above man, should see you man no more. +'Tis true, the accursed Agag moved his ruth; +He pitied his tall limbs and comely youth; +Had seen, alas! the proof of Heaven's fierce hate, +And feared no mischief from his powerless fate; +Remember how the old seer came raging down, +And taught him boldly to suspect his crown. +Since then, his pride quakes at the Almighty's rod, +Nor dares he love the man beloved by God. +Hence his deep rage and trembling envy springs; +Nothing so wild as jealousy of kings. +Whom should he counsel ask, with whom advise, +Who reason and God's counsel does despise? +Whose headstrong will no law or conscience daunt, +Dares he not sin, do you think, without your grant? +Yes, if the truth of our fixed love he knew, +He would not doubt, believe it, to kill even you.' + +The prince is moved, and straight prepares to find +The deep resolves of his grieved father's mind. +The danger now appears, love can soon show it, +And force his stubborn piety to know it. +They agree that David should concealed abide, +Till his great friend had the Court's temper tried; +Till he had Saul's most sacred purpose found, +And searched the depth and rancour of his wound. + +'Twas the year's seventh-born moon; the solemn feast, +That with most noise its sacred mirth express'd. +From opening morn till night shuts in the day, +On trumpets and shrill horns the Levites play: +Whether by this in mystic type we see +The new-year's day of great eternity, +When the changed moon shall no more changes make, +And scattered death's by trumpets' sound awake; +Or that the law be kept in memory still, +Given with like noise on Sinai's shining hill; +Or that (as some men teach) it did arise +From faithful Abram's righteous sacrifice, +Who, whilst the ram on Isaac's fire did fry, +His horn with joyful tunes stood sounding by; +Obscure the cause, but God his will declared, +And all nice knowledge then with ease is spared. +At the third hour Saul to the hallowed tent, +'Midst a large train of priests and courtiers, went; +The sacred herd marched proud and softly by, +Too fat and gay to think their deaths so nigh. +Hard fate of beasts more innocent than we! +Prey to our luxury and our piety! +Whose guiltless blood on boards and altars spilt, +Serves both to make and expiate, too, our guilt! +Three bullocks of free neck, two gilded rams, +Two well-washed goats, and fourteen spotless lambs, +With the three vital fruits, wine, oil, and bread, +(Small fees to Heaven of all by which we're fed) +Are offered up: the hallowed flames arise, +And faithful prayers mount with them to the skies. +From thence the King to the utmost court is brought, +Where heavenly things an inspired prophet taught, +And from the sacred tent to his palace gates, +With glad kind shouts the assembly on him waits; +The cheerful horns before him loudly play, +And fresh-strewed flowers paint his triumphant way. +Thus in slow pace to the palace-hall they go, +Rich dressed for solemn luxury and show: +Ten pieces of bright tapestry hung the room, +The noblest work e'er stretched on Syrian loom, +For wealthy Adriel in proud Sidon wrought, +And given to Saul when Saul's best gift he sought, +The bright-eyed Merab; for that mindful day +No ornament so proper seemed as they. + +There all old Abram's story you might see, +And still some angel bore him company. +His painful but well-guided travels show +The fate of all his sons, the church below. +Here beauteous Sarah to great Pharaoh came; +He blushed with sudden passion, she with shame: +Troubled she seemed, and labouring in the strife, +'Twixt her own honour and her husband's life. +Here on a conquering host, that careless lay, +Drowned in the joys of their new-gotten prey, +The patriarch falls; well-mingled might you see +The confused marks of death and luxury. +In the next piece bless'd Salem's mystic king +Does sacred presents to the victor bring; +Like Him whose type he bears, his rights receives, +Strictly requires his due, yet freely gives: +Even in his port, his habit, and his face, +The mild and great, the priest and prince, had place. +Here all their starry host the heavens display; +And, lo! a heavenly youth, more fair than they, +Leads Abram forth; points upwards; 'Such,' said he, +'So bright and numberless thy seed shall be.' +Here he with God a new alliance makes, +And in his flesh the marks of homage takes: +Here he the three mysterious persons feasts, +Well paid with joyful tidings by his guests: +Here for the wicked town he prays, and near, +Scarce did the wicked town through flames appear: +And all his fate, and all his deeds, were wrought, +Since he from Ur to Ephron's cave was brought. +But none 'mongst all the forms drew then their eyes +Like faithful Abram's righteous sacrifice: +The sad old man mounts slowly to the place, +With Nature's power triumphant in his face +O'er the mind's courage; for, in spite of all, +From his swoln eyes resistless waters fall. +The innocent boy his cruel burden bore +With smiling looks, and sometimes walked before, +And sometimes turned to talk: above was made +The altar's fatal pile, and on it laid +The hope of mankind: patiently he lay, +And did his sire, as he his God, obey. +The mournful sire lifts up at last the knife, +And on one moment's string depends his life, +In whose young loins such brooding wonders lie. +A thousand sp'rits peeped from the affrighted sky, +Amazed at this strange scene, and almost fear'd, +For all those joyful prophecies they'd heard; +Till one leaped nimbly forth, by God's command, +Like lightning from a cloud, and stopped his hand. +The gentle sp'rit smiled kindly as he spoke; +New beams of joy through Abram's wonder broke +The angel points to a tuft of bushes near, +Where an entangled ram does half appear, +And struggles vainly with that fatal net, +Which, though but slightly wrought, was firmly set: +For, lo! anon, to this sad glory doomed, +The useful beast on Isaac's pile consumed; +Whilst on his horns the ransomed couple played, +And the glad boy danced to the tunes he made. + +Near this hall's end a shittim table stood, +Yet well-wrought plate strove to conceal the wood; +For from the foot a golden vine did sprout, +And cast his fruitful riches all about. +Well might that beauteous ore the grape express, +Which does weak man intoxicate no less. +Of the same wood the gilded beds were made, +And on them large embroidered carpets laid, +From Egypt, the rich shop of follies, brought; +But arts of pride all nations soon are taught. +Behold seven comely blooming youths appear, +And in their hands seven silver washpots bear, +Curled, and gay clad, the choicest sons that be +Of Gibeon's race, and slaves of high degree. +Seven beauteous maids marched softly in behind, +Bright scarves their clothes, their hair fresh garlands bind, +And whilst the princes wash, they on them shed +Rich ointments, which their costly odours spread +O'er the whole room; from their small prisons free, +With such glad haste through the wide air they flee. +The King was placed alone, and o'er his head +A well-wrought heaven of silk and gold was spread, +Azure the ground, the sun in gold shone bright, +But pierced the wandering clouds with silver light. +The right-hand bed the King's three sons did grace, +The third was Abner's, Adriel's, David's place: +And twelve large tables more were filled below, +With the prime men Saul's court and camp could show. +The palace did with mirth and music sound, +And the crowned goblets nimbly moved around: +But though bright joy in every guest did shine, +The plenty, state, music, and sprightful wine, +Were lost on Saul: an angry care did dwell +In his dark breast, and all gay forms expel. +David's unusual absence from the feast, +To his sick sp'rit did jealous thoughts suggest: +Long lay he still, nor drank, nor ate, nor spoke, +And thus at last his troubled silence broke. + +'Where can he be?' said he. 'It must be so.' +With that he paused awhile. 'Too well we know +His boundless pride: he grieves, and hates to see +The solemn triumphs of my court and me. +Believe me, friends! and trust what I can show +From thousand proofs; the ambitious David now +Does those vast things in his proud soul design, +That too much business give for mirth or wine. +He's kindling now, perhaps, rebellious fire +Among the tribes, and does even now conspire +Against my crown, and all our lives, whilst we +Are loth even to suspect what we might see. +By the Great Name 'tis true.' +With that he strook the board, and no man there, +But Jonathan, durst undertake to clear +The blameless prince: and scarce ten words he spoke, +When thus his speech the enraged tyrant broke: + +'Disloyal wretch! thy gentle mother's shame! +Whose cold, pale ghost even blushes at thy name! +Who fears lest her chaste bed should doubted be, +And her white fame stained by black deeds of thee! +Canst thou be mine? A crown sometimes does hire +Even sons against their parents to conspire; +But ne'er did story yet, or fable, tell +Of one so wild who, merely to rebel, +Quitted the unquestioned birthright of a throne, +And bought his father's ruin with his own. +Thou need'st not plead the ambitious youth's defence; +Thy crime clears his, and makes that innocence: +Nor can his foul ingratitude appear, +Whilst thy unnatural guilt is placed so near. +Is this that noble friendship you pretend? +Mine, thine own foe, and thy worst enemy's friend? +If thy low spirit can thy great birthright quit, +The thing's but just, so ill deserv'st thou it. +I, and thy brethren here, have no such mind, +Nor such prodigious worth in David find, +That we to him should our just rights resign, +Or think God's choice not made so well as thine. +Shame of thy house and tribe! hence from mine eye; +To thy false friend and servile master fly; +He's ere this time in arms expecting thee; +Haste, for those arms are raised to ruin me. +Thy sin that way will nobler much appear, +Than to remain his spy and agent here. +When I think this, Nature, by thee forsook, +Forsakes me too.' With that his spear he took +To strike at him: the mirth and music cease; +The guests all rise this sudden storm t' appease. +The prince his danger and his duty knew, +And low he bowed, and silently withdrew. + +To David straight, who in a forest nigh +Waits his advice, the royal friend does fly. +The sole advice, now, like the danger clear, +Was in some foreign land this storm t' outwear. +All marks of comely grief in both are seen, +And mournful kind discourses passed between. +Now generous tears their hasty tongues restrain; +Now they begin, and talk all o'er again: +A reverent oath of constant love they take, +And God's high name their dreaded witness make: +Not that at all their faiths could doubtful prove, +But 'twas the tedious zeal of endless love. +Thus, ere they part, they the short time bestow +In all the pomp friendship and grief could show. +And David now, with doubtful cares oppressed, +Beneath a shade borrows some little rest; +When by command divine thick mists arise, +And stop the sense, and close the conquered eyes. +There is a place which man most high doth rear, +The small world's heaven, where reason moves the sphere; +Here in a robe which does all colours show, +(The envy of birds, and the clouds' gaudy bow,) +Fancy, wild dame, with much lascivious pride, +By twin-chameleons drawn, does gaily ride: +Her coach there follows, and throngs round about +Of shapes and airy forms an endless rout. +A sea rolls on with harmless fury here; +Straight 'tis a field, and trees and herbs appear. +Here in a moment are vast armies made, +And a quick scene of war and blood displayed. +Here sparkling wines, and brighter maids come in, +The bawds for Sense, and lying baits of sin. +Some things arise of strange and quarrelling kind, +The forepart lion, and a snake behind. +Here golden mountains swell the covetous place, +And Centaurs ride themselves, a painted race. +Of these slight wonders Nature sees the store, +And only then accounts herself but poor. +Hither an angel comes in David's trance, +And finds them mingled in an antique dance; +Of all the numerous forms fit choice he takes, +And joins them wisely, and this vision makes. + +First, David there appears in kingly state, +Whilst the Twelve Tribes his dread commands await: +Straight to the wars with his joined strength he goes, +Settles new friends, and frights his ancient foes. +To Solima, Canaan's old head, they came, +(Since high in note, then not unknown to Fame,) +The blind and lame the undoubted wall defend, +And no new wounds or dangers apprehend. +The busy image of great Joab there +Disdains the mock, and teaches them to fear: +He climbs the airy walls, leaps raging down, +New-minted shapes of slaughter fill the town. +They curse the guards their mirth and bravery chose, +All of them now are slain, or made like those. +Far through an inward scene an army lay, +Which with full banners a fair Fish display. +From Sidon plains to happy Egypt's coast +They seem all met, a vast and warlike host. +Thither hastes David to his destined prey, +Honour and noble danger lead the way. +The conscious trees shook with a reverent fear +Their unblown tops: God walked before him there. +Slaughter the wearied Rephaims' bosom fills, +Dead corpse emboss the vale with little hills. +On the other side, Sophenes' mighty king +Numberless troops of the bless'd East does bring: +Twice are his men cut off, and chariots ta'en; +Damascus and rich Adad help in vain; +Here Nabathaean troops in battle stand, +With all the lusty youth of Syrian land; +Undaunted Joab rushes on with speed, +Gallantly mounted on his fiery steed; +He hews down all, and deals his deaths around; +The Syrians leave, or possess, dead, the ground. +On the other wing does brave Abishai ride, +Reeking in blood and dust: on every side +The perjured sons of Ammon quit the field; +Some basely die, and some more basely yield. +Through a thick wood the wretched Hanun flies, +And far more justly then fears Hebrew spies. +Moloch, their bloody god, thrusts out his head, +Grinning through a black cloud: him they'd long fed +In his seven chambers, and he still did eat +New-roasted babes, his dear delicious meat. +Again they rise, more angered and dismayed; +Euphrates and swift Tigris sends them aid: +In vain they send it, for again they're slain, +And feast the greedy birds on Healy plain. +Here Rabba with proud towers affronts the sky, +And round about great Joab's trenches lie: +They force the walls, and sack the helpless town; +On David's head shines Ammon's massy crown. +'Midst various torments the cursed race expires; +David himself his severe wrath admires. + +Next upon Israel's throne does bravely sit +A comely youth, endowed with wondrous wit: +Far, from the parched line, a royal dame, +To hear his tongue and boundless wisdom, came: +She carried back in her triumphant womb +The glorious stock of thousand kings to come. +Here brightest forms his pomp and wealth display; +Here they a temple's vast foundations lay; +A mighty work; and with fit glories filled, +For God to inhabit, and that King to build. +Some from the quarries hew out massy stone, +Some draw it up with cranes; some breathe and groan +In order o'er the anvil; some cut down +Tall cedars, the proud mountain's ancient crown; +Some carve the trunks, and breathing shapes bestow, +Giving the trees more life than when they grow. +But, oh! alas! what sudden cloud is spread +About this glorious King's eclipsed head? +It all his fame benights, and all his store, +Wrapping him round; and now he's seen no more. + +When straight his son appears at Sichem crown'd, +With young and heedless council circled round; +Unseemly object! but a falling state +Has always its own errors joined with Fate. +Ten tribes at once forsake the Jessian throne, +And bold Adoram at his message stone; +'Brethren of Israel!'--More he fain would say, +But a flint stopped his mouth, and speech in the way. +Here this fond king's disasters but begin; +He's destined to more shame by his father's sin. +Susac comes up, and under his command +A dreadful army from scorched Afric's sand, +As numberless as that: all is his prey; +The temple's sacred wealth they bear away; +Adrazar's shields and golden loss they take; +Even David in his dream does sweat and shake. +Thus fails this wretched prince; his loins appear +Of less weight now than Solomon's fingers were. + +Abijah next seeks Israel to regain, +And wash in seas of blood his father's stain. +Ne'er saw the aged sun so cruel sight; +Scarce saw he this, but hid his bashful light. +Nebat's cursed son fled with not half his men; +Where were his gods of Dan and Bethel then? +Yet could not this the fatal strife decide; +God punished one, but blessed not the other side. + +Asan, a just and virtuous prince, succeeds, +High raised by Fame for great and godly deeds: +He cut the solemn groves where idols stood, +And sacrificed the gods with their own wood. +He vanquished thus the proud weak powers of hell; +Before him next their doting servants fell: +So huge an host of Zerah's men he slew, +As made even that Arabia desert too. +Why feared he then the perjured Baasha's sight? +Or bought the dangerous aid of Syrian's might? +Conquest, Heaven's gift, cannot by man be sold; +Alas! what weakness trusts he? man and gold. + +Next Josaphat possessed the royal state; +A happy prince, well worthy of his fate: +His oft oblations on God's altar, made +With thousand flocks, and thousand herds, are paid, +Arabian tribute! What mad troops are those, +Those mighty troops that dare to be his foes? +He prays them dead; with mutual wounds they fall; +One fury brought, one fury slays them all. +Thus sits he still, and sees himself to win, +Never o'ercome but by his friend Ahab's sin; +On whose disguise Fates then did only look, +And had almost their God's command mistook: +Him from whose danger Heaven securely brings, +And for his sake too ripely wicked kings. +Their armies languish, burnt with thirst, at Seere, +Sighs all their cold, tears all their moisture there: +They fix their greedy eyes on the empty sky, +And fancy clouds, and so become more dry. +Elisha calls for waters from afar +To come; Elisha calls, and here they are. +In helmets they quaff round the welcome flood, +And the decrease repair with Moab's blood. +Jehoram next, and Ochoziah, throng +For Judah's sceptre; both shortlived too long. +A woman, too, from murder title claims; +Both with her sins and sex the crown she shames. +Proud, cursed woman! but her fall at last +To doubting men clears Heaven for what was past. +Joas at first does bright and glorious show; +In life's fresh morn his fame did early crow: +Fair was the promise of his dawning ray, +But prophet's angry blood o'ercast his day: +From thence his clouds, from thence his storms, begin, +It cries aloud, and twice lets Aram in. +So Amaziah lives, so ends his reign, +Both by their traitorous servants justly slain. +Edom at first dreads his victorious hand; +Before him thousand captives trembling stand. +Down a precipice, deep down he casts them all; +The mimic shapes in several postures fall: +But then (mad fool!) he does those gods adore, +Which when plucked down had worshipped him before. +Thus all his life to come is loss and shame: +No help from gods, who themselves helped not, came. + +All this Uzziah's strength and wit repairs, +Leaving a well-built greatness to his heirs; +Till leprous scurf, o'er his whole body cast, +Takes him at first from men, from earth at last. +As virtuous was his son, and happier far; +Buildings his peace, and trophies graced his war: +But Achaz heaps up sins, as if he meant +To make his worst forefathers innocent: +He burns his son at Hinnon, whilst around +The roaring child drums and loud trumpets sound: +This to the boy a barbarous mercy grew, +And snatched him from all miseries to ensue. +Here Peca comes, and hundred thousands fall; +Here Rezin marches up, and sweeps up all; +Till like a sea the great Belochus' son +Breaks upon both, and both does overrun. +The last of Adad's ancient stock is slain, +Israel captived, and rich Damascus ta'en; +All his wild rage to revenge Judah's wrong; +But woe to kingdoms that have friends too strong! + +Thus Hezekiah the torn empire took, +And Assur's king with his worse gods forsook; +Who to poor Judah worlds of nations brings, +There rages, utters vain and mighty things. +Some dream of triumphs, and exalted names, +Some of dear gold, and some of beauteous dames; +Whilst in the midst of their huge sleepy boast, +An angel scatters death through all the host. +The affrighted tyrant back to Babel hies, +There meets an end far worse than that he flies. +Here Hezekiah's life is almost done! +So good, and yet, alas! so short 'tis spun. +The end of the line was ravelled, weak, and old; +Time must go back, and afford better hold, +To tie a new thread to it of fifteen years. +'Tis done; the almighty power of prayer and tears! +Backward the sun, an unknown motion, went; +The stars gazed on, and wondered what he meant. +Manasses next (forgetful man!) begins, +Enslaved and sold to Ashur by his sins; +Till by the rod of learned Misery taught, +Home to his God and country both he's brought. +It taught not Ammon, nor his hardness brake, +He's made the example he refused to take. + +Yet from this root a goodly scion springs, +Josiah! best of men, as well as kings. +Down went the calves, with all their gold and cost; +The priests then truly grieved, Osiris lost. +These mad Egyptian rites till now remained; +Fools! they their worser thraldom still retained! +In his own fires Moloch to ashes fell, +And no more flames must have besides his hell. +Like end Astartes' horned image found, +And Baal's spired stone to dust was ground. +No more were men in female habit seen, +Or they in men's, by the lewd Syrian queen; +No lustful maids at Benos' temple sit, +And with their body's shame their marriage get. +The double Dagon neither nature saves, +Nor flies she back to the Erythraean waves. +The travelling sun sees gladly from on high +His chariots burn, and Nergal quenched lie. +The King's impartial anger lights on all, +From fly-blown Accaron to the thundering Baal. +Here David's joy unruly grows and bold, +Nor could sleep's silken chain its violence hold, +Had not the angel, to seal fast his eyes, +The humours stirred, and bid more mists arise; +When straight a chariot hurries swift away, +And in it good Josiah bleeding lay: +One hand's held up, one stops the wound; in vain +They both are used. Alas! he's slain, he's slain. + +Jehoias and Jehoiakim next appear; +Both urge that vengeance which before was near. +He in Egyptian fetters captive dies, +This by more courteous Anger murdered lies. +His son and brother next to bonds sustain, +Israel's now solemn and imperial chain. +Here's the last scene of this proud city's state; +All ills are met, tied in one knot of Fate. +Their endless slavery in this trial lay; +Great God had heaped up ages in one day: +Strong works around the walls the Chaldees build, +The town with grief and dreadful business filled: +To their carved gods the frantic women pray, +Gods which as near their ruin were as they: +At last in rushes the prevailing foe, +Does all the mischief of proud conquest show. +The wondering babes from mothers' breasts are rent, +And suffer ills they neither feared nor meant. +No silver reverence guards the stooping age, +No rule or method ties their boundless rage. +The glorious temple shines in flames all o'er, +Yet not so bright as in its gold before. +Nothing but fire or slaughter meets the eyes; +Nothing the ear but groans and dismal cries. +The walls and towers are levelled with the ground, +And scarce aught now of that vast city's found, +But shards and rubbish, which weak signs might keep, +Of forepast glory, and bid travellers weep. +Thus did triumphant Assur homewards pass, +And thus Jerus'lem left, Jerusalem that was! + +Thus Zedechia saw, and this not all; +Before his face his friends and children fall, +The sport of insolent victors: this he views, +A king and father once: ill Fate could use +His eyes no more to do their master spite; +All to be seen she took, and next his sight. +Thus a long death in prison he outwears, +Bereft of grief's last solace, even his tears. + +Then Jeconiah's son did foremost come, +And he who brought the captived nation home; +A row of Worthies in long order passed +O'er the short stage; of all old Joseph last. +Fair angels passed by next in seemly bands, +All gilt, with gilded baskets in their hands. +Some as they went the blue-eyed violets strew, +Some spotless lilies in loose order threw. +Some did the way with full-blown roses spread, +Their smell divine, and colour strangely red; +Not such as our dull gardens proudly wear, +Whom weather's taint, and wind's rude kisses tear. +Such, I believe, was the first rose's hue, +Which, at God's word, in beauteous Eden grew; +Queen of the flowers, which made that orchard gay, +The morning-blushes of the Spring's new day. + +With sober pace an heavenly maid walks in, +Her looks all fair, no sign of native sin +Through her whole body writ; immoderate grace +Spoke things far more than human in her face: +It casts a dusky gloom o'er all the flowers, +And with full beams their mingled light devours. +An angel straight broke from a shining cloud, +And pressed his wings, and with much reverence bowed; +Again he bowed, and grave approach he made, +And thus his sacred message sweetly said: + +'Hail! full of grace! thee the whole world shall call +Above all bless'd; thee, who shall bless them all. +Thy virgin womb in wondrous sort shall shroud +Jesus the God; (and then again he bowed) +Conception the great Spirit shall breathe on thee: +Hail thou! who must God's wife, God's mother be.' +With that his seeming form to heaven he reared, +(She low obeisance made) and disappeared. +Lo! a new star three Eastern sages see; +(For why should only earth a gainer be?) +They saw this Phosphor's infant light, and knew +It bravely ushered in a sun as new; +They hasted all this rising sun t' adore; +With them rich myrrh, and early spices, bore. +Wise men! no fitter gift your zeal could bring; +You'll in a noisome stable find your king. +Anon a thousand devils run roaring in; +Some with a dreadful smile deform'dly grin; +Some stamp their cloven paws, some frown, and tear +The gaping snakes from their black-knotted hair; +As if all grief, and all the rage of hell +Were doubled now, or that just now they fell: +But when the dreaded maid they entering saw, +All fled with trembling fear and silent awe: +In her chaste arms the Eternal Infant lies, +The Almighty Voice changed into feeble cries. +Heaven contained virgins oft, and will do more; +Never did virgin contain Heaven before. +Angels peep round to view this mystic thing, +And halleluiah round, all halleluiah sing. + +No longer could good David quiet bear +The unwieldy pleasure which o'erflowed him here: +It broke the fetter, and burst ope his eye; +Away the timorous Forms together fly. +Fixed with amaze he stood, and time must take, +To learn if yet he were at last awake. +Sometimes he thinks that Heaven this vision sent, +And ordered all the pageants as they went: +Sometimes that only 'twas wild Fancy's play, +The loose and scattered relics of the day. + +When Gabriel (no bless'd sp'rit more kind or fair) +Bodies and clothes himself with thickened air; +All like a comely youth in life's fresh bloom, +Rare workmanship, and wrought by heavenly loom! +He took for skin a cloud most soft and bright +That e'er the mid-day sun pierced through with light; +Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread, +Washed from the morning beauty's deepest red; +A harmless flaming meteor shone for hair, +And fell adown his shoulders with loose care: +He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies. +Where the most sprightly azure please the eyes; +This he with starry vapours spangles all, +Took in their prime ere they grow ripe, and fall: +Of a new rainbow, ere it fret or fade, +The choicest piece took out, a scarf is made; +Small streaming clouds he does for wings display, +Not virtuous lovers' sighs more soft than they; +These he gilds o'er with the sun's richest rays, +Caught gliding o'er pure streams on which he plays. + +Thus dressed, the joyful Gabriel posts away, +And carries with him his own glorious day +Through the thick woods; the gloomy shades a while +Put on fresh, looks, and wonder why they smile; +The trembling serpents close and silent lie; +The birds obscene far from his passage fly; +A sudden spring waits on him as he goes, +Sudden as that which by creation rose. +Thus he appears to David; at first sight +All earth-bred fears and sorrows take their flight: +In rushes joy divine, and hope, and rest; +A sacred calm shines through his peaceful breast. +'Hail, man belov'd! from highest heaven,' said he. +'My mighty Master sends thee health by me. +The things thou saw'st are full of truth and light, +Shaped in the glass of the divine foresight. +Even now old Time is harnessing the Years +To go in order thus: hence, empty fears! +Thy fate's all white; from thy bless'd seed shall spring +The promised Shilo, the great mystic King. +Round the whole earth his dreaded Name shall sound. +And reach to worlds that must not yet be found: +The Southern clime him her sole Lord shall style, +Him all the North, even Albion's stubborn isle. +My fellow-servant, credit what I tell.' +Straight into shapeless air unseen he fell. + + +LIFE. + +'NASCENTES MORIMUR.'--_Manil_. + +1 We're ill by these grammarians used: + We are abused by words, grossly abused; + From the maternal tomb + To the grave's fruitful womb + We call here Life; but Life's a name + That nothing here can truly claim: + This wretched inn, where we scarce stay to bait, + We call our dwelling-place; + We call one step a race: + But angels in their full-enlightened state, + Angels who live, and know what 'tis to be, + Who all the nonsense of our language see, + Who speak things, and our words their ill-drawn picture scorn. + When we by a foolish figure say, + Behold an old man dead! then they + Speak properly, and cry, Behold a man-child born! + +2 My eyes are opened, and I see + Through the transparent fallacy: + Because we seem wisely to talk + Like men of business, and for business walk + From place to place, + And mighty voyages we take, + And mighty journeys seem to make + O'er sea and land, the little point that has no space; + Because we fight, and battles gain, + Some captives call, and say the rest are slain; + Because we heap up yellow earth, and so + Rich, valiant, wise, and virtuous seem to grow; + Because we draw a long nobility + From hieroglyphic proofs of heraldry, + And impudently talk of a posterity; + And, like Egyptian chroniclers, + Who write of twenty thousand years, + With maravedies make the account, + That single time might to a sum amount; + We grow at last by custom to believe + That really we live; + Whilst all these shadows that for things we take, + Are but the empty dreams which in death's sleep we make. + +3 But these fantastic errors of our dream + Lead us to solid wrong; + We pray God our friends' torments to prolong. + And wish uncharitably for them + To be as long a-dying as Methusalem. + The ripened soul longs from his prison to come, + But we would seal and sew up, if we could, the womb. + We seek to close and plaster up by art + The cracks and breaches of the extended shell, + And in that narrow cell + Would rudely force to dwell + The noble, vigorous bird already winged to part. + + +THE PLAGUES OF EGYPT. + +I. + +Is this thy bravery, Man! is this thy pride! +Rebel to God, and slave to all beside! +Captived by everything! and only free +To fly from thine own liberty! +All creatures, the Creator said, were thine; +No creature but might since say, Man is mine! +In black Egyptian slavery we lie, +And sweat and toil in the vain dru +Of tyrant Sin, +To which we trophies raise, and wear out all our breath +In building up the monuments of death. +We, the choice race, to God and angels kin! +In vain the prophets and apostles come +To call us home, +Home to the promised Canaan above, +Which does with nourishing milk and pleasant honey flow, +And even i' th' way to which we should be fed +With angels' tasteful bread: +But we, alas! the flesh-pots love; +We love the very leeks and sordid roots below. + +II. + +In vain we judgments feel, and wonders see; +In vain did God to descend hither deign, +He was his own Ambassador in vain, +Our Moses and our guide himself to be. +We will not let ourselves to go, +And with worse hardened hearts, do our own Pharaohs grow; +Ah! lest at last we perish so, +Think, stubborn Man! think of the Egyptian prince, +(Hard of belief and will, but not so hard as thou,) +Think with what dreadful proofs God did convince +The feeble arguments that human power could show; +Think what plagues attend on thee, +Who Moses' God dost now refuse more oft than Moses he. + +III. + +'If from some God you come,' said the proud king, +With half a smile and half a frown, +'But what God can to Egypt be unknown? +What sign, what powers, what credence do you bring?' +'Behold his seal! behold his hand!' +Cries Moses, and casts down the almighty wand: +The almighty wand scarce touched the earth, +When, with an undiscerned birth, +The almighty wand a serpent grew, +And his long half in painted folds behind him drew: +Upwards his threatening tail he threw, +Upwards he cast his threatening head, +He gaped and hissed aloud, +With flaming eyes surveyed the trembling crowd, +And, like a basilisk, almost looked the assembly dead: +Swift fled the amazed king, the guards before him fled. + +IV. + +Jannes and Jambres stopped their flight, +And with proud words allayed the affright. +'The God of slaves!' said they, 'how can he be +More powerful than their master's deity?' +And down they cast their rods, +And muttered secret sounds that charm the servile gods, +The evil spirits their charms obey, +And in a subtle cloud they snatch the rods away, +And serpents in their place the airy jugglers lay: +Serpents in Egypt's monstrous land +Were ready still at hand, +And all at the Old Serpent's first command: +And they, too, gaped, and they, too, hissed, +And they their threatening tails did twist; +But straight on both the Hebrew serpent flew, +Broke both their active backs, and both it slew, +And both almost at once devoured; +So much was overpowered +By God's miraculous creation +His servant Nature's slightly wrought and feeble generation. + +V. + +On the famed bank the prophets stood, +Touched with their rod, and wounded all the flood; +Flood now no more, but a long vein of putrid blood; +The helpless fish were found +In their strange current drowned; +The herbs and trees washed by the mortal tide +About it blushed and died: +The amazed crocodiles made haste to ground; +From their vast trunks the dropping gore they spied, +Thought it their own, and dreadfully aloud they cried: +Nor all thy priests, nor thou, +O King! couldst ever show +From whence thy wandering Nile begins his course; +Of this new Nile thou seest the sacred source, +And as thy land that does o'erflow, +Take heed lest this do so. +What plague more just could on thy waters fall? +The Hebrew infants' murder stains them all. +The kind, instructing punishment enjoy; +Whom the red river cannot mend, the Red Sea shall destroy. + +VI. + +The river yet gave one instruction more, +And from the rotting fish and unconcocted gore, +Which was but water just before, +A loathsome host was quickly made, +That scaled the banks, and with loud noise did all the country invade; +As Nilus when he quits his sacred bed, +(But like a friend he visits all the land +With welcome presents in his hand,) +So did this living tide the fields o'erspread. +In vain the alarmed country tries +To kill their noisome enemies, +From the unexhausted source still new recruits arise: +Nor does the earth these greedy troops suffice; +The towns and houses they possess, +The temples and the palaces, +Nor Pharaoh nor his gods they fear, +Both their importune croakings hear: +Unsatiate yet they mount up higher, +Where never sun-born frog durst to aspire, +And in the silken beds their slimy members place, +A luxury unknown before to all the watery race. + +VII. + +The water thus her wonders did produce, +But both were to no use: +As yet the sorcerer's mimic power served for excuse. +Try what the earth will do, said God, and lo! +They struck the earth a fertile blow, +And all the dust did straight to stir begin, +One would have thought some sudden wind had been, +But, lo! 'twas nimble life was got within! +And all the little springs did move, +And every dust did an armed vermin prove, +Of an unknown and new-created kind, +Such as the magic gods could neither make or find. +The wretched shameful foe allowed no rest +Either to man or beast; +Not Pharaoh from the unquiet plague could be, +With all his change of raiments, free; +The devils themselves confessed +This was God's hand; and 'twas but just +To punish thus man's pride, to punish dust with dust. + +VIII. + +Lo! the third element does his plagues prepare, +And swarming clouds of insects fill the air; +With sullen noise they take their flight, +And march in bodies infinite; +In vain 'tis day above, 'tis still beneath them night; +Of harmful flies the nations numberless +Composed this mighty army's spacious boast; +Of different manners, different languages, +And different habits, too, they wore, +And different arms they bore: +And some, like Scythians, lived on blood, +And some on green, and some on flowery food, +And Accaron, the airy prince, led on this various host. +Houses secure not men; the populous ill +Did all the houses fill: +The country all around, +Did with the cries of tortured cattle sound; +About the fields enraged they flew, +And wished the plague that was t' ensue. + +IX. + +From poisonous stars a mortal influence came, +(The mingled malice of their flame,) +A skilful angel did the ingredients take, +And with just hands the sad composure make, +And over all the land did the full viol shake. +Thirst, giddiness, faintness, and putrid heats, +And pining pains, and shivering sweats, +On all the cattle, all the beasts, did fall; +With deformed death the country's covered all. +The labouring ox drops down before the plough; +The crowned victims to the altar led +Sink, and prevent the lifted blow: +The generous horse from the full manger turns his head, +Does his loved floods and pastures scorn, +Hates the shrill trumpet and the horn, +Nor can his lifeless nostril please +With the once-ravishing smell of all his dappled mistresses; +The starving sheep refuse to feed, +They bleat their innocent souls out into air; +The faithful dogs lie gasping by them there; +The astonished shepherd weeps, and breaks his tuneful reed. + +X. + +Thus did the beasts for man's rebellion die; +God did on man a gentler medicine try, +And a disease for physic did apply. +Warm ashes from the furnace Moses took, +The sorcerers did with wonder on him look, +And smiled at the unaccustomed spell +Which no Egyptian rituals tell. +He flings the pregnant ashes through the air, +And speaks a mighty prayer, +Both which the minist'ring winds around all Egypt bear; +As gentle western blasts, with downy wings +Hatching the tender springs, +To the unborn buds with vital whispers say, +Ye living buds, why do ye stay? +The passionate buds break through the bark their way; +So wheresoe'er this tainted wind but blew, +Swelling pains and ulcers grew; +It from the body called all sleeping poisons out, +And to them added new; +A noisome spring of sores as thick as leaves did sprout. + +XI. + +Heaven itself is angry next; +Woe to man when Heaven is vexed; +With sullen brow it frowned, +And murmured first in an imperfect sound; +Till Moses, lifting up his hand, +Waves the expected signal of his wand, +And all the full-charged clouds in ranged squadrons move, +And fill the spacious plains above; +Through which the rolling thunder first does play, +And opens wide the tempest's noisy way: +And straight a stony shower +Of monstrous hail does downward pour, +Such as ne'er Winter yet brought forth, +From all her stormy magazines of the north: +It all the beasts and men abroad did slay, +O'er the defaced corpse, like monuments, lay; +The houses and strong-bodied trees it broke, +Nor asked aid from the thunder's stroke: +The thunder but for terror through it flew, +The hail alone the work could do. +The dismal lightnings all around, +Some flying through the air, some running on the ground, +Some swimming o'er the waters' face, +Filled with bright horror every place; +One would have thought, their dreadful day to have seen, +The very hail and rain itself had kindled been. + +XII. + +The infant corn, which yet did scarce appear, +Escaped this general massacre +Of every thing that grew, +And the well-stored Egyptian year +Began to clothe her fields and trees anew; +When, lo! a scorching wind from the burnt countries blew, +And endless legions with it drew +Of greedy locusts, who, where'er +With sounding wings they flew, +Left all the earth depopulate and bare, +As if Winter itself had marched by there, +Whate'er the sun and Nile +Gave with large bounty to the thankful soil, +The wretched pillagers bore away, +And the whole Summer was their prey; +Till Moses with a prayer, +Breathed forth a violent western wind, +Which all these living clouds did headlong bear +(No stragglers left behind) +Into the purple sea, and there bestow +On the luxurious fish a feast they ne'er did know. +With untaught joy Pharaoh the news does hear, +And little thinks their fate attends on him and his so near. + +XIII. + +What blindness and what darkness did there e'er +Like this undocile king's appear? +Whate'er but that which now does represent +And paint the crime out in the punishment? +From the deep baleful caves of hell below, +Where the old mother Night does grow, +Substantial Night, that does disclaim +Privation's empty name, +Through secret conduits monstrous shapes arose, +Such as the sun's whole force could not oppose; +They with a solid cloud +All heaven's eclipsed face did shroud; +Seemed with large wings spread o'er the sea and earth, +To brood up a new Chaos his deformed birth; +And every lamp, and every fire, +Did, at the dreadful sight, wink and expire, +To the empyrean source all streams of light seemed to retire. +The living men were in their standing houses buried, +But the long night no slumber knows, +But the short death finds no repose. +Ten thousand terrors through the darkness fled, +And ghosts complained, and spirits murmured, +And fancy's multiplying sight +Viewed all the scenes invisible of night. + +XIV. + +Of God's dreadful anger these +Were but the first light skirmishes; +The shock and bloody battle now begins, +The plenteous harvest of full-ripened sins. +It was the time when the still moon +Was mounted softly to her noon, +And dewy sleep, which from Night's secret springs arose, +Gently as Nile the land o'erflows; +When, lo! from the high countries of refined day, +The golden heaven without allay, +Whose dross, in the creation purged away, +Made up the sun's adulterate ray, +Michael, the warlike prince, does downwards fly, +Swift as the journeys of the sight, +Swift as the race of light, +And with his winged will cuts through the yielding sky. +He passed through many a star, and as he passed +Shone (like a star in them) more brightly there +Than they did in their sphere: +On a tall pyramid's pointed head he stopped at last, +And a mild look of sacred pity cast +Down on the sinful land where he was sent +To inflict the tardy punishment. +'Ah! yet,' said he, 'yet, stubborn King! repent, +Whilst thus unarmed I stand, +Ere the keen sword of God fill my commanded hand; +Suffer but yet thyself and thine to live. +Who would, alas! believe +That it for man,' said he, +'So hard to be forgiven should be, +And yet for God so easy to forgive!' + +XV. + +He spoke, and downwards flew, +And o'er his shining form a well-cut cloud he threw, +Made of the blackest fleece of night, +And close-wrought to keep in the powerful light; +Yet, wrought so fine, it hindered not his flight, +But through the key-holes and the chinks of doors, +And through the narrowest walks of crooked pores, +He passed more swift and free +Than in wide air the wanton swallows flee: +He took a pointed pestilence in his hand, +The spirits of thousand mortal poisons made +The strongly-tempered blade, +The sharpest sword that e'er was laid +Up in the magazines of God to scourge a wicked land: +Through Egypt's wicked land his march he took, +And as he marched the sacred first-born struck +Of every womb; none did he spare; +None from the meanest beast to Cenchre's purple heir. + +XVI. + +The swift approach of endless night +Breaks ope the wounded sleepers' rolling eyes; +They awake the rest with dying cries, +And darkness doubles the affright. +The mixed sounds of scattered deaths they hear, +And lose their parted souls 'twixt grief and fear. +Louder than all, the shrieking women's voice +Pierces this chaos of confused noise; +As brighter lightning cuts a way, +Clear and distinguished through the day: +With less complaints the Zoan temples sound +When the adored heifer's drowned, +And no true marked successor to be found: +While health, and strength, and gladness does possess +The festal Hebrew cottages; +The bless'd destroyer comes not there, +To interrupt the sacred cheer, +That new begins their well-reformed year. +Upon their doors he read and understood +God's protection writ in blood; +Well was he skilled i' th' character divine, +And though he passed by it in haste, +He bowed, and worshipped as he passed +The mighty mystery through its humble sign. + +XVII. + +The sword strikes now too deep and near, +Longer with its edge to play, +No diligence or cost they spare +To haste the Hebrews now away, +Pharaoh himself chides their delay; +So kind and bountiful is fear! +But, oh! the bounty which to fear we owe, +Is but like fire struck out of stone, +So hardly got, and quickly gone, +That it scarce outlives the blow. +Sorrow and fear soon quit the tyrant's breast, +Rage and revenge their place possess'd: +With a vast host of chariots and of horse, +And all his powerful kingdom's ready force, +The travelling nation he pursues, +Ten times o'ercome, he still the unequal war renews. +Filled with proud hopes, 'At least,' said he, +'The Egyptian gods, from Syrian magic free, +Will now revenge themselves and me; +Behold what passless rocks on either hand, +Like prison walls, about them stand! +Whilst the sea bounds their flight before, +And in our injured justice they must find +A far worse stop than rocks and seas behind; +Which shall with crimson gore +New paint the water's name, and double dye the shore.' + +XVIII. + +He spoke; and all his host +Approved with shouts the unhappy boast; +A bidden wind bore his vain words away, +And drowned them in the neighbouring sea. +No means to escape the faithless travellers spy, +And with degenerous fear to die, +Curse their new-gotten liberty: +But the great Guide well knew he led them right, +And saw a path hid yet from human sight: +He strikes the raging waves; the waves on either side +Unloose their close embraces, and divide, +And backwards press, as in some solemn show +The crowding people do, +(Though just before no space was seen,) +To let the admired triumph pass between. +The wondering army saw, on either hand, +The no less wondering waves like rocks of crystal stand. +They marched betwixt, and boldly trod +The secret paths of God: +And here and there, all scattered in their way, +The sea's old spoils and gaping fishes lay +Deserted on the sandy plain: +The sun did with astonishment behold +The inmost chambers of the opened main, +For whatsoe'er of old +By his own priests, the poets, has been said, +He never sunk till then into the Ocean's bed. + +XIX. + +Led cheerfully by a bright captain, Flame, +To the other shore at morning-dawn they came, +And saw behind the unguided foe +March disorderly and slow: +The prophet straight from the Idumean strand +Shakes his imperious wand; +The upper waves, that highest crowded lie, +The beckoning wand espy; +Straight their first right-hand files begin to move, +And with a murmuring wind +Give the word march to all behind; +The left-hand squadrons no less ready prove, +But with a joyful, louder noise, +Answer their distant fellows' voice, +And haste to meet them make, +As several troops do all at once a common signal take. +What tongue the amazement and the affright can tell, +Which on the Chamian army fell, +When on both sides they saw the roaring main +Broke loose from his invisible chain? +They saw the monstrous death and watery war +Come rolling down loud ruin from afar; +In vain some backward and some forwards fly +With helpless haste, in vain they cry +To their celestial beasts for aid; +In vain their guilty king they upbraid, +In vain on Moses he, and Moses' God, does call, +With a repentance true too late: +They're compassed round with a devouring fate +That draws, like a strong net, the mighty sea upon them all. + + + + +GEORGE WITHER + + +This remarkable man was born in Hampshire, at Bentworth, near Alton, in +1588. He was sent to Magdalene College, Oxford, but had hardly been +there till his father remanded him home to hold the plough--a reversal +of the case of Cincinnatus which did not please the aspiring spirit of +our poet. He took an early opportunity of breaking loose from this +occupation, and of going to London with the romantic intention of making +his fortune at Court. Finding that to rise at Court, flattery was +indispensable, and determined not to flatter, he, in 1613, published his +'Abuses Whipt and Stript,' for which he was committed for some months +to the Marshalsea. Here he wrote his beautiful poem, 'The Shepherd's +Hunting;' and is said to have gained his manumission by a satire to +the King, in which he defends his former writings. Soon after his +liberation, he published his 'Hymns and Songs of the Church,' a book +which embroiled him with the clergy, but procured him the favour of King +James, who encouraged him to finish a translation of the Psalms. He +travelled to the court of the Queen of Bohemia, (James's daughter,) in +fulfilment of a vow, and presented her with a copy of his completed +translation. + +In 1639, he was a captain of horse in the expedition against the Scotch. +When the Civil War broke out, he sold his estate to raise a troop of +horse on the Parliamentary side, and soon after was made a major. In +1642, he was appointed captain and commander of Farnham Castle, in +Surrey; but owing to some neglect or cowardice on his part, it was ceded +the same year to Sir William Waller. He was made prisoner by the +Royalists some time after this, and would have been put to death had not +Denham interfered, alleging that as long as Wither survived, he (Denham) +could not be accounted the worst poet in England. He was afterwards +appointed Cromwell's major-general of all the horse and foot in the +county of Surrey. He made money at this time by Royalist sequestrations, +but lost it all at the Restoration. He had, on the death of Cromwell, +hailed Richard with enthusiasm, and predicted him a happy reign; which +makes Campbell remark, 'He never but once in his life foreboded good, +and in that prophecy he was mistaken.' Wither was by no means pleased +with the loss of his fortune, and remonstrated bitterly; but for so +doing he was thrown into prison again. Here his mind continued as active +as ever, and he poured out treatises, poems, and satires--sometimes, +when pen and ink were denied him, inscribing his thoughts with red ochre +upon a trencher. After three years, he was, in 1663, released from +Newgate, under bond for good behaviour; and four years afterwards he +died in London. This was on the 2d of May 1667. He was buried between +the east door and the south end of the Savoy church, in the Strand. + +Wither was a man of real genius, but seems to have been partially +insane. His political zeal was a frenzy; and his religion was deeply +tinged with puritanic gloom. His 'Collection of Emblems' never became so +popular as those of Quarles, and are now nearly as much forgotten as his +satires, his psalms, and his controversial treatises. But his early +poems are delightful--full of elegant and playful fancy, ease of +language, and delicacy of sentiment. Some passages in 'The Shepherd's +Hunting,' and in the 'Address to Poetry,' resemble the style of Milton +in his 'L'Allegro' and 'Penseroso.' His 'Christmas' catches the full +spirit of that joyous carnival of Christian England. Altogether, it is +refreshing to turn from the gnarled oak of Wither's struggling and +unhappy life, to the beautiful flowers, nodding over it, of his poesy. + + +FROM 'THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.' + +See'st thou not, in clearest days, +Oft thick fogs could heavens raise? +And the vapours that do breathe +From the earth's gross womb beneath, +Seem they not with their black steams +To pollute the sun's bright beams, +And yet vanish into air, +Leaving it unblemished, fair? +So, my Willy, shall it be +With Detraction's breath and thee: +It shall never rise so high +As to stain thy poesy. +As that sun doth oft exhale +Vapours from each rotten vale; +Poesy so sometimes drains +Gross conceits from muddy brains; +Mists of envy, fogs of spite, +'Twixt men's judgments and her light; +But so much her power may do +That she can dissolve them too. +If thy verse do bravely tower, +As she makes wing, she gets power! +Yet the higher she doth soar, +She's affronted still the more: +Till she to the high'st hath past, +Then she rests with Fame at last. +Let nought therefore thee affright, +But make forward in thy flight: +For if I could match thy rhyme, +To the very stars I'd climb; +There begin again, and fly +Till I reached eternity. +But, alas! my Muse is slow; +For thy pace she flags too low. +Yes, the more's her hapless fate, +Her short wings were clipped of late; +And poor I, her fortune ruing, +Am myself put up a-muing. +But if I my cage can rid, +I'll fly where I never did. +And though for her sake I'm cross'd, +Though my best hopes I have lost, +And knew she would make my trouble +Ten times more than ten times double; +I would love and keep her too, +Spite of all the world could do. +For though banished from my flocks, +And confined within these rocks, +Here I waste away the light, +And consume the sullen night; +She doth for my comfort stay, +And keeps many cares away. +Though I miss the flowery fields, +With those sweets the springtide yields; +Though I may not see those groves, +Where the shepherds chant their loves, +And the lasses more excel +Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; +Though of all those pleasures past, +Nothing now remains at last, +But remembrance, poor relief, +That more makes than mends my grief: +She's my mind's companion still, +Maugre Envy's evil will: +Whence she should be driven too, +Were 't in mortals' power to do. +She doth tell me where to borrow +Comfort in the midst of sorrow; +Makes the desolatest place +To her presence be a grace, +And the blackest discontents +Be her fairest ornaments. +In my former days of bliss, +His divine skill taught me this, +That from everything I saw, +I could some invention draw; +And raise pleasure to her height +Through the meanest object's sight: +By the murmur of a spring, +Or the least bough's rustling; +By a daisy, whose leaves spread, +Shut when Titan goes to bed; +Or a shady bush or tree, +She could more infuse in me, +Than all Nature's beauties can, +In some other wiser man. +By her help I also now +Make this churlish place allow +Some things that may sweeten gladness +In the very gall of sadness: +The dull loneness, the black shade +That these hanging vaults have made, +The strange music of the waves, +Beating on these hollow caves, +This black den, which rocks emboss, +Overgrown with eldest moss; +The rude portals, that give light +More to terror than delight, +This my chamber of neglect, +Walled about with disrespect, +From all these, and this dull air, +A fit object for despair, +She hath taught me by her might +To draw comfort and delight. + +Therefore, then, best earthly bliss, +I will cherish thee for this! +Poesy, thou sweet'st content +That e'er Heaven to mortals lent; +Though they as a trifle leave thee, +Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee, +Though thou be to them a scorn +That to nought but earth are born; +Let my life no longer be +Than I am in love with thee! +Though our wise ones call it madness, +Let me never taste of gladness +If I love not thy madd'st fits +Above all their greatest wits! +And though some, too seeming holy, +Do account thy raptures folly, +Thou dost teach me to contemn +What makes knaves and fools of them! + + +THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. + +1 Shall I, wasting in despair, + Die because a woman's fair? + Or make pale my cheeks with care, + 'Cause another's rosy are? + Be she fairer than the day, + Or the flowery meads in May; + If she be not so to me, + What care I how fair she be? + +2 Shall my foolish heart be pined, + 'Cause I see a woman kind? + Or a well-disposed nature + Joined with a lovely feature? + Be she meeker, kinder, than + The turtle-dove or pelican; + If she be not so to me, + What care I how kind she be? + +3 Shall a woman's virtues move + Me to perish for her love? + Or, her well-deservings known, + Make me quite forget mine own? + Be she with that goodness blest, + Which may merit name of Best; + If she be not such to me, + What care I how good she be? + +4 'Cause her fortune seems too high, + Shall I play the fool and die? + Those that bear a noble mind, + Where they want of riches find, + Think what with them they would do, + That without them dare to woo; + And, unless that mind I see, + What care I how great she be? + +5 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, + I will ne'er the more despair: + If she love me, this believe-- + I will die ere she shall grieve. + If she slight me when I woo, + I can scorn and let her go: + If she be not fit for me, + What care I for whom she be? + + +THE STEADFAST SHEPHERD. + +1 Hence away, thou Siren, leave me, + Pish! unclasp these wanton arms; + Sugared words can ne'er deceive me, + Though thou prove a thousand charms. + Fie, fie, forbear; + No common snare + Can ever my affection chain: + Thy painted baits, + And poor deceits, + Are all bestowed on me in vain. + +2 I'm no slave to such as you be; + Neither shall that snowy breast, + Rolling eye, and lip of ruby, + Ever rob me of my rest: + Go, go, display + Thy beauty's ray + To some more soon enamoured swain: + Those common wiles + Of sighs and smiles + Are all bestowed on me in vain. + +3 I have elsewhere vowed a duty; + Turn away thy tempting eye: + Show not me a painted beauty: + These impostures I defy: + My spirit loathes + Where gaudy clothes + And feigned oaths may love obtain: + I love her so, + Whose look swears No, + That all your labours will be vain. + +4 Can he prize the tainted posies + Which on every breast are worn, + That may pluck the virgin roses + From their never-touched thorn? + I can go rest + On her sweet breast + That is the pride of Cynthia's train: + Then stay thy tongue, + Thy mermaid song + Is all bestowed on me in vain. + +5 He's a fool that basely dallies, + Where each peasant mates with him: + Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, + Whilst there's noble hills to climb? + No, no, though clowns + Are scared with frowns, + I know the best can but disdain; + And those I'll prove: + So will thy love + Be all bestowed on me in vain. + +6 I do scorn to vow a duty + Where each lustful lad may woo; + Give me her whose sun-like beauty + Buzzards dare not soar unto: + She, she it is + Affords that bliss + For which I would refuse no pain: + But such as you, + Fond fools, adieu! + You seek to captive me in vain. + +7 Leave me then, you Siren, leave me: + Seek no more to work my harms: + Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, + Who am proof against your charms: + You labour may + To lead astray + The heart that constant shall remain; + And I the while + Will sit and smile + To see you spend your time in vain. + + +THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING. + + ARGUMENT. + + Cuddy tells how all the swains + Pity Roget on the plains; + Who, requested, doth relate + The true cause of his estate; + Which broke off, because 'twas long, + They begin a three-man song. + + WILLY. CUDDY. ROGET. + +WILLY. + +Roget, thy old friend Cuddy here, and I, +Are come to visit thee in these thy bands, +Whilst both our flocks in an enclosure by +Do pick the thin grass from the fallowed lands. +He tells me thy restraint of liberty, +Each one throughout the country understands: + And there is not a gentle-natured lad, + On all these downs, but for thy sake is sad. + +CUDDY. + +Not thy acquaintance and thy friends alone +Pity thy close restraint, as friends should do: +But some that have but seen thee for thee moan: +Yea, many that did never see thee too. +Some deem thee in a fault, and most in none; +So divers ways do divers rumours go: + And at all meetings where our shepherds be, + Now the main news that's extant is of thee. + +ROGET. + +Why, this is somewhat yet: had I but kept +Sheep on the mountains till the day of doom, +My name should in obscurity have slept, +In brakes, in briars, shrubbed furze and broom. +Into the world's wide care it had not crept, +Nor in so many men's thoughts found a room: + But what cause of my sufferings do they know? + Good Cuddy, tell me how doth rumour go? + +CUDDY. + +Faith, 'tis uncertain; some speak this, some that: +Some dare say nought, yet seem to think a cause, +And many a one, prating he knows not what, +Comes out with proverbs and old ancient saws, +As if he thought thee guiltless, and yet not: +Then doth he speak half-sentences, then pause: + That what the most would say, we may suppose: + But what to say, the rumour is, none knows. + +ROGET. + +Nor care I greatly, for it skills not much +What the unsteady common-people deems; +His conscience doth not always feel least touch, +That blameless in the sight of others seems: +My cause is honest, and because 'tis such +I hold it so, and not for men's esteems: + If they speak justly well of me, I'm glad; + If falsely evil, it ne'er makes me sad. + +WILLY. + +I like that mind; but, Roget, you are quite +Beside the matter that I long to hear: +Remember what you promised yesternight, +You'd put us off with other talk, I fear; +Thou know'st that honest Cuddy's heart's upright, +And none but he, except myself, is near: + Come therefore, and betwixt us two relate, + The true occasion of thy present state. + +ROGET. + +My friends, I will; you know I am a swain, +That keep a poor flock here upon this plain: +Who, though it seems I could do nothing less, +Can make a song, and woo a shepherdess; +And not alone the fairest where I live +Have heard me sing, and favours deigned to give; +But though I say't, the noblest nymph of Thame, +Hath graced my verse unto my greater fame. +Yet being young, and not much seeking praise, +I was not noted out for shepherds' lays, +Nor feeding flocks, as you know others be: +For the delight that most possessed me +Was hunting foxes, wolves, and beasts of prey; +That spoil our folds, and bear our lambs away. +For this, as also for the love I bear +Unto my country, I laid by all care +Of gain, or of preferment, with desire +Only to keep that state I had entire, +And like a true-grown huntsman sought to speed +Myself with hounds of rare and choicest breed, +Whose names and natures ere I further go, +Because you are my friends, I'll let you know. +My first esteemed dog that I did find, +Was by descent of old Actaeon's kind; +A brach, which if I do not aim amiss, +For all the world is just like one of his: +She's named Love, and scarce yet knows her duty; +Her dam's my lady's pretty beagle Beauty, +I bred her up myself with wondrous charge, +Until she grew to be exceeding large, +And waxed so wanton that I did abhor it, +And put her out amongst my neighbours for it. +The next is Lust, a hound that's kept abroad, +'Mongst some of mine acquaintance, but a toad +Is not more loathsome: 'tis a cur will range +Extremely, and is ever full of mange; +And 'cause it is infectious, she's not wont +To come among the rest, but when they hunt. +Hate is the third, a hound both deep and long. +His sire is true or else supposed Wrong. +He'll have a snap at all that pass him by, +And yet pursues his game most eagerly. +With him goes Envy coupled, a lean cur, +And she'll hold out, hunt we ne'er so far: +She pineth much, and feedeth little too, +Yet stands and snarleth at the rest that do. +Then there's Revenge, a wondrous deep-mouthed dog, +So fleet, I'm fain to hunt him with a clog, +Yet many times he'll much outstrip his bounds, +And hunts not closely with the other hounds: +He'll venture on a lion in his ire; +Curst Choler was his dam, and Wrong his sire. +This Choler is a brach that's very old, +And spends her mouth too much to have it hold: +She's very testy, an unpleasing cur, +That bites the very stones, if they but stur: +Or when that ought but her displeasure moves, +She'll bite and snap at any one she loves: +But my quick-scented'st dog is Jealousy, +The truest of this breed's in Italy: +The dam of mine would hardly fill a glove, +It was a lady's little dog, called Love: +The sire, a poor deformed cur, named Fear, +As shagged and as rough as is a bear: +And yet the whelp turned after neither kind, +For he is very large, and near-hand blind; +At the first sight he hath a pretty colour, +But doth not seem so, when you view him fuller; +A vile suspicious beast, his looks are bad, +And I do fear in time he will grow mad. +To him I couple Avarice, still poor; +Yet she devours as much as twenty more: +A thousand horse she in her paunch can put, +Yet whine as if she had an empty gut: +And having gorged what might a land have found, +She'll catch for more, and hide it in the ground. +Ambition is a hound as greedy full; +But he for all the daintiest bits doth cull: +He scorns to lick up crumbs beneath the table, +He'll fetch 't from boards and shelves, if he be able: +Nay, he can climb if need be; and for that, +With him I hunt the martin and the cat: +And yet sometimes in mounting he's so quick, +He fetches falls are like to break his neck. +Fear is well-mouth'd, but subject to distrust; +A stranger cannot make him take a crust: +A little thing will soon his courage quail, +And 'twixt his legs he ever claps his tail; +With him Despair now often coupled goes, +Which by his roaring mouth each huntsman knows. +None hath a better mind unto the game, +But he gives off, and always seemeth lame. +My bloodhound Cruelty, as swift as wind, +Hunts to the death, and never comes behind; +Who but she's strapp'd and muzzled too withal, +Would eat her fellows, and the prey and all; +And yet she cares not much for any food, +Unless it be the purest harmless blood. +All these are kept abroad at charge of many, +They do not cost me in a year a penny. +But there's two couple of a middling size, +That seldom pass the sight of my own eyes. +Hope, on whose head I've laid my life to pawn; +Compassion, that on every one will fawn. +This would, when 'twas a whelp, with rabbits play +Or lambs, and let them go unhurt away: +Nay, now she is of growth, she'll now and then +Catch you a hare, and let her go again. +The two last, Joy and Sorrow, 'tis a wonder, +Can ne'er agree, nor ne'er bide far asunder. +Joy's ever wanton, and no order knows: +She'll run at larks, or stand and bark at crows. +Sorrow goes by her, and ne'er moves his eye; +Yet both do serve to help make up the cry. +Then comes behind all these to bear the base, +Two couple more of a far larger race, +Such wide-mouth'd trollops, that 'twould do you good +To hear their loud loud echoes tear the wood. +There's Vanity, who, by her gaudy hide, +May far away from all the rest be spied, +Though huge, yet quick, for she's now here, now there; +Nay, look about you, and she's everywhere: +Yet ever with the rest, and still in chase. +Right so, Inconstancy fills every place; +And yet so strange a fickle-natured hound, +Look for her, and she's nowhere to be found. +Weakness is no fair dog unto the eye, +And yet she hath her proper quality; +But there's Presumption, when he heat hath got, +He drowns the thunder and the cannon-shot: +And when at start he his full roaring makes, +The earth doth tremble, and the heaven shakes. +These were my dogs, ten couple just in all, +Whom by the name of Satyrs I do call: +Mad curs they be, and I can ne'er come nigh them, +But I'm in danger to be bitten by them. +Much pains I took, and spent days not a few, +To make them keep together, and hunt true: +Which yet I do suppose had never been, +But that I had a scourge to keep them in. +Now when that I this kennel first had got, +Out of my own demesnes I hunted not, +Save on these downs, or among yonder rocks, +After those beasts that spoiled our parish flocks; +Nor during that time was I ever wont +With all my kennel in one day to hunt: +Nor had done yet, but that this other year, +Some beasts of prey, that haunt the deserts here, +Did not alone for many nights together +Devour, sometime a lamb, sometime a wether, +And so disquiet many a poor man's herd, +But that of losing all they were afeard: +Yea, I among the rest did fare as bad, +Or rather worse, for the best ewes[1] I had +(Whose breed should be my means of life and gain) +Were in one evening by these monsters slain: +Which mischief I resolved to repay, +Or else grow desperate, and hunt all away; +For in a fury (such as you shall see +Huntsmen in missing of their sport will be) +I vowed a monster should not lurk about, +In all this province, but I'd find him out, +And thereupon, without respect or care, +How lame, how full, or how unfit they were, +In haste unkennell'd all my roaring crew, +Who were as mad as if my mind they knew, +And ere they trail'd a flight-shot, the fierce curs +Had roused a hart, and thorough brakes and furs +Follow'd at gaze so close, that Love and Fear +Got in together, so had surely there +Quite overthrown him, but that Hope thrust in +'Twixt both, and saved the pinching of his skin, +Whereby he 'scaped, till coursing o'erthwart, +Despair came in, and griped him to the heart: +I hallowed in the res'due to the fall, +And for an entrance, there I fleshed them all: +Which having done, I dipped my staff in blood, +And onward led my thunder to the wood; +Where what they did, I'll tell you out anon, +My keeper calls me, and I must be gone. +Go if you please a while, attend your flocks, +And when the sun is over yonder rocks, +Come to this cave again, where I will be, +If that my guardian so much favour me. +Yet if you please, let us three sing a strain, +Before you turn your sheep into the plain. + +WILLY. + +I am content. + +CUDDY. + + As well content am I. + +ROGET. + +Then, Will, begin, and we'll the rest supply. + + +SONG. + +WILLY. + + Shepherd, would these gates were ope, + Thou might'st take with us thy fortune. + +ROGET. + + No, I'll make this narrow scope, + Since my fate doth so importune + Means unto a wider hope. + +CUDDY. + + Would thy shepherdess were here, + Who belov'd, loves thee so dearly! + +ROGET. + + Not for both your flocks, I swear, + And the gain they yield you yearly, + Would I so much wrong my dear. + Yet to me, nor to this place, + Would she now be long a stranger; + She would hold it no disgrace, + (If she feared not more my danger,) + Where I am to show her face. + +WILLY. + + Shepherd, we would wish no harms, + But something that might content thee. + +ROGET. + + Wish me then within her arms, + And that wish will ne'er repent me, + If your wishes might prove charms. + +WILLY. + + Be thy prison her embrace, + Be thy air her sweetest breathing. + +CUDDY. + + Be thy prospect her fair face, + For each look a kiss bequeathing, + And appoint thyself the place. + +ROGET. + + Nay pray, hold there, for I should scantly then + Come meet you here this afternoon again: + But fare you well, since wishes have no power, + Let us depart, and keep the 'pointed hour. + +[1] 'Ewes:' hopes. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT, + + +The author of 'Gondibert,' was the son of a vintner in Oxford, and born +in February 1605. Gossip says--but says with her usual carelessness about +truth--that he was the son of no less a person than William Shakspeare, +who used, in his journeys between London and Stratford, to stop at the +Crown, an inn kept by Davenant's reputed father. This story is hinted at +by Wood, was told to Pope by Betterton the player, and believed by Malone, +but seems to be a piece of mere scandal. It is true that Davenant had a +great veneration for Shakspeare, and expressed it, when only ten years +old, in lines 'In remembrance of Master William Shakspeare,' beginning +thus:-- + + 'Beware, delighted poets, when you sing, + To welcome nature in the early spring, + Your numerous feet not tread + The banks of Avon, for each flower + (As it ne'er knew a sun or shower) + Hangs there the pensive head.' + +Southey says--'The father was a man of melancholy temperament, the mother +handsome and lively; and as Shakspeare used to put up at the house on his +journeys between Stratford and London, Davenant is said to have affected +the reputation of being Shakspeare's son. If he really did this, there +was a levity, or rather a want of feeling, in the boast, for which social +pleasantry, and the spirits which are induced by wine, afford but little +excuse.' + +He was entered at Lincoln College; he next became page to the Duchess of +Richmond; and we find him afterwards in the family of Fulk Greville, Lord +Brooke--famous as the friend of Sir Philip Sidney. He began to write for +the stage in 1628; and on the death of Ben Jonson he was made Poet Laureate +--to the disappointment of Thomas May, so much praised by Johnson and +others for his proficiency in Latin poetry, as displayed in his supplement +to Lucan's 'Pharsalia.' He became afterwards manager of Drury Lane; but +owing to his connexion with the intrigues of that unhappy period, he was +imprisoned in the Tower, and subsequently made his escape to France. On his +return to England, he distinguished himself greatly in the Royal cause; and +when that became desperate, he again took refuge in France, and wrote part +of his 'Gondibert.' He projected a scheme for carrying over a colony to +Virginia; but his vessel was seized by one of the Parliamentary ships--he +himself was conveyed a prisoner to Cowes Castle, in the Isle of Wight, and +thence to the Tower, preparatory to being tried by the High Commission. But +a giant hand, worthy of having saved him had he been Shakspeare's veritable +son, was now stretched forth to his rescue--the hand of Milton. In this +generous act Milton was seconded by Whitelocke, and by two aldermen of +York, to whom our poet had rendered some services. Liberated from the +Tower, Davenant was also permitted, through the influence of Whitelocke, +to open, in defiance of Puritanic prohibition, a kind of theatre at Rutland +House, and by enacting his own plays there, he managed to support himself +till the Restoration. He then, it is supposed, repaid to Milton his +friendly service, and shielded him from the wrath of the Court. From this +period Davenant continued to write for the stage--having received the +patent of the Duke's Theatre, in Lincoln's Inn--till his death. This event +took place on April 7, 1668. His last play, written in conjunction with +Dryden, was an alteration and pollution of Shakspeare's 'Tempest,' which +was more worthy of Trincula than of the authors of 'Absalom and Ahithophel' +and of 'Gondibert.' Supposing Davenant the son of Shakspeare, his act to +his father's masterpiece reminds us, in the excess of its filial impiety, +of Ham's conduct to Noah. + +'Gondibert' is a large and able, without being a great poem. It has the +incurable and indefensible defect of dulness. 'The line labours, and the +words move slow.' The story is interesting of itself, but is lost in the +labyrinthine details. It has many lines, and some highly and successfully +wrought passages; but as a whole we may say of it as Porson said of +certain better productions, 'It will be read when the works of Homer and +Virgil are forgotten--but _not till then_.' + + +FROM 'GONDIBERT'--CANTO II. + +THE ARGUMENT. + +The hunting which did yearly celebrate +The Lombards' glory, and the Vandals' fate: +The hunters praised; how true to love they are, +How calm in peace and tempest-like in war. +The stag is by the numerous chase subdued, +And straight his hunters are as hard pursued. + +1 Small are the seeds Fate does unheeded sow + Of slight beginnings to important ends; + Whilst wonder, which does best our reverence show + To Heaven, all reason's sight in gazing spends. + +2 For from a day's brief pleasure did proceed, + A day grown black in Lombard histories, + Such lasting griefs as thou shalt weep to read, + Though even thine own sad love had drained thine eyes. + +3 In a fair forest, near Verona's plain, + Fresh as if Nature's youth chose there a shade, + The Duke, with many lovers in his train, + Loyal and young, a solemn hunting made. + +4 Much was his train enlarged by their resort + Who much his grandsire loved, and hither came + To celebrate this day with annual sport, + On which by battle here he earned his fame, + +5 And many of these noble hunters bore + Command amongst the youth at Bergamo; + Whose fathers gathered here the wreaths they wore, + When in this forest they interred the foe. + +6 Count Hurgonil, a youth of high descent, + Was listed here, and in the story great; + He followed honour, when towards death it went; + Fierce in a charge, but temperate in retreat. + +7 His wondrous beauty, which the world approved, + He blushing hid, and now no more would own + (Since he the Duke's unequalled sister loved) + Than an old wreath when newly overthrown. + +8 And she, Orna the shy! did seem in life + So bashful too, to have her beauty shown, + As I may doubt her shade with Fame at strife, + That in these vicious times would make it known. + +9 Not less in public voice was Arnold here; + He that on Tuscan tombs his trophies raised; + And now Love's power so willingly did bear, + That even his arbitrary reign he praised. + +10 Laura, the Duke's fair niece, enthralled his heart, + Who was in court the public morning glass, + Where those, who would reduce nature to art, + Practised by dress the conquests of the face. + +11 And here was Hugo, whom Duke Gondibert + For stout and steadfast kindness did approve; + Of stature small, but was all over heart, + And, though unhappy, all that heart was love. + +12 In gentle sonnets he for Laura pined, + Soft as the murmurs of a weeping spring, + Which ruthless she did as those murmurs mind: + So, ere their death, sick swans unheeded sing. + +13 Yet, whilst she Arnold favoured, he so grieved, + As loyal subjects quietly bemoan + Their yoke, but raise no war to be relieved, + Nor through the envied fav'rite wound the throne. + +14 Young Goltho next these rivals we may name, + Whose manhood dawned early as summer light; + As sure and soon did his fair day proclaim, + And was no less the joy of public sight. + +15 If love's just power he did not early see, + Some small excuse we may his error give; + Since few, though learn'd, know yet blest love to be + That secret vital heat by which we live: + +16 But such it is; and though we may be thought + To have in childhood life, ere love we know, + Yet life is useless till by reason taught, + And love and reason up together grow. + +17 Nor more the old show they outlive their love, + If, when their love's decayed, some signs they give + Of life, because we see them pained and move, + Than snakes, long cut, by torment show they live. + +18 If we call living, life, when love is gone, + We then to souls, God's coin, vain reverence pay; + Since reason, which is love, and his best known + And current image, age has worn away. + +19 And I, that love and reason thus unite, + May, if I old philosophers control, + Confirm the new by some new poet's light, + Who, finding love, thinks he has found the soul. + +20 From Goltho, to whom love yet tasteless seemed, + We to ripe Tybalt are by order led; + Tybalt, who love and valour both esteemed, + And he alike from either's wounds had bled. + +21 Public his valour was, but not his love, + One filled the world, the other he contained; + Yet quietly alike in both did move, + Of that ne'er boasted, nor of this complained. + +22 With these, whose special names verse shall preserve, + Many to this recorded hunting came; + Whose worth authentic mention did deserve, + But from Time's deluge few are saved by Fame. + +23 New like a giant lover rose the sun + From the ocean queen, fine in his fires and great; + Seemed all the morn for show, for strength at noon, + As if last night she had not quenched his heat. + +24 And the sun's servants, who his rising wait, + His pensioners, for so all lovers are, + And all maintained by him at a high rate + With daily fire, now for the chase prepare. + +25 All were, like hunters, clad in cheerful green, + Young Nature's livery, and each at strife + Who most adorned in favours should be seen, + Wrought kindly by the lady of his life. + +26 These martial favours on their waists they wear, + On which, for now they conquest celebrate, + In an embroidered history appear + Like life, the vanquished in their fears and fate. + +27 And on these belts, wrought with their ladies' care, + Hung cimeters of Akon's trusty steel; + Goodly to see, and he who durst compare + Those ladies' eyes, might soon their temper feel. + +28 Cheered as the woods, where new-waked choirs they meet, + Are all; and now dispose their choice relays + Of horse and hounds, each like each other fleet; + Which best, when with themselves compared, we praise. + +29 To them old forest spies, the harbourers, + With haste approach, wet as still weeping night, + Or deer that mourn their growth of head with tears, + When the defenceless weight does hinder flight. + +30 And dogs, such whose cold secrecy was meant + By Nature for surprise, on these attend; + Wise, temperate lime-hounds that proclaim no scent, + Nor harb'ring will their mouths in boasting spend. + +31 Yet vainlier far than traitors boast their prize, + On which their vehemence vast rates does lay, + Since in that worth their treason's credit lies, + These harb'rers praise that which they now betray. + +32 Boast they have lodged a stag, that all the race + Outruns of Croton horse, or Rhegian hounds; + A stag made long since royal in the chase, + If kings can honour give by giving wounds. + +33 For Aribert had pierced him at a bay, + Yet 'scaped he by the vigour of his head; + And many a summer since has won the day, + And often left his Rhegian followers dead. + +34 His spacious beam, that even the rights outgrew, + From antler to his troch had all allowed, + By which his age the aged woodmen knew, + Who more than he were of that beauty proud. + +35 Now each relay a several station finds, + Ere the triumphant train the copse surrounds; + Relays of horse, long breathed as winter winds, + And their deep cannon-mouthed experienced hounds. + +36 The huntsmen, busily concerned in show, + As if the world were by this beast undone, + And they against him hired as Nature's foe, + In haste uncouple, and their hounds outrun. + +37 Now wind they a recheat, the roused deer's knell, + And through the forest all the beasts are awed; + Alarmed by Echo, Nature's sentinel, + Which shows that murderous man is come abroad. + +38 Tyrannic man! thy subjects' enemy! + And more through wantonness than need or hate, + From whom the winged to their coverts fly, + And to their dens even those that lay in wait. + +39 So this, the most successful of his kind, + Whose forehead's force oft his opposers pressed, + Whose swiftness left pursuers' shafts behind, + Is now of all the forest most distressed! + +40 The herd deny him shelter, as if taught + To know their safety is to yield him lost; + Which shows they want not the results of thought, + But speech, by which we ours for reason boast. + +41 We blush to see our politics in beasts, + Who many saved by this one sacrifice; + And since through blood they follow interests, + Like us when cruel should be counted wise. + +42 His rivals, that his fury used to fear + For his loved female, now his faintness shun; + But were his season hot, and she but near, + (O mighty love!) his hunters were undone. + +43 From thence, well blown, he comes to the relay, + Where man's famed reason proves but cowardice, + And only serves him meanly to betray; + Even for the flying, man in ambush lies. + +44 But now, as his last remedy to live, + (For every shift for life kind Nature makes, + Since life the utmost is which she can give,) + Cool Adice from the swoln bank he takes. + +45 But this fresh bath the dogs will make him leave, + Whom he sure-nosed as fasting tigers found; + Their scent no north-east wind could e'er deceive + Which drives the air, nor flocks that soil the ground. + +46 Swift here the fliers and pursuers seem; + The frighted fish swim from their Adice, + The dogs pursue the deer, he the fleet stream, + And that hastes too to the Adriatic sea. + +47 Refreshed thus in this fleeting element, + He up the steadfast shore did boldly rise; + And soon escaped their view, but not their scent, + That faithful guide, which even conducts their eyes. + +48 This frail relief was like short gales of breath, + Which oft at sea a long dead calm prepare; + Or like our curtains drawn at point of death, + When all our lungs are spent, to give us air. + +49 For on the shore the hunters him attend: + And whilst the chase grew warm as is the day, + (Which now from the hot zenith does descend,) + He is embossed, and wearied to a bay. + +50 The jewel, life, he must surrender here, + Which the world's mistress, Nature, does not give, + But like dropped favours suffers us to wear, + Such as by which pleased lovers think they live. + +51 Yet life he so esteems, that he allows + It all defence his force and rage can make; + And to the eager dogs such fury shows, + As their last blood some unrevenged forsake. + +52 But now the monarch murderer comes in, + Destructive man! whom Nature would not arm, + As when in madness mischief is foreseen, + We leave it weaponless for fear of harm. + +53 For she defenceless made him, that he might + Less readily offend; but art arms all, + From single strife makes us in numbers fight; + And by such art this royal stag did fall. + +54 He weeps till grief does even his murderers pierce; + Grief which so nobly through his anger strove, + That it deserved the dignity of verse, + And had it words, as humanly would move. + +55 Thrice from the ground his vanquished head he reared, + And with last looks his forest walks did view; + Where sixty summers he had ruled the herd, + And where sharp dittany now vainly grew: + +56 Whose hoary leaves no more his wounds shall heal; + For with a sigh (a blast of all his breath) + That viewless thing, called life, did from him steal, + And with their bugle-horns they wind his death. + +57 Then with their annual wanton sacrifice, + Taught by old custom, whose decrees are vain, + And we, like humorous antiquaries, that prize + Age, though deformed, they hasten to the plain. + +58 Thence homeward bend as westward as the sun, + Where Gondibert's allies proud feasts prepare, + That day to honour which his grandsire won; + Though feasts the eyes to funerals often are. + +59 One from the forest now approached their sight, + Who them did swiftly on the spur pursue; + One there still resident as day and night, + And known as the eldest oak which in it grew: + +60 Who, with his utmost breath advancing, cries, + (And such a vehemence no heart could feign,) + 'Away! happy the man that fastest flies! + Fly, famous Duke! fly with thy noble train!' + +61 The Duke replied: 'Though with thy fears disguised, + Thou dost my sire's old ranger's image bear, + And for thy kindness shalt not be despised; + Though counsels are but weak which come from fear. + +62 'Were dangers here, great as thy love can shape, + And love with fear can danger multiply, + Yet when by flight thou bidst us meanly 'scape, + Bid trees take wings, and rooted forests fly.' + +63 Then said the ranger: 'You are bravely lost!' + (And like high anger his complexion rose.) + 'As little know I fear as how to boast; + But shall attend you through your many foes. + +64 'See where in ambush mighty Oswald lay! + And see, from yonder lawn he moves apace, + With lances armed to intercept thy way, + Now thy sure steeds are wearied with the chase. + +65 'His purple banners you may there behold, + Which, proudly spread, the fatal raven bear; + And full five hundred I by rank have told, + Who in their gilded helms his colours wear.' + +66 The Duke this falling storm does now discern; + Bids little Hugo fly! but 'tis to view + The foe, and timely their first count'nance learn, + Whilst firm he in a square his hunters drew. + +67 And Hugo soon, light as his courser's heels, + Was in their faces troublesome as wind; + And like to it so wingedly he wheels, + No one could catch, what all with trouble find. + +68 But everywhere the leaders and the led + He temperately observed with a slow sight; + Judged by their looks how hopes and fears were fed, + And by their order their success in fight. + +69 Their number, 'mounting to the ranger's guess, + In three divisions evenly was disposed; + And that their enemies might judge it less, + It seemed one gross with all the spaces closed. + +70 The van fierce Oswald led, where Paradine + And manly Dargonet, both of his blood, + Outshined the noon, and their minds' stock within + Promised to make that outward glory good. + +71 The next, bold, but unlucky Hubert led, + Brother to Oswald, and no less allied + To the ambitions which his soul did wed; + Lowly without, but lined with costly pride. + +72 Most to himself his valour fatal was, + Whose glories oft to others dreadful were; + So comets, though supposed destruction's cause, + But waste themselves to make their gazers fear. + +73 And though his valour seldom did succeed, + His speech was such as could in storms persuade; + Sweet as the hopes on which starved lovers feed, + Breathed in the whispers of a yielding maid. + +74 The bloody Borgio did conduct the rear, + Whom sullen Vasco heedfully attends; + To all but to themselves they cruel were, + And to themselves chiefly by mischief friends. + +75 War, the world's art, nature to them became; + In camps begot, born, and in anger bred; + The living vexed till death, and then their fame, + Because even fame some life is to the dead. + +76 Cities, wise statesmen's folds for civil sheep, + They sacked, as painful shearers of the wise; + For they like careful wolves would lose their sleep, + When others' prosperous toils might be their prize. + +77 Hugo amongst these troops spied many more, + Who had, as brave destroyers, got renown; + And many forward wounds in boast they wore, + Which, if not well revenged, had ne'er been shown. + +78 Such the bold leaders of these lancers were, + Which of the Brescian veterans did consist; + Whose practised age might charge of armies bear, + And claim some rank in Fame's eternal list. + +79 Back to his Duke the dexterous Hugo flies, + What he observed he cheerfully declares; + With noble pride did what he liked despise; + For wounds he threatened whilst he praised their scars. + +80 Lord Arnold cried, 'Vain is the bugle-horn, + Where trumpets men to manly work invite! + That distant summons seems to say, in scorn, + We hunters may be hunted hard ere night.' + +81 'Those beasts are hunted hard that hard can fly,' + Replied aloud the noble Hurgonil; + 'But we, not used to flight, know best to die; + And those who know to die, know how to kill. + +82 'Victors through number never gained applause; + If they exceed our count in arms and men, + It is not just to think that odds, because + One lover equals any other ten.' + + +FROM 'GONDIBERT'--CANTO IV. + +1 The King, who never time nor power misspent + In subject's bashfulness, whiling great deeds + Like coward councils, who too late consent, + Thus to his secret will aloud proceeds: + +2 'If to thy fame, brave youth, I could add wings, + Or make her trumpet louder by my voice, + I would, as an example drawn for kings, + Proclaim the cause why thou art now my choice. + + * * * * * + +3 'For she is yours, as your adoption free; + And in that gift my remnant life I give; + But 'tis to you, brave youth! who now are she; + And she that heaven where secondly I live. + +4 'And richer than that crown, which shall be thine + When life's long progress I have gone with fame, + Take all her love; which scarce forbears to shine, + And own thee, through her virgin curtain, shame.' + +5 Thus spake the king; and Rhodalind appeared + Through published love, with so much bashfulness, + As young kings show, when by surprise o'erheard, + Moaning to favourite ears a deep distress. + +6 For love is a distress, and would be hid + Like monarchs' griefs, by which they bashful grow; + And in that shame beholders they forbid; + Since those blush most, who most their blushes show. + +7 And Gondibert, with dying eyes, did grieve + At her vailed love, a wound he cannot heal, + As great minds mourn, who cannot then relieve + The virtuous, when through shame they want conceal. + +8 And now cold Birtha's rosy looks decay; + Who in fear's frost had like her beauty died, + But that attendant hope persuades her stay + A while, to hear her Duke; who thus replied: + +9 'Victorious King! abroad your subjects are, + Like legates, safe; at home like altars free! + Even by your fame they conquer, as by war; + And by your laws safe from each other be. + +10 'A king you are o'er subjects so, as wise + And noble husbands seem o'er loyal wives; + Who claim not, yet confess their liberties, + And brag to strangers of their happy lives. + +11 'To foes a winter storm; whilst your friends bow, + Like summer trees, beneath your bounty's load; + To me, next him whom your great self, with low + And cheerful duty, serves, a giving God. + +12 'Since this is you, and Rhodalind, the light + By which her sex fled virtue find, is yours, + Your diamond, which tests of jealous sight, + The stroke, and fire, and Oisel's juice endures; + +13 'Since she so precious is, I shall appear + All counterfeit, of art's disguises made; + And never dare approach her lustre near, + Who scarce can hold my value in the shade. + +14 'Forgive me that I am not what I seem; + But falsely have dissembled an excess + Of all such virtues as you most esteem; + But now grow good but as I ills confess. + +15 'Far in ambition's fever am I gone! + Like raging flame aspiring is my love; + Like flame destructive too, and, like the sun, + Does round the world tow'rds change of objects move. + +16 'Nor is this now through virtuous shame confessed; + But Rhodalind does force my conjured fear, + As men whom evil spirits have possessed, + Tell all when saintly votaries appear. + +17 'When she will grace the bridal dignity, + It will be soon to all young monarchs known; + Who then by posting through the world will try + Who first can at her feet present his crown. + +18 'Then will Verona seem the inn of kings, + And Rhodalind shall at her palace gate + Smile, when great love these royal suitors brings; + Who for that smile would as for empire wait. + +19 'Amongst this ruling race she choice may take + For warmth of valour, coolness of the mind, + Eyes that in empire's drowsy calms can wake, + In storms look out, in darkness dangers find; + +20 'A prince who more enlarges power than lands, + Whose greatness is not what his map contains; + But thinks that his where he at full commands, + Not where his coin does pass, but power remains. + +21 'Who knows that power can never be too high; + When by the good possessed, for 'tis in them + The swelling Nile, from which though people fly, + They prosper most by rising of the stream. + +22 'Thus, princes, you should choose; and you will find, + Even he, since men are wolves, must civilise, + As light does tame some beasts of savage kind, + Himself yet more, by dwelling in your eyes.' + +23 Such was the Duke's reply; which did produce + Thoughts of a diverse shape through several ears: + His jealous rivals mourn at his excuse; + But Astragon it cures of all his fears, + +24 Birtha his praise of Rhodalind bewails; + And now her hope a weak physician seems; + For hope, the common comforter, prevails + Like common medicines, slowly in extremes. + +25 The King (secure in offered empire) takes + This forced excuse as troubled bashfulness, + And a disguise which sudden passion makes, + To hide more joy than prudence should express. + +26 And Rhodalind, who never loved before, + Nor could suspect his love was given away, + Thought not the treasure of his breast so poor, + But that it might his debts of honour pay. + +27 To hasten the rewards of his desert, + The King does to Verona him command; + And, kindness so imposed, not all his art + Can now instruct his duty to withstand. + +28 Yet whilst the King does now his time dispose + In seeing wonders, in this palace shown, + He would a parting kindness pay to those + Who of their wounds are yet not perfect grown. + +29 And by this fair pretence, whilst on the King + Lord Astragon through all the house attends, + Young Orgo does the Duke to Birtha bring, + Who thus her sorrows to his bosom sends: + +30 'Why should my storm your life's calm voyage vex? + Destroying wholly virtue's race in one: + So by the first of my unlucky sex, + All in a single ruin were undone. + +31 'Make heavenly Rhodalind your bride! whilst I, + Your once loved maid, excuse you, since I know + That virtuous men forsake so willingly + Long-cherished life, because to heaven they go. + +32 'Let me her servant be: a dignity, + Which if your pity in my fall procures, + I still shall value the advancement high, + Not as the crown is hers, but she is yours.' + +33 Ere this high sorrow up to dying grew, + The Duke the casket opened, and from thence, + Formed like a heart, a cheerful emerald drew; + Cheerful, as if the lively stone had sense. + +34 The thirtieth caract it had doubled twice; + Not taken from the Attic silver mine, + Nor from the brass, though such, of nobler price, + Did on the necks of Parthian ladies shine: + +35 Nor yet of those which make the Ethiop proud; + Nor taken from those rocks where Bactrians climb: + But from the Scythian, and without a cloud; + Not sick at fire, nor languishing with time. + +36 Then thus he spake: 'This, Birtha, from my male + Progenitors, was to the loyal she + On whose kind heart they did in love prevail, + The nuptial pledge, and this I give to thee: + +37 'Seven centuries have passed, since it from bride + To bride did first succeed; and though 'tis known + From ancient lore, that gems much virtue hide, + And that the emerald is the bridal stone: + +38 'Though much renowned because it chastens loves, + And will, when worn by the neglected wife, + Show when her absent lord disloyal proves, + By faintness, and a pale decay of life. + +39 'Though emeralds serve as spies to jealous brides, + Yet each compared to this does counsel keep; + Like a false stone, the husband's falsehood hides, + Or seems born blind, or feigns a dying sleep. + +40 'With this take Orgo, as a better spy, + Who may in all your kinder fears be sent + To watch at court, if I deserve to die + By making this to fade, and you lament.' + +41 Had now an artful pencil Birtha drawn, + With grief all dark, then straight with joy all light, + He must have fancied first, in early dawn, + A sudden break of beauty out of night. + +42 Or first he must have marked what paleness fear, + Like nipping frost, did to her visage bring; + Then think he sees, in a cold backward year, + A rosy morn begin a sudden spring. + +43 Her joys, too vast to be contained in speech, + Thus she a little spake: 'Why stoop you down, + My plighted lord, to lowly Birtha's reach, + Since Rhodalind would lift you to a crown? + +44 'Or why do I, when I this plight embrace, + Boldly aspire to take what you have given? + But that your virtue has with angels place, + And 'tis a virtue to aspire to heaven. + +45 'And as towards heaven all travel on their knees, + So I towards you, though love aspire, will move: + And were you crowned, what could you better please + Then awed obedience led by bolder love? + +46 'If I forget the depth from whence I rise, + Far from your bosom banished be my heart; + Or claim a right by beauty to your eyes; + Or proudly think my chastity desert. + +47 'But thus ascending from your humble maid + To be your plighted bride, and then your wife, + Will be a debt that shall be hourly paid, + Till time my duty cancel with my life. + +48 'And fruitfully, if heaven e'er make me bring + Your image to the world, you then my pride + No more shall blame than you can tax the spring + For boasting of those flowers she cannot hide. + +49 'Orgo I so receive as I am taught + By duty to esteem whate'er you love; + And hope the joy he in this jewel brought + Will luckier than his former triumphs prove. + +50 'For though but twice he has approached my sight, + He twice made haste to drown me in my tears: + But now I am above his planet's spite, + And as for sin beg pardon for my fears.' + +51 Thus spake she: and with fixed, continued sight + The Duke did all her bashful beauties view; + Then they with kisses sealed their sacred plight, + Like flowers, still sweeter as they thicker grew. + +52 Yet must these pleasures feel, though innocent, + The sickness of extremes, and cannot last; + For power, love's shunned impediment, has sent + To tell the Duke his monarch is in haste: + +53 And calls him to that triumph which he fears + So as a saint forgiven, whose breast does all + Heaven's joys contain, wisely loved pomp forbears, + Lest tempted nature should from blessings fall. + +54 He often takes his leave, with love's delay, + And bids her hope he with the King shall find, + By now appearing forward to obey, + A means to serve him less in Rhodalind. + +55 She weeping to her closet window hies, + Where she with tears doth Rhodalind survey; + As dying men, who grieve that they have eyes, + When they through curtains spy the rising day. + + + + +DR HENRY KING. + + +Of this poetical divine we know nothing, except that he was born in +1591, and died in 1669,--that he was chaplain to James I., and Bishop of +Chichester,--and that he indited some poetry as pious in design as it is +pretty in execution. + + +SIC VITA. + +Like to the falling of a star, +Or as the flights of eagles are; +Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, +Or silver drops of morning dew; +Or like a wind that chafes the flood, +Or bubbles which on water stood: +Even such is man, whose borrowed light +Is straight called in, and paid to-night. + +The wind blows out, the bubble dies; +The spring entombed in autumn lies; +The dew dries up, the star is shot: +The flight is past--and man forgot. + + +SONG. + +1 Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, + Which like growing fountains rise + To drown their banks! Grief's sullen brooks + Would better flow in furrowed looks: + Thy lovely face was never meant + To be the shore of discontent. + +2 Then clear those waterish stars again, + Which else portend a lasting rain; + Lest the clouds which settle there + Prolong my winter all the year, + And thy example others make + In love with sorrow, for thy sake. + + +LIFE. + +1 What is the existence of man's life + But open war or slumbered strife? + Where sickness to his sense presents + The combat of the elements, + And never feels a perfect peace + Till death's cold hand signs his release. + +2 It is a storm--where the hot blood + Outvies in rage the boiling flood: + And each loud passion of the mind + Is like a furious gust of wind, + Which beats the bark with many a wave, + Till he casts anchor in the grave. + +3 It is a flower--which buds, and grows, + And withers as the leaves disclose; + Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, + Like fits of waking before sleep, + Then shrinks into that fatal mould + Where its first being was enrolled. + +4 It is a dream--whose seeming truth + Is moralised in age and youth; + Where all the comforts he can share + As wandering as his fancies are, + Till in a mist of dark decay + The dreamer vanish quite away. + +5 It is a dial--which points out + The sunset as it moves about; + And shadows out in lines of night + The subtle stages of Time's flight, + Till all-obscuring earth hath laid + His body in perpetual shade. + +6 It is a weary interlude-- + Which doth short joys, long woes, include: + The world the stage, the prologue tears; + The acts vain hopes and varied fears; + The scene shuts up with loss of breath, + And leaves no epilogue but Death! + + + + +JOHN CHALKHILL. + + +This author was of the age of Spenser, and is said to have been an +acquaintance and friend of that poet. It was not, however, till 1683 +that good old Izaak Walton published 'Thealma and Clearchus,' a pas- +toral romance, which, he stated, had been written long since by John +Chalkhill, Esq. He says of the author, 'that he was in his time a man +generally known, and as well beloved; for he was humble and obliging +in his behaviour--a gentleman, a scholar, very innocent and prudent, +and indeed his whole life was useful, quiet, and virtuous.' Some have +suspected that this production proceeded from the pen of Walton himself. +This, however, is rendered extremely unlikely--first, by the fact that +Walton, when he printed 'Thealma,' was ninety years of age; and, +secondly, by the difference in style and purpose between that poem and +Walton's avowed productions. The mind of Walton was quietly ingenious; +that of the author of 'Thealma' is adventurous and fantastic. Walton +loved 'the green pastures and the still waters' of the Present; the +other, the golden groves and ideal wildernesses of the Golden Age in +the Past. + +'Thealma and Clearchus' may be called an 'Arcadia' in rhyme. It +resembles that work of Sir Philip Sidney, not only in subject, but in +execution. Its plot is dark and puzzling, its descriptions are rich to +luxuriance, its narrative is tedious, and its characters are mere +shadows. But although a dream, it is a dream of genius, and brings +beautifully before our imagination that early period in the world's +history, in which poets and painters have taught us to believe, when the +heavens were nearer, the skies clearer, the fat of the earth richer, the +foam of the sea brighter, than in our degenerate days;--when shepherds, +reposing under broad, umbrageous oaks, saw, or thought they saw, in the +groves the shadow of angels, and on the mountain-summits the descending +footsteps of God. Chalkhill resembles, of all our modern poets, perhaps +Shelley most, in the ideality of his conception, the enthusiasm of his +spirit, and the unmitigated gorgeousness of his imagination. + + +ARCADIA. + + Arcadia, was of old, a state, +Subject to none but their own laws and fate; +Superior there was none, but what old age +And hoary hairs had raised; the wise and sage, +Whose gravity, when they are rich in years, +Begat a civil reverence more than fears +In the well-mannered people; at that day, +All was in common, every man bare sway +O'er his own family; the jars that rose +Were soon appeased by such grave men as those: +This mine and thine, that we so cavil for, +Was then not heard of; he that was most poor +Was rich in his content, and lived as free +As they whose flocks were greatest; nor did he +Envy his great abundance, nor the other +Disdain the low condition of his brother, +But lent him from his store to mend his state, +And with his love he quits him, thanks his fate; +And, taught by his example, seeks out such +As want his help, that they may do as much. +Their laws, e'en from their childhood, rich and poor +Had written in their hearts, by conning o'er +The legacies of good old men, whose memories +Outlive their monuments, the grave advice +They left behind in writing;--this was that +That made Arcadia then so blest a state; +Their wholesome laws had linked them so in one, +They lived in peace and sweet communion. +Peace brought forth plenty, plenty bred content, +And that crowned all their plans with merriment. +They had no foe, secure they lived in tents, +All was their own they had, they paid no rents; +Their sheep found clothing, earth provided food, +And labour dressed them as their wills thought good; +On unbought delicates their hunger fed, +And for their drink the swelling clusters bled; +The valleys rang with their delicious strains, +And pleasure revelled on those happy plains; +Content and labour gave them length of days, +And peace served in delight a thousand ways. + + +THEALMA, A DESERTED SHEPHERDESS. + +Scarce had the ploughman yoked his horned team, +And locked their traces to the crooked beam, +When fair Thealma, with a maiden scorn, +That day before her rise, outblushed the morn; +Scarce had the sun gilded the mountain-tops, +When forth she leads her tender ewes. + + * * * * * + +Down in a valley, 'twixt two rising hills, +From whence the dew in silver drops distils +To enrich the lowly plain, a river ran, +Hight Cygnus, (as some think, from Leda's swan +That there frequented;) gently on it glides, +And makes indentures in her crooked sides, +And with her silent murmurs rocks asleep +Her watery inmates; 'twas not very deep, +But clear as that Narcissus looked in, when +His self-love made him cease to live with men. +Close by the river was a thick-leafed grove, +Where swains of old sang stories of their love, +But unfrequented now since Colin died-- +Colin, that king of shepherds, and the pride +Of all Arcadia;--here Thealma used +To feed her milky droves; and as they browsed, +Under the friendly shadow of a beech +She sat her down; grief had tongue-tied her speech, +Her words were sighs and tears--dumb eloquence-- +Heard only by the sobs, and not the sense. +With folded arms she sat, as if she meant +To hug those woes which in her breast were pent; +Her looks were nailed to earth, that drank +Her tears with greediness, and seemed to thank +Her for those briny showers, and in lieu +Returns her flowery sweetness for her dew. + + * * * * * + +'O my Clearchus!' said she, and with tears +Embalms his name: 'oh, if the ghosts have ears, +Or souls departed condescend so low, +To sympathise with mortals in their woe, +Vouchsafe to lend a gentle ear to me, +Whose life is worse than death, since not with thee. +What privilege have they that are born great +Move than the meanest swain? The proud waves beat +With more impetuousness upon high lands, +Than on the flat and less-resisting strands: +The lofty cedar, and the knotty oak, +Are subject more unto the thunder-stroke, +Than the low shrubs that no such shocks endure; +Even their contempt doth make them live secure. +Had I been born the child of some poor swain, +Whose thoughts aspire no higher than the plain, +I had been happy then; t'have kept these sheep, +Had been a princely pleasure; quiet sleep +Had drowned my cares, or sweetened them with dreams: +Love and content had been my music's themes; +Or had Clearchus lived the life I lead, +I had been blest!' + + + PRIESTESS OF DIANA. + + Within a little silent grove hard by, + Upon a small ascent, he might espy + A stately chapel, richly gilt without, + Beset with shady sycamores about: + And ever and anon he might well hear + A sound of music steal in at his ear + As the wind gave it being; so sweet an air + Would strike a syren mute.-- + + * * * * * + +A hundred virgins there he might espy +Prostrate before a marble deity, +Which, by its portraiture, appeared to be +The image of Diana; on their knee +They tendered their devotions, with sweet airs, +Offering the incense of their praise and prayers. +Their garments all alike; beneath their paps +Buckled together with a silver claps, +And 'cross their snowy silken robes, they wore +An azure scarf, with stars embroidered o'er. +Their hair in curious tresses was knit up, +Crowned with a silver crescent on the top. +A silver bow their left hand held, their right, +For their defence, held a sharp-headed flight +Drawn from their broidered quiver, neatly tied +In silken cords, and fastened to their side. +Under their vestments, something short before, +White buskins, laced with ribanding, they wore. +It was a catching sight for a young eye, +That love had fired before. He might espy +One, whom the rest had sphere-like circled round, +Whose head was with a golden chaplet crowned. +He could not see her face, only his ear +Was blessed with the sweet sounds that came from her. + + +THEALMA IN FULL DRESS. + +----Tricked herself in all her best attire, +As if she meant this day to invite desire +To fall in love with her; her loose hair +Hung on her shoulders, sporting with the air; +Her brow a coronet of rosebuds crowned, +With loving woodbines' sweet embraces bound. +Two globe-like pearls were pendant to her ears, +And on her breast a costly gem she wears, +An adamant, in fashion like a heart, +Whereon Love sat, a-plucking out a dart, +With this same motto graven round about, +On a gold border, 'Sooner in than out.' +This gem Clearchus gave her, when, unknown, +At tilt his valour won her for his own. +Instead of bracelets on her wrists, she wore +A pair of golden shackles, chained before +Unto a silver ring, enamelled blue, +Whereon in golden letters to the view +This motto was presented, 'Bound, yet free,' +And in a true-love's knot, a T and C +Buckled it fast together; her silk gown +Of grassy green, in equal plaits hung down +Unto the earth; and as she went, the flowers, +Which she had broidered on it at spare hours, +Were wrought so to the life, they seemed to grow +In a green field; and as the wind did blow, +Sometimes a lily, then a rose, takes place, +And blushing seems to hide it in the grass: +And here and there good oats 'mong pearls she strew, +That seemed like spinning glow-worms in the dew. +Her sleeves were tinsel, wrought with leaves of green +In equal distance spangeled between, +And shadowed over with a thin lawn cloud, +Through which her workmanship more graceful showed. + + +DWELLING OF THE WITCH ORANDRA. + +Down in a gloomy valley, thick with shade, +Which two aspiring hanging rocks had made, +That shut out day, and barred the glorious sun +From prying into the actions there done; +Set full of box and cypress, poplar, yew, +And hateful elder that in thickets grew, +Among whose boughs the screech-owl and night-crow +Sadly recount their prophecies of woe, +Where leather-winged bats, that hate the light, +Fan the thick air, more sooty than the night. +The ground o'ergrown with weeds and bushy shrubs, +Where milky hedgehogs nurse their prickly cubs: +And here and there a mandrake grows, that strikes +The hearers dead with their loud fatal shrieks; +Under whose spreading leaves the ugly toad, +The adder, and the snake, make their abode. +Here dwelt Orandra; so the witch was hight, +And hither had she toiled him by a sleight: +She knew Anaxus was to go to court, +And, envying virtue, she made it her sport +To hinder him, sending her airy spies +Forth with delusion to entrap his eyes, +As would have fired a hermit's chill desires +Into a flame; his greedy eye admires +The more than human beauty of her face, +And much ado he had to shun the grace; +Conceit had shaped her out so like his love, +That he was once about in vain to prove +Whether 'twas his Clarinda, yea or no, +But he bethought him of his herb, and so +The shadow vanished; many a weary step +It led the prince, that pace with it still kept, +Until it brought him by a hellish power +Unto the entrance of Orandra's bower, +Where underneath an elder-tree he spied +His man Pandevius, pale and hollow-eyed; +Inquiring of the cunning witch what fate +Betid his master; they were newly sate +When his approach disturbed them; up she rose, +And toward Anaxus (envious hag) she goes; +Pandevius she had charmed into a maze, +And struck him mute, all he could do was gaze. +He called him by his name, but all in vain, +Echo returns 'Pandevius' back again; +Which made him wonder, when a sudden fear +Shook all his joints: she, cunning hag, drew near, +And smelling to his herb, he recollects +His wandering spirits, and with anger checks +His coward fears; resolved now to outdare +The worst of dangers, whatsoe'er they were; +He eyed her o'er and o'er, and still his eye +Found some addition to deformity. +An old decrepit hag she was, grown white +With frosty age, and withered with despite +And self-consuming hate; in furs yclad, +And on her head a thrummy cap she had. +Her knotty locks, like to Alecto's snakes, + +Hang down about her shoulders, which she shakes +Into disorder; on her furrowed brow +One might perceive Time had been long at plough. +Her eyes, like candle-snuffs, by age sunk quite +Into their sockets, yet like cats' eyes bright: +And in the darkest night like fire they shined, +The ever-open windows of her mind. +Her swarthy cheeks, Time, that all things consumes, +Had hollowed flat into her toothless gums. +Her hairy brows did meet above her nose, +That like an eagle's beak so crooked grows, +It well-nigh kissed her chin; thick bristled hair +Grew on her upper lip, and here and there +A rugged wart with grisly hairs behung; +Her breasts shrunk up, her nails and fingers long; +Her left leant on a staff, in her right hand +She always carried her enchanting wand. +Splay-footed, beyond nature, every part +So patternless deformed, 'twould puzzle art +To make her counterfeit; only her tongue, +Nature had that most exquisitely strung, +Her oily language came so smoothly from her, +And her quaint action did so well become her, +Her winning rhetoric met with no trips, +But chained the dull'st attention to her lips. +With greediness he heard, and though he strove +To shake her off, the more her words did move. +She wooed him to her cell, called him her son, +And with fair promises she quickly won +Him to her beck; or rather he, to try +What she could do, did willingly comply, +With her request. * * * +Her cell was hewn out of the marble rock +By more than human art; she did not knock, +The door stood always open, large and wide, +Grown o'er with woolly moss on either side, +And interwove with ivy's nattering twines, +Through which the carbuncle and diamond shines. +Not set by Art, but there by Nature sown +At the world's birth, so star-like bright they shone. +They served instead of tapers to give light +To the dark entry, where perpetual Night, +Friend to black deeds, and sire of Ignorance, +Shuts out all knowledge, lest her eye by chance +Might bring to light her follies: in they went, +The ground was strewed with flowers, whose sweet scent, +Mixed with the choice perfumes from India brought, +Intoxicates his brain, and quickly caught +His credulous sense; the walls were gilt, and set +With precious stones, and all the roof was fret +With a gold vine, whose straggling branches spread +All o'er the arch; the swelling grapes were red; +This Art had made of rubies, clustered so, +To the quick'st eye they more than seemed to grow; +About the wall lascivious pictures hung, +Such as were of loose Ovid sometimes sung. +On either side a crew of dwarfish elves +Held waxen tapers, taller than themselves: +Yet so well shaped unto their little stature, +So angel-like in face, so sweet in feature; +Their rich attire so differing; yet so well +Becoming her that wore it, none could tell +Which was the fairest, which the handsomest decked, +Or which of them desire would soon'st affect. +After a low salute they all 'gan sing, +And circle in the stranger in a ring. +Orandra to her charms was stepped aside, +Leaving her guest half won and wanton-eyed. +He had forgot his herb: cunning delight +Had so bewitched his ears, and bleared his sight, +And captivated all his senses so, +That he was not himself; nor did he know +What place he was in, or how he came there, +But greedily he feeds his eye and ear +With what would ruin him;-- + * * * * * + Next unto his view +She represents a banquet, ushered in +By such a shape as she was sure would win +His appetite to taste; so like she was +To his Clarinda, both in shape and face; +So voiced, so habited, of the same gait +And comely gesture; on her brow in state +Sat such a princely majesty, as he +Had noted in Clarinda; save that she +Had a more wanton eye, that here and there +Rolled up and down, not settling any where. +Down on the ground she falls his hand to kiss, +And with her tears bedews it; cold as ice +He felt her lips, that yet inflamed him so, +That he was all on fire the truth to know, +Whether she was the same she did appear, +Or whether some fantastic form it were, +Fashioned in his imagination +By his still working thoughts, so fixed upon +His loved Clarinda, that his fancy strove, +Even with her shadow, to express his love. + + + + +CATHARINE PHILLIPS. + + +Very little is known of the life of this lady-poet. She was born in +1631. Her maiden name was Fowler. She married James Phillips, Esq., of +the Priory of Cardigan. Her poems, published under the name of "Orinda," +were very popular in her lifetime, although it was said they were +published without her consent. She translated two of the tragedies of +Corneille, and left a volume of letters to Sir Charles Cotterell. These, +however, did not appear till after her death. She died of small-pox +--then a deadly disease--in 1664. She seems to have been a favourite +alike with the wits and the divines of her age. Jeremy Taylor addressed +to her his "Measures and Offices of Friendship;" Dryden praised her; and +Flatman and Cowley, besides imitating her poems while she was living, +paid rhymed tributes to her memory when dead. Her verses are never +commonplace, and always sensible, if they hardly attain to the measure +and the stature of lofty poetry, + + +THE INQUIRY. + +1 If we no old historian's name + Authentic will admit, + But think all said of friendship's fame + But poetry or wit; + Yet what's revered by minds so pure + Must be a bright idea sure. + +2 But as our immortality + By inward sense we find, + Judging that if it could not be, + It would not be designed: + So here how could such copies fall, + If there were no original? + +3 But if truth be in ancient song, + Or story we believe; + If the inspired and greater throng + Have scorned to deceive; + There have been hearts whose friendship gave + Them thoughts at once both soft and grave. + +4 Among that consecrated crew + Some more seraphic shade + Lend me a favourable clew, + Now mists my eyes invade. + Why, having filled the world with fame, + Left you so little of your flame? + +5 Why is't so difficult to see + Two bodies and one mind? + And why are those who else agree + So difficultly kind? + Hath Nature such fantastic art, + That she can vary every heart? + +6 Why are the bands of friendship tied + With so remiss a knot, + That by the most it is defied, + And by the most forgot? + Why do we step with so light sense + From friendship to indifference? + +7 If friendship sympathy impart, + Why this ill-shuffled game, + That heart can never meet with heart, + Or flame encounter flame? + What does this cruelty create? + Is't the intrigue of love or fate? + +8 Had friendship ne'er been known to men, + (The ghost at last confessed) + The world had then a stranger been + To all that heaven possessed. + But could it all be here acquired, + Not heaven itself would be desired. + + +A FRIEND. + +1 Love, nature's plot, this great creation's soul, + The being and the harmony of things, + Doth still preserve and propagate the whole, + From whence man's happiness and safety springs: + The earliest, whitest, blessed'st times did draw + From her alone their universal law. + +2 Friendship's an abstract of this noble flame, + 'Tis love refined and purged from all its dross, + The next to angels' love, if not the same, + As strong in passion is, though not so gross: + It antedates a glad eternity, + And is an heaven in epitome. + + * * * * * + +3 Essential honour must be in a friend, + Not such as every breath fans to and fro; + But born within, is its own judge and end, + And dares not sin though sure that none should know. + Where friendship's spoke, honesty's understood; + For none can be a friend that is not good. + + * * * * * + +4 Thick waters show no images of things; + Friends are each other's mirrors, and should be + Clearer than crystal or the mountain springs, + And free from clouds, design, or flattery. + For vulgar souls no part of friendship share; + Poets and friends are born to what they are. + + + + +MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. + + +This lady, if not more of a woman than Mrs Phillips, was considerably +more of a poet. She was born (probably) about 1625. She was the daughter +of Sir Charles Lucas, and became a maid-of-honour to Henrietta Maria. +Accompanying the Queen to France, she met with the Marquis, afterwards +Duke of Newcastle, and married him at Paris in 1645. They removed to +Antwerp, and there, in 1653, this lady published a volume, entitled +'Poems and Fancies.' The pair aided each other in their studies, and the +result was a number of enormous folios of poems, plays, speeches, and +philosophical disquisitions. These volumes were, we are told, great +favourites of Coleridge and Charles Lamb, for the sake, we presume, of +the wild sparks of insight and genius which break irresistibly through +the scholastic smoke and bewildered nonsense. When Charles II. was +restored, the Marquis and his wife returned to England, and spent their +life in great harmony. She died in 1673, leaving behind her some +beautiful fantasias, where the meaning is often finer than the music, +such as the 'Pastime and Recreation of Fairies in Fairy-land.' Her +poetry, particularly her contrasted pictures of Mirth and Melancholy, +present fine accumulations of imagery drawn direct from nature, and +shewn now in brightest sunshine, and now in softest moonlight, as the +change of her subject and her tone of feeling require. + + +MELANCHOLY DESCRIBED BY MIRTH. + +Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound; +She hates the light, and is in darkness found; +Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small, +Which various shadows make against the wall. +She loves nought else but noise which discord makes, +As croaking frogs, whose dwelling is in lakes; +The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan, +And shrieking owls which fly i' the night alone; +The tolling bell, which for the dead rings out; +A mill, where rushing waters run about; +The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall, +Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal. +She loves to walk in the still moonshine night, +And in a thick dark grove she takes delight; +In hollow caves, thatched houses, and low cells, +She loves to live, and there alone she dwells. + + +MELANCHOLY DESCRIBING HERSELF. + +I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun; +Sit on the banks by which clear waters run; +In summers hot, down in a shade I lie; +My music is the buzzing of a fly; +I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass; +In fields, where corn is high, I often pass; +Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see, +Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be; +Returning back, I in fresh pastures go, +To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low; +In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, +Then I do live in a small house alone; +Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within, +Like to a soul that's pure, and clear from sin; +And there I dwell in quiet and still peace, +Not filled with cares how riches to increase; +I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures; +No riches are, but what the mind intreasures. +Thus am I solitary, live alone, +Yet better loved, the more that I am known; +And though my face ill-favoured at first sight, +After acquaintance, it will give delight. +Refuse me not, for I shall constant be; +Maintain your credit and your dignity. + + + + +THOMAS STANLEY. + + +Thomas Stanley, like Thomas Brown in later days, was both a philosopher +and a poet; but his philosophical reputation at the time eclipsed his +poetical. He was the only son of Sir Thomas Stanley of Camberlow Green, +in Hertfordshire, and was born in 1620. He received his education at +Pembroke College, Oxford; and after travelling for some years abroad, +he took up his abode in the Middle Temple. Here he seems to have spent +the rest of his life in patient and multifarious studies. He made +translations of some merit from Anacreon, Bion, Moschus, and the +'Kisses' of Secundus, as well as from Marino, Boscan, Tristan, and +Gongora. He wrote a work of great pretensions as a compilation, entitled +'The History of Philosophy,' containing the lives, opinions, actions, +and discourses of philosophers of every sect, of which he published the +first volume in 1655, and completed it in a fourth in 1662. It is rather +a vast collection of the materials for a history, than a history itself. +He is a Cudworth in magnitude and learning, but not in strength and +comprehension, and is destitute of precision and clearness of style. +Stanley also wrote some poems, which discover powers that might have +been better employed in original composition than in translation. +His style, rich of itself, is enriched to repletion by conceits, and +sometimes by voluptuous sentiments and language. He adds a new flush to +the cheek of Anacreon himself; and his grapes are so heavy, that not a +staff, but a wain were required to bear them. Stanley died in 1678. + + +CELIA SINGING. + +1 Roses in breathing forth their scent, + Or stars their borrowed ornament; + Nymphs in their watery sphere that move, + Or angels in their orbs above; + The winged chariot of the light, + Or the slow, silent wheels of night; + The shade which from the swifter sun + Doth in a swifter motion run, + Or souls that their eternal rest do keep, + Make far less noise than Celia's breath in sleep. + +2 But if the angel which inspires + This subtle flame with active fires, + Should mould this breath to words, and those + Into a harmony dispose, + The music of this heavenly sphere + Would steal each soul (in) at the ear, + And into plants and stones infuse + A life that cherubim would choose, + And with new powers invert the laws of fate, + Kill those that live, and dead things animate. + + +SPEAKING AND KISSING. + +1 The air which thy smooth voice doth break, + Into my soul like lightning flies; + My life retires while thou dost speak, + And thy soft breath its room supplies. + +2 Lost in this pleasing ecstasy, + I join my trembling lips to thine, + And back receive that life from thee + Which I so gladly did resign. + +3 Forbear, Platonic fools! t'inquire + What numbers do the soul compose; + No harmony can life inspire, + But that which from these accents flows. + + +LA BELLE CONFIDANTE. + +You earthly souls that court a wanton flame + Whose pale, weak influence +Can rise no higher than the humble name + And narrow laws of sense, +Learn, by our friendship, to create + An immaterial fire, +Whose brightness angels may admire, + But cannot emulate. +Sickness may fright the roses from her cheek, + Or make the lilies fade, +But all the subtle ways that death doth seek + Cannot my love invade. + + +THE LOSS. + +1 Yet ere I go, + Disdainful Beauty, thou shalt be + So wretched as to know + What joys thou fling'st away with me. + +2 A faith so bright, + As Time or Fortune could not rust; + So firm, that lovers might + Have read thy story in my dust, + +3 And crowned thy name + With laurel verdant as thy youth, + Whilst the shrill voice of Fame + Spread wide thy beauty and my truth. + +4 This thou hast lost, + For all true lovers, when they find + That my just aims were crossed, + Will speak thee lighter than the wind. + +5 And none will lay + Any oblation on thy shrine, + But such as would betray + Thy faith to faiths as false as thine. + +6 Yet, if thou choose + On such thy freedom to bestow, + Affection may excuse, + For love from sympathy doth flow. + + +NOTE ON ANACREON. + +Let's not rhyme the hours away; +Friends! we must no longer play: +Brisk Lyaeus--see!--invites +To more ravishing delights. +Let's give o'er this fool Apollo, +Nor his fiddle longer follow: +Fie upon his forked hill, +With his fiddlestick and quill; +And the Muses, though they're gamesome, +They are neither young nor handsome; +And their freaks in sober sadness +Are a mere poetic madness: +Pegasus is but a horse; +He that follows him is worse. +See, the rain soaks to the skin, +Make it rain as well within. +Wine, my boy; we'll sing and laugh, +All night revel, rant, and quaff; +Till the morn, stealing behind us, +At the table sleepless find us. +When our bones, alas! shall have +A cold lodging in the grave; +When swift Death shall overtake us, +We shall sleep and none can wake us. +Drink we then the juice o' the vine +Make our breasts Lyaeus' shrine; +Bacchus, our debauch beholding, +By thy image I am moulding, +Whilst my brains I do replenish +With this draught of unmixed Rhenish; +By thy full-branched ivy twine; +By this sparkling glass of wine; +By thy Thyrsus so renowned: +By the healths with which th' art crowned; +By the feasts which thou dost prize; +By thy numerous victories; +By the howls by Moenads made; +By this haut-gout carbonade; +By thy colours red and white; +By the tavern, thy delight; +By the sound thy orgies spread; +By the shine of noses red; +By thy table free for all; +By the jovial carnival; +By thy language cabalistic; +By thy cymbal, drum, and his stick; +By the tunes thy quart-pots strike up; +By thy sighs, the broken hiccup; +By thy mystic set of ranters; +By thy never-tamed panthers; +By this sweet, this fresh and free air; +By thy goat, as chaste as we are; +By thy fulsome Cretan lass; +By the old man on the ass; +By thy cousins in mixed shapes; +By the flower of fairest grapes; +By thy bisks famed far and wide; +By thy store of neats'-tongues dried; +By thy incense, Indian smoke; +By the joys thou dost provoke; +By this salt Westphalia gammon; +By these sausages that inflame one; +By thy tall majestic flagons; +By mass, tope, and thy flapdragons; +By this olive's unctuous savour; +By this orange, the wine's flavour; +By this cheese o'errun with mites; +By thy dearest favourites; +To thy frolic order call us, +Knights of the deep bowl install us; +And to show thyself divine, +Never let it want for wine. + + + + +ANDREW MARVELL. + + +This noble-minded patriot and poet, the friend of Milton, the Abdiel of a +dark and corrupt age,--'faithful found among the faithless, faithful only +he,'--was born in Hull in 1620. He was sent to Cambridge, and is said +there to have nearly fallen a victim to the proselytising Jesuits, who +enticed him to London. His father, however, a clergyman in Hull, went +in search of and brought him back to his university, where speedily, by +extensive culture and the vigorous exercise of his powerful faculties, +he emancipated himself for ever from the dominion, and the danger of the +dominion, of superstition and bigotry. We know little more about the early +days of our poet. When only twenty, he lost his father in remarkable +circumstances. In 1640, he had embarked on the Humber in company with a +youthful pair whom he was to marry at Barrow, in Lincolnshire. The weather +was calm; but Marvell, seized with a sudden presentiment of danger, threw +his staff ashore, and cried out, 'Ho for heaven!' A storm came on, and the +whole company perished. In consequence of this sad event, the gentleman, +whose daughter was to have been married, conceiving that the father had +sacrificed his life while performing an act of friendship, adopted young +Marvell as his son. Owing to this, he received a better education, and +was sent abroad to travel. It is said that at Rome he met and formed a +friendship with Milton, then engaged on his immortal continental tour. +We find Marvell next at Constantinople, as Secretary to the English +Embassy at that Court. We then lose sight of him till 1653, when he was +engaged by the Protector to superintend the education of a Mr Dutton at +Eton. For a year and a half after Cromwell's death, Marvell assisted +Milton as Latin Secretary to the Protector. Our readers are all familiar +with the print of Cromwell and Milton seated together at the council-table, +--the one the express image of active power and rugged grandeur, the other +of thoughtful majesty and ethereal grace. Marvell might have been added as +a third, and become the emblem of strong English sense and incorruptible +integrity. A letter of Milton's was, not long since, discovered, dated +February 1652, in which he speaks of Marvell as fitted, by his knowledge +of Latin and his experience of teaching, to be his assistant. He was not +appointed, however, till 1657. In 1660, he became member for Hull, and was +re-elected as long as he lived. He was absent, however, from England for +two years, in the beginning of the reign, in Germany and Holland. After- +wards he sought leave from his constituents to act as Ambassador's +Secretary to Lord Carlisle at the Northern Courts; but from the year 1665 +to his death, his attention to his parliamentary duties was unremitting. +He constantly corresponded with his constituents; and after the longest +sittings, he used to write out for their use a minute account of public +proceedings ere he went to bed, or took any refreshment. He was one of +the last members who received pay from the town he represented; (2s. +a-day was probably the sum;) and his constituents were wont, besides, to +send him barrels of ale as tokens of their regard. Marvell spoke little +in the House; but his heart and vote were always in the right place. Even +Prince Eupert continually consulted him, and was sometimes persuaded by +him to support the popular side; and King Charles having met him once in +private, was so delighted with his wit and agreeable manners, that he +thought him worth trying to bribe. He sent Lord Danby to offer him a mark +of his Majesty's consideration. Marvell, who was seated in a dingy room +up several flights of stairs, declined the proffer, and, it is said, +called his servant to witness that he had dined for three successive days +on the same shoulder of mutton, and was not likely, therefore, to care +for or need a bribe. When the Treasurer was gone, he had to send to a +friend to borrow a guinea. Although, a silent senator, Marvell was a +copious and popular writer. He attacked Bishop Parker for his slavish +principles, in a piece entitled 'The Rehearsal Transposed,' in which he +takes occasion to vindicate and panegyrise his old colleague Milton. His +anonymous 'Account of the Growth of Arbitrary Power and Popery in England' +excited a sensation, and a reward was offered for the apprehension of the +author and printer. Marvell had many of the elements of a first-rate +political pamphleteer. He had wit of a most pungent kind, great though +coarse fertility of fancy, and a spirit of independence that nothing could +subdue or damp. He was the undoubted ancestor of the Defoes, Swifts, +Steeles, Juniuses, and Burkes, in whom this kind of authorship reached its +perfection, ceased to be fugitive, and assumed classical rank. + +Marvell had been repeatedly threatened with assassination, and hence, +when he died suddenly on the 16th of August 1678, it was surmised that +he had been removed by poison. The Corporation of Hull voted a sum to +defray his funeral expenses, and for raising a monument to his memory; +but owing to the interference of the Court, through the rector of the +parish, this votive tablet was not at the time erected. He was buried in +St Giles-in-the-Fields. + +'Out of the strong came forth sweetness,' saith the Hebrew record. And +so from the sturdy Andrew Marvell have proceeded such soft and lovely +strains as 'The Emigrants,' 'The Nymph complaining for the Death of her +Fawn,' 'Young Love,' &c. The statue of Memnon became musical at the dawn; +and the stern patriot, whom no bribe could buy and no flattery melt, is +found sympathising in song with a boatful of banished Englishmen in the +remote Bermudas, and inditing 'Thoughts in a Garden,' from which you might +suppose that he had spent his life more with melons than with men, and was +better acquainted with the motions of a bee-hive than with the contests of +Parliament, and the distractions of a most distracted age. It was said +(not with thorough truth) of Milton, that he could cut out a Colossus from +a rock, but could not carve heads upon cherry-stones--a task which his +assistant may be said to have performed in his stead, in his small but +delectable copies of verse. + + +THE EMIGRANTS. + +1 Where the remote Bermudas ride, + In the ocean's bosom unespied, + From a small boat that rowed along, + The listening winds received this song. + +2 'What should we do but sing His praise + That led us through the watery maze, + Unto an isle so long unknown, + And yet far kinder than our own! + +3 'Where he the huge sea-monsters racks, + That lift the deep upon their backs; + He lands us on a grassy stage, + Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. + +4 'He gave us this eternal spring + Which here enamels everything, + And sends the fowls to us in care, + On daily visits through the air. + +5 'He hangs in shades the orange bright, + Like golden lamps in a green night: + * * * * * + And in these rocks for us did frame + A temple where to sound his name. + +6 'Oh, let our voice his praise exalt + Till it arrive at heaven's vault, + Which then perhaps rebounding may + Echo beyond the Mexique bay.' + +7 Thus sung they in the English boat, + A holy and a cheerful note; + And all the way, to guide their chime, + With falling oars they kept the time. + + +THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. + +The wanton troopers riding by +Have shot my fawn, and it will die. +Ungentle men! they cannot thrive +Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive +Them any harm; alas! nor could +Thy death to them do any good. +I'm sure I never wished them ill; +Nor do I for all this; nor will: +But, if my simple prayers may yet +Prevail with Heaven to forget +Thy murder, I will join my tears, +Rather than fail. But, O my fears! +It cannot die so. Heaven's King +Keeps register of every thing, +And nothing may we use in vain: +Even beasts must be with justice slain. + + * * * * * + +Inconstant Sylvio, when yet +I had not found him counterfeit, +One morning (I remember well) +Tied in this silver chain and bell, +Gave it to me: nay, and I know +What he said then: I'm sure I do. +Said he, 'Look how your huntsman here +Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.' +But Sylvio soon had me beguiled. +This waxed tame while he grew wild, +And, quite regardless of my smart, +Left me his fawn, but took his heart. +Thenceforth I set myself to play +My solitary time away +With this, and very well content +Could so my idle life have spent; +For it was full of sport, and light +Of foot and heart; and did invite +Me to its game; it seemed to bless +Itself in me. How could I less +Than love it? Oh, I cannot be +Unkind to a beast that loveth me! +Had it lived long, I do not know +Whether it too might have done so +As Sylvio did; his gifts might be +Perhaps as false, or more, than he. +But I am sure, for aught that I +Could in so short a time espy, +Thy love was far more better than +The love of false and cruel man. +With sweetest milk and sugar first +I it at my own fingers nursed; +And as it grew, so every day +It waxed more white and sweet than they: +It had so sweet a breath; and oft +I blushed to see its foot more soft +And white, shall I say, than my hand? +Nay, any lady's of the land. +It is a wondrous thing how fleet +'Twas on those little silver feet; +With what a pretty skipping grace +It oft would challenge me the race; +And when't had left me far away, +'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; +For it was nimbler much than hinds, +And trod as if on the four winds. +I have a garden of my own, +But so with roses overgrown, +And lilies, that you would it guess +To be a little wilderness, +And all the spring-time of the year +It only loved to be there. +Among the beds of lilies I +Have sought it oft where it should lie, +Yet could not, till itself would rise, +Find it, although before mine eyes; +For in the flaxen lilies' shade +It like a bank of lilies laid; +Upon the roses it would feed, +Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed; +And then to me 'twould boldly trip, +And print those roses on my lip. +But all its chief delight was still +On roses thus itself to fill, +And its pure virgin limbs to fold +In whitest sheets of lilies cold. +Had it lived long, it would have been +Lilies without, roses within. * * * + + +ON PARADISE LOST. + +When I beheld the poet blind, yet bold, +In slender book his vast design unfold, +Messiah crowned, God's reconciled decree, +Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree, +Heaven, Hell, Earth, Chaos, all; the argument +Held me a while misdoubting his intent, +That he would ruin (for I saw him strong) +The sacred truths to fable and old song; +(So Sampson groped the temple's posts in spite) +The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight. + +Yet as I read, still growing less severe, +I liked his project, the success did fear; +Through that wild field how he his way should find, +O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind; +Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain, +And what was easy he should render vain. + +Or if a work so infinite be spanned, +Jealous I was that some less skilful hand +(Such as disquiet always what is well, +And, by ill imitating, would excel) +Might hence presume the whole creation's day +To change in scenes, and show it in a play. + +Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise +My causeless, yet not impious, surmise. +But I am now convinced, and none will dare +Within thy labours to pretend a share. +Thou hast not missed one thought that could be fit. +And all that was improper dost omit; +So that no room is here for writers left, +But to detect their ignorance or theft. + +That majesty, which through thy work doth reign, +Draws the devout, deterring the profane. +And things divine thou treat'st of in such state +As them preserves, and thee, inviolate. +At once delight and horror on us seize, +Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease; +And above human flight dost soar aloft +With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft. +The bird named from that Paradise you sing, +So never flags, but always keeps on wing. + +Where couldst thou words of such a compass find? +Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind? +Just Heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite, +Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight. + +Well mightst thou scorn thy readers to allure +With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure; +While the Town-Bays writes all the while and spells, +And like a pack-horse tires without his bells: +Their fancies like our bushy points appear; +The poets tag them, we for fashion wear. +I too, transported by the mode, offend, +And while I meant to praise thee, must commend. +Thy verse created, like thy theme, sublime, +In number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme. + + +THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. + +1 How vainly men themselves amaze, + To win the palm, the oak, or bays! + And their incessant labours see + Crowned from some single herb or tree, + Whose short and narrow-verged shade + Does prudently their toils upbraid; + While all the flowers and trees do close, + To weave the garlands of repose. + +2 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, + And Innocence, thy sister dear? + Mistaken long, I sought you then + In busy companies of men. + Your sacred plants, if here below, + Only among the plants will grow. + Society is all but rude + To this delicious solitude. + +3 No white nor red was ever seen + So amorous as this lovely green. + Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, + Cut in these trees their mistress' name. + Little, alas, they know or heed, + How far these beauties her exceed! + Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, + No name shall but your own be found. + +4 What wondrous life in this I lead! + Ripe apples drop about my head. + The luscious clusters of the vine + Upon my mouth do crush their wine. + The nectarine, and curious peach, + Into my hands themselves do reach. + Stumbling on melons as I pass, + Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. + +5 Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less + Withdraws into its happiness. + The mind, that ocean where each kind + Does straight its own resemblance find; + Yet it creates, transcending these, + Far other worlds and other seas; + Annihilating all that's made + To a green thought in a green shade. + +6 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, + Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, + Casting the body's vest aside, + My soul into the boughs does glide; + There, like a bird, it sits and sings, + Then whets and claps its silver wings, + And, till prepared for longer flight, + Waves in its plumes the various light. + +7 Such was the happy garden state, + While man there walked without a mate: + After a place so pure and sweet, + What other help could yet be meet! + But 'twas beyond a mortal's share + To wander solitary there: + Two paradises are in one, + To live in paradise alone. + +8 How well the skilful gard'ner drew + Of flowers and herbs this dial new! + Where, from above, the milder sun + Does through a fragrant zodiac run: + And, as it works, the industrious bee + Computes its time as well as we. + How could such sweet and wholesome hours + Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers? + + +SATIRE ON HOLLAND. + +Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, +As but the offscouring of the British sand; +And so much earth as was contributed +By English pilots when they heaved the lead; +Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell, +Of shipwrecked cockle and the mussel-shell; +This indigested vomit of the sea +Fell to the Dutch by just propriety. +Glad then, as miners who have found the ore, +They, with mad labour, fished the land to shore: +And dived as desperately for each piece +Of earth, as if't had been of ambergris; +Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, +Less than what building swallows bear away; +Or than those pills which sordid beetles roll, +Transfusing into them their dunghill soul. +How did they rivet, with gigantic piles, +Thorough the centre their new-catched miles; +And to the stake a struggling country bound, +Where barking waves still bait the forced ground; +Building their watery Babel far more high +To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky. +Yet still his claim the injured Ocean laid, +And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played; +As if on purpose it on land had come +To show them what's their _mare liberum_. +A daily deluge over them does boil; +The earth and water play at level-coil. +The fish oft-times the burgher dispossessed, +And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest; +And oft the Tritons, and the sea-nymphs, saw +Whole shoals of Dutch served up for Cabillau; +Or, as they over the new level ranged, +For pickled herring, pickled heeren changed. +Nature, it seemed, ashamed of her mistake, +Would throw their land away at duck and drake, +Therefore necessity, that first made kings, +Something like government among them brings. +For, as with Pigmies, who best kills the crane, +Among the hungry he that treasures grain, +Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns, +So rules among the drowned he that drains. +Not who first see the rising sun commands, +But who could first discern the rising lands. +Who best could know to pump an earth so leak, +Him they their lord, and country's father, speak. +To make a bank was a great plot of state; +Invent a shovel, and be a magistrate. +Hence some small dikegrave unperceived invades +The power, and grows, as 'twere, a king of spades; +But, for less envy some joined states endures, +Who look like a commission of the sewers: +For these half-anders, half-wet and half-dry, +Nor bear strict service, nor pure liberty. +'Tis probable religion, after this, +Came next in order; which they could not miss. +How could the Dutch but be converted, when +The apostles were so many fishermen? +Besides, the waters of themselves did rise, +And, as their land, so them did re-baptize; +Though herring for their God few voices missed, +And Poor-John to have been the Evangelist. +Faith, that could never twins conceive before, +Never so fertile, spawned upon this shore +More pregnant than their Marg'ret, that laid down +For Hands-in-Kelder of a whole Hans-Town. +Sure, when religion did itself embark, +And from the east would westward steer its ark, +It struck, and splitting on this unknown ground, +Each one thence pillaged the first piece he found: +Hence Amsterdam, Turk, Christian, Pagan, Jew, +Staple of sects, and mint of schism grew; +That bank of conscience, where not one so strange +Opinion, but finds credit, and exchange. +In vain for Catholics ourselves we bear: +The universal church is only there. * * * + + + + +IZAAK WALTON. + + +This amiable enemy of the finny tribe was born in Stafford, in August +1593. We hear of him first as settled in London, following the trade +of a sempster, or linen-draper, having a shop in the Royal Burse, in +Cornhill, which was 'seven feet and a half long, and five wide,' and +where he became possessed of a moderate fortune. He spent his leisure +time in fishing 'with honest Nat and R. Roe.' From the Royal Burse, he +removed to Fleet Street, where he had 'one half of a shop,' a hosier +occupying the other half. In 1632, he married Anne, the daughter of +Thomas Ken of Furnival's Inn, and sister of Dr Ken, the celebrated +Bishop of Bath and Wells. Through her and her kindred, he became +acquainted with many eminent men of the day. His wife, 'a woman of +remarkable prudence and primitive piety,' died long before him. He +retired from business in 1643, and lived, for forty years after, a life +of leisure and quiet enjoyment, spending much of his time in the houses +of his friends, and much of it by the still waters, which he so dearly +loved. Walton commenced his literary career by writing a Life of Dr +Donne, and followed with another of Sir Henry Wotton, prefixed to his +literary remains. In 1653 appeared his 'Complete Angler,' four editions +of which were called for before his decease. He wrote, in 1662, a Life +of Richard Hooker; in 1670, a Life of George Herbert; and, in 1678, a +Life of Bishop Sanderson--all distinguished by _naivete_ and heart. In +1680, he published an anonymous discourse on the 'Distempers of the +Times.' In 1683, he printed, as we have seen, Chalkhill's 'Thealma and +Clearchus;' and on the 15th of December in the same year, he died at +Winchester, while residing with his son-in-law, Dr Hawkins, Prebendary +of Winchester Cathedral. + +Walton is one of the most loveable of all authors. Your admiration of +him is always melting into affection. Red as his and is with the blood +of fish, you pant to grasp it and press it to yours. You go with him +to the fishing as you would with a bright-eyed boy, relishing his +simple-hearted enthusiasm, and leaning down to listen to his precocious +remarks, and to pat his curly head. It is the prevalence of the +childlike element which makes Walton's 'Angler' rank with Bunyan's +'Pilgrim,' 'Robinson Crusoe,' and White's 'Natural History of Selborne,' +as among the most delightful books in the language. Its descriptions of +nature, too, are so fresh, that you smell to them as to a green leaf. +Walton would not have been at home fishing in the Forth or Clyde, or in +such rivers as are found in Norway, the milk-blue Logen, or the grass- +green Rauma, uniting, with its rich mediation, Romsdale Horn to the +tremendous Witch-Peaks which lower on the opposite side of the valley; +--the waters of his own dear England, going softly and somewhat drowsily +on their path, are the sources of his inspiration, and seem to sound like +the echoes of his own subdued but gladsome spirit. Johnson defined angling +as a rod with a fish at one end, and a fool at the other; in Walton's +case, we may correct the expression to 'a rod with a fish at one end, and +a fine old fellow--the "ae best fellow in the world"--at the other'-- + + 'In wit a man, simplicity a child.' + +We have given a specimen of the verse he intersperses sparingly in a +book which _is itself a complete poem._ + + +THE ANGLER'S WISH. + +1 I in these flowery meads would be: + These crystal streams should solace me, + To whose harmonious bubbling noise + I with my angle would rejoice: + Sit here and see the turtle-dove + Court his chaste mate to acts of love: + +2 Or on that bank feel the west wind + Breathe health and plenty: please my mind + To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, + And then washed off by April showers! + Here hear my Kenna sing a song, + There see a blackbird feed her young, + +3 Or a leverock build her nest: + Here give my weary spirits rest, + And raise my low-pitched thoughts above + Earth, or what poor mortals love; + Or, with my Bryan[1] and my book, + Loiter long days near Shawford brook: + +4 There sit by him and eat my meat, + There see the sun both rise and set, + There bid good morning to next day, + There meditate my time away, + And angle on, and beg to have + A quiet passage to the grave. + +[1] Probably his dog. + + + + +JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER + + +We hear of the Spirit of Evil on one occasion entering into swine, but, +if possible, a stranger sight is that of the Spirit of Poesy finding a +similar incarnation. Certainly the connexion of genius in the Earl of +Rochester with a life of the most degrading and desperate debauchery is +one of the chief marvels of this marvellous world. + +John Wilmot was the son of Henry, Lord Rochester, and was born April 10, +1647, at Ditchley in Oxfordshire. He was taught grammar at the school of +Burford. He then 'entered a nobleman' into Wadham College, when twelve +years old, and at 1661, when only fourteen, he was, in conjunction with +some others of rank, made M.A. by Lord Clarendon in person. Pursuing his +travels in France and Italy, he went in 1665 to sea with the Earl of +Sandwich, and distinguished himself at Bergen in an attack on the Dutch +fleet. Next year, while serving under Sir Edward Spragge, his commander +sent him in the heat of an engagement with a reproof to one of his +captains--a duty which Wilmot gallantly accomplished amidst a storm of +shot. With this early courage some of his biographers have contrasted +his subsequent reputation for cowardice, his slinking away out of +street-quarrels, his refusing to fight the Duke of Buckingham, &c. This +diversity at different periods may perhaps be accounted for on the +ground of the nervousness which continued dissipation produces, and +perhaps from his poetical temperament. A poet, we are persuaded, is +often the bravest, and often the most pusillanimous of men. Byron was +unquestionably in general a brave, almost a pugnacious man; and yet he +confesses that at certain times, had one proceeded to horsewhip him, +he would not have had the hardihood to resist. Shelley, who, in a +tremendous storm, behaved with dauntless heroism, and who would at any +time have acted on the example of his own character in 'Prometheus,' +who, in a shipwreck, + + 'gave an enemy + His plank, then plunged aside to die,' + +was yet subject to paroxysms of nervous horror, which made him perspire +and tremble like a spirit-seeing steed. Rochester had the same +temperament, and a similar creed, with these men, although inferior to +them both in _morale_ and in genius. + +His character was certainly very depraved. He told Burnet on his +deathbed that for five years he had not known the sensation of sobriety, +having been all that time either totally drunk, or mad through the dregs +of drunkenness. He on one occasion, while in this state, erected a stage +on Tower Hill, and addressed the mob as a naked mountebank. Even after +he became more temperate, he continued and even increased his +licentiousness--one devil went out, and seven entered in. He pursued low +amours in disguise; he practised occasionally as a quack doctor; and at +other times he retired to the country, and, like Byron, amused himself +by libelling all his acquaintances--every line in each libel being a +lie. Notwithstanding all this, he was a favourite with Charles II., who +made him one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, and comptroller of +Woodstock Park. In his lucid intervals he recurred to his studies, wrote +occasional verses, read in French Boileau and in English Cowley, and is +called by Wood the best scholar among all the nobility. + +At last, ere he was thirty-one, the 'dreary old sort of feel,' and the +'rigid fibre and stiffening limbs,' of which Byron and Burns, when +scarcely older, complained, began to assail Rochester. He had exhausted +his capacity of enjoyment by excess, and had deprived himself of the +consolations of religion by infidelity. His unbelief was not like +Shelley's--the growth of his own mind, and the fruit of unbridled, +though earnest, speculation;--it was merely a drug which he snatched +from the laboratories of others to deaden his remorse, and enable him to +look with desperate calmness to the blotted Past and the lowering +Future. At this stage of his career, he became acquainted with Bishop +Burnet, who has recorded his conversion and edifying end in a book +which, says Johnson, 'the critic ought to read for its elegance, the +philosopher for its arguments, and the saint for its piety.' To this, +after Johnson's example, we refer our readers. Eochester died July 26, +1680, before he had completed his thirty-fourth year. He was married, +and left three daughters and a son named Charles, who did not long +survive his father. With him the male line ceased, and the title was +conferred on a younger son of Lord Clarendon. His poems appeared in the +year of his death, professing on the title-page to be printed at +Antwerp. They contain much that is spurious, but some productions that +are undoubtedly Rochester's. They are at the best, poor fragmentary +exhibitions of a vigorous, but undisciplined mind. His songs are rather +easy than lively. His imitations are distinguished by grace and spirit. +His 'Nothing' is a tissue of clever conceits, like gaudy weeds growing +on a sterile soil, but here and there contains a grand and gloomy image, +such as-- + + 'And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face.' + +His 'Satire against Man' might be praised for its vigorous misanthropy, +but is chiefly copied from Boileau. + +Rochester may be signalised as the first thoroughly depraved and vicious +person, so far as we remember, who assumed the office of the satirist, +--the first, although not, alas! the last human imitator of 'Satan +accusing Sin.' Some satirists before him had been faulty characters, +while rather inconsistently assailing the faults of others; but here, +for the first time, was a man of no virtue, or belief in virtue whatever, +(his tenderness to his family, revealed in his letters, is just that of +the tiger fondling his cubs, and seeming, perhaps, to _them_ a 'much- +misrepresented character,') and whose life was one mass of wounds, +bruises, and putrefying sores,--a naked satyr who gloried in his shame, +--becoming a severe castigator of public morals and of private character. +Surely there was a gross anomaly implied in this, which far greater +genius than Rochester's could never have redeemed. + + +SONG. + +1 Too late, alas! I must confess, + You need not arts to move me; + Such charms by nature you possess, + 'Twere madness not to love ye. + +2 Then spare a heart you may surprise, + And give my tongue the glory + To boast, though my unfaithful eyes + Betray a tender story. + + +SONG. + +1 My dear mistress has a heart + Soft as those kind looks she gave me, + When with love's resistless art, + And her eyes, she did enslave me. + But her constancy's so weak, + She's so wild and apt to wander, + That my jealous heart would break + Should we live one day asunder. + +2 Melting joys about her move, + Killing pleasures, wounding blisses: + She can dress her eyes in love, + And her lips can warm with kisses. + Angels listen when she speaks, + She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; + But my jealous heart would break, + Should we live one day asunder. + + + + +THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON. + + +Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, was the son of James Dillon and +Elizabeth Wentworth. She was the sister of the infamous Strafford, who +was at once uncle and godfather to our poet. In what exact year Dillon +was born is uncertain, but it was some time about 1633. His father had +been converted from Popery by Usher; and when the Irish Rebellion broke +out, Strafford, afraid of the fury of the Irish, sent for his godson, +and took him to his own seat in Yorkshire, where he was taught Latin +with great care. He was sent afterwards to Caen, where he studied under +Bochart. It is said that while playing extravagantly there at the +customary games of boys, he suddenly paused, became grave, and cried +out, 'My father is dead,' and that a fortnight after arrived tidings +from Ireland confirming his impression. Johnson is inclined to believe +this story, and we are more than inclined. Since the lexicographer's +day, many of what used to be called his 'superstitions' have been +established as certain facts, although their explanation is still +shrouded in darkness. Roscommon was then only ten years of age. + +From Caen he travelled to Italy, where he obtained a profound knowledge +of medals. At the Restoration he returned to England, where he was made +Captain of the Band of Pensioners, and subsequently Master of the Horse +to the Duchess of York. He became unfortunately addicted to gambling, +and, through this miserable habit, he got embroiled in endless quarrels, +as well as in pecuniary embarassments. + +Business compelled him to visit Ireland, where the Duke of Orrnond made +him Captain of the Guards. On his return to England in 1662, he married +the Lady Frances, daughter of the Earl of Burlington. By her he had no +issue. His second wife, whom he married in 1674, was Isabella, daughter +of Matthew Beynton of Barmister, in Yorkshire. + +Roscommon now began to meditate and execute literary projects. He +produced an 'Essay on Translated Verse,' (in 1681,) a translation of +Horace's 'Art of Poetry,' and other pieces. He projected, in conjunction +with his friend Dryden, a plan for refining our language and fixing its +standard, as if Time were not the great refiner, fixer, and enricher of +a tongue. While busy with these schemes and occupations, the troubles of +James II.'s reign commenced. Roscommon determined to retire to Rome, +saying, 'It is best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smokes.' +Death, however, prevented him from reaching the beloved and desired +focus of Roman Catholic darkness. He was assailed by gout, and an +ignorant French empiric, whom he consulted, contrived to drive the +disease into the bowels. Roscommon expired, uttering with great fervour +two lines from his own translation of the 'Dies Irae,'-- + + 'My God, my Father, and my Friend, + Do not forsake me in my end.' + +This was in 1684. He received a pompous interment in Westminster Abbey. + +Roscommon does not deserve the name of a great poet. He was a man of +varied accomplishments and exquisite taste rather than of genius. His +'Essay on Translated Verse' is a sound and sensible, not a profound and +brilliant production. In one point he went before his age. He praises +Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' although unfortunately he selects for encomium +the passage in the sixth book describing the angels fighting against +each other with fire-arms--a passage which most critics have considered +a blot upon the poem. + + +FROM "AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE." + +Immodest words admit of no defence; +For want of decency is want of sense. +What moderate fop would rake the park or stews, +Who among troops of faultless nymphs may choose? +Variety of such is to be found: +Take then a subject proper to expound; +But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice; +For men of sense despise a trivial choice; +And such applause it must expect to meet, +As would some painter busy in a street, +To copy bulls and bears, and every sign +That calls the staring sots to nasty wine. + +Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good: +It must delight us when 'tis understood. +He that brings fulsome objects to my view, +As many old have done, and many new, +With nauseous images my fancy fills, +And all goes down like oxymel of squills. +Instruct the listening world how Maro sings +Of useful subjects and of lofty things. +These will such true, such bright ideas raise, +As merit gratitude, as well as praise: +But foul descriptions are offensive still, +Either for being like, or being ill: +For who, without a qualm, hath ever looked +On holy garbage, though by Homer cooked? +Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded gods +Make some suspect he snores, as well as nods. +But I offend--Virgil begins to frown, +And Horace looks with indignation down: +My blushing Muse with conscious fear retires, +And whom they like implicitly admires. + +On sure foundations let your fabric rise, +And with attractive majesty surprise; +Not by affected meretricious arts, +But strict harmonious symmetry of parts; +Which through the whole insensibly must pass, +With vital heat to animate the mass: +A pure, an active, an auspicious flame; +And bright as heaven, from whence the blessing came: +But few, oh! few souls, preordained by fate, +The race of gods, have reached that envied height. +No rebel Titan's sacrilegious crime, +By heaping hills on hills can hither climb: +The grizzly ferryman of hell denied +Aeneas entrance, till he knew his guide. +How justly then will impious mortals fall, +Whose pride would soar to heaven without a call! + +Pride, of all others the most dangerous fault, +Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought. +The men who labour and digest things most, +Will be much apter to despond than boast: +For if your author be profoundly good, +'Twill cost you dear before he's understood. +How many ages since has Virgil writ! +How few are they who understand him yet! +Approach his altars with religious fear: +No vulgar deity inhabits there. +Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod, +Than poets should before their Mantuan god. +Hail, mighty Maro! may that sacred name +Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame, +Sublime ideas and apt words infuse; +The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the Muse! + +What I have instanced only in the best, +Is, in proportion, true of all the rest. +Take pains the genuine meaning to explore! +There sweat, there strain: tug the laborious oar; +Search every comment that your care can find; +Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind: +Yet be not blindly guided by the throng: +The multitude is always in the wrong. +When things appear unnatural or hard, +Consult your author, with himself compared. +Who knows what blessing Phoebus may bestow, +And future ages to your labour owe? +Such secrets are not easily found out; +But, once discovered, leave no room for doubt. + +Truth stamps conviction in your ravished breast; +And peace and joy attend the glorious guest. +Truth still is one; Truth is divinely bright; +No cloudy doubts obscure her native light; +While in your thoughts you find the least debase, +You may confound, but never can translate. +Your style will this through all disguises show; +For none explain more clearly than they know. +He only proves he understands a text, +Whose exposition leaves it unperplexed. +They who too faithfully on names insist, +Rather create than dissipate the mist; +And grow unjust by being over nice, +For superstitious virtue turns to vice. +Let Crassus' ghost and Labienus tell +How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell. +Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame +That few know Pacorus' or Monaeses' name. + +Words in one language elegantly used, +Will hardly in another be excused; +And some that Rome admired in Caesar's time, +May neither suit our genius nor our clime. +The genuine sense, intelligibly told, +Shows a translator both discreet and bold. + +Excursions are inexpiably bad; +And 'tis much safer to leave out than add. +Abstruse and mystic thought you must express +With painful care, but seeming easiness; +For truth shines brightest through the plainest dress. +The Aenean Muse, when she appears in state, +Makes all Jove's thunder on her verses wait; +Yet writes sometimes as soft and moving things +As Venus speaks, or Philomela sings. +Your author always will the best advise, +Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise. +Affected noise is the most wretched thing, +That to contempt can empty scribblers bring. +Vowels and accents, regularly placed, +On even syllables (and still the last) +Though gross innumerable faults abound, +In spite of nonsense, never fail of sound, +But this is meant of even verse alone, +As being most harmonious and most known: +For if you will unequal numbers try, +There accents on odd syllables must lie. +Whatever sister of the learned Nine +Does to your suit a willing ear incline, +Urge your success, deserve a lasting name, +She'll crown a grateful and a constant flame. +But if a wild uncertainty prevail, +And turn your veering heart with every gale, +You lose the fruit of all your former care, +For the sad prospect of a just despair. + +A quack, too scandalously mean to name, +Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame; +As if Lucina had forgot her trade, +The labouring wife invokes his surer aid. +Well-seasoned bowls the gossip's spirits raise, +Who, while she guzzles, chats the doctor's praise; +And largely, what she wants in words, supplies, +With maudlin eloquence of trickling eyes. +But what a thoughtless animal is man! +How very active in his own trepan! +For, greedy of physicians' frequent fees, +From female mellow praise he takes degrees; +Struts in a new unlicensed gown, and then +From saving women falls to killing men. +Another such had left the nation thin, +In spite of all the children he brought in. +His pills as thick as hand grenadoes flew; +And where they fell, as certainly they slew: +His name struck everywhere as great a damp, +As Archimedes' through the Roman camp. +With this, the doctor's pride began to cool; +For smarting soundly may convince a fool. +But now repentance came too late for grace; +And meagre famine stared him in the face: +Fain would he to the wives be reconciled, +But found no husband left to own a child. +The friends, that got the brats, were poisoned too: +In this sad case, what could our vermin do? +Worried with debts, and past all hope of bail, +The unpitied wretch lies rotting in a jail: +And there, with basket-alms scarce kept alive, +Shows how mistaken talents ought to thrive. + +I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, +Compelled by want to prostitute their pen; +Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, +And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead! +But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pampered heirs, +Who to your country owe your swords and cares, +Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, +For rich ill poets are without excuse; +'Tis very dangerous tampering with the Muse, +The profit's small, and you have much to lose; +For though true wit adorns your birth or place, +Degenerate lines degrade the attainted race. +No poet any passion can excite, +But what they feel transport them when they write. +Have you been led through the Cumaean cave, +And heard the impatient maid divinely rave? +I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes; +And panting, 'Lo! the God, the God,' she cries: +With words not hers, and more than human sound, +She makes the obedient ghosts peep trembling through the ground. +But, though we must obey when Heaven commands, +And man in vain the sacred call withstands, +Beware what spirit rages in your breast; +For ten inspired, ten thousand are possess'd: +Thus make the proper use of each extreme, +And write with fury, but correct with phlegm. +As when the cheerful hours too freely pass, +And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass, +Your pulse advises, and begins to beat +Through every swelling vein a loud retreat: +So when a Muse propitiously invites, +Improve her favours, and indulge her flights; +But when you find that vigorous heat abate, +Leave off, and for another summons wait. +Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp, +Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp, +Appear not meaner than mere human lines, +Compared with those whose inspiration shines: +These, nervous, bold; those, languid and remiss; +There cold salutes; but here a lover's kiss. +Thus have I seen a rapid headlong tide, +With foaming waves the passive Saone divide; +Whose lazy waters without motion lay, +While he, with eager force, urged his impetuous way. + + + + +CHARLES COTTON. + + +Hearty, careless 'Charley Cotton' was born in 1630. His father, Sir +George Cotton, was improvident and intemperate in his latter days, and +left the poet an encumbered estate situated at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, +near the river Dove. This place will recall the words quoted by O'Connell +in Parliament in reference to the present Lord Derby:-- + + 'Down thy fair banks, romantic Ashbourne, glides + The Derby dilly, with its six insides.' + +Charles studied at Cambridge; and after travelling abroad, married the +daughter of Sir Thomas Owthorp in Nottinghamshire, who does not appear +to have lived long. His extravagance keeping him poor, he was compelled +to eke out his means by translating works from the French and Italian, +including those of a spirit somewhat kindred to his own--Montaigne. At +the age of forty, he obtained a captain's commission in the army, and +went to Ireland. There he met with his second wife, Mary, Countess +Dowager of Ardglass, the widow of Lord Cornwall. She possessed a +jointure of L1500 a-year, secured, however, after marriage, from her +husband's imprudent and reckless management. He returned to his English +estate, where he became passionately fond of fishing,--intimate with +Izaak Walton, whom he invited in a poem, although now eighty-three years +old, to visit him in the country--and where he built a fishing-house, +with the initials of Izaak's name and his own united in ciphers over +the door; the walls, too, being painted with fishing scenes, and the +portraits of Cotton and Walton appearing upon the beaufet. Poor Charles +had a less fortunate career than his friend, dying insolvent at +Westminster in 1687. + +Careless gaiety and reckless extravagance, blended with heart, sense, +and sincerity, were the characteristics of Cotton as a man, and were, as +is usually the case, transferred to his poetry. He squandered his pence +and his powers with equal profusion. His travestie of the 'Aeneid' is +pronounced by Christopher North (who must have read it, however,) a +beastly book. Campbell says, with striking justice, of another of +Cotton's productions, 'His imitations of Lucian betray the grossest +misconception of humorous effect, when he attempts to burlesque that +which is ludicrous already.' It is like trying to turn the 'Tale of +a Tub' into ridicule. But Cotton's own vein, as exhibited in his +'Invitation to Walton,' his 'New Year,' and his 'Voyage to Ireland,' +(which anticipates in some measure the style of Anstey in the 'New Bath +Guide,') is very rich and varied, full of ease, picturesque spirit, and +humour, and stamps him a genuine, if not a great poet. + + +INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON. + +1 Whilst in this cold and blustering clime, + Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, + We pass away the roughest time + Has been of many years before; + +2 Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks + The dullest blasts our peace invade, + And by great rains our smallest brooks + Are almost navigable made; + +3 Whilst all the ills are so improved + Of this dead quarter of the year, + That even you, so much beloved, + We would not now wish with us here: + +4 In this estate, I say, it is + Some comfort to us to suppose, + That in a better clime than this, + You, our dear friend, have more repose; + +5 And some delight to me the while, + Though Nature now does weep in rain, + To think that I have seen her smile, + And haply may I do again. + +6 If the all-ruling Power please + We live to see another May, + We'll recompense an age of these + Foul days in one fine fishing day. + +7 We then shall have a day or two, + Perhaps a week, wherein to try + What the best master's hand can do + With the most deadly killing fly. + +8 A day with not too bright a beam; + A warm, but not a scorching sun; + A southern gale to curl the stream; + And, master, half our work is done. + +9 Then, whilst behind some bush we wait + The scaly people to betray, + We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait, + To make the preying trout our prey; + +10 And think ourselves, in such an hour, + Happier than those, though not so high, + Who, like leviathans, devour + Of meaner men the smaller fry. + +11 This, my best friend, at my poor home, + Shall be our pastime and our theme; + But then--should you not deign to come, + You make all this a flattering dream. + + + +A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE. + +CANTO I. + +The lives of frail men are compared by the sages +Or unto short journeys, or pilgrimages, +As men to their inns do come sooner or later, +That is, to their ends, to be plain in my matter; +From whence when one dead is, it currently follows, +He has run his race, though his goal be the gallows; +And this 'tis, I fancy, sets folks so a-madding, +And makes men and women so eager of gadding; +Truth is, in my youth I was one of these people +Would have gone a great way to have seen a high steeple, +And though I was bred 'mongst the wonders o' th' Peak, +Would have thrown away money, and ventured my neck +To have seen a great hill, a rock, or a cave, +And thought there was nothing so pleasant and brave: +But at forty years old you may, if you please, +Think me wiser than run such errands as these; +Or had the same humour still run in my toes, +A voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have chose; +But to tell you the truth on 't, indeed it was neither +Improvement nor pleasure for which I went thither; +I know then you'll presently ask me for what? +Why, faith, it was that makes the old woman trot; +And therefore I think I'm not much to be blamed +If I went to the place whereof Nick was ashamed. + +O Coryate! thou traveller famed as Ulysses, +In such a stupendous labour as this is, +Come lend me the aids of thy hands and thy feet, +Though the first be pedantic, the other not sweet, +Yet both are so restless in peregrination, +They'll help both my journey, and eke my relation. + +'Twas now the most beautiful time of the year, +The days were now long, and the sky was now clear, +And May, that fair lady of splendid renown, +Had dressed herself fine, in her flowered tabby gown, +When about some two hours and an half after noon, +When it grew something late, though I thought it too soon, +With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart, +I tuned up my pipes to sing _'loth to depart;_' +The ditty concluded, I called for my horse, +And with a good pack did the jument endorse, +Till he groaned and he f----d under the burden, +For sorrow had made me a cumbersome lurden: +And now farewell, Dove, where I've caught such brave dishes +Of over-grown, golden, and silver-scaled fishes; +Thy trout and thy grayling may now feed securely, +I've left none behind me can take 'em so surely; +Feed on then, and breed on, until the next year, +But if I return I expect my arrear. + +By pacing and trotting betimes in the even, +Ere the sun had forsaken one half of the heaven, +We all at fair Congerton took up our inn, +Where the sign of a king kept a King and his queen: +But who do you think came to welcome me there'? +No worse a man, marry, than good master mayor, +With his staff of command, yet the man was not lame, +But he needed it more when he went, than he came; +After three or four hours of friendly potation, +We took leave each of other in courteous fashion, +When each one, to keep his brains fast in his head, +Put on a good nightcap, and straightway to bed. + +Next morn, having paid for boiled, roasted, and bacon, +And of sovereign hostess our leaves kindly taken, +(For her king, as 'twas rumoured, by late pouring down, +This morning had got a foul flaw in his crown,) +We mounted again, and full soberly riding, +Three miles we had rid ere we met with a biding; +But there, having over-night plied the tap well, +We now must needs water at a place called Holmes Chapel: +'A hay!' quoth the foremost, 'ho! who keeps the house?' +Which said, out an host comes as brisk as a louse; +His hair combed as sleek as a barber he'd been, +A cravat with black ribbon tied under his chin; +Though by what I saw in him, I straight 'gan to fear +That knot would be one day slipped under his ear. +Quoth he (with low conge), 'What lack you, my lord?' +'The best liquor,' quoth I, 'that the house will afford.' +'You shall straight,' quoth he; and then calls out, 'Mary? +Come quickly, and bring us a quart of Canary.' +'Hold, hold, my spruce host! for i' th' morning so early, +I never drink liquor but what's made of barley.' +Which words were scarce out, but, which made me admire, +My lordship was presently turned into 'squire: + +'Ale, 'squire, you mean?' quoth he nimbly again, +'What, must it be purled'--'No, I love it best plain.' +'Why, if you'll drink ale, sir, pray take my advice, +Here's the best ale i' th' land, if you'll go to the price; +Better, I sure am, ne'er blew out a stopple; +But then, in plain truth, it is sixpence a bottle.' +'Why, faith,' quoth I, 'friend, if your liquor be such, +For the best ale in England, it is not too much: +Let's have it, and quickly.'--'o sir! you may stay; +A pot in your pate is a mile in your way: +Come, bring out a bottle here presently, wife, +Of the best Cheshire hum he e'er drank in his life.' +Straight out comes the mistress in waistcoat of silk, +As clear as a milkmaid, as white as her milk, +With visage as oval and sleek as an egg, +As straight as an arrow, as right as my leg: +A curtsey she made, as demure as a sister, +I could not forbear, but alighted and kissed her: +Then ducking another, with most modest mien, +The first word she said was, 'Will 't please you walk in? +I thanked her; but told her, I then could not stay, +For the haste of my business did call me away. +She said, she was sorry it fell out so odd, +But if, when again I should travel that road, +I would stay there a night, she assured me the nation +Should nowhere afford better accommodation: +Meanwhile my spruce landlord has broken the cork, +And called for a bodkin, though he had a fork; +But I showed him a screw, which I told my brisk gull +A trepan was for bottles had broken their skull; +Which, as it was true, he believed without doubt, +But 'twas I that applied it, and pulled the cork out. +Bounce, quoth the bottle, the work being done, +It roared, and it smoked, like a new-fired gun; +But the shot missed us all, or else we'd been routed, +Which yet was a wonder, we were so about it. +Mine host poured and filled, till he could fill no fuller: +'Look here, sir,' quoth he, 'both for nap and for colour, +Sans bragging, I hate it, nor will I e'er do 't; +I defy Leek, and Lambhith, and Sandwich, to boot.' +By my troth, he said true, for I speak it with tears, +Though I have been a toss-pot these twenty good years, +And have drank so much liquor has made me a debtor, +In my days, that I know of, I never drank better: +We found it so good and we drank so profoundly, +That four good round shillings were whipt away roundly; +And then I conceived it was time to be jogging, +For our work had been done, had we stay'd t' other noggin. + +From thence we set forth with more metal and spright, +Our horses were empty, our coxcombs were light; +O'er Dellamore forest we, tantivy, posted, +Till our horses were basted as if they were roasted: +In truth, we pursued might have been by our haste, +And I think Sir George Booth did not gallop so fast, +Till about two o'clock after noon, God be blest, +We came, safe and sound, all to Chester i' th' west. + +And now in high time 'twas to call for some meat, +Though drinking does well, yet some time we must eat: +And i' faith we had victuals both plenty and good, +Where we all laid about us as if we were wood: +Go thy ways, Mistress Anderton, for a good woman, +Thy guests shall by thee ne'er be turned to a common; +And whoever of thy entertainment complains, +Let him lie with a drab, and be poxed for his pains. + +And here I must stop the career of my Muse, +The poor jade is weary, 'las! how should she choose? +And if I should further here spur on my course, +I should, questionless, tire both my wits and my horse: +To-night let us rest, for 'tis good Sunday's even, +To-morrow to church, and ask pardon of Heaven. +Thus far we our time spent, as here I have penned it, +An odd kind of life, and 'tis well if we mend it: +But to-morrow (God willing) we'll have t' other bout, +And better or worse be 't, for murder will out, +Our future adventures we'll lay down before ye, +For my Muse is deep sworn to use truth of the story. + + +CANTO II + +After seven hours' sleep, to commute for pains taken, +A man of himself, one would think, might awaken; +But riding, and drinking hard, were two such spells, +I doubt I'd slept on, but for jangling of bells, +Which, ringing to matins all over the town, +Made me leap out of bed, and put on my gown. +With intent (so God mend me) t' have gone to the choir, +When straight I perceived myself all on a fire; +For the two forenamed things had so heated my blood, +That a little phlebotomy would do me good: +I sent for chirurgeon, who came in a trice, +And swift to shed blood, needed not be called twice, +But tilted stiletto quite thorough the vein, +From whence issued out the ill humours amain; +When having twelve ounces, he bound up my arm, +And I gave him two Georges, which did him no harm: +But after my bleeding, I soon understood +It had cooled my devotion as well as my blood; +For I had no more mind to look on my psalter, +Than (saving your presence) I had to a halter; +But, like a most wicked and obstinate sinner, +Then sat in my chamber till folks came to dinner: +I dined with good stomach, and very good cheer, +With a very fine woman, and good ale and beer; +When myself having stuffed than a bagpipe more full, +I fell to my smoking until I grew dull; +And, therefore, to take a fine nap thought it best, +For when belly full is, bones would be at rest: +I tumbled me down on my bed like a swad, +Where, oh! the delicious dream that I had! +Till the bells, that had been my morning molesters, +Now waked me again, chiming all in to vespers: +With that starting up, for my man I did whistle, +And combed out and powdered my locks that were grizzle; +Had my clothes neatly brushed, and then put on my sword, +Resolved now to go and attend on the word. + +Thus tricked, and thus trim, to set forth I begin, +Neat and cleanly without, but scarce cleanly within; +For why, Heaven knows it, I long time had been +A most humble obedient servant to sin; +And now in devotion was even so proud, +I scorned forsooth to join prayer with the crowd; +For though courted by all the bells as I went, +I was deaf, and regarded not the compliment, +But to the cathedral still held on my pace, +As't were, scorning to kneel but in the best place. +I there made myself sure of good music at least, +But was something deceived, for 'twas none of the best: +But however I stay'd at the church's commanding +Till we came to the 'Peace passes all understanding,' +Which no sooner was ended, but whir and away, +Like boys in a school when they've leave got to play; +All save master mayor, who still gravely stays +Till the rest had made room for his worship and's mace: +Then he and his brethren in order appear, +I out of my stall, and fell into his rear; +For why, 'tis much safer appearing, no doubt, +In authority's tail, than the head of a rout. + +In this rev'rend order we marched from prayer; +The mace before me borne as well as the mayor; +Who looking behind him, and seeing most plain +A glorious gold belt in the rear of his train, +Made such a low conge, forgetting his place, +I was never so honoured before in my days: +But then off went my scalp-case, and down went my fist, +Till the pavement, too hard, by my knuckles was kissed; +By which, though thick-skulled, he must understand this, +That I was a most humble servant of his; +Which also so wonderful kindly he took, +(As I well perceived both b' his gesture and look,) +That to have me dogg'd home he straightway appointed, +Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted. +I was scarce in my quarters, and set down on crupper, +But his man was there too, to invite me to supper: +I start up, and after most respective fashion +Gave his worship much thanks for his kind invitation; +But begged his excuse, for my stomach was small, +And I never did eat any supper at all; +But that after supper I would kiss his hands, +And would come to receive his worship's commands. +Sure no one will say, but a patron of slander, +That this was not pretty well for a Moorlander: +And since on such reasons to sup I refused, +I nothing did doubt to be holden excused; +But my quaint repartee had his worship possess'd +With so wonderful good a conceit of the rest, +That with mere impatience he hoped in his breeches +To see the fine fellow that made such fine speeches: +'Go, sirrah!' quoth he, 'get you to him again, +And will and require, in his Majesty's name, +That he come; and tell him, obey he were best, or +I'll teach him to know that he's now in West-Chester.' +The man, upon this, comes me running again, +But yet minced his message, and was not so plain; +Saying to me only, 'Good sir, I am sorry +To tell you my master has sent again for you; +And has such a longing to have you his guest, +That I, with these ears, heard him swear and protest, +He would neither say grace, nor sit down on his bum, +Nor open his napkin, until you do come.' +With that I perceived no excuse would avail, +And, seeing there was no defence for a flail, +I said I was ready master may'r to obey, +And therefore desired him to lead me the way. +We went, and ere Malkin could well lick her ear, +(For it but the next door was, forsooth) we were there; +Where lights being brought me, I mounted the stairs, +The worst I e'er saw in my life at a mayor's: +But everything else must be highly commended. +I there found his worship most nobly attended, +Besides such a supper as well did convince, +A may'r in his province to be a great prince; +As he sat in his chair, he did not much vary, +In state nor in face, from our eighth English Harry; +But whether his face was swelled up with fat, +Or puffed up with glory, I cannot tell that. +Being entered the chamber half length of a pike, +And cutting of faces exceedingly like +One of those little gentlemen brought from the Indies, +And screwing myself into conges and cringes, +By then I was half-way advanced in the room, +His worship most rev'rendly rose from his bum, +And with the more honour to grace and to greet me, +Advanced a whole step and a half for to meet me; +Where leisurely doffing a hat worth a tester, +He bade me most heartily welcome to Chester. +I thanked him in language the best I was able, +And so we forthwith sat us all down to table. + +Now here you must note, and 'tis worth observation, +That as his chair at one end o' th' table had station; +So sweet mistress may'ress, in just such another, +Like the fair queen of hearts, sat in state at the other; +By which I perceived, though it seemed a riddle, +The lower end of this must be just in the middle: +But perhaps 'tis a rule there, and one that would mind it +Amongst the town-statutes 'tis likely might find it. +But now into the pottage each deep his spoon claps, +As in truth one might safely for burning one's chaps, +When straight, with the look and the tone of a scold, +Mistress may'ress complained that the pottage was cold; +'And all 'long of your fiddle-faddle,' quoth she. +'Why, what then, Goody Two-Shoes, what if it be? +Hold you, if you can, your tittle-tattle,' quoth he. +I was glad she was snapped thus, and guessed by th' discourse, +The may'r, not the gray mare, was the better horse, +And yet for all that, there is reason to fear, +She submitted but out of respect to his year: +However 'twas well she had now so much grace, +Though not to the man, to submit to his place; +For had she proceeded, I verily thought +My turn would the next be, for I was in fault: +But this brush being past, we fell to our diet, +And every one there filled his belly in quiet. +Supper being ended, and things away taken, +Master mayor's curiosity 'gan to awaken; +Wherefore making me draw something nearer his chair, +He willed and required me there to declare +My country, my birth, my estate, and my parts, +And whether I was not a master of arts; +And eke what the business was had brought me thither, +With what I was going about now, and whither: +Giving me caution, no lie should escape me, +For if I should trip, he should certainly trap me. +I answered, my country was famed Staffordshire; +That in deeds, bills, and bonds, I was ever writ squire; +That of land I had both sorts, some good, and some evil, +But that a great part on't was pawned to the devil; +That as for my parts, they were such as he saw; +That, indeed, I had a small smatt'ring of law, +Which I lately had got more by practice than reading, +By sitting o' th' bench, whilst others were pleading; +But that arms I had ever more studied than arts, +And was now to a captain raised by my deserts; +That the business which led me through Palatine ground +Into Ireland was, whither now I was bound; +Where his worship's great favour I loud will proclaim, +And in all other places wherever I came. +He said, as to that, I might do what I list, +But that I was welcome, and gave me his fist; +When having my fingers made crack with his gripes, +He called to his man for some bottles and pipes. + +To trouble you here with a longer narration +Of the several parts of our confabulation, +Perhaps would be tedious; I'll therefore remit ye +Even to the most rev'rend records of the city, +Where, doubtless, the acts of the may'rs are recorded, +And if not more truly, yet much better worded. + +In short, then, we piped and we tippled Canary, +Till my watch pointed one in the circle horary; +When thinking it now was high time to depart, +His worship I thanked with a most grateful heart; +And because to great men presents are acceptable, +I presented the may'r, ere I rose from the table, +With a certain fantastical box and a stopper; +And he having kindly accepted my offer, +I took my fair leave, such my visage adorning, +And to bed, for I was to rise early i' th' morning. + + +CANTO III. + +The sun in the morning disclosed his light, +With complexion as ruddy as mine over night; +And o'er th' eastern mountains peeping up's head, +The casement being open, espied me in bed; +With his rays he so tickled my lids that I waked, +And was half ashamed, for I found myself naked; +But up I soon start, and was dressed in a trice, +And called for a draught of ale, sugar, and spice; +Which having turned off, I then call to pay, +And packing my nawls, whipt to horse, and away. +A guide I had got, who demanded great vails, +For conducting me over the mountains of Wales: +Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is; +Yet that would not serve, but I must bear his charges; +And yet for all that, rode astride on a beast, +The worst that e'er went on three legs, I protest: +It certainly was the most ugly of jades, +His hips and his rump made a right ace of spades; +His sides were two ladders, well spur-galled withal; +His neck was a helve, and his head was a mall; +For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll spare, +For the creature was wholly denuded of hair; +And, except for two things, as bare as my nail, +A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail; +And by these the true colour one can no more know, +Than by mouse-skins above stairs, the merkin below. +Now such as the beast was, even such was the rider, +With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider; +A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, +The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat: +Even such was my guide and his beast; let them pass, +The one for a horse, and the other an ass. +But now with our horses, what sound and what rotten, +Down to the shore, you must know, we were gotten; +And there we were told, it concerned us to ride, +Unless we did mean to encounter the tide; +And then my guide lab'ring with heels and with hands, +With two up and one down, hopped over the sands, +Till his horse, finding the labour for three legs too sore, +Foaled out a new leg, and then he had four: +And now by plain dint of hard spurring and whipping, +Dry-shod we came where folks sometimes take shipping; +And where the salt sea, as the devil were in 't, +Came roaring t' have hindered our journey to Flint; +But we, by good luck, before him got thither, +He else would have carried us, no man knows whither. + +And now her in Wales is, Saint Taph be her speed, +Gott splutter her taste, some Welsh ale her had need; +For her ride in great haste, and * * +For fear of her being catched up by the fishes: +But the lord of Flint castle's no lord worth a louse, +For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his house; +But in a small house near unto 't there was store +Of such ale as, thank God, I ne'er tasted before; +And surely the Welsh are not wise of their fuddle, +For this had the taste and complexion of puddle. +From thence then we marched, full as dry as we came, +My guide before prancing, his steed no more lame, +O'er hills and o'er valleys uncouth and uneven, +Until 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven, +More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell, +We happily came to Saint Winifred's well: +I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been, +By the cripples lay there; but I went to my inn +To speak for some meat, for so stomach did motion, +Before I did further proceed in devotion: +I went into th' kitchen, where victuals I saw, +Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on 't was raw; +And some on't alive, but soon went to slaughter, +For four chickens were slain by my dame and her daughter; +Of which to Saint Win. ere my vows I had paid, +They said I should find a rare fricasee made: +I thanked them, and straight to the well did repair, +Where some I found cursing, and others at prayer; +Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some in, +Some naked, where botches and boils might be seen; +Of which some were fevers of Venus I'm sure, +And therefore unfit for the virgin to cure: +But the fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight, +The beautiful virgin's own tears not more bright; +Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear, +Her conscience, her name, nor herself, were more clear. +In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white, +But streaked with pure red, as the morning with light, +Which they say is her blood, and so it may be, +But for that, let who shed it look to it for me. +Over the fountain a chapel there stands, +Which I wonder has 'scaped master Oliver's hands; +The floor's not ill paved, and the margin o' th' spring +Is inclosed with a certain octagonal ring; +From each angle of which a pillar does rise, +Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice +To support and uphold from falling to ground +A cupola wherewith the virgin is crowned. +Now 'twixt the two angles that fork to the north, +And where the cold nymph does her basin pour forth, +Under ground is a place where they bathe, as 'tis said, +And 'tis true, for I heard folks' teeth hack in their head; +For you are to know, that the rogues and the * * +Are not let to pollute the spring-head with their sores. +But one thing I chiefly admired in the place, +That a saint and a virgin endued with such grace, +Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer +To that whoring and filching trade of a miller, +As within a few paces to furnish the wheels +Of I cannot tell how many water-mills: +I've studied that point much, you cannot guess why, +But the virgin was, doubtless, more righteous than I. +And now for my welcome, four, five, or six lasses, +With as many crystalline liberal glasses, +Did all importune me to drink of the water +Of Saint Winifreda, good Thewith's fair daughter. +A while I was doubtful, and stood in a muse, +Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to choose. +Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight, +From the rest o' th' fair maidens did carry me quite; +I took the glass from her, and whip, off it went, +I half doubt I fancied a health to the saint: +But he was a great villain committed the slaughter, +For Saint Winifred made most delicate water. +I slipped a hard shilling into her soft hand, +Which had like to have made me the place have profaned; +And giving two more to the poor that were there, +Did, sharp as a hawk, to my quarters repair. + +My dinner was ready, and to it I fell, +I never ate better meat, that I can tell; +When having half dined, there comes in my host, +A catholic good, and a rare drunken toast; +This man, by his drinking, inflamed the scot, +And told me strange stories, which I have forgot; +But this I remember, 'twas much on's own life, +And one thing, that he had converted his wife. + +But now my guide told me, it time was to go, +For that to our beds we must both ride and row; +Wherefore calling to pay, and having accounted, +I soon was down-stairs, and as suddenly mounted: +On then we travelled, our guide still before, +Sometimes on three legs, and sometimes on four, +Coasting the sea, and over hills crawling, +Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall in; +For underneath Neptune lay skulking to watch us, +And, had we but slipped once, was ready to catch us. +Thus in places of danger taking more heed, +And in safer travelling mending our speed: +Redland Castle and Abergoney we past, +And o'er against Connoway came at the last: +Just over against a castle there stood, +O' th' right hand the town, and o' th' left hand a wood; +'Twixt the wood and the castle they see at high water +The storm, the place makes it a dangerous matter; +And besides, upon such a steep rock it is founded, +As would break a man's neck, should he'scape being drowned: +Perhaps though in time one may make them to yield, +But 'tis prettiest Cob-castle e'er I beheld. + +The sun now was going t' unharness his steeds, +When the ferry-boat brasking her sides 'gainst the weeds, +Came in as good time as good time could be, +To give us a cast o'er an arm of the sea; +And bestowing our horses before and abaft, +O'er god Neptune's wide cod-piece gave us a waft; +Where scurvily landing at foot of the fort, +Within very few paces we entered the port, +Where another King's Head invited me down, +For indeed I have ever been true to the crown. + + + + +DR HENRY MORE. + + +This eminent man was the son of a gentleman of good family and estate +in Grantham, Lincolnshire. He was born in 1614. His father sent him to +study at Eton, and thence, in 1631, he repaired to Cambridge, where he +was destined to spend the most of his life. Philosophy attracted him +early, in preference to science or literature, and he became a follower +of Plato, so decided and enthusiastic as to gain for himself the title +of 'The Platonist' _par excellence_. In 1639, he graduated M.A.; and the +next year, he published the first part of 'Psychozoia; or, The Song of +the Soul,' containing a Christiano-Platonical account of Man and Life. +In preparing the materials of this poem, he had studied all the +principal Platonists and mystical writers, and is said to have read +himself almost to a shadow. And not only was his body emaciated, but +his mind was so overstrung, that he imagined himself to see spiritual +beings, to hear supernatural voices, and to converse, like Socrates, +with a particular genius. He thought, too, that his body 'exhaled the +perfume of violets!' Notwithstanding these little peculiarities, his +genius and his learning, the simplicity of his character, and the +innocence of his life, rendered him a general favourite; he was made +a fellow of his college, and became a tutor to various persons of +distinguished rank. One of these was Sir John Finch, whose sister, Lady +Conway, an enthusiast herself, brought More acquainted with the famous +John Baptist Van Helment, a man after whom, in the beginning of the +seventeenth century, the whole of Europe wondered. He was a follower and +imitator of Paracelsus, like him affected universal knowledge, aspired +to revolutionise the science of medicine, and died with the reputation +of one who, with great powers and acquirements, instead of becoming a +great man, ended as a brilliant pretender, and was rather an 'architect +of ruin' to the systems of others, than the founder of a solid fabric of +his own. More admired, of course, not the quackery, but the adventurous +boldness of Helment's genius, and his devotion to chemistry; which is +certainly the most spiritual of all the sciences, and must, especially +in its transcendental forms, have had a great charm for a Platonic +thinker. Our author was entirely devoted to study, and resisted every +inducement to leave what he called his 'Paradise' at Cambridge. His +friends once tried to decoy him into a bishopric, and got him the length +of Whitehall to kiss the king's hand on the occasion; but when he +understood their purpose, he refused to go a single step further. His +life was a long, learned, happy, and holy dream. He was of the most +benevolent disposition; and once observed to a friend, 'that he was +thought by some to have a soft head, but he thanked God he had a soft +heart.' In the heat of the Rebellion, the Republicans spared More, +although he had refused to take the Covenant. Campbell says of him, +'He corresponded with Descartes, was the friend of Cudworth, and, as a +divine and a moralist, was not only popular in his own time, but has +been mentioned with admiration both by Addison and Blair.' One is rather +amused at the latter clause. That a man of More's massive learning, +noble eloquence, and divine genius should need the testimony of a mere +elegant wordmonger like Blair, seems ludicrous enough; and Addison +himself, except in wit and humour, was not worthy to have untied the +shoelatchets of the old Platonist. We were first introduced to this +writer by good Dr John Brown, late of Broughton Place, Edinburgh, and +shall never forget hearing him, in his library, read some splendid +passages from More's work, in those deep, mellow, antique tones which +flavoured whatever he read, like the crust on old wine. His chief works +are, 'A Discourse on the Immortality of the Soul,' 'The Mystery of +Godliness,' 'The Mystery of Iniquity,' 'Divine Dialogues,' 'An Antidote +against Atheism,' 'Ethical and Metaphysical Manuals,' &c. In writing +such books, and pursuing the recondite studies of which they were the +fruit, More spent his life happily. In 1661, he became a Fellow of +the Royal Society. For twenty years after the Restoration, his works +are said to have sold better than any of their day--a curious and +unaccountable fact, considering the levity and licentiousness of the +period. In September 1687, the fine old spiritualist, aged seventy- +three, went away to that land of 'ideas' to which his heart had been +translated long before. + +More's prose writings give us, on the whole, a higher idea of his powers +than his poem. This is not exactly, as a recent critic calls it, 'dull +and tedious,' but it is in some parts prosaic, and in others obscure. +The gleams of fancy in it are genuine, but few and far between. But his +prose works constitute, like those of Cudworth, Charnock, Jeremy Taylor, +and John Scott, a vast old quarry, abounding both in blocks and in gems +--blocks of granite solidity, and gems of starry lustre. The peculiarity +of More is in that poetico-philosophic mist which, like the autumnal +gossamer, hangs in light and beautiful festoons over his thoughts, and +which suggests pleasing memories of Plato and the Alexandrian school. +Like all the followers of the Grecian sage, he dwells in a region of +'ideas,' which are to him the only realities, and are not cold, but +warm; he sees all things in Divine solution; the visible is lost in the +invisible, and nature retires before her God. Surely they are splendid +reveries those of the Platonic school; but it is sad to reflect that +they have not cast the slightest gleam of light on the dark, frightful, +faith-shattering mysteries which perplex all inquirers. The old shadows +of sin, death, damnation, evil, and hell, are found to darken the 'ideas' +of Plato's world quite as deeply as they do the actualities of this weary, +work-day earth, into which men have, for some inscrutable purpose, been +sent to be, on the whole, miserable,--so often to toil without compen- +sation, to suffer without benefit, and to hope without fulfilment. + + +OPENING OF SECOND PART OF 'PSYCHOZOIA.' + +1 Whatever man he be that dares to deem + True poets' skill to spring of earthly race, + I must him tell, that he doth mis-esteem + Their strange estate, and eke himself disgrace + By his rude ignorance. For there's no place + For forced labour, or slow industry, + Of flagging wits, in that high fiery chase; + So soon as of the Muse they quickened be, + At once they rise, and lively sing like lark in sky. + +2 Like to a meteor, whose material + Is low unwieldy earth, base unctuous slime, + Whose inward hidden parts ethereal + Lie close upwrapt in that dull sluggish fime, + Lie fast asleep, till at some fatal time + Great Phoebus' lamp has fired its inward sprite, + And then even of itself on high doth climb: + That erst was dark becomes all eye, all sight, + Bright star, that to the wise of future things gives light. + +3 Even so the weaker mind, that languid lies, + Knit up in rags of dirt, dark, cold, and blind, + So soon that purer flame of love unties + Her clogging chains, and doth her sprite unbind, + She soars aloft; for she herself doth find + Well plumed; so raised upon her spreaden wing, + She softly plays, and warbles in the wind, + And carols out her inward life and spring + Of overflowing joy, and of pure love doth sing. + + +EXORDIUM OF THIRD PART. + +1 Hence, hence, unhallowed ears, arid hearts more hard + Than winter clods fast froze with northern wind, + But most of all, foul tongue! I thee discard, + That blamest all that thy dark straitened mind + Cannot conceive: but that no blame thou find; + Whate'er my pregnant muse brings forth to light, + She'll not acknowledge to be of her kind, + Till eagle-like she turn them to the sight + Of the eternal Word, all decked with glory bright. + +2 Strange sights do straggle in my restless thoughts, + And lively forms with orient colours clad + Walk in my boundless mind, as men ybrought + Into some spacious room, who when they've had + A turn or two, go out, although unbade. + All these I see and know, but entertain + None to my friend but who's most sober sad; + Although, the time my roof doth them contain + Their presence doth possess me till they out again. + +3 And thus possessed, in silver trump I sound + Their guise, their shape, their gesture, and array; + But as in silver trumpet nought is found + When once the piercing sound is passed away, + (Though while the mighty blast therein did stay, + Its tearing noise so terribly did shrill, + That it the heavens did shake, and earth dismay,) + As empty I of what my flowing quill + In needless haste elsewhere, or here, may hap to spill. + +4 For 'tis of force, and not of a set will, + Nor dare my wary mind afford assent + To what is placed above all mortal skill; + But yet, our various thoughts to represent, + Each gentle wight will deem of good intent. + Wherefore, with leave the infinity I'll sing + Of time, of space; or without leave; I'm brent + With eager rage, my heart for joy doth spring, + And all my spirits move with pleasant trembeling. + +5 An inward triumph doth my soul upheave + And spread abroad through endless 'spersed air. + My nimble mind this clammy clod doth leave, + And lightly stepping on from star to star + Swifter than lightning, passeth wide and far, + Measuring the unbounded heavens and wasteful sky; + Nor aught she finds her passage to debar, + For still the azure orb as she draws nigh + Gives back, new stars appear, the world's walls 'fore her fly. + + +DESTRUCTION AND RENOVATION OF ALL THINGS. + +1 As the seas, + Boiling with swelling waves, aloft did rise, + And met with mighty showers and pouring rain + From heaven's spouts; so the broad flashing skies, + With brimstone thick and clouds of fiery bane, + Shall meet with raging Etna's and Vesuvius' flame. + +2 The burning bowels of this wasting ball + Shall gallup up great flakes of rolling fire, + And belch out pitchy flames, till over all + Having long raged, Vulcan himself shall tire, + And (the earth an ash-heap made) shall then expire: + Here Nature, laid asleep in her own urn, + With gentle rest right easily will respire, + Till to her pristine task she do return + As fresh as Phoenix young under the Arabian morn. + +3 Oh, happy they that then the first are born, + While yet the world is in her vernal pride; + For old corruption quite away is worn, + As metal pure so is her mould well tried. + Sweet dews, cool-breathing airs, and spaces wide + Of precious spicery, wafted with soft wind: + Fair comely bodies goodly beautified. + +4 For all the while her purged ashes rest, + These relics dry suck in the heavenly dew, + And roscid manna rains upon her breast, + And fills with sacred milk, sweet, fresh, and new, + Where all take life and doth the world renew; + And then renewed with pleasure be yfed. + A green, soft mantle doth her bosom strew + With fragrant herbs and flowers embellished, + Where without fault or shame all living creatures bed. + + +A DISTEMPERED FANCY. + +1 Then the wild fancy from her horrid womb + Will senden forth foul shapes. O dreadful sight! + Overgrown toads, fierce serpents, thence will come, + Red-scaled dragons, with deep burning light + In their hollow eye-pits: with these she must fight: + Then think herself ill wounded, sorely stung. + Old fulsome hags, with scabs and scurf bedight, + Foul tarry spittle tumbling with their tongue + On their raw leather lips, these near will to her clung, + +2 And lovingly salute against her will, + Closely embrace, and make her mad with woe: + She'd lever thousand times they did her kill, + Than force her such vile baseness undergo. + Anon some giant his huge self will show, + Gaping with mouth as vast as any cave, + With stony, staring eyes, and footing slow: + She surely deems him her live, walking grave, + From that dern hollow pit knows not herself to save. + +3 After a while, tossed on the ocean main, + A boundless sea she finds of misery; + The fiery snorts of the leviathan, + That makes the boiling waves before him fly, + She hears, she sees his blazing morn-bright eye: + If here she 'scape, deep gulfs and threatening rocks + Her frighted self do straightway terrify; + Steel-coloured clouds with rattling thunder knocks, + With these she is amazed, and thousand such-like mocks. + + +SOUL COMPARED TO A LANTERN. + +1 Like to a light fast locked in lantern dark, + Whereby by night our wary steps we guide + In slabby streets, and dirty channels mark, + Some weaker rays through the black top do glide, + And flusher streams perhaps from horny side. + But when we've passed the peril of the way, + Arrived at home, and laid that case aside, + The naked light how clearly doth it ray, + And spread its joyful beams as bright as summer's day. + +2 Even so, the soul, in this contracted state, + Confined to these strait instruments of sense, + More dull and narrowly doth operate. + At this hole hears, the sight must ray from thence, + Here tastes, there smells; but when she's gone from hence, + Like naked lamp, she is one shining sphere, + And round about has perfect cognoscence + Whate'er in her horizon doth appear: + She is one orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear. + + + + +WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE. + + +Chamberlayne was, during life, a poor man, and, till long after his +death, an unappreciated poet. He was a physician at Shaftesbury, +Dorsetshire; born in 1619, and died in 1689. He appears to have been +present among the Royalists at the battle of Newbury. He complains +bitterly of his narrow circumstances, and yet he lived to a long age. +He published, in 1658, a tragic comedy, entitled 'Love's Victory,' and +in 1659, 'Pharonnida,' a heroic poem. + +The latter is the main support of his literary reputation. It was +discovered to be good by Thomas Campbell, who might say, + + 'I was the first that ever burst + Into that silent sea.' + +Silent, however, it continues since, and can never be expected to be +thronged by visitors. The story is interesting, and many of the separate +thoughts, expressions, and passages are beautiful, as, for instance-- + + 'The scholar stews his catholic brains for food;' + +and this-- + + 'Harsh poverty, + That moth which frets the sacred robe of wit;' + +but the style is often elliptical and involved; the story meanders too +much, and is too long and intricate; and, on the whole, a few mutilated +fragments are all that are likely to remain of an original and highly +elaborate poem. + + +ARGALIA TAKEN PRISONER BY THE TURKS. + + * * The Turks had ought +Made desperate onslaughts on the isle, but brought +Nought back but wounds and infamy; but now, +Wearied with toil, they are resolved to bow +Their stubborn resolutions with the strength +Of not-to-be-resisted want: the length +Of the chronical disease extended had +To some few months, since to oppress the sad +But constant islanders, the army lay, +Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious stay +From battle rusts the soldier's valour in +His tainted cabin, there had often been, +With all variety of fortune, fought +Brave single combats, whose success had brought +Honour's unwithered laurels on the brow +Of either party; but the balance, now +Forced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclined +Wholly to them. Thrice had his valour shined +In victory's refulgent rays, thrice heard +The shouts of conquest; thrice on his lance appeared +The heads of noble Rhodians, which had struck +A general sorrow 'mongst the knights. All look +Who next the lists should enter; each desires +The task were his, but honour now requires +A spirit more than vulgar, or she dies +The next attempt, their valour's sacrifice; +To prop whose ruins, chosen by the free +Consent of all, Argalia comes to be +Their happy champion. Truce proclaimed, until +The combat ends, the expecting people fill +The spacious battlements; the Turks forsake +Their tents, of whom the city ladies take +A dreadful view, till a more noble sight +Diverts their looks; each part behold their knight +With various wishes, whilst in blood and sweat +They toil for victory. The conflict's heat +Raged in their veins, which honour more inflamed +Than burning calentures could do; both blamed +The feeble influence of their stars, that gave +No speedier conquest; each neglects to save +Himself, to seek advantage to offend +His eager foe * * * * +* * * But now so long +The Turks' proud champion had endured the strong +Assaults of the stout Christian, till his strength +Cooled, on the ground, with his blood--he fell at length, +Beneath his conquering sword. The barbarous crew +O' the villains that did at a distance view +Their champion's fall, all bands of truce forgot, +Running to succour him, begin a hot +And desperate combat with those knights that stand +To aid Argalia, by whose conquering hand +Whole squadrons of them fall, but here he spent +His mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rent +His scattered troops. + + * * * * * + +Argalia lies in chains, ordained to die +A sacrifice unto the cruelty +Of the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite in +The combat late he slew; yet had not been +In that so much unhappy, had not he +That honoured then his sword with victory, +Half-brother to Janusa been, a bright +But cruel lady, whose refined delight +Her slave (though husband), Ammurat, durst not +Ruffle with discontent; wherefore, to cool that hot +Contention of her blood, which he foresaw +That heavy news would from her anger draw, +To quench with the brave Christian's death, he sent +Him living to her, that her anger, spent +In flaming torments, might not settle in +The dregs of discontent. Staying to win +Some Rhodian castles, all the prisoners were +Sent with a guard into Sardinia, there +To meet their wretched thraldom. From the rest +Argalia severed, soon hopes to be bless'd +With speedy death, though waited on by all +The hell-instructed torments that could fall +Within invention's reach; but he's not yet +Arrived to his period, his unmoved stars sit +Thus in their orbs secured. It was the use +Of the Turkish pride, which triumphs in the abuse +Of suffering Christians, once, before they take +The ornaments of nature off, to make +Their prisoners public to the view, that all +Might mock their miseries: this sight did call +Janusa to her palace-window, where, +Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bear +Her ruin on her treacherous eye-beams, till +Her heart infected grew; their orbs did fill, +As the most pleasing object, with the sight +Of him whose sword opened a way for the flight +Of her loved brother's soul. + + + + +HENRY VAUGHAN. + + +Vaughan was torn in Wales, on the banks of the Uske, in Brecknockshire, +in 1614. His father was a gentleman, but, we presume, poor, as his son +was bred to a profession. Young Vaughan became first a lawyer, and then +a physician; and we suppose, had it not been for his advanced life, he +would have become latterly a clergyman, since he grew, when old, +exceedingly devout. In life, he was not fortunate, and we find him, like +Chamberlayne, complaining bitterly of the poverty of the poetical tribe. +In 1651, he published a volume of verse, in which nascent excellence +struggles with dim obscurities, like a young moon with heavy clouds. But +his 'Silex Scintillans,' or 'Sacred Poems,' produced in later life, +attests at once the depth of his devotion, and the truth and originality +of his genius. He died in 1695. + +Campbell, always prone to be rather severe on pious poets, and whose +taste, too, was finical at times, says of Vaughan--'He is one of the +harshest even of the inferior order of the school of conceit; but he has +some few scattered thoughts that meet the eye amidst his harsh pages, +like wild flowers on a barren heath.' Surely this is rather 'harsh' +judgment. At the same time, it is not a little laughable to find that +Campbell has himself appropriated one of these 'wild flowers.' In his +beautiful 'Rainbow,' he cries-- + + 'How came the world's gray fathers forth + To mark thy sacred sign!' + +Vaughan had said-- + + 'How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye, + Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry; + When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, + The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, + Did with intentive looks watch every hour + For thy new light, and trembled at each shower!' + +Indeed, all Campbell's 'Rainbow' is just a reflection of Vaughan's, and +reminds you of those faint, pale shadows of the heavenly bow you +sometimes see in the darkened and disarranged skies of spring. To steal +from, and then strike down the victim, is more suitable to robbers than +to poets. + +Perhaps the best criticism on Vaughan may be found in the title of his +own poems, 'Silex Scintillans.' He had a good deal of the dulness and +hardness of the flint about his mind, but the influence of poverty and +suffering,--for true it is that + + 'Wretched men + Are cradled into poetry by wrong; + They learn in suffering what they teach in song,'-- + +and latterly the power of a genuine, though somewhat narrow piety, +struck out glorious scintillations from the bare but rich rock. He ranks +with Crashaw, Quarles, and Herbert, as one of the best of our early +religious poets; like them in their faults, and superior to all of them +in refinement and beauty, if not in strength of genius. + + +ON A CHARNEL-HOUSE. + +Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast-tentered[1] hope, +Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope, +Whose stretched excess runs on a string too high, +And on the rack of self-extension die? +Chameleons of state, air-mongering[2] band, +Whose breath, like gunpowder, blows up a land, +Come, see your dissolution, and weigh +What a loathed nothing you shall be one day. +As the elements by circulation pass +From one to the other, and that which first was +Is so again, so 'tis with you. The grave +And nature but complete: what the one gave, +The other takes. Think, then, that in this bed +There sleep the relics of as proud a head, +As stern and subtle as your own; that hath +Performed or forced as much; whose tempest-wrath +Hath levelled kings with slaves; and wisely, then, +Calm these high furies, and descend to men. +Thus Cyrus tamed the Macedon; a tomb +Checked him who thought the world too strait a room. +Have I obeyed the powers of a face, +A beauty, able to undo the race +Of easy man? I look but here, and straight +I am informed; the lovely counterfeit +Was but a smoother clay. That famished slave, +Beggared by wealth, who starves that he may save, +Brings hither but his sheet. Nay, the ostrich-man, +That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can +Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough +To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff, +Is chapfallen here: worms, without wit or fear, +Defy him now; death has disarmed the bear. +Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score +Of erring men, and having done, meet more. +Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents, +Fantastic humours, perilous ascents, +False, empty honours, traitorous delights, +And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites,-- +But these, and more, which the weak vermins swell, +Are couched in this accumulative cell, +Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun +Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone: +Day leaves me in a double night, and I +Must bid farewell to my sad library, +Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of thee +I'll season all succeeding jollity, +Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit: +Excess hath no religion, nor wit; +But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, +One check from thee shall channel it again. + +[1] Vast-tentered: extended. +[2] Air-mongering: dealing in air or unsubstantial visions. + + +ON GOMBAULD'S ENDYMION. + +I've read thy soul's fair night-piece, and have seen +The amours and courtship of the silent queen; +Her stolen descents to earth, and what did move her +To juggle first with heaven, then with a lover; +With Latmos' louder rescue, and, alas! +To find her out, a hue and cry in brass; +Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad +Nocturnal pilgrimage; with thy dreams, clad +In fancies darker than thy cave; thy glass +Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass +In her calm voyage, what discourse she heard +Of spirits; what dark groves and ill-shaped guard +Ismena led thee through; with thy proud flight +O'er Periardes, and deep-musing night +Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green +The neighbour shades wear; and what forms are seen +In their large bowers; with that sad path and seat +Which none but light-heeled nymphs and fairies beat, +Their solitary life, and how exempt +From common frailty, the severe contempt +They have of man, their privilege to live +A tree or fountain, and in that reprieve +What ages they consume: with the sad vale +Of Diophania; and the mournful tale +Of the bleeding, vocal myrtle:--these and more, +Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score +To thy rare fancy for. Nor dost thou fall +From thy first majesty, or ought at all +Betray consumption. Thy full vigorous bays +Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays +Of style or matter; just as I have known +Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down +Derived her birth, in gentle murmurs steal +To the next vale, and proudly there reveal +Her streams in louder accents, adding still +More noise and waters to her channel, till +At last, swollen with increase, she glides along +The lawns and meadows, in a wanton throng +Of frothy billows, and in one great name +Swallows the tributary brooks' drowned fame. +Nor are they mere inventions, for we +In the same piece find scattered philosophy, +And hidden, dispersed truths, that folded lie +In the dark shades of deep allegory, +So neatly weaved, like arras, they descry +Fables with truth, fancy with history. +So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould, +Cast that commended mixture wished of old, +Which shall these contemplations render far +Less mutable, and lasting as their star; +And while there is a people, or a sun, +Endymion's story with the moon shall run. + + +APOSTROPHE TO FLETCHER THE DRAMATIST. + +I did believe, great Beaumont being dead, +Thy widowed muse slept on his flowery bed. +But I am richly cozened, and can see +Wit transmigrates--his spirit stayed with thee; +Which, doubly advantaged by thy single pen, +In life and death now treads the stage again. +And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit +Which starved the land, since into schisms split, +Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess +Wit's last edition is now i' the press. +For thou hast drained invention, and he +That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee. +But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain +At the designs of such a tragic brain? +Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see +Thy most abominable policy? +Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit +Their synod fast and pray against thy wit? +But they'll not tire in such an idle quest-- +Thou dost but kill and circumvent in jest; +And when thy angered muse swells to a blow, +Tis but for Field's or Swansteed's overthrow. +Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive +Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve +The peace of spirits; and when such deeds fail +Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail. +But, happy! thou ne'er saw'st these storms our air +Teemed with, even in thy time, though seeming fair. +Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease +Withdrew betimes into the land of peace. +So, nested in some hospitable shore, +The hermit-angler, when the mid seas roar, +Packs up his lines, and ere the tempest raves, +Retires, and leaves his station to the waves. +Thus thou diedst almost with our peace; and we, +This breathing time, thy last fair issue see, +Which I think such, if needless ink not soil +So choice a muse, others are but thy foil; +This or that age may write, but never see +A wit that dares run parallel with thee. +True Ben must live; but bate him, and thou hast +Undone all future wits, and matched the past. + + +PICTURE OF THE TOWN. + +Abominable face of things!--here's noise +Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys, +Pigs, dogs, and drums; with the hoarse, hellish notes +Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats; +With new fine worships, and the old cast team +Of justices, vexed with the cough and phlegm. +'Midst these, the cross looks sad; and in the shire- +Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, +With brotherly rufts and beards, and a strange sight +Of high, monumental hats, ta'en at the fight +Of Eighty-eight; while every burgess foots +The mortal pavement in eternal boots. +Hadst thou been bachelor, I had soon divined +Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; +Perhaps some nymph had been to visit; or +The beauteous churl was to be waited for, +And, like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, +You stayed and stroked the distaff for a kiss. + + * * * * * + +Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus, +Thy memory will scarce remain with us. +The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim +They have not seen thee here since Charles' reign; +Or, if they mention thee, like some old man +That at each word inserts--Sir, as I can +Remember--so the cipherers puzzle me +With a dark, cloudy character of thee; +That, certes, I fear thou wilt be lost, and we +Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee. +Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine +And precious wit lie dead for want of thine. +Shall the dull market landlord, with his rout +Of sneaking tenants, dirtily swill out +This harmless liquor shall they knock and beat +For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat? +Oh, let not such preposterous tippling be; +In our metropolis, may I ne'er see +Such tavern sacrilege, nor lend a line +To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine! +Here lives that chemic quick-fire, which betrays +Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays; +I have reserved, 'gainst thy approach, a cup, +That, were thy muse stark dead, should raise her up, +And teach her yet more charming words and skill, +Than ever Coelia, Chloris, Astrophil, +Or any of the threadbare names inspired +Poor rhyming lovers, with a mistress fired. +Come, then, and while the snow-icicle hangs +At the stiff thatch, and winter's frosty fangs +Benumb the year, blithe as of old, let us, +'Midst noise and war, of peace and mirth discuss. +This portion thou wert born for: why should we +Vex at the times' ridiculous misery? +An age that thus hath fooled itself, and will, +Spite of thy teeth and mine, persist so still. +Let's sit, then, at this fire, and while we steal +A revel in the town, let others seal, +Purchase, or cheat, and who can, let them pay, +Till those black deeds bring on a darksome day. +Innocent spenders we! A better use +Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse +Rout to their husks: they and their bags, at best, +Have cares in earnest--we care for a jest. + + +THE GOLDEN AGE. + +Happy that first white age! when we +Lived by the earth's mere charity; +No soft luxurious diet then +Had effeminated men-- +No other meat nor wine had any +Than the coarse mast, or simple honey; +And, by the parents' care laid up, +Cheap berries did the children sup. +No pompous wear was in those days, +Of gummy silks, or scarlet baize. +Their beds were on some flowery brink, +And clear spring water was their drink. +The shady pine, in the sun's heat, +Was their cool and known retreat; +For then 'twas not cut down, but stood +The youth and glory of the wood. +The daring sailor with his slaves +Then had not cut the swelling waves, +Nor, for desire of foreign store, +Seen any but his native shore. +No stirring drum had scared that age, +Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage; +No wounds, by bitter hatred made, +With warm blood soiled the shining blade; +For how could hostile madness arm +An age of love to public harm, +When common justice none withstood, +Nor sought rewards for spilling blood? +Oh that at length our age would raise +Into the temper of those days! +But--worse than Aetna's fires!--debate +And avarice inflame our state. +Alas! who was it that first found +Gold hid of purpose under ground-- +That sought out pearls, and dived to find +Such precious perils for mankind? + + +REGENERATION. + +1 A ward, and still in bonds, one day + I stole abroad; + It was high spring, and all the way + Primrosed, and hung with shade; + Yet was it frost within, + And surly wind + Blasted my infant buds, and sin, + Like clouds, eclipsed my mind. + +2 Stormed thus, I straight perceived my spring + Mere stage and show, + My walk a monstrous, mountained thing, + Rough-cast with rocks and snow; + And as a pilgrim's eye, + Far from relief, + Measures the melancholy sky, + Then drops, and rains for grief, + +3 So sighed I upwards still; at last, + 'Twixt steps and falls, + I reached the pinnacle, where placed + I found a pair of scales; + I took them up, and laid + In the one late pains, + The other smoke and pleasures weighed, + But proved the heavier grains. + +4 With that some cried, Away; straight I + Obeyed, and led + Full east, a fair, fresh field could spy-- + Some called it Jacob's Bed-- + A virgin soil, which no + Rude feet e'er trod, + Where, since he stept there, only go + Prophets and friends of God. + +5 Here I reposed, but scarce well set, + A grove descried + Of stately height, whose branches met + And mixed on every side; + I entered, and, once in, + (Amazed to see 't;) + Found all was changed, and a new spring + Did all my senses greet. + +6 The unthrift sun shot vital gold + A thousand pieces, + And heaven its azure did unfold, + Chequered with snowy fleeces. + The air was all in spice, + And every bush + A garland wore; thus fed my eyes, + But all the ear lay hush. + +7 Only a little fountain lent + Some use for ears, + And on the dumb shades language spent, + The music of her tears; + I drew her near, and found + The cistern full + Of divers stones, some bright and round, + Others ill-shaped and dull. + +8 The first, (pray mark,) as quick as light + Danced through the flood; + But the last, more heavy than the night, + Nailed to the centre stood; + I wondered much, but tired + At last with thought, + My restless eye, that still desired, + As strange an object brought. + +9 It was a bank of flowers, where I descried + (Though 'twas mid-day) + Some fast asleep, others broad-eyed + And taking in the ray; + Here musing long I heard + A rushing wind, + Which still increased, but whence it stirred, + Nowhere I could not find. + +10 I turned me round, and to each shade + Despatched an eye, + To see if any leaf had made + Least motion or reply; + But while I, listening, sought + My mind to ease + By knowing where 'twas, or where not, + It whispered, 'Where I please.' + + 'Lord,' then said I, 'on me one breath, + And let me die before my death!' + +'Arise, O north, and come, thou south wind; and blow upon my garden, +that the spices thereof may flow out.'--CANT. iv. 16. + + +RESURRECTION AND IMMORTALITY. + +'By that new and living way, which he hath prepared for us, through the +veil, which is his flesh.'--HEB. x. 20. + +BODY. + +1 Oft have I seen, when that renewing breath + That binds and loosens death + Inspired a quickening power through the dead + Creatures abed, + Some drowrsy silk-worm creep + From that long sleep, + And in weak, infant hummings chime and knell + About her silent cell, + Until at last, full with the vital ray, + She winged away, + And, proud with life and sense, + Heaven's rich expense, + Esteemed (vain things!) of two whole elements + As mean, and span-extents. + Shall I then think such providence will be + Less friend to me, + Or that he can endure to be unjust + Who keeps his covenant even with our dust? + +SOUL + +2 Poor querulous handful! was't for this + I taught thee all that is? + Unbowelled nature, showed thee her recruits, + And change of suits, + And how of death we make + A mere mistake; + For no thing can-to nothing fall, but still + Incorporates by skill, + And then returns, and from the womb of things + Such treasure brings, + As pheenix-like renew'th + Both life and youth; + For a preserving spirit doth still pass + Untainted through this mass, + Which doth resolve, produce, and ripen all + That to it fall; + Nor are those births, which we + Thus suffering see, + Destroyed at all; but when time's restless wave + Their substance doth deprave, + And the more noble essence finds his house + Sickly and loose, + He, ever young, doth wing + Unto that spring + And source of spirits, where he takes his lot, + Till time no more shall rot + His passive cottage; which, (though laid aside,) + Like some spruce bride, + Shall one day rise, and, clothed with shining light, + All pure and bright, + Remarry to the soul, for'tis most plain + Thou only fall'st to be refined again. + +3 Then I that here saw darkly in a glass + But mists and shadows pass, + And, by their own weak shine, did search the springs + And course of things, + Shall with enlightened rays + Pierce all their ways; + And as thou saw'st, I in a thought could go + To heaven or earth below, + To read some star, or mineral, and in state + There often sate; + So shalt thou then with me, + Both winged and free, + Rove in that mighty and eternal light, + Where no rude shade or night + Shall dare approach us; we shall there no more + Watch stars, or pore + Through melancholy clouds, and say, + 'Would it were day!' + One everlasting Sabbath there shall run + Without succession, and without a sun. + +'But go thou thy way until the end be: for thou shalt rest, and stand +in thy lot at the end of the days.'--DAN. xii. 13. + + +THE SEARCH. + +'Tis now clear day: I see a rose +Bud in the bright east, and disclose +The pilgrim-sun. All night have I +Spent in a roving ecstasy +To find my Saviour. I have been +As far as Bethlehem, and have seen +His inn and cradle; being there +I met the wise men, asked them where +He might be found, or what star can +Now point him out, grown up a man? +To Egypt hence I fled, ran o'er +All her parched bosom to Nile's shore, +Her yearly nurse; came back, inquired +Amongst the doctors, and desired +To see the temple, but was shown +A little dust, and for the town +A heap of ashes, where, some said, +A small bright sparkle was abed, +Which would one day (beneath the pole) +Awake, and then refine the whole. + +Tired here, I came to Sychar, thence +To Jacob's well, bequeathed since +Unto his sons, where often they, +In those calm, golden evenings, lay +Watering their flocks, and having spent +Those white days, drove home to the tent +Their well-fleeced train; and here (O fate!) +I sit where once my Saviour sate. +The angry spring in bubbles swelled, +Which broke in sighs still, as they filled, +And whispered, Jesus had been there, +But Jacob's children would not hear. +Loth hence to part, at last I rise, +But with the fountain in mine eyes, +And here a fresh search is decreed: +He must be found where he did bleed. +I walk the garden, and there see +Ideas of his agony, +And moving anguishments, that set +His blest face in a bloody sweat; +I climbed the hill, perused the cross, +Hung with my gain, and his great loss: +Never did tree bear fruit like this, +Balsam of souls, the body's bliss. +But, O his grave! where I saw lent +(For he had none) a monument, +An undefiled, a new-hewed one, +But there was not the Corner-stone. +Sure then, said I, my quest is vain, +He'll not be found where he was slain; +So mild a Lamb can never be +'Midst so much blood and cruelty. +I'll to the wilderness, and can +Find beasts more merciful than man; +He lived there safe, 'twas his retreat +From the fierce Jew, and Herod's heat, +And forty days withstood the fell +And high temptations of hell; +With seraphim there talked he, +His Father's flaming ministry, +He heavened their walks, and with his eyes +Made those wild shades a paradise. +Thus was the desert sanctified +To be the refuge of his bride. +I'll thither then; see, it is day! +The sun's broke through to guide my way. + +But as I urged thus, and writ down +What pleasures should my journey crown, +What silent paths, what shades and cells, +Fair virgin-flowers and hallowed wells, +I should rove in, and rest my head +Where my dear Lord did often tread, +Sugaring all dangers with success, +Methought I heard one singing thus: + + +1 Leave, leave thy gadding thoughts; + Who pores + And spies + Still out of doors, + Descries + Within them nought. + +2 The skin and shell of things, + Though fair, + Are not + Thy wish nor prayer, + But got + By mere despair + Of wings. + +3 To rack old elements, + Or dust, + And say, + Sure here he must + Needs stay, + Is not the way, + Nor just. + +Search well another world; who studies this, +Travels in clouds, seeks manna where none is. + +'That they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, +and find him, though he be not far off from every one of us: for in +him we live, and move, and have our being.'--ACTS xvii. 27, 28. + + +ISAAC'S MARRIAGE. + +'And Isaac went out to pray in the field at the eventide, and he +lifted up his eyes, and saw, and, behold, the camels were coming.' +--GEN. xxiv. 63. + +Praying! and to be married! It was rare, +But now 'tis monstrous; and that pious care +Though of ourselves, is so much out of date, +That to renew't were to degenerate. +But thou a chosen sacrifice wert given, +And offered up so early unto Heaven, +Thy flames could not be out; religion was +Hayed into thee like beams into a glass; +Where, as thou grew'st, it multiplied, and shined +The sacred constellation of thy mind. + +But being for a bride, prayer was such +A decried course, sure it prevailed not much. +Hadst ne'er an oath nor compliment? thou wert +An odd, dull suitor; hadst thou but the art +Of these our days, thou couldst have coined thee twenty +New several oaths, and compliments, too, plenty. +O sad and wild excess! and happy those +White days, that durst no impious mirth expose: +When conscience by lewd use had not lost sense, +Nor bold-faced custom banished innocence! +Thou hadst no pompous train, nor antic crowd +Of young, gay swearers, with their needless, loud +Retinue; all was here smooth as thy bride, +And calm like her, or that mild evening-tide. +Yet hadst thou nobler guests: angels did wind +And rove about thee, guardians of thy mind; +These fetched thee home thy bride, and all the way +Advised thy servant what to do and say; +These taught him at the well, and thither brought +The chaste and lovely object of thy thought. +But here was ne'er a compliment, not one +Spruce, supple cringe, or studied look put on. +All was plain, modest truth: nor did she come +In rolls and curls, mincing and stately dumb; +But in a virgin's native blush and fears, +Fresh as those roses which the day-spring wears. +O sweet, divine simplicity! O grace +Beyond a curled lock or painted face! +A pitcher too she had, nor thought it much +To carry that, which some would scorn to touch; +With, which in mild, chaste language she did woo +To draw him drink, and for his camels too. + +And now thou knew'st her coming, it was time +To get thee wings on, and devoutly climb +Unto thy God; for marriage of all states +Makes most unhappy, or most fortunates. +This brought thee forth, where now thou didst undress +Thy soul, and with new pinions refresh +Her wearied wings, which, so restored, did fly +Above the stars, a track unknown and high; +And in her piercing flight perfumed the air, +Scattering the myrrh and incense of thy prayer. +So from Lahai-roi[1]'s well some spicy cloud, +Wooed by the sun, swells up to be his shroud, +And from her moist womb weeps a fragrant shower, +Which, scattered in a thousand pearls, each flower +And herb partakes; where having stood awhile, +And something cooled the parched and thirsty isle, +The thankful earth unlocks herself, and blends +A thousand odours, which, all mixed, she sends +Up in one cloud, and so returns the skies +That dew they lent, a breathing sacrifice. + +Thus soared thy soul, who, though young, didst inherit +Together with his blood thy father's spirit, +Whose active zeal and tried faith were to thee +Familiar ever since thy infancy. +Others were timed and trained up to't, but thou +Didst thy swift years in piety outgrow. +Age made them reverend and a snowy head, +But thou wert so, ere time his snow could shed. +Then who would truly limn thee out must paint +First a young patriarch, then a married saint. + +[1] 'Lahai-roi:' a well in the south country where Jacob dwelt, between +Kadesh and Bered; _Heb.,_ The well of him that liveth and seeth me. + + +MAN'S FALL AND RECOVERY. + +Farewell, you everlasting hills! I'm cast +Here under clouds, where storms and tempests blast + This sullied flower, +Robbed of your calm; nor can I ever make, +Transplanted thus, one leaf of his t'awake; + But every hour +He sleeps and droops; and in this drowsy state +Leaves me a slave to passions and my fate. + Besides I've lost +A train of lights, which in those sunshine days +Were my sure guides; and only with me stays, + Unto my cost, +One sullen beam, whose charge is to dispense +More punishment than knowledge to my sense. + Two thousand years +I sojourned thus. At last Jeshurun's king +Those famous tables did from Sinai bring. + These swelled my fears, +Guilts, trespasses, and all this inward awe; +For sin took strength and vigour from the law. + Yet have I found +A plenteous way, (thanks to that Holy One!) +To cancel all that e'er was writ in stone. + His saving wound +Wept blood that broke this adamant, and gave +To sinners confidence, life to the grave. + This makes me span +My fathers' journeys, and in one fair step +O'er all their pilgrimage and labours leap. + For God, made man, +Reduced the extent of works of faith; so made +Of their Red Sea a spring: I wash, they wade. + +'As by the offence of one the fault came on all men to condemnation; +so by the righteousness of one, the benefit abounded towards all men +to the justification of life.'--ROM. v. 18. + + +THE SHOWER. + +1 'Twas so; I saw thy birth. That drowsy lake + From her faint bosom breathed thee, the disease + Of her sick waters, and infectious ease. + But now at even, + Too gross for heaven, + Thou fall'st in tears, and weep'st for thy mistake. + +2 Ah! it is so with me; oft have I pressed + Heaven with a lazy breath; but fruitless this + Pierced not; love only can with quick access + Unlock the way, + When all else stray, + The smoke and exhalations of the breast. + +3 Yet if, as thou dost melt, and, with thy train + Of drops, make soft the earth, my eyes could weep + O'er my hard heart, that's bound up and asleep, + Perhaps at last, + Some such showers past, + My God would give a sunshine after rain. + + +BURIAL. + +1 O thou! the first-fruits of the dead, + And their dark bed, + When I am cast into that deep + And senseless sleep, + The wages of my sin, + O then, + Thou great Preserver of all men, + Watch o'er that loose + And empty house, + Which I sometime lived in! + +2 It is in truth a ruined piece, + Not worth thy eyes; + And scarce a room, but wind and rain + Beat through and stain + The seats and cells within; + Yet thou, + Led by thy love, wouldst stoop thus low, + And in this cot, + All filth and spot, + Didst with thy servant inn. + +3 And nothing can, I hourly see, + Drive thee from me. + Thou art the same, faithful and just, + In life or dust. + Though then, thus crumbed, I stray + In blasts, + Or exhalations, and wastes, + Beyond all eyes, + Yet thy love spies + That change, and knows thy clay. + +4 The world's thy box: how then, there tossed, + Can I be lost? + But the delay is all; Time now + Is old and slow; + His wings are dull and sickly. + Yet he + Thy servant is, and waits on thee. + Cut then the sum, + Lord, haste, Lord, come, + O come, Lord Jesus, quickly! + +'And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the first-fruits of +the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.'--ROM. viii. 23. + + +CHEERFULNESS. + +1 Lord, with what courage and delight + I do each thing, + When thy least breath sustains my wing! + I shine and move + Like those above, + And, with much gladness + Quitting sadness, + Make me fair days of every night. + +2 Affliction thus mere pleasure is; + And hap what will, + If thou be in't,'tis welcome still. + But since thy rays + In sunny days + Thou dost thus lend, + And freely spend, + Ah! what shall I return for this? + +3 Oh that I were all soul! that thou + Wouldst make each part + Of this poor sinful frame pure heart! + Then would I drown + My single one; + And to thy praise + A concert raise + Of hallelujahs here below. + + +THE PASSION. + +1 O my chief good! + My dear, dear God! + When thy blest blood + Did issue forth, forced by the rod, + What pain didst thou + Feel in each blow! + How didst thou weep, + And thyself steep + In thy own precious, saving tears! + What cruel smart + Did tear thy heart! + How didst thou groan it + In the spirit, + O thou whom my soul loves and fears! + +2 Most blessed Vine! + Whose juice so good + I feel as wine, + But thy fair branches felt as blood, + How wert thou pressed + To be my feast! + In what deep anguish + Didst thou languish! + What springs of sweat and blood did drown thee! + How in one path + Did the full wrath + Of thy great Father + Crowd and gather, + Doubling thy griefs, when none would own thee! + +3 How did the weight + Of all our sins, + And death unite + To wrench and rack thy blessed limbs! + How pale and bloody + Looked thy body! + How bruised and broke, + With every stroke! + How meek and patient was thy spirit! + How didst thou cry, + And groan on high, + 'Father, forgive, + And let them live! + I die to make my foes inherit!' + +4 O blessed Lamb! + That took'st my sin, + That took'st my shame, + How shall thy dust thy praises sing? + I would I were + One hearty tear! + One constant spring! + Then would I bring + Thee two small mites, and be at strife + Which should most vie, + My heart or eye, + Teaching my years + In smiles and tears + To weep, to sing, thy death, my life. + + +RULES AND LESSONS. + +1 When first thy eyes unvail, give thy soul leave + To do the like; our bodies but forerun + The spirit's duty. True hearts spread and heave + Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun. + Give him thy first thoughts then; so shalt thou keep + Him company all day, and in him sleep. + +2 Yet never sleep the sun up. Prayer should + Dawn with the day. There are set, awful hours + 'Twixt Heaven and us. The manna was not good + After sun-rising; far-day sullies flowers. + Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, + And heaven's gate opens when this world's is shut. + +3 Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush + And whispers amongst them. There's not a spring + Or leaf but hath his morning-hymn. Each bush + And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing? + Oh, leave thy cares and follies! go this way, + And thou art sure to prosper all the day. + +4 Serve God before the world; let him not go + Until thou hast a blessing; then resign + The whole unto him, and remember who + Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine; + Pour oil upon the stones; weep for thy sin; + Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. + +5 Mornings are mysteries; the first world's youth, + Man's resurrection and the future's bud + Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth + Is styled their star, the stone, and hidden food. + Three blessings wait upon them, two of which + Should move. They make us holy, happy, rich. + +6 When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, + Keep thou thy temper; mix not with each clay; + Despatch necessities; life hath a load + Which must be carried on, and safely may. + Yet keep those cares without thee, let the heart + Be God's alone, and choose the better part. + +7 Through all thy actions, counsels, and discourse, + Let mildness and religion guide thee out; + If truth be thine, what needs a brutish force? + But what's not good and just ne'er go about. + Wrong not thy conscience for a rotten stick; + That gain is dreadful which makes spirits sick. + +8 To God, thy country, and thy friend be true; + If priest and people change, keep thou thy ground. + Who sells religion is a Judas Jew; + And, oaths once broke, the soul cannot be sound. + The perjurer's a devil let loose: what can + Tie up his hands that dares mock God and man? + +9 Seek not the same steps with the crowd; stick thou + To thy sure trot; a constant, humble mind + Is both his own joy, and his Maker's too; + Let folly dust it on, or lag behind. + A sweet self-privacy in a right soul + Outruns the earth, and lines the utmost pole. + +10 To all that seek thee bear an open heart; + Make not thy breast a labyrinth or trap; + If trials come, this will make good thy part, + For honesty is safe, come what can hap; + It is the good man's feast, the prince of flowers, + Which thrives in storms, and smells best after showers. + +11 Seal not thy eyes up from the poor, but give + Proportion to their merits, and thy purse; + Thou may'st in rags a mighty prince relieve, + Who, when thy sins call for't, can fence a curse. + Thou shalt not lose one mite. Though waters stray, + The bread we cast returns in fraughts one day. + +12 Spend not an hour so as to weep another, + For tears are not thine own; if thou giv'st words, + Dash not with them thy friend, nor Heaven; oh, smother + A viperous thought; some syllables are swords. + Unbitted tongues are in their penance double; + They shame their owners, and their hearers trouble. + +13 Injure not modest blood, while spirits rise + In judgment against lewdness; that's base wit + That voids but filth and stench. Hast thou no prize + But sickness or infection? stifle it. + Who makes his jest of sins, must be at least, + If not a very devil, worse than beast. + +14 Yet fly no friend, if he be such indeed; + But meet to quench his longings, and thy thirst; + Allow your joys, religion: that done, speed, + And bring the same man back thou wert at first. + Who so returns not, cannot pray aright, + But shuts his door, and leaves God out all night. + +15 To heighten thy devotions, and keep low + All mutinous thoughts, what business e'er thou hast, + Observe God in his works; here fountains flow, + Birds sing, beasts feed, fish leap, and the earth stands fast; + Above are restless motions, running lights, + Vast circling azure, giddy clouds, days, nights. + +16 When seasons change, then lay before thine eyes + His wondrous method; mark the various scenes + In heaven; hail, thunder, rainbows, snow, and ice, + Calms, tempests, light, and darkness, by his means; + Thou canst not miss his praise; each tree, herb, flower + Are shadows of his wisdom and his power. + +17 To meals when thou dost come, give him the praise + Whose arm supplied thee; take what may suffice, + And then be thankful; oh, admire his ways + Who fills the world's unemptied granaries! + A thankless feeder is a thief, his feast + A very robbery, and himself no guest. + +18 High-noon thus past, thy time decays; provide + Thee other thoughts; away with friends and mirth; + The sun now stoops, and hastes his beams to hide + Under the dark and melancholy earth. + All but preludes thy end. Thou art the man + Whose rise, height, and descent is but a span. + +19 Yet, set as he doth, and 'tis well. Have all + Thy beams home with thee: trim thy lamp, buy oil, + And then set forth; who is thus dressed, the fall + Furthers his glory, and gives death the foil. + Man is a summer's day; whose youth and fire + Cool to a glorious evening, and expire. + +20 When night comes, list[1] thy deeds; make plain the way + 'Twixt heaven and thee; block it not with delays; + But perfect all before thou sleep'st; then say + 'There's one sun more strung on my bead of days.' + What's good score up for joy; the bad, well scanned, + Wash off with tears, and get thy Master's hand. + +21 Thy accounts thus made, spend in the grave one hour + Before thy time; be not a stranger there, + Where thou may'st sleep whole ages; life's poor flower + Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad spirits fear + This conversation; but the good man lies + Entombed many days before he dies. + +22 Being laid, and dressed for sleep, close not thy eyes + Up with thy curtains; give thy soul the wing + In some good thoughts; so, when the day shall rise, + And thou unrak'st thy fire, those sparks will bring + New flames; besides where these lodge, vain heats mourn + And die; that bush where God is shall not burn. + +23 When thy nap's over, stir thy fire, and rake + In that dead age; one beam i' the dark outvies + Two in the day; then from the damps and ache + Of night shut up thy leaves; be chaste; God pries + Through thickest nights; though then the sun be far, + Do thou the works of day, and rise a star. + +24 Briefly, do as thou wouldst be done unto, + Love God, and love thy neighbour; watch and pray. + These are the words and works of life; this do, + And live; who doth not thus, hath lost heaven's way. + Oh, lose it not! look up, wilt change those lights + For chains of darkness and eternal nights? + +[1] 'List:' weigh. + + +REPENTANCE. + +Lord, since thou didst in this vile clay + That sacred ray, +Thy Spirit, plant, quickening the whole + With that one grain's infused wealth, +My forward flesh crept on, and subtly stole + Both growth and power; checking the health +And heat of thine. That little gate + And narrow way, by which to thee +The passage is, he termed a grate + And entrance to captivity; +Thy laws but nets, where some small birds, + And those but seldom too, were caught; +Thy promises but empty words, + Which none but children heard or taught. +This I believed: and though a friend + Came oft from far, and whispered, No; +Yet, that not sorting to my end, + I wholly listened to my foe. +Wherefore, pierced through with grief, my sad, + Seduced soul sighs up to thee; +To thee, who with true light art clad, + And seest all things just as they be. +Look from thy throne upon this roll + Of heavy sins, my high transgressions, +Which I confess with all my soul; + My God, accept of my confession! + It was last day, +Touched with the guilt of my own way, +I sat alone, and taking up, + The bitter cup, +Through all thy fair and various store, +Sought out what might outvie my score. + The blades of grass thy creatures feeding; + The trees, their leaves; the flowers, their seeding; + The dust, of which I am a part; + The stones, much softer than my heart; + The drops of rain, the sighs of wind, + The stars, to which I am stark blind; + The dew thy herbs drink up by night, + The beams they warm them at i' the light; + All that have signature or life + I summoned to decide this strife; + And lest I should lack for arrears, + A spring ran by, I told her tears; + But when these came unto the scale, + My sins alone outweighed them all. + O my dear God! my life, my love! + Most blessed Lamb! and mildest Dove! + Forgive your penitent offender, + And no more his sins remember; + Scatter these shades of death, and give + Light to my soul, that it may live; + Cut me not off for my transgressions, + Wilful rebellions, and suppressions; + But give them in those streams a part + Whose spring is in my Saviour's heart. + Lord, I confess the heinous score, + And pray I may do so no more; + Though then all sinners I exceed, + Oh, think on this, thy Son did bleed! + Oh, call to mind his wounds, his woes, + His agony, and bloody throes; + Then look on all that thou hast made, + And mark how they do fail and fade; + The heavens themselves, though fair and bright, + Are dark and unclean in thy sight; + How then, with thee, can man be holy, + Who dost thine angels charge with folly? + Oh, what am I, that I should breed + Figs on a thorn, flowers on a weed? + I am the gourd of sin and sorrow, + Growing o'er night, and gone to-morrow. + In all this round of life and death + Nothing's more vile than is my breath; + Profaneness on my tongue doth rest, + Defects and darkness in my breast; + Pollutions all my body wed, + And even my soul to thee is dead; + Only in him, on whom I feast, + Both soul and body are well dressed; + His pure perfection quits all score, + And fills the boxes of his poor; +He is the centre of long life and light; +I am but finite, he is infinite. +Oh, let thy justice then in him confine, +And through his merits make thy mercy mine! + + +THE DAWNING. + +Ah! what time wilt thou come? when shall that cry, + 'The Bridegroom's coming!' fill the skyl? + Shall it in the evening run + When our words and works are done? + Or will thy all-surprising light + Break at midnight, + When either sleep or some dark pleasure + Possesseth mad man without measure? + Or shall these early, fragrant hours + Unlock thy bowers, + And with their blush of light descry + Thy locks crowned with eternity? + Indeed, it is the only time + That with thy glory doth best chime; + All now are stirring, every field + Full hymns doth yield; + The whole creation shakes off night, + And for thy shadow looks the light; + Stars now vanish without number, + Sleepy planets set and slumber, + The pursy clouds disband and scatter, + All expect some sudden matter; + Not one beam triumphs, but from far + That morning-star. + + Oh, at what time soever thou, + Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow, + And, with thy angels in the van, + Descend to judge poor careless man, + Grant I may not like puddle lie + In a corrupt security, + Where, if a traveller water crave, + He finds it dead, and in a grave. + But as this restless, vocal spring + All day and night doth run and sing, + And though here born, yet is acquainted + Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted; + So let me all my busy age + In thy free services engage; + And though, while here, of force I must + Have commerce sometimes with poor dust, + And in my flesh, though vile and low, + As this doth in her channel flow, + Yet let my course, my aim, my love, + And chief acquaintance be above; + So when that day and hour shall come + In which thyself will be the Sun, + Thou'lt find me dressed and on my way, + Watching the break of thy great day. + + +THE TEMPEST. + +1 How is man parcelled out! how every hour + Shows him himself, or something he should see! + This late, long heat may his instruction be; + And tempests have more in them than a shower. + + When nature on her bosom saw + Her infants die, + And all her flowers withered to straw, + Her breasts grown dry; + She made the earth, their nurse and tomb, + Sigh to the sky, + Till to those sighs, fetched from her womb, + Rain did reply; + So in the midst of all her fears + And faint requests, + Her earnest sighs procured her tears + And filled her breasts. + +2 Oh that man could do so! that he would hear + The world read to him! all the vast expense + In the creation shed and slaved to sense, + Makes up but lectures for his eye and ear. + +3 Sure mighty Love, foreseeing the descent + Of this poor creature, by a gracious art + Hid in these low things snares to gain his heart, + And laid surprises in each element. + +4 All things here show him heaven; waters that fall + Chide and fly up; mists of corruptest foam + Quit their first beds and mount; trees, herbs, flowers, all + Strive upwards still, and point him the way home. + +5 How do they cast off grossness? only earth + And man, like Issachar, in loads delight, + Water's refined to motion, air to light, + Fire to all three,[1] but man hath no such mirth. + +6 Plants in the root with earth do most comply, + Their leaves with water and humidity, + The flowers to air draw near and subtilty, + And seeds a kindred fire have with the sky. + +7 All have their keys and set ascents; but man + Though he knows these, and hath more of his own, + Sleeps at the ladder's foot; alas! what can + These new discoveries do, except they drown? + +8 Thus, grovelling in the shade and darkness, he + Sinks to a dead oblivion; and though all + He sees, like pyramids, shoot from this ball, + And lessening still, grow up invisibly, + +9 Yet hugs he still his dirt; the stuff he wears, + And painted trimming, takes down both his eyes; + Heaven hath less beauty than the dust he spies, + And money better music than the spheres. + +10 Life's but a blast; he knows it; what? shall straw + And bulrush-fetters temper his short hour? + Must he nor sip nor sing? grows ne'er a flower + To crown his temples? shall dreams be his law? + +11 O foolish man! how hast thou lost thy sight? + How is it that the sun to thee alone + Is grown thick darkness, and thy bread a stone? + Hath flesh no softness now? mid-day no light? + +12 Lord! thou didst put a soul here. If I must + Be broke again, for flints will give no fire + Without a steel, oh, let thy power clear + Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust! + +[1] 'All three:' light, motion, heat + + +THE WORLD. + +1 I saw eternity the other night, + Like a great ring of pure and endless light, + All calm, as it was bright; + And round beneath it, time, in hours, days, years, + Driven by the spheres, + Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world + And all her train were hurled. + The doting lover in his quaintest strain + Did there complain; + Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, + Wit's sour delights; + With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure, + Yet his dear treasure, + All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour + Upon a flower. + +2 The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe, + Like a thick midnight fog, moved there so slow, + He did nor stay, nor go; + Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses, scowl + Upon his soul, + And clouds of crying witnesses without + Pursued him with one shout. + Yet digged the mole, and, lest his ways be found, + Worked under ground, + Where he did clutch his prey. But one did see + That policy. + Churches and altars fed him; perjuries + Were gnats and flies; + It rained about him blood and tears; but he + Drank them as free. + +3 The fearful miser on a heap of rust + Sat pining all his life there, did scarce trust + His own hands with the dust, + Yet would not place one piece above, but lives + In fear of thieves. + Thousands there were as frantic as himself, + And hugged each one his pelf; + The downright epicure placed heaven in sense, + And scorned pretence; + While others, slipped into a wide excess, + Said little less; + The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave, + Who think them brave, + And poor, despised truth sat counting by + Their victory. + +4 Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, + And sing and weep, soared up into the ring; + But most would use no wing. + 'O fools,' said I,'thus to prefer dark night + Before true light! + To live in grots and caves, and hate the day + Because it shows the way, + The way, which from this dead and dark abode + Leads up to God, + A way where you might tread the sun, and be + More bright than he!' + But, as I did their madness so discuss, + One whispered thus, + 'This ring the bridegroom did for none provide, + But for his bride.' + + +'All that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, +and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And +the world passeth away, and the lusts thereof; but he that doeth the +will of God abideth for ever.'--1 JOHN ii. 16, 17. + + +THE CONSTELLATION. + +1 Fair, ordered lights, whose motion without noise + Resembles those true joys, + Whose spring is on that hill where you do grow, + And we here taste sometimes below. + +2 With what exact obedience do you move, + Now beneath, and now above! + And in your vast progressions overlook + The darkest night and closest nook! + +3 Some nights I see you in the gladsome east, + Some others near the west, + And when I cannot see, yet do you shine, + And beat about your endless line. + +4 Silence and light and watchfulness with you + Attend and wind the clue; + No sleep nor sloth assails you, but poor man + Still either sleeps, or slips his span. + +5 He gropes beneath here, and with restless care, + First makes, then hugs a snare; + Adores dead dust, sets heart on corn and grass, + But seldom doth make heaven his glass. + +6 Music and mirth, if there be music here, + Take up and tune his ear; + These things are kin to him, and must be had; + Who kneels, or sighs a life, is mad. + +7 Perhaps some nights he'll watch with you, and peep + When it were best to sleep; + Dares know effects, and judge them long before, + When the herb he treads knows much, much more. + +8 But seeks he your obedience, order, light, + Your calm and well-trained flight? + Where, though the glory differ in each star, + Yet is there peace still and no war. + +9 Since placed by him, who calls you by your names, + And fixed there all your flames, + Without command you never acted ought, + And then you in your courses fought. + +10 But here, commissioned by a black self-will, + The sons the father kill, + The children chase the mother, and would heal + The wounds they give by crying zeal. + +11 Then cast her blood and tears upon thy book, + Where they for fashion look; + And, like that lamb, which had the dragon's voice, + Seem mild, but are known by their noise. + +12 Thus by our lusts disordered into wars, + Our guides prove wandering stars, + Which for these mists and black days were reserved, + What time we from our first love swerved. + +13 Yet oh, for his sake who sits now by thee + All crowned with victory, + So guide us through this darkness, that we may + Be more and more in love with day! + +14 Settle and fix our hearts, that we may move + In order, peace, and love; + And, taught obedience by thy whole creation, + Become an humble, holy nation! + +15 Give to thy spouse her perfect and pure dress, + Beauty and holiness; + And so repair these rents, that men may see + And say, 'Where God is, all agree.' + + +MISERY. + +Lord, bind me up, and let me lie +A prisoner to my liberty, +If such a state at all can be +As an impris'ment serving thee; +The wind, though gathered in thy fist, +Yet doth it blow still where it list, +And yet shouldst thou let go thy hold, +Those gusts might quarrel and grow bold. + +As waters here, headlong and loose, +The lower grounds still chase and choose, +Where spreading ail the way they seek +And search out every hole and creek; +So my spilt thoughts, winding from thee, +Take the down-road to vanity, +Where they all stray, and strive which shall +Find out the first and steepest fall. +I cheer their flow, giving supply +To what's already grown too high, +And having thus performed that part, +Feed on those vomits of my heart. +I break the fence my own hands made +Then lay that trespass in the shade; +Some fig-leaves still I do devise, +As if thou hadst not ears nor eyes. +Excess of friends, of words, and wine +Take up my day, while thou dost shine +All unregarded, and thy book +Hath not so much as one poor look. +If thou steal in amidst the mirth +And kindly tell me, I am earth, +I shut thee out, and let that slip; +Such music spoils good fellowship. +Thus wretched I and most unkind, +Exclude my dear God from my mind, +Exclude him thence, who of that cell +Would make a court, should he there dwell. +He goes, he yields; and troubled sore +His Holy Spirit grieves therefore; +The mighty God, the eternal King +Doth grieve for dust, and dust doth sing. +But I go on, haste to divest +Myself of reason, till oppressed +And buried in my surfeits, I +Prove my own shame and misery. +Next day I call and cry for thee +Who shouldst not then come near to me; +But now it is thy servant's pleasure, +Thou must and dost give him his measure. +Thou dost, thou com'st, and in a shower +Of healing sweets thyself dost pour +Into my wounds; and now thy grace +(I know it well) fills all the place; +I sit with thee by this new light, +And for that hour thou'rt my delight; +No man can more the world despise, +Or thy great mercies better prize. +I school my eyes, and strictly dwell +Within the circle of my cell; +That calm and silence are my joys, +Which to thy peace are but mere noise. +At length I feel my head to ache, +My fingers itch, and burn to take +Some new employment, I begin +To swell and foam and fret within: + 'The age, the present times are not + To snudge in and embrace a cot; + Action and blood now get the game, + Disdain treads on the peaceful name; + Who sits at home too bears a load + Greater than those that gad abroad.' +Thus do I make thy gifts given me +The only quarrellers with thee; +I'd loose those knots thy hands did tie, +Then would go travel, fight, or die. +Thousands of wild and waste infusions +Like waves beat on my resolutions; +As flames about their fuel run, +And work and wind till all be done, +So my fierce soul bustles about, +And never rests till all be out. +Thus wilded by a peevish heart, +Which in thy music bears no part, +I storm at thee, calling my peace +A lethargy, and mere disease; +Nay those bright beams shot from thy eyes +To calm me in these mutinies, +I style mere tempers, which take place +At some set times, but are thy grace. + +Such is man's life, and such is mine, +The worst of men, and yet still thine, +Still thine, thou know'st, and if not so, +Then give me over to my foe. +Yet since as easy 'tis for thee +To make man good as bid him be, +And with one glance, could he that gain, +To look him out of all his pain, +Oh, send me from thy holy hill +So much of strength as may fulfil +All thy delights, whate'er they be, +And sacred institutes in me! +Open my rocky heart, and fill +It with obedience to thy will; +Then seal it up, that as none see, +So none may enter there but thee. + +Oh, hear, my God! hear him, whose blood +Speaks more and better for my good! +Oh, let my cry come to thy throne! +My cry not poured with tears alone, +(For tears alone are often foul,) +But with the blood of all my soul; +With spirit-sighs, and earnest groans, +Faithful and most repenting moans, +With these I cry, and crying pine, +Till thou both mend, and make me thine. + + +MOUNT OF OLIVES. + +When first I saw true beauty, and thy joys, +Active as light, and calm without all noise, +Shined on my soul, I felt through all my powers +Such a rich air of sweets, as evening showers, +Fanned by a gentle gale, convey, and breathe +On some parched bank, crowned with a flowery wreath; +Odours, and myrrh, and balm in one rich flood +O'erran my heart, and spirited my blood; +My thoughts did swim in comforts, and mine eye +Confessed, 'The world did only paint and lie.' +And where before I did no safe course steer, +But wandered under tempests all the year; +Went bleak and bare in body as in mind, +And was blown through by every storm and wind, +I am so warmed now by this glance on me, +That 'midst all storms I feel a ray of thee. +So have I known some beauteous passage rise +In sudden flowers and arbours to my eyes, +And in the depth and dead of winter bring +To my cold thoughts a lively sense of spring. + +Thus fed by thee, who dost all beings nourish, +My withered leaves again look green and flourish; +I shine and shelter underneath thy wing, +Where, sick with love, I strive thy name to sing; +Thy glorious name! which grant I may so do, +That these may be thy praise, and my joy too! + + +ASCENSION-DAY. + +Lord Jesus! with what sweetness and delights, +Sure, holy hopes, high joys, and quickening flights, +Dost thou feed thine! O thou! the hand that lifts +To him who gives all good and perfect gifts, +Thy glorious, bright ascension, though removed +So many ages from me, is so proved +And by thy Spirit sealed to me, that I +Feel me a sharer in thy victory! + I soar and rise + Up to the skies, + Leaving the world their day; + And in my flight + For the true light + Go seeking all the way; +I greet thy sepulchre, salute thy grave, +That blest enclosure, where the angels gave +The first glad tidings of thy early light, +And resurrection from the earth and night, +I see that morning in thy convert's[1] tears, +Fresh as the dew, which but this dawning wears. +I smell her spices; and her ointment yields +As rich a scent as the now primrosed fields. +The day-star smiles, and light with the deceased +Now shines in all the chambers of the east. +What stirs, what posting intercourse and mirth +Of saints and angels glorify the earth? +What sighs, what whispers, busy stops and stays, +Private and holy talk, fill all the ways? +They pass as at the last great day, and run +In their white robes to seek the risen Sun; +I see them, hear them, mark their haste, and move +Amongst them, with them, winged with faith and love. +Thy forty days' more secret commerce here +After thy death and funeral, so clear +And indisputable, shows to my sight +As the sun doth, which to those days gave light. +I walk the fields of Bethany, which shine +All now as fresh as Eden, and as fine. +Such was the bright world on the first seventh day, +Before man brought forth sin, and sin decay; +When like a virgin clad in flowers and green +The pure earth sat, and the fair woods had seen +No frost, but flourished in that youthful vest +With which their great Creator had them dressed: +When heaven above them shined like molten glass, +While all the planets did unclouded pass; +And springs, like dissolved pearls, their streams did pour, +Ne'er marred with floods, nor angered with a shower. +With these fair thoughts I move in this fair place, +And the last steps of my mild Master trace. +I see him leading out his chosen train +All sad with tears, which like warm summer rain +In silent drops steal from their holy eyes, +Fixed lately on the cross, now on the skies. +And now, eternal Jesus! thou dost heave +Thy blessed hands to bless those thou dost leave. +The cloud doth now receive thee, and their sight +Having lost thee, behold two men in white! +Two and no more: 'What two attest is true,' +Was thine own answer to the stubborn Jew. +Come then, thou faithful Witness! come, dear Lord, +Upon the clouds again to judge this world! + +[1] 'Thy convert:' St Mary Magdalene. + + +COCK-CROWING. + +1 Father of lights! what sunny seed, + What glance of day hast thou confined + Into this bird? To all the breed + This busy ray thou hast assigned; + Their magnetism works all night, + And dreams of paradise and light. + +2 Their eyes watch for the morning hue, + Their little grain-expelling night + So shines and sings, as if it knew + The path unto the house of light. + It seems their candle, howe'er done, + Was tinned and lighted at the sun. + +3 If such a tincture, such a touch, + So firm a longing can empower, + Shall thy own image think it much + To watch for thy appearing hour? + If a mere blast so fill the sail, + Shall not the breath of God prevail? + +4 O thou immortal light and heat! + Whose hand so shines through all this frame, + That by the beauty of the seat, + We plainly see who made the same, + Seeing thy seed abides in me, + Dwell thou in it, and I in thee! + +5 To sleep without thee is to die; + Yea,'tis a death partakes of hell: + For where thou dost not close the eye + It never opens, I can tell. + In such a dark, Egyptian border, + The shades of death dwell, and disorder. + +6 If joys, and hopes, and earnest throes, + And hearts, whose pulse beats still for light, + Are given to birds; who, but thee, knows + A love-sick soul's exalted flight? + Can souls be tracked by any eye + But his, who gave them wings to fly? + +7 Only this veil which thou hast broke, + And must be broken yet in me, + This veil, I say, is all the cloak + And cloud which shadows me from thee. + This veil thy full-eyed love denies, + And only gleams and fractions spies. + +8 Oh, take it off! make no delay; + But brush me with thy light, that I + May shine unto a perfect day, + And warm me at thy glorious eye! + Oh, take it off! or till it flee, + Though with no lily, stay with me! + + +THE PALM-TREE. + +1 Dear friend, sit down, and bear awhile this shade, + As I have yours long since. This plant you see + So pressed and bowed, before sin did degrade + Both you and it, had equal liberty + +2 With other trees; but now, shut from the breath + And air of Eden, like a malcontent + It thrives nowhere. This makes these weights, like death + And sin, hang at him; for the more he's bent + +3 The more he grows. Celestial natures still + Aspire for home. This Solomon of old, + By flowers, and carvings, and mysterious skill + Of wings, and cherubims, and palms, foretold. + +4 This is the life which, hid above with Christ + In God, doth always (hidden) multiply, + And spring, and grow, a tree ne'er to be priced, + A tree whose fruit is immortality. + +5 Here spirits that have run their race, and fought, + And won the fight, and have not feared the frowns + Nor loved the smiles of greatness, but have wrought + Their Master's will, meet to receive their crowns. + +6 Here is the patience of the saints: this tree + Is watered by their tears, as flowers are fed + With dew by night; but One you cannot see + Sits here, and numbers all the tears they shed. + +7 Here is their faith too, which if you will keep + When we two part, I will a journey make + To pluck a garland hence while you do sleep, + And weave it for your head against you wake. + + +THE GARLAND. + +1 Thou, who dost flow and flourish here below, + To whom a falling star and nine days' glory, + Or some frail beauty, makes the bravest show, + Hark, and make use of this ensuing story. + + When first my youthful, sinful age + Grew master of my ways, + Appointing error for my page, + And darkness for my days; + I flung away, and with full cry + Of wild affections, rid + In post for pleasures, bent to try + All gamesters that would bid. + I played with fire, did counsel spurn, + Made life my common stake; + But never thought that fire would burn, + Or that a soul could ache. + Glorious deceptions, gilded mists, + False joys, fantastic flights, + Pieces of sackcloth with silk lists, + These were my prime delights. + I sought choice bowers, haunted the spring, + Culled flowers and made me posies; + Gave my fond humours their full wing, + And crowned my head with roses. + But at the height of this career + I met with a dead man, + Who, noting well my vain abear, + Thus unto me began: + 'Desist, fond fool, be not undone; + What thou hast cut to-day + Will fade at night, and with this sun + Quite vanish and decay.' + +2 Flowers gathered in this world, die here; if thou + Wouldst have a wreath that fades not, let them grow, + And grow for thee. Who spares them here, shall find + A garland, where comes neither rain nor wind. + + +LOVE-SICK. + +Jesus, my life! how shall I truly love thee! +Oh that thy Spirit would so strongly move me, +That thou wert pleased to shed thy grace so far +As to make man all pure love, flesh a star! +A star that would ne'er set, but ever rise, +So rise and run, as to outrun these skies, +These narrow skies (narrow to me) that bar, +So bar me in, that I am still at war, +At constant war with them. Oh, come, and rend +Or bow the heavens! Lord, bow them and descend, +And at thy presence make these mountains flow, +These mountains of cold ice in me! Thou art +Refining fire; oh, then, refine my heart, +My foul, foul heart! Thou art immortal heat; +Heat motion gives; then warm it, till it beat; +So beat for thee, till thou in mercy hear; +So hear, that thou must open; open to +A sinful wretch, a wretch that caused thy woe; +Thy woe, who caused his weal; so far his weal +That thou forgott'st thine own, for thou didst seal +Mine with thy blood, thy blood which makes thee mine, +Mine ever, ever; and me ever thine. + + +PSALM CIV. + +1 Up, O my soul, and bless the Lord! O God, + My God, how great, how very great art thou! + Honour and majesty have their abode + With thee, and crown thy brow. + +2 Thou cloth'st thyself with light as with a robe, + And the high, glorious heavens thy mighty hand + Doth spread like curtains round about this globe + Of air, and sea, and land. + +3 The beams of thy bright chambers thou dost lay + In the deep waters, which no eye can find; + The clouds thy chariots are, and thy pathway + The wings of the swift wind. + +4 In thy celestial, gladsome messages + Despatched to holy souls, sick with desire + And love of thee, each willing angel is + Thy minister in fire. + +5 Thy arm unmoveable for ever laid + And founded the firm earth; then with the deep + As with a vail thou hidd'st it; thy floods played + Above the mountains steep. + +6 At thy rebuke they fled, at the known voice + Of their Lord's thunder they retired apace: + Some up the mountains passed by secret ways, + Some downwards to their place. + +7 For thou to them a bound hast set, a bound + Which, though but sand, keeps in and curbs whole seas: + There all their fury, foam, and hideous sound, + Must languish and decrease. + +8 And as thy care bounds these, so thy rich love + Doth broach the earth; and lesser brooks lets forth, + Which run from hills to valleys, and improve + Their pleasure and their worth. + +9 These to the beasts of every field give drink; + There the wild asses swallow the cool spring: + And birds amongst the branches on their brink + Their dwellings have, and sing. + +10 Thou from thy upper springs above, from those + Chambers of rain, where heaven's large bottles lie, + Dost water the parched hills, whose breaches close, + Healed by the showers from high. + +11 Grass for the cattle, and herbs for man's use + Thou mak'st to grow; these, blessed by thee, the earth + Brings forth, with wine, oil, bread; all which infuse + To man's heart strength and mirth. + +12 Thou giv'st the trees their greenness, even to those + Cedars in Lebanon, in whose thick boughs + The birds their nests build; though the stork doth choose + The fir-trees for her house. + +13 To the wild goats the high hills serve for folds, + The rocks give conies a retiring place: + Above them the cool moon her known course holds, + And the sun runs his race. + +14 Thou makest darkness, and then comes the night, + In whose thick shades and silence each wild beast + Creeps forth, and, pinched for food, with scent and sight + Hunts in an eager quest. + +15 The lion's whelps, impatient of delay, + Roar in the covert of the woods, and seek + Their meat from thee, who dost appoint the prey, + And feed'st them all the week. + +16 This past, the sun shines on the earth; and they + Retire into their dens; man goes abroad + Unto his work, and at the close of day + Returns home with his load. + +17 O Lord my God, how many and how rare + Are thy great works! In wisdom hast thou made + Them all; and this the earth, and every blade + Of grass we tread declare. + +18 So doth the deep and wide sea, wherein are + Innumerable creeping things, both small + And great; there ships go, and the shipmen's fear, + The comely, spacious whale. + +19 These all upon thee wait, that thou mayst feed + Them in due season: what thou giv'st they take; + Thy bounteous open hand helps them at need, + And plenteous meals they make. + +20 When thou dost hide thy face, (thy face which keeps + All things in being,) they consume and mourn: + When thou withdraw'st their breath their vigour sleeps, + And they to dust return. + +21 Thou send'st thy Spirit forth, and they revive, + The frozen earth's dead face thou dost renew. + Thus thou thy glory through the world dost drive, + And to thy works art true. + +22 Thine eyes behold the earth, and the whole stage + Is moved and trembles, the hills melt and smoke + With thy least touch; lightnings and winds that rage + At thy rebuke are broke. + +23 Therefore as long as thou wilt give me breath + I will in songs to thy great name employ + That gift of thine, and to my day of death + Thou shalt be all my joy. + +24 I'll spice my thoughts with thee, and from thy word + Gather true comforts; but the wicked liver + Shall be consumed. O my soul, bless thy Lord! + Yea, bless thou him for ever! + + +THE TIMBER. + +1 Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, + Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers + Passed o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, + Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers. + +2 And still a new succession sings and flies; + Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot + Towards the old and still-enduring skies, + While the low violet thrives at their root. + +3 But thou, beneath the sad and heavy line + Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; + Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, + Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark. + +4 And yet, as if some deep hate and dissent, + Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, + Were still alive, thou dost great storms resent, + Before they come, and know'st how near they be. + +5 Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath + Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; + But this thy strange resentment after death + Means only those who broke in life thy peace. + +6 So murdered man, when lovely life is done, + And his blood freezed, keeps in the centre still + Some secret sense, which makes the dead blood run + At his approach that did the body kill. + +7 And is there any murderer worse than sin? + Or any storms more foul than a lewd life? + Or what resentient can work more within + Than true remorse, when with past sins at strife? + +8 He that hath left life's vain joys and vain care, + And truly hates to be detained on earth, + Hath got an house where many mansions are, + And keeps his soul unto eternal mirth. + +9 But though thus dead unto the world, and ceased + From sin, he walks a narrow, private way; + Yet grief and old wounds make him sore displeased, + And all his life a rainy, weeping day. + +10 For though he should forsake the world, and live + As mere a stranger as men long since dead; + Yet joy itself will make a right soul grieve + To think he should be so long vainly led. + +11 But as shades set off light, so tears and grief, + Though of themselves but a sad blubbered story, + By showing the sin great, show the relief + Far greater, and so speak my Saviour's glory. + +12 If my way lies through deserts and wild woods, + Where all the land with scorching heat is cursed; + Better the pools should flow with rain and floods + To fill my bottle, than I die with thirst. + +13 Blest showers they are, and streams sent from above; + Begetting virgins where they use to flow; + The trees of life no other waters love, + Than upper springs, and none else make them grow. + +14 But these chaste fountains flow not till we die. + Some drops may fall before; but a clear spring + And ever running, till we leave to fling + Dirt in her way, will keep above the sky. + +'He that is dead is freed from sin.'--ROM. vi. 7. + + +THE JEWS. + +1 When the fair year + Of your Deliverer comes, + And that long frost which now benumbs + Your hearts shall thaw; when angels here + Shall yet to man appear, + And familiarly confer + Beneath the oak and juniper; + When the bright Dove, + Which now these many, many springs + Hath kept above, + Shall with spread wings + Descend, and living waters flow + To make dry dust, and dead trees grow; + +2 Oh, then, that I + Might live, and see the olive bear + Her proper branches! which now lie + Scattered each where; + And, without root and sap, decay; + Cast by the husbandman away. + And sure it is not far! + For as your fast and foul decays, + Forerunning the bright morning star, + Did sadly note his healing rays + Would shine elsewhere, since you were blind, + And would be cross, when God was kind,-- + +3 So by all signs + Our fulness too is now come in; + And the same sun, which here declines + And sets, will few hours hence begin + To rise on you again, and look + Towards old Mamre and Eshcol's brook. + For surely he + Who loved the world so as to give + His only Son to make it free, + Whose Spirit too doth mourn and grieve + To see man lost, will for old love + From your dark hearts this veil remove. + +4 Faith sojourned first on earth in you, + You were the dear and chosen stock: + The arm of God, glorious and true, + Was first revealed to be your rock. + +5 You were the eldest child, and when + Your stony hearts despised love, + The youngest, even the Gentiles, then, + Were cheered your jealousy to move. + +6 Thus, righteous Father! dost thou deal + With brutish men; thy gifts go round + By turns, and timely, and so heal + The lost son by the newly found. + + +PALM-SUNDAY. + +1 Come, drop your branches, strew the way, + Plants of the day! + Whom sufferings make most green and gay. + The King of grief, the Man of sorrow, + Weeping still like the wet morrow, + Your shades and freshness comes to borrow. + +2 Put on, put on your best array; + Let the joyed road make holyday, + And flowers, that into fields do stray, + Or secret groves, keep the highway. + +3 Trees, flowers, and herbs; birds, beasts, and stones, + That since man fell expect with groans + To see the Lamb, come all at once, + Lift up your heads and leave your moans; + For here comes he + Whose death will be + Man's life, and your full liberty. + +4 Hark! how the children shrill and high + 'Hosanna' cry; + Their joys provoke the distant sky, + Where thrones and seraphim reply; + And their own angels shine and sing, + In a bright ring: + Such young, sweet mirth + Makes heaven and earth + Join in a joyful symphony. + +5 The harmless, young, and happy ass, + (Seen long before[1] this came to pass,) + Is in these joys a high partaker, + Ordained and made to bear his Maker. + +6 Dear Feast of Palms, of flowers and dew! + Whose fruitful dawn sheds hopes and lights; + Thy bright solemnities did shew + The third glad day through two sad nights. + +7 I'll get me up before the sun, + I'll cut me boughs off many a tree, + And all alone full early run + To gather flowers to welcome thee. + +8 Then, like the palm, though wronged I'll bear, + I will be still a child, still meek + As the poor ass which the proud jeer, + And only my dear Jesus seek. + +9 If I lose all, and must endure + The proverbed griefs of holy Job, + I care not, so I may secure + But one green branch and a white robe. + +[1] Zechariah ix. 9. + + +PROVIDENCE. + +1 Sacred and secret hand! + By whose assisting, swift command + The angel showed that holy well + Which freed poor Hagar from her fears, + And turned to smiles the begging tears + Of young, distressed Ishmael. + +2 How, in a mystic cloud, + Which doth thy strange, sure mercies shroud, + Dost thou convey man food and money, + Unseen by him till they arrive + Just at his mouth, that thankless hive, + Which kills thy bees, and eats thy honey! + +3 If I thy servant be, + Whose service makes even captives free, + A fish shall all my tribute pay, + The swift-winged raven shall bring me meat, + And I, like flowers, shall still go neat, + As if I knew no month but May. + +4 I will not fear what man + With all his plots and power can. + Bags that wax old may plundered be; + But none can sequester or let + A state that with the sun doth set, + And comes next morning fresh as he. + +5 Poor birds this doctrine sing, + And herbs which on dry hills do spring, + Or in the howling wilderness + Do know thy dewy morning hours, + And watch all night for mists or showers, + Then drink and praise thy bounteousness. + +6 May he for ever die + Who trusts not thee, but wretchedly + Hunts gold and wealth, and will not lend + Thy service nor his soul one day! + May his crown, like his hopes, be clay; + And what he saves may his foes spend! + +7 If all my portion here, + The measure given by thee each year, + Were by my causeless enemies + Usurped; it never should me grieve, + Who know how well thou canst relieve, + Whose hands are open as thine eyes. + +8 Great King of love and truth! + Who wouldst not hate my froward youth, + And wilt not leave me when grown old, + Gladly will I, like Pontic sheep, + Unto my wormwood diet keep, + Since thou hast made thy arm my fold. + + +ST MARY MAGDALENE. + +Dear, beauteous saint! more white than day, +When in his naked, pure array; +Fresher than morning-flowers, which shew, +As thou in tears dost, best in dew. +How art thou changed, how lively, fair, +Pleasing, and innocent an air, +Not tutored by thy glass, but free, +Native, and pure, shines now in thee! +But since thy beauty doth still keep +Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep? +This dusky state of sighs and tears +Durst not look on those smiling years, +When Magdal-castle was thy seat, +Where all was sumptuous, rare, and neat. +Why lies this hair despised now +Which once thy care and art did show? +Who then did dress the much-loved toy +In spires, globes, angry curls and coy, +Which with skilled negligence seemed shed +About thy curious, wild, young head? +Why is this rich, this pistic nard +Spilt, and the box quite broke and marred? +What pretty sullenness did haste +Thy easy hands to do this waste? +Why art thou humbled thus, and low +As earth thy lovely head dost bow? +Dear soul! thou knew'st flowers here on earth +At their Lord's footstool have their birth; +Therefore thy withered self in haste +Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast, +That at the root of this green tree +Thy great decays restored might be. +Thy curious vanities, and rare +Odorous ointments kept with care, +And dearly bought, when thou didst see +They could not cure nor comfort thee; +Like a wise, early penitent, +Thou sadly didst to him present, +Whose interceding, meek, and calm +Blood, is the world's all-healing balm. +This, this divine restorative +Called forth thy tears, which ran in live +And hasty drops, as if they had +(Their Lord so near) sense to be glad. +Learn, ladies, here the faithful cure +Makes beauty lasting, fresh, and pure; +Learn Mary's art of tears, and then +Say you have got the day from men. +Cheap, mighty art! her art of love, +Who loved much, and much more could move; +Her art! whose memory must last +Till truth through all the world be passed; +Till his abused, despised flame +Return to heaven, from whence it came, +And send a fire down, that shall bring +Destruction on his ruddy wing. +Her art! whose pensive, weeping eyes, +Were once sin's loose and tempting spies; +But now are fixed stars, whose light +Helps such dark stragglers to their sight. + +Self-boasting Pharisee! how blind +A judge wert thou, and how unkind! +It was impossible that thou, +Who wert all false, shouldst true grief know. +Is't just to judge her faithful tears +By that foul rheum thy false eye wears? +'This woman,' sayst thou, 'is a sinner!' +And sat there none such at thy dinner? +Go, leper, go! wash till thy flesh +Comes like a child's, spotless and fresh; +He is still leprous that still paints: +Who saint themselves, they are no saints. + + +THE RAINBOW. + +Still young and fine! but what is still in view +We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. +How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye +Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry! +When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, +The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, +Did with intentive looks watch every hour +For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! +When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair, +Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air: +Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours +Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. +Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie +Of thy Lord's hand, the object[1] of his eye! +When I behold thee, though my light be dim, +Distant, and low, I can in thine see him, +Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, +And minds the covenant 'twixt all and one. +O foul, deceitful men! my God doth keep +His promise still, but we break ours and sleep. +After the fall the first sin was in blood, +And drunkenness quickly did succeed the flood; +But since Christ died, (as if we did devise +To lose him too, as well as paradise,) +These two grand sins we join and act together, +Though blood and drunkenness make but foul, foul weather. +Water, though both heaven's windows and the deep +Full forty days o'er the drowned world did weep, +Could not reform us, and blood in despite, +Yea, God's own blood, we tread upon and slight. +So those bad daughters, which God saved from fire, +While Sodom yet did smoke, lay with their sire. + +Then, peaceful, signal bow, but in a cloud +Still lodged, where all thy unseen arrows shroud; +I will on thee as on a comet look, +A comet, the sad world's ill-boding book; +Thy light as luctual and stained with woes +I'll judge, where penal flames sit mixed and close. +For though some think thou shin'st but to restrain +Bold storms, and simply dost attend on rain; +Yet I know well, and so our sins require, +Thou dost but court cold rain, till rain turns fire. + +[1] Genesis ix. 16. + + +THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY. + +MARK IV. 26. + +1 If this world's friends might see but once + What some poor man may often feel, + Glory and gold and crowns and thrones + They would soon quit, and learn to kneel. + +2 My dew, my dew! my early love, + My soul's bright food, thy absence kills! + Hover not long, eternal Dove! + Life without thee is loose and spills. + +3 Something I had, which long ago + Did learn to suck and sip and taste; + But now grown sickly, sad, and slow, + Doth fret and wrangle, pine and waste. + +4 Oh, spread thy sacred wings, and shake + One living drop! one drop life keeps! + If pious griefs heaven's joys awake, + Oh, fill his bottle! thy child weeps! + +5 Slowly and sadly doth he grow, + And soon as left shrinks back to ill; + Oh, feed that life, which makes him blow + And spread and open to thy will! + +6 For thy eternal, living wells + None stained or withered shall come near: + A fresh, immortal green there dwells, + And spotless white is all the wear. + +7 Dear, secret greenness! nursed below + Tempests and winds and winter nights! + Vex not that but One sees thee grow, + That One made all these lesser lights. + +8 If those bright joys he singly sheds + On thee, were all met in one crown, + Both sun and stars would hide their heads; + And moons, though full, would get them down. + +9 Let glory be their bait whose minds + Are all too high for a low cell: + Though hawks can prey through storms and winds, + The poor bee in her hive must dwell. + +10 Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still + To what most takes them is a drudge; + And they too oft take good for ill, + And thriving vice for virtue judge. + +11 What needs a conscience calm and bright + Within itself an outward test? + Who breaks his glass to take more light, + Makes way for storms into his rest. + +12 Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch + At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; + Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch, + Till the white-winged reapers come! + + +CHILDHOOD. + +I cannot reach it; and my striving eye +Dazzles at it, as at eternity. + Were now that chronicle alive, +Those white designs which children drive, +And the thoughts of each harmless hour, +With their content too in my power, +Quickly would I make my path even, +And by mere playing go to heaven. + + Why should men love +A wolf more than a lamb or dove? +Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams +Before bright stars and God's own beams? +Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face, +But flowers do both refresh and grace; +And sweetly living (fie on men!) +Are, when dead, medicinal then. +If seeing much should make staid eyes, +And long experience should make wise, +Since all that age doth teach is ill, +Why should I not love childhood still? +Why, if I see a rock or shelf, +Shall I from thence cast down myself, +Or by complying with the world, +From the same precipice be hurled? +Those observations are but foul, +Which make me wise to lose my soul. + +And yet the practice worldlings call +Business and weighty action all, +Checking the poor child for his play, +But gravely cast themselves away. + +Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span +Where weeping virtue parts with man; +Where love without lust dwells, and bends +What way we please without self-ends. + +An age of mysteries! which he +Must live twice that would God's face see; +Which angels guard, and with it play, +Angels! which foul men drive away. + +How do I study now, and scan +Thee more than ere I studied man, +And only see through a long night +Thy edges and thy bordering light! +Oh for thy centre and mid-day! +For sure that is the narrow way! + + +ABEL'S BLOOD. + +Sad, purple well! whose bubbling eye +Did first against a murderer cry; +Whose streams, still vocal, still complain + Of bloody Cain; +And now at evening are as red +As in the morning when first shed. + If single thou, +Though single voices are but low, +Couldst such a shrill and long cry rear +As speaks still in thy Maker's ear, +What thunders shall those men arraign +Who cannot count those they have slain, +Who bathe not in a shallow flood, +But in a deep, wide sea of blood-- +A sea whose loud waves cannot sleep, +But deep still calleth upon deep; +Whose urgent sound, like unto that +Of many waters, beateth at +The everlasting doors above, +Where souls behind the altar move, +And with one strong, incessant cry +Inquire 'How long?' of the Most High? + Almighty Judge! +At whose just laws no just men grudge; +Whose blessed, sweet commands do pour +Comforts and joys and hopes each hour +On those that keep them; oh, accept +Of his vowed heart, whom thou hast kept +From bloody men! and grant I may +That sworn memorial duly pay +To thy bright arm, which was my light +And leader through thick death and night! + Aye may that flood, +That proudly spilt and despised blood, +Speechless and calm as infants sleep! +Or if it watch, forgive and weep +For those that spilt it! May no cries +From the low earth to high heaven rise, +But what, like his whose blood peace brings, +Shall, when they rise, speak better things +Than Abel's doth! May Abel be +Still single heard, while these agree +With his mild blood in voice and will, +Who prayed for those that did him kill! + + +RIGHTEOUSNESS. + +1 Fair, solitary path! whose blessed shades + The old, white prophets planted first and dressed; + Leaving for us, whose goodness quickly fades, + A shelter all the way, and bowers to rest; + +2 Who is the man that walks in thee? who loves + Heaven's secret solitude, those fair abodes, + Where turtles build, and careless sparrows move, + Without to-morrow's evils and future loads? + +3 Who hath the upright heart, the single eye, + The clean, pure hand, which never meddled pitch? + Who sees invisibles, and doth comply + With hidden treasures that make truly rich? + +4 He that doth seek and love + The things above, + Whose spirit ever poor is, meek, and low; + Who simple still and wise, + Still homeward flies, + Quick to advance, and to retreat most slow. + +5 Whose acts, words, and pretence + Have all one sense, + One aim and end; who walks not by his sight; + Whose eyes are both put out, + And goes about + Guided by faith, not by exterior light. + +6 Who spills no blood, nor spreads + Thorns in the beds + Of the distressed, hasting their overthrow; + Making the time they had + Bitter and sad, + Like chronic pains, which surely kill, though slow. + +7 Who knows earth nothing hath + Worth love or wrath, + But in his Hope and Rock is ever glad. + Who seeks and follows peace, + When with the ease + And health of conscience it is to be had. + +8 Who bears his cross with joy, + And doth employ + His heart and tongue in prayers for his foes; + Who lends not to be paid, + And gives full aid + Without that bribe which usurers impose. + +9 Who never looks on man + Fearful and wan, + But firmly trusts in God; the great man's measure, + Though high and haughty, must + Be ta'en in dust; + But the good man is God's peculiar treasure. + +10 Who doth thus, and doth not + These good deeds blot + With bad, or with neglect; and heaps not wrath + By secret filth, nor feeds + Some snake, or weeds, + Cheating himself--That man walks in this path. + + +JACOB'S PILLOW AND PILLAR. + +I see the temple in thy pillar reared, +And that dread glory which thy children feared, +In mild, clear visions, without a frown, +Unto thy solitary self is shown. +'Tis number makes a schism: throngs are rude, +And God himself died by the multitude. +This made him put on clouds, and fire, and smoke; +Hence he in thunder to thy offspring spoke. +The small, still voice at some low cottage knocks, +But a strong wind must break thy lofty rocks. + +The first true worship of the world's great King +From private and selected hearts did spring; +But he most willing to save all mankind, +Enlarged that light, and to the bad was kind. +Hence catholic or universal came +A most fair notion, but a very name. +For this rich pearl, like some more common stone, +When once made public, is esteemed by none. +Man slights his Maker when familiar grown, +And sets up laws to pull his honour down. +This God foresaw: and when slain by the crowd, +Under that stately and mysterious cloud +Which his death scattered, he foretold the place +And form to serve him in should be true grace, +And the meek heart; not in a mount, nor at +Jerusalem, with blood of beasts and fat. +A heart is that dread place, that awful cell, +That secret ark, where the mild Dove doth dwell, +When the proud waters rage: when heathens rule +By God's permission, and man turns a mule, +This little Goshen, in the midst of night +And Satan's seat, in all her coasts hath light; +Yea, Bethel shall have tithes, saith Israel's stone, +And vows and visions, though her foes cry, None. +Thus is the solemn temple sunk again +Into a pillar, and concealed from men. +And glory be to his eternal name, +Who is contented that this holy flame +Shall lodge in such a narrow pit, till he +With his strong arm turns our captivity! + +But blessed Jacob, though thy sad distress +Was just the same with ours, and nothing less; +For thou a brother, and bloodthirsty too, + +Didst fly,[1] whose children wrought thy children's woe: +Yet thou in all thy solitude and grief, +On stones didst sleep, and found'st but cold relief; +Thou from the Day-star a long way didst stand, +And all that distance was law and command. +But we a healing Sun, by day and night, +Have our sure guardian and our leading light. +What thou didst hope for and believe we find +And feel, a Friend most ready, sure, and kind. +Thy pillow was but type and shade at best, +But we the substance have, and on him rest. + +[1] Obadiah 10; Amos i, 11. + + +THE FEAST. + +1 Oh, come away, + Make no delay, + Come while my heart is clean and steady! + While faith and grace + Adorn the place, + Making dust and ashes ready! + +2 No bliss here lent + Is permanent, + Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit; + Short sips and sights + Endear delights: + Who seeks for more he would inherit. + +3 Come then, true bread, + Quickening the dead, + Whose eater shall not, cannot die! + Come, antedate + On me that state, + Which brings poor dust the victory. + +4 Aye victory, + Which from thine eye + Breaks as the day doth from the east, + When the spilt dew + Like tears doth shew + The sad world wept to be released. + +5 Spring up, O wine, + And springing shine + With some glad message from his heart, + Who did, when slain, + These means ordain + For me to have in him a part! + +6 Such a sure part + In his blest heart, + The well where living waters spring, + That, with it fed, + Poor dust, though dead, + Shall rise again, and live, and sing. + +7 O drink and bread, + Which strikes death dead, + The food of man's immortal being! + Under veils here + Thou art my cheer, + Present and sure without my seeing. + +8 How dost thou fly + And search and pry + Through all my parts, and, like a quick + And knowing lamp, + Hunt out each damp, + Whose shadow makes me sad or sick! + +9 O what high joys! + The turtle's voice + And songs I hear! O quickening showers + Of my Lord's blood, + You make rocks bud, + And crown dry hills with wells and flowers! + +10 For this true ease, + This healing peace, + For this [brief] taste of living glory, + My soul and all, + Kneel down and fall, + And sing his sad victorious story! + +11 O thorny crown, + More soft than down! + O painful cross, my bed of rest! + O spear, the key + Opening the way! + O thy worst state, my only best! + +12 O all thy griefs + Are my reliefs, + As all my sins thy sorrows were! + And what can I, + To this reply? + What, O God! but a silent tear? + +13 Some toil and sow + That wealth may flow, + And dress this earth for next year's meat: + But let me heed + Why thou didst bleed, + And what in the next world to eat. + +'Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the +Lamb.'--Rev. xix. 9. + + +THE WATERFALL. + +With what deep murmurs, through time's silent stealth, +Does thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth + Here flowing fall, + And chide and call, +As if his liquid, loose retinue staid +Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid; + The common pass, + Where, clear as glass, + All must descend, + Not to an end, +But quickened by this deep and rocky grave, +Rise to a longer course more bright and brave. + + Dear stream! dear bank! where often I + Have sat, and pleased my pensive eye; + Why, since each drop of thy quick store + Runs thither whence it flowed before, + Should poor souls fear a shade or night, + Who came (sure) from a sea of light? + Or, since those drops are all sent back + So sure to thee that none doth lack, + Why should frail flesh doubt any more + That what God takes he'll not restore? + + O useful element and clear! + My sacred wash and cleanser here; + My first consigner unto those + Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes! + What sublime truths and wholesome themes + Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams! + Such as dull man can never find, + Unless that Spirit lead his mind, + Which first upon thy face did move + And hatched all with his quickening love. + As this loud brook's incessant fall + In streaming rings re-stagnates all, + Which reach by course the bank, and then + Are no more seen: just so pass men. + O my invisible estate, + My glorious liberty, still late! + Thou art the channel my soul seeks, + Not this with cataracts and creeks. + + + + +DR JOSEPH BEAUMONT. + + +This writer, though little known, appears to us to stand as high almost +as any name in the present volume, and we are proud to reprint here some +considerable specimens of his magnificent poetry. + +Joseph Beaumont was sprung from a collateral branch of the ancient +family of the Beaumonts, that family from which sprung Sir John Beaumont, +the author of 'Bosworth Field,' and Francis Beaumont, the celebrated +dramatist. He was born at Hadleigh, in Suffolk. Of his early life nothing +is known. He received his education at Cambridge, where, during the Civil +War, he was fellow and tutor of Peterhouse. Ejected by the Republicans +from his offices, he retired to Hadleigh, and spent his time in the com- +position of his _magnum opus_, 'Psyche.' This poem appeared in 1648; and +in 1702, three years after the author's death, his son published a second +edition, with numerous corrections, and the addition of four cantos by the +author. Beaumont also wrote several minor pieces in English and Latin, a +controversial tract in reply to Henry More's 'Mystery of Godliness,' and +several theological works which are still in MS., according to a provision +in his will to that effect. Peace and perpetuity to their slumbers! + +After the Restoration, our author was not only reinstated in his former +situations, but received from his patron, Bishop Wren, several valuable +pieces of preferment besides. Afterwards, he exercised successively the +offices of Master of Jesus and of Peterhouse, and was King's Professor +of Divinity from 1670 to 1699. In the latter year he died. + +While praising the genius of Beaumont, we are far from commending his +'Psyche,' either as an artistic whole, or as a readable book. It is, +sooth to say, a dull allegory, in twenty-four immense cantos, studded +with the rarest beauties. It is considerably longer than the 'Faery +Queen,' nearly four times the length of the 'Paradise Lost,' and five or +six times as long as the 'Excursion.' To read it through now-a-days were +to perform a purgatorial penance. But the imagination and fancy are +Spenserian, his colouring is often Titianesque in gorgeousness, and his +pictures of shadows, abstractions, and all fantastic forms, are so +forcible as to seem to start from the canvas. In painting the beautiful, +his verse becomes careless and flowing as a loosened zone; in painting +the frightful and the infernal, his language, like his feeling, seems to +curdle and stiffen in horror, as where, speaking of Satan, he says-- + + 'His tawny teeth + Were ragged grown, by endless _gnashing at + The dismal riddle of his living death._' + +The 'Psyche' may be compared to a palace of Fairyland, where successive +doors fly open to the visitor--one revealing a banqueting-room filled +with the materials of exuberant mirth; another, an enchanted garden, +with streams stealing from grottos, and nymphs gliding through groves; +a third conducting you to a dungeon full of dead men's bones and all +uncleanness; a fourth, to a pit which seems the mouth of hell, and +whence cries of torture come up, shaking the smoke that ascendeth up for +ever and ever; and a fifth, to the open roof, over which the stars are +seen bending, and the far-off heavens are opening in glory; and of these +doors there is no end. We saw, when lately in Copenhagen, the famous +tower of the Trinity Church, remarkable for the grand view commanded +from the summit, and for the broad spiral ascent winding within it +almost to the top, up which it is said Peter the Great, in 1716, used to +drive himself and his Empress in a coach-and-four. It was curious to +feel ourselves ascending on a path nearly level, and without the +slightest perspiration or fatigue; and here, we thought, is the +desiderated 'royal road' to difficulties fairly found. Large poems +should be constructed on the same principle; their quiet, broad interest +should beguile their readers alike to their length and their loftiness. +It is exactly the reverse with 'Psyche.' But if any reader is wearied of +some of the extracts we have given, such as his verses on 'Eve,' on +'Paradise,' on 'End,' on 'The Death of his Wife,' and on 'Imperial +Rome,' we shall be very much disposed to question his capacity for +appreciating true poetry. + + +HELL. + +1 Hell's court is built deep in a gloomy vale, + High walled with strong damnation, moated round + With flaming brimstone: full against the hall + Roars a burnt bridge of brass: the yards abound + With all envenomed herbs and trees, more rank + And fruitless than on Asphaltite's bank. + +2 The gate, where Fire and Smoke the porters be, + Stands always ope with gaping greedy jaws. + Hither flocked all the states of misery; + As younger snakes, when their old serpent draws + Them by a summoning hiss, haste down her throat + Of patent poison their awed selves to shoot. + +3 The hall was roofed with everlasting pride, + Deep paved with despair, checkered with spite, + And hanged round with torments far and wide: + The front displayed a goodly-dreadful sight, + Great Satan's arms stamped on an iron shield, + A crowned dragon, gules, in sable field. + +4 There on's immortal throne of death they see + Their mounted lord; whose left hand proudly held + His globe, (for all the world he claims to be + His proper realm,) whose bloody right did wield + His mace, on which ten thousand serpents knit, + With restless madness gnawed themselves and it. + +5 His awful horns above his crown did rise, + And force his fiends to shrink in theirs: his face + Was triply-plated impudence: his eyes + Were hell reflected in a double glass, + Two comets staring in their bloody stream, + Two beacons boiling in their pitch and flame. + +6 His mouth in breadth vied with his palace gate + And conquered it in soot: his tawny teeth + Were ragged grown, by endless gnashing at + The dismal riddle of his living death: + His grizzly beard a singed confession made + What fiery breath through his black lips did trade. + +7 Which as he oped, the centre, on whose back + His chair of ever-fretting pain was set, + Frighted beside itself, began to quake: + Throughout all hell the barking hydras shut + Their awed mouths: the silent peers, in fear, + Hung down their tails, and on their lord did stare. + + +JOSEPH'S DREAM. + +1 When this last night had sealed up mine eyes, + And opened heaven's, whose countenance now was clear, + And trimmed with every star; on his soft wing + A nimble vision me did thither bring. + +2 Quite through the storehouse of the air I passed + Where choice of every weather treasured lies: + Here, rain is bottled up; there, hail is cast + In candied heaps: here, banks of snow do rise; + There, furnaces of lightning burn, and those + Long-bearded stars which light us to our woes. + +3 Hence towered I to a dainty world: the air + Was sweet and calm, and in my memory + Waked my serener mother's looks: this fair + Canaan now fled from my discerning eye; + The earth was shrunk so small, methought I read, + By that due prospect, what it was indeed. + +4 But then, arriving at an orb whose flames, + Like an unbounded ocean, flowed about, + Fool as I was, I quaked; till its kind beams + Gave me a harmless kiss. I little thought + Fire could have been so mild; but surely here + It rageth, 'cause we keep it from its sphere. + +5 There, reverend sire, it flamed, but with as sweet + An ardency as in your noble heart + That heavenly zeal doth burn, whose fostering heat + Makes you Heaven's living holocaust: no part + Of my dream's tender wing felt any harm; + Our journey, not the fire, did keep us warm. + +6 But here my guide, his wings' soft oars to spare, + On the moon's lower horn clasped hold, and whirled + Me up into a region as far, + In splendid worth, surmounting this low world + As in its place: for liquid crystal here + Was the tralucid matter of each sphere. + +7 The moon was kind, and, as we scoured by, + Showed us the deed whereby the great Creator + Instated her in that large monarchy + She holdeth over all the ocean's water: + To which a schedule was annexed, which o'er + All other humid bodies gives her power. + +8 Now complimental Mercury was come + To the quaint margin of his courtly sphere, + And bid us eloquent welcome to his home. + Scarce could we pass, so great a crowd was there + Of points and lines; and nimble Wit beside + Upon the back of thousand shapes did ride. + +9 Next Venus' face, heaven's joy and sweetest pride, + (Which brought again my mother to my mind,) + Into her region lured my ravished guide. + This strewed with youth, and smiles, and love we find; + And those all chaste: 'tis this foul world below + Adulterates what from thence doth spotless flow. + +10 Then rapt to Phoebus' orb, all paved with gold, + The rich reflection of his own aspect: + Most gladly there I would have stayed, and told + How many crowns and thorns his dwelling decked, + What life, what verdure, what heroic might, + What pearly spirits, what sons of active light. + +11 But I was hurried into Mars his sphere, + Where Envy, (oh, how cursed was its grim face!) + And Jealousy, and Fear, and Wrath, and War + Quarrelled, although in heaven, about their place. + Yea, engines there to vomit fire I saw, + Whose flame and thunder earth at length must know. + +12 Nay, in a corner, 'twas my hap to spy + Something which looked but frowardly on me: + And sure my watchful guide read in mine eye + My musing troubled sense; for straightway he, + Lest I should start and wake upon the fright, + Speeded from thence his seasonable flight. + +13 Welcome was Jupiter's dominion, where + Illustrious Mildness round about did flow; + Religion had built her temple there, + And sacred honours on its walks did grow: + No mitre ever priest's grave head shall crown, + Which in those mystic gardens was not sown. + +14 At length, we found old Saturn in his bed; + And much I wondered how, and he so dull, + Could climb thus high: his house was lumpish lead, + Of dark and solitary comers full; + Where Discontent and Sickness dwellers be, + Damned Melancholy and dead Lethargy. + +15 Hasting from hence into a boundless field, + Innumerable stars we marshalled found + In fair array: this earth did never yield + Such choice of flowery pride, when she had crowned + The plains of Shechem, where the gaudy Spring + Smiles on the beauties of each verdant thing. + + +PARADISE. + +1 Within, rose hills of spice and frankincense, + Which smiled upon the flowery vales below, + Where living crystal found a sweet pretence + With musical impatience to flow, + And delicately chide the gems beneath + Because no smoother they had paved its path. + +2 The nymphs which sported on this current's side + Were milky Thoughts, tralucid, pure Desires, + Soft turtles' Kisses, Looks of virgin brides, + Sweet Coolness which nor needs nor feareth fires, + Snowy Embraces, cheerly-sober Eyes, + Gentleness, Mildness, Ingenuities. + +3 The early gales knocked gently at the door + Of every flower, to bid the odours wake; + Which, catching in their softest arms, they bore + From bed to bed, and so returned them back + To their own lodgings, doubled by the blisses + They sipped from their delicious brethren's kisses. + +4 Upon the wings of those enamouring breaths + Refreshment, vigour, nimbleness attended; + Which, wheresoe'er they flew, cheered up their paths, + And with fresh airs of life all things befriended: + For Heaven's sweet Spirit deigned his breath to join + And make the powers of these blasts divine. + +5 The goodly trees' bent arms their nobler load + Of fruit which blest oppression overbore: + That orchard where the dragon warder stood, + For all its golden boughs, to this was poor, + To this, in which the greater serpent lay, + Though not to guard the trees, but to betray. + +6 Of fortitude there rose a stately row; + Here, of munificence a thickset grove; + There, of wise industry a quickset grew; + Here, flourished a dainty copse of love; + There, sprang up pleasant twigs of ready wit; + Here, larger trees of gravity were set, + +7 Here, temperance; and wide-spread justice there, + Under whose sheltering shadow piety, + Devotion, mildness, friendship planted were; + Next stood renown with head exalted high; + Then twined together plenty, fatness, peace. + O blessed place, where grew such things as these! + + +EVE. + +1 Her spacious, polished forehead was the fair + And lovely plain where gentle majesty + Walked in delicious state: her temples clear + Pomegranate fragments, which rejoiced to lie + In dainty ambush, and peep through their cover + Of amber-locks whose volume curled over. + +2 The fuller stream of her luxuriant hair + Poured down itself upon her ivory back: + In which soft flood ten thousand graces were + Sporting and dallying with every lock; + The rival winds for kisses fell to fight, + And raised a ruffling tempest of delight. + +3 Two princely arches, of most equal measures, + Held up the canopy above her eyes, + And opened to the heavens far richer treasures, + Than with their stars or sun e'er learn'd to rise: + Those beams can ravish but the body's sight, + These dazzle stoutest souls with mystic light. + +4 Two garrisons were these of conquering love; + Two founts of life, of spirit, of joy, of grace; + Two easts in one fair heaven, no more above, + But in the hemisphere of her own face; + Two thrones of gallantry; two shops of miracles; + Two shrines of deities; two silent oracles. + +5 For silence here could eloquently plead; + Here might the unseen soul be clearly read: + Though gentle humours their mild mixture made, + They proved a double burning-glass which shed + Those living flames which, with enlivening darts, + Shoot deaths of love into spectators' hearts. + +6 'Twixt these, an alabaster promontory + Sloped gently down to part each cheek from other; + Where white and red strove for the fairer glory, + Blending in sweet confusion together. + The rose and lily never joined were + In so divine a marriage as there. + +7 Couchant upon these precious cushionets + Were thousand beauties, and as many smiles, + Chaste blandishments, and modest cooling heats, + Harmless temptations, and honest guiles. + For heaven, though up betimes the maid to deck, + Ne'er made Aurora's cheeks so fair and sleek. + +8 Enamouring neatness, softness, pleasure, at + Her gracious mouth in full retinue stood; + For, next the eyes' bright glass, the soul at that + Takes most delight to look and walk abroad. + But at her lips two threads of scarlet lay, + Or two warm corals, to adorn the way,-- + +9 The precious way whereby her breath and tongue, + Her odours and her honey, travelled, + Which nicest critics would have judged among + Arabian or Hyblaean mountains bred. + Indeed, the richer Araby in her + Dear mouth and sweeter Hybla dwelling were. + +10 More gracefully its golden chapiter + No column of white marble e'er sustained + Than her round polished neck supported her + Illustrious head, which there in triumph reigned. + Yet neither would this pillar hardness know, + Nor suffer cold to dwell amongst its snow. + +11 Her blessed bosom moderately rose + With two soft mounts of lilies, whose fair top + A pair of pretty sister cherries chose, + And there their living crimson lifted up. + The milky countenance of the hills confessed + What kind of springs within had made their nest. + +12 So leggiadrous were her snowy hands + That pleasure moved as any finger stirred: + Her virgin waxen arms were precious bands + And chains of love: her waist itself did gird + With its own graceful slenderness, and tie + Up delicacy's best epitome. + +13 Fair politure walked all her body over, + And symmetry rejoiced in every part; + Soft and white sweetness was her native cover, + From every member beauty shot a dart: + From heaven to earth, from head to foot I mean, + No blemish could by envy's self be seen. + +14 This was the first-born queen of gallantry; + All gems compounded into one rich stone, + All sweets knit into one conspiracy; + A constellation of all stars in one; + Who, when she was presented to their view, + Both paradise and nature dazzled grew. + +15 Phoebus, who rode in glorious scorn's career + About the world, no sooner spied her face, + But fain he would have lingered, from his sphere + On this, though less, yet sweeter, heaven, to gaze + Till shame enforced him to lash on again, + And clearer wash him in the western main. + +16 The smiling air was tickled with his high + Prerogative of uncontrolled bliss, + Embracing with entirest liberty + A body soft, and sweet, and chaste as his. + All odorous gales that had but strength to stir + Came flocking in to beg perfumes of her. + +17 The marigold her garish love forgot, + And turned her homage to these fairer eyes; + All flowers looked up, and dutifully shot + Their wonder hither, whence they saw arise + Unparching courteous lustre, which instead + Of fire, soft joy's irradiations spread. + +18 The sturdiest trees, affected by her dear + Delightful presence, could not choose but melt + At their hard pith; whilst all the birds whose clear + Pipes tossed mirth about the branches, felt + The influence of her looks; for having let + Their song fall down, their eyes on her they set. + + +TO THE MEMORY OF HIS WIFE. + +1 Sweet soul, how goodly was the temple which + Heaven pleased to make thy earthly habitation! + Built all of graceful delicacy, rich + In symmetry, and of a dangerous fashion + For youthful eyes, had not the saint within + Governed the charms of her enamouring shrine. + +2 How happily compendious didst thou make + My study when I was the lines to draw + Of genuine beauty! never put to take + Long journeys was my fancy; still I saw + At home my copy, and I knew 'twould be + But beauty's wrong further to seek than thee. + +3 Full little knew the world (for I as yet + In studied silence hugged my secret bliss) + How facile was my Muse's task, when set + Virtue's and grace's features to express! + For whilst accomplished thou wert in my sight + I nothing had to do, but look and write. + +4 How sadly parted are those words; since I + Must now be writing, but no more can look! + Yet in my heart thy precious memory, + So deep is graved, that from this faithful book, + Truly transcribed, thy character shall shine; + Nor shall thy death devour what was divine. + +5 Hear then, O all soft-hearted turtles, hear + What you alone profoundly will resent: + A bird of your pure feather 'tis whom here + Her desolate mate remaineth to lament, + Whilst she is flown to meet her dearer love, + And sing among the winged choir above. + +6 Twelve times the glorious sovereign of day + Had made his progress, and in every inn + Whose golden signs through all his radiant way + So high are hung, as often lodged been, + Since in the sacred knot this noble she + Deigned to be tied to (then how happy) me. + +7 Tied, tied we were so intimately, that + We straight were sweetly lost in one another. + Thus when two notes in music's wedlock knit, + They in one concord blended are together: + For nothing now our life but music was; + Her soul the treble made, and mine the base. + +8 How at the needless question would she smile, + When asked what she desired or counted fit? + Still bidding me examine mine own will, + And read the surest answer ready writ. + So centred was her heart in mine, that she + Would own no wish, if first not wished by me. + +9 Delight was no such thing to her, if I + Relished it not: the palate of her pleasure + Carefully watched what mine could taste, and by + That standard her content resolved to measure. + By this rare art of sweetness did she prove + That though she joyed, yet all her joy was love. + +10 So was her grief: for wronged herself she held + If I were sad alone; her share, alas! + And more than so, in all my sorrows' field + She duly reaped: and here alone she was + Unjust to me. Ah! dear injustice, which + Mak'st me complain that I was loved too much! + + * * * * * + +11 She ne'er took post to keep an equal pace + Still with the newest modes, which swiftly run: + She never was perplexed to hear her lace + Accused for six months' old, when first put on: + She laid no watchful leaguers, costly vain, + Intelligence with fashions to maintain. + +12 On a pin's point she ne'er held consultation, + Nor at her glass's strict tribunal brought + Each plait to scrupulous examination: + Ashamed she was that Titan's coach about + Half heaven should sooner wheel, than she could pass + Through all the petty stages of her dress. + +13 No gadding itch e'er spurred her to delight + In needless sallies; none but civil care + Of friendly correspondence could invite + Her out of doors; unless she 'pointed were + By visitations from Heaven's hand, where she + Might make her own in tender sympathy. + +14 Abroad, she counted but her prison: home, + Home was the region of her liberty. + Abroad diverson thronged, and left no room + For zeal's set task, and virtue's business free: + Home was her less encumbered scene, though there + Angels and gods she knew spectators were. + + * * * * * + +15 This weaned her heart from things below, + And kindled it with strong desire to gain + Her hope's high aim. Life could no longer now + Flatter her love, or make her prayers refrain + From begging, yet with humble resignation, + To be dismissed from her mortal station. + +16 Oh, how she welcomed her courteous pain, + And languished with most serene content! + No paroxysms could make her once complain, + Nor suffered she her patience to be spent + Before her life; contriving thus to yield + To her disease, and yet not lose the field. + +17 This trying furnace wasted day by day + (What she herself had always counted dross) + Her mortal mansion, which so ruined lay, + That of the goodly fabric nothing was + Remaining now, but skin and bone; refined + Together were her body and her mind. + +18 At length the fatal hour--sad hour to me!-- + Released the longing soul: no ejulation + Tolled her knell; no dying agony + Frowned in her death; but in that lamb-like fashion + In which she lived ('O righteous heaven!' said I, + Who closed her dear eyes,) she had leave to die. + +19 O ever-precious soul! yet shall that flight + Of thine not snatch thee from thy wonted nest: + Here shalt thou dwell, here shalt thou live in spite + Of any death--here in this faithful breast. + Unworthy 'tis, I know, by being mine; + Yet nothing less, since long it has been thine. + +20 Accept thy dearer portraiture, which I + Have on my other Psyche fixed here; + Since her ideal beauties signify + The truth of thine: as for her spots, they are + Thy useful foil, and shall inservient be + But to enhance and more illustrate thee. + + +IMPERIAL ROME PERSONIFIED. + +1 Thus came the monster to his dearest place + On earth, a palace wondrous large and high, + Which on seven mountains' heads enthroned was; + Thus, by its sevenfold tumour, copying + The number of the horns which crowned its king. + +2 Of dead men's bones were all the exterior walls, + Raised to a fair but formidable height; + In answer to which strange materials, + A graff of dreadful depth and breadth + Upon the works, filled with a piteous flood + Of innocently-pure and holy blood. + +3 Those awful birds, whose joy is ravenous war, + Strong-taloned eagles, perched upon the head + Of every turret, took their prospect far + And wide about the world; and questioned + Each wind that travelled by, to know if they + Could tell them news of any bloody prey. + +4 The inner bulwarks, raised of shining brass, + With firmitude and pride were buttressed. + The gate of polished steel wide opened was + To entertain those throngs, who offered + Their slavish necks to take the yoke, and which + That city's tyrant did the world bewitch. + +5 For she had wisely ordered it to be + Gilded with Liberty's enchanting name; + Whence cheated nations, who before were free, + Into her flattering chains for freedom came. + Thus her strange conquests overtook the sun + Who rose and set in her dominion. + +6 But thick within the line erected were + Innumerable prisons, plated round + With massy iron and with jealous fear: + And in those forts of barbarism, profound + And miry dungeons, where contagious stink, + Cold, anguish, horror, had their dismal sink. + +7 In these, pressed down with chains of fretting brass, + Ten thousand innocent lambs did bleating lie; + Whose groans, reported by the hollow place, + Summoned compassion from the passers by; + Whom they, alas! no less relentless found, + Than was the brass which them to sorrow bound. + +8 For they designed for the shambles were + To feast the tyrant's greedy cruelty, + Who could be gratified with no fare + But such delight of savage luxury. + + +END. + +1 Sweet End, thou sea of satisfaction, which + The weary streams unto thy bosom tak'st; + The springs unto the spring thou first doth reach, + And, by thine inexhausted kindness, mak'st + Them fall so deep in love with thee, that through + All rocks and mountains to thy arms they flow. + +2 Thou art the centre, in whose close embrace, + From all the wild circumference, each line + Directly runs to find its resting-place: + Upon their swiftest wings, to perch on thine + Ennobling breast, which is their only butt, + The arrows of all high desires are shot. + +3 All labours pant and languish after thee, + Stretching their longest arms to catch their bliss; + Which in the way, how sweet soe'er it be, + They never find; and therefore on they press + Further and further, till desired thou, + Their only crown, meet'st their ambition's brow. + +4 With smiles the ploughman to the smiling spring + Returns not answer, but is jealous till + His patient hopes thy happy season bring + Unto their ripeness with his corn, and fill + His barns with plenteous sheaves, with joy his heart; + For thou, and none but thou, his harvest art. + +5 The no less sweating and industrious lover + Lays not his panting heart to rest upon + Kind looks and gracious promises, which hover + On love's outside, and may as soon be gone + As easily they came; but strives to see + His hopes and nuptials ratified by thee. + + 6 The traveller suspecteth every way, + Though they thick traced and fairly beaten be; + Nor is secure but that his leader may + Step into some mistake as well as he; + Or that his strength may fail him; till he win + Possession of thee, his wished inn. + + 7 Nobly besmeared with Olympic dust, + The hardy runner prosecutes his race + With obstinate celerity, in trust + That thou wilt wipe and glorify his face: + His prize's soul art thou, whose precious sake + Makes him those mighty pains with pleasure take. + + 8 The mariner will trust no winds, although + Upon his sails they blow fair flattery; + No tides which, with all fawning smoothness, flow + Can charm his fears into security; + He credits none but thee, who art his bay, + To which, through calms and storms, he hunts his way. + + 9 And so have I, cheered up with hopes at last + To double thee, endured a tedious sea; + Through public foaming tempests have I passed; + Through flattering calms of private suavity; + Through interrupting company's thick press; + And through the lake of mine own laziness: + +10 Through many sirens' charms, which me invited + To dance to ease's tunes, the tunes in fashion; + Through many cross, misgiving thoughts, which frighted + My jealous pen; and through the conjuration + Of ignorant and envious censures, which + Implacably against all poems itch: + +11 But chiefly those which venture in a way + That yet no Muse's feet have chose to trace; + Which trust that Psyche and her Jesus may + Adorn a verse with as becoming grace + As Venus and her son; that truth may be + A nobler theme than lies and vanity. + +12 Which broach no Aganippe's streams, but those + Where virgin souls without a blush may bathe; + Which dare the boisterous multitude oppose + With gentle numbers; which despise the wrath + Of galled sin; which think not fit to trace + Or Greek or Roman song with slavish pace. + +13 And seeing now I am in ken of thee, + The harbour which inflamed my desire, + And with this steady patience ballas'd[1] me + In my uneven road; I am on fire, + Till into thy embrace myself I throw, + And on the shore hang up my finished vow. + +[1] 'Ballas'd:' ballasted. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. + + +FROM ROBERT HEATH. + + +WHAT IS LOVE? + +1 Tis a child of fancy's getting, + Brought up between hope and fear, + Fed with smiles, grown by uniting + Strong, and so kept by desire: + 'Tis a perpetual vestal fire + Never dying, + Whose smoke like incense doth aspire, + Upwards flying. + +2 It is a soft magnetic stone, + Attracting hearts by sympathy, + Binding up close two souls in one, + Both discoursing secretly: + 'Tis the true Gordian knot, that ties + Yet ne'er unbinds, + Fixing thus two lovers' eyes, + As well as minds. + +3 Tis the spheres' heavenly harmony, + Where two skilful hands do strike; + And every sound expressively + Marries sweetly with the like: + 'Tis the world's everlasting chain + That all things tied, + And bid them, like the fixed wain, + Unmoved to bide. + + +PROTEST OF LOVE. + +When I thee all o'er do view +I all o'er must love thee too. +By that smooth forehead, where's expressed +The candour of thy peaceful breast, +By those fair twin-like stars that shine, +And by those apples of thine eyne: +By the lambkins and the kids +Playing 'bout thy fair eyelids: +By each peachy-blossomed cheek, +And thy satin skin, more sleek +And white than Flora's whitest lilies, +Or the maiden daffodillies: +By that ivory porch, thy nose: +By those double-blanched rows +Of teeth, as in pure coral set: +By each azure rivulet, +Running in thy temples, and +Those flowery meadows 'twixt them stand: +By each pearl-tipt ear by nature, as +On each a jewel pendent was: +By those lips all dewed with bliss, +Made happy in each other's kiss. + + +TO CLARASTELLA. + +Oh, those smooth, soft, and ruby lips, + * * * * * +Whose rosy and vermilion hue +Betrays the blushing thoughts in you: +Whose fragrant, aromatic breath +Would revive dying saints from death, +Whose siren-like, harmonious air +Speaks music and enchants the ear; +Who would not hang, and fixed there +Wish he might know no other sphere? +Oh for a charm to make the sun +Drunk, and forget his motion! +Oh that some palsy or lame gout +Would cramp old Time's diseased foot! +Or that I might or mould or clip +His speedy wings, whilst on her lip +I quench my thirsty appetite +With the life-honey dwells on it! + * * * * * +Then on his holy altar, I +Would sacrifice eternally, +Offering one long-continued mine +Of golden pleasures to thy shrine. + + + +BY VARIOUS AUTHORS. + + +MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. +(FROM BYRD'S 'PSALMS, SONNETS,' ETC. 1588.) + +1 My mind to me a kingdom is, + Such perfect joy therein I find, + That it excels all other bliss + That God or nature hath assigned: + Though much I want that most would have, + Yet still my mind forbids to crave. + +2 No princely port, nor wealthy store, + Nor force to win a victory; + No wily wit to salve a sore, + No shape to win a loving eye; + To none of these I yield as thrall, + For why, my mind despise them all. + +3 I see that plenty surfeits oft, + And hasty climbers soonest fall; + I see that such as are aloft, + Mishap doth threaten most of all; + These get with toil, and keep with fear: + Such cares my mind can never bear. + +4 I press to bear no haughty sway; + I wish no more than may suffice; + I do no more than well I may. + Look what I want, my mind supplies; + Lo, thus I triumph like a king, + My mind's content with anything. + +5 I laugh not at another's loss, + Nor grudge not at another's gain; + No worldly waves my mind can toss; + I brook that is another's bane; + I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; + I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. + +6 My wealth is health and perfect ease, + And conscience clear my chief defence; + I never seek by bribes to please, + Nor by desert to give offence; + Thus do I live, thus will I die; + Would all do so as well as I! + + +THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. + +1 An old song made by an aged old pate, + Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate, + That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, + And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate: + Like an old courtier of the queen's, + And the queen's old courtier. + +2 With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages; + They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, + And never knew what belonged to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, + But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +3 With an old study filled full of learned old books, + With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, + With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, + And an old kitchen, that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +4 With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, + With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, + And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk-hose, + And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +5 With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, + To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, + With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, + And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +6 With an old falconer, huntsmen, and a kennel of hounds, + That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds; + Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, + And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +7 But to his eldest son his house and lands he assigned, + Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind, + To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: + But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclined: + Like a young courtier of the king's, + And the king's young courtier. + +8 Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, + Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, + And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land, + And gets drunk in a tavern till he can neither go nor stand: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +9 With a newfangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, + Who never knew what belonged to good housekeeping or care, + Who buys gaudy-coloured fans to play with wanton air, + And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +10 With a new-fashioned hall, built where the old one stood, + Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good, + With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, + And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victual ne'er stood: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +11 With a new study, stuffed full of pamphlets and plays, + And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, + With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, + And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +12 With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, + On a new journey to London straight we all must begone, + And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John, + Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +13 With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is complete, + With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, + With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, + Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +14 With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold, + For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; + And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, + Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold + Among the young courtiers of the king, + Or the king's young courtiers. + + +THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. + +(FROM 'AN HOUR'S RECREATION IN MUSIC,' BY RICH. ALISON. 1606.) + +1 There is a garden in her face, + Where roses and white lilies grow; + A heavenly paradise is that place, + Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; + There cherries grow that none may buy, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + +2 Those cherries fairly do enclose + Of orient pearl a double row, + Which when her lovely laughter shows, + They look like rose-buds filled with snow: + Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + +3 Her eyes like angels watch them still; + Her brows like bended bows do stand, + Threatening with piercing frowns to kill + All that approach with eye or hand + These sacred cherries to come nigh, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + + +HALLO, MY FANCY. + +1 In melancholic fancy, + Out of myself, + In the vulcan dancy, + All the world surveying, + Nowhere staying, + Just like a fairy elf; + Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping, + Out o'er the hills, the trees, and valleys tripping, + Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +2 Amidst the misty vapours, + Fain would I know + What doth cause the tapers; + Why the clouds benight us + And affright us, + While we travel here below. + Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunder, + And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds asunder, + And what these comets are on which we gaze and wonder. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +3 Fain would I know the reason + Why the little ant, + All the summer season, + Layeth up provision + On condition + To know no winter's want; + And how housewives, that are so good and painful, + Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainful; + And why the lazy drones to them do prove disdainful. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go 1 + +4 Ships, ships, I will descry you + Amidst the main; + I will come and try you + What you are protecting, + And projecting, + What's your end and aim. + One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, + Another stays to keep his country from invading, + A third is coming home with rich wealth of lading. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +5 When I look before me, + There I do behold + There's none that sees or knows me; + All the world's a-gadding, + Running madding; + None doth his station hold. + He that is below envieth him that riseth, + And he that is above, him that's below despiseth, + So every man his plot and counter-plot deviseth. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +6 Look, look, what bustling + Here I do espy; + Each another jostling, + Every one turmoiling, + The other spoiling, + As I did pass them by. + One sitteth musing in a dumpish passion, + Another hangs his head, because he's out of fashion, + A third is fully bent on sport and recreation. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +7 Amidst the foamy ocean, + Fain would I know + What doth cause the motion, + And returning + In its journeying, + And doth so seldom swerve! + And how these little fishes that swim beneath salt water, + Do never blind their eye; methinks it is a matter + An inch above the reach of old Erra Pater! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + + +8 Fain would I be resolved + How things are done; + And where the bull was calved + Of bloody Phalaris, + And where the tailor is + That works to the man i' the moon! + Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly; + And how these little fairies do dance and leap so lightly; + And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go! + +9 In conceit like Phaeton, + I'll mount Phoebus' chair; + Having ne'er a hat on, + All my hair a-burning + In my journeying, + Hurrying through the air. + Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing, + And see how they on foamy bits are playing; + All the stars and planets I will be surveying! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +10 Oh, from what ground of nature + Doth the pelican, + That self-devouring creature, + Prove so froward + And untoward, + Her vitals for to strain? + And why the subtle fox, while in death's wounds is lying, + Doth not lament his pangs by howling and by crying; + And why the milk-white swan doth sing when she's a-dying. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou got + +11 Fain would I conclude this, + At least make essay, + What similitude is; + Why fowls of a feather + Flock and fly together, + And lambs know beasts of prey: + How Nature's alchemists, these small laborious creatures, + Acknowledge still a prince in ordering their matters, + And suffer none to live, who slothing lose their features. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +12 I'm rapt with admiration, + When I do ruminate, + Men of an occupation, + How each one calls him brother, + Yet each envieth other, + And yet still intimate! + Yea, I admire to see some natures further sundered, + Than antipodes to us. Is it not to be wondered, + In myriads ye'll find, of one mind scarce a hundred! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +13 What multitude of notions + Doth perturb my pate, + Considering the motions, + How the heavens are preserved, + And this world served, + In moisture, light, and heat! + If one spirit sits the outmost circle turning, + Or one turns another continuing in journeying, + If rapid circles' motion be that which they call burning! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +14 Fain also would I prove this, + By considering + What that which you call love is: + Whether it be a folly + Or a melancholy, + Or some heroic thing! + Fain I'd have it proved, by one whom love hath wounded, + And fully upon one his desire hath founded, + Whom nothing else could please though the world were rounded. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +15 To know this world's centre, + Height, depth, breadth, and length, + Fain would I adventure + To search the hid attractions + Of magnetic actions, + And adamantic strength. + Fain would I know, if in some lofty mountain, + Where the moon sojourns, if there be trees or fountain; + If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to hunt in. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +16 Fain would I have it tried + By experiment, + By none can be denied; + If in this bulk of nature, + There be voids less or greater, + Or all remains complete? + Fain would I know if beasts have any reason; + If falcons killing eagles do commit a treason; + If fear of winter's want makes swallows fly the season. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go; + +17 Hallo, my fancy, hallo, + Stay, stay at home with me, + I can thee no longer follow, + For thou hast betrayed me, + And bewrayed me; + It is too much for thee. + Stay, stay at home with me; leave off thy lofty soaring; + Stay thou at home with me, and on thy books be poring; + For he that goes abroad, lays little up in storing: + Thou'rt welcome home, my fancy, welcome home to me. + + 'Alas, poor scholar! + Whither wilt thou go?' + or + 'Strange alterations which at this time be, + There's many did think they never should see.' + + +THE FAIRY QUEEN. + +1 Come, follow, follow me, + You, fairy elves that be; + Which circle on the green, + Come, follow Mab, your queen. + Hand in hand let's dance around, + For this place is fairy ground. + +2 When mortals are at rest, + And snoring in their nest; + Unheard and unespied, + Through keyholes we do glide; + Over tables, stools, and shelves, + We trip it with our fairy elves. + +3 And if the house be foul + With platter, dish, or bowl, + Up-stairs we nimbly creep, + And find the sluts asleep; + There we pinch their arms and thighs; + None escapes, nor none espies. + +4 But if the house be swept, + And from uncleanness kept, + We praise the household maid, + And duly she is paid; + For we use, before we go, + To drop a tester in her shoe. + +5 Upon a mushroom's head + Our tablecloth we spread; + A grain of rye or wheat + Is manchet which we eat; + Pearly drops of dew we drink, + In acorn cups filled to the brink. + +6 The brains of nightingales, + With unctuous fat of snails, + Between two cockles stewed, + Is meat that's easily chewed; + Tails of worms, and marrow of mice, + Do make a dish that's wondrous nice. + +7 The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, + Serve us for our minstrelsy; + Grace said, we dance a while, + And so the time beguile; + And if the moon doth hide her head, + The glow-worm lights us home to bed. + +8 On tops of dewy grass + So nimbly do we pass, + The young and tender stalk + Ne'er bends when we do walk; + Yet in the morning may be seen + Where we the night before have been. + +END OF VOL. II. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Specimens with Memoirs of the +Less-known British Poets, Vol. 2, by George Gilfillan + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL 2 *** + +***** This file should be named 9668.txt or 9668.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/9/6/6/9668/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe and the PG +Online Distributed Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Vol. 2 + +Author: George Gilfillan + +Release Date: January, 2006 [EBook #9668] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 14, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL. 2 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe +and the PG Online Distributed Proofreaders + + + + +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 safety; +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 clothes might shapen be, +That nill their clothes 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 L500 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 _melee_ 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 L300 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. + +BOOK II. + + THE CONTENTS. + + The friendship betwixt Jonathan and David; and, upon that occasion, + a digression concerning the nature of love. A discourse between + Jonathan and David, upon which the latter absents himself from court, + and the former goes thither to inform himself of Saul's resolution. + The feast of the New-moon; the manner of the celebration of it; and + therein a digression of the history of Abraham. Saul's speech upon + David's absence from the feast, and his anger against Jonathan. + David's resolution to fly away. He parts with Jonathan, and falls + asleep under a tree. A description of Fancy. An angel makes up a + vision in David's head. The vision itself; which is a prophecy of + all the succession of his race, till Christ's time, with their most + remarkable actions. At his awaking, Gabriel assumes a human shape, + and confirms to him the truth of his vision. + +But now the early birds began to call +The morning forth; up rose the sun and Saul: +Both, as men thought, rose fresh from sweet repose; +But both, alas! from restless labours rose: +For in Saul's breast Envy, the toilsome sin, +Had all that night active and tyrannous been: +She expelled all forms of kindness, virtue, grace, +Of the past day no footstep left, or trace; +The new-blown sparks of his old rage appear, +Nor could his love dwell longer with his fear. +So near a storm wise David would not stay, +Nor trust the glittering of a faithless day: +He saw the sun call in his beams apace, +And angry clouds march up into their place: +The sea itself smooths his rough brow awhile, +Flatt'ring the greedy merchant with a smile; +But he whose shipwrecked bark it drank before, +Sees the deceit, and knows it would have more. +Such is the sea, and such was Saul; +But Jonathan his son, and only good, +Was gentle as fair Jordan's useful flood; +Whose innocent stream, as it in silence goes, +Fresh honours and a sudden spring bestows +On both his banks, to every flower and tree; +The manner how lies hid, the effect we see: +But more than all, more than himself, he loved +The man whose worth his father's hatred moved; +For when the noble youth at Dammin stood, +Adorned with sweat, and painted gay with blood, +Jonathan pierced him through with greedy eye, +And understood the future majesty +Then destined in the glories of his look: +He saw, and straight was with amazement strook, +To see the strength, the feature, and the grace +Of his young limbs; he saw his comely face, +Where love and reverence so well-mingled were, +And head, already crowned with golden hair: +He saw what mildness his bold sp'rit did tame, +Gentler than light, yet powerful as a flame: +He saw his valour by their safety proved; +He saw all this, and as he saw, he loved. + +What art thou, Love! thou great mysterious thing? +From what hid stock does thy strange nature spring? +'Tis thou that movst the world through every part, +And holdst the vast frame close, that nothing start +From the due place and office first ordained; +By thee were all things made, and are sustained. +Sometimes we see thee fully, and can say +From hence thou tookst thy rise, and wentst that way; +But oftener the short beams of Reason's eye +See only there thou art, not how, nor why. +How is the loadstone, Nature's subtle pride, +By the rude iron woo'd, and made a bride? +How was the weapon wounded? what hid flame +The strong and conquering metal overcame? +Love (this world's grace) exalts his natural state; +He feels thee, Love! and feels no more his weight. +Ye learned heads whom ivy garlands grace, +Why does that twining plant the oak embrace? +The oak, for courtship most of all unfit, +And rough as are the winds that fight with it. +How does the absent pole the needle move? +How does his cold and ice beget hot love? +Which are the wings of lightness to ascend? +Or why does weight to the centre downwards bend? +Thus creatures void of life obey thy laws, +And seldom we, they never, know the cause. +In thy large state, life gives the next degree, +Where sense and good apparent places thee; +But thy chief palace is man's heart alone; +Here are thy triumphs and full glories shown: +Handsome desires, and rest, about thee flee, +Union, inheritance, zeal, and ecstasy, +With thousand joys, cluster around thine head, +O'er which a gall-less dove her wings does spread: +A gentle lamb, purer and whiter far +Than consciences of thine own martyrs are, +Lies at thy feet; and thy right hand does hold +The mystic sceptre of a cross of gold. +Thus dost thou sit (like men, ere sin had framed +A guilty blush) naked, but not ashamed. +What cause, then, did the fab'lous ancients find, +When first their superstition made thee blind? +'Twas they, alas! 'twas they who could not see, +When they mistook that monster, Lust, for thee. +Thou art a bright, but not consuming, flame; +Such in the amazed bush to Moses came, +When that, secure, its new-crown'd head did rear, +And chid the trembling branches' needless fear; +Thy darts are healthful gold, and downwards fall, +Soft as the feathers that they are fletched withal. +Such, and no other, were those secret darts +Which sweetly touched this noblest pair of hearts: +Still to one end they both so justly drew, +As courteous doves together yoked would do: +No weight of birth did on one side prevail; +Two twins less even lie in Nature's scale: +They mingled fates, and both in each did share; +They both were servants, they both princes were. +If any joy to one of them was sent, +It was most his to whom it least was meant; +And Fortune's malice betwixt both was cross'd, +For striking one, it wounded the other most. +Never did marriage such true union find, +Or men's desires with so glad violence bind; +For there is still some tincture left of sin, +And still the sex will needs be stealing in. +Those joys are full of dross, and thicker far; +These, without matter, clear and liquid are. +Such sacred love does heaven's bright spirits fill, +Where love is but to understand and will, +With swift and unseen motions such as we +Somewhat express in heighten'd charity. +O ye bless'd One! whose love on earth became +So pure, that still in heaven 'tis but the same! +There now ye sit, and with mix'd souls embrace, +Gazing upon great Love's mysterious face, +And pity this base world, where friendship's made +A bait for sin, or else at best a trade. +Ah, wondrous prince! who a true friend couldst be +When a crown flatter'd, and Saul threaten'd thee! +Who held'st him dear whose stars thy birth did cross, +And bought'st him nobly at a kingdom's loss! +Israel's bright sceptre far less glory brings, +There have been fewer friends on earth than kings. + +To this strong pitch their high affections flew, +Till Nature's self scarce looked on them as two. +Hither flies David for advice and aid, +As swift as love and danger could persuade; +As safe in Jonathan's trust his thoughts remain, +As when himself but dreams them o'er again. + +'My dearest lord! farewell,' said he, 'farewell; +Heaven bless the King; may no misfortune tell +The injustice of his hate when I am dead: +They're coming now; perhaps my guiltless head +Here, in your sight, must then a-bleeding lie, +And scarce your own stand safe for being nigh. +Think me not scared with death, howe'er 't appear; +I know thou canst not think so: it is a fear +From which thy love and Dammin speaks me free; +I've met him face to face, and ne'er could see +One terror in his looks to make me fly +When virtue bids me stand; but I would die +So as becomes my life, so as may prove +Saul's malice, and at least excuse your love.' + +He stopped, and spoke some passion with his eyes. +'Excellent friend!' the gallant prince replies; +'Thou hast so proved thy virtues, that they're known +To all good men, more than to each his own. +Who lives in Israel that can doubtful be +Of thy great actions? for he lives by thee. +Such is thy valour, and thy vast success, +That all things but thy loyalty are less; +And should my father at thy ruin aim, +'Twould wound as much his safety as his fame. +Think them not coming, then, to slay thee here, +But doubt mishaps as little as you fear; +For, by thy loving God, whoe'er design +Against thy life, must strike at it through mine, +But I my royal father must acquit +From such base guilt, or the low thought of it. +Think on his softness, when from death he freed +The faithless king of Am'lek's cursed seed; +Can he t' a friend, t' a son, so bloody grow, +He who even sinned but now to spare a foe? +Admit he could; but with what strength or art +Could he so long close and seal up his heart? +Such counsels jealous of themselves become, +And dare not fix without consent of some; +Few men so boldly ill great sins to do, +Till licensed and approved by others too. +No more (believe it) could he hide this from me, +Than I, had he discovered it, from thee.' + +Here they embraces join, and almost tears, +Till gentle David thus new-proved his fears: +'The praise you pleased, great prince! on me to spend, +Was all outspoken, when you styled me friend: +That name alone does dangerous glories bring, +And gives excuse to the envy of a king. +What did his spear, force, and dark plots, impart +But some eternal rancour in his heart? +Still does he glance the fortune of that day +When, drowned in his own blood, Goliath lay, +And covered half the plain; still hears the sound +How that vast monster fell, and strook the around: +The dance, and, David his ten thousand slew, +Still wound his sickly soul, and still are new. +Great acts t' ambitious princes treason grow, +So much they hate that safety which they owe. +Tyrants dread all whom they raise high in place; +From the good danger, from the bad disgrace. +They doubt the lords, mistrust the people's hate, +Till blood become a principle of state. +Secured not by their guards nor by their right, +But still they fear even more than they affright, +Pardon me, sir; your father's rough and stern; +His will too strong to bend, too proud to learn. +Remember, sir, the honey's deadly sting! +Think on that savage justice of the King, +When the same day that saw you do before +Things above man, should see you man no more. +'Tis true, the accursed Agag moved his ruth; +He pitied his tall limbs and comely youth; +Had seen, alas! the proof of Heaven's fierce hate, +And feared no mischief from his powerless fate; +Remember how the old seer came raging down, +And taught him boldly to suspect his crown. +Since then, his pride quakes at the Almighty's rod, +Nor dares he love the man beloved by God. +Hence his deep rage and trembling envy springs; +Nothing so wild as jealousy of kings. +Whom should he counsel ask, with whom advise, +Who reason and God's counsel does despise? +Whose headstrong will no law or conscience daunt, +Dares he not sin, do you think, without your grant? +Yes, if the truth of our fixed love he knew, +He would not doubt, believe it, to kill even you.' + +The prince is moved, and straight prepares to find +The deep resolves of his grieved father's mind. +The danger now appears, love can soon show it, +And force his stubborn piety to know it. +They agree that David should concealed abide, +Till his great friend had the Court's temper tried; +Till he had Saul's most sacred purpose found, +And searched the depth and rancour of his wound. + +'Twas the year's seventh-born moon; the solemn feast, +That with most noise its sacred mirth express'd. +From opening morn till night shuts in the day, +On trumpets and shrill horns the Levites play: +Whether by this in mystic type we see +The new-year's day of great eternity, +When the changed moon shall no more changes make, +And scattered death's by trumpets' sound awake; +Or that the law be kept in memory still, +Given with like noise on Sinai's shining hill; +Or that (as some men teach) it did arise +From faithful Abram's righteous sacrifice, +Who, whilst the ram on Isaac's fire did fry, +His horn with joyful tunes stood sounding by; +Obscure the cause, but God his will declared, +And all nice knowledge then with ease is spared. +At the third hour Saul to the hallowed tent, +'Midst a large train of priests and courtiers, went; +The sacred herd marched proud and softly by, +Too fat and gay to think their deaths so nigh. +Hard fate of beasts more innocent than we! +Prey to our luxury and our piety! +Whose guiltless blood on boards and altars spilt, +Serves both to make and expiate, too, our guilt! +Three bullocks of free neck, two gilded rams, +Two well-washed goats, and fourteen spotless lambs, +With the three vital fruits, wine, oil, and bread, +(Small fees to Heaven of all by which we're fed) +Are offered up: the hallowed flames arise, +And faithful prayers mount with them to the skies. +From thence the King to the utmost court is brought, +Where heavenly things an inspired prophet taught, +And from the sacred tent to his palace gates, +With glad kind shouts the assembly on him waits; +The cheerful horns before him loudly play, +And fresh-strewed flowers paint his triumphant way. +Thus in slow pace to the palace-hall they go, +Rich dressed for solemn luxury and show: +Ten pieces of bright tapestry hung the room, +The noblest work e'er stretched on Syrian loom, +For wealthy Adriel in proud Sidon wrought, +And given to Saul when Saul's best gift he sought, +The bright-eyed Merab; for that mindful day +No ornament so proper seemed as they. + +There all old Abram's story you might see, +And still some angel bore him company. +His painful but well-guided travels show +The fate of all his sons, the church below. +Here beauteous Sarah to great Pharaoh came; +He blushed with sudden passion, she with shame: +Troubled she seemed, and labouring in the strife, +'Twixt her own honour and her husband's life. +Here on a conquering host, that careless lay, +Drowned in the joys of their new-gotten prey, +The patriarch falls; well-mingled might you see +The confused marks of death and luxury. +In the next piece bless'd Salem's mystic king +Does sacred presents to the victor bring; +Like Him whose type he bears, his rights receives, +Strictly requires his due, yet freely gives: +Even in his port, his habit, and his face, +The mild and great, the priest and prince, had place. +Here all their starry host the heavens display; +And, lo! a heavenly youth, more fair than they, +Leads Abram forth; points upwards; 'Such,' said he, +'So bright and numberless thy seed shall be.' +Here he with God a new alliance makes, +And in his flesh the marks of homage takes: +Here he the three mysterious persons feasts, +Well paid with joyful tidings by his guests: +Here for the wicked town he prays, and near, +Scarce did the wicked town through flames appear: +And all his fate, and all his deeds, were wrought, +Since he from Ur to Ephron's cave was brought. +But none 'mongst all the forms drew then their eyes +Like faithful Abram's righteous sacrifice: +The sad old man mounts slowly to the place, +With Nature's power triumphant in his face +O'er the mind's courage; for, in spite of all, +From his swoln eyes resistless waters fall. +The innocent boy his cruel burden bore +With smiling looks, and sometimes walked before, +And sometimes turned to talk: above was made +The altar's fatal pile, and on it laid +The hope of mankind: patiently he lay, +And did his sire, as he his God, obey. +The mournful sire lifts up at last the knife, +And on one moment's string depends his life, +In whose young loins such brooding wonders lie. +A thousand sp'rits peeped from the affrighted sky, +Amazed at this strange scene, and almost fear'd, +For all those joyful prophecies they'd heard; +Till one leaped nimbly forth, by God's command, +Like lightning from a cloud, and stopped his hand. +The gentle sp'rit smiled kindly as he spoke; +New beams of joy through Abram's wonder broke +The angel points to a tuft of bushes near, +Where an entangled ram does half appear, +And struggles vainly with that fatal net, +Which, though but slightly wrought, was firmly set: +For, lo! anon, to this sad glory doomed, +The useful beast on Isaac's pile consumed; +Whilst on his horns the ransomed couple played, +And the glad boy danced to the tunes he made. + +Near this hall's end a shittim table stood, +Yet well-wrought plate strove to conceal the wood; +For from the foot a golden vine did sprout, +And cast his fruitful riches all about. +Well might that beauteous ore the grape express, +Which does weak man intoxicate no less. +Of the same wood the gilded beds were made, +And on them large embroidered carpets laid, +From Egypt, the rich shop of follies, brought; +But arts of pride all nations soon are taught. +Behold seven comely blooming youths appear, +And in their hands seven silver washpots bear, +Curled, and gay clad, the choicest sons that be +Of Gibeon's race, and slaves of high degree. +Seven beauteous maids marched softly in behind, +Bright scarves their clothes, their hair fresh garlands bind, +And whilst the princes wash, they on them shed +Rich ointments, which their costly odours spread +O'er the whole room; from their small prisons free, +With such glad haste through the wide air they flee. +The King was placed alone, and o'er his head +A well-wrought heaven of silk and gold was spread, +Azure the ground, the sun in gold shone bright, +But pierced the wandering clouds with silver light. +The right-hand bed the King's three sons did grace, +The third was Abner's, Adriel's, David's place: +And twelve large tables more were filled below, +With the prime men Saul's court and camp could show. +The palace did with mirth and music sound, +And the crowned goblets nimbly moved around: +But though bright joy in every guest did shine, +The plenty, state, music, and sprightful wine, +Were lost on Saul: an angry care did dwell +In his dark breast, and all gay forms expel. +David's unusual absence from the feast, +To his sick sp'rit did jealous thoughts suggest: +Long lay he still, nor drank, nor ate, nor spoke, +And thus at last his troubled silence broke. + +'Where can he be?' said he. 'It must be so.' +With that he paused awhile. 'Too well we know +His boundless pride: he grieves, and hates to see +The solemn triumphs of my court and me. +Believe me, friends! and trust what I can show +From thousand proofs; the ambitious David now +Does those vast things in his proud soul design, +That too much business give for mirth or wine. +He's kindling now, perhaps, rebellious fire +Among the tribes, and does even now conspire +Against my crown, and all our lives, whilst we +Are loth even to suspect what we might see. +By the Great Name 'tis true.' +With that he strook the board, and no man there, +But Jonathan, durst undertake to clear +The blameless prince: and scarce ten words he spoke, +When thus his speech the enraged tyrant broke: + +'Disloyal wretch! thy gentle mother's shame! +Whose cold, pale ghost even blushes at thy name! +Who fears lest her chaste bed should doubted be, +And her white fame stained by black deeds of thee! +Canst thou be mine? A crown sometimes does hire +Even sons against their parents to conspire; +But ne'er did story yet, or fable, tell +Of one so wild who, merely to rebel, +Quitted the unquestioned birthright of a throne, +And bought his father's ruin with his own. +Thou need'st not plead the ambitious youth's defence; +Thy crime clears his, and makes that innocence: +Nor can his foul ingratitude appear, +Whilst thy unnatural guilt is placed so near. +Is this that noble friendship you pretend? +Mine, thine own foe, and thy worst enemy's friend? +If thy low spirit can thy great birthright quit, +The thing's but just, so ill deserv'st thou it. +I, and thy brethren here, have no such mind, +Nor such prodigious worth in David find, +That we to him should our just rights resign, +Or think God's choice not made so well as thine. +Shame of thy house and tribe! hence from mine eye; +To thy false friend and servile master fly; +He's ere this time in arms expecting thee; +Haste, for those arms are raised to ruin me. +Thy sin that way will nobler much appear, +Than to remain his spy and agent here. +When I think this, Nature, by thee forsook, +Forsakes me too.' With that his spear he took +To strike at him: the mirth and music cease; +The guests all rise this sudden storm t' appease. +The prince his danger and his duty knew, +And low he bowed, and silently withdrew. + +To David straight, who in a forest nigh +Waits his advice, the royal friend does fly. +The sole advice, now, like the danger clear, +Was in some foreign land this storm t' outwear. +All marks of comely grief in both are seen, +And mournful kind discourses passed between. +Now generous tears their hasty tongues restrain; +Now they begin, and talk all o'er again: +A reverent oath of constant love they take, +And God's high name their dreaded witness make: +Not that at all their faiths could doubtful prove, +But 'twas the tedious zeal of endless love. +Thus, ere they part, they the short time bestow +In all the pomp friendship and grief could show. +And David now, with doubtful cares oppressed, +Beneath a shade borrows some little rest; +When by command divine thick mists arise, +And stop the sense, and close the conquered eyes. +There is a place which man most high doth rear, +The small world's heaven, where reason moves the sphere; +Here in a robe which does all colours show, +(The envy of birds, and the clouds' gaudy bow,) +Fancy, wild dame, with much lascivious pride, +By twin-chameleons drawn, does gaily ride: +Her coach there follows, and throngs round about +Of shapes and airy forms an endless rout. +A sea rolls on with harmless fury here; +Straight 'tis a field, and trees and herbs appear. +Here in a moment are vast armies made, +And a quick scene of war and blood displayed. +Here sparkling wines, and brighter maids come in, +The bawds for Sense, and lying baits of sin. +Some things arise of strange and quarrelling kind, +The forepart lion, and a snake behind. +Here golden mountains swell the covetous place, +And Centaurs ride themselves, a painted race. +Of these slight wonders Nature sees the store, +And only then accounts herself but poor. +Hither an angel comes in David's trance, +And finds them mingled in an antique dance; +Of all the numerous forms fit choice he takes, +And joins them wisely, and this vision makes. + +First, David there appears in kingly state, +Whilst the Twelve Tribes his dread commands await: +Straight to the wars with his joined strength he goes, +Settles new friends, and frights his ancient foes. +To Solima, Canaan's old head, they came, +(Since high in note, then not unknown to Fame,) +The blind and lame the undoubted wall defend, +And no new wounds or dangers apprehend. +The busy image of great Joab there +Disdains the mock, and teaches them to fear: +He climbs the airy walls, leaps raging down, +New-minted shapes of slaughter fill the town. +They curse the guards their mirth and bravery chose, +All of them now are slain, or made like those. +Far through an inward scene an army lay, +Which with full banners a fair Fish display. +From Sidon plains to happy Egypt's coast +They seem all met, a vast and warlike host. +Thither hastes David to his destined prey, +Honour and noble danger lead the way. +The conscious trees shook with a reverent fear +Their unblown tops: God walked before him there. +Slaughter the wearied Rephaims' bosom fills, +Dead corpse emboss the vale with little hills. +On the other side, Sophenes' mighty king +Numberless troops of the bless'd East does bring: +Twice are his men cut off, and chariots ta'en; +Damascus and rich Adad help in vain; +Here Nabathaean troops in battle stand, +With all the lusty youth of Syrian land; +Undaunted Joab rushes on with speed, +Gallantly mounted on his fiery steed; +He hews down all, and deals his deaths around; +The Syrians leave, or possess, dead, the ground. +On the other wing does brave Abishai ride, +Reeking in blood and dust: on every side +The perjured sons of Ammon quit the field; +Some basely die, and some more basely yield. +Through a thick wood the wretched Hanun flies, +And far more justly then fears Hebrew spies. +Moloch, their bloody god, thrusts out his head, +Grinning through a black cloud: him they'd long fed +In his seven chambers, and he still did eat +New-roasted babes, his dear delicious meat. +Again they rise, more angered and dismayed; +Euphrates and swift Tigris sends them aid: +In vain they send it, for again they're slain, +And feast the greedy birds on Healy plain. +Here Rabba with proud towers affronts the sky, +And round about great Joab's trenches lie: +They force the walls, and sack the helpless town; +On David's head shines Ammon's massy crown. +'Midst various torments the cursed race expires; +David himself his severe wrath admires. + +Next upon Israel's throne does bravely sit +A comely youth, endowed with wondrous wit: +Far, from the parched line, a royal dame, +To hear his tongue and boundless wisdom, came: +She carried back in her triumphant womb +The glorious stock of thousand kings to come. +Here brightest forms his pomp and wealth display; +Here they a temple's vast foundations lay; +A mighty work; and with fit glories filled, +For God to inhabit, and that King to build. +Some from the quarries hew out massy stone, +Some draw it up with cranes; some breathe and groan +In order o'er the anvil; some cut down +Tall cedars, the proud mountain's ancient crown; +Some carve the trunks, and breathing shapes bestow, +Giving the trees more life than when they grow. +But, oh! alas! what sudden cloud is spread +About this glorious King's eclipsed head? +It all his fame benights, and all his store, +Wrapping him round; and now he's seen no more. + +When straight his son appears at Sichem crown'd, +With young and heedless council circled round; +Unseemly object! but a falling state +Has always its own errors joined with Fate. +Ten tribes at once forsake the Jessian throne, +And bold Adoram at his message stone; +'Brethren of Israel!'--More he fain would say, +But a flint stopped his mouth, and speech in the way. +Here this fond king's disasters but begin; +He's destined to more shame by his father's sin. +Susac comes up, and under his command +A dreadful army from scorched Afric's sand, +As numberless as that: all is his prey; +The temple's sacred wealth they bear away; +Adrazar's shields and golden loss they take; +Even David in his dream does sweat and shake. +Thus fails this wretched prince; his loins appear +Of less weight now than Solomon's fingers were. + +Abijah next seeks Israel to regain, +And wash in seas of blood his father's stain. +Ne'er saw the aged sun so cruel sight; +Scarce saw he this, but hid his bashful light. +Nebat's cursed son fled with not half his men; +Where were his gods of Dan and Bethel then? +Yet could not this the fatal strife decide; +God punished one, but blessed not the other side. + +Asan, a just and virtuous prince, succeeds, +High raised by Fame for great and godly deeds: +He cut the solemn groves where idols stood, +And sacrificed the gods with their own wood. +He vanquished thus the proud weak powers of hell; +Before him next their doting servants fell: +So huge an host of Zerah's men he slew, +As made even that Arabia desert too. +Why feared he then the perjured Baasha's sight? +Or bought the dangerous aid of Syrian's might? +Conquest, Heaven's gift, cannot by man be sold; +Alas! what weakness trusts he? man and gold. + +Next Josaphat possessed the royal state; +A happy prince, well worthy of his fate: +His oft oblations on God's altar, made +With thousand flocks, and thousand herds, are paid, +Arabian tribute! What mad troops are those, +Those mighty troops that dare to be his foes? +He prays them dead; with mutual wounds they fall; +One fury brought, one fury slays them all. +Thus sits he still, and sees himself to win, +Never o'ercome but by his friend Ahab's sin; +On whose disguise Fates then did only look, +And had almost their God's command mistook: +Him from whose danger Heaven securely brings, +And for his sake too ripely wicked kings. +Their armies languish, burnt with thirst, at Seere, +Sighs all their cold, tears all their moisture there: +They fix their greedy eyes on the empty sky, +And fancy clouds, and so become more dry. +Elisha calls for waters from afar +To come; Elisha calls, and here they are. +In helmets they quaff round the welcome flood, +And the decrease repair with Moab's blood. +Jehoram next, and Ochoziah, throng +For Judah's sceptre; both shortlived too long. +A woman, too, from murder title claims; +Both with her sins and sex the crown she shames. +Proud, cursed woman! but her fall at last +To doubting men clears Heaven for what was past. +Joas at first does bright and glorious show; +In life's fresh morn his fame did early crow: +Fair was the promise of his dawning ray, +But prophet's angry blood o'ercast his day: +From thence his clouds, from thence his storms, begin, +It cries aloud, and twice lets Aram in. +So Amaziah lives, so ends his reign, +Both by their traitorous servants justly slain. +Edom at first dreads his victorious hand; +Before him thousand captives trembling stand. +Down a precipice, deep down he casts them all; +The mimic shapes in several postures fall: +But then (mad fool!) he does those gods adore, +Which when plucked down had worshipped him before. +Thus all his life to come is loss and shame: +No help from gods, who themselves helped not, came. + +All this Uzziah's strength and wit repairs, +Leaving a well-built greatness to his heirs; +Till leprous scurf, o'er his whole body cast, +Takes him at first from men, from earth at last. +As virtuous was his son, and happier far; +Buildings his peace, and trophies graced his war: +But Achaz heaps up sins, as if he meant +To make his worst forefathers innocent: +He burns his son at Hinnon, whilst around +The roaring child drums and loud trumpets sound: +This to the boy a barbarous mercy grew, +And snatched him from all miseries to ensue. +Here Peca comes, and hundred thousands fall; +Here Rezin marches up, and sweeps up all; +Till like a sea the great Belochus' son +Breaks upon both, and both does overrun. +The last of Adad's ancient stock is slain, +Israel captived, and rich Damascus ta'en; +All his wild rage to revenge Judah's wrong; +But woe to kingdoms that have friends too strong! + +Thus Hezekiah the torn empire took, +And Assur's king with his worse gods forsook; +Who to poor Judah worlds of nations brings, +There rages, utters vain and mighty things. +Some dream of triumphs, and exalted names, +Some of dear gold, and some of beauteous dames; +Whilst in the midst of their huge sleepy boast, +An angel scatters death through all the host. +The affrighted tyrant back to Babel hies, +There meets an end far worse than that he flies. +Here Hezekiah's life is almost done! +So good, and yet, alas! so short 'tis spun. +The end of the line was ravelled, weak, and old; +Time must go back, and afford better hold, +To tie a new thread to it of fifteen years. +'Tis done; the almighty power of prayer and tears! +Backward the sun, an unknown motion, went; +The stars gazed on, and wondered what he meant. +Manasses next (forgetful man!) begins, +Enslaved and sold to Ashur by his sins; +Till by the rod of learned Misery taught, +Home to his God and country both he's brought. +It taught not Ammon, nor his hardness brake, +He's made the example he refused to take. + +Yet from this root a goodly scion springs, +Josiah! best of men, as well as kings. +Down went the calves, with all their gold and cost; +The priests then truly grieved, Osiris lost. +These mad Egyptian rites till now remained; +Fools! they their worser thraldom still retained! +In his own fires Moloch to ashes fell, +And no more flames must have besides his hell. +Like end Astartes' horned image found, +And Baal's spired stone to dust was ground. +No more were men in female habit seen, +Or they in men's, by the lewd Syrian queen; +No lustful maids at Benos' temple sit, +And with their body's shame their marriage get. +The double Dagon neither nature saves, +Nor flies she back to the Erythraean waves. +The travelling sun sees gladly from on high +His chariots burn, and Nergal quenched lie. +The King's impartial anger lights on all, +From fly-blown Accaron to the thundering Baal. +Here David's joy unruly grows and bold, +Nor could sleep's silken chain its violence hold, +Had not the angel, to seal fast his eyes, +The humours stirred, and bid more mists arise; +When straight a chariot hurries swift away, +And in it good Josiah bleeding lay: +One hand's held up, one stops the wound; in vain +They both are used. Alas! he's slain, he's slain. + +Jehoias and Jehoiakim next appear; +Both urge that vengeance which before was near. +He in Egyptian fetters captive dies, +This by more courteous Anger murdered lies. +His son and brother next to bonds sustain, +Israel's now solemn and imperial chain. +Here's the last scene of this proud city's state; +All ills are met, tied in one knot of Fate. +Their endless slavery in this trial lay; +Great God had heaped up ages in one day: +Strong works around the walls the Chaldees build, +The town with grief and dreadful business filled: +To their carved gods the frantic women pray, +Gods which as near their ruin were as they: +At last in rushes the prevailing foe, +Does all the mischief of proud conquest show. +The wondering babes from mothers' breasts are rent, +And suffer ills they neither feared nor meant. +No silver reverence guards the stooping age, +No rule or method ties their boundless rage. +The glorious temple shines in flames all o'er, +Yet not so bright as in its gold before. +Nothing but fire or slaughter meets the eyes; +Nothing the ear but groans and dismal cries. +The walls and towers are levelled with the ground, +And scarce aught now of that vast city's found, +But shards and rubbish, which weak signs might keep, +Of forepast glory, and bid travellers weep. +Thus did triumphant Assur homewards pass, +And thus Jerus'lem left, Jerusalem that was! + +Thus Zedechia saw, and this not all; +Before his face his friends and children fall, +The sport of insolent victors: this he views, +A king and father once: ill Fate could use +His eyes no more to do their master spite; +All to be seen she took, and next his sight. +Thus a long death in prison he outwears, +Bereft of grief's last solace, even his tears. + +Then Jeconiah's son did foremost come, +And he who brought the captived nation home; +A row of Worthies in long order passed +O'er the short stage; of all old Joseph last. +Fair angels passed by next in seemly bands, +All gilt, with gilded baskets in their hands. +Some as they went the blue-eyed violets strew, +Some spotless lilies in loose order threw. +Some did the way with full-blown roses spread, +Their smell divine, and colour strangely red; +Not such as our dull gardens proudly wear, +Whom weather's taint, and wind's rude kisses tear. +Such, I believe, was the first rose's hue, +Which, at God's word, in beauteous Eden grew; +Queen of the flowers, which made that orchard gay, +The morning-blushes of the Spring's new day. + +With sober pace an heavenly maid walks in, +Her looks all fair, no sign of native sin +Through her whole body writ; immoderate grace +Spoke things far more than human in her face: +It casts a dusky gloom o'er all the flowers, +And with full beams their mingled light devours. +An angel straight broke from a shining cloud, +And pressed his wings, and with much reverence bowed; +Again he bowed, and grave approach he made, +And thus his sacred message sweetly said: + +'Hail! full of grace! thee the whole world shall call +Above all bless'd; thee, who shall bless them all. +Thy virgin womb in wondrous sort shall shroud +Jesus the God; (and then again he bowed) +Conception the great Spirit shall breathe on thee: +Hail thou! who must God's wife, God's mother be.' +With that his seeming form to heaven he reared, +(She low obeisance made) and disappeared. +Lo! a new star three Eastern sages see; +(For why should only earth a gainer be?) +They saw this Phosphor's infant light, and knew +It bravely ushered in a sun as new; +They hasted all this rising sun t' adore; +With them rich myrrh, and early spices, bore. +Wise men! no fitter gift your zeal could bring; +You'll in a noisome stable find your king. +Anon a thousand devils run roaring in; +Some with a dreadful smile deform'dly grin; +Some stamp their cloven paws, some frown, and tear +The gaping snakes from their black-knotted hair; +As if all grief, and all the rage of hell +Were doubled now, or that just now they fell: +But when the dreaded maid they entering saw, +All fled with trembling fear and silent awe: +In her chaste arms the Eternal Infant lies, +The Almighty Voice changed into feeble cries. +Heaven contained virgins oft, and will do more; +Never did virgin contain Heaven before. +Angels peep round to view this mystic thing, +And halleluiah round, all halleluiah sing. + +No longer could good David quiet bear +The unwieldy pleasure which o'erflowed him here: +It broke the fetter, and burst ope his eye; +Away the timorous Forms together fly. +Fixed with amaze he stood, and time must take, +To learn if yet he were at last awake. +Sometimes he thinks that Heaven this vision sent, +And ordered all the pageants as they went: +Sometimes that only 'twas wild Fancy's play, +The loose and scattered relics of the day. + +When Gabriel (no bless'd sp'rit more kind or fair) +Bodies and clothes himself with thickened air; +All like a comely youth in life's fresh bloom, +Rare workmanship, and wrought by heavenly loom! +He took for skin a cloud most soft and bright +That e'er the mid-day sun pierced through with light; +Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread, +Washed from the morning beauty's deepest red; +A harmless flaming meteor shone for hair, +And fell adown his shoulders with loose care: +He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies. +Where the most sprightly azure please the eyes; +This he with starry vapours spangles all, +Took in their prime ere they grow ripe, and fall: +Of a new rainbow, ere it fret or fade, +The choicest piece took out, a scarf is made; +Small streaming clouds he does for wings display, +Not virtuous lovers' sighs more soft than they; +These he gilds o'er with the sun's richest rays, +Caught gliding o'er pure streams on which he plays. + +Thus dressed, the joyful Gabriel posts away, +And carries with him his own glorious day +Through the thick woods; the gloomy shades a while +Put on fresh, looks, and wonder why they smile; +The trembling serpents close and silent lie; +The birds obscene far from his passage fly; +A sudden spring waits on him as he goes, +Sudden as that which by creation rose. +Thus he appears to David; at first sight +All earth-bred fears and sorrows take their flight: +In rushes joy divine, and hope, and rest; +A sacred calm shines through his peaceful breast. +'Hail, man belov'd! from highest heaven,' said he. +'My mighty Master sends thee health by me. +The things thou saw'st are full of truth and light, +Shaped in the glass of the divine foresight. +Even now old Time is harnessing the Years +To go in order thus: hence, empty fears! +Thy fate's all white; from thy bless'd seed shall spring +The promised Shilo, the great mystic King. +Round the whole earth his dreaded Name shall sound. +And reach to worlds that must not yet be found: +The Southern clime him her sole Lord shall style, +Him all the North, even Albion's stubborn isle. +My fellow-servant, credit what I tell.' +Straight into shapeless air unseen he fell. + + +LIFE. + +'NASCENTES MORIMUR.'--_Manil_. + +1 We're ill by these grammarians used: + We are abused by words, grossly abused; + From the maternal tomb + To the grave's fruitful womb + We call here Life; but Life's a name + That nothing here can truly claim: + This wretched inn, where we scarce stay to bait, + We call our dwelling-place; + We call one step a race: + But angels in their full-enlightened state, + Angels who live, and know what 'tis to be, + Who all the nonsense of our language see, + Who speak things, and our words their ill-drawn picture scorn. + When we by a foolish figure say, + Behold an old man dead! then they + Speak properly, and cry, Behold a man-child born! + +2 My eyes are opened, and I see + Through the transparent fallacy: + Because we seem wisely to talk + Like men of business, and for business walk + From place to place, + And mighty voyages we take, + And mighty journeys seem to make + O'er sea and land, the little point that has no space; + Because we fight, and battles gain, + Some captives call, and say the rest are slain; + Because we heap up yellow earth, and so + Rich, valiant, wise, and virtuous seem to grow; + Because we draw a long nobility + From hieroglyphic proofs of heraldry, + And impudently talk of a posterity; + And, like Egyptian chroniclers, + Who write of twenty thousand years, + With maravedies make the account, + That single time might to a sum amount; + We grow at last by custom to believe + That really we live; + Whilst all these shadows that for things we take, + Are but the empty dreams which in death's sleep we make. + +3 But these fantastic errors of our dream + Lead us to solid wrong; + We pray God our friends' torments to prolong. + And wish uncharitably for them + To be as long a-dying as Methusalem. + The ripened soul longs from his prison to come, + But we would seal and sew up, if we could, the womb. + We seek to close and plaster up by art + The cracks and breaches of the extended shell, + And in that narrow cell + Would rudely force to dwell + The noble, vigorous bird already winged to part. + + +THE PLAGUES OF EGYPT. + +I. + +Is this thy bravery, Man! is this thy pride! +Rebel to God, and slave to all beside! +Captived by everything! and only free +To fly from thine own liberty! +All creatures, the Creator said, were thine; +No creature but might since say, Man is mine! +In black Egyptian slavery we lie, +And sweat and toil in the vain dru +Of tyrant Sin, +To which we trophies raise, and wear out all our breath +In building up the monuments of death. +We, the choice race, to God and angels kin! +In vain the prophets and apostles come +To call us home, +Home to the promised Canaan above, +Which does with nourishing milk and pleasant honey flow, +And even i' th' way to which we should be fed +With angels' tasteful bread: +But we, alas! the flesh-pots love; +We love the very leeks and sordid roots below. + +II. + +In vain we judgments feel, and wonders see; +In vain did God to descend hither deign, +He was his own Ambassador in vain, +Our Moses and our guide himself to be. +We will not let ourselves to go, +And with worse hardened hearts, do our own Pharaohs grow; +Ah! lest at last we perish so, +Think, stubborn Man! think of the Egyptian prince, +(Hard of belief and will, but not so hard as thou,) +Think with what dreadful proofs God did convince +The feeble arguments that human power could show; +Think what plagues attend on thee, +Who Moses' God dost now refuse more oft than Moses he. + +III. + +'If from some God you come,' said the proud king, +With half a smile and half a frown, +'But what God can to Egypt be unknown? +What sign, what powers, what credence do you bring?' +'Behold his seal! behold his hand!' +Cries Moses, and casts down the almighty wand: +The almighty wand scarce touched the earth, +When, with an undiscerned birth, +The almighty wand a serpent grew, +And his long half in painted folds behind him drew: +Upwards his threatening tail he threw, +Upwards he cast his threatening head, +He gaped and hissed aloud, +With flaming eyes surveyed the trembling crowd, +And, like a basilisk, almost looked the assembly dead: +Swift fled the amazed king, the guards before him fled. + +IV. + +Jannes and Jambres stopped their flight, +And with proud words allayed the affright. +'The God of slaves!' said they, 'how can he be +More powerful than their master's deity?' +And down they cast their rods, +And muttered secret sounds that charm the servile gods, +The evil spirits their charms obey, +And in a subtle cloud they snatch the rods away, +And serpents in their place the airy jugglers lay: +Serpents in Egypt's monstrous land +Were ready still at hand, +And all at the Old Serpent's first command: +And they, too, gaped, and they, too, hissed, +And they their threatening tails did twist; +But straight on both the Hebrew serpent flew, +Broke both their active backs, and both it slew, +And both almost at once devoured; +So much was overpowered +By God's miraculous creation +His servant Nature's slightly wrought and feeble generation. + +V. + +On the famed bank the prophets stood, +Touched with their rod, and wounded all the flood; +Flood now no more, but a long vein of putrid blood; +The helpless fish were found +In their strange current drowned; +The herbs and trees washed by the mortal tide +About it blushed and died: +The amazed crocodiles made haste to ground; +From their vast trunks the dropping gore they spied, +Thought it their own, and dreadfully aloud they cried: +Nor all thy priests, nor thou, +O King! couldst ever show +From whence thy wandering Nile begins his course; +Of this new Nile thou seest the sacred source, +And as thy land that does o'erflow, +Take heed lest this do so. +What plague more just could on thy waters fall? +The Hebrew infants' murder stains them all. +The kind, instructing punishment enjoy; +Whom the red river cannot mend, the Red Sea shall destroy. + +VI. + +The river yet gave one instruction more, +And from the rotting fish and unconcocted gore, +Which was but water just before, +A loathsome host was quickly made, +That scaled the banks, and with loud noise did all the country invade; +As Nilus when he quits his sacred bed, +(But like a friend he visits all the land +With welcome presents in his hand,) +So did this living tide the fields o'erspread. +In vain the alarmed country tries +To kill their noisome enemies, +From the unexhausted source still new recruits arise: +Nor does the earth these greedy troops suffice; +The towns and houses they possess, +The temples and the palaces, +Nor Pharaoh nor his gods they fear, +Both their importune croakings hear: +Unsatiate yet they mount up higher, +Where never sun-born frog durst to aspire, +And in the silken beds their slimy members place, +A luxury unknown before to all the watery race. + +VII. + +The water thus her wonders did produce, +But both were to no use: +As yet the sorcerer's mimic power served for excuse. +Try what the earth will do, said God, and lo! +They struck the earth a fertile blow, +And all the dust did straight to stir begin, +One would have thought some sudden wind had been, +But, lo! 'twas nimble life was got within! +And all the little springs did move, +And every dust did an armed vermin prove, +Of an unknown and new-created kind, +Such as the magic gods could neither make or find. +The wretched shameful foe allowed no rest +Either to man or beast; +Not Pharaoh from the unquiet plague could be, +With all his change of raiments, free; +The devils themselves confessed +This was God's hand; and 'twas but just +To punish thus man's pride, to punish dust with dust. + +VIII. + +Lo! the third element does his plagues prepare, +And swarming clouds of insects fill the air; +With sullen noise they take their flight, +And march in bodies infinite; +In vain 'tis day above, 'tis still beneath them night; +Of harmful flies the nations numberless +Composed this mighty army's spacious boast; +Of different manners, different languages, +And different habits, too, they wore, +And different arms they bore: +And some, like Scythians, lived on blood, +And some on green, and some on flowery food, +And Accaron, the airy prince, led on this various host. +Houses secure not men; the populous ill +Did all the houses fill: +The country all around, +Did with the cries of tortured cattle sound; +About the fields enraged they flew, +And wished the plague that was t' ensue. + +IX. + +From poisonous stars a mortal influence came, +(The mingled malice of their flame,) +A skilful angel did the ingredients take, +And with just hands the sad composure make, +And over all the land did the full viol shake. +Thirst, giddiness, faintness, and putrid heats, +And pining pains, and shivering sweats, +On all the cattle, all the beasts, did fall; +With deformed death the country's covered all. +The labouring ox drops down before the plough; +The crowned victims to the altar led +Sink, and prevent the lifted blow: +The generous horse from the full manger turns his head, +Does his loved floods and pastures scorn, +Hates the shrill trumpet and the horn, +Nor can his lifeless nostril please +With the once-ravishing smell of all his dappled mistresses; +The starving sheep refuse to feed, +They bleat their innocent souls out into air; +The faithful dogs lie gasping by them there; +The astonished shepherd weeps, and breaks his tuneful reed. + +X. + +Thus did the beasts for man's rebellion die; +God did on man a gentler medicine try, +And a disease for physic did apply. +Warm ashes from the furnace Moses took, +The sorcerers did with wonder on him look, +And smiled at the unaccustomed spell +Which no Egyptian rituals tell. +He flings the pregnant ashes through the air, +And speaks a mighty prayer, +Both which the minist'ring winds around all Egypt bear; +As gentle western blasts, with downy wings +Hatching the tender springs, +To the unborn buds with vital whispers say, +Ye living buds, why do ye stay? +The passionate buds break through the bark their way; +So wheresoe'er this tainted wind but blew, +Swelling pains and ulcers grew; +It from the body called all sleeping poisons out, +And to them added new; +A noisome spring of sores as thick as leaves did sprout. + +XI. + +Heaven itself is angry next; +Woe to man when Heaven is vexed; +With sullen brow it frowned, +And murmured first in an imperfect sound; +Till Moses, lifting up his hand, +Waves the expected signal of his wand, +And all the full-charged clouds in ranged squadrons move, +And fill the spacious plains above; +Through which the rolling thunder first does play, +And opens wide the tempest's noisy way: +And straight a stony shower +Of monstrous hail does downward pour, +Such as ne'er Winter yet brought forth, +From all her stormy magazines of the north: +It all the beasts and men abroad did slay, +O'er the defaced corpse, like monuments, lay; +The houses and strong-bodied trees it broke, +Nor asked aid from the thunder's stroke: +The thunder but for terror through it flew, +The hail alone the work could do. +The dismal lightnings all around, +Some flying through the air, some running on the ground, +Some swimming o'er the waters' face, +Filled with bright horror every place; +One would have thought, their dreadful day to have seen, +The very hail and rain itself had kindled been. + +XII. + +The infant corn, which yet did scarce appear, +Escaped this general massacre +Of every thing that grew, +And the well-stored Egyptian year +Began to clothe her fields and trees anew; +When, lo! a scorching wind from the burnt countries blew, +And endless legions with it drew +Of greedy locusts, who, where'er +With sounding wings they flew, +Left all the earth depopulate and bare, +As if Winter itself had marched by there, +Whate'er the sun and Nile +Gave with large bounty to the thankful soil, +The wretched pillagers bore away, +And the whole Summer was their prey; +Till Moses with a prayer, +Breathed forth a violent western wind, +Which all these living clouds did headlong bear +(No stragglers left behind) +Into the purple sea, and there bestow +On the luxurious fish a feast they ne'er did know. +With untaught joy Pharaoh the news does hear, +And little thinks their fate attends on him and his so near. + +XIII. + +What blindness and what darkness did there e'er +Like this undocile king's appear? +Whate'er but that which now does represent +And paint the crime out in the punishment? +From the deep baleful caves of hell below, +Where the old mother Night does grow, +Substantial Night, that does disclaim +Privation's empty name, +Through secret conduits monstrous shapes arose, +Such as the sun's whole force could not oppose; +They with a solid cloud +All heaven's eclipsed face did shroud; +Seemed with large wings spread o'er the sea and earth, +To brood up a new Chaos his deformed birth; +And every lamp, and every fire, +Did, at the dreadful sight, wink and expire, +To the empyrean source all streams of light seemed to retire. +The living men were in their standing houses buried, +But the long night no slumber knows, +But the short death finds no repose. +Ten thousand terrors through the darkness fled, +And ghosts complained, and spirits murmured, +And fancy's multiplying sight +Viewed all the scenes invisible of night. + +XIV. + +Of God's dreadful anger these +Were but the first light skirmishes; +The shock and bloody battle now begins, +The plenteous harvest of full-ripened sins. +It was the time when the still moon +Was mounted softly to her noon, +And dewy sleep, which from Night's secret springs arose, +Gently as Nile the land o'erflows; +When, lo! from the high countries of refined day, +The golden heaven without allay, +Whose dross, in the creation purged away, +Made up the sun's adulterate ray, +Michael, the warlike prince, does downwards fly, +Swift as the journeys of the sight, +Swift as the race of light, +And with his winged will cuts through the yielding sky. +He passed through many a star, and as he passed +Shone (like a star in them) more brightly there +Than they did in their sphere: +On a tall pyramid's pointed head he stopped at last, +And a mild look of sacred pity cast +Down on the sinful land where he was sent +To inflict the tardy punishment. +'Ah! yet,' said he, 'yet, stubborn King! repent, +Whilst thus unarmed I stand, +Ere the keen sword of God fill my commanded hand; +Suffer but yet thyself and thine to live. +Who would, alas! believe +That it for man,' said he, +'So hard to be forgiven should be, +And yet for God so easy to forgive!' + +XV. + +He spoke, and downwards flew, +And o'er his shining form a well-cut cloud he threw, +Made of the blackest fleece of night, +And close-wrought to keep in the powerful light; +Yet, wrought so fine, it hindered not his flight, +But through the key-holes and the chinks of doors, +And through the narrowest walks of crooked pores, +He passed more swift and free +Than in wide air the wanton swallows flee: +He took a pointed pestilence in his hand, +The spirits of thousand mortal poisons made +The strongly-tempered blade, +The sharpest sword that e'er was laid +Up in the magazines of God to scourge a wicked land: +Through Egypt's wicked land his march he took, +And as he marched the sacred first-born struck +Of every womb; none did he spare; +None from the meanest beast to Cenchre's purple heir. + +XVI. + +The swift approach of endless night +Breaks ope the wounded sleepers' rolling eyes; +They awake the rest with dying cries, +And darkness doubles the affright. +The mixed sounds of scattered deaths they hear, +And lose their parted souls 'twixt grief and fear. +Louder than all, the shrieking women's voice +Pierces this chaos of confused noise; +As brighter lightning cuts a way, +Clear and distinguished through the day: +With less complaints the Zoan temples sound +When the adored heifer's drowned, +And no true marked successor to be found: +While health, and strength, and gladness does possess +The festal Hebrew cottages; +The bless'd destroyer comes not there, +To interrupt the sacred cheer, +That new begins their well-reformed year. +Upon their doors he read and understood +God's protection writ in blood; +Well was he skilled i' th' character divine, +And though he passed by it in haste, +He bowed, and worshipped as he passed +The mighty mystery through its humble sign. + +XVII. + +The sword strikes now too deep and near, +Longer with its edge to play, +No diligence or cost they spare +To haste the Hebrews now away, +Pharaoh himself chides their delay; +So kind and bountiful is fear! +But, oh! the bounty which to fear we owe, +Is but like fire struck out of stone, +So hardly got, and quickly gone, +That it scarce outlives the blow. +Sorrow and fear soon quit the tyrant's breast, +Rage and revenge their place possess'd: +With a vast host of chariots and of horse, +And all his powerful kingdom's ready force, +The travelling nation he pursues, +Ten times o'ercome, he still the unequal war renews. +Filled with proud hopes, 'At least,' said he, +'The Egyptian gods, from Syrian magic free, +Will now revenge themselves and me; +Behold what passless rocks on either hand, +Like prison walls, about them stand! +Whilst the sea bounds their flight before, +And in our injured justice they must find +A far worse stop than rocks and seas behind; +Which shall with crimson gore +New paint the water's name, and double dye the shore.' + +XVIII. + +He spoke; and all his host +Approved with shouts the unhappy boast; +A bidden wind bore his vain words away, +And drowned them in the neighbouring sea. +No means to escape the faithless travellers spy, +And with degenerous fear to die, +Curse their new-gotten liberty: +But the great Guide well knew he led them right, +And saw a path hid yet from human sight: +He strikes the raging waves; the waves on either side +Unloose their close embraces, and divide, +And backwards press, as in some solemn show +The crowding people do, +(Though just before no space was seen,) +To let the admired triumph pass between. +The wondering army saw, on either hand, +The no less wondering waves like rocks of crystal stand. +They marched betwixt, and boldly trod +The secret paths of God: +And here and there, all scattered in their way, +The sea's old spoils and gaping fishes lay +Deserted on the sandy plain: +The sun did with astonishment behold +The inmost chambers of the opened main, +For whatsoe'er of old +By his own priests, the poets, has been said, +He never sunk till then into the Ocean's bed. + +XIX. + +Led cheerfully by a bright captain, Flame, +To the other shore at morning-dawn they came, +And saw behind the unguided foe +March disorderly and slow: +The prophet straight from the Idumean strand +Shakes his imperious wand; +The upper waves, that highest crowded lie, +The beckoning wand espy; +Straight their first right-hand files begin to move, +And with a murmuring wind +Give the word march to all behind; +The left-hand squadrons no less ready prove, +But with a joyful, louder noise, +Answer their distant fellows' voice, +And haste to meet them make, +As several troops do all at once a common signal take. +What tongue the amazement and the affright can tell, +Which on the Chamian army fell, +When on both sides they saw the roaring main +Broke loose from his invisible chain? +They saw the monstrous death and watery war +Come rolling down loud ruin from afar; +In vain some backward and some forwards fly +With helpless haste, in vain they cry +To their celestial beasts for aid; +In vain their guilty king they upbraid, +In vain on Moses he, and Moses' God, does call, +With a repentance true too late: +They're compassed round with a devouring fate +That draws, like a strong net, the mighty sea upon them all. + + + + +GEORGE WITHER + + +This remarkable man was born in Hampshire, at Bentworth, near Alton, in +1588. He was sent to Magdalene College, Oxford, but had hardly been +there till his father remanded him home to hold the plough--a reversal +of the case of Cincinnatus which did not please the aspiring spirit of +our poet. He took an early opportunity of breaking loose from this +occupation, and of going to London with the romantic intention of making +his fortune at Court. Finding that to rise at Court, flattery was +indispensable, and determined not to flatter, he, in 1613, published his +'Abuses Whipt and Stript,' for which he was committed for some months +to the Marshalsea. Here he wrote his beautiful poem, 'The Shepherd's +Hunting;' and is said to have gained his manumission by a satire to +the King, in which he defends his former writings. Soon after his +liberation, he published his 'Hymns and Songs of the Church,' a book +which embroiled him with the clergy, but procured him the favour of King +James, who encouraged him to finish a translation of the Psalms. He +travelled to the court of the Queen of Bohemia, (James's daughter,) in +fulfilment of a vow, and presented her with a copy of his completed +translation. + +In 1639, he was a captain of horse in the expedition against the Scotch. +When the Civil War broke out, he sold his estate to raise a troop of +horse on the Parliamentary side, and soon after was made a major. In +1642, he was appointed captain and commander of Farnham Castle, in +Surrey; but owing to some neglect or cowardice on his part, it was ceded +the same year to Sir William Waller. He was made prisoner by the +Royalists some time after this, and would have been put to death had not +Denham interfered, alleging that as long as Wither survived, he (Denham) +could not be accounted the worst poet in England. He was afterwards +appointed Cromwell's major-general of all the horse and foot in the +county of Surrey. He made money at this time by Royalist sequestrations, +but lost it all at the Restoration. He had, on the death of Cromwell, +hailed Richard with enthusiasm, and predicted him a happy reign; which +makes Campbell remark, 'He never but once in his life foreboded good, +and in that prophecy he was mistaken.' Wither was by no means pleased +with the loss of his fortune, and remonstrated bitterly; but for so +doing he was thrown into prison again. Here his mind continued as active +as ever, and he poured out treatises, poems, and satires--sometimes, +when pen and ink were denied him, inscribing his thoughts with red ochre +upon a trencher. After three years, he was, in 1663, released from +Newgate, under bond for good behaviour; and four years afterwards he +died in London. This was on the 2d of May 1667. He was buried between +the east door and the south end of the Savoy church, in the Strand. + +Wither was a man of real genius, but seems to have been partially +insane. His political zeal was a frenzy; and his religion was deeply +tinged with puritanic gloom. His 'Collection of Emblems' never became so +popular as those of Quarles, and are now nearly as much forgotten as his +satires, his psalms, and his controversial treatises. But his early +poems are delightful--full of elegant and playful fancy, ease of +language, and delicacy of sentiment. Some passages in 'The Shepherd's +Hunting,' and in the 'Address to Poetry,' resemble the style of Milton +in his 'L'Allegro' and 'Penseroso.' His 'Christmas' catches the full +spirit of that joyous carnival of Christian England. Altogether, it is +refreshing to turn from the gnarled oak of Wither's struggling and +unhappy life, to the beautiful flowers, nodding over it, of his poesy. + + +FROM 'THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.' + +See'st thou not, in clearest days, +Oft thick fogs could heavens raise? +And the vapours that do breathe +From the earth's gross womb beneath, +Seem they not with their black steams +To pollute the sun's bright beams, +And yet vanish into air, +Leaving it unblemished, fair? +So, my Willy, shall it be +With Detraction's breath and thee: +It shall never rise so high +As to stain thy poesy. +As that sun doth oft exhale +Vapours from each rotten vale; +Poesy so sometimes drains +Gross conceits from muddy brains; +Mists of envy, fogs of spite, +'Twixt men's judgments and her light; +But so much her power may do +That she can dissolve them too. +If thy verse do bravely tower, +As she makes wing, she gets power! +Yet the higher she doth soar, +She's affronted still the more: +Till she to the high'st hath past, +Then she rests with Fame at last. +Let nought therefore thee affright, +But make forward in thy flight: +For if I could match thy rhyme, +To the very stars I'd climb; +There begin again, and fly +Till I reached eternity. +But, alas! my Muse is slow; +For thy pace she flags too low. +Yes, the more's her hapless fate, +Her short wings were clipped of late; +And poor I, her fortune ruing, +Am myself put up a-muing. +But if I my cage can rid, +I'll fly where I never did. +And though for her sake I'm cross'd, +Though my best hopes I have lost, +And knew she would make my trouble +Ten times more than ten times double; +I would love and keep her too, +Spite of all the world could do. +For though banished from my flocks, +And confined within these rocks, +Here I waste away the light, +And consume the sullen night; +She doth for my comfort stay, +And keeps many cares away. +Though I miss the flowery fields, +With those sweets the springtide yields; +Though I may not see those groves, +Where the shepherds chant their loves, +And the lasses more excel +Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; +Though of all those pleasures past, +Nothing now remains at last, +But remembrance, poor relief, +That more makes than mends my grief: +She's my mind's companion still, +Maugre Envy's evil will: +Whence she should be driven too, +Were 't in mortals' power to do. +She doth tell me where to borrow +Comfort in the midst of sorrow; +Makes the desolatest place +To her presence be a grace, +And the blackest discontents +Be her fairest ornaments. +In my former days of bliss, +His divine skill taught me this, +That from everything I saw, +I could some invention draw; +And raise pleasure to her height +Through the meanest object's sight: +By the murmur of a spring, +Or the least bough's rustling; +By a daisy, whose leaves spread, +Shut when Titan goes to bed; +Or a shady bush or tree, +She could more infuse in me, +Than all Nature's beauties can, +In some other wiser man. +By her help I also now +Make this churlish place allow +Some things that may sweeten gladness +In the very gall of sadness: +The dull loneness, the black shade +That these hanging vaults have made, +The strange music of the waves, +Beating on these hollow caves, +This black den, which rocks emboss, +Overgrown with eldest moss; +The rude portals, that give light +More to terror than delight, +This my chamber of neglect, +Walled about with disrespect, +From all these, and this dull air, +A fit object for despair, +She hath taught me by her might +To draw comfort and delight. + +Therefore, then, best earthly bliss, +I will cherish thee for this! +Poesy, thou sweet'st content +That e'er Heaven to mortals lent; +Though they as a trifle leave thee, +Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee, +Though thou be to them a scorn +That to nought but earth are born; +Let my life no longer be +Than I am in love with thee! +Though our wise ones call it madness, +Let me never taste of gladness +If I love not thy madd'st fits +Above all their greatest wits! +And though some, too seeming holy, +Do account thy raptures folly, +Thou dost teach me to contemn +What makes knaves and fools of them! + + +THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. + +1 Shall I, wasting in despair, + Die because a woman's fair? + Or make pale my cheeks with care, + 'Cause another's rosy are? + Be she fairer than the day, + Or the flowery meads in May; + If she be not so to me, + What care I how fair she be? + +2 Shall my foolish heart be pined, + 'Cause I see a woman kind? + Or a well-disposed nature + Joined with a lovely feature? + Be she meeker, kinder, than + The turtle-dove or pelican; + If she be not so to me, + What care I how kind she be? + +3 Shall a woman's virtues move + Me to perish for her love? + Or, her well-deservings known, + Make me quite forget mine own? + Be she with that goodness blest, + Which may merit name of Best; + If she be not such to me, + What care I how good she be? + +4 'Cause her fortune seems too high, + Shall I play the fool and die? + Those that bear a noble mind, + Where they want of riches find, + Think what with them they would do, + That without them dare to woo; + And, unless that mind I see, + What care I how great she be? + +5 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, + I will ne'er the more despair: + If she love me, this believe-- + I will die ere she shall grieve. + If she slight me when I woo, + I can scorn and let her go: + If she be not fit for me, + What care I for whom she be? + + +THE STEADFAST SHEPHERD. + +1 Hence away, thou Siren, leave me, + Pish! unclasp these wanton arms; + Sugared words can ne'er deceive me, + Though thou prove a thousand charms. + Fie, fie, forbear; + No common snare + Can ever my affection chain: + Thy painted baits, + And poor deceits, + Are all bestowed on me in vain. + +2 I'm no slave to such as you be; + Neither shall that snowy breast, + Rolling eye, and lip of ruby, + Ever rob me of my rest: + Go, go, display + Thy beauty's ray + To some more soon enamoured swain: + Those common wiles + Of sighs and smiles + Are all bestowed on me in vain. + +3 I have elsewhere vowed a duty; + Turn away thy tempting eye: + Show not me a painted beauty: + These impostures I defy: + My spirit loathes + Where gaudy clothes + And feigned oaths may love obtain: + I love her so, + Whose look swears No, + That all your labours will be vain. + +4 Can he prize the tainted posies + Which on every breast are worn, + That may pluck the virgin roses + From their never-touched thorn? + I can go rest + On her sweet breast + That is the pride of Cynthia's train: + Then stay thy tongue, + Thy mermaid song + Is all bestowed on me in vain. + +5 He's a fool that basely dallies, + Where each peasant mates with him: + Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, + Whilst there's noble hills to climb? + No, no, though clowns + Are scared with frowns, + I know the best can but disdain; + And those I'll prove: + So will thy love + Be all bestowed on me in vain. + +6 I do scorn to vow a duty + Where each lustful lad may woo; + Give me her whose sun-like beauty + Buzzards dare not soar unto: + She, she it is + Affords that bliss + For which I would refuse no pain: + But such as you, + Fond fools, adieu! + You seek to captive me in vain. + +7 Leave me then, you Siren, leave me: + Seek no more to work my harms: + Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, + Who am proof against your charms: + You labour may + To lead astray + The heart that constant shall remain; + And I the while + Will sit and smile + To see you spend your time in vain. + + +THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING. + + ARGUMENT. + + Cuddy tells how all the swains + Pity Roget on the plains; + Who, requested, doth relate + The true cause of his estate; + Which broke off, because 'twas long, + They begin a three-man song. + + WILLY. CUDDY. ROGET. + +WILLY. + +Roget, thy old friend Cuddy here, and I, +Are come to visit thee in these thy bands, +Whilst both our flocks in an enclosure by +Do pick the thin grass from the fallowed lands. +He tells me thy restraint of liberty, +Each one throughout the country understands: + And there is not a gentle-natured lad, + On all these downs, but for thy sake is sad. + +CUDDY. + +Not thy acquaintance and thy friends alone +Pity thy close restraint, as friends should do: +But some that have but seen thee for thee moan: +Yea, many that did never see thee too. +Some deem thee in a fault, and most in none; +So divers ways do divers rumours go: + And at all meetings where our shepherds be, + Now the main news that's extant is of thee. + +ROGET. + +Why, this is somewhat yet: had I but kept +Sheep on the mountains till the day of doom, +My name should in obscurity have slept, +In brakes, in briars, shrubbed furze and broom. +Into the world's wide care it had not crept, +Nor in so many men's thoughts found a room: + But what cause of my sufferings do they know? + Good Cuddy, tell me how doth rumour go? + +CUDDY. + +Faith, 'tis uncertain; some speak this, some that: +Some dare say nought, yet seem to think a cause, +And many a one, prating he knows not what, +Comes out with proverbs and old ancient saws, +As if he thought thee guiltless, and yet not: +Then doth he speak half-sentences, then pause: + That what the most would say, we may suppose: + But what to say, the rumour is, none knows. + +ROGET. + +Nor care I greatly, for it skills not much +What the unsteady common-people deems; +His conscience doth not always feel least touch, +That blameless in the sight of others seems: +My cause is honest, and because 'tis such +I hold it so, and not for men's esteems: + If they speak justly well of me, I'm glad; + If falsely evil, it ne'er makes me sad. + +WILLY. + +I like that mind; but, Roget, you are quite +Beside the matter that I long to hear: +Remember what you promised yesternight, +You'd put us off with other talk, I fear; +Thou know'st that honest Cuddy's heart's upright, +And none but he, except myself, is near: + Come therefore, and betwixt us two relate, + The true occasion of thy present state. + +ROGET. + +My friends, I will; you know I am a swain, +That keep a poor flock here upon this plain: +Who, though it seems I could do nothing less, +Can make a song, and woo a shepherdess; +And not alone the fairest where I live +Have heard me sing, and favours deigned to give; +But though I say't, the noblest nymph of Thame, +Hath graced my verse unto my greater fame. +Yet being young, and not much seeking praise, +I was not noted out for shepherds' lays, +Nor feeding flocks, as you know others be: +For the delight that most possessed me +Was hunting foxes, wolves, and beasts of prey; +That spoil our folds, and bear our lambs away. +For this, as also for the love I bear +Unto my country, I laid by all care +Of gain, or of preferment, with desire +Only to keep that state I had entire, +And like a true-grown huntsman sought to speed +Myself with hounds of rare and choicest breed, +Whose names and natures ere I further go, +Because you are my friends, I'll let you know. +My first esteemed dog that I did find, +Was by descent of old Actaeon's kind; +A brach, which if I do not aim amiss, +For all the world is just like one of his: +She's named Love, and scarce yet knows her duty; +Her dam's my lady's pretty beagle Beauty, +I bred her up myself with wondrous charge, +Until she grew to be exceeding large, +And waxed so wanton that I did abhor it, +And put her out amongst my neighbours for it. +The next is Lust, a hound that's kept abroad, +'Mongst some of mine acquaintance, but a toad +Is not more loathsome: 'tis a cur will range +Extremely, and is ever full of mange; +And 'cause it is infectious, she's not wont +To come among the rest, but when they hunt. +Hate is the third, a hound both deep and long. +His sire is true or else supposed Wrong. +He'll have a snap at all that pass him by, +And yet pursues his game most eagerly. +With him goes Envy coupled, a lean cur, +And she'll hold out, hunt we ne'er so far: +She pineth much, and feedeth little too, +Yet stands and snarleth at the rest that do. +Then there's Revenge, a wondrous deep-mouthed dog, +So fleet, I'm fain to hunt him with a clog, +Yet many times he'll much outstrip his bounds, +And hunts not closely with the other hounds: +He'll venture on a lion in his ire; +Curst Choler was his dam, and Wrong his sire. +This Choler is a brach that's very old, +And spends her mouth too much to have it hold: +She's very testy, an unpleasing cur, +That bites the very stones, if they but stur: +Or when that ought but her displeasure moves, +She'll bite and snap at any one she loves: +But my quick-scented'st dog is Jealousy, +The truest of this breed's in Italy: +The dam of mine would hardly fill a glove, +It was a lady's little dog, called Love: +The sire, a poor deformed cur, named Fear, +As shagged and as rough as is a bear: +And yet the whelp turned after neither kind, +For he is very large, and near-hand blind; +At the first sight he hath a pretty colour, +But doth not seem so, when you view him fuller; +A vile suspicious beast, his looks are bad, +And I do fear in time he will grow mad. +To him I couple Avarice, still poor; +Yet she devours as much as twenty more: +A thousand horse she in her paunch can put, +Yet whine as if she had an empty gut: +And having gorged what might a land have found, +She'll catch for more, and hide it in the ground. +Ambition is a hound as greedy full; +But he for all the daintiest bits doth cull: +He scorns to lick up crumbs beneath the table, +He'll fetch 't from boards and shelves, if he be able: +Nay, he can climb if need be; and for that, +With him I hunt the martin and the cat: +And yet sometimes in mounting he's so quick, +He fetches falls are like to break his neck. +Fear is well-mouth'd, but subject to distrust; +A stranger cannot make him take a crust: +A little thing will soon his courage quail, +And 'twixt his legs he ever claps his tail; +With him Despair now often coupled goes, +Which by his roaring mouth each huntsman knows. +None hath a better mind unto the game, +But he gives off, and always seemeth lame. +My bloodhound Cruelty, as swift as wind, +Hunts to the death, and never comes behind; +Who but she's strapp'd and muzzled too withal, +Would eat her fellows, and the prey and all; +And yet she cares not much for any food, +Unless it be the purest harmless blood. +All these are kept abroad at charge of many, +They do not cost me in a year a penny. +But there's two couple of a middling size, +That seldom pass the sight of my own eyes. +Hope, on whose head I've laid my life to pawn; +Compassion, that on every one will fawn. +This would, when 'twas a whelp, with rabbits play +Or lambs, and let them go unhurt away: +Nay, now she is of growth, she'll now and then +Catch you a hare, and let her go again. +The two last, Joy and Sorrow, 'tis a wonder, +Can ne'er agree, nor ne'er bide far asunder. +Joy's ever wanton, and no order knows: +She'll run at larks, or stand and bark at crows. +Sorrow goes by her, and ne'er moves his eye; +Yet both do serve to help make up the cry. +Then comes behind all these to bear the base, +Two couple more of a far larger race, +Such wide-mouth'd trollops, that 'twould do you good +To hear their loud loud echoes tear the wood. +There's Vanity, who, by her gaudy hide, +May far away from all the rest be spied, +Though huge, yet quick, for she's now here, now there; +Nay, look about you, and she's everywhere: +Yet ever with the rest, and still in chase. +Right so, Inconstancy fills every place; +And yet so strange a fickle-natured hound, +Look for her, and she's nowhere to be found. +Weakness is no fair dog unto the eye, +And yet she hath her proper quality; +But there's Presumption, when he heat hath got, +He drowns the thunder and the cannon-shot: +And when at start he his full roaring makes, +The earth doth tremble, and the heaven shakes. +These were my dogs, ten couple just in all, +Whom by the name of Satyrs I do call: +Mad curs they be, and I can ne'er come nigh them, +But I'm in danger to be bitten by them. +Much pains I took, and spent days not a few, +To make them keep together, and hunt true: +Which yet I do suppose had never been, +But that I had a scourge to keep them in. +Now when that I this kennel first had got, +Out of my own demesnes I hunted not, +Save on these downs, or among yonder rocks, +After those beasts that spoiled our parish flocks; +Nor during that time was I ever wont +With all my kennel in one day to hunt: +Nor had done yet, but that this other year, +Some beasts of prey, that haunt the deserts here, +Did not alone for many nights together +Devour, sometime a lamb, sometime a wether, +And so disquiet many a poor man's herd, +But that of losing all they were afeard: +Yea, I among the rest did fare as bad, +Or rather worse, for the best ewes[1] I had +(Whose breed should be my means of life and gain) +Were in one evening by these monsters slain: +Which mischief I resolved to repay, +Or else grow desperate, and hunt all away; +For in a fury (such as you shall see +Huntsmen in missing of their sport will be) +I vowed a monster should not lurk about, +In all this province, but I'd find him out, +And thereupon, without respect or care, +How lame, how full, or how unfit they were, +In haste unkennell'd all my roaring crew, +Who were as mad as if my mind they knew, +And ere they trail'd a flight-shot, the fierce curs +Had roused a hart, and thorough brakes and furs +Follow'd at gaze so close, that Love and Fear +Got in together, so had surely there +Quite overthrown him, but that Hope thrust in +'Twixt both, and saved the pinching of his skin, +Whereby he 'scaped, till coursing o'erthwart, +Despair came in, and griped him to the heart: +I hallowed in the res'due to the fall, +And for an entrance, there I fleshed them all: +Which having done, I dipped my staff in blood, +And onward led my thunder to the wood; +Where what they did, I'll tell you out anon, +My keeper calls me, and I must be gone. +Go if you please a while, attend your flocks, +And when the sun is over yonder rocks, +Come to this cave again, where I will be, +If that my guardian so much favour me. +Yet if you please, let us three sing a strain, +Before you turn your sheep into the plain. + +WILLY. + +I am content. + +CUDDY. + + As well content am I. + +ROGET. + +Then, Will, begin, and we'll the rest supply. + + +SONG. + +WILLY. + + Shepherd, would these gates were ope, + Thou might'st take with us thy fortune. + +ROGET. + + No, I'll make this narrow scope, + Since my fate doth so importune + Means unto a wider hope. + +CUDDY. + + Would thy shepherdess were here, + Who belov'd, loves thee so dearly! + +ROGET. + + Not for both your flocks, I swear, + And the gain they yield you yearly, + Would I so much wrong my dear. + Yet to me, nor to this place, + Would she now be long a stranger; + She would hold it no disgrace, + (If she feared not more my danger,) + Where I am to show her face. + +WILLY. + + Shepherd, we would wish no harms, + But something that might content thee. + +ROGET. + + Wish me then within her arms, + And that wish will ne'er repent me, + If your wishes might prove charms. + +WILLY. + + Be thy prison her embrace, + Be thy air her sweetest breathing. + +CUDDY. + + Be thy prospect her fair face, + For each look a kiss bequeathing, + And appoint thyself the place. + +ROGET. + + Nay pray, hold there, for I should scantly then + Come meet you here this afternoon again: + But fare you well, since wishes have no power, + Let us depart, and keep the 'pointed hour. + +[1] 'Ewes:' hopes. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT, + + +The author of 'Gondibert,' was the son of a vintner in Oxford, and born +in February 1605. Gossip says--but says with her usual carelessness about +truth--that he was the son of no less a person than William Shakspeare, +who used, in his journeys between London and Stratford, to stop at the +Crown, an inn kept by Davenant's reputed father. This story is hinted at +by Wood, was told to Pope by Betterton the player, and believed by Malone, +but seems to be a piece of mere scandal. It is true that Davenant had a +great veneration for Shakspeare, and expressed it, when only ten years +old, in lines 'In remembrance of Master William Shakspeare,' beginning +thus:-- + + 'Beware, delighted poets, when you sing, + To welcome nature in the early spring, + Your numerous feet not tread + The banks of Avon, for each flower + (As it ne'er knew a sun or shower) + Hangs there the pensive head.' + +Southey says--'The father was a man of melancholy temperament, the mother +handsome and lively; and as Shakspeare used to put up at the house on his +journeys between Stratford and London, Davenant is said to have affected +the reputation of being Shakspeare's son. If he really did this, there +was a levity, or rather a want of feeling, in the boast, for which social +pleasantry, and the spirits which are induced by wine, afford but little +excuse.' + +He was entered at Lincoln College; he next became page to the Duchess of +Richmond; and we find him afterwards in the family of Fulk Greville, Lord +Brooke--famous as the friend of Sir Philip Sidney. He began to write for +the stage in 1628; and on the death of Ben Jonson he was made Poet Laureate +--to the disappointment of Thomas May, so much praised by Johnson and +others for his proficiency in Latin poetry, as displayed in his supplement +to Lucan's 'Pharsalia.' He became afterwards manager of Drury Lane; but +owing to his connexion with the intrigues of that unhappy period, he was +imprisoned in the Tower, and subsequently made his escape to France. On his +return to England, he distinguished himself greatly in the Royal cause; and +when that became desperate, he again took refuge in France, and wrote part +of his 'Gondibert.' He projected a scheme for carrying over a colony to +Virginia; but his vessel was seized by one of the Parliamentary ships--he +himself was conveyed a prisoner to Cowes Castle, in the Isle of Wight, and +thence to the Tower, preparatory to being tried by the High Commission. But +a giant hand, worthy of having saved him had he been Shakspeare's veritable +son, was now stretched forth to his rescue--the hand of Milton. In this +generous act Milton was seconded by Whitelocke, and by two aldermen of +York, to whom our poet had rendered some services. Liberated from the +Tower, Davenant was also permitted, through the influence of Whitelocke, +to open, in defiance of Puritanic prohibition, a kind of theatre at Rutland +House, and by enacting his own plays there, he managed to support himself +till the Restoration. He then, it is supposed, repaid to Milton his +friendly service, and shielded him from the wrath of the Court. From this +period Davenant continued to write for the stage--having received the +patent of the Duke's Theatre, in Lincoln's Inn--till his death. This event +took place on April 7, 1668. His last play, written in conjunction with +Dryden, was an alteration and pollution of Shakspeare's 'Tempest,' which +was more worthy of Trincula than of the authors of 'Absalom and Ahithophel' +and of 'Gondibert.' Supposing Davenant the son of Shakspeare, his act to +his father's masterpiece reminds us, in the excess of its filial impiety, +of Ham's conduct to Noah. + +'Gondibert' is a large and able, without being a great poem. It has the +incurable and indefensible defect of dulness. 'The line labours, and the +words move slow.' The story is interesting of itself, but is lost in the +labyrinthine details. It has many lines, and some highly and successfully +wrought passages; but as a whole we may say of it as Porson said of +certain better productions, 'It will be read when the works of Homer and +Virgil are forgotten--but _not till then_.' + + +FROM 'GONDIBERT'--CANTO II. + +THE ARGUMENT. + +The hunting which did yearly celebrate +The Lombards' glory, and the Vandals' fate: +The hunters praised; how true to love they are, +How calm in peace and tempest-like in war. +The stag is by the numerous chase subdued, +And straight his hunters are as hard pursued. + +1 Small are the seeds Fate does unheeded sow + Of slight beginnings to important ends; + Whilst wonder, which does best our reverence show + To Heaven, all reason's sight in gazing spends. + +2 For from a day's brief pleasure did proceed, + A day grown black in Lombard histories, + Such lasting griefs as thou shalt weep to read, + Though even thine own sad love had drained thine eyes. + +3 In a fair forest, near Verona's plain, + Fresh as if Nature's youth chose there a shade, + The Duke, with many lovers in his train, + Loyal and young, a solemn hunting made. + +4 Much was his train enlarged by their resort + Who much his grandsire loved, and hither came + To celebrate this day with annual sport, + On which by battle here he earned his fame, + +5 And many of these noble hunters bore + Command amongst the youth at Bergamo; + Whose fathers gathered here the wreaths they wore, + When in this forest they interred the foe. + +6 Count Hurgonil, a youth of high descent, + Was listed here, and in the story great; + He followed honour, when towards death it went; + Fierce in a charge, but temperate in retreat. + +7 His wondrous beauty, which the world approved, + He blushing hid, and now no more would own + (Since he the Duke's unequalled sister loved) + Than an old wreath when newly overthrown. + +8 And she, Orna the shy! did seem in life + So bashful too, to have her beauty shown, + As I may doubt her shade with Fame at strife, + That in these vicious times would make it known. + +9 Not less in public voice was Arnold here; + He that on Tuscan tombs his trophies raised; + And now Love's power so willingly did bear, + That even his arbitrary reign he praised. + +10 Laura, the Duke's fair niece, enthralled his heart, + Who was in court the public morning glass, + Where those, who would reduce nature to art, + Practised by dress the conquests of the face. + +11 And here was Hugo, whom Duke Gondibert + For stout and steadfast kindness did approve; + Of stature small, but was all over heart, + And, though unhappy, all that heart was love. + +12 In gentle sonnets he for Laura pined, + Soft as the murmurs of a weeping spring, + Which ruthless she did as those murmurs mind: + So, ere their death, sick swans unheeded sing. + +13 Yet, whilst she Arnold favoured, he so grieved, + As loyal subjects quietly bemoan + Their yoke, but raise no war to be relieved, + Nor through the envied fav'rite wound the throne. + +14 Young Goltho next these rivals we may name, + Whose manhood dawned early as summer light; + As sure and soon did his fair day proclaim, + And was no less the joy of public sight. + +15 If love's just power he did not early see, + Some small excuse we may his error give; + Since few, though learn'd, know yet blest love to be + That secret vital heat by which we live: + +16 But such it is; and though we may be thought + To have in childhood life, ere love we know, + Yet life is useless till by reason taught, + And love and reason up together grow. + +17 Nor more the old show they outlive their love, + If, when their love's decayed, some signs they give + Of life, because we see them pained and move, + Than snakes, long cut, by torment show they live. + +18 If we call living, life, when love is gone, + We then to souls, God's coin, vain reverence pay; + Since reason, which is love, and his best known + And current image, age has worn away. + +19 And I, that love and reason thus unite, + May, if I old philosophers control, + Confirm the new by some new poet's light, + Who, finding love, thinks he has found the soul. + +20 From Goltho, to whom love yet tasteless seemed, + We to ripe Tybalt are by order led; + Tybalt, who love and valour both esteemed, + And he alike from either's wounds had bled. + +21 Public his valour was, but not his love, + One filled the world, the other he contained; + Yet quietly alike in both did move, + Of that ne'er boasted, nor of this complained. + +22 With these, whose special names verse shall preserve, + Many to this recorded hunting came; + Whose worth authentic mention did deserve, + But from Time's deluge few are saved by Fame. + +23 New like a giant lover rose the sun + From the ocean queen, fine in his fires and great; + Seemed all the morn for show, for strength at noon, + As if last night she had not quenched his heat. + +24 And the sun's servants, who his rising wait, + His pensioners, for so all lovers are, + And all maintained by him at a high rate + With daily fire, now for the chase prepare. + +25 All were, like hunters, clad in cheerful green, + Young Nature's livery, and each at strife + Who most adorned in favours should be seen, + Wrought kindly by the lady of his life. + +26 These martial favours on their waists they wear, + On which, for now they conquest celebrate, + In an embroidered history appear + Like life, the vanquished in their fears and fate. + +27 And on these belts, wrought with their ladies' care, + Hung cimeters of Akon's trusty steel; + Goodly to see, and he who durst compare + Those ladies' eyes, might soon their temper feel. + +28 Cheered as the woods, where new-waked choirs they meet, + Are all; and now dispose their choice relays + Of horse and hounds, each like each other fleet; + Which best, when with themselves compared, we praise. + +29 To them old forest spies, the harbourers, + With haste approach, wet as still weeping night, + Or deer that mourn their growth of head with tears, + When the defenceless weight does hinder flight. + +30 And dogs, such whose cold secrecy was meant + By Nature for surprise, on these attend; + Wise, temperate lime-hounds that proclaim no scent, + Nor harb'ring will their mouths in boasting spend. + +31 Yet vainlier far than traitors boast their prize, + On which their vehemence vast rates does lay, + Since in that worth their treason's credit lies, + These harb'rers praise that which they now betray. + +32 Boast they have lodged a stag, that all the race + Outruns of Croton horse, or Rhegian hounds; + A stag made long since royal in the chase, + If kings can honour give by giving wounds. + +33 For Aribert had pierced him at a bay, + Yet 'scaped he by the vigour of his head; + And many a summer since has won the day, + And often left his Rhegian followers dead. + +34 His spacious beam, that even the rights outgrew, + From antler to his troch had all allowed, + By which his age the aged woodmen knew, + Who more than he were of that beauty proud. + +35 Now each relay a several station finds, + Ere the triumphant train the copse surrounds; + Relays of horse, long breathed as winter winds, + And their deep cannon-mouthed experienced hounds. + +36 The huntsmen, busily concerned in show, + As if the world were by this beast undone, + And they against him hired as Nature's foe, + In haste uncouple, and their hounds outrun. + +37 Now wind they a recheat, the roused deer's knell, + And through the forest all the beasts are awed; + Alarmed by Echo, Nature's sentinel, + Which shows that murderous man is come abroad. + +38 Tyrannic man! thy subjects' enemy! + And more through wantonness than need or hate, + From whom the winged to their coverts fly, + And to their dens even those that lay in wait. + +39 So this, the most successful of his kind, + Whose forehead's force oft his opposers pressed, + Whose swiftness left pursuers' shafts behind, + Is now of all the forest most distressed! + +40 The herd deny him shelter, as if taught + To know their safety is to yield him lost; + Which shows they want not the results of thought, + But speech, by which we ours for reason boast. + +41 We blush to see our politics in beasts, + Who many saved by this one sacrifice; + And since through blood they follow interests, + Like us when cruel should be counted wise. + +42 His rivals, that his fury used to fear + For his loved female, now his faintness shun; + But were his season hot, and she but near, + (O mighty love!) his hunters were undone. + +43 From thence, well blown, he comes to the relay, + Where man's famed reason proves but cowardice, + And only serves him meanly to betray; + Even for the flying, man in ambush lies. + +44 But now, as his last remedy to live, + (For every shift for life kind Nature makes, + Since life the utmost is which she can give,) + Cool Adice from the swoln bank he takes. + +45 But this fresh bath the dogs will make him leave, + Whom he sure-nosed as fasting tigers found; + Their scent no north-east wind could e'er deceive + Which drives the air, nor flocks that soil the ground. + +46 Swift here the fliers and pursuers seem; + The frighted fish swim from their Adice, + The dogs pursue the deer, he the fleet stream, + And that hastes too to the Adriatic sea. + +47 Refreshed thus in this fleeting element, + He up the steadfast shore did boldly rise; + And soon escaped their view, but not their scent, + That faithful guide, which even conducts their eyes. + +48 This frail relief was like short gales of breath, + Which oft at sea a long dead calm prepare; + Or like our curtains drawn at point of death, + When all our lungs are spent, to give us air. + +49 For on the shore the hunters him attend: + And whilst the chase grew warm as is the day, + (Which now from the hot zenith does descend,) + He is embossed, and wearied to a bay. + +50 The jewel, life, he must surrender here, + Which the world's mistress, Nature, does not give, + But like dropped favours suffers us to wear, + Such as by which pleased lovers think they live. + +51 Yet life he so esteems, that he allows + It all defence his force and rage can make; + And to the eager dogs such fury shows, + As their last blood some unrevenged forsake. + +52 But now the monarch murderer comes in, + Destructive man! whom Nature would not arm, + As when in madness mischief is foreseen, + We leave it weaponless for fear of harm. + +53 For she defenceless made him, that he might + Less readily offend; but art arms all, + From single strife makes us in numbers fight; + And by such art this royal stag did fall. + +54 He weeps till grief does even his murderers pierce; + Grief which so nobly through his anger strove, + That it deserved the dignity of verse, + And had it words, as humanly would move. + +55 Thrice from the ground his vanquished head he reared, + And with last looks his forest walks did view; + Where sixty summers he had ruled the herd, + And where sharp dittany now vainly grew: + +56 Whose hoary leaves no more his wounds shall heal; + For with a sigh (a blast of all his breath) + That viewless thing, called life, did from him steal, + And with their bugle-horns they wind his death. + +57 Then with their annual wanton sacrifice, + Taught by old custom, whose decrees are vain, + And we, like humorous antiquaries, that prize + Age, though deformed, they hasten to the plain. + +58 Thence homeward bend as westward as the sun, + Where Gondibert's allies proud feasts prepare, + That day to honour which his grandsire won; + Though feasts the eyes to funerals often are. + +59 One from the forest now approached their sight, + Who them did swiftly on the spur pursue; + One there still resident as day and night, + And known as the eldest oak which in it grew: + +60 Who, with his utmost breath advancing, cries, + (And such a vehemence no heart could feign,) + 'Away! happy the man that fastest flies! + Fly, famous Duke! fly with thy noble train!' + +61 The Duke replied: 'Though with thy fears disguised, + Thou dost my sire's old ranger's image bear, + And for thy kindness shalt not be despised; + Though counsels are but weak which come from fear. + +62 'Were dangers here, great as thy love can shape, + And love with fear can danger multiply, + Yet when by flight thou bidst us meanly 'scape, + Bid trees take wings, and rooted forests fly.' + +63 Then said the ranger: 'You are bravely lost!' + (And like high anger his complexion rose.) + 'As little know I fear as how to boast; + But shall attend you through your many foes. + +64 'See where in ambush mighty Oswald lay! + And see, from yonder lawn he moves apace, + With lances armed to intercept thy way, + Now thy sure steeds are wearied with the chase. + +65 'His purple banners you may there behold, + Which, proudly spread, the fatal raven bear; + And full five hundred I by rank have told, + Who in their gilded helms his colours wear.' + +66 The Duke this falling storm does now discern; + Bids little Hugo fly! but 'tis to view + The foe, and timely their first count'nance learn, + Whilst firm he in a square his hunters drew. + +67 And Hugo soon, light as his courser's heels, + Was in their faces troublesome as wind; + And like to it so wingedly he wheels, + No one could catch, what all with trouble find. + +68 But everywhere the leaders and the led + He temperately observed with a slow sight; + Judged by their looks how hopes and fears were fed, + And by their order their success in fight. + +69 Their number, 'mounting to the ranger's guess, + In three divisions evenly was disposed; + And that their enemies might judge it less, + It seemed one gross with all the spaces closed. + +70 The van fierce Oswald led, where Paradine + And manly Dargonet, both of his blood, + Outshined the noon, and their minds' stock within + Promised to make that outward glory good. + +71 The next, bold, but unlucky Hubert led, + Brother to Oswald, and no less allied + To the ambitions which his soul did wed; + Lowly without, but lined with costly pride. + +72 Most to himself his valour fatal was, + Whose glories oft to others dreadful were; + So comets, though supposed destruction's cause, + But waste themselves to make their gazers fear. + +73 And though his valour seldom did succeed, + His speech was such as could in storms persuade; + Sweet as the hopes on which starved lovers feed, + Breathed in the whispers of a yielding maid. + +74 The bloody Borgio did conduct the rear, + Whom sullen Vasco heedfully attends; + To all but to themselves they cruel were, + And to themselves chiefly by mischief friends. + +75 War, the world's art, nature to them became; + In camps begot, born, and in anger bred; + The living vexed till death, and then their fame, + Because even fame some life is to the dead. + +76 Cities, wise statesmen's folds for civil sheep, + They sacked, as painful shearers of the wise; + For they like careful wolves would lose their sleep, + When others' prosperous toils might be their prize. + +77 Hugo amongst these troops spied many more, + Who had, as brave destroyers, got renown; + And many forward wounds in boast they wore, + Which, if not well revenged, had ne'er been shown. + +78 Such the bold leaders of these lancers were, + Which of the Brescian veterans did consist; + Whose practised age might charge of armies bear, + And claim some rank in Fame's eternal list. + +79 Back to his Duke the dexterous Hugo flies, + What he observed he cheerfully declares; + With noble pride did what he liked despise; + For wounds he threatened whilst he praised their scars. + +80 Lord Arnold cried, 'Vain is the bugle-horn, + Where trumpets men to manly work invite! + That distant summons seems to say, in scorn, + We hunters may be hunted hard ere night.' + +81 'Those beasts are hunted hard that hard can fly,' + Replied aloud the noble Hurgonil; + 'But we, not used to flight, know best to die; + And those who know to die, know how to kill. + +82 'Victors through number never gained applause; + If they exceed our count in arms and men, + It is not just to think that odds, because + One lover equals any other ten.' + + +FROM 'GONDIBERT'--CANTO IV. + +1 The King, who never time nor power misspent + In subject's bashfulness, whiling great deeds + Like coward councils, who too late consent, + Thus to his secret will aloud proceeds: + +2 'If to thy fame, brave youth, I could add wings, + Or make her trumpet louder by my voice, + I would, as an example drawn for kings, + Proclaim the cause why thou art now my choice. + + * * * * * + +3 'For she is yours, as your adoption free; + And in that gift my remnant life I give; + But 'tis to you, brave youth! who now are she; + And she that heaven where secondly I live. + +4 'And richer than that crown, which shall be thine + When life's long progress I have gone with fame, + Take all her love; which scarce forbears to shine, + And own thee, through her virgin curtain, shame.' + +5 Thus spake the king; and Rhodalind appeared + Through published love, with so much bashfulness, + As young kings show, when by surprise o'erheard, + Moaning to favourite ears a deep distress. + +6 For love is a distress, and would be hid + Like monarchs' griefs, by which they bashful grow; + And in that shame beholders they forbid; + Since those blush most, who most their blushes show. + +7 And Gondibert, with dying eyes, did grieve + At her vailed love, a wound he cannot heal, + As great minds mourn, who cannot then relieve + The virtuous, when through shame they want conceal. + +8 And now cold Birtha's rosy looks decay; + Who in fear's frost had like her beauty died, + But that attendant hope persuades her stay + A while, to hear her Duke; who thus replied: + +9 'Victorious King! abroad your subjects are, + Like legates, safe; at home like altars free! + Even by your fame they conquer, as by war; + And by your laws safe from each other be. + +10 'A king you are o'er subjects so, as wise + And noble husbands seem o'er loyal wives; + Who claim not, yet confess their liberties, + And brag to strangers of their happy lives. + +11 'To foes a winter storm; whilst your friends bow, + Like summer trees, beneath your bounty's load; + To me, next him whom your great self, with low + And cheerful duty, serves, a giving God. + +12 'Since this is you, and Rhodalind, the light + By which her sex fled virtue find, is yours, + Your diamond, which tests of jealous sight, + The stroke, and fire, and Oisel's juice endures; + +13 'Since she so precious is, I shall appear + All counterfeit, of art's disguises made; + And never dare approach her lustre near, + Who scarce can hold my value in the shade. + +14 'Forgive me that I am not what I seem; + But falsely have dissembled an excess + Of all such virtues as you most esteem; + But now grow good but as I ills confess. + +15 'Far in ambition's fever am I gone! + Like raging flame aspiring is my love; + Like flame destructive too, and, like the sun, + Does round the world tow'rds change of objects move. + +16 'Nor is this now through virtuous shame confessed; + But Rhodalind does force my conjured fear, + As men whom evil spirits have possessed, + Tell all when saintly votaries appear. + +17 'When she will grace the bridal dignity, + It will be soon to all young monarchs known; + Who then by posting through the world will try + Who first can at her feet present his crown. + +18 'Then will Verona seem the inn of kings, + And Rhodalind shall at her palace gate + Smile, when great love these royal suitors brings; + Who for that smile would as for empire wait. + +19 'Amongst this ruling race she choice may take + For warmth of valour, coolness of the mind, + Eyes that in empire's drowsy calms can wake, + In storms look out, in darkness dangers find; + +20 'A prince who more enlarges power than lands, + Whose greatness is not what his map contains; + But thinks that his where he at full commands, + Not where his coin does pass, but power remains. + +21 'Who knows that power can never be too high; + When by the good possessed, for 'tis in them + The swelling Nile, from which though people fly, + They prosper most by rising of the stream. + +22 'Thus, princes, you should choose; and you will find, + Even he, since men are wolves, must civilise, + As light does tame some beasts of savage kind, + Himself yet more, by dwelling in your eyes.' + +23 Such was the Duke's reply; which did produce + Thoughts of a diverse shape through several ears: + His jealous rivals mourn at his excuse; + But Astragon it cures of all his fears, + +24 Birtha his praise of Rhodalind bewails; + And now her hope a weak physician seems; + For hope, the common comforter, prevails + Like common medicines, slowly in extremes. + +25 The King (secure in offered empire) takes + This forced excuse as troubled bashfulness, + And a disguise which sudden passion makes, + To hide more joy than prudence should express. + +26 And Rhodalind, who never loved before, + Nor could suspect his love was given away, + Thought not the treasure of his breast so poor, + But that it might his debts of honour pay. + +27 To hasten the rewards of his desert, + The King does to Verona him command; + And, kindness so imposed, not all his art + Can now instruct his duty to withstand. + +28 Yet whilst the King does now his time dispose + In seeing wonders, in this palace shown, + He would a parting kindness pay to those + Who of their wounds are yet not perfect grown. + +29 And by this fair pretence, whilst on the King + Lord Astragon through all the house attends, + Young Orgo does the Duke to Birtha bring, + Who thus her sorrows to his bosom sends: + +30 'Why should my storm your life's calm voyage vex? + Destroying wholly virtue's race in one: + So by the first of my unlucky sex, + All in a single ruin were undone. + +31 'Make heavenly Rhodalind your bride! whilst I, + Your once loved maid, excuse you, since I know + That virtuous men forsake so willingly + Long-cherished life, because to heaven they go. + +32 'Let me her servant be: a dignity, + Which if your pity in my fall procures, + I still shall value the advancement high, + Not as the crown is hers, but she is yours.' + +33 Ere this high sorrow up to dying grew, + The Duke the casket opened, and from thence, + Formed like a heart, a cheerful emerald drew; + Cheerful, as if the lively stone had sense. + +34 The thirtieth caract it had doubled twice; + Not taken from the Attic silver mine, + Nor from the brass, though such, of nobler price, + Did on the necks of Parthian ladies shine: + +35 Nor yet of those which make the Ethiop proud; + Nor taken from those rocks where Bactrians climb: + But from the Scythian, and without a cloud; + Not sick at fire, nor languishing with time. + +36 Then thus he spake: 'This, Birtha, from my male + Progenitors, was to the loyal she + On whose kind heart they did in love prevail, + The nuptial pledge, and this I give to thee: + +37 'Seven centuries have passed, since it from bride + To bride did first succeed; and though 'tis known + From ancient lore, that gems much virtue hide, + And that the emerald is the bridal stone: + +38 'Though much renowned because it chastens loves, + And will, when worn by the neglected wife, + Show when her absent lord disloyal proves, + By faintness, and a pale decay of life. + +39 'Though emeralds serve as spies to jealous brides, + Yet each compared to this does counsel keep; + Like a false stone, the husband's falsehood hides, + Or seems born blind, or feigns a dying sleep. + +40 'With this take Orgo, as a better spy, + Who may in all your kinder fears be sent + To watch at court, if I deserve to die + By making this to fade, and you lament.' + +41 Had now an artful pencil Birtha drawn, + With grief all dark, then straight with joy all light, + He must have fancied first, in early dawn, + A sudden break of beauty out of night. + +42 Or first he must have marked what paleness fear, + Like nipping frost, did to her visage bring; + Then think he sees, in a cold backward year, + A rosy morn begin a sudden spring. + +43 Her joys, too vast to be contained in speech, + Thus she a little spake: 'Why stoop you down, + My plighted lord, to lowly Birtha's reach, + Since Rhodalind would lift you to a crown? + +44 'Or why do I, when I this plight embrace, + Boldly aspire to take what you have given? + But that your virtue has with angels place, + And 'tis a virtue to aspire to heaven. + +45 'And as towards heaven all travel on their knees, + So I towards you, though love aspire, will move: + And were you crowned, what could you better please + Then awed obedience led by bolder love? + +46 'If I forget the depth from whence I rise, + Far from your bosom banished be my heart; + Or claim a right by beauty to your eyes; + Or proudly think my chastity desert. + +47 'But thus ascending from your humble maid + To be your plighted bride, and then your wife, + Will be a debt that shall be hourly paid, + Till time my duty cancel with my life. + +48 'And fruitfully, if heaven e'er make me bring + Your image to the world, you then my pride + No more shall blame than you can tax the spring + For boasting of those flowers she cannot hide. + +49 'Orgo I so receive as I am taught + By duty to esteem whate'er you love; + And hope the joy he in this jewel brought + Will luckier than his former triumphs prove. + +50 'For though but twice he has approached my sight, + He twice made haste to drown me in my tears: + But now I am above his planet's spite, + And as for sin beg pardon for my fears.' + +51 Thus spake she: and with fixed, continued sight + The Duke did all her bashful beauties view; + Then they with kisses sealed their sacred plight, + Like flowers, still sweeter as they thicker grew. + +52 Yet must these pleasures feel, though innocent, + The sickness of extremes, and cannot last; + For power, love's shunned impediment, has sent + To tell the Duke his monarch is in haste: + +53 And calls him to that triumph which he fears + So as a saint forgiven, whose breast does all + Heaven's joys contain, wisely loved pomp forbears, + Lest tempted nature should from blessings fall. + +54 He often takes his leave, with love's delay, + And bids her hope he with the King shall find, + By now appearing forward to obey, + A means to serve him less in Rhodalind. + +55 She weeping to her closet window hies, + Where she with tears doth Rhodalind survey; + As dying men, who grieve that they have eyes, + When they through curtains spy the rising day. + + + + +DR HENRY KING. + + +Of this poetical divine we know nothing, except that he was born in +1591, and died in 1669,--that he was chaplain to James I., and Bishop of +Chichester,--and that he indited some poetry as pious in design as it is +pretty in execution. + + +SIC VITA. + +Like to the falling of a star, +Or as the flights of eagles are; +Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, +Or silver drops of morning dew; +Or like a wind that chafes the flood, +Or bubbles which on water stood: +Even such is man, whose borrowed light +Is straight called in, and paid to-night. + +The wind blows out, the bubble dies; +The spring entombed in autumn lies; +The dew dries up, the star is shot: +The flight is past--and man forgot. + + +SONG. + +1 Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, + Which like growing fountains rise + To drown their banks! Grief's sullen brooks + Would better flow in furrowed looks: + Thy lovely face was never meant + To be the shore of discontent. + +2 Then clear those waterish stars again, + Which else portend a lasting rain; + Lest the clouds which settle there + Prolong my winter all the year, + And thy example others make + In love with sorrow, for thy sake. + + +LIFE. + +1 What is the existence of man's life + But open war or slumbered strife? + Where sickness to his sense presents + The combat of the elements, + And never feels a perfect peace + Till death's cold hand signs his release. + +2 It is a storm--where the hot blood + Outvies in rage the boiling flood: + And each loud passion of the mind + Is like a furious gust of wind, + Which beats the bark with many a wave, + Till he casts anchor in the grave. + +3 It is a flower--which buds, and grows, + And withers as the leaves disclose; + Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, + Like fits of waking before sleep, + Then shrinks into that fatal mould + Where its first being was enrolled. + +4 It is a dream--whose seeming truth + Is moralised in age and youth; + Where all the comforts he can share + As wandering as his fancies are, + Till in a mist of dark decay + The dreamer vanish quite away. + +5 It is a dial--which points out + The sunset as it moves about; + And shadows out in lines of night + The subtle stages of Time's flight, + Till all-obscuring earth hath laid + His body in perpetual shade. + +6 It is a weary interlude-- + Which doth short joys, long woes, include: + The world the stage, the prologue tears; + The acts vain hopes and varied fears; + The scene shuts up with loss of breath, + And leaves no epilogue but Death! + + + + +JOHN CHALKHILL. + + +This author was of the age of Spenser, and is said to have been an +acquaintance and friend of that poet. It was not, however, till 1683 +that good old Izaak Walton published 'Thealma and Clearchus,' a pas- +toral romance, which, he stated, had been written long since by John +Chalkhill, Esq. He says of the author, 'that he was in his time a man +generally known, and as well beloved; for he was humble and obliging +in his behaviour--a gentleman, a scholar, very innocent and prudent, +and indeed his whole life was useful, quiet, and virtuous.' Some have +suspected that this production proceeded from the pen of Walton himself. +This, however, is rendered extremely unlikely--first, by the fact that +Walton, when he printed 'Thealma,' was ninety years of age; and, +secondly, by the difference in style and purpose between that poem and +Walton's avowed productions. The mind of Walton was quietly ingenious; +that of the author of 'Thealma' is adventurous and fantastic. Walton +loved 'the green pastures and the still waters' of the Present; the +other, the golden groves and ideal wildernesses of the Golden Age in +the Past. + +'Thealma and Clearchus' may be called an 'Arcadia' in rhyme. It +resembles that work of Sir Philip Sidney, not only in subject, but in +execution. Its plot is dark and puzzling, its descriptions are rich to +luxuriance, its narrative is tedious, and its characters are mere +shadows. But although a dream, it is a dream of genius, and brings +beautifully before our imagination that early period in the world's +history, in which poets and painters have taught us to believe, when the +heavens were nearer, the skies clearer, the fat of the earth richer, the +foam of the sea brighter, than in our degenerate days;--when shepherds, +reposing under broad, umbrageous oaks, saw, or thought they saw, in the +groves the shadow of angels, and on the mountain-summits the descending +footsteps of God. Chalkhill resembles, of all our modern poets, perhaps +Shelley most, in the ideality of his conception, the enthusiasm of his +spirit, and the unmitigated gorgeousness of his imagination. + + +ARCADIA. + + Arcadia, was of old, a state, +Subject to none but their own laws and fate; +Superior there was none, but what old age +And hoary hairs had raised; the wise and sage, +Whose gravity, when they are rich in years, +Begat a civil reverence more than fears +In the well-mannered people; at that day, +All was in common, every man bare sway +O'er his own family; the jars that rose +Were soon appeased by such grave men as those: +This mine and thine, that we so cavil for, +Was then not heard of; he that was most poor +Was rich in his content, and lived as free +As they whose flocks were greatest; nor did he +Envy his great abundance, nor the other +Disdain the low condition of his brother, +But lent him from his store to mend his state, +And with his love he quits him, thanks his fate; +And, taught by his example, seeks out such +As want his help, that they may do as much. +Their laws, e'en from their childhood, rich and poor +Had written in their hearts, by conning o'er +The legacies of good old men, whose memories +Outlive their monuments, the grave advice +They left behind in writing;--this was that +That made Arcadia then so blest a state; +Their wholesome laws had linked them so in one, +They lived in peace and sweet communion. +Peace brought forth plenty, plenty bred content, +And that crowned all their plans with merriment. +They had no foe, secure they lived in tents, +All was their own they had, they paid no rents; +Their sheep found clothing, earth provided food, +And labour dressed them as their wills thought good; +On unbought delicates their hunger fed, +And for their drink the swelling clusters bled; +The valleys rang with their delicious strains, +And pleasure revelled on those happy plains; +Content and labour gave them length of days, +And peace served in delight a thousand ways. + + +THEALMA, A DESERTED SHEPHERDESS. + +Scarce had the ploughman yoked his horned team, +And locked their traces to the crooked beam, +When fair Thealma, with a maiden scorn, +That day before her rise, outblushed the morn; +Scarce had the sun gilded the mountain-tops, +When forth she leads her tender ewes. + + * * * * * + +Down in a valley, 'twixt two rising hills, +From whence the dew in silver drops distils +To enrich the lowly plain, a river ran, +Hight Cygnus, (as some think, from Leda's swan +That there frequented;) gently on it glides, +And makes indentures in her crooked sides, +And with her silent murmurs rocks asleep +Her watery inmates; 'twas not very deep, +But clear as that Narcissus looked in, when +His self-love made him cease to live with men. +Close by the river was a thick-leafed grove, +Where swains of old sang stories of their love, +But unfrequented now since Colin died-- +Colin, that king of shepherds, and the pride +Of all Arcadia;--here Thealma used +To feed her milky droves; and as they browsed, +Under the friendly shadow of a beech +She sat her down; grief had tongue-tied her speech, +Her words were sighs and tears--dumb eloquence-- +Heard only by the sobs, and not the sense. +With folded arms she sat, as if she meant +To hug those woes which in her breast were pent; +Her looks were nailed to earth, that drank +Her tears with greediness, and seemed to thank +Her for those briny showers, and in lieu +Returns her flowery sweetness for her dew. + + * * * * * + +'O my Clearchus!' said she, and with tears +Embalms his name: 'oh, if the ghosts have ears, +Or souls departed condescend so low, +To sympathise with mortals in their woe, +Vouchsafe to lend a gentle ear to me, +Whose life is worse than death, since not with thee. +What privilege have they that are born great +Move than the meanest swain? The proud waves beat +With more impetuousness upon high lands, +Than on the flat and less-resisting strands: +The lofty cedar, and the knotty oak, +Are subject more unto the thunder-stroke, +Than the low shrubs that no such shocks endure; +Even their contempt doth make them live secure. +Had I been born the child of some poor swain, +Whose thoughts aspire no higher than the plain, +I had been happy then; t'have kept these sheep, +Had been a princely pleasure; quiet sleep +Had drowned my cares, or sweetened them with dreams: +Love and content had been my music's themes; +Or had Clearchus lived the life I lead, +I had been blest!' + + + PRIESTESS OF DIANA. + + Within a little silent grove hard by, + Upon a small ascent, he might espy + A stately chapel, richly gilt without, + Beset with shady sycamores about: + And ever and anon he might well hear + A sound of music steal in at his ear + As the wind gave it being; so sweet an air + Would strike a syren mute.-- + + * * * * * + +A hundred virgins there he might espy +Prostrate before a marble deity, +Which, by its portraiture, appeared to be +The image of Diana; on their knee +They tendered their devotions, with sweet airs, +Offering the incense of their praise and prayers. +Their garments all alike; beneath their paps +Buckled together with a silver claps, +And 'cross their snowy silken robes, they wore +An azure scarf, with stars embroidered o'er. +Their hair in curious tresses was knit up, +Crowned with a silver crescent on the top. +A silver bow their left hand held, their right, +For their defence, held a sharp-headed flight +Drawn from their broidered quiver, neatly tied +In silken cords, and fastened to their side. +Under their vestments, something short before, +White buskins, laced with ribanding, they wore. +It was a catching sight for a young eye, +That love had fired before. He might espy +One, whom the rest had sphere-like circled round, +Whose head was with a golden chaplet crowned. +He could not see her face, only his ear +Was blessed with the sweet sounds that came from her. + + +THEALMA IN FULL DRESS. + +----Tricked herself in all her best attire, +As if she meant this day to invite desire +To fall in love with her; her loose hair +Hung on her shoulders, sporting with the air; +Her brow a coronet of rosebuds crowned, +With loving woodbines' sweet embraces bound. +Two globe-like pearls were pendant to her ears, +And on her breast a costly gem she wears, +An adamant, in fashion like a heart, +Whereon Love sat, a-plucking out a dart, +With this same motto graven round about, +On a gold border, 'Sooner in than out.' +This gem Clearchus gave her, when, unknown, +At tilt his valour won her for his own. +Instead of bracelets on her wrists, she wore +A pair of golden shackles, chained before +Unto a silver ring, enamelled blue, +Whereon in golden letters to the view +This motto was presented, 'Bound, yet free,' +And in a true-love's knot, a T and C +Buckled it fast together; her silk gown +Of grassy green, in equal plaits hung down +Unto the earth; and as she went, the flowers, +Which she had broidered on it at spare hours, +Were wrought so to the life, they seemed to grow +In a green field; and as the wind did blow, +Sometimes a lily, then a rose, takes place, +And blushing seems to hide it in the grass: +And here and there good oats 'mong pearls she strew, +That seemed like spinning glow-worms in the dew. +Her sleeves were tinsel, wrought with leaves of green +In equal distance spangeled between, +And shadowed over with a thin lawn cloud, +Through which her workmanship more graceful showed. + + +DWELLING OF THE WITCH ORANDRA. + +Down in a gloomy valley, thick with shade, +Which two aspiring hanging rocks had made, +That shut out day, and barred the glorious sun +From prying into the actions there done; +Set full of box and cypress, poplar, yew, +And hateful elder that in thickets grew, +Among whose boughs the screech-owl and night-crow +Sadly recount their prophecies of woe, +Where leather-winged bats, that hate the light, +Fan the thick air, more sooty than the night. +The ground o'ergrown with weeds and bushy shrubs, +Where milky hedgehogs nurse their prickly cubs: +And here and there a mandrake grows, that strikes +The hearers dead with their loud fatal shrieks; +Under whose spreading leaves the ugly toad, +The adder, and the snake, make their abode. +Here dwelt Orandra; so the witch was hight, +And hither had she toiled him by a sleight: +She knew Anaxus was to go to court, +And, envying virtue, she made it her sport +To hinder him, sending her airy spies +Forth with delusion to entrap his eyes, +As would have fired a hermit's chill desires +Into a flame; his greedy eye admires +The more than human beauty of her face, +And much ado he had to shun the grace; +Conceit had shaped her out so like his love, +That he was once about in vain to prove +Whether 'twas his Clarinda, yea or no, +But he bethought him of his herb, and so +The shadow vanished; many a weary step +It led the prince, that pace with it still kept, +Until it brought him by a hellish power +Unto the entrance of Orandra's bower, +Where underneath an elder-tree he spied +His man Pandevius, pale and hollow-eyed; +Inquiring of the cunning witch what fate +Betid his master; they were newly sate +When his approach disturbed them; up she rose, +And toward Anaxus (envious hag) she goes; +Pandevius she had charmed into a maze, +And struck him mute, all he could do was gaze. +He called him by his name, but all in vain, +Echo returns 'Pandevius' back again; +Which made him wonder, when a sudden fear +Shook all his joints: she, cunning hag, drew near, +And smelling to his herb, he recollects +His wandering spirits, and with anger checks +His coward fears; resolved now to outdare +The worst of dangers, whatsoe'er they were; +He eyed her o'er and o'er, and still his eye +Found some addition to deformity. +An old decrepit hag she was, grown white +With frosty age, and withered with despite +And self-consuming hate; in furs yclad, +And on her head a thrummy cap she had. +Her knotty locks, like to Alecto's snakes, + +Hang down about her shoulders, which she shakes +Into disorder; on her furrowed brow +One might perceive Time had been long at plough. +Her eyes, like candle-snuffs, by age sunk quite +Into their sockets, yet like cats' eyes bright: +And in the darkest night like fire they shined, +The ever-open windows of her mind. +Her swarthy cheeks, Time, that all things consumes, +Had hollowed flat into her toothless gums. +Her hairy brows did meet above her nose, +That like an eagle's beak so crooked grows, +It well-nigh kissed her chin; thick bristled hair +Grew on her upper lip, and here and there +A rugged wart with grisly hairs behung; +Her breasts shrunk up, her nails and fingers long; +Her left leant on a staff, in her right hand +She always carried her enchanting wand. +Splay-footed, beyond nature, every part +So patternless deformed, 'twould puzzle art +To make her counterfeit; only her tongue, +Nature had that most exquisitely strung, +Her oily language came so smoothly from her, +And her quaint action did so well become her, +Her winning rhetoric met with no trips, +But chained the dull'st attention to her lips. +With greediness he heard, and though he strove +To shake her off, the more her words did move. +She wooed him to her cell, called him her son, +And with fair promises she quickly won +Him to her beck; or rather he, to try +What she could do, did willingly comply, +With her request. * * * +Her cell was hewn out of the marble rock +By more than human art; she did not knock, +The door stood always open, large and wide, +Grown o'er with woolly moss on either side, +And interwove with ivy's nattering twines, +Through which the carbuncle and diamond shines. +Not set by Art, but there by Nature sown +At the world's birth, so star-like bright they shone. +They served instead of tapers to give light +To the dark entry, where perpetual Night, +Friend to black deeds, and sire of Ignorance, +Shuts out all knowledge, lest her eye by chance +Might bring to light her follies: in they went, +The ground was strewed with flowers, whose sweet scent, +Mixed with the choice perfumes from India brought, +Intoxicates his brain, and quickly caught +His credulous sense; the walls were gilt, and set +With precious stones, and all the roof was fret +With a gold vine, whose straggling branches spread +All o'er the arch; the swelling grapes were red; +This Art had made of rubies, clustered so, +To the quick'st eye they more than seemed to grow; +About the wall lascivious pictures hung, +Such as were of loose Ovid sometimes sung. +On either side a crew of dwarfish elves +Held waxen tapers, taller than themselves: +Yet so well shaped unto their little stature, +So angel-like in face, so sweet in feature; +Their rich attire so differing; yet so well +Becoming her that wore it, none could tell +Which was the fairest, which the handsomest decked, +Or which of them desire would soon'st affect. +After a low salute they all 'gan sing, +And circle in the stranger in a ring. +Orandra to her charms was stepped aside, +Leaving her guest half won and wanton-eyed. +He had forgot his herb: cunning delight +Had so bewitched his ears, and bleared his sight, +And captivated all his senses so, +That he was not himself; nor did he know +What place he was in, or how he came there, +But greedily he feeds his eye and ear +With what would ruin him;-- + * * * * * + Next unto his view +She represents a banquet, ushered in +By such a shape as she was sure would win +His appetite to taste; so like she was +To his Clarinda, both in shape and face; +So voiced, so habited, of the same gait +And comely gesture; on her brow in state +Sat such a princely majesty, as he +Had noted in Clarinda; save that she +Had a more wanton eye, that here and there +Rolled up and down, not settling any where. +Down on the ground she falls his hand to kiss, +And with her tears bedews it; cold as ice +He felt her lips, that yet inflamed him so, +That he was all on fire the truth to know, +Whether she was the same she did appear, +Or whether some fantastic form it were, +Fashioned in his imagination +By his still working thoughts, so fixed upon +His loved Clarinda, that his fancy strove, +Even with her shadow, to express his love. + + + + +CATHARINE PHILLIPS. + + +Very little is known of the life of this lady-poet. She was born in +1631. Her maiden name was Fowler. She married James Phillips, Esq., of +the Priory of Cardigan. Her poems, published under the name of "Orinda," +were very popular in her lifetime, although it was said they were +published without her consent. She translated two of the tragedies of +Corneille, and left a volume of letters to Sir Charles Cotterell. These, +however, did not appear till after her death. She died of small-pox +--then a deadly disease--in 1664. She seems to have been a favourite +alike with the wits and the divines of her age. Jeremy Taylor addressed +to her his "Measures and Offices of Friendship;" Dryden praised her; and +Flatman and Cowley, besides imitating her poems while she was living, +paid rhymed tributes to her memory when dead. Her verses are never +commonplace, and always sensible, if they hardly attain to the measure +and the stature of lofty poetry, + + +THE INQUIRY. + +1 If we no old historian's name + Authentic will admit, + But think all said of friendship's fame + But poetry or wit; + Yet what's revered by minds so pure + Must be a bright idea sure. + +2 But as our immortality + By inward sense we find, + Judging that if it could not be, + It would not be designed: + So here how could such copies fall, + If there were no original? + +3 But if truth be in ancient song, + Or story we believe; + If the inspired and greater throng + Have scorned to deceive; + There have been hearts whose friendship gave + Them thoughts at once both soft and grave. + +4 Among that consecrated crew + Some more seraphic shade + Lend me a favourable clew, + Now mists my eyes invade. + Why, having filled the world with fame, + Left you so little of your flame? + +5 Why is't so difficult to see + Two bodies and one mind? + And why are those who else agree + So difficultly kind? + Hath Nature such fantastic art, + That she can vary every heart? + +6 Why are the bands of friendship tied + With so remiss a knot, + That by the most it is defied, + And by the most forgot? + Why do we step with so light sense + From friendship to indifference? + +7 If friendship sympathy impart, + Why this ill-shuffled game, + That heart can never meet with heart, + Or flame encounter flame? + What does this cruelty create? + Is't the intrigue of love or fate? + +8 Had friendship ne'er been known to men, + (The ghost at last confessed) + The world had then a stranger been + To all that heaven possessed. + But could it all be here acquired, + Not heaven itself would be desired. + + +A FRIEND. + +1 Love, nature's plot, this great creation's soul, + The being and the harmony of things, + Doth still preserve and propagate the whole, + From whence man's happiness and safety springs: + The earliest, whitest, blessed'st times did draw + From her alone their universal law. + +2 Friendship's an abstract of this noble flame, + 'Tis love refined and purged from all its dross, + The next to angels' love, if not the same, + As strong in passion is, though not so gross: + It antedates a glad eternity, + And is an heaven in epitome. + + * * * * * + +3 Essential honour must be in a friend, + Not such as every breath fans to and fro; + But born within, is its own judge and end, + And dares not sin though sure that none should know. + Where friendship's spoke, honesty's understood; + For none can be a friend that is not good. + + * * * * * + +4 Thick waters show no images of things; + Friends are each other's mirrors, and should be + Clearer than crystal or the mountain springs, + And free from clouds, design, or flattery. + For vulgar souls no part of friendship share; + Poets and friends are born to what they are. + + + + +MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. + + +This lady, if not more of a woman than Mrs Phillips, was considerably +more of a poet. She was born (probably) about 1625. She was the daughter +of Sir Charles Lucas, and became a maid-of-honour to Henrietta Maria. +Accompanying the Queen to France, she met with the Marquis, afterwards +Duke of Newcastle, and married him at Paris in 1645. They removed to +Antwerp, and there, in 1653, this lady published a volume, entitled +'Poems and Fancies.' The pair aided each other in their studies, and the +result was a number of enormous folios of poems, plays, speeches, and +philosophical disquisitions. These volumes were, we are told, great +favourites of Coleridge and Charles Lamb, for the sake, we presume, of +the wild sparks of insight and genius which break irresistibly through +the scholastic smoke and bewildered nonsense. When Charles II. was +restored, the Marquis and his wife returned to England, and spent their +life in great harmony. She died in 1673, leaving behind her some +beautiful fantasias, where the meaning is often finer than the music, +such as the 'Pastime and Recreation of Fairies in Fairy-land.' Her +poetry, particularly her contrasted pictures of Mirth and Melancholy, +present fine accumulations of imagery drawn direct from nature, and +shewn now in brightest sunshine, and now in softest moonlight, as the +change of her subject and her tone of feeling require. + + +MELANCHOLY DESCRIBED BY MIRTH. + +Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound; +She hates the light, and is in darkness found; +Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small, +Which various shadows make against the wall. +She loves nought else but noise which discord makes, +As croaking frogs, whose dwelling is in lakes; +The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan, +And shrieking owls which fly i' the night alone; +The tolling bell, which for the dead rings out; +A mill, where rushing waters run about; +The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall, +Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal. +She loves to walk in the still moonshine night, +And in a thick dark grove she takes delight; +In hollow caves, thatched houses, and low cells, +She loves to live, and there alone she dwells. + + +MELANCHOLY DESCRIBING HERSELF. + +I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun; +Sit on the banks by which clear waters run; +In summers hot, down in a shade I lie; +My music is the buzzing of a fly; +I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass; +In fields, where corn is high, I often pass; +Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see, +Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be; +Returning back, I in fresh pastures go, +To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low; +In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, +Then I do live in a small house alone; +Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within, +Like to a soul that's pure, and clear from sin; +And there I dwell in quiet and still peace, +Not filled with cares how riches to increase; +I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures; +No riches are, but what the mind intreasures. +Thus am I solitary, live alone, +Yet better loved, the more that I am known; +And though my face ill-favoured at first sight, +After acquaintance, it will give delight. +Refuse me not, for I shall constant be; +Maintain your credit and your dignity. + + + + +THOMAS STANLEY. + + +Thomas Stanley, like Thomas Brown in later days, was both a philosopher +and a poet; but his philosophical reputation at the time eclipsed his +poetical. He was the only son of Sir Thomas Stanley of Camberlow Green, +in Hertfordshire, and was born in 1620. He received his education at +Pembroke College, Oxford; and after travelling for some years abroad, +he took up his abode in the Middle Temple. Here he seems to have spent +the rest of his life in patient and multifarious studies. He made +translations of some merit from Anacreon, Bion, Moschus, and the +'Kisses' of Secundus, as well as from Marino, Boscan, Tristan, and +Gongora. He wrote a work of great pretensions as a compilation, entitled +'The History of Philosophy,' containing the lives, opinions, actions, +and discourses of philosophers of every sect, of which he published the +first volume in 1655, and completed it in a fourth in 1662. It is rather +a vast collection of the materials for a history, than a history itself. +He is a Cudworth in magnitude and learning, but not in strength and +comprehension, and is destitute of precision and clearness of style. +Stanley also wrote some poems, which discover powers that might have +been better employed in original composition than in translation. +His style, rich of itself, is enriched to repletion by conceits, and +sometimes by voluptuous sentiments and language. He adds a new flush to +the cheek of Anacreon himself; and his grapes are so heavy, that not a +staff, but a wain were required to bear them. Stanley died in 1678. + + +CELIA SINGING. + +1 Roses in breathing forth their scent, + Or stars their borrowed ornament; + Nymphs in their watery sphere that move, + Or angels in their orbs above; + The winged chariot of the light, + Or the slow, silent wheels of night; + The shade which from the swifter sun + Doth in a swifter motion run, + Or souls that their eternal rest do keep, + Make far less noise than Celia's breath in sleep. + +2 But if the angel which inspires + This subtle flame with active fires, + Should mould this breath to words, and those + Into a harmony dispose, + The music of this heavenly sphere + Would steal each soul (in) at the ear, + And into plants and stones infuse + A life that cherubim would choose, + And with new powers invert the laws of fate, + Kill those that live, and dead things animate. + + +SPEAKING AND KISSING. + +1 The air which thy smooth voice doth break, + Into my soul like lightning flies; + My life retires while thou dost speak, + And thy soft breath its room supplies. + +2 Lost in this pleasing ecstasy, + I join my trembling lips to thine, + And back receive that life from thee + Which I so gladly did resign. + +3 Forbear, Platonic fools! t'inquire + What numbers do the soul compose; + No harmony can life inspire, + But that which from these accents flows. + + +LA BELLE CONFIDANTE. + +You earthly souls that court a wanton flame + Whose pale, weak influence +Can rise no higher than the humble name + And narrow laws of sense, +Learn, by our friendship, to create + An immaterial fire, +Whose brightness angels may admire, + But cannot emulate. +Sickness may fright the roses from her cheek, + Or make the lilies fade, +But all the subtle ways that death doth seek + Cannot my love invade. + + +THE LOSS. + +1 Yet ere I go, + Disdainful Beauty, thou shalt be + So wretched as to know + What joys thou fling'st away with me. + +2 A faith so bright, + As Time or Fortune could not rust; + So firm, that lovers might + Have read thy story in my dust, + +3 And crowned thy name + With laurel verdant as thy youth, + Whilst the shrill voice of Fame + Spread wide thy beauty and my truth. + +4 This thou hast lost, + For all true lovers, when they find + That my just aims were crossed, + Will speak thee lighter than the wind. + +5 And none will lay + Any oblation on thy shrine, + But such as would betray + Thy faith to faiths as false as thine. + +6 Yet, if thou choose + On such thy freedom to bestow, + Affection may excuse, + For love from sympathy doth flow. + + +NOTE ON ANACREON. + +Let's not rhyme the hours away; +Friends! we must no longer play: +Brisk Lyaeus--see!--invites +To more ravishing delights. +Let's give o'er this fool Apollo, +Nor his fiddle longer follow: +Fie upon his forked hill, +With his fiddlestick and quill; +And the Muses, though they're gamesome, +They are neither young nor handsome; +And their freaks in sober sadness +Are a mere poetic madness: +Pegasus is but a horse; +He that follows him is worse. +See, the rain soaks to the skin, +Make it rain as well within. +Wine, my boy; we'll sing and laugh, +All night revel, rant, and quaff; +Till the morn, stealing behind us, +At the table sleepless find us. +When our bones, alas! shall have +A cold lodging in the grave; +When swift Death shall overtake us, +We shall sleep and none can wake us. +Drink we then the juice o' the vine +Make our breasts Lyaeus' shrine; +Bacchus, our debauch beholding, +By thy image I am moulding, +Whilst my brains I do replenish +With this draught of unmixed Rhenish; +By thy full-branched ivy twine; +By this sparkling glass of wine; +By thy Thyrsus so renowned: +By the healths with which th' art crowned; +By the feasts which thou dost prize; +By thy numerous victories; +By the howls by Moenads made; +By this haut-gout carbonade; +By thy colours red and white; +By the tavern, thy delight; +By the sound thy orgies spread; +By the shine of noses red; +By thy table free for all; +By the jovial carnival; +By thy language cabalistic; +By thy cymbal, drum, and his stick; +By the tunes thy quart-pots strike up; +By thy sighs, the broken hiccup; +By thy mystic set of ranters; +By thy never-tamed panthers; +By this sweet, this fresh and free air; +By thy goat, as chaste as we are; +By thy fulsome Cretan lass; +By the old man on the ass; +By thy cousins in mixed shapes; +By the flower of fairest grapes; +By thy bisks famed far and wide; +By thy store of neats'-tongues dried; +By thy incense, Indian smoke; +By the joys thou dost provoke; +By this salt Westphalia gammon; +By these sausages that inflame one; +By thy tall majestic flagons; +By mass, tope, and thy flapdragons; +By this olive's unctuous savour; +By this orange, the wine's flavour; +By this cheese o'errun with mites; +By thy dearest favourites; +To thy frolic order call us, +Knights of the deep bowl install us; +And to show thyself divine, +Never let it want for wine. + + + + +ANDREW MARVELL. + + +This noble-minded patriot and poet, the friend of Milton, the Abdiel of a +dark and corrupt age,--'faithful found among the faithless, faithful only +he,'--was born in Hull in 1620. He was sent to Cambridge, and is said +there to have nearly fallen a victim to the proselytising Jesuits, who +enticed him to London. His father, however, a clergyman in Hull, went +in search of and brought him back to his university, where speedily, by +extensive culture and the vigorous exercise of his powerful faculties, +he emancipated himself for ever from the dominion, and the danger of the +dominion, of superstition and bigotry. We know little more about the early +days of our poet. When only twenty, he lost his father in remarkable +circumstances. In 1640, he had embarked on the Humber in company with a +youthful pair whom he was to marry at Barrow, in Lincolnshire. The weather +was calm; but Marvell, seized with a sudden presentiment of danger, threw +his staff ashore, and cried out, 'Ho for heaven!' A storm came on, and the +whole company perished. In consequence of this sad event, the gentleman, +whose daughter was to have been married, conceiving that the father had +sacrificed his life while performing an act of friendship, adopted young +Marvell as his son. Owing to this, he received a better education, and +was sent abroad to travel. It is said that at Rome he met and formed a +friendship with Milton, then engaged on his immortal continental tour. +We find Marvell next at Constantinople, as Secretary to the English +Embassy at that Court. We then lose sight of him till 1653, when he was +engaged by the Protector to superintend the education of a Mr Dutton at +Eton. For a year and a half after Cromwell's death, Marvell assisted +Milton as Latin Secretary to the Protector. Our readers are all familiar +with the print of Cromwell and Milton seated together at the council-table, +--the one the express image of active power and rugged grandeur, the other +of thoughtful majesty and ethereal grace. Marvell might have been added as +a third, and become the emblem of strong English sense and incorruptible +integrity. A letter of Milton's was, not long since, discovered, dated +February 1652, in which he speaks of Marvell as fitted, by his knowledge +of Latin and his experience of teaching, to be his assistant. He was not +appointed, however, till 1657. In 1660, he became member for Hull, and was +re-elected as long as he lived. He was absent, however, from England for +two years, in the beginning of the reign, in Germany and Holland. After- +wards he sought leave from his constituents to act as Ambassador's +Secretary to Lord Carlisle at the Northern Courts; but from the year 1665 +to his death, his attention to his parliamentary duties was unremitting. +He constantly corresponded with his constituents; and after the longest +sittings, he used to write out for their use a minute account of public +proceedings ere he went to bed, or took any refreshment. He was one of +the last members who received pay from the town he represented; (2s. +a-day was probably the sum;) and his constituents were wont, besides, to +send him barrels of ale as tokens of their regard. Marvell spoke little +in the House; but his heart and vote were always in the right place. Even +Prince Eupert continually consulted him, and was sometimes persuaded by +him to support the popular side; and King Charles having met him once in +private, was so delighted with his wit and agreeable manners, that he +thought him worth trying to bribe. He sent Lord Danby to offer him a mark +of his Majesty's consideration. Marvell, who was seated in a dingy room +up several flights of stairs, declined the proffer, and, it is said, +called his servant to witness that he had dined for three successive days +on the same shoulder of mutton, and was not likely, therefore, to care +for or need a bribe. When the Treasurer was gone, he had to send to a +friend to borrow a guinea. Although, a silent senator, Marvell was a +copious and popular writer. He attacked Bishop Parker for his slavish +principles, in a piece entitled 'The Rehearsal Transposed,' in which he +takes occasion to vindicate and panegyrise his old colleague Milton. His +anonymous 'Account of the Growth of Arbitrary Power and Popery in England' +excited a sensation, and a reward was offered for the apprehension of the +author and printer. Marvell had many of the elements of a first-rate +political pamphleteer. He had wit of a most pungent kind, great though +coarse fertility of fancy, and a spirit of independence that nothing could +subdue or damp. He was the undoubted ancestor of the Defoes, Swifts, +Steeles, Juniuses, and Burkes, in whom this kind of authorship reached its +perfection, ceased to be fugitive, and assumed classical rank. + +Marvell had been repeatedly threatened with assassination, and hence, +when he died suddenly on the 16th of August 1678, it was surmised that +he had been removed by poison. The Corporation of Hull voted a sum to +defray his funeral expenses, and for raising a monument to his memory; +but owing to the interference of the Court, through the rector of the +parish, this votive tablet was not at the time erected. He was buried in +St Giles-in-the-Fields. + +'Out of the strong came forth sweetness,' saith the Hebrew record. And +so from the sturdy Andrew Marvell have proceeded such soft and lovely +strains as 'The Emigrants,' 'The Nymph complaining for the Death of her +Fawn,' 'Young Love,' &c. The statue of Memnon became musical at the dawn; +and the stern patriot, whom no bribe could buy and no flattery melt, is +found sympathising in song with a boatful of banished Englishmen in the +remote Bermudas, and inditing 'Thoughts in a Garden,' from which you might +suppose that he had spent his life more with melons than with men, and was +better acquainted with the motions of a bee-hive than with the contests of +Parliament, and the distractions of a most distracted age. It was said +(not with thorough truth) of Milton, that he could cut out a Colossus from +a rock, but could not carve heads upon cherry-stones--a task which his +assistant may be said to have performed in his stead, in his small but +delectable copies of verse. + + +THE EMIGRANTS. + +1 Where the remote Bermudas ride, + In the ocean's bosom unespied, + From a small boat that rowed along, + The listening winds received this song. + +2 'What should we do but sing His praise + That led us through the watery maze, + Unto an isle so long unknown, + And yet far kinder than our own! + +3 'Where he the huge sea-monsters racks, + That lift the deep upon their backs; + He lands us on a grassy stage, + Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. + +4 'He gave us this eternal spring + Which here enamels everything, + And sends the fowls to us in care, + On daily visits through the air. + +5 'He hangs in shades the orange bright, + Like golden lamps in a green night: + * * * * * + And in these rocks for us did frame + A temple where to sound his name. + +6 'Oh, let our voice his praise exalt + Till it arrive at heaven's vault, + Which then perhaps rebounding may + Echo beyond the Mexique bay.' + +7 Thus sung they in the English boat, + A holy and a cheerful note; + And all the way, to guide their chime, + With falling oars they kept the time. + + +THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. + +The wanton troopers riding by +Have shot my fawn, and it will die. +Ungentle men! they cannot thrive +Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive +Them any harm; alas! nor could +Thy death to them do any good. +I'm sure I never wished them ill; +Nor do I for all this; nor will: +But, if my simple prayers may yet +Prevail with Heaven to forget +Thy murder, I will join my tears, +Rather than fail. But, O my fears! +It cannot die so. Heaven's King +Keeps register of every thing, +And nothing may we use in vain: +Even beasts must be with justice slain. + + * * * * * + +Inconstant Sylvio, when yet +I had not found him counterfeit, +One morning (I remember well) +Tied in this silver chain and bell, +Gave it to me: nay, and I know +What he said then: I'm sure I do. +Said he, 'Look how your huntsman here +Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.' +But Sylvio soon had me beguiled. +This waxed tame while he grew wild, +And, quite regardless of my smart, +Left me his fawn, but took his heart. +Thenceforth I set myself to play +My solitary time away +With this, and very well content +Could so my idle life have spent; +For it was full of sport, and light +Of foot and heart; and did invite +Me to its game; it seemed to bless +Itself in me. How could I less +Than love it? Oh, I cannot be +Unkind to a beast that loveth me! +Had it lived long, I do not know +Whether it too might have done so +As Sylvio did; his gifts might be +Perhaps as false, or more, than he. +But I am sure, for aught that I +Could in so short a time espy, +Thy love was far more better than +The love of false and cruel man. +With sweetest milk and sugar first +I it at my own fingers nursed; +And as it grew, so every day +It waxed more white and sweet than they: +It had so sweet a breath; and oft +I blushed to see its foot more soft +And white, shall I say, than my hand? +Nay, any lady's of the land. +It is a wondrous thing how fleet +'Twas on those little silver feet; +With what a pretty skipping grace +It oft would challenge me the race; +And when't had left me far away, +'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; +For it was nimbler much than hinds, +And trod as if on the four winds. +I have a garden of my own, +But so with roses overgrown, +And lilies, that you would it guess +To be a little wilderness, +And all the spring-time of the year +It only loved to be there. +Among the beds of lilies I +Have sought it oft where it should lie, +Yet could not, till itself would rise, +Find it, although before mine eyes; +For in the flaxen lilies' shade +It like a bank of lilies laid; +Upon the roses it would feed, +Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed; +And then to me 'twould boldly trip, +And print those roses on my lip. +But all its chief delight was still +On roses thus itself to fill, +And its pure virgin limbs to fold +In whitest sheets of lilies cold. +Had it lived long, it would have been +Lilies without, roses within. * * * + + +ON PARADISE LOST. + +When I beheld the poet blind, yet bold, +In slender book his vast design unfold, +Messiah crowned, God's reconciled decree, +Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree, +Heaven, Hell, Earth, Chaos, all; the argument +Held me a while misdoubting his intent, +That he would ruin (for I saw him strong) +The sacred truths to fable and old song; +(So Sampson groped the temple's posts in spite) +The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight. + +Yet as I read, still growing less severe, +I liked his project, the success did fear; +Through that wild field how he his way should find, +O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind; +Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain, +And what was easy he should render vain. + +Or if a work so infinite be spanned, +Jealous I was that some less skilful hand +(Such as disquiet always what is well, +And, by ill imitating, would excel) +Might hence presume the whole creation's day +To change in scenes, and show it in a play. + +Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise +My causeless, yet not impious, surmise. +But I am now convinced, and none will dare +Within thy labours to pretend a share. +Thou hast not missed one thought that could be fit. +And all that was improper dost omit; +So that no room is here for writers left, +But to detect their ignorance or theft. + +That majesty, which through thy work doth reign, +Draws the devout, deterring the profane. +And things divine thou treat'st of in such state +As them preserves, and thee, inviolate. +At once delight and horror on us seize, +Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease; +And above human flight dost soar aloft +With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft. +The bird named from that Paradise you sing, +So never flags, but always keeps on wing. + +Where couldst thou words of such a compass find? +Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind? +Just Heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite, +Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight. + +Well mightst thou scorn thy readers to allure +With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure; +While the Town-Bays writes all the while and spells, +And like a pack-horse tires without his bells: +Their fancies like our bushy points appear; +The poets tag them, we for fashion wear. +I too, transported by the mode, offend, +And while I meant to praise thee, must commend. +Thy verse created, like thy theme, sublime, +In number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme. + + +THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. + +1 How vainly men themselves amaze, + To win the palm, the oak, or bays! + And their incessant labours see + Crowned from some single herb or tree, + Whose short and narrow-verged shade + Does prudently their toils upbraid; + While all the flowers and trees do close, + To weave the garlands of repose. + +2 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, + And Innocence, thy sister dear? + Mistaken long, I sought you then + In busy companies of men. + Your sacred plants, if here below, + Only among the plants will grow. + Society is all but rude + To this delicious solitude. + +3 No white nor red was ever seen + So amorous as this lovely green. + Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, + Cut in these trees their mistress' name. + Little, alas, they know or heed, + How far these beauties her exceed! + Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, + No name shall but your own be found. + +4 What wondrous life in this I lead! + Ripe apples drop about my head. + The luscious clusters of the vine + Upon my mouth do crush their wine. + The nectarine, and curious peach, + Into my hands themselves do reach. + Stumbling on melons as I pass, + Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. + +5 Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less + Withdraws into its happiness. + The mind, that ocean where each kind + Does straight its own resemblance find; + Yet it creates, transcending these, + Far other worlds and other seas; + Annihilating all that's made + To a green thought in a green shade. + +6 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, + Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, + Casting the body's vest aside, + My soul into the boughs does glide; + There, like a bird, it sits and sings, + Then whets and claps its silver wings, + And, till prepared for longer flight, + Waves in its plumes the various light. + +7 Such was the happy garden state, + While man there walked without a mate: + After a place so pure and sweet, + What other help could yet be meet! + But 'twas beyond a mortal's share + To wander solitary there: + Two paradises are in one, + To live in paradise alone. + +8 How well the skilful gard'ner drew + Of flowers and herbs this dial new! + Where, from above, the milder sun + Does through a fragrant zodiac run: + And, as it works, the industrious bee + Computes its time as well as we. + How could such sweet and wholesome hours + Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers? + + +SATIRE ON HOLLAND. + +Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, +As but the offscouring of the British sand; +And so much earth as was contributed +By English pilots when they heaved the lead; +Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell, +Of shipwrecked cockle and the mussel-shell; +This indigested vomit of the sea +Fell to the Dutch by just propriety. +Glad then, as miners who have found the ore, +They, with mad labour, fished the land to shore: +And dived as desperately for each piece +Of earth, as if't had been of ambergris; +Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, +Less than what building swallows bear away; +Or than those pills which sordid beetles roll, +Transfusing into them their dunghill soul. +How did they rivet, with gigantic piles, +Thorough the centre their new-catched miles; +And to the stake a struggling country bound, +Where barking waves still bait the forced ground; +Building their watery Babel far more high +To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky. +Yet still his claim the injured Ocean laid, +And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played; +As if on purpose it on land had come +To show them what's their _mare liberum_. +A daily deluge over them does boil; +The earth and water play at level-coil. +The fish oft-times the burgher dispossessed, +And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest; +And oft the Tritons, and the sea-nymphs, saw +Whole shoals of Dutch served up for Cabillau; +Or, as they over the new level ranged, +For pickled herring, pickled heeren changed. +Nature, it seemed, ashamed of her mistake, +Would throw their land away at duck and drake, +Therefore necessity, that first made kings, +Something like government among them brings. +For, as with Pigmies, who best kills the crane, +Among the hungry he that treasures grain, +Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns, +So rules among the drowned he that drains. +Not who first see the rising sun commands, +But who could first discern the rising lands. +Who best could know to pump an earth so leak, +Him they their lord, and country's father, speak. +To make a bank was a great plot of state; +Invent a shovel, and be a magistrate. +Hence some small dikegrave unperceived invades +The power, and grows, as 'twere, a king of spades; +But, for less envy some joined states endures, +Who look like a commission of the sewers: +For these half-anders, half-wet and half-dry, +Nor bear strict service, nor pure liberty. +'Tis probable religion, after this, +Came next in order; which they could not miss. +How could the Dutch but be converted, when +The apostles were so many fishermen? +Besides, the waters of themselves did rise, +And, as their land, so them did re-baptize; +Though herring for their God few voices missed, +And Poor-John to have been the Evangelist. +Faith, that could never twins conceive before, +Never so fertile, spawned upon this shore +More pregnant than their Marg'ret, that laid down +For Hands-in-Kelder of a whole Hans-Town. +Sure, when religion did itself embark, +And from the east would westward steer its ark, +It struck, and splitting on this unknown ground, +Each one thence pillaged the first piece he found: +Hence Amsterdam, Turk, Christian, Pagan, Jew, +Staple of sects, and mint of schism grew; +That bank of conscience, where not one so strange +Opinion, but finds credit, and exchange. +In vain for Catholics ourselves we bear: +The universal church is only there. * * * + + + + +IZAAK WALTON. + + +This amiable enemy of the finny tribe was born in Stafford, in August +1593. We hear of him first as settled in London, following the trade +of a sempster, or linen-draper, having a shop in the Royal Burse, in +Cornhill, which was 'seven feet and a half long, and five wide,' and +where he became possessed of a moderate fortune. He spent his leisure +time in fishing 'with honest Nat and R. Roe.' From the Royal Burse, he +removed to Fleet Street, where he had 'one half of a shop,' a hosier +occupying the other half. In 1632, he married Anne, the daughter of +Thomas Ken of Furnival's Inn, and sister of Dr Ken, the celebrated +Bishop of Bath and Wells. Through her and her kindred, he became +acquainted with many eminent men of the day. His wife, 'a woman of +remarkable prudence and primitive piety,' died long before him. He +retired from business in 1643, and lived, for forty years after, a life +of leisure and quiet enjoyment, spending much of his time in the houses +of his friends, and much of it by the still waters, which he so dearly +loved. Walton commenced his literary career by writing a Life of Dr +Donne, and followed with another of Sir Henry Wotton, prefixed to his +literary remains. In 1653 appeared his 'Complete Angler,' four editions +of which were called for before his decease. He wrote, in 1662, a Life +of Richard Hooker; in 1670, a Life of George Herbert; and, in 1678, a +Life of Bishop Sanderson--all distinguished by _naivete_ and heart. In +1680, he published an anonymous discourse on the 'Distempers of the +Times.' In 1683, he printed, as we have seen, Chalkhill's 'Thealma and +Clearchus;' and on the 15th of December in the same year, he died at +Winchester, while residing with his son-in-law, Dr Hawkins, Prebendary +of Winchester Cathedral. + +Walton is one of the most loveable of all authors. Your admiration of +him is always melting into affection. Red as his and is with the blood +of fish, you pant to grasp it and press it to yours. You go with him +to the fishing as you would with a bright-eyed boy, relishing his +simple-hearted enthusiasm, and leaning down to listen to his precocious +remarks, and to pat his curly head. It is the prevalence of the +childlike element which makes Walton's 'Angler' rank with Bunyan's +'Pilgrim,' 'Robinson Crusoe,' and White's 'Natural History of Selborne,' +as among the most delightful books in the language. Its descriptions of +nature, too, are so fresh, that you smell to them as to a green leaf. +Walton would not have been at home fishing in the Forth or Clyde, or in +such rivers as are found in Norway, the milk-blue Logen, or the grass- +green Rauma, uniting, with its rich mediation, Romsdale Horn to the +tremendous Witch-Peaks which lower on the opposite side of the valley; +--the waters of his own dear England, going softly and somewhat drowsily +on their path, are the sources of his inspiration, and seem to sound like +the echoes of his own subdued but gladsome spirit. Johnson defined angling +as a rod with a fish at one end, and a fool at the other; in Walton's +case, we may correct the expression to 'a rod with a fish at one end, and +a fine old fellow--the "ae best fellow in the world"--at the other'-- + + 'In wit a man, simplicity a child.' + +We have given a specimen of the verse he intersperses sparingly in a +book which _is itself a complete poem._ + + +THE ANGLER'S WISH. + +1 I in these flowery meads would be: + These crystal streams should solace me, + To whose harmonious bubbling noise + I with my angle would rejoice: + Sit here and see the turtle-dove + Court his chaste mate to acts of love: + +2 Or on that bank feel the west wind + Breathe health and plenty: please my mind + To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, + And then washed off by April showers! + Here hear my Kenna sing a song, + There see a blackbird feed her young, + +3 Or a leverock build her nest: + Here give my weary spirits rest, + And raise my low-pitched thoughts above + Earth, or what poor mortals love; + Or, with my Bryan[1] and my book, + Loiter long days near Shawford brook: + +4 There sit by him and eat my meat, + There see the sun both rise and set, + There bid good morning to next day, + There meditate my time away, + And angle on, and beg to have + A quiet passage to the grave. + +[1] Probably his dog. + + + + +JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER + + +We hear of the Spirit of Evil on one occasion entering into swine, but, +if possible, a stranger sight is that of the Spirit of Poesy finding a +similar incarnation. Certainly the connexion of genius in the Earl of +Rochester with a life of the most degrading and desperate debauchery is +one of the chief marvels of this marvellous world. + +John Wilmot was the son of Henry, Lord Rochester, and was born April 10, +1647, at Ditchley in Oxfordshire. He was taught grammar at the school of +Burford. He then 'entered a nobleman' into Wadham College, when twelve +years old, and at 1661, when only fourteen, he was, in conjunction with +some others of rank, made M.A. by Lord Clarendon in person. Pursuing his +travels in France and Italy, he went in 1665 to sea with the Earl of +Sandwich, and distinguished himself at Bergen in an attack on the Dutch +fleet. Next year, while serving under Sir Edward Spragge, his commander +sent him in the heat of an engagement with a reproof to one of his +captains--a duty which Wilmot gallantly accomplished amidst a storm of +shot. With this early courage some of his biographers have contrasted +his subsequent reputation for cowardice, his slinking away out of +street-quarrels, his refusing to fight the Duke of Buckingham, &c. This +diversity at different periods may perhaps be accounted for on the +ground of the nervousness which continued dissipation produces, and +perhaps from his poetical temperament. A poet, we are persuaded, is +often the bravest, and often the most pusillanimous of men. Byron was +unquestionably in general a brave, almost a pugnacious man; and yet he +confesses that at certain times, had one proceeded to horsewhip him, +he would not have had the hardihood to resist. Shelley, who, in a +tremendous storm, behaved with dauntless heroism, and who would at any +time have acted on the example of his own character in 'Prometheus,' +who, in a shipwreck, + + 'gave an enemy + His plank, then plunged aside to die,' + +was yet subject to paroxysms of nervous horror, which made him perspire +and tremble like a spirit-seeing steed. Rochester had the same +temperament, and a similar creed, with these men, although inferior to +them both in _morale_ and in genius. + +His character was certainly very depraved. He told Burnet on his +deathbed that for five years he had not known the sensation of sobriety, +having been all that time either totally drunk, or mad through the dregs +of drunkenness. He on one occasion, while in this state, erected a stage +on Tower Hill, and addressed the mob as a naked mountebank. Even after +he became more temperate, he continued and even increased his +licentiousness--one devil went out, and seven entered in. He pursued low +amours in disguise; he practised occasionally as a quack doctor; and at +other times he retired to the country, and, like Byron, amused himself +by libelling all his acquaintances--every line in each libel being a +lie. Notwithstanding all this, he was a favourite with Charles II., who +made him one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, and comptroller of +Woodstock Park. In his lucid intervals he recurred to his studies, wrote +occasional verses, read in French Boileau and in English Cowley, and is +called by Wood the best scholar among all the nobility. + +At last, ere he was thirty-one, the 'dreary old sort of feel,' and the +'rigid fibre and stiffening limbs,' of which Byron and Burns, when +scarcely older, complained, began to assail Rochester. He had exhausted +his capacity of enjoyment by excess, and had deprived himself of the +consolations of religion by infidelity. His unbelief was not like +Shelley's--the growth of his own mind, and the fruit of unbridled, +though earnest, speculation;--it was merely a drug which he snatched +from the laboratories of others to deaden his remorse, and enable him to +look with desperate calmness to the blotted Past and the lowering +Future. At this stage of his career, he became acquainted with Bishop +Burnet, who has recorded his conversion and edifying end in a book +which, says Johnson, 'the critic ought to read for its elegance, the +philosopher for its arguments, and the saint for its piety.' To this, +after Johnson's example, we refer our readers. Eochester died July 26, +1680, before he had completed his thirty-fourth year. He was married, +and left three daughters and a son named Charles, who did not long +survive his father. With him the male line ceased, and the title was +conferred on a younger son of Lord Clarendon. His poems appeared in the +year of his death, professing on the title-page to be printed at +Antwerp. They contain much that is spurious, but some productions that +are undoubtedly Rochester's. They are at the best, poor fragmentary +exhibitions of a vigorous, but undisciplined mind. His songs are rather +easy than lively. His imitations are distinguished by grace and spirit. +His 'Nothing' is a tissue of clever conceits, like gaudy weeds growing +on a sterile soil, but here and there contains a grand and gloomy image, +such as-- + + 'And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face.' + +His 'Satire against Man' might be praised for its vigorous misanthropy, +but is chiefly copied from Boileau. + +Rochester may be signalised as the first thoroughly depraved and vicious +person, so far as we remember, who assumed the office of the satirist, +--the first, although not, alas! the last human imitator of 'Satan +accusing Sin.' Some satirists before him had been faulty characters, +while rather inconsistently assailing the faults of others; but here, +for the first time, was a man of no virtue, or belief in virtue whatever, +(his tenderness to his family, revealed in his letters, is just that of +the tiger fondling his cubs, and seeming, perhaps, to _them_ a 'much- +misrepresented character,') and whose life was one mass of wounds, +bruises, and putrefying sores,--a naked satyr who gloried in his shame, +--becoming a severe castigator of public morals and of private character. +Surely there was a gross anomaly implied in this, which far greater +genius than Rochester's could never have redeemed. + + +SONG. + +1 Too late, alas! I must confess, + You need not arts to move me; + Such charms by nature you possess, + 'Twere madness not to love ye. + +2 Then spare a heart you may surprise, + And give my tongue the glory + To boast, though my unfaithful eyes + Betray a tender story. + + +SONG. + +1 My dear mistress has a heart + Soft as those kind looks she gave me, + When with love's resistless art, + And her eyes, she did enslave me. + But her constancy's so weak, + She's so wild and apt to wander, + That my jealous heart would break + Should we live one day asunder. + +2 Melting joys about her move, + Killing pleasures, wounding blisses: + She can dress her eyes in love, + And her lips can warm with kisses. + Angels listen when she speaks, + She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; + But my jealous heart would break, + Should we live one day asunder. + + + + +THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON. + + +Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, was the son of James Dillon and +Elizabeth Wentworth. She was the sister of the infamous Strafford, who +was at once uncle and godfather to our poet. In what exact year Dillon +was born is uncertain, but it was some time about 1633. His father had +been converted from Popery by Usher; and when the Irish Rebellion broke +out, Strafford, afraid of the fury of the Irish, sent for his godson, +and took him to his own seat in Yorkshire, where he was taught Latin +with great care. He was sent afterwards to Caen, where he studied under +Bochart. It is said that while playing extravagantly there at the +customary games of boys, he suddenly paused, became grave, and cried +out, 'My father is dead,' and that a fortnight after arrived tidings +from Ireland confirming his impression. Johnson is inclined to believe +this story, and we are more than inclined. Since the lexicographer's +day, many of what used to be called his 'superstitions' have been +established as certain facts, although their explanation is still +shrouded in darkness. Roscommon was then only ten years of age. + +From Caen he travelled to Italy, where he obtained a profound knowledge +of medals. At the Restoration he returned to England, where he was made +Captain of the Band of Pensioners, and subsequently Master of the Horse +to the Duchess of York. He became unfortunately addicted to gambling, +and, through this miserable habit, he got embroiled in endless quarrels, +as well as in pecuniary embarassments. + +Business compelled him to visit Ireland, where the Duke of Orrnond made +him Captain of the Guards. On his return to England in 1662, he married +the Lady Frances, daughter of the Earl of Burlington. By her he had no +issue. His second wife, whom he married in 1674, was Isabella, daughter +of Matthew Beynton of Barmister, in Yorkshire. + +Roscommon now began to meditate and execute literary projects. He +produced an 'Essay on Translated Verse,' (in 1681,) a translation of +Horace's 'Art of Poetry,' and other pieces. He projected, in conjunction +with his friend Dryden, a plan for refining our language and fixing its +standard, as if Time were not the great refiner, fixer, and enricher of +a tongue. While busy with these schemes and occupations, the troubles of +James II.'s reign commenced. Roscommon determined to retire to Rome, +saying, 'It is best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smokes.' +Death, however, prevented him from reaching the beloved and desired +focus of Roman Catholic darkness. He was assailed by gout, and an +ignorant French empiric, whom he consulted, contrived to drive the +disease into the bowels. Roscommon expired, uttering with great fervour +two lines from his own translation of the 'Dies Irae,'-- + + 'My God, my Father, and my Friend, + Do not forsake me in my end.' + +This was in 1684. He received a pompous interment in Westminster Abbey. + +Roscommon does not deserve the name of a great poet. He was a man of +varied accomplishments and exquisite taste rather than of genius. His +'Essay on Translated Verse' is a sound and sensible, not a profound and +brilliant production. In one point he went before his age. He praises +Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' although unfortunately he selects for encomium +the passage in the sixth book describing the angels fighting against +each other with fire-arms--a passage which most critics have considered +a blot upon the poem. + + +FROM "AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE." + +Immodest words admit of no defence; +For want of decency is want of sense. +What moderate fop would rake the park or stews, +Who among troops of faultless nymphs may choose? +Variety of such is to be found: +Take then a subject proper to expound; +But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice; +For men of sense despise a trivial choice; +And such applause it must expect to meet, +As would some painter busy in a street, +To copy bulls and bears, and every sign +That calls the staring sots to nasty wine. + +Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good: +It must delight us when 'tis understood. +He that brings fulsome objects to my view, +As many old have done, and many new, +With nauseous images my fancy fills, +And all goes down like oxymel of squills. +Instruct the listening world how Maro sings +Of useful subjects and of lofty things. +These will such true, such bright ideas raise, +As merit gratitude, as well as praise: +But foul descriptions are offensive still, +Either for being like, or being ill: +For who, without a qualm, hath ever looked +On holy garbage, though by Homer cooked? +Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded gods +Make some suspect he snores, as well as nods. +But I offend--Virgil begins to frown, +And Horace looks with indignation down: +My blushing Muse with conscious fear retires, +And whom they like implicitly admires. + +On sure foundations let your fabric rise, +And with attractive majesty surprise; +Not by affected meretricious arts, +But strict harmonious symmetry of parts; +Which through the whole insensibly must pass, +With vital heat to animate the mass: +A pure, an active, an auspicious flame; +And bright as heaven, from whence the blessing came: +But few, oh! few souls, preordained by fate, +The race of gods, have reached that envied height. +No rebel Titan's sacrilegious crime, +By heaping hills on hills can hither climb: +The grizzly ferryman of hell denied +Aeneas entrance, till he knew his guide. +How justly then will impious mortals fall, +Whose pride would soar to heaven without a call! + +Pride, of all others the most dangerous fault, +Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought. +The men who labour and digest things most, +Will be much apter to despond than boast: +For if your author be profoundly good, +'Twill cost you dear before he's understood. +How many ages since has Virgil writ! +How few are they who understand him yet! +Approach his altars with religious fear: +No vulgar deity inhabits there. +Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod, +Than poets should before their Mantuan god. +Hail, mighty Maro! may that sacred name +Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame, +Sublime ideas and apt words infuse; +The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the Muse! + +What I have instanced only in the best, +Is, in proportion, true of all the rest. +Take pains the genuine meaning to explore! +There sweat, there strain: tug the laborious oar; +Search every comment that your care can find; +Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind: +Yet be not blindly guided by the throng: +The multitude is always in the wrong. +When things appear unnatural or hard, +Consult your author, with himself compared. +Who knows what blessing Phoebus may bestow, +And future ages to your labour owe? +Such secrets are not easily found out; +But, once discovered, leave no room for doubt. + +Truth stamps conviction in your ravished breast; +And peace and joy attend the glorious guest. +Truth still is one; Truth is divinely bright; +No cloudy doubts obscure her native light; +While in your thoughts you find the least debase, +You may confound, but never can translate. +Your style will this through all disguises show; +For none explain more clearly than they know. +He only proves he understands a text, +Whose exposition leaves it unperplexed. +They who too faithfully on names insist, +Rather create than dissipate the mist; +And grow unjust by being over nice, +For superstitious virtue turns to vice. +Let Crassus' ghost and Labienus tell +How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell. +Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame +That few know Pacorus' or Monaeses' name. + +Words in one language elegantly used, +Will hardly in another be excused; +And some that Rome admired in Caesar's time, +May neither suit our genius nor our clime. +The genuine sense, intelligibly told, +Shows a translator both discreet and bold. + +Excursions are inexpiably bad; +And 'tis much safer to leave out than add. +Abstruse and mystic thought you must express +With painful care, but seeming easiness; +For truth shines brightest through the plainest dress. +The Aenean Muse, when she appears in state, +Makes all Jove's thunder on her verses wait; +Yet writes sometimes as soft and moving things +As Venus speaks, or Philomela sings. +Your author always will the best advise, +Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise. +Affected noise is the most wretched thing, +That to contempt can empty scribblers bring. +Vowels and accents, regularly placed, +On even syllables (and still the last) +Though gross innumerable faults abound, +In spite of nonsense, never fail of sound, +But this is meant of even verse alone, +As being most harmonious and most known: +For if you will unequal numbers try, +There accents on odd syllables must lie. +Whatever sister of the learned Nine +Does to your suit a willing ear incline, +Urge your success, deserve a lasting name, +She'll crown a grateful and a constant flame. +But if a wild uncertainty prevail, +And turn your veering heart with every gale, +You lose the fruit of all your former care, +For the sad prospect of a just despair. + +A quack, too scandalously mean to name, +Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame; +As if Lucina had forgot her trade, +The labouring wife invokes his surer aid. +Well-seasoned bowls the gossip's spirits raise, +Who, while she guzzles, chats the doctor's praise; +And largely, what she wants in words, supplies, +With maudlin eloquence of trickling eyes. +But what a thoughtless animal is man! +How very active in his own trepan! +For, greedy of physicians' frequent fees, +From female mellow praise he takes degrees; +Struts in a new unlicensed gown, and then +From saving women falls to killing men. +Another such had left the nation thin, +In spite of all the children he brought in. +His pills as thick as hand grenadoes flew; +And where they fell, as certainly they slew: +His name struck everywhere as great a damp, +As Archimedes' through the Roman camp. +With this, the doctor's pride began to cool; +For smarting soundly may convince a fool. +But now repentance came too late for grace; +And meagre famine stared him in the face: +Fain would he to the wives be reconciled, +But found no husband left to own a child. +The friends, that got the brats, were poisoned too: +In this sad case, what could our vermin do? +Worried with debts, and past all hope of bail, +The unpitied wretch lies rotting in a jail: +And there, with basket-alms scarce kept alive, +Shows how mistaken talents ought to thrive. + +I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, +Compelled by want to prostitute their pen; +Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, +And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead! +But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pampered heirs, +Who to your country owe your swords and cares, +Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, +For rich ill poets are without excuse; +'Tis very dangerous tampering with the Muse, +The profit's small, and you have much to lose; +For though true wit adorns your birth or place, +Degenerate lines degrade the attainted race. +No poet any passion can excite, +But what they feel transport them when they write. +Have you been led through the Cumaean cave, +And heard the impatient maid divinely rave? +I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes; +And panting, 'Lo! the God, the God,' she cries: +With words not hers, and more than human sound, +She makes the obedient ghosts peep trembling through the ground. +But, though we must obey when Heaven commands, +And man in vain the sacred call withstands, +Beware what spirit rages in your breast; +For ten inspired, ten thousand are possess'd: +Thus make the proper use of each extreme, +And write with fury, but correct with phlegm. +As when the cheerful hours too freely pass, +And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass, +Your pulse advises, and begins to beat +Through every swelling vein a loud retreat: +So when a Muse propitiously invites, +Improve her favours, and indulge her flights; +But when you find that vigorous heat abate, +Leave off, and for another summons wait. +Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp, +Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp, +Appear not meaner than mere human lines, +Compared with those whose inspiration shines: +These, nervous, bold; those, languid and remiss; +There cold salutes; but here a lover's kiss. +Thus have I seen a rapid headlong tide, +With foaming waves the passive Saone divide; +Whose lazy waters without motion lay, +While he, with eager force, urged his impetuous way. + + + + +CHARLES COTTON. + + +Hearty, careless 'Charley Cotton' was born in 1630. His father, Sir +George Cotton, was improvident and intemperate in his latter days, and +left the poet an encumbered estate situated at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, +near the river Dove. This place will recall the words quoted by O'Connell +in Parliament in reference to the present Lord Derby:-- + + 'Down thy fair banks, romantic Ashbourne, glides + The Derby dilly, with its six insides.' + +Charles studied at Cambridge; and after travelling abroad, married the +daughter of Sir Thomas Owthorp in Nottinghamshire, who does not appear +to have lived long. His extravagance keeping him poor, he was compelled +to eke out his means by translating works from the French and Italian, +including those of a spirit somewhat kindred to his own--Montaigne. At +the age of forty, he obtained a captain's commission in the army, and +went to Ireland. There he met with his second wife, Mary, Countess +Dowager of Ardglass, the widow of Lord Cornwall. She possessed a +jointure of L1500 a-year, secured, however, after marriage, from her +husband's imprudent and reckless management. He returned to his English +estate, where he became passionately fond of fishing,--intimate with +Izaak Walton, whom he invited in a poem, although now eighty-three years +old, to visit him in the country--and where he built a fishing-house, +with the initials of Izaak's name and his own united in ciphers over +the door; the walls, too, being painted with fishing scenes, and the +portraits of Cotton and Walton appearing upon the beaufet. Poor Charles +had a less fortunate career than his friend, dying insolvent at +Westminster in 1687. + +Careless gaiety and reckless extravagance, blended with heart, sense, +and sincerity, were the characteristics of Cotton as a man, and were, as +is usually the case, transferred to his poetry. He squandered his pence +and his powers with equal profusion. His travestie of the 'Aeneid' is +pronounced by Christopher North (who must have read it, however,) a +beastly book. Campbell says, with striking justice, of another of +Cotton's productions, 'His imitations of Lucian betray the grossest +misconception of humorous effect, when he attempts to burlesque that +which is ludicrous already.' It is like trying to turn the 'Tale of +a Tub' into ridicule. But Cotton's own vein, as exhibited in his +'Invitation to Walton,' his 'New Year,' and his 'Voyage to Ireland,' +(which anticipates in some measure the style of Anstey in the 'New Bath +Guide,') is very rich and varied, full of ease, picturesque spirit, and +humour, and stamps him a genuine, if not a great poet. + + +INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON. + +1 Whilst in this cold and blustering clime, + Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, + We pass away the roughest time + Has been of many years before; + +2 Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks + The dullest blasts our peace invade, + And by great rains our smallest brooks + Are almost navigable made; + +3 Whilst all the ills are so improved + Of this dead quarter of the year, + That even you, so much beloved, + We would not now wish with us here: + +4 In this estate, I say, it is + Some comfort to us to suppose, + That in a better clime than this, + You, our dear friend, have more repose; + +5 And some delight to me the while, + Though Nature now does weep in rain, + To think that I have seen her smile, + And haply may I do again. + +6 If the all-ruling Power please + We live to see another May, + We'll recompense an age of these + Foul days in one fine fishing day. + +7 We then shall have a day or two, + Perhaps a week, wherein to try + What the best master's hand can do + With the most deadly killing fly. + +8 A day with not too bright a beam; + A warm, but not a scorching sun; + A southern gale to curl the stream; + And, master, half our work is done. + +9 Then, whilst behind some bush we wait + The scaly people to betray, + We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait, + To make the preying trout our prey; + +10 And think ourselves, in such an hour, + Happier than those, though not so high, + Who, like leviathans, devour + Of meaner men the smaller fry. + +11 This, my best friend, at my poor home, + Shall be our pastime and our theme; + But then--should you not deign to come, + You make all this a flattering dream. + + + +A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE. + +CANTO I. + +The lives of frail men are compared by the sages +Or unto short journeys, or pilgrimages, +As men to their inns do come sooner or later, +That is, to their ends, to be plain in my matter; +From whence when one dead is, it currently follows, +He has run his race, though his goal be the gallows; +And this 'tis, I fancy, sets folks so a-madding, +And makes men and women so eager of gadding; +Truth is, in my youth I was one of these people +Would have gone a great way to have seen a high steeple, +And though I was bred 'mongst the wonders o' th' Peak, +Would have thrown away money, and ventured my neck +To have seen a great hill, a rock, or a cave, +And thought there was nothing so pleasant and brave: +But at forty years old you may, if you please, +Think me wiser than run such errands as these; +Or had the same humour still run in my toes, +A voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have chose; +But to tell you the truth on 't, indeed it was neither +Improvement nor pleasure for which I went thither; +I know then you'll presently ask me for what? +Why, faith, it was that makes the old woman trot; +And therefore I think I'm not much to be blamed +If I went to the place whereof Nick was ashamed. + +O Coryate! thou traveller famed as Ulysses, +In such a stupendous labour as this is, +Come lend me the aids of thy hands and thy feet, +Though the first be pedantic, the other not sweet, +Yet both are so restless in peregrination, +They'll help both my journey, and eke my relation. + +'Twas now the most beautiful time of the year, +The days were now long, and the sky was now clear, +And May, that fair lady of splendid renown, +Had dressed herself fine, in her flowered tabby gown, +When about some two hours and an half after noon, +When it grew something late, though I thought it too soon, +With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart, +I tuned up my pipes to sing _'loth to depart;_' +The ditty concluded, I called for my horse, +And with a good pack did the jument endorse, +Till he groaned and he f----d under the burden, +For sorrow had made me a cumbersome lurden: +And now farewell, Dove, where I've caught such brave dishes +Of over-grown, golden, and silver-scaled fishes; +Thy trout and thy grayling may now feed securely, +I've left none behind me can take 'em so surely; +Feed on then, and breed on, until the next year, +But if I return I expect my arrear. + +By pacing and trotting betimes in the even, +Ere the sun had forsaken one half of the heaven, +We all at fair Congerton took up our inn, +Where the sign of a king kept a King and his queen: +But who do you think came to welcome me there'? +No worse a man, marry, than good master mayor, +With his staff of command, yet the man was not lame, +But he needed it more when he went, than he came; +After three or four hours of friendly potation, +We took leave each of other in courteous fashion, +When each one, to keep his brains fast in his head, +Put on a good nightcap, and straightway to bed. + +Next morn, having paid for boiled, roasted, and bacon, +And of sovereign hostess our leaves kindly taken, +(For her king, as 'twas rumoured, by late pouring down, +This morning had got a foul flaw in his crown,) +We mounted again, and full soberly riding, +Three miles we had rid ere we met with a biding; +But there, having over-night plied the tap well, +We now must needs water at a place called Holmes Chapel: +'A hay!' quoth the foremost, 'ho! who keeps the house?' +Which said, out an host comes as brisk as a louse; +His hair combed as sleek as a barber he'd been, +A cravat with black ribbon tied under his chin; +Though by what I saw in him, I straight 'gan to fear +That knot would be one day slipped under his ear. +Quoth he (with low conge), 'What lack you, my lord?' +'The best liquor,' quoth I, 'that the house will afford.' +'You shall straight,' quoth he; and then calls out, 'Mary? +Come quickly, and bring us a quart of Canary.' +'Hold, hold, my spruce host! for i' th' morning so early, +I never drink liquor but what's made of barley.' +Which words were scarce out, but, which made me admire, +My lordship was presently turned into 'squire: + +'Ale, 'squire, you mean?' quoth he nimbly again, +'What, must it be purled'--'No, I love it best plain.' +'Why, if you'll drink ale, sir, pray take my advice, +Here's the best ale i' th' land, if you'll go to the price; +Better, I sure am, ne'er blew out a stopple; +But then, in plain truth, it is sixpence a bottle.' +'Why, faith,' quoth I, 'friend, if your liquor be such, +For the best ale in England, it is not too much: +Let's have it, and quickly.'--'o sir! you may stay; +A pot in your pate is a mile in your way: +Come, bring out a bottle here presently, wife, +Of the best Cheshire hum he e'er drank in his life.' +Straight out comes the mistress in waistcoat of silk, +As clear as a milkmaid, as white as her milk, +With visage as oval and sleek as an egg, +As straight as an arrow, as right as my leg: +A curtsey she made, as demure as a sister, +I could not forbear, but alighted and kissed her: +Then ducking another, with most modest mien, +The first word she said was, 'Will 't please you walk in? +I thanked her; but told her, I then could not stay, +For the haste of my business did call me away. +She said, she was sorry it fell out so odd, +But if, when again I should travel that road, +I would stay there a night, she assured me the nation +Should nowhere afford better accommodation: +Meanwhile my spruce landlord has broken the cork, +And called for a bodkin, though he had a fork; +But I showed him a screw, which I told my brisk gull +A trepan was for bottles had broken their skull; +Which, as it was true, he believed without doubt, +But 'twas I that applied it, and pulled the cork out. +Bounce, quoth the bottle, the work being done, +It roared, and it smoked, like a new-fired gun; +But the shot missed us all, or else we'd been routed, +Which yet was a wonder, we were so about it. +Mine host poured and filled, till he could fill no fuller: +'Look here, sir,' quoth he, 'both for nap and for colour, +Sans bragging, I hate it, nor will I e'er do 't; +I defy Leek, and Lambhith, and Sandwich, to boot.' +By my troth, he said true, for I speak it with tears, +Though I have been a toss-pot these twenty good years, +And have drank so much liquor has made me a debtor, +In my days, that I know of, I never drank better: +We found it so good and we drank so profoundly, +That four good round shillings were whipt away roundly; +And then I conceived it was time to be jogging, +For our work had been done, had we stay'd t' other noggin. + +From thence we set forth with more metal and spright, +Our horses were empty, our coxcombs were light; +O'er Dellamore forest we, tantivy, posted, +Till our horses were basted as if they were roasted: +In truth, we pursued might have been by our haste, +And I think Sir George Booth did not gallop so fast, +Till about two o'clock after noon, God be blest, +We came, safe and sound, all to Chester i' th' west. + +And now in high time 'twas to call for some meat, +Though drinking does well, yet some time we must eat: +And i' faith we had victuals both plenty and good, +Where we all laid about us as if we were wood: +Go thy ways, Mistress Anderton, for a good woman, +Thy guests shall by thee ne'er be turned to a common; +And whoever of thy entertainment complains, +Let him lie with a drab, and be poxed for his pains. + +And here I must stop the career of my Muse, +The poor jade is weary, 'las! how should she choose? +And if I should further here spur on my course, +I should, questionless, tire both my wits and my horse: +To-night let us rest, for 'tis good Sunday's even, +To-morrow to church, and ask pardon of Heaven. +Thus far we our time spent, as here I have penned it, +An odd kind of life, and 'tis well if we mend it: +But to-morrow (God willing) we'll have t' other bout, +And better or worse be 't, for murder will out, +Our future adventures we'll lay down before ye, +For my Muse is deep sworn to use truth of the story. + + +CANTO II + +After seven hours' sleep, to commute for pains taken, +A man of himself, one would think, might awaken; +But riding, and drinking hard, were two such spells, +I doubt I'd slept on, but for jangling of bells, +Which, ringing to matins all over the town, +Made me leap out of bed, and put on my gown. +With intent (so God mend me) t' have gone to the choir, +When straight I perceived myself all on a fire; +For the two forenamed things had so heated my blood, +That a little phlebotomy would do me good: +I sent for chirurgeon, who came in a trice, +And swift to shed blood, needed not be called twice, +But tilted stiletto quite thorough the vein, +From whence issued out the ill humours amain; +When having twelve ounces, he bound up my arm, +And I gave him two Georges, which did him no harm: +But after my bleeding, I soon understood +It had cooled my devotion as well as my blood; +For I had no more mind to look on my psalter, +Than (saving your presence) I had to a halter; +But, like a most wicked and obstinate sinner, +Then sat in my chamber till folks came to dinner: +I dined with good stomach, and very good cheer, +With a very fine woman, and good ale and beer; +When myself having stuffed than a bagpipe more full, +I fell to my smoking until I grew dull; +And, therefore, to take a fine nap thought it best, +For when belly full is, bones would be at rest: +I tumbled me down on my bed like a swad, +Where, oh! the delicious dream that I had! +Till the bells, that had been my morning molesters, +Now waked me again, chiming all in to vespers: +With that starting up, for my man I did whistle, +And combed out and powdered my locks that were grizzle; +Had my clothes neatly brushed, and then put on my sword, +Resolved now to go and attend on the word. + +Thus tricked, and thus trim, to set forth I begin, +Neat and cleanly without, but scarce cleanly within; +For why, Heaven knows it, I long time had been +A most humble obedient servant to sin; +And now in devotion was even so proud, +I scorned forsooth to join prayer with the crowd; +For though courted by all the bells as I went, +I was deaf, and regarded not the compliment, +But to the cathedral still held on my pace, +As't were, scorning to kneel but in the best place. +I there made myself sure of good music at least, +But was something deceived, for 'twas none of the best: +But however I stay'd at the church's commanding +Till we came to the 'Peace passes all understanding,' +Which no sooner was ended, but whir and away, +Like boys in a school when they've leave got to play; +All save master mayor, who still gravely stays +Till the rest had made room for his worship and's mace: +Then he and his brethren in order appear, +I out of my stall, and fell into his rear; +For why, 'tis much safer appearing, no doubt, +In authority's tail, than the head of a rout. + +In this rev'rend order we marched from prayer; +The mace before me borne as well as the mayor; +Who looking behind him, and seeing most plain +A glorious gold belt in the rear of his train, +Made such a low conge, forgetting his place, +I was never so honoured before in my days: +But then off went my scalp-case, and down went my fist, +Till the pavement, too hard, by my knuckles was kissed; +By which, though thick-skulled, he must understand this, +That I was a most humble servant of his; +Which also so wonderful kindly he took, +(As I well perceived both b' his gesture and look,) +That to have me dogg'd home he straightway appointed, +Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted. +I was scarce in my quarters, and set down on crupper, +But his man was there too, to invite me to supper: +I start up, and after most respective fashion +Gave his worship much thanks for his kind invitation; +But begged his excuse, for my stomach was small, +And I never did eat any supper at all; +But that after supper I would kiss his hands, +And would come to receive his worship's commands. +Sure no one will say, but a patron of slander, +That this was not pretty well for a Moorlander: +And since on such reasons to sup I refused, +I nothing did doubt to be holden excused; +But my quaint repartee had his worship possess'd +With so wonderful good a conceit of the rest, +That with mere impatience he hoped in his breeches +To see the fine fellow that made such fine speeches: +'Go, sirrah!' quoth he, 'get you to him again, +And will and require, in his Majesty's name, +That he come; and tell him, obey he were best, or +I'll teach him to know that he's now in West-Chester.' +The man, upon this, comes me running again, +But yet minced his message, and was not so plain; +Saying to me only, 'Good sir, I am sorry +To tell you my master has sent again for you; +And has such a longing to have you his guest, +That I, with these ears, heard him swear and protest, +He would neither say grace, nor sit down on his bum, +Nor open his napkin, until you do come.' +With that I perceived no excuse would avail, +And, seeing there was no defence for a flail, +I said I was ready master may'r to obey, +And therefore desired him to lead me the way. +We went, and ere Malkin could well lick her ear, +(For it but the next door was, forsooth) we were there; +Where lights being brought me, I mounted the stairs, +The worst I e'er saw in my life at a mayor's: +But everything else must be highly commended. +I there found his worship most nobly attended, +Besides such a supper as well did convince, +A may'r in his province to be a great prince; +As he sat in his chair, he did not much vary, +In state nor in face, from our eighth English Harry; +But whether his face was swelled up with fat, +Or puffed up with glory, I cannot tell that. +Being entered the chamber half length of a pike, +And cutting of faces exceedingly like +One of those little gentlemen brought from the Indies, +And screwing myself into conges and cringes, +By then I was half-way advanced in the room, +His worship most rev'rendly rose from his bum, +And with the more honour to grace and to greet me, +Advanced a whole step and a half for to meet me; +Where leisurely doffing a hat worth a tester, +He bade me most heartily welcome to Chester. +I thanked him in language the best I was able, +And so we forthwith sat us all down to table. + +Now here you must note, and 'tis worth observation, +That as his chair at one end o' th' table had station; +So sweet mistress may'ress, in just such another, +Like the fair queen of hearts, sat in state at the other; +By which I perceived, though it seemed a riddle, +The lower end of this must be just in the middle: +But perhaps 'tis a rule there, and one that would mind it +Amongst the town-statutes 'tis likely might find it. +But now into the pottage each deep his spoon claps, +As in truth one might safely for burning one's chaps, +When straight, with the look and the tone of a scold, +Mistress may'ress complained that the pottage was cold; +'And all 'long of your fiddle-faddle,' quoth she. +'Why, what then, Goody Two-Shoes, what if it be? +Hold you, if you can, your tittle-tattle,' quoth he. +I was glad she was snapped thus, and guessed by th' discourse, +The may'r, not the gray mare, was the better horse, +And yet for all that, there is reason to fear, +She submitted but out of respect to his year: +However 'twas well she had now so much grace, +Though not to the man, to submit to his place; +For had she proceeded, I verily thought +My turn would the next be, for I was in fault: +But this brush being past, we fell to our diet, +And every one there filled his belly in quiet. +Supper being ended, and things away taken, +Master mayor's curiosity 'gan to awaken; +Wherefore making me draw something nearer his chair, +He willed and required me there to declare +My country, my birth, my estate, and my parts, +And whether I was not a master of arts; +And eke what the business was had brought me thither, +With what I was going about now, and whither: +Giving me caution, no lie should escape me, +For if I should trip, he should certainly trap me. +I answered, my country was famed Staffordshire; +That in deeds, bills, and bonds, I was ever writ squire; +That of land I had both sorts, some good, and some evil, +But that a great part on't was pawned to the devil; +That as for my parts, they were such as he saw; +That, indeed, I had a small smatt'ring of law, +Which I lately had got more by practice than reading, +By sitting o' th' bench, whilst others were pleading; +But that arms I had ever more studied than arts, +And was now to a captain raised by my deserts; +That the business which led me through Palatine ground +Into Ireland was, whither now I was bound; +Where his worship's great favour I loud will proclaim, +And in all other places wherever I came. +He said, as to that, I might do what I list, +But that I was welcome, and gave me his fist; +When having my fingers made crack with his gripes, +He called to his man for some bottles and pipes. + +To trouble you here with a longer narration +Of the several parts of our confabulation, +Perhaps would be tedious; I'll therefore remit ye +Even to the most rev'rend records of the city, +Where, doubtless, the acts of the may'rs are recorded, +And if not more truly, yet much better worded. + +In short, then, we piped and we tippled Canary, +Till my watch pointed one in the circle horary; +When thinking it now was high time to depart, +His worship I thanked with a most grateful heart; +And because to great men presents are acceptable, +I presented the may'r, ere I rose from the table, +With a certain fantastical box and a stopper; +And he having kindly accepted my offer, +I took my fair leave, such my visage adorning, +And to bed, for I was to rise early i' th' morning. + + +CANTO III. + +The sun in the morning disclosed his light, +With complexion as ruddy as mine over night; +And o'er th' eastern mountains peeping up's head, +The casement being open, espied me in bed; +With his rays he so tickled my lids that I waked, +And was half ashamed, for I found myself naked; +But up I soon start, and was dressed in a trice, +And called for a draught of ale, sugar, and spice; +Which having turned off, I then call to pay, +And packing my nawls, whipt to horse, and away. +A guide I had got, who demanded great vails, +For conducting me over the mountains of Wales: +Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is; +Yet that would not serve, but I must bear his charges; +And yet for all that, rode astride on a beast, +The worst that e'er went on three legs, I protest: +It certainly was the most ugly of jades, +His hips and his rump made a right ace of spades; +His sides were two ladders, well spur-galled withal; +His neck was a helve, and his head was a mall; +For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll spare, +For the creature was wholly denuded of hair; +And, except for two things, as bare as my nail, +A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail; +And by these the true colour one can no more know, +Than by mouse-skins above stairs, the merkin below. +Now such as the beast was, even such was the rider, +With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider; +A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, +The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat: +Even such was my guide and his beast; let them pass, +The one for a horse, and the other an ass. +But now with our horses, what sound and what rotten, +Down to the shore, you must know, we were gotten; +And there we were told, it concerned us to ride, +Unless we did mean to encounter the tide; +And then my guide lab'ring with heels and with hands, +With two up and one down, hopped over the sands, +Till his horse, finding the labour for three legs too sore, +Foaled out a new leg, and then he had four: +And now by plain dint of hard spurring and whipping, +Dry-shod we came where folks sometimes take shipping; +And where the salt sea, as the devil were in 't, +Came roaring t' have hindered our journey to Flint; +But we, by good luck, before him got thither, +He else would have carried us, no man knows whither. + +And now her in Wales is, Saint Taph be her speed, +Gott splutter her taste, some Welsh ale her had need; +For her ride in great haste, and * * +For fear of her being catched up by the fishes: +But the lord of Flint castle's no lord worth a louse, +For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his house; +But in a small house near unto 't there was store +Of such ale as, thank God, I ne'er tasted before; +And surely the Welsh are not wise of their fuddle, +For this had the taste and complexion of puddle. +From thence then we marched, full as dry as we came, +My guide before prancing, his steed no more lame, +O'er hills and o'er valleys uncouth and uneven, +Until 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven, +More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell, +We happily came to Saint Winifred's well: +I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been, +By the cripples lay there; but I went to my inn +To speak for some meat, for so stomach did motion, +Before I did further proceed in devotion: +I went into th' kitchen, where victuals I saw, +Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on 't was raw; +And some on't alive, but soon went to slaughter, +For four chickens were slain by my dame and her daughter; +Of which to Saint Win. ere my vows I had paid, +They said I should find a rare fricasee made: +I thanked them, and straight to the well did repair, +Where some I found cursing, and others at prayer; +Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some in, +Some naked, where botches and boils might be seen; +Of which some were fevers of Venus I'm sure, +And therefore unfit for the virgin to cure: +But the fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight, +The beautiful virgin's own tears not more bright; +Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear, +Her conscience, her name, nor herself, were more clear. +In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white, +But streaked with pure red, as the morning with light, +Which they say is her blood, and so it may be, +But for that, let who shed it look to it for me. +Over the fountain a chapel there stands, +Which I wonder has 'scaped master Oliver's hands; +The floor's not ill paved, and the margin o' th' spring +Is inclosed with a certain octagonal ring; +From each angle of which a pillar does rise, +Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice +To support and uphold from falling to ground +A cupola wherewith the virgin is crowned. +Now 'twixt the two angles that fork to the north, +And where the cold nymph does her basin pour forth, +Under ground is a place where they bathe, as 'tis said, +And 'tis true, for I heard folks' teeth hack in their head; +For you are to know, that the rogues and the * * +Are not let to pollute the spring-head with their sores. +But one thing I chiefly admired in the place, +That a saint and a virgin endued with such grace, +Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer +To that whoring and filching trade of a miller, +As within a few paces to furnish the wheels +Of I cannot tell how many water-mills: +I've studied that point much, you cannot guess why, +But the virgin was, doubtless, more righteous than I. +And now for my welcome, four, five, or six lasses, +With as many crystalline liberal glasses, +Did all importune me to drink of the water +Of Saint Winifreda, good Thewith's fair daughter. +A while I was doubtful, and stood in a muse, +Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to choose. +Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight, +From the rest o' th' fair maidens did carry me quite; +I took the glass from her, and whip, off it went, +I half doubt I fancied a health to the saint: +But he was a great villain committed the slaughter, +For Saint Winifred made most delicate water. +I slipped a hard shilling into her soft hand, +Which had like to have made me the place have profaned; +And giving two more to the poor that were there, +Did, sharp as a hawk, to my quarters repair. + +My dinner was ready, and to it I fell, +I never ate better meat, that I can tell; +When having half dined, there comes in my host, +A catholic good, and a rare drunken toast; +This man, by his drinking, inflamed the scot, +And told me strange stories, which I have forgot; +But this I remember, 'twas much on's own life, +And one thing, that he had converted his wife. + +But now my guide told me, it time was to go, +For that to our beds we must both ride and row; +Wherefore calling to pay, and having accounted, +I soon was down-stairs, and as suddenly mounted: +On then we travelled, our guide still before, +Sometimes on three legs, and sometimes on four, +Coasting the sea, and over hills crawling, +Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall in; +For underneath Neptune lay skulking to watch us, +And, had we but slipped once, was ready to catch us. +Thus in places of danger taking more heed, +And in safer travelling mending our speed: +Redland Castle and Abergoney we past, +And o'er against Connoway came at the last: +Just over against a castle there stood, +O' th' right hand the town, and o' th' left hand a wood; +'Twixt the wood and the castle they see at high water +The storm, the place makes it a dangerous matter; +And besides, upon such a steep rock it is founded, +As would break a man's neck, should he'scape being drowned: +Perhaps though in time one may make them to yield, +But 'tis prettiest Cob-castle e'er I beheld. + +The sun now was going t' unharness his steeds, +When the ferry-boat brasking her sides 'gainst the weeds, +Came in as good time as good time could be, +To give us a cast o'er an arm of the sea; +And bestowing our horses before and abaft, +O'er god Neptune's wide cod-piece gave us a waft; +Where scurvily landing at foot of the fort, +Within very few paces we entered the port, +Where another King's Head invited me down, +For indeed I have ever been true to the crown. + + + + +DR HENRY MORE. + + +This eminent man was the son of a gentleman of good family and estate +in Grantham, Lincolnshire. He was born in 1614. His father sent him to +study at Eton, and thence, in 1631, he repaired to Cambridge, where he +was destined to spend the most of his life. Philosophy attracted him +early, in preference to science or literature, and he became a follower +of Plato, so decided and enthusiastic as to gain for himself the title +of 'The Platonist' _par excellence_. In 1639, he graduated M.A.; and the +next year, he published the first part of 'Psychozoia; or, The Song of +the Soul,' containing a Christiano-Platonical account of Man and Life. +In preparing the materials of this poem, he had studied all the +principal Platonists and mystical writers, and is said to have read +himself almost to a shadow. And not only was his body emaciated, but +his mind was so overstrung, that he imagined himself to see spiritual +beings, to hear supernatural voices, and to converse, like Socrates, +with a particular genius. He thought, too, that his body 'exhaled the +perfume of violets!' Notwithstanding these little peculiarities, his +genius and his learning, the simplicity of his character, and the +innocence of his life, rendered him a general favourite; he was made +a fellow of his college, and became a tutor to various persons of +distinguished rank. One of these was Sir John Finch, whose sister, Lady +Conway, an enthusiast herself, brought More acquainted with the famous +John Baptist Van Helment, a man after whom, in the beginning of the +seventeenth century, the whole of Europe wondered. He was a follower and +imitator of Paracelsus, like him affected universal knowledge, aspired +to revolutionise the science of medicine, and died with the reputation +of one who, with great powers and acquirements, instead of becoming a +great man, ended as a brilliant pretender, and was rather an 'architect +of ruin' to the systems of others, than the founder of a solid fabric of +his own. More admired, of course, not the quackery, but the adventurous +boldness of Helment's genius, and his devotion to chemistry; which is +certainly the most spiritual of all the sciences, and must, especially +in its transcendental forms, have had a great charm for a Platonic +thinker. Our author was entirely devoted to study, and resisted every +inducement to leave what he called his 'Paradise' at Cambridge. His +friends once tried to decoy him into a bishopric, and got him the length +of Whitehall to kiss the king's hand on the occasion; but when he +understood their purpose, he refused to go a single step further. His +life was a long, learned, happy, and holy dream. He was of the most +benevolent disposition; and once observed to a friend, 'that he was +thought by some to have a soft head, but he thanked God he had a soft +heart.' In the heat of the Rebellion, the Republicans spared More, +although he had refused to take the Covenant. Campbell says of him, +'He corresponded with Descartes, was the friend of Cudworth, and, as a +divine and a moralist, was not only popular in his own time, but has +been mentioned with admiration both by Addison and Blair.' One is rather +amused at the latter clause. That a man of More's massive learning, +noble eloquence, and divine genius should need the testimony of a mere +elegant wordmonger like Blair, seems ludicrous enough; and Addison +himself, except in wit and humour, was not worthy to have untied the +shoelatchets of the old Platonist. We were first introduced to this +writer by good Dr John Brown, late of Broughton Place, Edinburgh, and +shall never forget hearing him, in his library, read some splendid +passages from More's work, in those deep, mellow, antique tones which +flavoured whatever he read, like the crust on old wine. His chief works +are, 'A Discourse on the Immortality of the Soul,' 'The Mystery of +Godliness,' 'The Mystery of Iniquity,' 'Divine Dialogues,' 'An Antidote +against Atheism,' 'Ethical and Metaphysical Manuals,' &c. In writing +such books, and pursuing the recondite studies of which they were the +fruit, More spent his life happily. In 1661, he became a Fellow of +the Royal Society. For twenty years after the Restoration, his works +are said to have sold better than any of their day--a curious and +unaccountable fact, considering the levity and licentiousness of the +period. In September 1687, the fine old spiritualist, aged seventy- +three, went away to that land of 'ideas' to which his heart had been +translated long before. + +More's prose writings give us, on the whole, a higher idea of his powers +than his poem. This is not exactly, as a recent critic calls it, 'dull +and tedious,' but it is in some parts prosaic, and in others obscure. +The gleams of fancy in it are genuine, but few and far between. But his +prose works constitute, like those of Cudworth, Charnock, Jeremy Taylor, +and John Scott, a vast old quarry, abounding both in blocks and in gems +--blocks of granite solidity, and gems of starry lustre. The peculiarity +of More is in that poetico-philosophic mist which, like the autumnal +gossamer, hangs in light and beautiful festoons over his thoughts, and +which suggests pleasing memories of Plato and the Alexandrian school. +Like all the followers of the Grecian sage, he dwells in a region of +'ideas,' which are to him the only realities, and are not cold, but +warm; he sees all things in Divine solution; the visible is lost in the +invisible, and nature retires before her God. Surely they are splendid +reveries those of the Platonic school; but it is sad to reflect that +they have not cast the slightest gleam of light on the dark, frightful, +faith-shattering mysteries which perplex all inquirers. The old shadows +of sin, death, damnation, evil, and hell, are found to darken the 'ideas' +of Plato's world quite as deeply as they do the actualities of this weary, +work-day earth, into which men have, for some inscrutable purpose, been +sent to be, on the whole, miserable,--so often to toil without compen- +sation, to suffer without benefit, and to hope without fulfilment. + + +OPENING OF SECOND PART OF 'PSYCHOZOIA.' + +1 Whatever man he be that dares to deem + True poets' skill to spring of earthly race, + I must him tell, that he doth mis-esteem + Their strange estate, and eke himself disgrace + By his rude ignorance. For there's no place + For forced labour, or slow industry, + Of flagging wits, in that high fiery chase; + So soon as of the Muse they quickened be, + At once they rise, and lively sing like lark in sky. + +2 Like to a meteor, whose material + Is low unwieldy earth, base unctuous slime, + Whose inward hidden parts ethereal + Lie close upwrapt in that dull sluggish fime, + Lie fast asleep, till at some fatal time + Great Phoebus' lamp has fired its inward sprite, + And then even of itself on high doth climb: + That erst was dark becomes all eye, all sight, + Bright star, that to the wise of future things gives light. + +3 Even so the weaker mind, that languid lies, + Knit up in rags of dirt, dark, cold, and blind, + So soon that purer flame of love unties + Her clogging chains, and doth her sprite unbind, + She soars aloft; for she herself doth find + Well plumed; so raised upon her spreaden wing, + She softly plays, and warbles in the wind, + And carols out her inward life and spring + Of overflowing joy, and of pure love doth sing. + + +EXORDIUM OF THIRD PART. + +1 Hence, hence, unhallowed ears, arid hearts more hard + Than winter clods fast froze with northern wind, + But most of all, foul tongue! I thee discard, + That blamest all that thy dark straitened mind + Cannot conceive: but that no blame thou find; + Whate'er my pregnant muse brings forth to light, + She'll not acknowledge to be of her kind, + Till eagle-like she turn them to the sight + Of the eternal Word, all decked with glory bright. + +2 Strange sights do straggle in my restless thoughts, + And lively forms with orient colours clad + Walk in my boundless mind, as men ybrought + Into some spacious room, who when they've had + A turn or two, go out, although unbade. + All these I see and know, but entertain + None to my friend but who's most sober sad; + Although, the time my roof doth them contain + Their presence doth possess me till they out again. + +3 And thus possessed, in silver trump I sound + Their guise, their shape, their gesture, and array; + But as in silver trumpet nought is found + When once the piercing sound is passed away, + (Though while the mighty blast therein did stay, + Its tearing noise so terribly did shrill, + That it the heavens did shake, and earth dismay,) + As empty I of what my flowing quill + In needless haste elsewhere, or here, may hap to spill. + +4 For 'tis of force, and not of a set will, + Nor dare my wary mind afford assent + To what is placed above all mortal skill; + But yet, our various thoughts to represent, + Each gentle wight will deem of good intent. + Wherefore, with leave the infinity I'll sing + Of time, of space; or without leave; I'm brent + With eager rage, my heart for joy doth spring, + And all my spirits move with pleasant trembeling. + +5 An inward triumph doth my soul upheave + And spread abroad through endless 'spersed air. + My nimble mind this clammy clod doth leave, + And lightly stepping on from star to star + Swifter than lightning, passeth wide and far, + Measuring the unbounded heavens and wasteful sky; + Nor aught she finds her passage to debar, + For still the azure orb as she draws nigh + Gives back, new stars appear, the world's walls 'fore her fly. + + +DESTRUCTION AND RENOVATION OF ALL THINGS. + +1 As the seas, + Boiling with swelling waves, aloft did rise, + And met with mighty showers and pouring rain + From heaven's spouts; so the broad flashing skies, + With brimstone thick and clouds of fiery bane, + Shall meet with raging Etna's and Vesuvius' flame. + +2 The burning bowels of this wasting ball + Shall gallup up great flakes of rolling fire, + And belch out pitchy flames, till over all + Having long raged, Vulcan himself shall tire, + And (the earth an ash-heap made) shall then expire: + Here Nature, laid asleep in her own urn, + With gentle rest right easily will respire, + Till to her pristine task she do return + As fresh as Phoenix young under the Arabian morn. + +3 Oh, happy they that then the first are born, + While yet the world is in her vernal pride; + For old corruption quite away is worn, + As metal pure so is her mould well tried. + Sweet dews, cool-breathing airs, and spaces wide + Of precious spicery, wafted with soft wind: + Fair comely bodies goodly beautified. + +4 For all the while her purged ashes rest, + These relics dry suck in the heavenly dew, + And roscid manna rains upon her breast, + And fills with sacred milk, sweet, fresh, and new, + Where all take life and doth the world renew; + And then renewed with pleasure be yfed. + A green, soft mantle doth her bosom strew + With fragrant herbs and flowers embellished, + Where without fault or shame all living creatures bed. + + +A DISTEMPERED FANCY. + +1 Then the wild fancy from her horrid womb + Will senden forth foul shapes. O dreadful sight! + Overgrown toads, fierce serpents, thence will come, + Red-scaled dragons, with deep burning light + In their hollow eye-pits: with these she must fight: + Then think herself ill wounded, sorely stung. + Old fulsome hags, with scabs and scurf bedight, + Foul tarry spittle tumbling with their tongue + On their raw leather lips, these near will to her clung, + +2 And lovingly salute against her will, + Closely embrace, and make her mad with woe: + She'd lever thousand times they did her kill, + Than force her such vile baseness undergo. + Anon some giant his huge self will show, + Gaping with mouth as vast as any cave, + With stony, staring eyes, and footing slow: + She surely deems him her live, walking grave, + From that dern hollow pit knows not herself to save. + +3 After a while, tossed on the ocean main, + A boundless sea she finds of misery; + The fiery snorts of the leviathan, + That makes the boiling waves before him fly, + She hears, she sees his blazing morn-bright eye: + If here she 'scape, deep gulfs and threatening rocks + Her frighted self do straightway terrify; + Steel-coloured clouds with rattling thunder knocks, + With these she is amazed, and thousand such-like mocks. + + +SOUL COMPARED TO A LANTERN. + +1 Like to a light fast locked in lantern dark, + Whereby by night our wary steps we guide + In slabby streets, and dirty channels mark, + Some weaker rays through the black top do glide, + And flusher streams perhaps from horny side. + But when we've passed the peril of the way, + Arrived at home, and laid that case aside, + The naked light how clearly doth it ray, + And spread its joyful beams as bright as summer's day. + +2 Even so, the soul, in this contracted state, + Confined to these strait instruments of sense, + More dull and narrowly doth operate. + At this hole hears, the sight must ray from thence, + Here tastes, there smells; but when she's gone from hence, + Like naked lamp, she is one shining sphere, + And round about has perfect cognoscence + Whate'er in her horizon doth appear: + She is one orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear. + + + + +WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE. + + +Chamberlayne was, during life, a poor man, and, till long after his +death, an unappreciated poet. He was a physician at Shaftesbury, +Dorsetshire; born in 1619, and died in 1689. He appears to have been +present among the Royalists at the battle of Newbury. He complains +bitterly of his narrow circumstances, and yet he lived to a long age. +He published, in 1658, a tragic comedy, entitled 'Love's Victory,' and +in 1659, 'Pharonnida,' a heroic poem. + +The latter is the main support of his literary reputation. It was +discovered to be good by Thomas Campbell, who might say, + + 'I was the first that ever burst + Into that silent sea.' + +Silent, however, it continues since, and can never be expected to be +thronged by visitors. The story is interesting, and many of the separate +thoughts, expressions, and passages are beautiful, as, for instance-- + + 'The scholar stews his catholic brains for food;' + +and this-- + + 'Harsh poverty, + That moth which frets the sacred robe of wit;' + +but the style is often elliptical and involved; the story meanders too +much, and is too long and intricate; and, on the whole, a few mutilated +fragments are all that are likely to remain of an original and highly +elaborate poem. + + +ARGALIA TAKEN PRISONER BY THE TURKS. + + * * The Turks had ought +Made desperate onslaughts on the isle, but brought +Nought back but wounds and infamy; but now, +Wearied with toil, they are resolved to bow +Their stubborn resolutions with the strength +Of not-to-be-resisted want: the length +Of the chronical disease extended had +To some few months, since to oppress the sad +But constant islanders, the army lay, +Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious stay +From battle rusts the soldier's valour in +His tainted cabin, there had often been, +With all variety of fortune, fought +Brave single combats, whose success had brought +Honour's unwithered laurels on the brow +Of either party; but the balance, now +Forced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclined +Wholly to them. Thrice had his valour shined +In victory's refulgent rays, thrice heard +The shouts of conquest; thrice on his lance appeared +The heads of noble Rhodians, which had struck +A general sorrow 'mongst the knights. All look +Who next the lists should enter; each desires +The task were his, but honour now requires +A spirit more than vulgar, or she dies +The next attempt, their valour's sacrifice; +To prop whose ruins, chosen by the free +Consent of all, Argalia comes to be +Their happy champion. Truce proclaimed, until +The combat ends, the expecting people fill +The spacious battlements; the Turks forsake +Their tents, of whom the city ladies take +A dreadful view, till a more noble sight +Diverts their looks; each part behold their knight +With various wishes, whilst in blood and sweat +They toil for victory. The conflict's heat +Raged in their veins, which honour more inflamed +Than burning calentures could do; both blamed +The feeble influence of their stars, that gave +No speedier conquest; each neglects to save +Himself, to seek advantage to offend +His eager foe * * * * +* * * But now so long +The Turks' proud champion had endured the strong +Assaults of the stout Christian, till his strength +Cooled, on the ground, with his blood--he fell at length, +Beneath his conquering sword. The barbarous crew +O' the villains that did at a distance view +Their champion's fall, all bands of truce forgot, +Running to succour him, begin a hot +And desperate combat with those knights that stand +To aid Argalia, by whose conquering hand +Whole squadrons of them fall, but here he spent +His mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rent +His scattered troops. + + * * * * * + +Argalia lies in chains, ordained to die +A sacrifice unto the cruelty +Of the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite in +The combat late he slew; yet had not been +In that so much unhappy, had not he +That honoured then his sword with victory, +Half-brother to Janusa been, a bright +But cruel lady, whose refined delight +Her slave (though husband), Ammurat, durst not +Ruffle with discontent; wherefore, to cool that hot +Contention of her blood, which he foresaw +That heavy news would from her anger draw, +To quench with the brave Christian's death, he sent +Him living to her, that her anger, spent +In flaming torments, might not settle in +The dregs of discontent. Staying to win +Some Rhodian castles, all the prisoners were +Sent with a guard into Sardinia, there +To meet their wretched thraldom. From the rest +Argalia severed, soon hopes to be bless'd +With speedy death, though waited on by all +The hell-instructed torments that could fall +Within invention's reach; but he's not yet +Arrived to his period, his unmoved stars sit +Thus in their orbs secured. It was the use +Of the Turkish pride, which triumphs in the abuse +Of suffering Christians, once, before they take +The ornaments of nature off, to make +Their prisoners public to the view, that all +Might mock their miseries: this sight did call +Janusa to her palace-window, where, +Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bear +Her ruin on her treacherous eye-beams, till +Her heart infected grew; their orbs did fill, +As the most pleasing object, with the sight +Of him whose sword opened a way for the flight +Of her loved brother's soul. + + + + +HENRY VAUGHAN. + + +Vaughan was torn in Wales, on the banks of the Uske, in Brecknockshire, +in 1614. His father was a gentleman, but, we presume, poor, as his son +was bred to a profession. Young Vaughan became first a lawyer, and then +a physician; and we suppose, had it not been for his advanced life, he +would have become latterly a clergyman, since he grew, when old, +exceedingly devout. In life, he was not fortunate, and we find him, like +Chamberlayne, complaining bitterly of the poverty of the poetical tribe. +In 1651, he published a volume of verse, in which nascent excellence +struggles with dim obscurities, like a young moon with heavy clouds. But +his 'Silex Scintillans,' or 'Sacred Poems,' produced in later life, +attests at once the depth of his devotion, and the truth and originality +of his genius. He died in 1695. + +Campbell, always prone to be rather severe on pious poets, and whose +taste, too, was finical at times, says of Vaughan--'He is one of the +harshest even of the inferior order of the school of conceit; but he has +some few scattered thoughts that meet the eye amidst his harsh pages, +like wild flowers on a barren heath.' Surely this is rather 'harsh' +judgment. At the same time, it is not a little laughable to find that +Campbell has himself appropriated one of these 'wild flowers.' In his +beautiful 'Rainbow,' he cries-- + + 'How came the world's gray fathers forth + To mark thy sacred sign!' + +Vaughan had said-- + + 'How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye, + Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry; + When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, + The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, + Did with intentive looks watch every hour + For thy new light, and trembled at each shower!' + +Indeed, all Campbell's 'Rainbow' is just a reflection of Vaughan's, and +reminds you of those faint, pale shadows of the heavenly bow you +sometimes see in the darkened and disarranged skies of spring. To steal +from, and then strike down the victim, is more suitable to robbers than +to poets. + +Perhaps the best criticism on Vaughan may be found in the title of his +own poems, 'Silex Scintillans.' He had a good deal of the dulness and +hardness of the flint about his mind, but the influence of poverty and +suffering,--for true it is that + + 'Wretched men + Are cradled into poetry by wrong; + They learn in suffering what they teach in song,'-- + +and latterly the power of a genuine, though somewhat narrow piety, +struck out glorious scintillations from the bare but rich rock. He ranks +with Crashaw, Quarles, and Herbert, as one of the best of our early +religious poets; like them in their faults, and superior to all of them +in refinement and beauty, if not in strength of genius. + + +ON A CHARNEL-HOUSE. + +Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast-tentered[1] hope, +Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope, +Whose stretched excess runs on a string too high, +And on the rack of self-extension die? +Chameleons of state, air-mongering[2] band, +Whose breath, like gunpowder, blows up a land, +Come, see your dissolution, and weigh +What a loathed nothing you shall be one day. +As the elements by circulation pass +From one to the other, and that which first was +Is so again, so 'tis with you. The grave +And nature but complete: what the one gave, +The other takes. Think, then, that in this bed +There sleep the relics of as proud a head, +As stern and subtle as your own; that hath +Performed or forced as much; whose tempest-wrath +Hath levelled kings with slaves; and wisely, then, +Calm these high furies, and descend to men. +Thus Cyrus tamed the Macedon; a tomb +Checked him who thought the world too strait a room. +Have I obeyed the powers of a face, +A beauty, able to undo the race +Of easy man? I look but here, and straight +I am informed; the lovely counterfeit +Was but a smoother clay. That famished slave, +Beggared by wealth, who starves that he may save, +Brings hither but his sheet. Nay, the ostrich-man, +That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can +Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough +To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff, +Is chapfallen here: worms, without wit or fear, +Defy him now; death has disarmed the bear. +Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score +Of erring men, and having done, meet more. +Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents, +Fantastic humours, perilous ascents, +False, empty honours, traitorous delights, +And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites,-- +But these, and more, which the weak vermins swell, +Are couched in this accumulative cell, +Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun +Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone: +Day leaves me in a double night, and I +Must bid farewell to my sad library, +Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of thee +I'll season all succeeding jollity, +Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit: +Excess hath no religion, nor wit; +But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, +One check from thee shall channel it again. + +[1] Vast-tentered: extended. +[2] Air-mongering: dealing in air or unsubstantial visions. + + +ON GOMBAULD'S ENDYMION. + +I've read thy soul's fair night-piece, and have seen +The amours and courtship of the silent queen; +Her stolen descents to earth, and what did move her +To juggle first with heaven, then with a lover; +With Latmos' louder rescue, and, alas! +To find her out, a hue and cry in brass; +Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad +Nocturnal pilgrimage; with thy dreams, clad +In fancies darker than thy cave; thy glass +Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass +In her calm voyage, what discourse she heard +Of spirits; what dark groves and ill-shaped guard +Ismena led thee through; with thy proud flight +O'er Periardes, and deep-musing night +Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green +The neighbour shades wear; and what forms are seen +In their large bowers; with that sad path and seat +Which none but light-heeled nymphs and fairies beat, +Their solitary life, and how exempt +From common frailty, the severe contempt +They have of man, their privilege to live +A tree or fountain, and in that reprieve +What ages they consume: with the sad vale +Of Diophania; and the mournful tale +Of the bleeding, vocal myrtle:--these and more, +Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score +To thy rare fancy for. Nor dost thou fall +From thy first majesty, or ought at all +Betray consumption. Thy full vigorous bays +Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays +Of style or matter; just as I have known +Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down +Derived her birth, in gentle murmurs steal +To the next vale, and proudly there reveal +Her streams in louder accents, adding still +More noise and waters to her channel, till +At last, swollen with increase, she glides along +The lawns and meadows, in a wanton throng +Of frothy billows, and in one great name +Swallows the tributary brooks' drowned fame. +Nor are they mere inventions, for we +In the same piece find scattered philosophy, +And hidden, dispersed truths, that folded lie +In the dark shades of deep allegory, +So neatly weaved, like arras, they descry +Fables with truth, fancy with history. +So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould, +Cast that commended mixture wished of old, +Which shall these contemplations render far +Less mutable, and lasting as their star; +And while there is a people, or a sun, +Endymion's story with the moon shall run. + + +APOSTROPHE TO FLETCHER THE DRAMATIST. + +I did believe, great Beaumont being dead, +Thy widowed muse slept on his flowery bed. +But I am richly cozened, and can see +Wit transmigrates--his spirit stayed with thee; +Which, doubly advantaged by thy single pen, +In life and death now treads the stage again. +And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit +Which starved the land, since into schisms split, +Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess +Wit's last edition is now i' the press. +For thou hast drained invention, and he +That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee. +But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain +At the designs of such a tragic brain? +Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see +Thy most abominable policy? +Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit +Their synod fast and pray against thy wit? +But they'll not tire in such an idle quest-- +Thou dost but kill and circumvent in jest; +And when thy angered muse swells to a blow, +Tis but for Field's or Swansteed's overthrow. +Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive +Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve +The peace of spirits; and when such deeds fail +Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail. +But, happy! thou ne'er saw'st these storms our air +Teemed with, even in thy time, though seeming fair. +Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease +Withdrew betimes into the land of peace. +So, nested in some hospitable shore, +The hermit-angler, when the mid seas roar, +Packs up his lines, and ere the tempest raves, +Retires, and leaves his station to the waves. +Thus thou diedst almost with our peace; and we, +This breathing time, thy last fair issue see, +Which I think such, if needless ink not soil +So choice a muse, others are but thy foil; +This or that age may write, but never see +A wit that dares run parallel with thee. +True Ben must live; but bate him, and thou hast +Undone all future wits, and matched the past. + + +PICTURE OF THE TOWN. + +Abominable face of things!--here's noise +Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys, +Pigs, dogs, and drums; with the hoarse, hellish notes +Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats; +With new fine worships, and the old cast team +Of justices, vexed with the cough and phlegm. +'Midst these, the cross looks sad; and in the shire- +Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, +With brotherly rufts and beards, and a strange sight +Of high, monumental hats, ta'en at the fight +Of Eighty-eight; while every burgess foots +The mortal pavement in eternal boots. +Hadst thou been bachelor, I had soon divined +Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; +Perhaps some nymph had been to visit; or +The beauteous churl was to be waited for, +And, like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, +You stayed and stroked the distaff for a kiss. + + * * * * * + +Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus, +Thy memory will scarce remain with us. +The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim +They have not seen thee here since Charles' reign; +Or, if they mention thee, like some old man +That at each word inserts--Sir, as I can +Remember--so the cipherers puzzle me +With a dark, cloudy character of thee; +That, certes, I fear thou wilt be lost, and we +Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee. +Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine +And precious wit lie dead for want of thine. +Shall the dull market landlord, with his rout +Of sneaking tenants, dirtily swill out +This harmless liquor shall they knock and beat +For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat? +Oh, let not such preposterous tippling be; +In our metropolis, may I ne'er see +Such tavern sacrilege, nor lend a line +To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine! +Here lives that chemic quick-fire, which betrays +Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays; +I have reserved, 'gainst thy approach, a cup, +That, were thy muse stark dead, should raise her up, +And teach her yet more charming words and skill, +Than ever Coelia, Chloris, Astrophil, +Or any of the threadbare names inspired +Poor rhyming lovers, with a mistress fired. +Come, then, and while the snow-icicle hangs +At the stiff thatch, and winter's frosty fangs +Benumb the year, blithe as of old, let us, +'Midst noise and war, of peace and mirth discuss. +This portion thou wert born for: why should we +Vex at the times' ridiculous misery? +An age that thus hath fooled itself, and will, +Spite of thy teeth and mine, persist so still. +Let's sit, then, at this fire, and while we steal +A revel in the town, let others seal, +Purchase, or cheat, and who can, let them pay, +Till those black deeds bring on a darksome day. +Innocent spenders we! A better use +Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse +Rout to their husks: they and their bags, at best, +Have cares in earnest--we care for a jest. + + +THE GOLDEN AGE. + +Happy that first white age! when we +Lived by the earth's mere charity; +No soft luxurious diet then +Had effeminated men-- +No other meat nor wine had any +Than the coarse mast, or simple honey; +And, by the parents' care laid up, +Cheap berries did the children sup. +No pompous wear was in those days, +Of gummy silks, or scarlet baize. +Their beds were on some flowery brink, +And clear spring water was their drink. +The shady pine, in the sun's heat, +Was their cool and known retreat; +For then 'twas not cut down, but stood +The youth and glory of the wood. +The daring sailor with his slaves +Then had not cut the swelling waves, +Nor, for desire of foreign store, +Seen any but his native shore. +No stirring drum had scared that age, +Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage; +No wounds, by bitter hatred made, +With warm blood soiled the shining blade; +For how could hostile madness arm +An age of love to public harm, +When common justice none withstood, +Nor sought rewards for spilling blood? +Oh that at length our age would raise +Into the temper of those days! +But--worse than Aetna's fires!--debate +And avarice inflame our state. +Alas! who was it that first found +Gold hid of purpose under ground-- +That sought out pearls, and dived to find +Such precious perils for mankind? + + +REGENERATION. + +1 A ward, and still in bonds, one day + I stole abroad; + It was high spring, and all the way + Primrosed, and hung with shade; + Yet was it frost within, + And surly wind + Blasted my infant buds, and sin, + Like clouds, eclipsed my mind. + +2 Stormed thus, I straight perceived my spring + Mere stage and show, + My walk a monstrous, mountained thing, + Rough-cast with rocks and snow; + And as a pilgrim's eye, + Far from relief, + Measures the melancholy sky, + Then drops, and rains for grief, + +3 So sighed I upwards still; at last, + 'Twixt steps and falls, + I reached the pinnacle, where placed + I found a pair of scales; + I took them up, and laid + In the one late pains, + The other smoke and pleasures weighed, + But proved the heavier grains. + +4 With that some cried, Away; straight I + Obeyed, and led + Full east, a fair, fresh field could spy-- + Some called it Jacob's Bed-- + A virgin soil, which no + Rude feet e'er trod, + Where, since he stept there, only go + Prophets and friends of God. + +5 Here I reposed, but scarce well set, + A grove descried + Of stately height, whose branches met + And mixed on every side; + I entered, and, once in, + (Amazed to see 't;) + Found all was changed, and a new spring + Did all my senses greet. + +6 The unthrift sun shot vital gold + A thousand pieces, + And heaven its azure did unfold, + Chequered with snowy fleeces. + The air was all in spice, + And every bush + A garland wore; thus fed my eyes, + But all the ear lay hush. + +7 Only a little fountain lent + Some use for ears, + And on the dumb shades language spent, + The music of her tears; + I drew her near, and found + The cistern full + Of divers stones, some bright and round, + Others ill-shaped and dull. + +8 The first, (pray mark,) as quick as light + Danced through the flood; + But the last, more heavy than the night, + Nailed to the centre stood; + I wondered much, but tired + At last with thought, + My restless eye, that still desired, + As strange an object brought. + +9 It was a bank of flowers, where I descried + (Though 'twas mid-day) + Some fast asleep, others broad-eyed + And taking in the ray; + Here musing long I heard + A rushing wind, + Which still increased, but whence it stirred, + Nowhere I could not find. + +10 I turned me round, and to each shade + Despatched an eye, + To see if any leaf had made + Least motion or reply; + But while I, listening, sought + My mind to ease + By knowing where 'twas, or where not, + It whispered, 'Where I please.' + + 'Lord,' then said I, 'on me one breath, + And let me die before my death!' + +'Arise, O north, and come, thou south wind; and blow upon my garden, +that the spices thereof may flow out.'--CANT. iv. 16. + + +RESURRECTION AND IMMORTALITY. + +'By that new and living way, which he hath prepared for us, through the +veil, which is his flesh.'--HEB. x. 20. + +BODY. + +1 Oft have I seen, when that renewing breath + That binds and loosens death + Inspired a quickening power through the dead + Creatures abed, + Some drowrsy silk-worm creep + From that long sleep, + And in weak, infant hummings chime and knell + About her silent cell, + Until at last, full with the vital ray, + She winged away, + And, proud with life and sense, + Heaven's rich expense, + Esteemed (vain things!) of two whole elements + As mean, and span-extents. + Shall I then think such providence will be + Less friend to me, + Or that he can endure to be unjust + Who keeps his covenant even with our dust? + +SOUL + +2 Poor querulous handful! was't for this + I taught thee all that is? + Unbowelled nature, showed thee her recruits, + And change of suits, + And how of death we make + A mere mistake; + For no thing can-to nothing fall, but still + Incorporates by skill, + And then returns, and from the womb of things + Such treasure brings, + As pheenix-like renew'th + Both life and youth; + For a preserving spirit doth still pass + Untainted through this mass, + Which doth resolve, produce, and ripen all + That to it fall; + Nor are those births, which we + Thus suffering see, + Destroyed at all; but when time's restless wave + Their substance doth deprave, + And the more noble essence finds his house + Sickly and loose, + He, ever young, doth wing + Unto that spring + And source of spirits, where he takes his lot, + Till time no more shall rot + His passive cottage; which, (though laid aside,) + Like some spruce bride, + Shall one day rise, and, clothed with shining light, + All pure and bright, + Remarry to the soul, for'tis most plain + Thou only fall'st to be refined again. + +3 Then I that here saw darkly in a glass + But mists and shadows pass, + And, by their own weak shine, did search the springs + And course of things, + Shall with enlightened rays + Pierce all their ways; + And as thou saw'st, I in a thought could go + To heaven or earth below, + To read some star, or mineral, and in state + There often sate; + So shalt thou then with me, + Both winged and free, + Rove in that mighty and eternal light, + Where no rude shade or night + Shall dare approach us; we shall there no more + Watch stars, or pore + Through melancholy clouds, and say, + 'Would it were day!' + One everlasting Sabbath there shall run + Without succession, and without a sun. + +'But go thou thy way until the end be: for thou shalt rest, and stand +in thy lot at the end of the days.'--DAN. xii. 13. + + +THE SEARCH. + +'Tis now clear day: I see a rose +Bud in the bright east, and disclose +The pilgrim-sun. All night have I +Spent in a roving ecstasy +To find my Saviour. I have been +As far as Bethlehem, and have seen +His inn and cradle; being there +I met the wise men, asked them where +He might be found, or what star can +Now point him out, grown up a man? +To Egypt hence I fled, ran o'er +All her parched bosom to Nile's shore, +Her yearly nurse; came back, inquired +Amongst the doctors, and desired +To see the temple, but was shown +A little dust, and for the town +A heap of ashes, where, some said, +A small bright sparkle was abed, +Which would one day (beneath the pole) +Awake, and then refine the whole. + +Tired here, I came to Sychar, thence +To Jacob's well, bequeathed since +Unto his sons, where often they, +In those calm, golden evenings, lay +Watering their flocks, and having spent +Those white days, drove home to the tent +Their well-fleeced train; and here (O fate!) +I sit where once my Saviour sate. +The angry spring in bubbles swelled, +Which broke in sighs still, as they filled, +And whispered, Jesus had been there, +But Jacob's children would not hear. +Loth hence to part, at last I rise, +But with the fountain in mine eyes, +And here a fresh search is decreed: +He must be found where he did bleed. +I walk the garden, and there see +Ideas of his agony, +And moving anguishments, that set +His blest face in a bloody sweat; +I climbed the hill, perused the cross, +Hung with my gain, and his great loss: +Never did tree bear fruit like this, +Balsam of souls, the body's bliss. +But, O his grave! where I saw lent +(For he had none) a monument, +An undefiled, a new-hewed one, +But there was not the Corner-stone. +Sure then, said I, my quest is vain, +He'll not be found where he was slain; +So mild a Lamb can never be +'Midst so much blood and cruelty. +I'll to the wilderness, and can +Find beasts more merciful than man; +He lived there safe, 'twas his retreat +From the fierce Jew, and Herod's heat, +And forty days withstood the fell +And high temptations of hell; +With seraphim there talked he, +His Father's flaming ministry, +He heavened their walks, and with his eyes +Made those wild shades a paradise. +Thus was the desert sanctified +To be the refuge of his bride. +I'll thither then; see, it is day! +The sun's broke through to guide my way. + +But as I urged thus, and writ down +What pleasures should my journey crown, +What silent paths, what shades and cells, +Fair virgin-flowers and hallowed wells, +I should rove in, and rest my head +Where my dear Lord did often tread, +Sugaring all dangers with success, +Methought I heard one singing thus: + + +1 Leave, leave thy gadding thoughts; + Who pores + And spies + Still out of doors, + Descries + Within them nought. + +2 The skin and shell of things, + Though fair, + Are not + Thy wish nor prayer, + But got + By mere despair + Of wings. + +3 To rack old elements, + Or dust, + And say, + Sure here he must + Needs stay, + Is not the way, + Nor just. + +Search well another world; who studies this, +Travels in clouds, seeks manna where none is. + +'That they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, +and find him, though he be not far off from every one of us: for in +him we live, and move, and have our being.'--ACTS xvii. 27, 28. + + +ISAAC'S MARRIAGE. + +'And Isaac went out to pray in the field at the eventide, and he +lifted up his eyes, and saw, and, behold, the camels were coming.' +--GEN. xxiv. 63. + +Praying! and to be married! It was rare, +But now 'tis monstrous; and that pious care +Though of ourselves, is so much out of date, +That to renew't were to degenerate. +But thou a chosen sacrifice wert given, +And offered up so early unto Heaven, +Thy flames could not be out; religion was +Hayed into thee like beams into a glass; +Where, as thou grew'st, it multiplied, and shined +The sacred constellation of thy mind. + +But being for a bride, prayer was such +A decried course, sure it prevailed not much. +Hadst ne'er an oath nor compliment? thou wert +An odd, dull suitor; hadst thou but the art +Of these our days, thou couldst have coined thee twenty +New several oaths, and compliments, too, plenty. +O sad and wild excess! and happy those +White days, that durst no impious mirth expose: +When conscience by lewd use had not lost sense, +Nor bold-faced custom banished innocence! +Thou hadst no pompous train, nor antic crowd +Of young, gay swearers, with their needless, loud +Retinue; all was here smooth as thy bride, +And calm like her, or that mild evening-tide. +Yet hadst thou nobler guests: angels did wind +And rove about thee, guardians of thy mind; +These fetched thee home thy bride, and all the way +Advised thy servant what to do and say; +These taught him at the well, and thither brought +The chaste and lovely object of thy thought. +But here was ne'er a compliment, not one +Spruce, supple cringe, or studied look put on. +All was plain, modest truth: nor did she come +In rolls and curls, mincing and stately dumb; +But in a virgin's native blush and fears, +Fresh as those roses which the day-spring wears. +O sweet, divine simplicity! O grace +Beyond a curled lock or painted face! +A pitcher too she had, nor thought it much +To carry that, which some would scorn to touch; +With, which in mild, chaste language she did woo +To draw him drink, and for his camels too. + +And now thou knew'st her coming, it was time +To get thee wings on, and devoutly climb +Unto thy God; for marriage of all states +Makes most unhappy, or most fortunates. +This brought thee forth, where now thou didst undress +Thy soul, and with new pinions refresh +Her wearied wings, which, so restored, did fly +Above the stars, a track unknown and high; +And in her piercing flight perfumed the air, +Scattering the myrrh and incense of thy prayer. +So from Lahai-roi[1]'s well some spicy cloud, +Wooed by the sun, swells up to be his shroud, +And from her moist womb weeps a fragrant shower, +Which, scattered in a thousand pearls, each flower +And herb partakes; where having stood awhile, +And something cooled the parched and thirsty isle, +The thankful earth unlocks herself, and blends +A thousand odours, which, all mixed, she sends +Up in one cloud, and so returns the skies +That dew they lent, a breathing sacrifice. + +Thus soared thy soul, who, though young, didst inherit +Together with his blood thy father's spirit, +Whose active zeal and tried faith were to thee +Familiar ever since thy infancy. +Others were timed and trained up to't, but thou +Didst thy swift years in piety outgrow. +Age made them reverend and a snowy head, +But thou wert so, ere time his snow could shed. +Then who would truly limn thee out must paint +First a young patriarch, then a married saint. + +[1] 'Lahai-roi:' a well in the south country where Jacob dwelt, between +Kadesh and Bered; _Heb.,_ The well of him that liveth and seeth me. + + +MAN'S FALL AND RECOVERY. + +Farewell, you everlasting hills! I'm cast +Here under clouds, where storms and tempests blast + This sullied flower, +Robbed of your calm; nor can I ever make, +Transplanted thus, one leaf of his t'awake; + But every hour +He sleeps and droops; and in this drowsy state +Leaves me a slave to passions and my fate. + Besides I've lost +A train of lights, which in those sunshine days +Were my sure guides; and only with me stays, + Unto my cost, +One sullen beam, whose charge is to dispense +More punishment than knowledge to my sense. + Two thousand years +I sojourned thus. At last Jeshurun's king +Those famous tables did from Sinai bring. + These swelled my fears, +Guilts, trespasses, and all this inward awe; +For sin took strength and vigour from the law. + Yet have I found +A plenteous way, (thanks to that Holy One!) +To cancel all that e'er was writ in stone. + His saving wound +Wept blood that broke this adamant, and gave +To sinners confidence, life to the grave. + This makes me span +My fathers' journeys, and in one fair step +O'er all their pilgrimage and labours leap. + For God, made man, +Reduced the extent of works of faith; so made +Of their Red Sea a spring: I wash, they wade. + +'As by the offence of one the fault came on all men to condemnation; +so by the righteousness of one, the benefit abounded towards all men +to the justification of life.'--ROM. v. 18. + + +THE SHOWER. + +1 'Twas so; I saw thy birth. That drowsy lake + From her faint bosom breathed thee, the disease + Of her sick waters, and infectious ease. + But now at even, + Too gross for heaven, + Thou fall'st in tears, and weep'st for thy mistake. + +2 Ah! it is so with me; oft have I pressed + Heaven with a lazy breath; but fruitless this + Pierced not; love only can with quick access + Unlock the way, + When all else stray, + The smoke and exhalations of the breast. + +3 Yet if, as thou dost melt, and, with thy train + Of drops, make soft the earth, my eyes could weep + O'er my hard heart, that's bound up and asleep, + Perhaps at last, + Some such showers past, + My God would give a sunshine after rain. + + +BURIAL. + +1 O thou! the first-fruits of the dead, + And their dark bed, + When I am cast into that deep + And senseless sleep, + The wages of my sin, + O then, + Thou great Preserver of all men, + Watch o'er that loose + And empty house, + Which I sometime lived in! + +2 It is in truth a ruined piece, + Not worth thy eyes; + And scarce a room, but wind and rain + Beat through and stain + The seats and cells within; + Yet thou, + Led by thy love, wouldst stoop thus low, + And in this cot, + All filth and spot, + Didst with thy servant inn. + +3 And nothing can, I hourly see, + Drive thee from me. + Thou art the same, faithful and just, + In life or dust. + Though then, thus crumbed, I stray + In blasts, + Or exhalations, and wastes, + Beyond all eyes, + Yet thy love spies + That change, and knows thy clay. + +4 The world's thy box: how then, there tossed, + Can I be lost? + But the delay is all; Time now + Is old and slow; + His wings are dull and sickly. + Yet he + Thy servant is, and waits on thee. + Cut then the sum, + Lord, haste, Lord, come, + O come, Lord Jesus, quickly! + +'And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the first-fruits of +the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.'--ROM. viii. 23. + + +CHEERFULNESS. + +1 Lord, with what courage and delight + I do each thing, + When thy least breath sustains my wing! + I shine and move + Like those above, + And, with much gladness + Quitting sadness, + Make me fair days of every night. + +2 Affliction thus mere pleasure is; + And hap what will, + If thou be in't,'tis welcome still. + But since thy rays + In sunny days + Thou dost thus lend, + And freely spend, + Ah! what shall I return for this? + +3 Oh that I were all soul! that thou + Wouldst make each part + Of this poor sinful frame pure heart! + Then would I drown + My single one; + And to thy praise + A concert raise + Of hallelujahs here below. + + +THE PASSION. + +1 O my chief good! + My dear, dear God! + When thy blest blood + Did issue forth, forced by the rod, + What pain didst thou + Feel in each blow! + How didst thou weep, + And thyself steep + In thy own precious, saving tears! + What cruel smart + Did tear thy heart! + How didst thou groan it + In the spirit, + O thou whom my soul loves and fears! + +2 Most blessed Vine! + Whose juice so good + I feel as wine, + But thy fair branches felt as blood, + How wert thou pressed + To be my feast! + In what deep anguish + Didst thou languish! + What springs of sweat and blood did drown thee! + How in one path + Did the full wrath + Of thy great Father + Crowd and gather, + Doubling thy griefs, when none would own thee! + +3 How did the weight + Of all our sins, + And death unite + To wrench and rack thy blessed limbs! + How pale and bloody + Looked thy body! + How bruised and broke, + With every stroke! + How meek and patient was thy spirit! + How didst thou cry, + And groan on high, + 'Father, forgive, + And let them live! + I die to make my foes inherit!' + +4 O blessed Lamb! + That took'st my sin, + That took'st my shame, + How shall thy dust thy praises sing? + I would I were + One hearty tear! + One constant spring! + Then would I bring + Thee two small mites, and be at strife + Which should most vie, + My heart or eye, + Teaching my years + In smiles and tears + To weep, to sing, thy death, my life. + + +RULES AND LESSONS. + +1 When first thy eyes unvail, give thy soul leave + To do the like; our bodies but forerun + The spirit's duty. True hearts spread and heave + Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun. + Give him thy first thoughts then; so shalt thou keep + Him company all day, and in him sleep. + +2 Yet never sleep the sun up. Prayer should + Dawn with the day. There are set, awful hours + 'Twixt Heaven and us. The manna was not good + After sun-rising; far-day sullies flowers. + Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, + And heaven's gate opens when this world's is shut. + +3 Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush + And whispers amongst them. There's not a spring + Or leaf but hath his morning-hymn. Each bush + And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing? + Oh, leave thy cares and follies! go this way, + And thou art sure to prosper all the day. + +4 Serve God before the world; let him not go + Until thou hast a blessing; then resign + The whole unto him, and remember who + Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine; + Pour oil upon the stones; weep for thy sin; + Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. + +5 Mornings are mysteries; the first world's youth, + Man's resurrection and the future's bud + Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth + Is styled their star, the stone, and hidden food. + Three blessings wait upon them, two of which + Should move. They make us holy, happy, rich. + +6 When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, + Keep thou thy temper; mix not with each clay; + Despatch necessities; life hath a load + Which must be carried on, and safely may. + Yet keep those cares without thee, let the heart + Be God's alone, and choose the better part. + +7 Through all thy actions, counsels, and discourse, + Let mildness and religion guide thee out; + If truth be thine, what needs a brutish force? + But what's not good and just ne'er go about. + Wrong not thy conscience for a rotten stick; + That gain is dreadful which makes spirits sick. + +8 To God, thy country, and thy friend be true; + If priest and people change, keep thou thy ground. + Who sells religion is a Judas Jew; + And, oaths once broke, the soul cannot be sound. + The perjurer's a devil let loose: what can + Tie up his hands that dares mock God and man? + +9 Seek not the same steps with the crowd; stick thou + To thy sure trot; a constant, humble mind + Is both his own joy, and his Maker's too; + Let folly dust it on, or lag behind. + A sweet self-privacy in a right soul + Outruns the earth, and lines the utmost pole. + +10 To all that seek thee bear an open heart; + Make not thy breast a labyrinth or trap; + If trials come, this will make good thy part, + For honesty is safe, come what can hap; + It is the good man's feast, the prince of flowers, + Which thrives in storms, and smells best after showers. + +11 Seal not thy eyes up from the poor, but give + Proportion to their merits, and thy purse; + Thou may'st in rags a mighty prince relieve, + Who, when thy sins call for't, can fence a curse. + Thou shalt not lose one mite. Though waters stray, + The bread we cast returns in fraughts one day. + +12 Spend not an hour so as to weep another, + For tears are not thine own; if thou giv'st words, + Dash not with them thy friend, nor Heaven; oh, smother + A viperous thought; some syllables are swords. + Unbitted tongues are in their penance double; + They shame their owners, and their hearers trouble. + +13 Injure not modest blood, while spirits rise + In judgment against lewdness; that's base wit + That voids but filth and stench. Hast thou no prize + But sickness or infection? stifle it. + Who makes his jest of sins, must be at least, + If not a very devil, worse than beast. + +14 Yet fly no friend, if he be such indeed; + But meet to quench his longings, and thy thirst; + Allow your joys, religion: that done, speed, + And bring the same man back thou wert at first. + Who so returns not, cannot pray aright, + But shuts his door, and leaves God out all night. + +15 To heighten thy devotions, and keep low + All mutinous thoughts, what business e'er thou hast, + Observe God in his works; here fountains flow, + Birds sing, beasts feed, fish leap, and the earth stands fast; + Above are restless motions, running lights, + Vast circling azure, giddy clouds, days, nights. + +16 When seasons change, then lay before thine eyes + His wondrous method; mark the various scenes + In heaven; hail, thunder, rainbows, snow, and ice, + Calms, tempests, light, and darkness, by his means; + Thou canst not miss his praise; each tree, herb, flower + Are shadows of his wisdom and his power. + +17 To meals when thou dost come, give him the praise + Whose arm supplied thee; take what may suffice, + And then be thankful; oh, admire his ways + Who fills the world's unemptied granaries! + A thankless feeder is a thief, his feast + A very robbery, and himself no guest. + +18 High-noon thus past, thy time decays; provide + Thee other thoughts; away with friends and mirth; + The sun now stoops, and hastes his beams to hide + Under the dark and melancholy earth. + All but preludes thy end. Thou art the man + Whose rise, height, and descent is but a span. + +19 Yet, set as he doth, and 'tis well. Have all + Thy beams home with thee: trim thy lamp, buy oil, + And then set forth; who is thus dressed, the fall + Furthers his glory, and gives death the foil. + Man is a summer's day; whose youth and fire + Cool to a glorious evening, and expire. + +20 When night comes, list[1] thy deeds; make plain the way + 'Twixt heaven and thee; block it not with delays; + But perfect all before thou sleep'st; then say + 'There's one sun more strung on my bead of days.' + What's good score up for joy; the bad, well scanned, + Wash off with tears, and get thy Master's hand. + +21 Thy accounts thus made, spend in the grave one hour + Before thy time; be not a stranger there, + Where thou may'st sleep whole ages; life's poor flower + Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad spirits fear + This conversation; but the good man lies + Entombed many days before he dies. + +22 Being laid, and dressed for sleep, close not thy eyes + Up with thy curtains; give thy soul the wing + In some good thoughts; so, when the day shall rise, + And thou unrak'st thy fire, those sparks will bring + New flames; besides where these lodge, vain heats mourn + And die; that bush where God is shall not burn. + +23 When thy nap's over, stir thy fire, and rake + In that dead age; one beam i' the dark outvies + Two in the day; then from the damps and ache + Of night shut up thy leaves; be chaste; God pries + Through thickest nights; though then the sun be far, + Do thou the works of day, and rise a star. + +24 Briefly, do as thou wouldst be done unto, + Love God, and love thy neighbour; watch and pray. + These are the words and works of life; this do, + And live; who doth not thus, hath lost heaven's way. + Oh, lose it not! look up, wilt change those lights + For chains of darkness and eternal nights? + +[1] 'List:' weigh. + + +REPENTANCE. + +Lord, since thou didst in this vile clay + That sacred ray, +Thy Spirit, plant, quickening the whole + With that one grain's infused wealth, +My forward flesh crept on, and subtly stole + Both growth and power; checking the health +And heat of thine. That little gate + And narrow way, by which to thee +The passage is, he termed a grate + And entrance to captivity; +Thy laws but nets, where some small birds, + And those but seldom too, were caught; +Thy promises but empty words, + Which none but children heard or taught. +This I believed: and though a friend + Came oft from far, and whispered, No; +Yet, that not sorting to my end, + I wholly listened to my foe. +Wherefore, pierced through with grief, my sad, + Seduced soul sighs up to thee; +To thee, who with true light art clad, + And seest all things just as they be. +Look from thy throne upon this roll + Of heavy sins, my high transgressions, +Which I confess with all my soul; + My God, accept of my confession! + It was last day, +Touched with the guilt of my own way, +I sat alone, and taking up, + The bitter cup, +Through all thy fair and various store, +Sought out what might outvie my score. + The blades of grass thy creatures feeding; + The trees, their leaves; the flowers, their seeding; + The dust, of which I am a part; + The stones, much softer than my heart; + The drops of rain, the sighs of wind, + The stars, to which I am stark blind; + The dew thy herbs drink up by night, + The beams they warm them at i' the light; + All that have signature or life + I summoned to decide this strife; + And lest I should lack for arrears, + A spring ran by, I told her tears; + But when these came unto the scale, + My sins alone outweighed them all. + O my dear God! my life, my love! + Most blessed Lamb! and mildest Dove! + Forgive your penitent offender, + And no more his sins remember; + Scatter these shades of death, and give + Light to my soul, that it may live; + Cut me not off for my transgressions, + Wilful rebellions, and suppressions; + But give them in those streams a part + Whose spring is in my Saviour's heart. + Lord, I confess the heinous score, + And pray I may do so no more; + Though then all sinners I exceed, + Oh, think on this, thy Son did bleed! + Oh, call to mind his wounds, his woes, + His agony, and bloody throes; + Then look on all that thou hast made, + And mark how they do fail and fade; + The heavens themselves, though fair and bright, + Are dark and unclean in thy sight; + How then, with thee, can man be holy, + Who dost thine angels charge with folly? + Oh, what am I, that I should breed + Figs on a thorn, flowers on a weed? + I am the gourd of sin and sorrow, + Growing o'er night, and gone to-morrow. + In all this round of life and death + Nothing's more vile than is my breath; + Profaneness on my tongue doth rest, + Defects and darkness in my breast; + Pollutions all my body wed, + And even my soul to thee is dead; + Only in him, on whom I feast, + Both soul and body are well dressed; + His pure perfection quits all score, + And fills the boxes of his poor; +He is the centre of long life and light; +I am but finite, he is infinite. +Oh, let thy justice then in him confine, +And through his merits make thy mercy mine! + + +THE DAWNING. + +Ah! what time wilt thou come? when shall that cry, + 'The Bridegroom's coming!' fill the skyl? + Shall it in the evening run + When our words and works are done? + Or will thy all-surprising light + Break at midnight, + When either sleep or some dark pleasure + Possesseth mad man without measure? + Or shall these early, fragrant hours + Unlock thy bowers, + And with their blush of light descry + Thy locks crowned with eternity? + Indeed, it is the only time + That with thy glory doth best chime; + All now are stirring, every field + Full hymns doth yield; + The whole creation shakes off night, + And for thy shadow looks the light; + Stars now vanish without number, + Sleepy planets set and slumber, + The pursy clouds disband and scatter, + All expect some sudden matter; + Not one beam triumphs, but from far + That morning-star. + + Oh, at what time soever thou, + Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow, + And, with thy angels in the van, + Descend to judge poor careless man, + Grant I may not like puddle lie + In a corrupt security, + Where, if a traveller water crave, + He finds it dead, and in a grave. + But as this restless, vocal spring + All day and night doth run and sing, + And though here born, yet is acquainted + Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted; + So let me all my busy age + In thy free services engage; + And though, while here, of force I must + Have commerce sometimes with poor dust, + And in my flesh, though vile and low, + As this doth in her channel flow, + Yet let my course, my aim, my love, + And chief acquaintance be above; + So when that day and hour shall come + In which thyself will be the Sun, + Thou'lt find me dressed and on my way, + Watching the break of thy great day. + + +THE TEMPEST. + +1 How is man parcelled out! how every hour + Shows him himself, or something he should see! + This late, long heat may his instruction be; + And tempests have more in them than a shower. + + When nature on her bosom saw + Her infants die, + And all her flowers withered to straw, + Her breasts grown dry; + She made the earth, their nurse and tomb, + Sigh to the sky, + Till to those sighs, fetched from her womb, + Rain did reply; + So in the midst of all her fears + And faint requests, + Her earnest sighs procured her tears + And filled her breasts. + +2 Oh that man could do so! that he would hear + The world read to him! all the vast expense + In the creation shed and slaved to sense, + Makes up but lectures for his eye and ear. + +3 Sure mighty Love, foreseeing the descent + Of this poor creature, by a gracious art + Hid in these low things snares to gain his heart, + And laid surprises in each element. + +4 All things here show him heaven; waters that fall + Chide and fly up; mists of corruptest foam + Quit their first beds and mount; trees, herbs, flowers, all + Strive upwards still, and point him the way home. + +5 How do they cast off grossness? only earth + And man, like Issachar, in loads delight, + Water's refined to motion, air to light, + Fire to all three,[1] but man hath no such mirth. + +6 Plants in the root with earth do most comply, + Their leaves with water and humidity, + The flowers to air draw near and subtilty, + And seeds a kindred fire have with the sky. + +7 All have their keys and set ascents; but man + Though he knows these, and hath more of his own, + Sleeps at the ladder's foot; alas! what can + These new discoveries do, except they drown? + +8 Thus, grovelling in the shade and darkness, he + Sinks to a dead oblivion; and though all + He sees, like pyramids, shoot from this ball, + And lessening still, grow up invisibly, + +9 Yet hugs he still his dirt; the stuff he wears, + And painted trimming, takes down both his eyes; + Heaven hath less beauty than the dust he spies, + And money better music than the spheres. + +10 Life's but a blast; he knows it; what? shall straw + And bulrush-fetters temper his short hour? + Must he nor sip nor sing? grows ne'er a flower + To crown his temples? shall dreams be his law? + +11 O foolish man! how hast thou lost thy sight? + How is it that the sun to thee alone + Is grown thick darkness, and thy bread a stone? + Hath flesh no softness now? mid-day no light? + +12 Lord! thou didst put a soul here. If I must + Be broke again, for flints will give no fire + Without a steel, oh, let thy power clear + Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust! + +[1] 'All three:' light, motion, heat + + +THE WORLD. + +1 I saw eternity the other night, + Like a great ring of pure and endless light, + All calm, as it was bright; + And round beneath it, time, in hours, days, years, + Driven by the spheres, + Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world + And all her train were hurled. + The doting lover in his quaintest strain + Did there complain; + Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, + Wit's sour delights; + With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure, + Yet his dear treasure, + All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour + Upon a flower. + +2 The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe, + Like a thick midnight fog, moved there so slow, + He did nor stay, nor go; + Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses, scowl + Upon his soul, + And clouds of crying witnesses without + Pursued him with one shout. + Yet digged the mole, and, lest his ways be found, + Worked under ground, + Where he did clutch his prey. But one did see + That policy. + Churches and altars fed him; perjuries + Were gnats and flies; + It rained about him blood and tears; but he + Drank them as free. + +3 The fearful miser on a heap of rust + Sat pining all his life there, did scarce trust + His own hands with the dust, + Yet would not place one piece above, but lives + In fear of thieves. + Thousands there were as frantic as himself, + And hugged each one his pelf; + The downright epicure placed heaven in sense, + And scorned pretence; + While others, slipped into a wide excess, + Said little less; + The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave, + Who think them brave, + And poor, despised truth sat counting by + Their victory. + +4 Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, + And sing and weep, soared up into the ring; + But most would use no wing. + 'O fools,' said I,'thus to prefer dark night + Before true light! + To live in grots and caves, and hate the day + Because it shows the way, + The way, which from this dead and dark abode + Leads up to God, + A way where you might tread the sun, and be + More bright than he!' + But, as I did their madness so discuss, + One whispered thus, + 'This ring the bridegroom did for none provide, + But for his bride.' + + +'All that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, +and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And +the world passeth away, and the lusts thereof; but he that doeth the +will of God abideth for ever.'--1 JOHN ii. 16, 17. + + +THE CONSTELLATION. + +1 Fair, ordered lights, whose motion without noise + Resembles those true joys, + Whose spring is on that hill where you do grow, + And we here taste sometimes below. + +2 With what exact obedience do you move, + Now beneath, and now above! + And in your vast progressions overlook + The darkest night and closest nook! + +3 Some nights I see you in the gladsome east, + Some others near the west, + And when I cannot see, yet do you shine, + And beat about your endless line. + +4 Silence and light and watchfulness with you + Attend and wind the clue; + No sleep nor sloth assails you, but poor man + Still either sleeps, or slips his span. + +5 He gropes beneath here, and with restless care, + First makes, then hugs a snare; + Adores dead dust, sets heart on corn and grass, + But seldom doth make heaven his glass. + +6 Music and mirth, if there be music here, + Take up and tune his ear; + These things are kin to him, and must be had; + Who kneels, or sighs a life, is mad. + +7 Perhaps some nights he'll watch with you, and peep + When it were best to sleep; + Dares know effects, and judge them long before, + When the herb he treads knows much, much more. + +8 But seeks he your obedience, order, light, + Your calm and well-trained flight? + Where, though the glory differ in each star, + Yet is there peace still and no war. + +9 Since placed by him, who calls you by your names, + And fixed there all your flames, + Without command you never acted ought, + And then you in your courses fought. + +10 But here, commissioned by a black self-will, + The sons the father kill, + The children chase the mother, and would heal + The wounds they give by crying zeal. + +11 Then cast her blood and tears upon thy book, + Where they for fashion look; + And, like that lamb, which had the dragon's voice, + Seem mild, but are known by their noise. + +12 Thus by our lusts disordered into wars, + Our guides prove wandering stars, + Which for these mists and black days were reserved, + What time we from our first love swerved. + +13 Yet oh, for his sake who sits now by thee + All crowned with victory, + So guide us through this darkness, that we may + Be more and more in love with day! + +14 Settle and fix our hearts, that we may move + In order, peace, and love; + And, taught obedience by thy whole creation, + Become an humble, holy nation! + +15 Give to thy spouse her perfect and pure dress, + Beauty and holiness; + And so repair these rents, that men may see + And say, 'Where God is, all agree.' + + +MISERY. + +Lord, bind me up, and let me lie +A prisoner to my liberty, +If such a state at all can be +As an impris'ment serving thee; +The wind, though gathered in thy fist, +Yet doth it blow still where it list, +And yet shouldst thou let go thy hold, +Those gusts might quarrel and grow bold. + +As waters here, headlong and loose, +The lower grounds still chase and choose, +Where spreading ail the way they seek +And search out every hole and creek; +So my spilt thoughts, winding from thee, +Take the down-road to vanity, +Where they all stray, and strive which shall +Find out the first and steepest fall. +I cheer their flow, giving supply +To what's already grown too high, +And having thus performed that part, +Feed on those vomits of my heart. +I break the fence my own hands made +Then lay that trespass in the shade; +Some fig-leaves still I do devise, +As if thou hadst not ears nor eyes. +Excess of friends, of words, and wine +Take up my day, while thou dost shine +All unregarded, and thy book +Hath not so much as one poor look. +If thou steal in amidst the mirth +And kindly tell me, I am earth, +I shut thee out, and let that slip; +Such music spoils good fellowship. +Thus wretched I and most unkind, +Exclude my dear God from my mind, +Exclude him thence, who of that cell +Would make a court, should he there dwell. +He goes, he yields; and troubled sore +His Holy Spirit grieves therefore; +The mighty God, the eternal King +Doth grieve for dust, and dust doth sing. +But I go on, haste to divest +Myself of reason, till oppressed +And buried in my surfeits, I +Prove my own shame and misery. +Next day I call and cry for thee +Who shouldst not then come near to me; +But now it is thy servant's pleasure, +Thou must and dost give him his measure. +Thou dost, thou com'st, and in a shower +Of healing sweets thyself dost pour +Into my wounds; and now thy grace +(I know it well) fills all the place; +I sit with thee by this new light, +And for that hour thou'rt my delight; +No man can more the world despise, +Or thy great mercies better prize. +I school my eyes, and strictly dwell +Within the circle of my cell; +That calm and silence are my joys, +Which to thy peace are but mere noise. +At length I feel my head to ache, +My fingers itch, and burn to take +Some new employment, I begin +To swell and foam and fret within: + 'The age, the present times are not + To snudge in and embrace a cot; + Action and blood now get the game, + Disdain treads on the peaceful name; + Who sits at home too bears a load + Greater than those that gad abroad.' +Thus do I make thy gifts given me +The only quarrellers with thee; +I'd loose those knots thy hands did tie, +Then would go travel, fight, or die. +Thousands of wild and waste infusions +Like waves beat on my resolutions; +As flames about their fuel run, +And work and wind till all be done, +So my fierce soul bustles about, +And never rests till all be out. +Thus wilded by a peevish heart, +Which in thy music bears no part, +I storm at thee, calling my peace +A lethargy, and mere disease; +Nay those bright beams shot from thy eyes +To calm me in these mutinies, +I style mere tempers, which take place +At some set times, but are thy grace. + +Such is man's life, and such is mine, +The worst of men, and yet still thine, +Still thine, thou know'st, and if not so, +Then give me over to my foe. +Yet since as easy 'tis for thee +To make man good as bid him be, +And with one glance, could he that gain, +To look him out of all his pain, +Oh, send me from thy holy hill +So much of strength as may fulfil +All thy delights, whate'er they be, +And sacred institutes in me! +Open my rocky heart, and fill +It with obedience to thy will; +Then seal it up, that as none see, +So none may enter there but thee. + +Oh, hear, my God! hear him, whose blood +Speaks more and better for my good! +Oh, let my cry come to thy throne! +My cry not poured with tears alone, +(For tears alone are often foul,) +But with the blood of all my soul; +With spirit-sighs, and earnest groans, +Faithful and most repenting moans, +With these I cry, and crying pine, +Till thou both mend, and make me thine. + + +MOUNT OF OLIVES. + +When first I saw true beauty, and thy joys, +Active as light, and calm without all noise, +Shined on my soul, I felt through all my powers +Such a rich air of sweets, as evening showers, +Fanned by a gentle gale, convey, and breathe +On some parched bank, crowned with a flowery wreath; +Odours, and myrrh, and balm in one rich flood +O'erran my heart, and spirited my blood; +My thoughts did swim in comforts, and mine eye +Confessed, 'The world did only paint and lie.' +And where before I did no safe course steer, +But wandered under tempests all the year; +Went bleak and bare in body as in mind, +And was blown through by every storm and wind, +I am so warmed now by this glance on me, +That 'midst all storms I feel a ray of thee. +So have I known some beauteous passage rise +In sudden flowers and arbours to my eyes, +And in the depth and dead of winter bring +To my cold thoughts a lively sense of spring. + +Thus fed by thee, who dost all beings nourish, +My withered leaves again look green and flourish; +I shine and shelter underneath thy wing, +Where, sick with love, I strive thy name to sing; +Thy glorious name! which grant I may so do, +That these may be thy praise, and my joy too! + + +ASCENSION-DAY. + +Lord Jesus! with what sweetness and delights, +Sure, holy hopes, high joys, and quickening flights, +Dost thou feed thine! O thou! the hand that lifts +To him who gives all good and perfect gifts, +Thy glorious, bright ascension, though removed +So many ages from me, is so proved +And by thy Spirit sealed to me, that I +Feel me a sharer in thy victory! + I soar and rise + Up to the skies, + Leaving the world their day; + And in my flight + For the true light + Go seeking all the way; +I greet thy sepulchre, salute thy grave, +That blest enclosure, where the angels gave +The first glad tidings of thy early light, +And resurrection from the earth and night, +I see that morning in thy convert's[1] tears, +Fresh as the dew, which but this dawning wears. +I smell her spices; and her ointment yields +As rich a scent as the now primrosed fields. +The day-star smiles, and light with the deceased +Now shines in all the chambers of the east. +What stirs, what posting intercourse and mirth +Of saints and angels glorify the earth? +What sighs, what whispers, busy stops and stays, +Private and holy talk, fill all the ways? +They pass as at the last great day, and run +In their white robes to seek the risen Sun; +I see them, hear them, mark their haste, and move +Amongst them, with them, winged with faith and love. +Thy forty days' more secret commerce here +After thy death and funeral, so clear +And indisputable, shows to my sight +As the sun doth, which to those days gave light. +I walk the fields of Bethany, which shine +All now as fresh as Eden, and as fine. +Such was the bright world on the first seventh day, +Before man brought forth sin, and sin decay; +When like a virgin clad in flowers and green +The pure earth sat, and the fair woods had seen +No frost, but flourished in that youthful vest +With which their great Creator had them dressed: +When heaven above them shined like molten glass, +While all the planets did unclouded pass; +And springs, like dissolved pearls, their streams did pour, +Ne'er marred with floods, nor angered with a shower. +With these fair thoughts I move in this fair place, +And the last steps of my mild Master trace. +I see him leading out his chosen train +All sad with tears, which like warm summer rain +In silent drops steal from their holy eyes, +Fixed lately on the cross, now on the skies. +And now, eternal Jesus! thou dost heave +Thy blessed hands to bless those thou dost leave. +The cloud doth now receive thee, and their sight +Having lost thee, behold two men in white! +Two and no more: 'What two attest is true,' +Was thine own answer to the stubborn Jew. +Come then, thou faithful Witness! come, dear Lord, +Upon the clouds again to judge this world! + +[1] 'Thy convert:' St Mary Magdalene. + + +COCK-CROWING. + +1 Father of lights! what sunny seed, + What glance of day hast thou confined + Into this bird? To all the breed + This busy ray thou hast assigned; + Their magnetism works all night, + And dreams of paradise and light. + +2 Their eyes watch for the morning hue, + Their little grain-expelling night + So shines and sings, as if it knew + The path unto the house of light. + It seems their candle, howe'er done, + Was tinned and lighted at the sun. + +3 If such a tincture, such a touch, + So firm a longing can empower, + Shall thy own image think it much + To watch for thy appearing hour? + If a mere blast so fill the sail, + Shall not the breath of God prevail? + +4 O thou immortal light and heat! + Whose hand so shines through all this frame, + That by the beauty of the seat, + We plainly see who made the same, + Seeing thy seed abides in me, + Dwell thou in it, and I in thee! + +5 To sleep without thee is to die; + Yea,'tis a death partakes of hell: + For where thou dost not close the eye + It never opens, I can tell. + In such a dark, Egyptian border, + The shades of death dwell, and disorder. + +6 If joys, and hopes, and earnest throes, + And hearts, whose pulse beats still for light, + Are given to birds; who, but thee, knows + A love-sick soul's exalted flight? + Can souls be tracked by any eye + But his, who gave them wings to fly? + +7 Only this veil which thou hast broke, + And must be broken yet in me, + This veil, I say, is all the cloak + And cloud which shadows me from thee. + This veil thy full-eyed love denies, + And only gleams and fractions spies. + +8 Oh, take it off! make no delay; + But brush me with thy light, that I + May shine unto a perfect day, + And warm me at thy glorious eye! + Oh, take it off! or till it flee, + Though with no lily, stay with me! + + +THE PALM-TREE. + +1 Dear friend, sit down, and bear awhile this shade, + As I have yours long since. This plant you see + So pressed and bowed, before sin did degrade + Both you and it, had equal liberty + +2 With other trees; but now, shut from the breath + And air of Eden, like a malcontent + It thrives nowhere. This makes these weights, like death + And sin, hang at him; for the more he's bent + +3 The more he grows. Celestial natures still + Aspire for home. This Solomon of old, + By flowers, and carvings, and mysterious skill + Of wings, and cherubims, and palms, foretold. + +4 This is the life which, hid above with Christ + In God, doth always (hidden) multiply, + And spring, and grow, a tree ne'er to be priced, + A tree whose fruit is immortality. + +5 Here spirits that have run their race, and fought, + And won the fight, and have not feared the frowns + Nor loved the smiles of greatness, but have wrought + Their Master's will, meet to receive their crowns. + +6 Here is the patience of the saints: this tree + Is watered by their tears, as flowers are fed + With dew by night; but One you cannot see + Sits here, and numbers all the tears they shed. + +7 Here is their faith too, which if you will keep + When we two part, I will a journey make + To pluck a garland hence while you do sleep, + And weave it for your head against you wake. + + +THE GARLAND. + +1 Thou, who dost flow and flourish here below, + To whom a falling star and nine days' glory, + Or some frail beauty, makes the bravest show, + Hark, and make use of this ensuing story. + + When first my youthful, sinful age + Grew master of my ways, + Appointing error for my page, + And darkness for my days; + I flung away, and with full cry + Of wild affections, rid + In post for pleasures, bent to try + All gamesters that would bid. + I played with fire, did counsel spurn, + Made life my common stake; + But never thought that fire would burn, + Or that a soul could ache. + Glorious deceptions, gilded mists, + False joys, fantastic flights, + Pieces of sackcloth with silk lists, + These were my prime delights. + I sought choice bowers, haunted the spring, + Culled flowers and made me posies; + Gave my fond humours their full wing, + And crowned my head with roses. + But at the height of this career + I met with a dead man, + Who, noting well my vain abear, + Thus unto me began: + 'Desist, fond fool, be not undone; + What thou hast cut to-day + Will fade at night, and with this sun + Quite vanish and decay.' + +2 Flowers gathered in this world, die here; if thou + Wouldst have a wreath that fades not, let them grow, + And grow for thee. Who spares them here, shall find + A garland, where comes neither rain nor wind. + + +LOVE-SICK. + +Jesus, my life! how shall I truly love thee! +Oh that thy Spirit would so strongly move me, +That thou wert pleased to shed thy grace so far +As to make man all pure love, flesh a star! +A star that would ne'er set, but ever rise, +So rise and run, as to outrun these skies, +These narrow skies (narrow to me) that bar, +So bar me in, that I am still at war, +At constant war with them. Oh, come, and rend +Or bow the heavens! Lord, bow them and descend, +And at thy presence make these mountains flow, +These mountains of cold ice in me! Thou art +Refining fire; oh, then, refine my heart, +My foul, foul heart! Thou art immortal heat; +Heat motion gives; then warm it, till it beat; +So beat for thee, till thou in mercy hear; +So hear, that thou must open; open to +A sinful wretch, a wretch that caused thy woe; +Thy woe, who caused his weal; so far his weal +That thou forgott'st thine own, for thou didst seal +Mine with thy blood, thy blood which makes thee mine, +Mine ever, ever; and me ever thine. + + +PSALM CIV. + +1 Up, O my soul, and bless the Lord! O God, + My God, how great, how very great art thou! + Honour and majesty have their abode + With thee, and crown thy brow. + +2 Thou cloth'st thyself with light as with a robe, + And the high, glorious heavens thy mighty hand + Doth spread like curtains round about this globe + Of air, and sea, and land. + +3 The beams of thy bright chambers thou dost lay + In the deep waters, which no eye can find; + The clouds thy chariots are, and thy pathway + The wings of the swift wind. + +4 In thy celestial, gladsome messages + Despatched to holy souls, sick with desire + And love of thee, each willing angel is + Thy minister in fire. + +5 Thy arm unmoveable for ever laid + And founded the firm earth; then with the deep + As with a vail thou hidd'st it; thy floods played + Above the mountains steep. + +6 At thy rebuke they fled, at the known voice + Of their Lord's thunder they retired apace: + Some up the mountains passed by secret ways, + Some downwards to their place. + +7 For thou to them a bound hast set, a bound + Which, though but sand, keeps in and curbs whole seas: + There all their fury, foam, and hideous sound, + Must languish and decrease. + +8 And as thy care bounds these, so thy rich love + Doth broach the earth; and lesser brooks lets forth, + Which run from hills to valleys, and improve + Their pleasure and their worth. + +9 These to the beasts of every field give drink; + There the wild asses swallow the cool spring: + And birds amongst the branches on their brink + Their dwellings have, and sing. + +10 Thou from thy upper springs above, from those + Chambers of rain, where heaven's large bottles lie, + Dost water the parched hills, whose breaches close, + Healed by the showers from high. + +11 Grass for the cattle, and herbs for man's use + Thou mak'st to grow; these, blessed by thee, the earth + Brings forth, with wine, oil, bread; all which infuse + To man's heart strength and mirth. + +12 Thou giv'st the trees their greenness, even to those + Cedars in Lebanon, in whose thick boughs + The birds their nests build; though the stork doth choose + The fir-trees for her house. + +13 To the wild goats the high hills serve for folds, + The rocks give conies a retiring place: + Above them the cool moon her known course holds, + And the sun runs his race. + +14 Thou makest darkness, and then comes the night, + In whose thick shades and silence each wild beast + Creeps forth, and, pinched for food, with scent and sight + Hunts in an eager quest. + +15 The lion's whelps, impatient of delay, + Roar in the covert of the woods, and seek + Their meat from thee, who dost appoint the prey, + And feed'st them all the week. + +16 This past, the sun shines on the earth; and they + Retire into their dens; man goes abroad + Unto his work, and at the close of day + Returns home with his load. + +17 O Lord my God, how many and how rare + Are thy great works! In wisdom hast thou made + Them all; and this the earth, and every blade + Of grass we tread declare. + +18 So doth the deep and wide sea, wherein are + Innumerable creeping things, both small + And great; there ships go, and the shipmen's fear, + The comely, spacious whale. + +19 These all upon thee wait, that thou mayst feed + Them in due season: what thou giv'st they take; + Thy bounteous open hand helps them at need, + And plenteous meals they make. + +20 When thou dost hide thy face, (thy face which keeps + All things in being,) they consume and mourn: + When thou withdraw'st their breath their vigour sleeps, + And they to dust return. + +21 Thou send'st thy Spirit forth, and they revive, + The frozen earth's dead face thou dost renew. + Thus thou thy glory through the world dost drive, + And to thy works art true. + +22 Thine eyes behold the earth, and the whole stage + Is moved and trembles, the hills melt and smoke + With thy least touch; lightnings and winds that rage + At thy rebuke are broke. + +23 Therefore as long as thou wilt give me breath + I will in songs to thy great name employ + That gift of thine, and to my day of death + Thou shalt be all my joy. + +24 I'll spice my thoughts with thee, and from thy word + Gather true comforts; but the wicked liver + Shall be consumed. O my soul, bless thy Lord! + Yea, bless thou him for ever! + + +THE TIMBER. + +1 Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, + Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers + Passed o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, + Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers. + +2 And still a new succession sings and flies; + Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot + Towards the old and still-enduring skies, + While the low violet thrives at their root. + +3 But thou, beneath the sad and heavy line + Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; + Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, + Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark. + +4 And yet, as if some deep hate and dissent, + Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, + Were still alive, thou dost great storms resent, + Before they come, and know'st how near they be. + +5 Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath + Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; + But this thy strange resentment after death + Means only those who broke in life thy peace. + +6 So murdered man, when lovely life is done, + And his blood freezed, keeps in the centre still + Some secret sense, which makes the dead blood run + At his approach that did the body kill. + +7 And is there any murderer worse than sin? + Or any storms more foul than a lewd life? + Or what resentient can work more within + Than true remorse, when with past sins at strife? + +8 He that hath left life's vain joys and vain care, + And truly hates to be detained on earth, + Hath got an house where many mansions are, + And keeps his soul unto eternal mirth. + +9 But though thus dead unto the world, and ceased + From sin, he walks a narrow, private way; + Yet grief and old wounds make him sore displeased, + And all his life a rainy, weeping day. + +10 For though he should forsake the world, and live + As mere a stranger as men long since dead; + Yet joy itself will make a right soul grieve + To think he should be so long vainly led. + +11 But as shades set off light, so tears and grief, + Though of themselves but a sad blubbered story, + By showing the sin great, show the relief + Far greater, and so speak my Saviour's glory. + +12 If my way lies through deserts and wild woods, + Where all the land with scorching heat is cursed; + Better the pools should flow with rain and floods + To fill my bottle, than I die with thirst. + +13 Blest showers they are, and streams sent from above; + Begetting virgins where they use to flow; + The trees of life no other waters love, + Than upper springs, and none else make them grow. + +14 But these chaste fountains flow not till we die. + Some drops may fall before; but a clear spring + And ever running, till we leave to fling + Dirt in her way, will keep above the sky. + +'He that is dead is freed from sin.'--ROM. vi. 7. + + +THE JEWS. + +1 When the fair year + Of your Deliverer comes, + And that long frost which now benumbs + Your hearts shall thaw; when angels here + Shall yet to man appear, + And familiarly confer + Beneath the oak and juniper; + When the bright Dove, + Which now these many, many springs + Hath kept above, + Shall with spread wings + Descend, and living waters flow + To make dry dust, and dead trees grow; + +2 Oh, then, that I + Might live, and see the olive bear + Her proper branches! which now lie + Scattered each where; + And, without root and sap, decay; + Cast by the husbandman away. + And sure it is not far! + For as your fast and foul decays, + Forerunning the bright morning star, + Did sadly note his healing rays + Would shine elsewhere, since you were blind, + And would be cross, when God was kind,-- + +3 So by all signs + Our fulness too is now come in; + And the same sun, which here declines + And sets, will few hours hence begin + To rise on you again, and look + Towards old Mamre and Eshcol's brook. + For surely he + Who loved the world so as to give + His only Son to make it free, + Whose Spirit too doth mourn and grieve + To see man lost, will for old love + From your dark hearts this veil remove. + +4 Faith sojourned first on earth in you, + You were the dear and chosen stock: + The arm of God, glorious and true, + Was first revealed to be your rock. + +5 You were the eldest child, and when + Your stony hearts despised love, + The youngest, even the Gentiles, then, + Were cheered your jealousy to move. + +6 Thus, righteous Father! dost thou deal + With brutish men; thy gifts go round + By turns, and timely, and so heal + The lost son by the newly found. + + +PALM-SUNDAY. + +1 Come, drop your branches, strew the way, + Plants of the day! + Whom sufferings make most green and gay. + The King of grief, the Man of sorrow, + Weeping still like the wet morrow, + Your shades and freshness comes to borrow. + +2 Put on, put on your best array; + Let the joyed road make holyday, + And flowers, that into fields do stray, + Or secret groves, keep the highway. + +3 Trees, flowers, and herbs; birds, beasts, and stones, + That since man fell expect with groans + To see the Lamb, come all at once, + Lift up your heads and leave your moans; + For here comes he + Whose death will be + Man's life, and your full liberty. + +4 Hark! how the children shrill and high + 'Hosanna' cry; + Their joys provoke the distant sky, + Where thrones and seraphim reply; + And their own angels shine and sing, + In a bright ring: + Such young, sweet mirth + Makes heaven and earth + Join in a joyful symphony. + +5 The harmless, young, and happy ass, + (Seen long before[1] this came to pass,) + Is in these joys a high partaker, + Ordained and made to bear his Maker. + +6 Dear Feast of Palms, of flowers and dew! + Whose fruitful dawn sheds hopes and lights; + Thy bright solemnities did shew + The third glad day through two sad nights. + +7 I'll get me up before the sun, + I'll cut me boughs off many a tree, + And all alone full early run + To gather flowers to welcome thee. + +8 Then, like the palm, though wronged I'll bear, + I will be still a child, still meek + As the poor ass which the proud jeer, + And only my dear Jesus seek. + +9 If I lose all, and must endure + The proverbed griefs of holy Job, + I care not, so I may secure + But one green branch and a white robe. + +[1] Zechariah ix. 9. + + +PROVIDENCE. + +1 Sacred and secret hand! + By whose assisting, swift command + The angel showed that holy well + Which freed poor Hagar from her fears, + And turned to smiles the begging tears + Of young, distressed Ishmael. + +2 How, in a mystic cloud, + Which doth thy strange, sure mercies shroud, + Dost thou convey man food and money, + Unseen by him till they arrive + Just at his mouth, that thankless hive, + Which kills thy bees, and eats thy honey! + +3 If I thy servant be, + Whose service makes even captives free, + A fish shall all my tribute pay, + The swift-winged raven shall bring me meat, + And I, like flowers, shall still go neat, + As if I knew no month but May. + +4 I will not fear what man + With all his plots and power can. + Bags that wax old may plundered be; + But none can sequester or let + A state that with the sun doth set, + And comes next morning fresh as he. + +5 Poor birds this doctrine sing, + And herbs which on dry hills do spring, + Or in the howling wilderness + Do know thy dewy morning hours, + And watch all night for mists or showers, + Then drink and praise thy bounteousness. + +6 May he for ever die + Who trusts not thee, but wretchedly + Hunts gold and wealth, and will not lend + Thy service nor his soul one day! + May his crown, like his hopes, be clay; + And what he saves may his foes spend! + +7 If all my portion here, + The measure given by thee each year, + Were by my causeless enemies + Usurped; it never should me grieve, + Who know how well thou canst relieve, + Whose hands are open as thine eyes. + +8 Great King of love and truth! + Who wouldst not hate my froward youth, + And wilt not leave me when grown old, + Gladly will I, like Pontic sheep, + Unto my wormwood diet keep, + Since thou hast made thy arm my fold. + + +ST MARY MAGDALENE. + +Dear, beauteous saint! more white than day, +When in his naked, pure array; +Fresher than morning-flowers, which shew, +As thou in tears dost, best in dew. +How art thou changed, how lively, fair, +Pleasing, and innocent an air, +Not tutored by thy glass, but free, +Native, and pure, shines now in thee! +But since thy beauty doth still keep +Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep? +This dusky state of sighs and tears +Durst not look on those smiling years, +When Magdal-castle was thy seat, +Where all was sumptuous, rare, and neat. +Why lies this hair despised now +Which once thy care and art did show? +Who then did dress the much-loved toy +In spires, globes, angry curls and coy, +Which with skilled negligence seemed shed +About thy curious, wild, young head? +Why is this rich, this pistic nard +Spilt, and the box quite broke and marred? +What pretty sullenness did haste +Thy easy hands to do this waste? +Why art thou humbled thus, and low +As earth thy lovely head dost bow? +Dear soul! thou knew'st flowers here on earth +At their Lord's footstool have their birth; +Therefore thy withered self in haste +Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast, +That at the root of this green tree +Thy great decays restored might be. +Thy curious vanities, and rare +Odorous ointments kept with care, +And dearly bought, when thou didst see +They could not cure nor comfort thee; +Like a wise, early penitent, +Thou sadly didst to him present, +Whose interceding, meek, and calm +Blood, is the world's all-healing balm. +This, this divine restorative +Called forth thy tears, which ran in live +And hasty drops, as if they had +(Their Lord so near) sense to be glad. +Learn, ladies, here the faithful cure +Makes beauty lasting, fresh, and pure; +Learn Mary's art of tears, and then +Say you have got the day from men. +Cheap, mighty art! her art of love, +Who loved much, and much more could move; +Her art! whose memory must last +Till truth through all the world be passed; +Till his abused, despised flame +Return to heaven, from whence it came, +And send a fire down, that shall bring +Destruction on his ruddy wing. +Her art! whose pensive, weeping eyes, +Were once sin's loose and tempting spies; +But now are fixed stars, whose light +Helps such dark stragglers to their sight. + +Self-boasting Pharisee! how blind +A judge wert thou, and how unkind! +It was impossible that thou, +Who wert all false, shouldst true grief know. +Is't just to judge her faithful tears +By that foul rheum thy false eye wears? +'This woman,' sayst thou, 'is a sinner!' +And sat there none such at thy dinner? +Go, leper, go! wash till thy flesh +Comes like a child's, spotless and fresh; +He is still leprous that still paints: +Who saint themselves, they are no saints. + + +THE RAINBOW. + +Still young and fine! but what is still in view +We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. +How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye +Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry! +When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, +The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, +Did with intentive looks watch every hour +For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! +When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair, +Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air: +Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours +Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. +Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie +Of thy Lord's hand, the object[1] of his eye! +When I behold thee, though my light be dim, +Distant, and low, I can in thine see him, +Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, +And minds the covenant 'twixt all and one. +O foul, deceitful men! my God doth keep +His promise still, but we break ours and sleep. +After the fall the first sin was in blood, +And drunkenness quickly did succeed the flood; +But since Christ died, (as if we did devise +To lose him too, as well as paradise,) +These two grand sins we join and act together, +Though blood and drunkenness make but foul, foul weather. +Water, though both heaven's windows and the deep +Full forty days o'er the drowned world did weep, +Could not reform us, and blood in despite, +Yea, God's own blood, we tread upon and slight. +So those bad daughters, which God saved from fire, +While Sodom yet did smoke, lay with their sire. + +Then, peaceful, signal bow, but in a cloud +Still lodged, where all thy unseen arrows shroud; +I will on thee as on a comet look, +A comet, the sad world's ill-boding book; +Thy light as luctual and stained with woes +I'll judge, where penal flames sit mixed and close. +For though some think thou shin'st but to restrain +Bold storms, and simply dost attend on rain; +Yet I know well, and so our sins require, +Thou dost but court cold rain, till rain turns fire. + +[1] Genesis ix. 16. + + +THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY. + +MARK IV. 26. + +1 If this world's friends might see but once + What some poor man may often feel, + Glory and gold and crowns and thrones + They would soon quit, and learn to kneel. + +2 My dew, my dew! my early love, + My soul's bright food, thy absence kills! + Hover not long, eternal Dove! + Life without thee is loose and spills. + +3 Something I had, which long ago + Did learn to suck and sip and taste; + But now grown sickly, sad, and slow, + Doth fret and wrangle, pine and waste. + +4 Oh, spread thy sacred wings, and shake + One living drop! one drop life keeps! + If pious griefs heaven's joys awake, + Oh, fill his bottle! thy child weeps! + +5 Slowly and sadly doth he grow, + And soon as left shrinks back to ill; + Oh, feed that life, which makes him blow + And spread and open to thy will! + +6 For thy eternal, living wells + None stained or withered shall come near: + A fresh, immortal green there dwells, + And spotless white is all the wear. + +7 Dear, secret greenness! nursed below + Tempests and winds and winter nights! + Vex not that but One sees thee grow, + That One made all these lesser lights. + +8 If those bright joys he singly sheds + On thee, were all met in one crown, + Both sun and stars would hide their heads; + And moons, though full, would get them down. + +9 Let glory be their bait whose minds + Are all too high for a low cell: + Though hawks can prey through storms and winds, + The poor bee in her hive must dwell. + +10 Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still + To what most takes them is a drudge; + And they too oft take good for ill, + And thriving vice for virtue judge. + +11 What needs a conscience calm and bright + Within itself an outward test? + Who breaks his glass to take more light, + Makes way for storms into his rest. + +12 Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch + At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; + Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch, + Till the white-winged reapers come! + + +CHILDHOOD. + +I cannot reach it; and my striving eye +Dazzles at it, as at eternity. + Were now that chronicle alive, +Those white designs which children drive, +And the thoughts of each harmless hour, +With their content too in my power, +Quickly would I make my path even, +And by mere playing go to heaven. + + Why should men love +A wolf more than a lamb or dove? +Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams +Before bright stars and God's own beams? +Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face, +But flowers do both refresh and grace; +And sweetly living (fie on men!) +Are, when dead, medicinal then. +If seeing much should make staid eyes, +And long experience should make wise, +Since all that age doth teach is ill, +Why should I not love childhood still? +Why, if I see a rock or shelf, +Shall I from thence cast down myself, +Or by complying with the world, +From the same precipice be hurled? +Those observations are but foul, +Which make me wise to lose my soul. + +And yet the practice worldlings call +Business and weighty action all, +Checking the poor child for his play, +But gravely cast themselves away. + +Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span +Where weeping virtue parts with man; +Where love without lust dwells, and bends +What way we please without self-ends. + +An age of mysteries! which he +Must live twice that would God's face see; +Which angels guard, and with it play, +Angels! which foul men drive away. + +How do I study now, and scan +Thee more than ere I studied man, +And only see through a long night +Thy edges and thy bordering light! +Oh for thy centre and mid-day! +For sure that is the narrow way! + + +ABEL'S BLOOD. + +Sad, purple well! whose bubbling eye +Did first against a murderer cry; +Whose streams, still vocal, still complain + Of bloody Cain; +And now at evening are as red +As in the morning when first shed. + If single thou, +Though single voices are but low, +Couldst such a shrill and long cry rear +As speaks still in thy Maker's ear, +What thunders shall those men arraign +Who cannot count those they have slain, +Who bathe not in a shallow flood, +But in a deep, wide sea of blood-- +A sea whose loud waves cannot sleep, +But deep still calleth upon deep; +Whose urgent sound, like unto that +Of many waters, beateth at +The everlasting doors above, +Where souls behind the altar move, +And with one strong, incessant cry +Inquire 'How long?' of the Most High? + Almighty Judge! +At whose just laws no just men grudge; +Whose blessed, sweet commands do pour +Comforts and joys and hopes each hour +On those that keep them; oh, accept +Of his vowed heart, whom thou hast kept +From bloody men! and grant I may +That sworn memorial duly pay +To thy bright arm, which was my light +And leader through thick death and night! + Aye may that flood, +That proudly spilt and despised blood, +Speechless and calm as infants sleep! +Or if it watch, forgive and weep +For those that spilt it! May no cries +From the low earth to high heaven rise, +But what, like his whose blood peace brings, +Shall, when they rise, speak better things +Than Abel's doth! May Abel be +Still single heard, while these agree +With his mild blood in voice and will, +Who prayed for those that did him kill! + + +RIGHTEOUSNESS. + +1 Fair, solitary path! whose blessed shades + The old, white prophets planted first and dressed; + Leaving for us, whose goodness quickly fades, + A shelter all the way, and bowers to rest; + +2 Who is the man that walks in thee? who loves + Heaven's secret solitude, those fair abodes, + Where turtles build, and careless sparrows move, + Without to-morrow's evils and future loads? + +3 Who hath the upright heart, the single eye, + The clean, pure hand, which never meddled pitch? + Who sees invisibles, and doth comply + With hidden treasures that make truly rich? + +4 He that doth seek and love + The things above, + Whose spirit ever poor is, meek, and low; + Who simple still and wise, + Still homeward flies, + Quick to advance, and to retreat most slow. + +5 Whose acts, words, and pretence + Have all one sense, + One aim and end; who walks not by his sight; + Whose eyes are both put out, + And goes about + Guided by faith, not by exterior light. + +6 Who spills no blood, nor spreads + Thorns in the beds + Of the distressed, hasting their overthrow; + Making the time they had + Bitter and sad, + Like chronic pains, which surely kill, though slow. + +7 Who knows earth nothing hath + Worth love or wrath, + But in his Hope and Rock is ever glad. + Who seeks and follows peace, + When with the ease + And health of conscience it is to be had. + +8 Who bears his cross with joy, + And doth employ + His heart and tongue in prayers for his foes; + Who lends not to be paid, + And gives full aid + Without that bribe which usurers impose. + +9 Who never looks on man + Fearful and wan, + But firmly trusts in God; the great man's measure, + Though high and haughty, must + Be ta'en in dust; + But the good man is God's peculiar treasure. + +10 Who doth thus, and doth not + These good deeds blot + With bad, or with neglect; and heaps not wrath + By secret filth, nor feeds + Some snake, or weeds, + Cheating himself--That man walks in this path. + + +JACOB'S PILLOW AND PILLAR. + +I see the temple in thy pillar reared, +And that dread glory which thy children feared, +In mild, clear visions, without a frown, +Unto thy solitary self is shown. +'Tis number makes a schism: throngs are rude, +And God himself died by the multitude. +This made him put on clouds, and fire, and smoke; +Hence he in thunder to thy offspring spoke. +The small, still voice at some low cottage knocks, +But a strong wind must break thy lofty rocks. + +The first true worship of the world's great King +From private and selected hearts did spring; +But he most willing to save all mankind, +Enlarged that light, and to the bad was kind. +Hence catholic or universal came +A most fair notion, but a very name. +For this rich pearl, like some more common stone, +When once made public, is esteemed by none. +Man slights his Maker when familiar grown, +And sets up laws to pull his honour down. +This God foresaw: and when slain by the crowd, +Under that stately and mysterious cloud +Which his death scattered, he foretold the place +And form to serve him in should be true grace, +And the meek heart; not in a mount, nor at +Jerusalem, with blood of beasts and fat. +A heart is that dread place, that awful cell, +That secret ark, where the mild Dove doth dwell, +When the proud waters rage: when heathens rule +By God's permission, and man turns a mule, +This little Goshen, in the midst of night +And Satan's seat, in all her coasts hath light; +Yea, Bethel shall have tithes, saith Israel's stone, +And vows and visions, though her foes cry, None. +Thus is the solemn temple sunk again +Into a pillar, and concealed from men. +And glory be to his eternal name, +Who is contented that this holy flame +Shall lodge in such a narrow pit, till he +With his strong arm turns our captivity! + +But blessed Jacob, though thy sad distress +Was just the same with ours, and nothing less; +For thou a brother, and bloodthirsty too, + +Didst fly,[1] whose children wrought thy children's woe: +Yet thou in all thy solitude and grief, +On stones didst sleep, and found'st but cold relief; +Thou from the Day-star a long way didst stand, +And all that distance was law and command. +But we a healing Sun, by day and night, +Have our sure guardian and our leading light. +What thou didst hope for and believe we find +And feel, a Friend most ready, sure, and kind. +Thy pillow was but type and shade at best, +But we the substance have, and on him rest. + +[1] Obadiah 10; Amos i, 11. + + +THE FEAST. + +1 Oh, come away, + Make no delay, + Come while my heart is clean and steady! + While faith and grace + Adorn the place, + Making dust and ashes ready! + +2 No bliss here lent + Is permanent, + Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit; + Short sips and sights + Endear delights: + Who seeks for more he would inherit. + +3 Come then, true bread, + Quickening the dead, + Whose eater shall not, cannot die! + Come, antedate + On me that state, + Which brings poor dust the victory. + +4 Aye victory, + Which from thine eye + Breaks as the day doth from the east, + When the spilt dew + Like tears doth shew + The sad world wept to be released. + +5 Spring up, O wine, + And springing shine + With some glad message from his heart, + Who did, when slain, + These means ordain + For me to have in him a part! + +6 Such a sure part + In his blest heart, + The well where living waters spring, + That, with it fed, + Poor dust, though dead, + Shall rise again, and live, and sing. + +7 O drink and bread, + Which strikes death dead, + The food of man's immortal being! + Under veils here + Thou art my cheer, + Present and sure without my seeing. + +8 How dost thou fly + And search and pry + Through all my parts, and, like a quick + And knowing lamp, + Hunt out each damp, + Whose shadow makes me sad or sick! + +9 O what high joys! + The turtle's voice + And songs I hear! O quickening showers + Of my Lord's blood, + You make rocks bud, + And crown dry hills with wells and flowers! + +10 For this true ease, + This healing peace, + For this [brief] taste of living glory, + My soul and all, + Kneel down and fall, + And sing his sad victorious story! + +11 O thorny crown, + More soft than down! + O painful cross, my bed of rest! + O spear, the key + Opening the way! + O thy worst state, my only best! + +12 O all thy griefs + Are my reliefs, + As all my sins thy sorrows were! + And what can I, + To this reply? + What, O God! but a silent tear? + +13 Some toil and sow + That wealth may flow, + And dress this earth for next year's meat: + But let me heed + Why thou didst bleed, + And what in the next world to eat. + +'Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the +Lamb.'--Rev. xix. 9. + + +THE WATERFALL. + +With what deep murmurs, through time's silent stealth, +Does thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth + Here flowing fall, + And chide and call, +As if his liquid, loose retinue staid +Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid; + The common pass, + Where, clear as glass, + All must descend, + Not to an end, +But quickened by this deep and rocky grave, +Rise to a longer course more bright and brave. + + Dear stream! dear bank! where often I + Have sat, and pleased my pensive eye; + Why, since each drop of thy quick store + Runs thither whence it flowed before, + Should poor souls fear a shade or night, + Who came (sure) from a sea of light? + Or, since those drops are all sent back + So sure to thee that none doth lack, + Why should frail flesh doubt any more + That what God takes he'll not restore? + + O useful element and clear! + My sacred wash and cleanser here; + My first consigner unto those + Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes! + What sublime truths and wholesome themes + Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams! + Such as dull man can never find, + Unless that Spirit lead his mind, + Which first upon thy face did move + And hatched all with his quickening love. + As this loud brook's incessant fall + In streaming rings re-stagnates all, + Which reach by course the bank, and then + Are no more seen: just so pass men. + O my invisible estate, + My glorious liberty, still late! + Thou art the channel my soul seeks, + Not this with cataracts and creeks. + + + + +DR JOSEPH BEAUMONT. + + +This writer, though little known, appears to us to stand as high almost +as any name in the present volume, and we are proud to reprint here some +considerable specimens of his magnificent poetry. + +Joseph Beaumont was sprung from a collateral branch of the ancient +family of the Beaumonts, that family from which sprung Sir John Beaumont, +the author of 'Bosworth Field,' and Francis Beaumont, the celebrated +dramatist. He was born at Hadleigh, in Suffolk. Of his early life nothing +is known. He received his education at Cambridge, where, during the Civil +War, he was fellow and tutor of Peterhouse. Ejected by the Republicans +from his offices, he retired to Hadleigh, and spent his time in the com- +position of his _magnum opus_, 'Psyche.' This poem appeared in 1648; and +in 1702, three years after the author's death, his son published a second +edition, with numerous corrections, and the addition of four cantos by the +author. Beaumont also wrote several minor pieces in English and Latin, a +controversial tract in reply to Henry More's 'Mystery of Godliness,' and +several theological works which are still in MS., according to a provision +in his will to that effect. Peace and perpetuity to their slumbers! + +After the Restoration, our author was not only reinstated in his former +situations, but received from his patron, Bishop Wren, several valuable +pieces of preferment besides. Afterwards, he exercised successively the +offices of Master of Jesus and of Peterhouse, and was King's Professor +of Divinity from 1670 to 1699. In the latter year he died. + +While praising the genius of Beaumont, we are far from commending his +'Psyche,' either as an artistic whole, or as a readable book. It is, +sooth to say, a dull allegory, in twenty-four immense cantos, studded +with the rarest beauties. It is considerably longer than the 'Faery +Queen,' nearly four times the length of the 'Paradise Lost,' and five or +six times as long as the 'Excursion.' To read it through now-a-days were +to perform a purgatorial penance. But the imagination and fancy are +Spenserian, his colouring is often Titianesque in gorgeousness, and his +pictures of shadows, abstractions, and all fantastic forms, are so +forcible as to seem to start from the canvas. In painting the beautiful, +his verse becomes careless and flowing as a loosened zone; in painting +the frightful and the infernal, his language, like his feeling, seems to +curdle and stiffen in horror, as where, speaking of Satan, he says-- + + 'His tawny teeth + Were ragged grown, by endless _gnashing at + The dismal riddle of his living death._' + +The 'Psyche' may be compared to a palace of Fairyland, where successive +doors fly open to the visitor--one revealing a banqueting-room filled +with the materials of exuberant mirth; another, an enchanted garden, +with streams stealing from grottos, and nymphs gliding through groves; +a third conducting you to a dungeon full of dead men's bones and all +uncleanness; a fourth, to a pit which seems the mouth of hell, and +whence cries of torture come up, shaking the smoke that ascendeth up for +ever and ever; and a fifth, to the open roof, over which the stars are +seen bending, and the far-off heavens are opening in glory; and of these +doors there is no end. We saw, when lately in Copenhagen, the famous +tower of the Trinity Church, remarkable for the grand view commanded +from the summit, and for the broad spiral ascent winding within it +almost to the top, up which it is said Peter the Great, in 1716, used to +drive himself and his Empress in a coach-and-four. It was curious to +feel ourselves ascending on a path nearly level, and without the +slightest perspiration or fatigue; and here, we thought, is the +desiderated 'royal road' to difficulties fairly found. Large poems +should be constructed on the same principle; their quiet, broad interest +should beguile their readers alike to their length and their loftiness. +It is exactly the reverse with 'Psyche.' But if any reader is wearied of +some of the extracts we have given, such as his verses on 'Eve,' on +'Paradise,' on 'End,' on 'The Death of his Wife,' and on 'Imperial +Rome,' we shall be very much disposed to question his capacity for +appreciating true poetry. + + +HELL. + +1 Hell's court is built deep in a gloomy vale, + High walled with strong damnation, moated round + With flaming brimstone: full against the hall + Roars a burnt bridge of brass: the yards abound + With all envenomed herbs and trees, more rank + And fruitless than on Asphaltite's bank. + +2 The gate, where Fire and Smoke the porters be, + Stands always ope with gaping greedy jaws. + Hither flocked all the states of misery; + As younger snakes, when their old serpent draws + Them by a summoning hiss, haste down her throat + Of patent poison their awed selves to shoot. + +3 The hall was roofed with everlasting pride, + Deep paved with despair, checkered with spite, + And hanged round with torments far and wide: + The front displayed a goodly-dreadful sight, + Great Satan's arms stamped on an iron shield, + A crowned dragon, gules, in sable field. + +4 There on's immortal throne of death they see + Their mounted lord; whose left hand proudly held + His globe, (for all the world he claims to be + His proper realm,) whose bloody right did wield + His mace, on which ten thousand serpents knit, + With restless madness gnawed themselves and it. + +5 His awful horns above his crown did rise, + And force his fiends to shrink in theirs: his face + Was triply-plated impudence: his eyes + Were hell reflected in a double glass, + Two comets staring in their bloody stream, + Two beacons boiling in their pitch and flame. + +6 His mouth in breadth vied with his palace gate + And conquered it in soot: his tawny teeth + Were ragged grown, by endless gnashing at + The dismal riddle of his living death: + His grizzly beard a singed confession made + What fiery breath through his black lips did trade. + +7 Which as he oped, the centre, on whose back + His chair of ever-fretting pain was set, + Frighted beside itself, began to quake: + Throughout all hell the barking hydras shut + Their awed mouths: the silent peers, in fear, + Hung down their tails, and on their lord did stare. + + +JOSEPH'S DREAM. + +1 When this last night had sealed up mine eyes, + And opened heaven's, whose countenance now was clear, + And trimmed with every star; on his soft wing + A nimble vision me did thither bring. + +2 Quite through the storehouse of the air I passed + Where choice of every weather treasured lies: + Here, rain is bottled up; there, hail is cast + In candied heaps: here, banks of snow do rise; + There, furnaces of lightning burn, and those + Long-bearded stars which light us to our woes. + +3 Hence towered I to a dainty world: the air + Was sweet and calm, and in my memory + Waked my serener mother's looks: this fair + Canaan now fled from my discerning eye; + The earth was shrunk so small, methought I read, + By that due prospect, what it was indeed. + +4 But then, arriving at an orb whose flames, + Like an unbounded ocean, flowed about, + Fool as I was, I quaked; till its kind beams + Gave me a harmless kiss. I little thought + Fire could have been so mild; but surely here + It rageth, 'cause we keep it from its sphere. + +5 There, reverend sire, it flamed, but with as sweet + An ardency as in your noble heart + That heavenly zeal doth burn, whose fostering heat + Makes you Heaven's living holocaust: no part + Of my dream's tender wing felt any harm; + Our journey, not the fire, did keep us warm. + +6 But here my guide, his wings' soft oars to spare, + On the moon's lower horn clasped hold, and whirled + Me up into a region as far, + In splendid worth, surmounting this low world + As in its place: for liquid crystal here + Was the tralucid matter of each sphere. + +7 The moon was kind, and, as we scoured by, + Showed us the deed whereby the great Creator + Instated her in that large monarchy + She holdeth over all the ocean's water: + To which a schedule was annexed, which o'er + All other humid bodies gives her power. + +8 Now complimental Mercury was come + To the quaint margin of his courtly sphere, + And bid us eloquent welcome to his home. + Scarce could we pass, so great a crowd was there + Of points and lines; and nimble Wit beside + Upon the back of thousand shapes did ride. + +9 Next Venus' face, heaven's joy and sweetest pride, + (Which brought again my mother to my mind,) + Into her region lured my ravished guide. + This strewed with youth, and smiles, and love we find; + And those all chaste: 'tis this foul world below + Adulterates what from thence doth spotless flow. + +10 Then rapt to Phoebus' orb, all paved with gold, + The rich reflection of his own aspect: + Most gladly there I would have stayed, and told + How many crowns and thorns his dwelling decked, + What life, what verdure, what heroic might, + What pearly spirits, what sons of active light. + +11 But I was hurried into Mars his sphere, + Where Envy, (oh, how cursed was its grim face!) + And Jealousy, and Fear, and Wrath, and War + Quarrelled, although in heaven, about their place. + Yea, engines there to vomit fire I saw, + Whose flame and thunder earth at length must know. + +12 Nay, in a corner, 'twas my hap to spy + Something which looked but frowardly on me: + And sure my watchful guide read in mine eye + My musing troubled sense; for straightway he, + Lest I should start and wake upon the fright, + Speeded from thence his seasonable flight. + +13 Welcome was Jupiter's dominion, where + Illustrious Mildness round about did flow; + Religion had built her temple there, + And sacred honours on its walks did grow: + No mitre ever priest's grave head shall crown, + Which in those mystic gardens was not sown. + +14 At length, we found old Saturn in his bed; + And much I wondered how, and he so dull, + Could climb thus high: his house was lumpish lead, + Of dark and solitary comers full; + Where Discontent and Sickness dwellers be, + Damned Melancholy and dead Lethargy. + +15 Hasting from hence into a boundless field, + Innumerable stars we marshalled found + In fair array: this earth did never yield + Such choice of flowery pride, when she had crowned + The plains of Shechem, where the gaudy Spring + Smiles on the beauties of each verdant thing. + + +PARADISE. + +1 Within, rose hills of spice and frankincense, + Which smiled upon the flowery vales below, + Where living crystal found a sweet pretence + With musical impatience to flow, + And delicately chide the gems beneath + Because no smoother they had paved its path. + +2 The nymphs which sported on this current's side + Were milky Thoughts, tralucid, pure Desires, + Soft turtles' Kisses, Looks of virgin brides, + Sweet Coolness which nor needs nor feareth fires, + Snowy Embraces, cheerly-sober Eyes, + Gentleness, Mildness, Ingenuities. + +3 The early gales knocked gently at the door + Of every flower, to bid the odours wake; + Which, catching in their softest arms, they bore + From bed to bed, and so returned them back + To their own lodgings, doubled by the blisses + They sipped from their delicious brethren's kisses. + +4 Upon the wings of those enamouring breaths + Refreshment, vigour, nimbleness attended; + Which, wheresoe'er they flew, cheered up their paths, + And with fresh airs of life all things befriended: + For Heaven's sweet Spirit deigned his breath to join + And make the powers of these blasts divine. + +5 The goodly trees' bent arms their nobler load + Of fruit which blest oppression overbore: + That orchard where the dragon warder stood, + For all its golden boughs, to this was poor, + To this, in which the greater serpent lay, + Though not to guard the trees, but to betray. + +6 Of fortitude there rose a stately row; + Here, of munificence a thickset grove; + There, of wise industry a quickset grew; + Here, flourished a dainty copse of love; + There, sprang up pleasant twigs of ready wit; + Here, larger trees of gravity were set, + +7 Here, temperance; and wide-spread justice there, + Under whose sheltering shadow piety, + Devotion, mildness, friendship planted were; + Next stood renown with head exalted high; + Then twined together plenty, fatness, peace. + O blessed place, where grew such things as these! + + +EVE. + +1 Her spacious, polished forehead was the fair + And lovely plain where gentle majesty + Walked in delicious state: her temples clear + Pomegranate fragments, which rejoiced to lie + In dainty ambush, and peep through their cover + Of amber-locks whose volume curled over. + +2 The fuller stream of her luxuriant hair + Poured down itself upon her ivory back: + In which soft flood ten thousand graces were + Sporting and dallying with every lock; + The rival winds for kisses fell to fight, + And raised a ruffling tempest of delight. + +3 Two princely arches, of most equal measures, + Held up the canopy above her eyes, + And opened to the heavens far richer treasures, + Than with their stars or sun e'er learn'd to rise: + Those beams can ravish but the body's sight, + These dazzle stoutest souls with mystic light. + +4 Two garrisons were these of conquering love; + Two founts of life, of spirit, of joy, of grace; + Two easts in one fair heaven, no more above, + But in the hemisphere of her own face; + Two thrones of gallantry; two shops of miracles; + Two shrines of deities; two silent oracles. + +5 For silence here could eloquently plead; + Here might the unseen soul be clearly read: + Though gentle humours their mild mixture made, + They proved a double burning-glass which shed + Those living flames which, with enlivening darts, + Shoot deaths of love into spectators' hearts. + +6 'Twixt these, an alabaster promontory + Sloped gently down to part each cheek from other; + Where white and red strove for the fairer glory, + Blending in sweet confusion together. + The rose and lily never joined were + In so divine a marriage as there. + +7 Couchant upon these precious cushionets + Were thousand beauties, and as many smiles, + Chaste blandishments, and modest cooling heats, + Harmless temptations, and honest guiles. + For heaven, though up betimes the maid to deck, + Ne'er made Aurora's cheeks so fair and sleek. + +8 Enamouring neatness, softness, pleasure, at + Her gracious mouth in full retinue stood; + For, next the eyes' bright glass, the soul at that + Takes most delight to look and walk abroad. + But at her lips two threads of scarlet lay, + Or two warm corals, to adorn the way,-- + +9 The precious way whereby her breath and tongue, + Her odours and her honey, travelled, + Which nicest critics would have judged among + Arabian or Hyblaean mountains bred. + Indeed, the richer Araby in her + Dear mouth and sweeter Hybla dwelling were. + +10 More gracefully its golden chapiter + No column of white marble e'er sustained + Than her round polished neck supported her + Illustrious head, which there in triumph reigned. + Yet neither would this pillar hardness know, + Nor suffer cold to dwell amongst its snow. + +11 Her blessed bosom moderately rose + With two soft mounts of lilies, whose fair top + A pair of pretty sister cherries chose, + And there their living crimson lifted up. + The milky countenance of the hills confessed + What kind of springs within had made their nest. + +12 So leggiadrous were her snowy hands + That pleasure moved as any finger stirred: + Her virgin waxen arms were precious bands + And chains of love: her waist itself did gird + With its own graceful slenderness, and tie + Up delicacy's best epitome. + +13 Fair politure walked all her body over, + And symmetry rejoiced in every part; + Soft and white sweetness was her native cover, + From every member beauty shot a dart: + From heaven to earth, from head to foot I mean, + No blemish could by envy's self be seen. + +14 This was the first-born queen of gallantry; + All gems compounded into one rich stone, + All sweets knit into one conspiracy; + A constellation of all stars in one; + Who, when she was presented to their view, + Both paradise and nature dazzled grew. + +15 Phoebus, who rode in glorious scorn's career + About the world, no sooner spied her face, + But fain he would have lingered, from his sphere + On this, though less, yet sweeter, heaven, to gaze + Till shame enforced him to lash on again, + And clearer wash him in the western main. + +16 The smiling air was tickled with his high + Prerogative of uncontrolled bliss, + Embracing with entirest liberty + A body soft, and sweet, and chaste as his. + All odorous gales that had but strength to stir + Came flocking in to beg perfumes of her. + +17 The marigold her garish love forgot, + And turned her homage to these fairer eyes; + All flowers looked up, and dutifully shot + Their wonder hither, whence they saw arise + Unparching courteous lustre, which instead + Of fire, soft joy's irradiations spread. + +18 The sturdiest trees, affected by her dear + Delightful presence, could not choose but melt + At their hard pith; whilst all the birds whose clear + Pipes tossed mirth about the branches, felt + The influence of her looks; for having let + Their song fall down, their eyes on her they set. + + +TO THE MEMORY OF HIS WIFE. + +1 Sweet soul, how goodly was the temple which + Heaven pleased to make thy earthly habitation! + Built all of graceful delicacy, rich + In symmetry, and of a dangerous fashion + For youthful eyes, had not the saint within + Governed the charms of her enamouring shrine. + +2 How happily compendious didst thou make + My study when I was the lines to draw + Of genuine beauty! never put to take + Long journeys was my fancy; still I saw + At home my copy, and I knew 'twould be + But beauty's wrong further to seek than thee. + +3 Full little knew the world (for I as yet + In studied silence hugged my secret bliss) + How facile was my Muse's task, when set + Virtue's and grace's features to express! + For whilst accomplished thou wert in my sight + I nothing had to do, but look and write. + +4 How sadly parted are those words; since I + Must now be writing, but no more can look! + Yet in my heart thy precious memory, + So deep is graved, that from this faithful book, + Truly transcribed, thy character shall shine; + Nor shall thy death devour what was divine. + +5 Hear then, O all soft-hearted turtles, hear + What you alone profoundly will resent: + A bird of your pure feather 'tis whom here + Her desolate mate remaineth to lament, + Whilst she is flown to meet her dearer love, + And sing among the winged choir above. + +6 Twelve times the glorious sovereign of day + Had made his progress, and in every inn + Whose golden signs through all his radiant way + So high are hung, as often lodged been, + Since in the sacred knot this noble she + Deigned to be tied to (then how happy) me. + +7 Tied, tied we were so intimately, that + We straight were sweetly lost in one another. + Thus when two notes in music's wedlock knit, + They in one concord blended are together: + For nothing now our life but music was; + Her soul the treble made, and mine the base. + +8 How at the needless question would she smile, + When asked what she desired or counted fit? + Still bidding me examine mine own will, + And read the surest answer ready writ. + So centred was her heart in mine, that she + Would own no wish, if first not wished by me. + +9 Delight was no such thing to her, if I + Relished it not: the palate of her pleasure + Carefully watched what mine could taste, and by + That standard her content resolved to measure. + By this rare art of sweetness did she prove + That though she joyed, yet all her joy was love. + +10 So was her grief: for wronged herself she held + If I were sad alone; her share, alas! + And more than so, in all my sorrows' field + She duly reaped: and here alone she was + Unjust to me. Ah! dear injustice, which + Mak'st me complain that I was loved too much! + + * * * * * + +11 She ne'er took post to keep an equal pace + Still with the newest modes, which swiftly run: + She never was perplexed to hear her lace + Accused for six months' old, when first put on: + She laid no watchful leaguers, costly vain, + Intelligence with fashions to maintain. + +12 On a pin's point she ne'er held consultation, + Nor at her glass's strict tribunal brought + Each plait to scrupulous examination: + Ashamed she was that Titan's coach about + Half heaven should sooner wheel, than she could pass + Through all the petty stages of her dress. + +13 No gadding itch e'er spurred her to delight + In needless sallies; none but civil care + Of friendly correspondence could invite + Her out of doors; unless she 'pointed were + By visitations from Heaven's hand, where she + Might make her own in tender sympathy. + +14 Abroad, she counted but her prison: home, + Home was the region of her liberty. + Abroad diverson thronged, and left no room + For zeal's set task, and virtue's business free: + Home was her less encumbered scene, though there + Angels and gods she knew spectators were. + + * * * * * + +15 This weaned her heart from things below, + And kindled it with strong desire to gain + Her hope's high aim. Life could no longer now + Flatter her love, or make her prayers refrain + From begging, yet with humble resignation, + To be dismissed from her mortal station. + +16 Oh, how she welcomed her courteous pain, + And languished with most serene content! + No paroxysms could make her once complain, + Nor suffered she her patience to be spent + Before her life; contriving thus to yield + To her disease, and yet not lose the field. + +17 This trying furnace wasted day by day + (What she herself had always counted dross) + Her mortal mansion, which so ruined lay, + That of the goodly fabric nothing was + Remaining now, but skin and bone; refined + Together were her body and her mind. + +18 At length the fatal hour--sad hour to me!-- + Released the longing soul: no ejulation + Tolled her knell; no dying agony + Frowned in her death; but in that lamb-like fashion + In which she lived ('O righteous heaven!' said I, + Who closed her dear eyes,) she had leave to die. + +19 O ever-precious soul! yet shall that flight + Of thine not snatch thee from thy wonted nest: + Here shalt thou dwell, here shalt thou live in spite + Of any death--here in this faithful breast. + Unworthy 'tis, I know, by being mine; + Yet nothing less, since long it has been thine. + +20 Accept thy dearer portraiture, which I + Have on my other Psyche fixed here; + Since her ideal beauties signify + The truth of thine: as for her spots, they are + Thy useful foil, and shall inservient be + But to enhance and more illustrate thee. + + +IMPERIAL ROME PERSONIFIED. + +1 Thus came the monster to his dearest place + On earth, a palace wondrous large and high, + Which on seven mountains' heads enthroned was; + Thus, by its sevenfold tumour, copying + The number of the horns which crowned its king. + +2 Of dead men's bones were all the exterior walls, + Raised to a fair but formidable height; + In answer to which strange materials, + A graff of dreadful depth and breadth + Upon the works, filled with a piteous flood + Of innocently-pure and holy blood. + +3 Those awful birds, whose joy is ravenous war, + Strong-taloned eagles, perched upon the head + Of every turret, took their prospect far + And wide about the world; and questioned + Each wind that travelled by, to know if they + Could tell them news of any bloody prey. + +4 The inner bulwarks, raised of shining brass, + With firmitude and pride were buttressed. + The gate of polished steel wide opened was + To entertain those throngs, who offered + Their slavish necks to take the yoke, and which + That city's tyrant did the world bewitch. + +5 For she had wisely ordered it to be + Gilded with Liberty's enchanting name; + Whence cheated nations, who before were free, + Into her flattering chains for freedom came. + Thus her strange conquests overtook the sun + Who rose and set in her dominion. + +6 But thick within the line erected were + Innumerable prisons, plated round + With massy iron and with jealous fear: + And in those forts of barbarism, profound + And miry dungeons, where contagious stink, + Cold, anguish, horror, had their dismal sink. + +7 In these, pressed down with chains of fretting brass, + Ten thousand innocent lambs did bleating lie; + Whose groans, reported by the hollow place, + Summoned compassion from the passers by; + Whom they, alas! no less relentless found, + Than was the brass which them to sorrow bound. + +8 For they designed for the shambles were + To feast the tyrant's greedy cruelty, + Who could be gratified with no fare + But such delight of savage luxury. + + +END. + +1 Sweet End, thou sea of satisfaction, which + The weary streams unto thy bosom tak'st; + The springs unto the spring thou first doth reach, + And, by thine inexhausted kindness, mak'st + Them fall so deep in love with thee, that through + All rocks and mountains to thy arms they flow. + +2 Thou art the centre, in whose close embrace, + From all the wild circumference, each line + Directly runs to find its resting-place: + Upon their swiftest wings, to perch on thine + Ennobling breast, which is their only butt, + The arrows of all high desires are shot. + +3 All labours pant and languish after thee, + Stretching their longest arms to catch their bliss; + Which in the way, how sweet soe'er it be, + They never find; and therefore on they press + Further and further, till desired thou, + Their only crown, meet'st their ambition's brow. + +4 With smiles the ploughman to the smiling spring + Returns not answer, but is jealous till + His patient hopes thy happy season bring + Unto their ripeness with his corn, and fill + His barns with plenteous sheaves, with joy his heart; + For thou, and none but thou, his harvest art. + +5 The no less sweating and industrious lover + Lays not his panting heart to rest upon + Kind looks and gracious promises, which hover + On love's outside, and may as soon be gone + As easily they came; but strives to see + His hopes and nuptials ratified by thee. + + 6 The traveller suspecteth every way, + Though they thick traced and fairly beaten be; + Nor is secure but that his leader may + Step into some mistake as well as he; + Or that his strength may fail him; till he win + Possession of thee, his wished inn. + + 7 Nobly besmeared with Olympic dust, + The hardy runner prosecutes his race + With obstinate celerity, in trust + That thou wilt wipe and glorify his face: + His prize's soul art thou, whose precious sake + Makes him those mighty pains with pleasure take. + + 8 The mariner will trust no winds, although + Upon his sails they blow fair flattery; + No tides which, with all fawning smoothness, flow + Can charm his fears into security; + He credits none but thee, who art his bay, + To which, through calms and storms, he hunts his way. + + 9 And so have I, cheered up with hopes at last + To double thee, endured a tedious sea; + Through public foaming tempests have I passed; + Through flattering calms of private suavity; + Through interrupting company's thick press; + And through the lake of mine own laziness: + +10 Through many sirens' charms, which me invited + To dance to ease's tunes, the tunes in fashion; + Through many cross, misgiving thoughts, which frighted + My jealous pen; and through the conjuration + Of ignorant and envious censures, which + Implacably against all poems itch: + +11 But chiefly those which venture in a way + That yet no Muse's feet have chose to trace; + Which trust that Psyche and her Jesus may + Adorn a verse with as becoming grace + As Venus and her son; that truth may be + A nobler theme than lies and vanity. + +12 Which broach no Aganippe's streams, but those + Where virgin souls without a blush may bathe; + Which dare the boisterous multitude oppose + With gentle numbers; which despise the wrath + Of galled sin; which think not fit to trace + Or Greek or Roman song with slavish pace. + +13 And seeing now I am in ken of thee, + The harbour which inflamed my desire, + And with this steady patience ballas'd[1] me + In my uneven road; I am on fire, + Till into thy embrace myself I throw, + And on the shore hang up my finished vow. + +[1] 'Ballas'd:' ballasted. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. + + +FROM ROBERT HEATH. + + +WHAT IS LOVE? + +1 Tis a child of fancy's getting, + Brought up between hope and fear, + Fed with smiles, grown by uniting + Strong, and so kept by desire: + 'Tis a perpetual vestal fire + Never dying, + Whose smoke like incense doth aspire, + Upwards flying. + +2 It is a soft magnetic stone, + Attracting hearts by sympathy, + Binding up close two souls in one, + Both discoursing secretly: + 'Tis the true Gordian knot, that ties + Yet ne'er unbinds, + Fixing thus two lovers' eyes, + As well as minds. + +3 Tis the spheres' heavenly harmony, + Where two skilful hands do strike; + And every sound expressively + Marries sweetly with the like: + 'Tis the world's everlasting chain + That all things tied, + And bid them, like the fixed wain, + Unmoved to bide. + + +PROTEST OF LOVE. + +When I thee all o'er do view +I all o'er must love thee too. +By that smooth forehead, where's expressed +The candour of thy peaceful breast, +By those fair twin-like stars that shine, +And by those apples of thine eyne: +By the lambkins and the kids +Playing 'bout thy fair eyelids: +By each peachy-blossomed cheek, +And thy satin skin, more sleek +And white than Flora's whitest lilies, +Or the maiden daffodillies: +By that ivory porch, thy nose: +By those double-blanched rows +Of teeth, as in pure coral set: +By each azure rivulet, +Running in thy temples, and +Those flowery meadows 'twixt them stand: +By each pearl-tipt ear by nature, as +On each a jewel pendent was: +By those lips all dewed with bliss, +Made happy in each other's kiss. + + +TO CLARASTELLA. + +Oh, those smooth, soft, and ruby lips, + * * * * * +Whose rosy and vermilion hue +Betrays the blushing thoughts in you: +Whose fragrant, aromatic breath +Would revive dying saints from death, +Whose siren-like, harmonious air +Speaks music and enchants the ear; +Who would not hang, and fixed there +Wish he might know no other sphere? +Oh for a charm to make the sun +Drunk, and forget his motion! +Oh that some palsy or lame gout +Would cramp old Time's diseased foot! +Or that I might or mould or clip +His speedy wings, whilst on her lip +I quench my thirsty appetite +With the life-honey dwells on it! + * * * * * +Then on his holy altar, I +Would sacrifice eternally, +Offering one long-continued mine +Of golden pleasures to thy shrine. + + + +BY VARIOUS AUTHORS. + + +MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. +(FROM BYRD'S 'PSALMS, SONNETS,' ETC. 1588.) + +1 My mind to me a kingdom is, + Such perfect joy therein I find, + That it excels all other bliss + That God or nature hath assigned: + Though much I want that most would have, + Yet still my mind forbids to crave. + +2 No princely port, nor wealthy store, + Nor force to win a victory; + No wily wit to salve a sore, + No shape to win a loving eye; + To none of these I yield as thrall, + For why, my mind despise them all. + +3 I see that plenty surfeits oft, + And hasty climbers soonest fall; + I see that such as are aloft, + Mishap doth threaten most of all; + These get with toil, and keep with fear: + Such cares my mind can never bear. + +4 I press to bear no haughty sway; + I wish no more than may suffice; + I do no more than well I may. + Look what I want, my mind supplies; + Lo, thus I triumph like a king, + My mind's content with anything. + +5 I laugh not at another's loss, + Nor grudge not at another's gain; + No worldly waves my mind can toss; + I brook that is another's bane; + I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; + I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. + +6 My wealth is health and perfect ease, + And conscience clear my chief defence; + I never seek by bribes to please, + Nor by desert to give offence; + Thus do I live, thus will I die; + Would all do so as well as I! + + +THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. + +1 An old song made by an aged old pate, + Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate, + That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, + And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate: + Like an old courtier of the queen's, + And the queen's old courtier. + +2 With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages; + They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, + And never knew what belonged to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, + But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +3 With an old study filled full of learned old books, + With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, + With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, + And an old kitchen, that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +4 With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, + With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, + And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk-hose, + And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +5 With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, + To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, + With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, + And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +6 With an old falconer, huntsmen, and a kennel of hounds, + That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds; + Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, + And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +7 But to his eldest son his house and lands he assigned, + Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind, + To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: + But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclined: + Like a young courtier of the king's, + And the king's young courtier. + +8 Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, + Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, + And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land, + And gets drunk in a tavern till he can neither go nor stand: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +9 With a newfangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, + Who never knew what belonged to good housekeeping or care, + Who buys gaudy-coloured fans to play with wanton air, + And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +10 With a new-fashioned hall, built where the old one stood, + Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good, + With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, + And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victual ne'er stood: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +11 With a new study, stuffed full of pamphlets and plays, + And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, + With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, + And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +12 With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, + On a new journey to London straight we all must begone, + And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John, + Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +13 With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is complete, + With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, + With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, + Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +14 With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold, + For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; + And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, + Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold + Among the young courtiers of the king, + Or the king's young courtiers. + + +THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. + +(FROM 'AN HOUR'S RECREATION IN MUSIC,' BY RICH. ALISON. 1606.) + +1 There is a garden in her face, + Where roses and white lilies grow; + A heavenly paradise is that place, + Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; + There cherries grow that none may buy, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + +2 Those cherries fairly do enclose + Of orient pearl a double row, + Which when her lovely laughter shows, + They look like rose-buds filled with snow: + Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + +3 Her eyes like angels watch them still; + Her brows like bended bows do stand, + Threatening with piercing frowns to kill + All that approach with eye or hand + These sacred cherries to come nigh, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + + +HALLO, MY FANCY. + +1 In melancholic fancy, + Out of myself, + In the vulcan dancy, + All the world surveying, + Nowhere staying, + Just like a fairy elf; + Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping, + Out o'er the hills, the trees, and valleys tripping, + Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +2 Amidst the misty vapours, + Fain would I know + What doth cause the tapers; + Why the clouds benight us + And affright us, + While we travel here below. + Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunder, + And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds asunder, + And what these comets are on which we gaze and wonder. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +3 Fain would I know the reason + Why the little ant, + All the summer season, + Layeth up provision + On condition + To know no winter's want; + And how housewives, that are so good and painful, + Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainful; + And why the lazy drones to them do prove disdainful. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go 1 + +4 Ships, ships, I will descry you + Amidst the main; + I will come and try you + What you are protecting, + And projecting, + What's your end and aim. + One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, + Another stays to keep his country from invading, + A third is coming home with rich wealth of lading. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +5 When I look before me, + There I do behold + There's none that sees or knows me; + All the world's a-gadding, + Running madding; + None doth his station hold. + He that is below envieth him that riseth, + And he that is above, him that's below despiseth, + So every man his plot and counter-plot deviseth. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +6 Look, look, what bustling + Here I do espy; + Each another jostling, + Every one turmoiling, + The other spoiling, + As I did pass them by. + One sitteth musing in a dumpish passion, + Another hangs his head, because he's out of fashion, + A third is fully bent on sport and recreation. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +7 Amidst the foamy ocean, + Fain would I know + What doth cause the motion, + And returning + In its journeying, + And doth so seldom swerve! + And how these little fishes that swim beneath salt water, + Do never blind their eye; methinks it is a matter + An inch above the reach of old Erra Pater! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + + +8 Fain would I be resolved + How things are done; + And where the bull was calved + Of bloody Phalaris, + And where the tailor is + That works to the man i' the moon! + Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly; + And how these little fairies do dance and leap so lightly; + And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go! + +9 In conceit like Phaeton, + I'll mount Phoebus' chair; + Having ne'er a hat on, + All my hair a-burning + In my journeying, + Hurrying through the air. + Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing, + And see how they on foamy bits are playing; + All the stars and planets I will be surveying! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +10 Oh, from what ground of nature + Doth the pelican, + That self-devouring creature, + Prove so froward + And untoward, + Her vitals for to strain? + And why the subtle fox, while in death's wounds is lying, + Doth not lament his pangs by howling and by crying; + And why the milk-white swan doth sing when she's a-dying. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou got + +11 Fain would I conclude this, + At least make essay, + What similitude is; + Why fowls of a feather + Flock and fly together, + And lambs know beasts of prey: + How Nature's alchemists, these small laborious creatures, + Acknowledge still a prince in ordering their matters, + And suffer none to live, who slothing lose their features. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +12 I'm rapt with admiration, + When I do ruminate, + Men of an occupation, + How each one calls him brother, + Yet each envieth other, + And yet still intimate! + Yea, I admire to see some natures further sundered, + Than antipodes to us. Is it not to be wondered, + In myriads ye'll find, of one mind scarce a hundred! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +13 What multitude of notions + Doth perturb my pate, + Considering the motions, + How the heavens are preserved, + And this world served, + In moisture, light, and heat! + If one spirit sits the outmost circle turning, + Or one turns another continuing in journeying, + If rapid circles' motion be that which they call burning! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +14 Fain also would I prove this, + By considering + What that which you call love is: + Whether it be a folly + Or a melancholy, + Or some heroic thing! + Fain I'd have it proved, by one whom love hath wounded, + And fully upon one his desire hath founded, + Whom nothing else could please though the world were rounded. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +15 To know this world's centre, + Height, depth, breadth, and length, + Fain would I adventure + To search the hid attractions + Of magnetic actions, + And adamantic strength. + Fain would I know, if in some lofty mountain, + Where the moon sojourns, if there be trees or fountain; + If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to hunt in. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +16 Fain would I have it tried + By experiment, + By none can be denied; + If in this bulk of nature, + There be voids less or greater, + Or all remains complete? + Fain would I know if beasts have any reason; + If falcons killing eagles do commit a treason; + If fear of winter's want makes swallows fly the season. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go; + +17 Hallo, my fancy, hallo, + Stay, stay at home with me, + I can thee no longer follow, + For thou hast betrayed me, + And bewrayed me; + It is too much for thee. + Stay, stay at home with me; leave off thy lofty soaring; + Stay thou at home with me, and on thy books be poring; + For he that goes abroad, lays little up in storing: + Thou'rt welcome home, my fancy, welcome home to me. + + 'Alas, poor scholar! + Whither wilt thou go?' + or + 'Strange alterations which at this time be, + There's many did think they never should see.' + + +THE FAIRY QUEEN. + +1 Come, follow, follow me, + You, fairy elves that be; + Which circle on the green, + Come, follow Mab, your queen. + Hand in hand let's dance around, + For this place is fairy ground. + +2 When mortals are at rest, + And snoring in their nest; + Unheard and unespied, + Through keyholes we do glide; + Over tables, stools, and shelves, + We trip it with our fairy elves. + +3 And if the house be foul + With platter, dish, or bowl, + Up-stairs we nimbly creep, + And find the sluts asleep; + There we pinch their arms and thighs; + None escapes, nor none espies. + +4 But if the house be swept, + And from uncleanness kept, + We praise the household maid, + And duly she is paid; + For we use, before we go, + To drop a tester in her shoe. + +5 Upon a mushroom's head + Our tablecloth we spread; + A grain of rye or wheat + Is manchet which we eat; + Pearly drops of dew we drink, + In acorn cups filled to the brink. + +6 The brains of nightingales, + With unctuous fat of snails, + Between two cockles stewed, + Is meat that's easily chewed; + Tails of worms, and marrow of mice, + Do make a dish that's wondrous nice. + +7 The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, + Serve us for our minstrelsy; + Grace said, we dance a while, + And so the time beguile; + And if the moon doth hide her head, + The glow-worm lights us home to bed. + +8 On tops of dewy grass + So nimbly do we pass, + The young and tender stalk + Ne'er bends when we do walk; + Yet in the morning may be seen + Where we the night before have been. + +END OF VOL. 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Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Vol. 2 + +Author: George Gilfillan + +Release Date: January, 2006 [EBook #9668] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 14, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, VOL. 2 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marc D'Hooghe +and the PG Online Distributed Proofreaders + + + + +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 safėty; +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 clothės might shapen be, +That nill their clothės 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 _mźlée_ 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. + +BOOK II. + + THE CONTENTS. + + The friendship betwixt Jonathan and David; and, upon that occasion, + a digression concerning the nature of love. A discourse between + Jonathan and David, upon which the latter absents himself from court, + and the former goes thither to inform himself of Saul's resolution. + The feast of the New-moon; the manner of the celebration of it; and + therein a digression of the history of Abraham. Saul's speech upon + David's absence from the feast, and his anger against Jonathan. + David's resolution to fly away. He parts with Jonathan, and falls + asleep under a tree. A description of Fancy. An angel makes up a + vision in David's head. The vision itself; which is a prophecy of + all the succession of his race, till Christ's time, with their most + remarkable actions. At his awaking, Gabriel assumes a human shape, + and confirms to him the truth of his vision. + +But now the early birds began to call +The morning forth; up rose the sun and Saul: +Both, as men thought, rose fresh from sweet repose; +But both, alas! from restless labours rose: +For in Saul's breast Envy, the toilsome sin, +Had all that night active and tyrannous been: +She expelled all forms of kindness, virtue, grace, +Of the past day no footstep left, or trace; +The new-blown sparks of his old rage appear, +Nor could his love dwell longer with his fear. +So near a storm wise David would not stay, +Nor trust the glittering of a faithless day: +He saw the sun call in his beams apace, +And angry clouds march up into their place: +The sea itself smooths his rough brow awhile, +Flatt'ring the greedy merchant with a smile; +But he whose shipwrecked bark it drank before, +Sees the deceit, and knows it would have more. +Such is the sea, and such was Saul; +But Jonathan his son, and only good, +Was gentle as fair Jordan's useful flood; +Whose innocent stream, as it in silence goes, +Fresh honours and a sudden spring bestows +On both his banks, to every flower and tree; +The manner how lies hid, the effect we see: +But more than all, more than himself, he loved +The man whose worth his father's hatred moved; +For when the noble youth at Dammin stood, +Adorned with sweat, and painted gay with blood, +Jonathan pierced him through with greedy eye, +And understood the future majesty +Then destined in the glories of his look: +He saw, and straight was with amazement strook, +To see the strength, the feature, and the grace +Of his young limbs; he saw his comely face, +Where love and reverence so well-mingled were, +And head, already crowned with golden hair: +He saw what mildness his bold sp'rit did tame, +Gentler than light, yet powerful as a flame: +He saw his valour by their safety proved; +He saw all this, and as he saw, he loved. + +What art thou, Love! thou great mysterious thing? +From what hid stock does thy strange nature spring? +'Tis thou that movst the world through every part, +And holdst the vast frame close, that nothing start +From the due place and office first ordained; +By thee were all things made, and are sustained. +Sometimes we see thee fully, and can say +From hence thou tookst thy rise, and wentst that way; +But oftener the short beams of Reason's eye +See only there thou art, not how, nor why. +How is the loadstone, Nature's subtle pride, +By the rude iron woo'd, and made a bride? +How was the weapon wounded? what hid flame +The strong and conquering metal overcame? +Love (this world's grace) exalts his natural state; +He feels thee, Love! and feels no more his weight. +Ye learned heads whom ivy garlands grace, +Why does that twining plant the oak embrace? +The oak, for courtship most of all unfit, +And rough as are the winds that fight with it. +How does the absent pole the needle move? +How does his cold and ice beget hot love? +Which are the wings of lightness to ascend? +Or why does weight to the centre downwards bend? +Thus creatures void of life obey thy laws, +And seldom we, they never, know the cause. +In thy large state, life gives the next degree, +Where sense and good apparent places thee; +But thy chief palace is man's heart alone; +Here are thy triumphs and full glories shown: +Handsome desires, and rest, about thee flee, +Union, inheritance, zeal, and ecstasy, +With thousand joys, cluster around thine head, +O'er which a gall-less dove her wings does spread: +A gentle lamb, purer and whiter far +Than consciences of thine own martyrs are, +Lies at thy feet; and thy right hand does hold +The mystic sceptre of a cross of gold. +Thus dost thou sit (like men, ere sin had framed +A guilty blush) naked, but not ashamed. +What cause, then, did the fab'lous ancients find, +When first their superstition made thee blind? +'Twas they, alas! 'twas they who could not see, +When they mistook that monster, Lust, for thee. +Thou art a bright, but not consuming, flame; +Such in the amazed bush to Moses came, +When that, secure, its new-crown'd head did rear, +And chid the trembling branches' needless fear; +Thy darts are healthful gold, and downwards fall, +Soft as the feathers that they are fletched withal. +Such, and no other, were those secret darts +Which sweetly touched this noblest pair of hearts: +Still to one end they both so justly drew, +As courteous doves together yoked would do: +No weight of birth did on one side prevail; +Two twins less even lie in Nature's scale: +They mingled fates, and both in each did share; +They both were servants, they both princes were. +If any joy to one of them was sent, +It was most his to whom it least was meant; +And Fortune's malice betwixt both was cross'd, +For striking one, it wounded the other most. +Never did marriage such true union find, +Or men's desires with so glad violence bind; +For there is still some tincture left of sin, +And still the sex will needs be stealing in. +Those joys are full of dross, and thicker far; +These, without matter, clear and liquid are. +Such sacred love does heaven's bright spirits fill, +Where love is but to understand and will, +With swift and unseen motions such as we +Somewhat express in heighten'd charity. +O ye bless'd One! whose love on earth became +So pure, that still in heaven 'tis but the same! +There now ye sit, and with mix'd souls embrace, +Gazing upon great Love's mysterious face, +And pity this base world, where friendship's made +A bait for sin, or else at best a trade. +Ah, wondrous prince! who a true friend couldst be +When a crown flatter'd, and Saul threaten'd thee! +Who held'st him dear whose stars thy birth did cross, +And bought'st him nobly at a kingdom's loss! +Israel's bright sceptre far less glory brings, +There have been fewer friends on earth than kings. + +To this strong pitch their high affections flew, +Till Nature's self scarce looked on them as two. +Hither flies David for advice and aid, +As swift as love and danger could persuade; +As safe in Jonathan's trust his thoughts remain, +As when himself but dreams them o'er again. + +'My dearest lord! farewell,' said he, 'farewell; +Heaven bless the King; may no misfortune tell +The injustice of his hate when I am dead: +They're coming now; perhaps my guiltless head +Here, in your sight, must then a-bleeding lie, +And scarce your own stand safe for being nigh. +Think me not scared with death, howe'er 't appear; +I know thou canst not think so: it is a fear +From which thy love and Dammin speaks me free; +I've met him face to face, and ne'er could see +One terror in his looks to make me fly +When virtue bids me stand; but I would die +So as becomes my life, so as may prove +Saul's malice, and at least excuse your love.' + +He stopped, and spoke some passion with his eyes. +'Excellent friend!' the gallant prince replies; +'Thou hast so proved thy virtues, that they're known +To all good men, more than to each his own. +Who lives in Israel that can doubtful be +Of thy great actions? for he lives by thee. +Such is thy valour, and thy vast success, +That all things but thy loyalty are less; +And should my father at thy ruin aim, +'Twould wound as much his safety as his fame. +Think them not coming, then, to slay thee here, +But doubt mishaps as little as you fear; +For, by thy loving God, whoe'er design +Against thy life, must strike at it through mine, +But I my royal father must acquit +From such base guilt, or the low thought of it. +Think on his softness, when from death he freed +The faithless king of Am'lek's cursed seed; +Can he t' a friend, t' a son, so bloody grow, +He who even sinned but now to spare a foe? +Admit he could; but with what strength or art +Could he so long close and seal up his heart? +Such counsels jealous of themselves become, +And dare not fix without consent of some; +Few men so boldly ill great sins to do, +Till licensed and approved by others too. +No more (believe it) could he hide this from me, +Than I, had he discovered it, from thee.' + +Here they embraces join, and almost tears, +Till gentle David thus new-proved his fears: +'The praise you pleased, great prince! on me to spend, +Was all outspoken, when you styled me friend: +That name alone does dangerous glories bring, +And gives excuse to the envy of a king. +What did his spear, force, and dark plots, impart +But some eternal rancour in his heart? +Still does he glance the fortune of that day +When, drowned in his own blood, Goliath lay, +And covered half the plain; still hears the sound +How that vast monster fell, and strook the around: +The dance, and, David his ten thousand slew, +Still wound his sickly soul, and still are new. +Great acts t' ambitious princes treason grow, +So much they hate that safety which they owe. +Tyrants dread all whom they raise high in place; +From the good danger, from the bad disgrace. +They doubt the lords, mistrust the people's hate, +Till blood become a principle of state. +Secured not by their guards nor by their right, +But still they fear even more than they affright, +Pardon me, sir; your father's rough and stern; +His will too strong to bend, too proud to learn. +Remember, sir, the honey's deadly sting! +Think on that savage justice of the King, +When the same day that saw you do before +Things above man, should see you man no more. +'Tis true, the accursed Agag moved his ruth; +He pitied his tall limbs and comely youth; +Had seen, alas! the proof of Heaven's fierce hate, +And feared no mischief from his powerless fate; +Remember how the old seer came raging down, +And taught him boldly to suspect his crown. +Since then, his pride quakes at the Almighty's rod, +Nor dares he love the man beloved by God. +Hence his deep rage and trembling envy springs; +Nothing so wild as jealousy of kings. +Whom should he counsel ask, with whom advise, +Who reason and God's counsel does despise? +Whose headstrong will no law or conscience daunt, +Dares he not sin, do you think, without your grant? +Yes, if the truth of our fixed love he knew, +He would not doubt, believe it, to kill even you.' + +The prince is moved, and straight prepares to find +The deep resolves of his grieved father's mind. +The danger now appears, love can soon show it, +And force his stubborn piety to know it. +They agree that David should concealed abide, +Till his great friend had the Court's temper tried; +Till he had Saul's most sacred purpose found, +And searched the depth and rancour of his wound. + +'Twas the year's seventh-born moon; the solemn feast, +That with most noise its sacred mirth express'd. +From opening morn till night shuts in the day, +On trumpets and shrill horns the Levites play: +Whether by this in mystic type we see +The new-year's day of great eternity, +When the changed moon shall no more changes make, +And scattered death's by trumpets' sound awake; +Or that the law be kept in memory still, +Given with like noise on Sinai's shining hill; +Or that (as some men teach) it did arise +From faithful Abram's righteous sacrifice, +Who, whilst the ram on Isaac's fire did fry, +His horn with joyful tunes stood sounding by; +Obscure the cause, but God his will declared, +And all nice knowledge then with ease is spared. +At the third hour Saul to the hallowed tent, +'Midst a large train of priests and courtiers, went; +The sacred herd marched proud and softly by, +Too fat and gay to think their deaths so nigh. +Hard fate of beasts more innocent than we! +Prey to our luxury and our piety! +Whose guiltless blood on boards and altars spilt, +Serves both to make and expiate, too, our guilt! +Three bullocks of free neck, two gilded rams, +Two well-washed goats, and fourteen spotless lambs, +With the three vital fruits, wine, oil, and bread, +(Small fees to Heaven of all by which we're fed) +Are offered up: the hallowed flames arise, +And faithful prayers mount with them to the skies. +From thence the King to the utmost court is brought, +Where heavenly things an inspired prophet taught, +And from the sacred tent to his palace gates, +With glad kind shouts the assembly on him waits; +The cheerful horns before him loudly play, +And fresh-strewed flowers paint his triumphant way. +Thus in slow pace to the palace-hall they go, +Rich dressed for solemn luxury and show: +Ten pieces of bright tapestry hung the room, +The noblest work e'er stretched on Syrian loom, +For wealthy Adriel in proud Sidon wrought, +And given to Saul when Saul's best gift he sought, +The bright-eyed Merab; for that mindful day +No ornament so proper seemed as they. + +There all old Abram's story you might see, +And still some angel bore him company. +His painful but well-guided travels show +The fate of all his sons, the church below. +Here beauteous Sarah to great Pharaoh came; +He blushed with sudden passion, she with shame: +Troubled she seemed, and labouring in the strife, +'Twixt her own honour and her husband's life. +Here on a conquering host, that careless lay, +Drowned in the joys of their new-gotten prey, +The patriarch falls; well-mingled might you see +The confused marks of death and luxury. +In the next piece bless'd Salem's mystic king +Does sacred presents to the victor bring; +Like Him whose type he bears, his rights receives, +Strictly requires his due, yet freely gives: +Even in his port, his habit, and his face, +The mild and great, the priest and prince, had place. +Here all their starry host the heavens display; +And, lo! a heavenly youth, more fair than they, +Leads Abram forth; points upwards; 'Such,' said he, +'So bright and numberless thy seed shall be.' +Here he with God a new alliance makes, +And in his flesh the marks of homage takes: +Here he the three mysterious persons feasts, +Well paid with joyful tidings by his guests: +Here for the wicked town he prays, and near, +Scarce did the wicked town through flames appear: +And all his fate, and all his deeds, were wrought, +Since he from Ur to Ephron's cave was brought. +But none 'mongst all the forms drew then their eyes +Like faithful Abram's righteous sacrifice: +The sad old man mounts slowly to the place, +With Nature's power triumphant in his face +O'er the mind's courage; for, in spite of all, +From his swoln eyes resistless waters fall. +The innocent boy his cruel burden bore +With smiling looks, and sometimes walked before, +And sometimes turned to talk: above was made +The altar's fatal pile, and on it laid +The hope of mankind: patiently he lay, +And did his sire, as he his God, obey. +The mournful sire lifts up at last the knife, +And on one moment's string depends his life, +In whose young loins such brooding wonders lie. +A thousand sp'rits peeped from the affrighted sky, +Amazed at this strange scene, and almost fear'd, +For all those joyful prophecies they'd heard; +Till one leaped nimbly forth, by God's command, +Like lightning from a cloud, and stopped his hand. +The gentle sp'rit smiled kindly as he spoke; +New beams of joy through Abram's wonder broke +The angel points to a tuft of bushes near, +Where an entangled ram does half appear, +And struggles vainly with that fatal net, +Which, though but slightly wrought, was firmly set: +For, lo! anon, to this sad glory doomed, +The useful beast on Isaac's pile consumed; +Whilst on his horns the ransomed couple played, +And the glad boy danced to the tunes he made. + +Near this hall's end a shittim table stood, +Yet well-wrought plate strove to conceal the wood; +For from the foot a golden vine did sprout, +And cast his fruitful riches all about. +Well might that beauteous ore the grape express, +Which does weak man intoxicate no less. +Of the same wood the gilded beds were made, +And on them large embroidered carpets laid, +From Egypt, the rich shop of follies, brought; +But arts of pride all nations soon are taught. +Behold seven comely blooming youths appear, +And in their hands seven silver washpots bear, +Curled, and gay clad, the choicest sons that be +Of Gibeon's race, and slaves of high degree. +Seven beauteous maids marched softly in behind, +Bright scarves their clothes, their hair fresh garlands bind, +And whilst the princes wash, they on them shed +Rich ointments, which their costly odours spread +O'er the whole room; from their small prisons free, +With such glad haste through the wide air they flee. +The King was placed alone, and o'er his head +A well-wrought heaven of silk and gold was spread, +Azure the ground, the sun in gold shone bright, +But pierced the wandering clouds with silver light. +The right-hand bed the King's three sons did grace, +The third was Abner's, Adriel's, David's place: +And twelve large tables more were filled below, +With the prime men Saul's court and camp could show. +The palace did with mirth and music sound, +And the crowned goblets nimbly moved around: +But though bright joy in every guest did shine, +The plenty, state, music, and sprightful wine, +Were lost on Saul: an angry care did dwell +In his dark breast, and all gay forms expel. +David's unusual absence from the feast, +To his sick sp'rit did jealous thoughts suggest: +Long lay he still, nor drank, nor ate, nor spoke, +And thus at last his troubled silence broke. + +'Where can he be?' said he. 'It must be so.' +With that he paused awhile. 'Too well we know +His boundless pride: he grieves, and hates to see +The solemn triumphs of my court and me. +Believe me, friends! and trust what I can show +From thousand proofs; the ambitious David now +Does those vast things in his proud soul design, +That too much business give for mirth or wine. +He's kindling now, perhaps, rebellious fire +Among the tribes, and does even now conspire +Against my crown, and all our lives, whilst we +Are loth even to suspect what we might see. +By the Great Name 'tis true.' +With that he strook the board, and no man there, +But Jonathan, durst undertake to clear +The blameless prince: and scarce ten words he spoke, +When thus his speech the enraged tyrant broke: + +'Disloyal wretch! thy gentle mother's shame! +Whose cold, pale ghost even blushes at thy name! +Who fears lest her chaste bed should doubted be, +And her white fame stained by black deeds of thee! +Canst thou be mine? A crown sometimes does hire +Even sons against their parents to conspire; +But ne'er did story yet, or fable, tell +Of one so wild who, merely to rebel, +Quitted the unquestioned birthright of a throne, +And bought his father's ruin with his own. +Thou need'st not plead the ambitious youth's defence; +Thy crime clears his, and makes that innocence: +Nor can his foul ingratitude appear, +Whilst thy unnatural guilt is placed so near. +Is this that noble friendship you pretend? +Mine, thine own foe, and thy worst enemy's friend? +If thy low spirit can thy great birthright quit, +The thing's but just, so ill deserv'st thou it. +I, and thy brethren here, have no such mind, +Nor such prodigious worth in David find, +That we to him should our just rights resign, +Or think God's choice not made so well as thine. +Shame of thy house and tribe! hence from mine eye; +To thy false friend and servile master fly; +He's ere this time in arms expecting thee; +Haste, for those arms are raised to ruin me. +Thy sin that way will nobler much appear, +Than to remain his spy and agent here. +When I think this, Nature, by thee forsook, +Forsakes me too.' With that his spear he took +To strike at him: the mirth and music cease; +The guests all rise this sudden storm t' appease. +The prince his danger and his duty knew, +And low he bowed, and silently withdrew. + +To David straight, who in a forest nigh +Waits his advice, the royal friend does fly. +The sole advice, now, like the danger clear, +Was in some foreign land this storm t' outwear. +All marks of comely grief in both are seen, +And mournful kind discourses passed between. +Now generous tears their hasty tongues restrain; +Now they begin, and talk all o'er again: +A reverent oath of constant love they take, +And God's high name their dreaded witness make: +Not that at all their faiths could doubtful prove, +But 'twas the tedious zeal of endless love. +Thus, ere they part, they the short time bestow +In all the pomp friendship and grief could show. +And David now, with doubtful cares oppressed, +Beneath a shade borrows some little rest; +When by command divine thick mists arise, +And stop the sense, and close the conquered eyes. +There is a place which man most high doth rear, +The small world's heaven, where reason moves the sphere; +Here in a robe which does all colours show, +(The envy of birds, and the clouds' gaudy bow,) +Fancy, wild dame, with much lascivious pride, +By twin-chameleons drawn, does gaily ride: +Her coach there follows, and throngs round about +Of shapes and airy forms an endless rout. +A sea rolls on with harmless fury here; +Straight 'tis a field, and trees and herbs appear. +Here in a moment are vast armies made, +And a quick scene of war and blood displayed. +Here sparkling wines, and brighter maids come in, +The bawds for Sense, and lying baits of sin. +Some things arise of strange and quarrelling kind, +The forepart lion, and a snake behind. +Here golden mountains swell the covetous place, +And Centaurs ride themselves, a painted race. +Of these slight wonders Nature sees the store, +And only then accounts herself but poor. +Hither an angel comes in David's trance, +And finds them mingled in an antique dance; +Of all the numerous forms fit choice he takes, +And joins them wisely, and this vision makes. + +First, David there appears in kingly state, +Whilst the Twelve Tribes his dread commands await: +Straight to the wars with his joined strength he goes, +Settles new friends, and frights his ancient foes. +To Solima, Canaan's old head, they came, +(Since high in note, then not unknown to Fame,) +The blind and lame the undoubted wall defend, +And no new wounds or dangers apprehend. +The busy image of great Joab there +Disdains the mock, and teaches them to fear: +He climbs the airy walls, leaps raging down, +New-minted shapes of slaughter fill the town. +They curse the guards their mirth and bravery chose, +All of them now are slain, or made like those. +Far through an inward scene an army lay, +Which with full banners a fair Fish display. +From Sidon plains to happy Egypt's coast +They seem all met, a vast and warlike host. +Thither hastes David to his destined prey, +Honour and noble danger lead the way. +The conscious trees shook with a reverent fear +Their unblown tops: God walked before him there. +Slaughter the wearied Rephaims' bosom fills, +Dead corpse emboss the vale with little hills. +On the other side, Sophenes' mighty king +Numberless troops of the bless'd East does bring: +Twice are his men cut off, and chariots ta'en; +Damascus and rich Adad help in vain; +Here Nabathaean troops in battle stand, +With all the lusty youth of Syrian land; +Undaunted Joab rushes on with speed, +Gallantly mounted on his fiery steed; +He hews down all, and deals his deaths around; +The Syrians leave, or possess, dead, the ground. +On the other wing does brave Abishai ride, +Reeking in blood and dust: on every side +The perjured sons of Ammon quit the field; +Some basely die, and some more basely yield. +Through a thick wood the wretched Hanun flies, +And far more justly then fears Hebrew spies. +Moloch, their bloody god, thrusts out his head, +Grinning through a black cloud: him they'd long fed +In his seven chambers, and he still did eat +New-roasted babes, his dear delicious meat. +Again they rise, more angered and dismayed; +Euphrates and swift Tigris sends them aid: +In vain they send it, for again they're slain, +And feast the greedy birds on Healy plain. +Here Rabba with proud towers affronts the sky, +And round about great Joab's trenches lie: +They force the walls, and sack the helpless town; +On David's head shines Ammon's massy crown. +'Midst various torments the cursed race expires; +David himself his severe wrath admires. + +Next upon Israel's throne does bravely sit +A comely youth, endowed with wondrous wit: +Far, from the parched line, a royal dame, +To hear his tongue and boundless wisdom, came: +She carried back in her triumphant womb +The glorious stock of thousand kings to come. +Here brightest forms his pomp and wealth display; +Here they a temple's vast foundations lay; +A mighty work; and with fit glories filled, +For God to inhabit, and that King to build. +Some from the quarries hew out massy stone, +Some draw it up with cranes; some breathe and groan +In order o'er the anvil; some cut down +Tall cedars, the proud mountain's ancient crown; +Some carve the trunks, and breathing shapes bestow, +Giving the trees more life than when they grow. +But, oh! alas! what sudden cloud is spread +About this glorious King's eclipsed head? +It all his fame benights, and all his store, +Wrapping him round; and now he's seen no more. + +When straight his son appears at Sichem crown'd, +With young and heedless council circled round; +Unseemly object! but a falling state +Has always its own errors joined with Fate. +Ten tribes at once forsake the Jessian throne, +And bold Adoram at his message stone; +'Brethren of Israel!'--More he fain would say, +But a flint stopped his mouth, and speech in the way. +Here this fond king's disasters but begin; +He's destined to more shame by his father's sin. +Susac comes up, and under his command +A dreadful army from scorched Afric's sand, +As numberless as that: all is his prey; +The temple's sacred wealth they bear away; +Adrazar's shields and golden loss they take; +Even David in his dream does sweat and shake. +Thus fails this wretched prince; his loins appear +Of less weight now than Solomon's fingers were. + +Abijah next seeks Israel to regain, +And wash in seas of blood his father's stain. +Ne'er saw the aged sun so cruel sight; +Scarce saw he this, but hid his bashful light. +Nebat's cursed son fled with not half his men; +Where were his gods of Dan and Bethel then? +Yet could not this the fatal strife decide; +God punished one, but blessed not the other side. + +Asan, a just and virtuous prince, succeeds, +High raised by Fame for great and godly deeds: +He cut the solemn groves where idols stood, +And sacrificed the gods with their own wood. +He vanquished thus the proud weak powers of hell; +Before him next their doting servants fell: +So huge an host of Zerah's men he slew, +As made even that Arabia desert too. +Why feared he then the perjured Baasha's sight? +Or bought the dangerous aid of Syrian's might? +Conquest, Heaven's gift, cannot by man be sold; +Alas! what weakness trusts he? man and gold. + +Next Josaphat possessed the royal state; +A happy prince, well worthy of his fate: +His oft oblations on God's altar, made +With thousand flocks, and thousand herds, are paid, +Arabian tribute! What mad troops are those, +Those mighty troops that dare to be his foes? +He prays them dead; with mutual wounds they fall; +One fury brought, one fury slays them all. +Thus sits he still, and sees himself to win, +Never o'ercome but by his friend Ahab's sin; +On whose disguise Fates then did only look, +And had almost their God's command mistook: +Him from whose danger Heaven securely brings, +And for his sake too ripely wicked kings. +Their armies languish, burnt with thirst, at Seere, +Sighs all their cold, tears all their moisture there: +They fix their greedy eyes on the empty sky, +And fancy clouds, and so become more dry. +Elisha calls for waters from afar +To come; Elisha calls, and here they are. +In helmets they quaff round the welcome flood, +And the decrease repair with Moab's blood. +Jehoram next, and Ochoziah, throng +For Judah's sceptre; both shortlived too long. +A woman, too, from murder title claims; +Both with her sins and sex the crown she shames. +Proud, cursed woman! but her fall at last +To doubting men clears Heaven for what was past. +Joas at first does bright and glorious show; +In life's fresh morn his fame did early crow: +Fair was the promise of his dawning ray, +But prophet's angry blood o'ercast his day: +From thence his clouds, from thence his storms, begin, +It cries aloud, and twice lets Aram in. +So Amaziah lives, so ends his reign, +Both by their traitorous servants justly slain. +Edom at first dreads his victorious hand; +Before him thousand captives trembling stand. +Down a precipice, deep down he casts them all; +The mimic shapes in several postures fall: +But then (mad fool!) he does those gods adore, +Which when plucked down had worshipped him before. +Thus all his life to come is loss and shame: +No help from gods, who themselves helped not, came. + +All this Uzziah's strength and wit repairs, +Leaving a well-built greatness to his heirs; +Till leprous scurf, o'er his whole body cast, +Takes him at first from men, from earth at last. +As virtuous was his son, and happier far; +Buildings his peace, and trophies graced his war: +But Achaz heaps up sins, as if he meant +To make his worst forefathers innocent: +He burns his son at Hinnon, whilst around +The roaring child drums and loud trumpets sound: +This to the boy a barbarous mercy grew, +And snatched him from all miseries to ensue. +Here Peca comes, and hundred thousands fall; +Here Rezin marches up, and sweeps up all; +Till like a sea the great Belochus' son +Breaks upon both, and both does overrun. +The last of Adad's ancient stock is slain, +Israel captived, and rich Damascus ta'en; +All his wild rage to revenge Judah's wrong; +But woe to kingdoms that have friends too strong! + +Thus Hezekiah the torn empire took, +And Assur's king with his worse gods forsook; +Who to poor Judah worlds of nations brings, +There rages, utters vain and mighty things. +Some dream of triumphs, and exalted names, +Some of dear gold, and some of beauteous dames; +Whilst in the midst of their huge sleepy boast, +An angel scatters death through all the host. +The affrighted tyrant back to Babel hies, +There meets an end far worse than that he flies. +Here Hezekiah's life is almost done! +So good, and yet, alas! so short 'tis spun. +The end of the line was ravelled, weak, and old; +Time must go back, and afford better hold, +To tie a new thread to it of fifteen years. +'Tis done; the almighty power of prayer and tears! +Backward the sun, an unknown motion, went; +The stars gazed on, and wondered what he meant. +Manasses next (forgetful man!) begins, +Enslaved and sold to Ashur by his sins; +Till by the rod of learned Misery taught, +Home to his God and country both he's brought. +It taught not Ammon, nor his hardness brake, +He's made the example he refused to take. + +Yet from this root a goodly scion springs, +Josiah! best of men, as well as kings. +Down went the calves, with all their gold and cost; +The priests then truly grieved, Osiris lost. +These mad Egyptian rites till now remained; +Fools! they their worser thraldom still retained! +In his own fires Moloch to ashes fell, +And no more flames must have besides his hell. +Like end Astartes' horned image found, +And Baal's spired stone to dust was ground. +No more were men in female habit seen, +Or they in men's, by the lewd Syrian queen; +No lustful maids at Benos' temple sit, +And with their body's shame their marriage get. +The double Dagon neither nature saves, +Nor flies she back to the Erythraean waves. +The travelling sun sees gladly from on high +His chariots burn, and Nergal quenched lie. +The King's impartial anger lights on all, +From fly-blown Accaron to the thundering Baal. +Here David's joy unruly grows and bold, +Nor could sleep's silken chain its violence hold, +Had not the angel, to seal fast his eyes, +The humours stirred, and bid more mists arise; +When straight a chariot hurries swift away, +And in it good Josiah bleeding lay: +One hand's held up, one stops the wound; in vain +They both are used. Alas! he's slain, he's slain. + +Jehoias and Jehoiakim next appear; +Both urge that vengeance which before was near. +He in Egyptian fetters captive dies, +This by more courteous Anger murdered lies. +His son and brother next to bonds sustain, +Israel's now solemn and imperial chain. +Here's the last scene of this proud city's state; +All ills are met, tied in one knot of Fate. +Their endless slavery in this trial lay; +Great God had heaped up ages in one day: +Strong works around the walls the Chaldees build, +The town with grief and dreadful business filled: +To their carved gods the frantic women pray, +Gods which as near their ruin were as they: +At last in rushes the prevailing foe, +Does all the mischief of proud conquest show. +The wondering babes from mothers' breasts are rent, +And suffer ills they neither feared nor meant. +No silver reverence guards the stooping age, +No rule or method ties their boundless rage. +The glorious temple shines in flames all o'er, +Yet not so bright as in its gold before. +Nothing but fire or slaughter meets the eyes; +Nothing the ear but groans and dismal cries. +The walls and towers are levelled with the ground, +And scarce aught now of that vast city's found, +But shards and rubbish, which weak signs might keep, +Of forepast glory, and bid travellers weep. +Thus did triumphant Assur homewards pass, +And thus Jerus'lem left, Jerusalem that was! + +Thus Zedechia saw, and this not all; +Before his face his friends and children fall, +The sport of insolent victors: this he views, +A king and father once: ill Fate could use +His eyes no more to do their master spite; +All to be seen she took, and next his sight. +Thus a long death in prison he outwears, +Bereft of grief's last solace, even his tears. + +Then Jeconiah's son did foremost come, +And he who brought the captived nation home; +A row of Worthies in long order passed +O'er the short stage; of all old Joseph last. +Fair angels passed by next in seemly bands, +All gilt, with gilded baskets in their hands. +Some as they went the blue-eyed violets strew, +Some spotless lilies in loose order threw. +Some did the way with full-blown roses spread, +Their smell divine, and colour strangely red; +Not such as our dull gardens proudly wear, +Whom weather's taint, and wind's rude kisses tear. +Such, I believe, was the first rose's hue, +Which, at God's word, in beauteous Eden grew; +Queen of the flowers, which made that orchard gay, +The morning-blushes of the Spring's new day. + +With sober pace an heavenly maid walks in, +Her looks all fair, no sign of native sin +Through her whole body writ; immoderate grace +Spoke things far more than human in her face: +It casts a dusky gloom o'er all the flowers, +And with full beams their mingled light devours. +An angel straight broke from a shining cloud, +And pressed his wings, and with much reverence bowed; +Again he bowed, and grave approach he made, +And thus his sacred message sweetly said: + +'Hail! full of grace! thee the whole world shall call +Above all bless'd; thee, who shall bless them all. +Thy virgin womb in wondrous sort shall shroud +Jesus the God; (and then again he bowed) +Conception the great Spirit shall breathe on thee: +Hail thou! who must God's wife, God's mother be.' +With that his seeming form to heaven he reared, +(She low obeisance made) and disappeared. +Lo! a new star three Eastern sages see; +(For why should only earth a gainer be?) +They saw this Phosphor's infant light, and knew +It bravely ushered in a sun as new; +They hasted all this rising sun t' adore; +With them rich myrrh, and early spices, bore. +Wise men! no fitter gift your zeal could bring; +You'll in a noisome stable find your king. +Anon a thousand devils run roaring in; +Some with a dreadful smile deform'dly grin; +Some stamp their cloven paws, some frown, and tear +The gaping snakes from their black-knotted hair; +As if all grief, and all the rage of hell +Were doubled now, or that just now they fell: +But when the dreaded maid they entering saw, +All fled with trembling fear and silent awe: +In her chaste arms the Eternal Infant lies, +The Almighty Voice changed into feeble cries. +Heaven contained virgins oft, and will do more; +Never did virgin contain Heaven before. +Angels peep round to view this mystic thing, +And halleluiah round, all halleluiah sing. + +No longer could good David quiet bear +The unwieldy pleasure which o'erflowed him here: +It broke the fetter, and burst ope his eye; +Away the timorous Forms together fly. +Fixed with amaze he stood, and time must take, +To learn if yet he were at last awake. +Sometimes he thinks that Heaven this vision sent, +And ordered all the pageants as they went: +Sometimes that only 'twas wild Fancy's play, +The loose and scattered relics of the day. + +When Gabriel (no bless'd sp'rit more kind or fair) +Bodies and clothes himself with thickened air; +All like a comely youth in life's fresh bloom, +Rare workmanship, and wrought by heavenly loom! +He took for skin a cloud most soft and bright +That e'er the mid-day sun pierced through with light; +Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread, +Washed from the morning beauty's deepest red; +A harmless flaming meteor shone for hair, +And fell adown his shoulders with loose care: +He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies. +Where the most sprightly azure please the eyes; +This he with starry vapours spangles all, +Took in their prime ere they grow ripe, and fall: +Of a new rainbow, ere it fret or fade, +The choicest piece took out, a scarf is made; +Small streaming clouds he does for wings display, +Not virtuous lovers' sighs more soft than they; +These he gilds o'er with the sun's richest rays, +Caught gliding o'er pure streams on which he plays. + +Thus dressed, the joyful Gabriel posts away, +And carries with him his own glorious day +Through the thick woods; the gloomy shades a while +Put on fresh, looks, and wonder why they smile; +The trembling serpents close and silent lie; +The birds obscene far from his passage fly; +A sudden spring waits on him as he goes, +Sudden as that which by creation rose. +Thus he appears to David; at first sight +All earth-bred fears and sorrows take their flight: +In rushes joy divine, and hope, and rest; +A sacred calm shines through his peaceful breast. +'Hail, man belov'd! from highest heaven,' said he. +'My mighty Master sends thee health by me. +The things thou saw'st are full of truth and light, +Shaped in the glass of the divine foresight. +Even now old Time is harnessing the Years +To go in order thus: hence, empty fears! +Thy fate's all white; from thy bless'd seed shall spring +The promised Shilo, the great mystic King. +Round the whole earth his dreaded Name shall sound. +And reach to worlds that must not yet be found: +The Southern clime him her sole Lord shall style, +Him all the North, even Albion's stubborn isle. +My fellow-servant, credit what I tell.' +Straight into shapeless air unseen he fell. + + +LIFE. + +'NASCENTES MORIMUR.'--_Manil_. + +1 We're ill by these grammarians used: + We are abused by words, grossly abused; + From the maternal tomb + To the grave's fruitful womb + We call here Life; but Life's a name + That nothing here can truly claim: + This wretched inn, where we scarce stay to bait, + We call our dwelling-place; + We call one step a race: + But angels in their full-enlightened state, + Angels who live, and know what 'tis to be, + Who all the nonsense of our language see, + Who speak things, and our words their ill-drawn picture scorn. + When we by a foolish figure say, + Behold an old man dead! then they + Speak properly, and cry, Behold a man-child born! + +2 My eyes are opened, and I see + Through the transparent fallacy: + Because we seem wisely to talk + Like men of business, and for business walk + From place to place, + And mighty voyages we take, + And mighty journeys seem to make + O'er sea and land, the little point that has no space; + Because we fight, and battles gain, + Some captives call, and say the rest are slain; + Because we heap up yellow earth, and so + Rich, valiant, wise, and virtuous seem to grow; + Because we draw a long nobility + From hieroglyphic proofs of heraldry, + And impudently talk of a posterity; + And, like Egyptian chroniclers, + Who write of twenty thousand years, + With maravedies make the account, + That single time might to a sum amount; + We grow at last by custom to believe + That really we live; + Whilst all these shadows that for things we take, + Are but the empty dreams which in death's sleep we make. + +3 But these fantastic errors of our dream + Lead us to solid wrong; + We pray God our friends' torments to prolong. + And wish uncharitably for them + To be as long a-dying as Methusalem. + The ripened soul longs from his prison to come, + But we would seal and sew up, if we could, the womb. + We seek to close and plaster up by art + The cracks and breaches of the extended shell, + And in that narrow cell + Would rudely force to dwell + The noble, vigorous bird already winged to part. + + +THE PLAGUES OF EGYPT. + +I. + +Is this thy bravery, Man! is this thy pride! +Rebel to God, and slave to all beside! +Captived by everything! and only free +To fly from thine own liberty! +All creatures, the Creator said, were thine; +No creature but might since say, Man is mine! +In black Egyptian slavery we lie, +And sweat and toil in the vain dru +Of tyrant Sin, +To which we trophies raise, and wear out all our breath +In building up the monuments of death. +We, the choice race, to God and angels kin! +In vain the prophets and apostles come +To call us home, +Home to the promised Canaan above, +Which does with nourishing milk and pleasant honey flow, +And even i' th' way to which we should be fed +With angels' tasteful bread: +But we, alas! the flesh-pots love; +We love the very leeks and sordid roots below. + +II. + +In vain we judgments feel, and wonders see; +In vain did God to descend hither deign, +He was his own Ambassador in vain, +Our Moses and our guide himself to be. +We will not let ourselves to go, +And with worse hardened hearts, do our own Pharaohs grow; +Ah! lest at last we perish so, +Think, stubborn Man! think of the Egyptian prince, +(Hard of belief and will, but not so hard as thou,) +Think with what dreadful proofs God did convince +The feeble arguments that human power could show; +Think what plagues attend on thee, +Who Moses' God dost now refuse more oft than Moses he. + +III. + +'If from some God you come,' said the proud king, +With half a smile and half a frown, +'But what God can to Egypt be unknown? +What sign, what powers, what credence do you bring?' +'Behold his seal! behold his hand!' +Cries Moses, and casts down the almighty wand: +The almighty wand scarce touched the earth, +When, with an undiscerned birth, +The almighty wand a serpent grew, +And his long half in painted folds behind him drew: +Upwards his threatening tail he threw, +Upwards he cast his threatening head, +He gaped and hissed aloud, +With flaming eyes surveyed the trembling crowd, +And, like a basilisk, almost looked the assembly dead: +Swift fled the amazed king, the guards before him fled. + +IV. + +Jannes and Jambres stopped their flight, +And with proud words allayed the affright. +'The God of slaves!' said they, 'how can he be +More powerful than their master's deity?' +And down they cast their rods, +And muttered secret sounds that charm the servile gods, +The evil spirits their charms obey, +And in a subtle cloud they snatch the rods away, +And serpents in their place the airy jugglers lay: +Serpents in Egypt's monstrous land +Were ready still at hand, +And all at the Old Serpent's first command: +And they, too, gaped, and they, too, hissed, +And they their threatening tails did twist; +But straight on both the Hebrew serpent flew, +Broke both their active backs, and both it slew, +And both almost at once devoured; +So much was overpowered +By God's miraculous creation +His servant Nature's slightly wrought and feeble generation. + +V. + +On the famed bank the prophets stood, +Touched with their rod, and wounded all the flood; +Flood now no more, but a long vein of putrid blood; +The helpless fish were found +In their strange current drowned; +The herbs and trees washed by the mortal tide +About it blushed and died: +The amazed crocodiles made haste to ground; +From their vast trunks the dropping gore they spied, +Thought it their own, and dreadfully aloud they cried: +Nor all thy priests, nor thou, +O King! couldst ever show +From whence thy wandering Nile begins his course; +Of this new Nile thou seest the sacred source, +And as thy land that does o'erflow, +Take heed lest this do so. +What plague more just could on thy waters fall? +The Hebrew infants' murder stains them all. +The kind, instructing punishment enjoy; +Whom the red river cannot mend, the Red Sea shall destroy. + +VI. + +The river yet gave one instruction more, +And from the rotting fish and unconcocted gore, +Which was but water just before, +A loathsome host was quickly made, +That scaled the banks, and with loud noise did all the country invade; +As Nilus when he quits his sacred bed, +(But like a friend he visits all the land +With welcome presents in his hand,) +So did this living tide the fields o'erspread. +In vain the alarmed country tries +To kill their noisome enemies, +From the unexhausted source still new recruits arise: +Nor does the earth these greedy troops suffice; +The towns and houses they possess, +The temples and the palaces, +Nor Pharaoh nor his gods they fear, +Both their importune croakings hear: +Unsatiate yet they mount up higher, +Where never sun-born frog durst to aspire, +And in the silken beds their slimy members place, +A luxury unknown before to all the watery race. + +VII. + +The water thus her wonders did produce, +But both were to no use: +As yet the sorcerer's mimic power served for excuse. +Try what the earth will do, said God, and lo! +They struck the earth a fertile blow, +And all the dust did straight to stir begin, +One would have thought some sudden wind had been, +But, lo! 'twas nimble life was got within! +And all the little springs did move, +And every dust did an armed vermin prove, +Of an unknown and new-created kind, +Such as the magic gods could neither make or find. +The wretched shameful foe allowed no rest +Either to man or beast; +Not Pharaoh from the unquiet plague could be, +With all his change of raiments, free; +The devils themselves confessed +This was God's hand; and 'twas but just +To punish thus man's pride, to punish dust with dust. + +VIII. + +Lo! the third element does his plagues prepare, +And swarming clouds of insects fill the air; +With sullen noise they take their flight, +And march in bodies infinite; +In vain 'tis day above, 'tis still beneath them night; +Of harmful flies the nations numberless +Composed this mighty army's spacious boast; +Of different manners, different languages, +And different habits, too, they wore, +And different arms they bore: +And some, like Scythians, lived on blood, +And some on green, and some on flowery food, +And Accaron, the airy prince, led on this various host. +Houses secure not men; the populous ill +Did all the houses fill: +The country all around, +Did with the cries of tortured cattle sound; +About the fields enraged they flew, +And wished the plague that was t' ensue. + +IX. + +From poisonous stars a mortal influence came, +(The mingled malice of their flame,) +A skilful angel did the ingredients take, +And with just hands the sad composure make, +And over all the land did the full viol shake. +Thirst, giddiness, faintness, and putrid heats, +And pining pains, and shivering sweats, +On all the cattle, all the beasts, did fall; +With deformed death the country's covered all. +The labouring ox drops down before the plough; +The crowned victims to the altar led +Sink, and prevent the lifted blow: +The generous horse from the full manger turns his head, +Does his loved floods and pastures scorn, +Hates the shrill trumpet and the horn, +Nor can his lifeless nostril please +With the once-ravishing smell of all his dappled mistresses; +The starving sheep refuse to feed, +They bleat their innocent souls out into air; +The faithful dogs lie gasping by them there; +The astonished shepherd weeps, and breaks his tuneful reed. + +X. + +Thus did the beasts for man's rebellion die; +God did on man a gentler medicine try, +And a disease for physic did apply. +Warm ashes from the furnace Moses took, +The sorcerers did with wonder on him look, +And smiled at the unaccustomed spell +Which no Egyptian rituals tell. +He flings the pregnant ashes through the air, +And speaks a mighty prayer, +Both which the minist'ring winds around all Egypt bear; +As gentle western blasts, with downy wings +Hatching the tender springs, +To the unborn buds with vital whispers say, +Ye living buds, why do ye stay? +The passionate buds break through the bark their way; +So wheresoe'er this tainted wind but blew, +Swelling pains and ulcers grew; +It from the body called all sleeping poisons out, +And to them added new; +A noisome spring of sores as thick as leaves did sprout. + +XI. + +Heaven itself is angry next; +Woe to man when Heaven is vexed; +With sullen brow it frowned, +And murmured first in an imperfect sound; +Till Moses, lifting up his hand, +Waves the expected signal of his wand, +And all the full-charged clouds in ranged squadrons move, +And fill the spacious plains above; +Through which the rolling thunder first does play, +And opens wide the tempest's noisy way: +And straight a stony shower +Of monstrous hail does downward pour, +Such as ne'er Winter yet brought forth, +From all her stormy magazines of the north: +It all the beasts and men abroad did slay, +O'er the defaced corpse, like monuments, lay; +The houses and strong-bodied trees it broke, +Nor asked aid from the thunder's stroke: +The thunder but for terror through it flew, +The hail alone the work could do. +The dismal lightnings all around, +Some flying through the air, some running on the ground, +Some swimming o'er the waters' face, +Filled with bright horror every place; +One would have thought, their dreadful day to have seen, +The very hail and rain itself had kindled been. + +XII. + +The infant corn, which yet did scarce appear, +Escaped this general massacre +Of every thing that grew, +And the well-stored Egyptian year +Began to clothe her fields and trees anew; +When, lo! a scorching wind from the burnt countries blew, +And endless legions with it drew +Of greedy locusts, who, where'er +With sounding wings they flew, +Left all the earth depopulate and bare, +As if Winter itself had marched by there, +Whate'er the sun and Nile +Gave with large bounty to the thankful soil, +The wretched pillagers bore away, +And the whole Summer was their prey; +Till Moses with a prayer, +Breathed forth a violent western wind, +Which all these living clouds did headlong bear +(No stragglers left behind) +Into the purple sea, and there bestow +On the luxurious fish a feast they ne'er did know. +With untaught joy Pharaoh the news does hear, +And little thinks their fate attends on him and his so near. + +XIII. + +What blindness and what darkness did there e'er +Like this undocile king's appear? +Whate'er but that which now does represent +And paint the crime out in the punishment? +From the deep baleful caves of hell below, +Where the old mother Night does grow, +Substantial Night, that does disclaim +Privation's empty name, +Through secret conduits monstrous shapes arose, +Such as the sun's whole force could not oppose; +They with a solid cloud +All heaven's eclipsed face did shroud; +Seemed with large wings spread o'er the sea and earth, +To brood up a new Chaos his deformed birth; +And every lamp, and every fire, +Did, at the dreadful sight, wink and expire, +To the empyrean source all streams of light seemed to retire. +The living men were in their standing houses buried, +But the long night no slumber knows, +But the short death finds no repose. +Ten thousand terrors through the darkness fled, +And ghosts complained, and spirits murmured, +And fancy's multiplying sight +Viewed all the scenes invisible of night. + +XIV. + +Of God's dreadful anger these +Were but the first light skirmishes; +The shock and bloody battle now begins, +The plenteous harvest of full-ripened sins. +It was the time when the still moon +Was mounted softly to her noon, +And dewy sleep, which from Night's secret springs arose, +Gently as Nile the land o'erflows; +When, lo! from the high countries of refined day, +The golden heaven without allay, +Whose dross, in the creation purged away, +Made up the sun's adulterate ray, +Michael, the warlike prince, does downwards fly, +Swift as the journeys of the sight, +Swift as the race of light, +And with his winged will cuts through the yielding sky. +He passed through many a star, and as he passed +Shone (like a star in them) more brightly there +Than they did in their sphere: +On a tall pyramid's pointed head he stopped at last, +And a mild look of sacred pity cast +Down on the sinful land where he was sent +To inflict the tardy punishment. +'Ah! yet,' said he, 'yet, stubborn King! repent, +Whilst thus unarmed I stand, +Ere the keen sword of God fill my commanded hand; +Suffer but yet thyself and thine to live. +Who would, alas! believe +That it for man,' said he, +'So hard to be forgiven should be, +And yet for God so easy to forgive!' + +XV. + +He spoke, and downwards flew, +And o'er his shining form a well-cut cloud he threw, +Made of the blackest fleece of night, +And close-wrought to keep in the powerful light; +Yet, wrought so fine, it hindered not his flight, +But through the key-holes and the chinks of doors, +And through the narrowest walks of crooked pores, +He passed more swift and free +Than in wide air the wanton swallows flee: +He took a pointed pestilence in his hand, +The spirits of thousand mortal poisons made +The strongly-tempered blade, +The sharpest sword that e'er was laid +Up in the magazines of God to scourge a wicked land: +Through Egypt's wicked land his march he took, +And as he marched the sacred first-born struck +Of every womb; none did he spare; +None from the meanest beast to Cenchre's purple heir. + +XVI. + +The swift approach of endless night +Breaks ope the wounded sleepers' rolling eyes; +They awake the rest with dying cries, +And darkness doubles the affright. +The mixed sounds of scattered deaths they hear, +And lose their parted souls 'twixt grief and fear. +Louder than all, the shrieking women's voice +Pierces this chaos of confused noise; +As brighter lightning cuts a way, +Clear and distinguished through the day: +With less complaints the Zoan temples sound +When the adored heifer's drowned, +And no true marked successor to be found: +While health, and strength, and gladness does possess +The festal Hebrew cottages; +The bless'd destroyer comes not there, +To interrupt the sacred cheer, +That new begins their well-reformed year. +Upon their doors he read and understood +God's protection writ in blood; +Well was he skilled i' th' character divine, +And though he passed by it in haste, +He bowed, and worshipped as he passed +The mighty mystery through its humble sign. + +XVII. + +The sword strikes now too deep and near, +Longer with its edge to play, +No diligence or cost they spare +To haste the Hebrews now away, +Pharaoh himself chides their delay; +So kind and bountiful is fear! +But, oh! the bounty which to fear we owe, +Is but like fire struck out of stone, +So hardly got, and quickly gone, +That it scarce outlives the blow. +Sorrow and fear soon quit the tyrant's breast, +Rage and revenge their place possess'd: +With a vast host of chariots and of horse, +And all his powerful kingdom's ready force, +The travelling nation he pursues, +Ten times o'ercome, he still the unequal war renews. +Filled with proud hopes, 'At least,' said he, +'The Egyptian gods, from Syrian magic free, +Will now revenge themselves and me; +Behold what passless rocks on either hand, +Like prison walls, about them stand! +Whilst the sea bounds their flight before, +And in our injured justice they must find +A far worse stop than rocks and seas behind; +Which shall with crimson gore +New paint the water's name, and double dye the shore.' + +XVIII. + +He spoke; and all his host +Approved with shouts the unhappy boast; +A bidden wind bore his vain words away, +And drowned them in the neighbouring sea. +No means to escape the faithless travellers spy, +And with degenerous fear to die, +Curse their new-gotten liberty: +But the great Guide well knew he led them right, +And saw a path hid yet from human sight: +He strikes the raging waves; the waves on either side +Unloose their close embraces, and divide, +And backwards press, as in some solemn show +The crowding people do, +(Though just before no space was seen,) +To let the admired triumph pass between. +The wondering army saw, on either hand, +The no less wondering waves like rocks of crystal stand. +They marched betwixt, and boldly trod +The secret paths of God: +And here and there, all scattered in their way, +The sea's old spoils and gaping fishes lay +Deserted on the sandy plain: +The sun did with astonishment behold +The inmost chambers of the opened main, +For whatsoe'er of old +By his own priests, the poets, has been said, +He never sunk till then into the Ocean's bed. + +XIX. + +Led cheerfully by a bright captain, Flame, +To the other shore at morning-dawn they came, +And saw behind the unguided foe +March disorderly and slow: +The prophet straight from the Idumean strand +Shakes his imperious wand; +The upper waves, that highest crowded lie, +The beckoning wand espy; +Straight their first right-hand files begin to move, +And with a murmuring wind +Give the word march to all behind; +The left-hand squadrons no less ready prove, +But with a joyful, louder noise, +Answer their distant fellows' voice, +And haste to meet them make, +As several troops do all at once a common signal take. +What tongue the amazement and the affright can tell, +Which on the Chamian army fell, +When on both sides they saw the roaring main +Broke loose from his invisible chain? +They saw the monstrous death and watery war +Come rolling down loud ruin from afar; +In vain some backward and some forwards fly +With helpless haste, in vain they cry +To their celestial beasts for aid; +In vain their guilty king they upbraid, +In vain on Moses he, and Moses' God, does call, +With a repentance true too late: +They're compassed round with a devouring fate +That draws, like a strong net, the mighty sea upon them all. + + + + +GEORGE WITHER + + +This remarkable man was born in Hampshire, at Bentworth, near Alton, in +1588. He was sent to Magdalene College, Oxford, but had hardly been +there till his father remanded him home to hold the plough--a reversal +of the case of Cincinnatus which did not please the aspiring spirit of +our poet. He took an early opportunity of breaking loose from this +occupation, and of going to London with the romantic intention of making +his fortune at Court. Finding that to rise at Court, flattery was +indispensable, and determined not to flatter, he, in 1613, published his +'Abuses Whipt and Stript,' for which he was committed for some months +to the Marshalsea. Here he wrote his beautiful poem, 'The Shepherd's +Hunting;' and is said to have gained his manumission by a satire to +the King, in which he defends his former writings. Soon after his +liberation, he published his 'Hymns and Songs of the Church,' a book +which embroiled him with the clergy, but procured him the favour of King +James, who encouraged him to finish a translation of the Psalms. He +travelled to the court of the Queen of Bohemia, (James's daughter,) in +fulfilment of a vow, and presented her with a copy of his completed +translation. + +In 1639, he was a captain of horse in the expedition against the Scotch. +When the Civil War broke out, he sold his estate to raise a troop of +horse on the Parliamentary side, and soon after was made a major. In +1642, he was appointed captain and commander of Farnham Castle, in +Surrey; but owing to some neglect or cowardice on his part, it was ceded +the same year to Sir William Waller. He was made prisoner by the +Royalists some time after this, and would have been put to death had not +Denham interfered, alleging that as long as Wither survived, he (Denham) +could not be accounted the worst poet in England. He was afterwards +appointed Cromwell's major-general of all the horse and foot in the +county of Surrey. He made money at this time by Royalist sequestrations, +but lost it all at the Restoration. He had, on the death of Cromwell, +hailed Richard with enthusiasm, and predicted him a happy reign; which +makes Campbell remark, 'He never but once in his life foreboded good, +and in that prophecy he was mistaken.' Wither was by no means pleased +with the loss of his fortune, and remonstrated bitterly; but for so +doing he was thrown into prison again. Here his mind continued as active +as ever, and he poured out treatises, poems, and satires--sometimes, +when pen and ink were denied him, inscribing his thoughts with red ochre +upon a trencher. After three years, he was, in 1663, released from +Newgate, under bond for good behaviour; and four years afterwards he +died in London. This was on the 2d of May 1667. He was buried between +the east door and the south end of the Savoy church, in the Strand. + +Wither was a man of real genius, but seems to have been partially +insane. His political zeal was a frenzy; and his religion was deeply +tinged with puritanic gloom. His 'Collection of Emblems' never became so +popular as those of Quarles, and are now nearly as much forgotten as his +satires, his psalms, and his controversial treatises. But his early +poems are delightful--full of elegant and playful fancy, ease of +language, and delicacy of sentiment. Some passages in 'The Shepherd's +Hunting,' and in the 'Address to Poetry,' resemble the style of Milton +in his 'L'Allegro' and 'Penseroso.' His 'Christmas' catches the full +spirit of that joyous carnival of Christian England. Altogether, it is +refreshing to turn from the gnarled oak of Wither's struggling and +unhappy life, to the beautiful flowers, nodding over it, of his poesy. + + +FROM 'THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.' + +See'st thou not, in clearest days, +Oft thick fogs could heavens raise? +And the vapours that do breathe +From the earth's gross womb beneath, +Seem they not with their black steams +To pollute the sun's bright beams, +And yet vanish into air, +Leaving it unblemished, fair? +So, my Willy, shall it be +With Detraction's breath and thee: +It shall never rise so high +As to stain thy poesy. +As that sun doth oft exhale +Vapours from each rotten vale; +Poesy so sometimes drains +Gross conceits from muddy brains; +Mists of envy, fogs of spite, +'Twixt men's judgments and her light; +But so much her power may do +That she can dissolve them too. +If thy verse do bravely tower, +As she makes wing, she gets power! +Yet the higher she doth soar, +She's affronted still the more: +Till she to the high'st hath past, +Then she rests with Fame at last. +Let nought therefore thee affright, +But make forward in thy flight: +For if I could match thy rhyme, +To the very stars I'd climb; +There begin again, and fly +Till I reached eternity. +But, alas! my Muse is slow; +For thy pace she flags too low. +Yes, the more's her hapless fate, +Her short wings were clipped of late; +And poor I, her fortune ruing, +Am myself put up a-muing. +But if I my cage can rid, +I'll fly where I never did. +And though for her sake I'm cross'd, +Though my best hopes I have lost, +And knew she would make my trouble +Ten times more than ten times double; +I would love and keep her too, +Spite of all the world could do. +For though banished from my flocks, +And confined within these rocks, +Here I waste away the light, +And consume the sullen night; +She doth for my comfort stay, +And keeps many cares away. +Though I miss the flowery fields, +With those sweets the springtide yields; +Though I may not see those groves, +Where the shepherds chant their loves, +And the lasses more excel +Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; +Though of all those pleasures past, +Nothing now remains at last, +But remembrance, poor relief, +That more makes than mends my grief: +She's my mind's companion still, +Maugre Envy's evil will: +Whence she should be driven too, +Were 't in mortals' power to do. +She doth tell me where to borrow +Comfort in the midst of sorrow; +Makes the desolatest place +To her presence be a grace, +And the blackest discontents +Be her fairest ornaments. +In my former days of bliss, +His divine skill taught me this, +That from everything I saw, +I could some invention draw; +And raise pleasure to her height +Through the meanest object's sight: +By the murmur of a spring, +Or the least bough's rustling; +By a daisy, whose leaves spread, +Shut when Titan goes to bed; +Or a shady bush or tree, +She could more infuse in me, +Than all Nature's beauties can, +In some other wiser man. +By her help I also now +Make this churlish place allow +Some things that may sweeten gladness +In the very gall of sadness: +The dull loneness, the black shade +That these hanging vaults have made, +The strange music of the waves, +Beating on these hollow caves, +This black den, which rocks emboss, +Overgrown with eldest moss; +The rude portals, that give light +More to terror than delight, +This my chamber of neglect, +Walled about with disrespect, +From all these, and this dull air, +A fit object for despair, +She hath taught me by her might +To draw comfort and delight. + +Therefore, then, best earthly bliss, +I will cherish thee for this! +Poesy, thou sweet'st content +That e'er Heaven to mortals lent; +Though they as a trifle leave thee, +Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee, +Though thou be to them a scorn +That to nought but earth are born; +Let my life no longer be +Than I am in love with thee! +Though our wise ones call it madness, +Let me never taste of gladness +If I love not thy madd'st fits +Above all their greatest wits! +And though some, too seeming holy, +Do account thy raptures folly, +Thou dost teach me to contemn +What makes knaves and fools of them! + + +THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. + +1 Shall I, wasting in despair, + Die because a woman's fair? + Or make pale my cheeks with care, + 'Cause another's rosy are? + Be she fairer than the day, + Or the flowery meads in May; + If she be not so to me, + What care I how fair she be? + +2 Shall my foolish heart be pined, + 'Cause I see a woman kind? + Or a well-disposed nature + Joined with a lovely feature? + Be she meeker, kinder, than + The turtle-dove or pelican; + If she be not so to me, + What care I how kind she be? + +3 Shall a woman's virtues move + Me to perish for her love? + Or, her well-deservings known, + Make me quite forget mine own? + Be she with that goodness blest, + Which may merit name of Best; + If she be not such to me, + What care I how good she be? + +4 'Cause her fortune seems too high, + Shall I play the fool and die? + Those that bear a noble mind, + Where they want of riches find, + Think what with them they would do, + That without them dare to woo; + And, unless that mind I see, + What care I how great she be? + +5 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, + I will ne'er the more despair: + If she love me, this believe-- + I will die ere she shall grieve. + If she slight me when I woo, + I can scorn and let her go: + If she be not fit for me, + What care I for whom she be? + + +THE STEADFAST SHEPHERD. + +1 Hence away, thou Siren, leave me, + Pish! unclasp these wanton arms; + Sugared words can ne'er deceive me, + Though thou prove a thousand charms. + Fie, fie, forbear; + No common snare + Can ever my affection chain: + Thy painted baits, + And poor deceits, + Are all bestowed on me in vain. + +2 I'm no slave to such as you be; + Neither shall that snowy breast, + Rolling eye, and lip of ruby, + Ever rob me of my rest: + Go, go, display + Thy beauty's ray + To some more soon enamoured swain: + Those common wiles + Of sighs and smiles + Are all bestowed on me in vain. + +3 I have elsewhere vowed a duty; + Turn away thy tempting eye: + Show not me a painted beauty: + These impostures I defy: + My spirit loathes + Where gaudy clothes + And feigned oaths may love obtain: + I love her so, + Whose look swears No, + That all your labours will be vain. + +4 Can he prize the tainted posies + Which on every breast are worn, + That may pluck the virgin roses + From their never-touched thorn? + I can go rest + On her sweet breast + That is the pride of Cynthia's train: + Then stay thy tongue, + Thy mermaid song + Is all bestowed on me in vain. + +5 He's a fool that basely dallies, + Where each peasant mates with him: + Shall I haunt the thronged valleys, + Whilst there's noble hills to climb? + No, no, though clowns + Are scared with frowns, + I know the best can but disdain; + And those I'll prove: + So will thy love + Be all bestowed on me in vain. + +6 I do scorn to vow a duty + Where each lustful lad may woo; + Give me her whose sun-like beauty + Buzzards dare not soar unto: + She, she it is + Affords that bliss + For which I would refuse no pain: + But such as you, + Fond fools, adieu! + You seek to captive me in vain. + +7 Leave me then, you Siren, leave me: + Seek no more to work my harms: + Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, + Who am proof against your charms: + You labour may + To lead astray + The heart that constant shall remain; + And I the while + Will sit and smile + To see you spend your time in vain. + + +THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING. + + ARGUMENT. + + Cuddy tells how all the swains + Pity Roget on the plains; + Who, requested, doth relate + The true cause of his estate; + Which broke off, because 'twas long, + They begin a three-man song. + + WILLY. CUDDY. ROGET. + +WILLY. + +Roget, thy old friend Cuddy here, and I, +Are come to visit thee in these thy bands, +Whilst both our flocks in an enclosure by +Do pick the thin grass from the fallowed lands. +He tells me thy restraint of liberty, +Each one throughout the country understands: + And there is not a gentle-natured lad, + On all these downs, but for thy sake is sad. + +CUDDY. + +Not thy acquaintance and thy friends alone +Pity thy close restraint, as friends should do: +But some that have but seen thee for thee moan: +Yea, many that did never see thee too. +Some deem thee in a fault, and most in none; +So divers ways do divers rumours go: + And at all meetings where our shepherds be, + Now the main news that's extant is of thee. + +ROGET. + +Why, this is somewhat yet: had I but kept +Sheep on the mountains till the day of doom, +My name should in obscurity have slept, +In brakes, in briars, shrubbed furze and broom. +Into the world's wide care it had not crept, +Nor in so many men's thoughts found a room: + But what cause of my sufferings do they know? + Good Cuddy, tell me how doth rumour go? + +CUDDY. + +Faith, 'tis uncertain; some speak this, some that: +Some dare say nought, yet seem to think a cause, +And many a one, prating he knows not what, +Comes out with proverbs and old ancient saws, +As if he thought thee guiltless, and yet not: +Then doth he speak half-sentences, then pause: + That what the most would say, we may suppose: + But what to say, the rumour is, none knows. + +ROGET. + +Nor care I greatly, for it skills not much +What the unsteady common-people deems; +His conscience doth not always feel least touch, +That blameless in the sight of others seems: +My cause is honest, and because 'tis such +I hold it so, and not for men's esteems: + If they speak justly well of me, I'm glad; + If falsely evil, it ne'er makes me sad. + +WILLY. + +I like that mind; but, Roget, you are quite +Beside the matter that I long to hear: +Remember what you promised yesternight, +You'd put us off with other talk, I fear; +Thou know'st that honest Cuddy's heart's upright, +And none but he, except myself, is near: + Come therefore, and betwixt us two relate, + The true occasion of thy present state. + +ROGET. + +My friends, I will; you know I am a swain, +That keep a poor flock here upon this plain: +Who, though it seems I could do nothing less, +Can make a song, and woo a shepherdess; +And not alone the fairest where I live +Have heard me sing, and favours deigned to give; +But though I say't, the noblest nymph of Thame, +Hath graced my verse unto my greater fame. +Yet being young, and not much seeking praise, +I was not noted out for shepherds' lays, +Nor feeding flocks, as you know others be: +For the delight that most possessed me +Was hunting foxes, wolves, and beasts of prey; +That spoil our folds, and bear our lambs away. +For this, as also for the love I bear +Unto my country, I laid by all care +Of gain, or of preferment, with desire +Only to keep that state I had entire, +And like a true-grown huntsman sought to speed +Myself with hounds of rare and choicest breed, +Whose names and natures ere I further go, +Because you are my friends, I'll let you know. +My first esteemed dog that I did find, +Was by descent of old Actaeon's kind; +A brach, which if I do not aim amiss, +For all the world is just like one of his: +She's named Love, and scarce yet knows her duty; +Her dam's my lady's pretty beagle Beauty, +I bred her up myself with wondrous charge, +Until she grew to be exceeding large, +And waxed so wanton that I did abhor it, +And put her out amongst my neighbours for it. +The next is Lust, a hound that's kept abroad, +'Mongst some of mine acquaintance, but a toad +Is not more loathsome: 'tis a cur will range +Extremely, and is ever full of mange; +And 'cause it is infectious, she's not wont +To come among the rest, but when they hunt. +Hate is the third, a hound both deep and long. +His sire is true or else supposed Wrong. +He'll have a snap at all that pass him by, +And yet pursues his game most eagerly. +With him goes Envy coupled, a lean cur, +And she'll hold out, hunt we ne'er so far: +She pineth much, and feedeth little too, +Yet stands and snarleth at the rest that do. +Then there's Revenge, a wondrous deep-mouthed dog, +So fleet, I'm fain to hunt him with a clog, +Yet many times he'll much outstrip his bounds, +And hunts not closely with the other hounds: +He'll venture on a lion in his ire; +Curst Choler was his dam, and Wrong his sire. +This Choler is a brach that's very old, +And spends her mouth too much to have it hold: +She's very testy, an unpleasing cur, +That bites the very stones, if they but stur: +Or when that ought but her displeasure moves, +She'll bite and snap at any one she loves: +But my quick-scented'st dog is Jealousy, +The truest of this breed's in Italy: +The dam of mine would hardly fill a glove, +It was a lady's little dog, called Love: +The sire, a poor deformed cur, named Fear, +As shagged and as rough as is a bear: +And yet the whelp turned after neither kind, +For he is very large, and near-hand blind; +At the first sight he hath a pretty colour, +But doth not seem so, when you view him fuller; +A vile suspicious beast, his looks are bad, +And I do fear in time he will grow mad. +To him I couple Avarice, still poor; +Yet she devours as much as twenty more: +A thousand horse she in her paunch can put, +Yet whine as if she had an empty gut: +And having gorged what might a land have found, +She'll catch for more, and hide it in the ground. +Ambition is a hound as greedy full; +But he for all the daintiest bits doth cull: +He scorns to lick up crumbs beneath the table, +He'll fetch 't from boards and shelves, if he be able: +Nay, he can climb if need be; and for that, +With him I hunt the martin and the cat: +And yet sometimes in mounting he's so quick, +He fetches falls are like to break his neck. +Fear is well-mouth'd, but subject to distrust; +A stranger cannot make him take a crust: +A little thing will soon his courage quail, +And 'twixt his legs he ever claps his tail; +With him Despair now often coupled goes, +Which by his roaring mouth each huntsman knows. +None hath a better mind unto the game, +But he gives off, and always seemeth lame. +My bloodhound Cruelty, as swift as wind, +Hunts to the death, and never comes behind; +Who but she's strapp'd and muzzled too withal, +Would eat her fellows, and the prey and all; +And yet she cares not much for any food, +Unless it be the purest harmless blood. +All these are kept abroad at charge of many, +They do not cost me in a year a penny. +But there's two couple of a middling size, +That seldom pass the sight of my own eyes. +Hope, on whose head I've laid my life to pawn; +Compassion, that on every one will fawn. +This would, when 'twas a whelp, with rabbits play +Or lambs, and let them go unhurt away: +Nay, now she is of growth, she'll now and then +Catch you a hare, and let her go again. +The two last, Joy and Sorrow, 'tis a wonder, +Can ne'er agree, nor ne'er bide far asunder. +Joy's ever wanton, and no order knows: +She'll run at larks, or stand and bark at crows. +Sorrow goes by her, and ne'er moves his eye; +Yet both do serve to help make up the cry. +Then comes behind all these to bear the base, +Two couple more of a far larger race, +Such wide-mouth'd trollops, that 'twould do you good +To hear their loud loud echoes tear the wood. +There's Vanity, who, by her gaudy hide, +May far away from all the rest be spied, +Though huge, yet quick, for she's now here, now there; +Nay, look about you, and she's everywhere: +Yet ever with the rest, and still in chase. +Right so, Inconstancy fills every place; +And yet so strange a fickle-natured hound, +Look for her, and she's nowhere to be found. +Weakness is no fair dog unto the eye, +And yet she hath her proper quality; +But there's Presumption, when he heat hath got, +He drowns the thunder and the cannon-shot: +And when at start he his full roaring makes, +The earth doth tremble, and the heaven shakes. +These were my dogs, ten couple just in all, +Whom by the name of Satyrs I do call: +Mad curs they be, and I can ne'er come nigh them, +But I'm in danger to be bitten by them. +Much pains I took, and spent days not a few, +To make them keep together, and hunt true: +Which yet I do suppose had never been, +But that I had a scourge to keep them in. +Now when that I this kennel first had got, +Out of my own demesnes I hunted not, +Save on these downs, or among yonder rocks, +After those beasts that spoiled our parish flocks; +Nor during that time was I ever wont +With all my kennel in one day to hunt: +Nor had done yet, but that this other year, +Some beasts of prey, that haunt the deserts here, +Did not alone for many nights together +Devour, sometime a lamb, sometime a wether, +And so disquiet many a poor man's herd, +But that of losing all they were afeard: +Yea, I among the rest did fare as bad, +Or rather worse, for the best ewes[1] I had +(Whose breed should be my means of life and gain) +Were in one evening by these monsters slain: +Which mischief I resolved to repay, +Or else grow desperate, and hunt all away; +For in a fury (such as you shall see +Huntsmen in missing of their sport will be) +I vowed a monster should not lurk about, +In all this province, but I'd find him out, +And thereupon, without respect or care, +How lame, how full, or how unfit they were, +In haste unkennell'd all my roaring crew, +Who were as mad as if my mind they knew, +And ere they trail'd a flight-shot, the fierce curs +Had roused a hart, and thorough brakes and furs +Follow'd at gaze so close, that Love and Fear +Got in together, so had surely there +Quite overthrown him, but that Hope thrust in +'Twixt both, and saved the pinching of his skin, +Whereby he 'scaped, till coursing o'erthwart, +Despair came in, and griped him to the heart: +I hallowed in the res'due to the fall, +And for an entrance, there I fleshed them all: +Which having done, I dipped my staff in blood, +And onward led my thunder to the wood; +Where what they did, I'll tell you out anon, +My keeper calls me, and I must be gone. +Go if you please a while, attend your flocks, +And when the sun is over yonder rocks, +Come to this cave again, where I will be, +If that my guardian so much favour me. +Yet if you please, let us three sing a strain, +Before you turn your sheep into the plain. + +WILLY. + +I am content. + +CUDDY. + + As well content am I. + +ROGET. + +Then, Will, begin, and we'll the rest supply. + + +SONG. + +WILLY. + + Shepherd, would these gates were ope, + Thou might'st take with us thy fortune. + +ROGET. + + No, I'll make this narrow scope, + Since my fate doth so importune + Means unto a wider hope. + +CUDDY. + + Would thy shepherdess were here, + Who belov'd, loves thee so dearly! + +ROGET. + + Not for both your flocks, I swear, + And the gain they yield you yearly, + Would I so much wrong my dear. + Yet to me, nor to this place, + Would she now be long a stranger; + She would hold it no disgrace, + (If she feared not more my danger,) + Where I am to show her face. + +WILLY. + + Shepherd, we would wish no harms, + But something that might content thee. + +ROGET. + + Wish me then within her arms, + And that wish will ne'er repent me, + If your wishes might prove charms. + +WILLY. + + Be thy prison her embrace, + Be thy air her sweetest breathing. + +CUDDY. + + Be thy prospect her fair face, + For each look a kiss bequeathing, + And appoint thyself the place. + +ROGET. + + Nay pray, hold there, for I should scantly then + Come meet you here this afternoon again: + But fare you well, since wishes have no power, + Let us depart, and keep the 'pointed hour. + +[1] 'Ewes:' hopes. + + + + +SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT, + + +The author of 'Gondibert,' was the son of a vintner in Oxford, and born +in February 1605. Gossip says--but says with her usual carelessness about +truth--that he was the son of no less a person than William Shakspeare, +who used, in his journeys between London and Stratford, to stop at the +Crown, an inn kept by Davenant's reputed father. This story is hinted at +by Wood, was told to Pope by Betterton the player, and believed by Malone, +but seems to be a piece of mere scandal. It is true that Davenant had a +great veneration for Shakspeare, and expressed it, when only ten years +old, in lines 'In remembrance of Master William Shakspeare,' beginning +thus:-- + + 'Beware, delighted poets, when you sing, + To welcome nature in the early spring, + Your numerous feet not tread + The banks of Avon, for each flower + (As it ne'er knew a sun or shower) + Hangs there the pensive head.' + +Southey says--'The father was a man of melancholy temperament, the mother +handsome and lively; and as Shakspeare used to put up at the house on his +journeys between Stratford and London, Davenant is said to have affected +the reputation of being Shakspeare's son. If he really did this, there +was a levity, or rather a want of feeling, in the boast, for which social +pleasantry, and the spirits which are induced by wine, afford but little +excuse.' + +He was entered at Lincoln College; he next became page to the Duchess of +Richmond; and we find him afterwards in the family of Fulk Greville, Lord +Brooke--famous as the friend of Sir Philip Sidney. He began to write for +the stage in 1628; and on the death of Ben Jonson he was made Poet Laureate +--to the disappointment of Thomas May, so much praised by Johnson and +others for his proficiency in Latin poetry, as displayed in his supplement +to Lucan's 'Pharsalia.' He became afterwards manager of Drury Lane; but +owing to his connexion with the intrigues of that unhappy period, he was +imprisoned in the Tower, and subsequently made his escape to France. On his +return to England, he distinguished himself greatly in the Royal cause; and +when that became desperate, he again took refuge in France, and wrote part +of his 'Gondibert.' He projected a scheme for carrying over a colony to +Virginia; but his vessel was seized by one of the Parliamentary ships--he +himself was conveyed a prisoner to Cowes Castle, in the Isle of Wight, and +thence to the Tower, preparatory to being tried by the High Commission. But +a giant hand, worthy of having saved him had he been Shakspeare's veritable +son, was now stretched forth to his rescue--the hand of Milton. In this +generous act Milton was seconded by Whitelocke, and by two aldermen of +York, to whom our poet had rendered some services. Liberated from the +Tower, Davenant was also permitted, through the influence of Whitelocke, +to open, in defiance of Puritanic prohibition, a kind of theatre at Rutland +House, and by enacting his own plays there, he managed to support himself +till the Restoration. He then, it is supposed, repaid to Milton his +friendly service, and shielded him from the wrath of the Court. From this +period Davenant continued to write for the stage--having received the +patent of the Duke's Theatre, in Lincoln's Inn--till his death. This event +took place on April 7, 1668. His last play, written in conjunction with +Dryden, was an alteration and pollution of Shakspeare's 'Tempest,' which +was more worthy of Trincula than of the authors of 'Absalom and Ahithophel' +and of 'Gondibert.' Supposing Davenant the son of Shakspeare, his act to +his father's masterpiece reminds us, in the excess of its filial impiety, +of Ham's conduct to Noah. + +'Gondibert' is a large and able, without being a great poem. It has the +incurable and indefensible defect of dulness. 'The line labours, and the +words move slow.' The story is interesting of itself, but is lost in the +labyrinthine details. It has many lines, and some highly and successfully +wrought passages; but as a whole we may say of it as Porson said of +certain better productions, 'It will be read when the works of Homer and +Virgil are forgotten--but _not till then_.' + + +FROM 'GONDIBERT'--CANTO II. + +THE ARGUMENT. + +The hunting which did yearly celebrate +The Lombards' glory, and the Vandals' fate: +The hunters praised; how true to love they are, +How calm in peace and tempest-like in war. +The stag is by the numerous chase subdued, +And straight his hunters are as hard pursued. + +1 Small are the seeds Fate does unheeded sow + Of slight beginnings to important ends; + Whilst wonder, which does best our reverence show + To Heaven, all reason's sight in gazing spends. + +2 For from a day's brief pleasure did proceed, + A day grown black in Lombard histories, + Such lasting griefs as thou shalt weep to read, + Though even thine own sad love had drained thine eyes. + +3 In a fair forest, near Verona's plain, + Fresh as if Nature's youth chose there a shade, + The Duke, with many lovers in his train, + Loyal and young, a solemn hunting made. + +4 Much was his train enlarged by their resort + Who much his grandsire loved, and hither came + To celebrate this day with annual sport, + On which by battle here he earned his fame, + +5 And many of these noble hunters bore + Command amongst the youth at Bergamo; + Whose fathers gathered here the wreaths they wore, + When in this forest they interred the foe. + +6 Count Hurgonil, a youth of high descent, + Was listed here, and in the story great; + He followed honour, when towards death it went; + Fierce in a charge, but temperate in retreat. + +7 His wondrous beauty, which the world approved, + He blushing hid, and now no more would own + (Since he the Duke's unequalled sister loved) + Than an old wreath when newly overthrown. + +8 And she, Orna the shy! did seem in life + So bashful too, to have her beauty shown, + As I may doubt her shade with Fame at strife, + That in these vicious times would make it known. + +9 Not less in public voice was Arnold here; + He that on Tuscan tombs his trophies raised; + And now Love's power so willingly did bear, + That even his arbitrary reign he praised. + +10 Laura, the Duke's fair niece, enthralled his heart, + Who was in court the public morning glass, + Where those, who would reduce nature to art, + Practised by dress the conquests of the face. + +11 And here was Hugo, whom Duke Gondibert + For stout and steadfast kindness did approve; + Of stature small, but was all over heart, + And, though unhappy, all that heart was love. + +12 In gentle sonnets he for Laura pined, + Soft as the murmurs of a weeping spring, + Which ruthless she did as those murmurs mind: + So, ere their death, sick swans unheeded sing. + +13 Yet, whilst she Arnold favoured, he so grieved, + As loyal subjects quietly bemoan + Their yoke, but raise no war to be relieved, + Nor through the envied fav'rite wound the throne. + +14 Young Goltho next these rivals we may name, + Whose manhood dawned early as summer light; + As sure and soon did his fair day proclaim, + And was no less the joy of public sight. + +15 If love's just power he did not early see, + Some small excuse we may his error give; + Since few, though learn'd, know yet blest love to be + That secret vital heat by which we live: + +16 But such it is; and though we may be thought + To have in childhood life, ere love we know, + Yet life is useless till by reason taught, + And love and reason up together grow. + +17 Nor more the old show they outlive their love, + If, when their love's decayed, some signs they give + Of life, because we see them pained and move, + Than snakes, long cut, by torment show they live. + +18 If we call living, life, when love is gone, + We then to souls, God's coin, vain reverence pay; + Since reason, which is love, and his best known + And current image, age has worn away. + +19 And I, that love and reason thus unite, + May, if I old philosophers control, + Confirm the new by some new poet's light, + Who, finding love, thinks he has found the soul. + +20 From Goltho, to whom love yet tasteless seemed, + We to ripe Tybalt are by order led; + Tybalt, who love and valour both esteemed, + And he alike from either's wounds had bled. + +21 Public his valour was, but not his love, + One filled the world, the other he contained; + Yet quietly alike in both did move, + Of that ne'er boasted, nor of this complained. + +22 With these, whose special names verse shall preserve, + Many to this recorded hunting came; + Whose worth authentic mention did deserve, + But from Time's deluge few are saved by Fame. + +23 New like a giant lover rose the sun + From the ocean queen, fine in his fires and great; + Seemed all the morn for show, for strength at noon, + As if last night she had not quenched his heat. + +24 And the sun's servants, who his rising wait, + His pensioners, for so all lovers are, + And all maintained by him at a high rate + With daily fire, now for the chase prepare. + +25 All were, like hunters, clad in cheerful green, + Young Nature's livery, and each at strife + Who most adorned in favours should be seen, + Wrought kindly by the lady of his life. + +26 These martial favours on their waists they wear, + On which, for now they conquest celebrate, + In an embroidered history appear + Like life, the vanquished in their fears and fate. + +27 And on these belts, wrought with their ladies' care, + Hung cimeters of Akon's trusty steel; + Goodly to see, and he who durst compare + Those ladies' eyes, might soon their temper feel. + +28 Cheered as the woods, where new-waked choirs they meet, + Are all; and now dispose their choice relays + Of horse and hounds, each like each other fleet; + Which best, when with themselves compared, we praise. + +29 To them old forest spies, the harbourers, + With haste approach, wet as still weeping night, + Or deer that mourn their growth of head with tears, + When the defenceless weight does hinder flight. + +30 And dogs, such whose cold secrecy was meant + By Nature for surprise, on these attend; + Wise, temperate lime-hounds that proclaim no scent, + Nor harb'ring will their mouths in boasting spend. + +31 Yet vainlier far than traitors boast their prize, + On which their vehemence vast rates does lay, + Since in that worth their treason's credit lies, + These harb'rers praise that which they now betray. + +32 Boast they have lodged a stag, that all the race + Outruns of Croton horse, or Rhegian hounds; + A stag made long since royal in the chase, + If kings can honour give by giving wounds. + +33 For Aribert had pierced him at a bay, + Yet 'scaped he by the vigour of his head; + And many a summer since has won the day, + And often left his Rhegian followers dead. + +34 His spacious beam, that even the rights outgrew, + From antler to his troch had all allowed, + By which his age the aged woodmen knew, + Who more than he were of that beauty proud. + +35 Now each relay a several station finds, + Ere the triumphant train the copse surrounds; + Relays of horse, long breathed as winter winds, + And their deep cannon-mouthed experienced hounds. + +36 The huntsmen, busily concerned in show, + As if the world were by this beast undone, + And they against him hired as Nature's foe, + In haste uncouple, and their hounds outrun. + +37 Now wind they a recheat, the roused deer's knell, + And through the forest all the beasts are awed; + Alarmed by Echo, Nature's sentinel, + Which shows that murderous man is come abroad. + +38 Tyrannic man! thy subjects' enemy! + And more through wantonness than need or hate, + From whom the winged to their coverts fly, + And to their dens even those that lay in wait. + +39 So this, the most successful of his kind, + Whose forehead's force oft his opposers pressed, + Whose swiftness left pursuers' shafts behind, + Is now of all the forest most distressed! + +40 The herd deny him shelter, as if taught + To know their safety is to yield him lost; + Which shows they want not the results of thought, + But speech, by which we ours for reason boast. + +41 We blush to see our politics in beasts, + Who many saved by this one sacrifice; + And since through blood they follow interests, + Like us when cruel should be counted wise. + +42 His rivals, that his fury used to fear + For his loved female, now his faintness shun; + But were his season hot, and she but near, + (O mighty love!) his hunters were undone. + +43 From thence, well blown, he comes to the relay, + Where man's famed reason proves but cowardice, + And only serves him meanly to betray; + Even for the flying, man in ambush lies. + +44 But now, as his last remedy to live, + (For every shift for life kind Nature makes, + Since life the utmost is which she can give,) + Cool Adice from the swoln bank he takes. + +45 But this fresh bath the dogs will make him leave, + Whom he sure-nosed as fasting tigers found; + Their scent no north-east wind could e'er deceive + Which drives the air, nor flocks that soil the ground. + +46 Swift here the fliers and pursuers seem; + The frighted fish swim from their Adice, + The dogs pursue the deer, he the fleet stream, + And that hastes too to the Adriatic sea. + +47 Refreshed thus in this fleeting element, + He up the steadfast shore did boldly rise; + And soon escaped their view, but not their scent, + That faithful guide, which even conducts their eyes. + +48 This frail relief was like short gales of breath, + Which oft at sea a long dead calm prepare; + Or like our curtains drawn at point of death, + When all our lungs are spent, to give us air. + +49 For on the shore the hunters him attend: + And whilst the chase grew warm as is the day, + (Which now from the hot zenith does descend,) + He is embossed, and wearied to a bay. + +50 The jewel, life, he must surrender here, + Which the world's mistress, Nature, does not give, + But like dropped favours suffers us to wear, + Such as by which pleased lovers think they live. + +51 Yet life he so esteems, that he allows + It all defence his force and rage can make; + And to the eager dogs such fury shows, + As their last blood some unrevenged forsake. + +52 But now the monarch murderer comes in, + Destructive man! whom Nature would not arm, + As when in madness mischief is foreseen, + We leave it weaponless for fear of harm. + +53 For she defenceless made him, that he might + Less readily offend; but art arms all, + From single strife makes us in numbers fight; + And by such art this royal stag did fall. + +54 He weeps till grief does even his murderers pierce; + Grief which so nobly through his anger strove, + That it deserved the dignity of verse, + And had it words, as humanly would move. + +55 Thrice from the ground his vanquished head he reared, + And with last looks his forest walks did view; + Where sixty summers he had ruled the herd, + And where sharp dittany now vainly grew: + +56 Whose hoary leaves no more his wounds shall heal; + For with a sigh (a blast of all his breath) + That viewless thing, called life, did from him steal, + And with their bugle-horns they wind his death. + +57 Then with their annual wanton sacrifice, + Taught by old custom, whose decrees are vain, + And we, like humorous antiquaries, that prize + Age, though deformed, they hasten to the plain. + +58 Thence homeward bend as westward as the sun, + Where Gondibert's allies proud feasts prepare, + That day to honour which his grandsire won; + Though feasts the eyes to funerals often are. + +59 One from the forest now approached their sight, + Who them did swiftly on the spur pursue; + One there still resident as day and night, + And known as the eldest oak which in it grew: + +60 Who, with his utmost breath advancing, cries, + (And such a vehemence no heart could feign,) + 'Away! happy the man that fastest flies! + Fly, famous Duke! fly with thy noble train!' + +61 The Duke replied: 'Though with thy fears disguised, + Thou dost my sire's old ranger's image bear, + And for thy kindness shalt not be despised; + Though counsels are but weak which come from fear. + +62 'Were dangers here, great as thy love can shape, + And love with fear can danger multiply, + Yet when by flight thou bidst us meanly 'scape, + Bid trees take wings, and rooted forests fly.' + +63 Then said the ranger: 'You are bravely lost!' + (And like high anger his complexion rose.) + 'As little know I fear as how to boast; + But shall attend you through your many foes. + +64 'See where in ambush mighty Oswald lay! + And see, from yonder lawn he moves apace, + With lances armed to intercept thy way, + Now thy sure steeds are wearied with the chase. + +65 'His purple banners you may there behold, + Which, proudly spread, the fatal raven bear; + And full five hundred I by rank have told, + Who in their gilded helms his colours wear.' + +66 The Duke this falling storm does now discern; + Bids little Hugo fly! but 'tis to view + The foe, and timely their first count'nance learn, + Whilst firm he in a square his hunters drew. + +67 And Hugo soon, light as his courser's heels, + Was in their faces troublesome as wind; + And like to it so wingedly he wheels, + No one could catch, what all with trouble find. + +68 But everywhere the leaders and the led + He temperately observed with a slow sight; + Judged by their looks how hopes and fears were fed, + And by their order their success in fight. + +69 Their number, 'mounting to the ranger's guess, + In three divisions evenly was disposed; + And that their enemies might judge it less, + It seemed one gross with all the spaces closed. + +70 The van fierce Oswald led, where Paradine + And manly Dargonet, both of his blood, + Outshined the noon, and their minds' stock within + Promised to make that outward glory good. + +71 The next, bold, but unlucky Hubert led, + Brother to Oswald, and no less allied + To the ambitions which his soul did wed; + Lowly without, but lined with costly pride. + +72 Most to himself his valour fatal was, + Whose glories oft to others dreadful were; + So comets, though supposed destruction's cause, + But waste themselves to make their gazers fear. + +73 And though his valour seldom did succeed, + His speech was such as could in storms persuade; + Sweet as the hopes on which starved lovers feed, + Breathed in the whispers of a yielding maid. + +74 The bloody Borgio did conduct the rear, + Whom sullen Vasco heedfully attends; + To all but to themselves they cruel were, + And to themselves chiefly by mischief friends. + +75 War, the world's art, nature to them became; + In camps begot, born, and in anger bred; + The living vexed till death, and then their fame, + Because even fame some life is to the dead. + +76 Cities, wise statesmen's folds for civil sheep, + They sacked, as painful shearers of the wise; + For they like careful wolves would lose their sleep, + When others' prosperous toils might be their prize. + +77 Hugo amongst these troops spied many more, + Who had, as brave destroyers, got renown; + And many forward wounds in boast they wore, + Which, if not well revenged, had ne'er been shown. + +78 Such the bold leaders of these lancers were, + Which of the Brescian veterans did consist; + Whose practised age might charge of armies bear, + And claim some rank in Fame's eternal list. + +79 Back to his Duke the dexterous Hugo flies, + What he observed he cheerfully declares; + With noble pride did what he liked despise; + For wounds he threatened whilst he praised their scars. + +80 Lord Arnold cried, 'Vain is the bugle-horn, + Where trumpets men to manly work invite! + That distant summons seems to say, in scorn, + We hunters may be hunted hard ere night.' + +81 'Those beasts are hunted hard that hard can fly,' + Replied aloud the noble Hurgonil; + 'But we, not used to flight, know best to die; + And those who know to die, know how to kill. + +82 'Victors through number never gained applause; + If they exceed our count in arms and men, + It is not just to think that odds, because + One lover equals any other ten.' + + +FROM 'GONDIBERT'--CANTO IV. + +1 The King, who never time nor power misspent + In subject's bashfulness, whiling great deeds + Like coward councils, who too late consent, + Thus to his secret will aloud proceeds: + +2 'If to thy fame, brave youth, I could add wings, + Or make her trumpet louder by my voice, + I would, as an example drawn for kings, + Proclaim the cause why thou art now my choice. + + * * * * * + +3 'For she is yours, as your adoption free; + And in that gift my remnant life I give; + But 'tis to you, brave youth! who now are she; + And she that heaven where secondly I live. + +4 'And richer than that crown, which shall be thine + When life's long progress I have gone with fame, + Take all her love; which scarce forbears to shine, + And own thee, through her virgin curtain, shame.' + +5 Thus spake the king; and Rhodalind appeared + Through published love, with so much bashfulness, + As young kings show, when by surprise o'erheard, + Moaning to favourite ears a deep distress. + +6 For love is a distress, and would be hid + Like monarchs' griefs, by which they bashful grow; + And in that shame beholders they forbid; + Since those blush most, who most their blushes show. + +7 And Gondibert, with dying eyes, did grieve + At her vailed love, a wound he cannot heal, + As great minds mourn, who cannot then relieve + The virtuous, when through shame they want conceal. + +8 And now cold Birtha's rosy looks decay; + Who in fear's frost had like her beauty died, + But that attendant hope persuades her stay + A while, to hear her Duke; who thus replied: + +9 'Victorious King! abroad your subjects are, + Like legates, safe; at home like altars free! + Even by your fame they conquer, as by war; + And by your laws safe from each other be. + +10 'A king you are o'er subjects so, as wise + And noble husbands seem o'er loyal wives; + Who claim not, yet confess their liberties, + And brag to strangers of their happy lives. + +11 'To foes a winter storm; whilst your friends bow, + Like summer trees, beneath your bounty's load; + To me, next him whom your great self, with low + And cheerful duty, serves, a giving God. + +12 'Since this is you, and Rhodalind, the light + By which her sex fled virtue find, is yours, + Your diamond, which tests of jealous sight, + The stroke, and fire, and Oisel's juice endures; + +13 'Since she so precious is, I shall appear + All counterfeit, of art's disguises made; + And never dare approach her lustre near, + Who scarce can hold my value in the shade. + +14 'Forgive me that I am not what I seem; + But falsely have dissembled an excess + Of all such virtues as you most esteem; + But now grow good but as I ills confess. + +15 'Far in ambition's fever am I gone! + Like raging flame aspiring is my love; + Like flame destructive too, and, like the sun, + Does round the world tow'rds change of objects move. + +16 'Nor is this now through virtuous shame confessed; + But Rhodalind does force my conjured fear, + As men whom evil spirits have possessed, + Tell all when saintly votaries appear. + +17 'When she will grace the bridal dignity, + It will be soon to all young monarchs known; + Who then by posting through the world will try + Who first can at her feet present his crown. + +18 'Then will Verona seem the inn of kings, + And Rhodalind shall at her palace gate + Smile, when great love these royal suitors brings; + Who for that smile would as for empire wait. + +19 'Amongst this ruling race she choice may take + For warmth of valour, coolness of the mind, + Eyes that in empire's drowsy calms can wake, + In storms look out, in darkness dangers find; + +20 'A prince who more enlarges power than lands, + Whose greatness is not what his map contains; + But thinks that his where he at full commands, + Not where his coin does pass, but power remains. + +21 'Who knows that power can never be too high; + When by the good possessed, for 'tis in them + The swelling Nile, from which though people fly, + They prosper most by rising of the stream. + +22 'Thus, princes, you should choose; and you will find, + Even he, since men are wolves, must civilise, + As light does tame some beasts of savage kind, + Himself yet more, by dwelling in your eyes.' + +23 Such was the Duke's reply; which did produce + Thoughts of a diverse shape through several ears: + His jealous rivals mourn at his excuse; + But Astragon it cures of all his fears, + +24 Birtha his praise of Rhodalind bewails; + And now her hope a weak physician seems; + For hope, the common comforter, prevails + Like common medicines, slowly in extremes. + +25 The King (secure in offered empire) takes + This forced excuse as troubled bashfulness, + And a disguise which sudden passion makes, + To hide more joy than prudence should express. + +26 And Rhodalind, who never loved before, + Nor could suspect his love was given away, + Thought not the treasure of his breast so poor, + But that it might his debts of honour pay. + +27 To hasten the rewards of his desert, + The King does to Verona him command; + And, kindness so imposed, not all his art + Can now instruct his duty to withstand. + +28 Yet whilst the King does now his time dispose + In seeing wonders, in this palace shown, + He would a parting kindness pay to those + Who of their wounds are yet not perfect grown. + +29 And by this fair pretence, whilst on the King + Lord Astragon through all the house attends, + Young Orgo does the Duke to Birtha bring, + Who thus her sorrows to his bosom sends: + +30 'Why should my storm your life's calm voyage vex? + Destroying wholly virtue's race in one: + So by the first of my unlucky sex, + All in a single ruin were undone. + +31 'Make heavenly Rhodalind your bride! whilst I, + Your once loved maid, excuse you, since I know + That virtuous men forsake so willingly + Long-cherished life, because to heaven they go. + +32 'Let me her servant be: a dignity, + Which if your pity in my fall procures, + I still shall value the advancement high, + Not as the crown is hers, but she is yours.' + +33 Ere this high sorrow up to dying grew, + The Duke the casket opened, and from thence, + Formed like a heart, a cheerful emerald drew; + Cheerful, as if the lively stone had sense. + +34 The thirtieth caract it had doubled twice; + Not taken from the Attic silver mine, + Nor from the brass, though such, of nobler price, + Did on the necks of Parthian ladies shine: + +35 Nor yet of those which make the Ethiop proud; + Nor taken from those rocks where Bactrians climb: + But from the Scythian, and without a cloud; + Not sick at fire, nor languishing with time. + +36 Then thus he spake: 'This, Birtha, from my male + Progenitors, was to the loyal she + On whose kind heart they did in love prevail, + The nuptial pledge, and this I give to thee: + +37 'Seven centuries have passed, since it from bride + To bride did first succeed; and though 'tis known + From ancient lore, that gems much virtue hide, + And that the emerald is the bridal stone: + +38 'Though much renowned because it chastens loves, + And will, when worn by the neglected wife, + Show when her absent lord disloyal proves, + By faintness, and a pale decay of life. + +39 'Though emeralds serve as spies to jealous brides, + Yet each compared to this does counsel keep; + Like a false stone, the husband's falsehood hides, + Or seems born blind, or feigns a dying sleep. + +40 'With this take Orgo, as a better spy, + Who may in all your kinder fears be sent + To watch at court, if I deserve to die + By making this to fade, and you lament.' + +41 Had now an artful pencil Birtha drawn, + With grief all dark, then straight with joy all light, + He must have fancied first, in early dawn, + A sudden break of beauty out of night. + +42 Or first he must have marked what paleness fear, + Like nipping frost, did to her visage bring; + Then think he sees, in a cold backward year, + A rosy morn begin a sudden spring. + +43 Her joys, too vast to be contained in speech, + Thus she a little spake: 'Why stoop you down, + My plighted lord, to lowly Birtha's reach, + Since Rhodalind would lift you to a crown? + +44 'Or why do I, when I this plight embrace, + Boldly aspire to take what you have given? + But that your virtue has with angels place, + And 'tis a virtue to aspire to heaven. + +45 'And as towards heaven all travel on their knees, + So I towards you, though love aspire, will move: + And were you crowned, what could you better please + Then awed obedience led by bolder love? + +46 'If I forget the depth from whence I rise, + Far from your bosom banished be my heart; + Or claim a right by beauty to your eyes; + Or proudly think my chastity desert. + +47 'But thus ascending from your humble maid + To be your plighted bride, and then your wife, + Will be a debt that shall be hourly paid, + Till time my duty cancel with my life. + +48 'And fruitfully, if heaven e'er make me bring + Your image to the world, you then my pride + No more shall blame than you can tax the spring + For boasting of those flowers she cannot hide. + +49 'Orgo I so receive as I am taught + By duty to esteem whate'er you love; + And hope the joy he in this jewel brought + Will luckier than his former triumphs prove. + +50 'For though but twice he has approached my sight, + He twice made haste to drown me in my tears: + But now I am above his planet's spite, + And as for sin beg pardon for my fears.' + +51 Thus spake she: and with fixed, continued sight + The Duke did all her bashful beauties view; + Then they with kisses sealed their sacred plight, + Like flowers, still sweeter as they thicker grew. + +52 Yet must these pleasures feel, though innocent, + The sickness of extremes, and cannot last; + For power, love's shunned impediment, has sent + To tell the Duke his monarch is in haste: + +53 And calls him to that triumph which he fears + So as a saint forgiven, whose breast does all + Heaven's joys contain, wisely loved pomp forbears, + Lest tempted nature should from blessings fall. + +54 He often takes his leave, with love's delay, + And bids her hope he with the King shall find, + By now appearing forward to obey, + A means to serve him less in Rhodalind. + +55 She weeping to her closet window hies, + Where she with tears doth Rhodalind survey; + As dying men, who grieve that they have eyes, + When they through curtains spy the rising day. + + + + +DR HENRY KING. + + +Of this poetical divine we know nothing, except that he was born in +1591, and died in 1669,--that he was chaplain to James I., and Bishop of +Chichester,--and that he indited some poetry as pious in design as it is +pretty in execution. + + +SIC VITA. + +Like to the falling of a star, +Or as the flights of eagles are; +Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, +Or silver drops of morning dew; +Or like a wind that chafes the flood, +Or bubbles which on water stood: +Even such is man, whose borrowed light +Is straight called in, and paid to-night. + +The wind blows out, the bubble dies; +The spring entombed in autumn lies; +The dew dries up, the star is shot: +The flight is past--and man forgot. + + +SONG. + +1 Dry those fair, those crystal eyes, + Which like growing fountains rise + To drown their banks! Grief's sullen brooks + Would better flow in furrowed looks: + Thy lovely face was never meant + To be the shore of discontent. + +2 Then clear those waterish stars again, + Which else portend a lasting rain; + Lest the clouds which settle there + Prolong my winter all the year, + And thy example others make + In love with sorrow, for thy sake. + + +LIFE. + +1 What is the existence of man's life + But open war or slumbered strife? + Where sickness to his sense presents + The combat of the elements, + And never feels a perfect peace + Till death's cold hand signs his release. + +2 It is a storm--where the hot blood + Outvies in rage the boiling flood: + And each loud passion of the mind + Is like a furious gust of wind, + Which beats the bark with many a wave, + Till he casts anchor in the grave. + +3 It is a flower--which buds, and grows, + And withers as the leaves disclose; + Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, + Like fits of waking before sleep, + Then shrinks into that fatal mould + Where its first being was enrolled. + +4 It is a dream--whose seeming truth + Is moralised in age and youth; + Where all the comforts he can share + As wandering as his fancies are, + Till in a mist of dark decay + The dreamer vanish quite away. + +5 It is a dial--which points out + The sunset as it moves about; + And shadows out in lines of night + The subtle stages of Time's flight, + Till all-obscuring earth hath laid + His body in perpetual shade. + +6 It is a weary interlude-- + Which doth short joys, long woes, include: + The world the stage, the prologue tears; + The acts vain hopes and varied fears; + The scene shuts up with loss of breath, + And leaves no epilogue but Death! + + + + +JOHN CHALKHILL. + + +This author was of the age of Spenser, and is said to have been an +acquaintance and friend of that poet. It was not, however, till 1683 +that good old Izaak Walton published 'Thealma and Clearchus,' a pas- +toral romance, which, he stated, had been written long since by John +Chalkhill, Esq. He says of the author, 'that he was in his time a man +generally known, and as well beloved; for he was humble and obliging +in his behaviour--a gentleman, a scholar, very innocent and prudent, +and indeed his whole life was useful, quiet, and virtuous.' Some have +suspected that this production proceeded from the pen of Walton himself. +This, however, is rendered extremely unlikely--first, by the fact that +Walton, when he printed 'Thealma,' was ninety years of age; and, +secondly, by the difference in style and purpose between that poem and +Walton's avowed productions. The mind of Walton was quietly ingenious; +that of the author of 'Thealma' is adventurous and fantastic. Walton +loved 'the green pastures and the still waters' of the Present; the +other, the golden groves and ideal wildernesses of the Golden Age in +the Past. + +'Thealma and Clearchus' may be called an 'Arcadia' in rhyme. It +resembles that work of Sir Philip Sidney, not only in subject, but in +execution. Its plot is dark and puzzling, its descriptions are rich to +luxuriance, its narrative is tedious, and its characters are mere +shadows. But although a dream, it is a dream of genius, and brings +beautifully before our imagination that early period in the world's +history, in which poets and painters have taught us to believe, when the +heavens were nearer, the skies clearer, the fat of the earth richer, the +foam of the sea brighter, than in our degenerate days;--when shepherds, +reposing under broad, umbrageous oaks, saw, or thought they saw, in the +groves the shadow of angels, and on the mountain-summits the descending +footsteps of God. Chalkhill resembles, of all our modern poets, perhaps +Shelley most, in the ideality of his conception, the enthusiasm of his +spirit, and the unmitigated gorgeousness of his imagination. + + +ARCADIA. + + Arcadia, was of old, a state, +Subject to none but their own laws and fate; +Superior there was none, but what old age +And hoary hairs had raised; the wise and sage, +Whose gravity, when they are rich in years, +Begat a civil reverence more than fears +In the well-mannered people; at that day, +All was in common, every man bare sway +O'er his own family; the jars that rose +Were soon appeased by such grave men as those: +This mine and thine, that we so cavil for, +Was then not heard of; he that was most poor +Was rich in his content, and lived as free +As they whose flocks were greatest; nor did he +Envy his great abundance, nor the other +Disdain the low condition of his brother, +But lent him from his store to mend his state, +And with his love he quits him, thanks his fate; +And, taught by his example, seeks out such +As want his help, that they may do as much. +Their laws, e'en from their childhood, rich and poor +Had written in their hearts, by conning o'er +The legacies of good old men, whose memories +Outlive their monuments, the grave advice +They left behind in writing;--this was that +That made Arcadia then so blest a state; +Their wholesome laws had linked them so in one, +They lived in peace and sweet communion. +Peace brought forth plenty, plenty bred content, +And that crowned all their plans with merriment. +They had no foe, secure they lived in tents, +All was their own they had, they paid no rents; +Their sheep found clothing, earth provided food, +And labour dressed them as their wills thought good; +On unbought delicates their hunger fed, +And for their drink the swelling clusters bled; +The valleys rang with their delicious strains, +And pleasure revelled on those happy plains; +Content and labour gave them length of days, +And peace served in delight a thousand ways. + + +THEALMA, A DESERTED SHEPHERDESS. + +Scarce had the ploughman yoked his horned team, +And locked their traces to the crooked beam, +When fair Thealma, with a maiden scorn, +That day before her rise, outblushed the morn; +Scarce had the sun gilded the mountain-tops, +When forth she leads her tender ewes. + + * * * * * + +Down in a valley, 'twixt two rising hills, +From whence the dew in silver drops distils +To enrich the lowly plain, a river ran, +Hight Cygnus, (as some think, from Leda's swan +That there frequented;) gently on it glides, +And makes indentures in her crooked sides, +And with her silent murmurs rocks asleep +Her watery inmates; 'twas not very deep, +But clear as that Narcissus looked in, when +His self-love made him cease to live with men. +Close by the river was a thick-leafed grove, +Where swains of old sang stories of their love, +But unfrequented now since Colin died-- +Colin, that king of shepherds, and the pride +Of all Arcadia;--here Thealma used +To feed her milky droves; and as they browsed, +Under the friendly shadow of a beech +She sat her down; grief had tongue-tied her speech, +Her words were sighs and tears--dumb eloquence-- +Heard only by the sobs, and not the sense. +With folded arms she sat, as if she meant +To hug those woes which in her breast were pent; +Her looks were nailed to earth, that drank +Her tears with greediness, and seemed to thank +Her for those briny showers, and in lieu +Returns her flowery sweetness for her dew. + + * * * * * + +'O my Clearchus!' said she, and with tears +Embalms his name: 'oh, if the ghosts have ears, +Or souls departed condescend so low, +To sympathise with mortals in their woe, +Vouchsafe to lend a gentle ear to me, +Whose life is worse than death, since not with thee. +What privilege have they that are born great +Move than the meanest swain? The proud waves beat +With more impetuousness upon high lands, +Than on the flat and less-resisting strands: +The lofty cedar, and the knotty oak, +Are subject more unto the thunder-stroke, +Than the low shrubs that no such shocks endure; +Even their contempt doth make them live secure. +Had I been born the child of some poor swain, +Whose thoughts aspire no higher than the plain, +I had been happy then; t'have kept these sheep, +Had been a princely pleasure; quiet sleep +Had drowned my cares, or sweetened them with dreams: +Love and content had been my music's themes; +Or had Clearchus lived the life I lead, +I had been blest!' + + + PRIESTESS OF DIANA. + + Within a little silent grove hard by, + Upon a small ascent, he might espy + A stately chapel, richly gilt without, + Beset with shady sycamores about: + And ever and anon he might well hear + A sound of music steal in at his ear + As the wind gave it being; so sweet an air + Would strike a syren mute.-- + + * * * * * + +A hundred virgins there he might espy +Prostrate before a marble deity, +Which, by its portraiture, appeared to be +The image of Diana; on their knee +They tendered their devotions, with sweet airs, +Offering the incense of their praise and prayers. +Their garments all alike; beneath their paps +Buckled together with a silver claps, +And 'cross their snowy silken robes, they wore +An azure scarf, with stars embroidered o'er. +Their hair in curious tresses was knit up, +Crowned with a silver crescent on the top. +A silver bow their left hand held, their right, +For their defence, held a sharp-headed flight +Drawn from their broidered quiver, neatly tied +In silken cords, and fastened to their side. +Under their vestments, something short before, +White buskins, laced with ribanding, they wore. +It was a catching sight for a young eye, +That love had fired before. He might espy +One, whom the rest had sphere-like circled round, +Whose head was with a golden chaplet crowned. +He could not see her face, only his ear +Was blessed with the sweet sounds that came from her. + + +THEALMA IN FULL DRESS. + +----Tricked herself in all her best attire, +As if she meant this day to invite desire +To fall in love with her; her loose hair +Hung on her shoulders, sporting with the air; +Her brow a coronet of rosebuds crowned, +With loving woodbines' sweet embraces bound. +Two globe-like pearls were pendant to her ears, +And on her breast a costly gem she wears, +An adamant, in fashion like a heart, +Whereon Love sat, a-plucking out a dart, +With this same motto graven round about, +On a gold border, 'Sooner in than out.' +This gem Clearchus gave her, when, unknown, +At tilt his valour won her for his own. +Instead of bracelets on her wrists, she wore +A pair of golden shackles, chained before +Unto a silver ring, enamelled blue, +Whereon in golden letters to the view +This motto was presented, 'Bound, yet free,' +And in a true-love's knot, a T and C +Buckled it fast together; her silk gown +Of grassy green, in equal plaits hung down +Unto the earth; and as she went, the flowers, +Which she had broidered on it at spare hours, +Were wrought so to the life, they seemed to grow +In a green field; and as the wind did blow, +Sometimes a lily, then a rose, takes place, +And blushing seems to hide it in the grass: +And here and there good oats 'mong pearls she strew, +That seemed like spinning glow-worms in the dew. +Her sleeves were tinsel, wrought with leaves of green +In equal distance spangeled between, +And shadowed over with a thin lawn cloud, +Through which her workmanship more graceful showed. + + +DWELLING OF THE WITCH ORANDRA. + +Down in a gloomy valley, thick with shade, +Which two aspiring hanging rocks had made, +That shut out day, and barred the glorious sun +From prying into the actions there done; +Set full of box and cypress, poplar, yew, +And hateful elder that in thickets grew, +Among whose boughs the screech-owl and night-crow +Sadly recount their prophecies of woe, +Where leather-winged bats, that hate the light, +Fan the thick air, more sooty than the night. +The ground o'ergrown with weeds and bushy shrubs, +Where milky hedgehogs nurse their prickly cubs: +And here and there a mandrake grows, that strikes +The hearers dead with their loud fatal shrieks; +Under whose spreading leaves the ugly toad, +The adder, and the snake, make their abode. +Here dwelt Orandra; so the witch was hight, +And hither had she toiled him by a sleight: +She knew Anaxus was to go to court, +And, envying virtue, she made it her sport +To hinder him, sending her airy spies +Forth with delusion to entrap his eyes, +As would have fired a hermit's chill desires +Into a flame; his greedy eye admires +The more than human beauty of her face, +And much ado he had to shun the grace; +Conceit had shaped her out so like his love, +That he was once about in vain to prove +Whether 'twas his Clarinda, yea or no, +But he bethought him of his herb, and so +The shadow vanished; many a weary step +It led the prince, that pace with it still kept, +Until it brought him by a hellish power +Unto the entrance of Orandra's bower, +Where underneath an elder-tree he spied +His man Pandevius, pale and hollow-eyed; +Inquiring of the cunning witch what fate +Betid his master; they were newly sate +When his approach disturbed them; up she rose, +And toward Anaxus (envious hag) she goes; +Pandevius she had charmed into a maze, +And struck him mute, all he could do was gaze. +He called him by his name, but all in vain, +Echo returns 'Pandevius' back again; +Which made him wonder, when a sudden fear +Shook all his joints: she, cunning hag, drew near, +And smelling to his herb, he recollects +His wandering spirits, and with anger checks +His coward fears; resolved now to outdare +The worst of dangers, whatsoe'er they were; +He eyed her o'er and o'er, and still his eye +Found some addition to deformity. +An old decrepit hag she was, grown white +With frosty age, and withered with despite +And self-consuming hate; in furs yclad, +And on her head a thrummy cap she had. +Her knotty locks, like to Alecto's snakes, + +Hang down about her shoulders, which she shakes +Into disorder; on her furrowed brow +One might perceive Time had been long at plough. +Her eyes, like candle-snuffs, by age sunk quite +Into their sockets, yet like cats' eyes bright: +And in the darkest night like fire they shined, +The ever-open windows of her mind. +Her swarthy cheeks, Time, that all things consumes, +Had hollowed flat into her toothless gums. +Her hairy brows did meet above her nose, +That like an eagle's beak so crooked grows, +It well-nigh kissed her chin; thick bristled hair +Grew on her upper lip, and here and there +A rugged wart with grisly hairs behung; +Her breasts shrunk up, her nails and fingers long; +Her left leant on a staff, in her right hand +She always carried her enchanting wand. +Splay-footed, beyond nature, every part +So patternless deformed, 'twould puzzle art +To make her counterfeit; only her tongue, +Nature had that most exquisitely strung, +Her oily language came so smoothly from her, +And her quaint action did so well become her, +Her winning rhetoric met with no trips, +But chained the dull'st attention to her lips. +With greediness he heard, and though he strove +To shake her off, the more her words did move. +She wooed him to her cell, called him her son, +And with fair promises she quickly won +Him to her beck; or rather he, to try +What she could do, did willingly comply, +With her request. * * * +Her cell was hewn out of the marble rock +By more than human art; she did not knock, +The door stood always open, large and wide, +Grown o'er with woolly moss on either side, +And interwove with ivy's nattering twines, +Through which the carbuncle and diamond shines. +Not set by Art, but there by Nature sown +At the world's birth, so star-like bright they shone. +They served instead of tapers to give light +To the dark entry, where perpetual Night, +Friend to black deeds, and sire of Ignorance, +Shuts out all knowledge, lest her eye by chance +Might bring to light her follies: in they went, +The ground was strewed with flowers, whose sweet scent, +Mixed with the choice perfumes from India brought, +Intoxicates his brain, and quickly caught +His credulous sense; the walls were gilt, and set +With precious stones, and all the roof was fret +With a gold vine, whose straggling branches spread +All o'er the arch; the swelling grapes were red; +This Art had made of rubies, clustered so, +To the quick'st eye they more than seemed to grow; +About the wall lascivious pictures hung, +Such as were of loose Ovid sometimes sung. +On either side a crew of dwarfish elves +Held waxen tapers, taller than themselves: +Yet so well shaped unto their little stature, +So angel-like in face, so sweet in feature; +Their rich attire so differing; yet so well +Becoming her that wore it, none could tell +Which was the fairest, which the handsomest decked, +Or which of them desire would soon'st affect. +After a low salute they all 'gan sing, +And circle in the stranger in a ring. +Orandra to her charms was stepped aside, +Leaving her guest half won and wanton-eyed. +He had forgot his herb: cunning delight +Had so bewitched his ears, and bleared his sight, +And captivated all his senses so, +That he was not himself; nor did he know +What place he was in, or how he came there, +But greedily he feeds his eye and ear +With what would ruin him;-- + * * * * * + Next unto his view +She represents a banquet, ushered in +By such a shape as she was sure would win +His appetite to taste; so like she was +To his Clarinda, both in shape and face; +So voiced, so habited, of the same gait +And comely gesture; on her brow in state +Sat such a princely majesty, as he +Had noted in Clarinda; save that she +Had a more wanton eye, that here and there +Rolled up and down, not settling any where. +Down on the ground she falls his hand to kiss, +And with her tears bedews it; cold as ice +He felt her lips, that yet inflamed him so, +That he was all on fire the truth to know, +Whether she was the same she did appear, +Or whether some fantastic form it were, +Fashioned in his imagination +By his still working thoughts, so fixed upon +His loved Clarinda, that his fancy strove, +Even with her shadow, to express his love. + + + + +CATHARINE PHILLIPS. + + +Very little is known of the life of this lady-poet. She was born in +1631. Her maiden name was Fowler. She married James Phillips, Esq., of +the Priory of Cardigan. Her poems, published under the name of "Orinda," +were very popular in her lifetime, although it was said they were +published without her consent. She translated two of the tragedies of +Corneille, and left a volume of letters to Sir Charles Cotterell. These, +however, did not appear till after her death. She died of small-pox +--then a deadly disease--in 1664. She seems to have been a favourite +alike with the wits and the divines of her age. Jeremy Taylor addressed +to her his "Measures and Offices of Friendship;" Dryden praised her; and +Flatman and Cowley, besides imitating her poems while she was living, +paid rhymed tributes to her memory when dead. Her verses are never +commonplace, and always sensible, if they hardly attain to the measure +and the stature of lofty poetry, + + +THE INQUIRY. + +1 If we no old historian's name + Authentic will admit, + But think all said of friendship's fame + But poetry or wit; + Yet what's revered by minds so pure + Must be a bright idea sure. + +2 But as our immortality + By inward sense we find, + Judging that if it could not be, + It would not be designed: + So here how could such copies fall, + If there were no original? + +3 But if truth be in ancient song, + Or story we believe; + If the inspired and greater throng + Have scorned to deceive; + There have been hearts whose friendship gave + Them thoughts at once both soft and grave. + +4 Among that consecrated crew + Some more seraphic shade + Lend me a favourable clew, + Now mists my eyes invade. + Why, having filled the world with fame, + Left you so little of your flame? + +5 Why is't so difficult to see + Two bodies and one mind? + And why are those who else agree + So difficultly kind? + Hath Nature such fantastic art, + That she can vary every heart? + +6 Why are the bands of friendship tied + With so remiss a knot, + That by the most it is defied, + And by the most forgot? + Why do we step with so light sense + From friendship to indifference? + +7 If friendship sympathy impart, + Why this ill-shuffled game, + That heart can never meet with heart, + Or flame encounter flame? + What does this cruelty create? + Is't the intrigue of love or fate? + +8 Had friendship ne'er been known to men, + (The ghost at last confessed) + The world had then a stranger been + To all that heaven possessed. + But could it all be here acquired, + Not heaven itself would be desired. + + +A FRIEND. + +1 Love, nature's plot, this great creation's soul, + The being and the harmony of things, + Doth still preserve and propagate the whole, + From whence man's happiness and safety springs: + The earliest, whitest, blessed'st times did draw + From her alone their universal law. + +2 Friendship's an abstract of this noble flame, + 'Tis love refined and purged from all its dross, + The next to angels' love, if not the same, + As strong in passion is, though not so gross: + It antedates a glad eternity, + And is an heaven in epitome. + + * * * * * + +3 Essential honour must be in a friend, + Not such as every breath fans to and fro; + But born within, is its own judge and end, + And dares not sin though sure that none should know. + Where friendship's spoke, honesty's understood; + For none can be a friend that is not good. + + * * * * * + +4 Thick waters show no images of things; + Friends are each other's mirrors, and should be + Clearer than crystal or the mountain springs, + And free from clouds, design, or flattery. + For vulgar souls no part of friendship share; + Poets and friends are born to what they are. + + + + +MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE. + + +This lady, if not more of a woman than Mrs Phillips, was considerably +more of a poet. She was born (probably) about 1625. She was the daughter +of Sir Charles Lucas, and became a maid-of-honour to Henrietta Maria. +Accompanying the Queen to France, she met with the Marquis, afterwards +Duke of Newcastle, and married him at Paris in 1645. They removed to +Antwerp, and there, in 1653, this lady published a volume, entitled +'Poems and Fancies.' The pair aided each other in their studies, and the +result was a number of enormous folios of poems, plays, speeches, and +philosophical disquisitions. These volumes were, we are told, great +favourites of Coleridge and Charles Lamb, for the sake, we presume, of +the wild sparks of insight and genius which break irresistibly through +the scholastic smoke and bewildered nonsense. When Charles II. was +restored, the Marquis and his wife returned to England, and spent their +life in great harmony. She died in 1673, leaving behind her some +beautiful fantasias, where the meaning is often finer than the music, +such as the 'Pastime and Recreation of Fairies in Fairy-land.' Her +poetry, particularly her contrasted pictures of Mirth and Melancholy, +present fine accumulations of imagery drawn direct from nature, and +shewn now in brightest sunshine, and now in softest moonlight, as the +change of her subject and her tone of feeling require. + + +MELANCHOLY DESCRIBED BY MIRTH. + +Her voice is low, and gives a hollow sound; +She hates the light, and is in darkness found; +Or sits with blinking lamps, or tapers small, +Which various shadows make against the wall. +She loves nought else but noise which discord makes, +As croaking frogs, whose dwelling is in lakes; +The raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan, +And shrieking owls which fly i' the night alone; +The tolling bell, which for the dead rings out; +A mill, where rushing waters run about; +The roaring winds, which shake the cedars tall, +Plough up the seas, and beat the rocks withal. +She loves to walk in the still moonshine night, +And in a thick dark grove she takes delight; +In hollow caves, thatched houses, and low cells, +She loves to live, and there alone she dwells. + + +MELANCHOLY DESCRIBING HERSELF. + +I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun; +Sit on the banks by which clear waters run; +In summers hot, down in a shade I lie; +My music is the buzzing of a fly; +I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass; +In fields, where corn is high, I often pass; +Walk up the hills, where round I prospects see, +Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be; +Returning back, I in fresh pastures go, +To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low; +In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on, +Then I do live in a small house alone; +Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within, +Like to a soul that's pure, and clear from sin; +And there I dwell in quiet and still peace, +Not filled with cares how riches to increase; +I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures; +No riches are, but what the mind intreasures. +Thus am I solitary, live alone, +Yet better loved, the more that I am known; +And though my face ill-favoured at first sight, +After acquaintance, it will give delight. +Refuse me not, for I shall constant be; +Maintain your credit and your dignity. + + + + +THOMAS STANLEY. + + +Thomas Stanley, like Thomas Brown in later days, was both a philosopher +and a poet; but his philosophical reputation at the time eclipsed his +poetical. He was the only son of Sir Thomas Stanley of Camberlow Green, +in Hertfordshire, and was born in 1620. He received his education at +Pembroke College, Oxford; and after travelling for some years abroad, +he took up his abode in the Middle Temple. Here he seems to have spent +the rest of his life in patient and multifarious studies. He made +translations of some merit from Anacreon, Bion, Moschus, and the +'Kisses' of Secundus, as well as from Marino, Boscan, Tristan, and +Gongora. He wrote a work of great pretensions as a compilation, entitled +'The History of Philosophy,' containing the lives, opinions, actions, +and discourses of philosophers of every sect, of which he published the +first volume in 1655, and completed it in a fourth in 1662. It is rather +a vast collection of the materials for a history, than a history itself. +He is a Cudworth in magnitude and learning, but not in strength and +comprehension, and is destitute of precision and clearness of style. +Stanley also wrote some poems, which discover powers that might have +been better employed in original composition than in translation. +His style, rich of itself, is enriched to repletion by conceits, and +sometimes by voluptuous sentiments and language. He adds a new flush to +the cheek of Anacreon himself; and his grapes are so heavy, that not a +staff, but a wain were required to bear them. Stanley died in 1678. + + +CELIA SINGING. + +1 Roses in breathing forth their scent, + Or stars their borrowed ornament; + Nymphs in their watery sphere that move, + Or angels in their orbs above; + The winged chariot of the light, + Or the slow, silent wheels of night; + The shade which from the swifter sun + Doth in a swifter motion run, + Or souls that their eternal rest do keep, + Make far less noise than Celia's breath in sleep. + +2 But if the angel which inspires + This subtle flame with active fires, + Should mould this breath to words, and those + Into a harmony dispose, + The music of this heavenly sphere + Would steal each soul (in) at the ear, + And into plants and stones infuse + A life that cherubim would choose, + And with new powers invert the laws of fate, + Kill those that live, and dead things animate. + + +SPEAKING AND KISSING. + +1 The air which thy smooth voice doth break, + Into my soul like lightning flies; + My life retires while thou dost speak, + And thy soft breath its room supplies. + +2 Lost in this pleasing ecstasy, + I join my trembling lips to thine, + And back receive that life from thee + Which I so gladly did resign. + +3 Forbear, Platonic fools! t'inquire + What numbers do the soul compose; + No harmony can life inspire, + But that which from these accents flows. + + +LA BELLE CONFIDANTE. + +You earthly souls that court a wanton flame + Whose pale, weak influence +Can rise no higher than the humble name + And narrow laws of sense, +Learn, by our friendship, to create + An immaterial fire, +Whose brightness angels may admire, + But cannot emulate. +Sickness may fright the roses from her cheek, + Or make the lilies fade, +But all the subtle ways that death doth seek + Cannot my love invade. + + +THE LOSS. + +1 Yet ere I go, + Disdainful Beauty, thou shalt be + So wretched as to know + What joys thou fling'st away with me. + +2 A faith so bright, + As Time or Fortune could not rust; + So firm, that lovers might + Have read thy story in my dust, + +3 And crowned thy name + With laurel verdant as thy youth, + Whilst the shrill voice of Fame + Spread wide thy beauty and my truth. + +4 This thou hast lost, + For all true lovers, when they find + That my just aims were crossed, + Will speak thee lighter than the wind. + +5 And none will lay + Any oblation on thy shrine, + But such as would betray + Thy faith to faiths as false as thine. + +6 Yet, if thou choose + On such thy freedom to bestow, + Affection may excuse, + For love from sympathy doth flow. + + +NOTE ON ANACREON. + +Let's not rhyme the hours away; +Friends! we must no longer play: +Brisk Lyaeus--see!--invites +To more ravishing delights. +Let's give o'er this fool Apollo, +Nor his fiddle longer follow: +Fie upon his forked hill, +With his fiddlestick and quill; +And the Muses, though they're gamesome, +They are neither young nor handsome; +And their freaks in sober sadness +Are a mere poetic madness: +Pegasus is but a horse; +He that follows him is worse. +See, the rain soaks to the skin, +Make it rain as well within. +Wine, my boy; we'll sing and laugh, +All night revel, rant, and quaff; +Till the morn, stealing behind us, +At the table sleepless find us. +When our bones, alas! shall have +A cold lodging in the grave; +When swift Death shall overtake us, +We shall sleep and none can wake us. +Drink we then the juice o' the vine +Make our breasts Lyaeus' shrine; +Bacchus, our debauch beholding, +By thy image I am moulding, +Whilst my brains I do replenish +With this draught of unmixed Rhenish; +By thy full-branched ivy twine; +By this sparkling glass of wine; +By thy Thyrsus so renowned: +By the healths with which th' art crowned; +By the feasts which thou dost prize; +By thy numerous victories; +By the howls by Moenads made; +By this haut-gout carbonade; +By thy colours red and white; +By the tavern, thy delight; +By the sound thy orgies spread; +By the shine of noses red; +By thy table free for all; +By the jovial carnival; +By thy language cabalistic; +By thy cymbal, drum, and his stick; +By the tunes thy quart-pots strike up; +By thy sighs, the broken hiccup; +By thy mystic set of ranters; +By thy never-tamed panthers; +By this sweet, this fresh and free air; +By thy goat, as chaste as we are; +By thy fulsome Cretan lass; +By the old man on the ass; +By thy cousins in mixed shapes; +By the flower of fairest grapes; +By thy bisks famed far and wide; +By thy store of neats'-tongues dried; +By thy incense, Indian smoke; +By the joys thou dost provoke; +By this salt Westphalia gammon; +By these sausages that inflame one; +By thy tall majestic flagons; +By mass, tope, and thy flapdragons; +By this olive's unctuous savour; +By this orange, the wine's flavour; +By this cheese o'errun with mites; +By thy dearest favourites; +To thy frolic order call us, +Knights of the deep bowl install us; +And to show thyself divine, +Never let it want for wine. + + + + +ANDREW MARVELL. + + +This noble-minded patriot and poet, the friend of Milton, the Abdiel of a +dark and corrupt age,--'faithful found among the faithless, faithful only +he,'--was born in Hull in 1620. He was sent to Cambridge, and is said +there to have nearly fallen a victim to the proselytising Jesuits, who +enticed him to London. His father, however, a clergyman in Hull, went +in search of and brought him back to his university, where speedily, by +extensive culture and the vigorous exercise of his powerful faculties, +he emancipated himself for ever from the dominion, and the danger of the +dominion, of superstition and bigotry. We know little more about the early +days of our poet. When only twenty, he lost his father in remarkable +circumstances. In 1640, he had embarked on the Humber in company with a +youthful pair whom he was to marry at Barrow, in Lincolnshire. The weather +was calm; but Marvell, seized with a sudden presentiment of danger, threw +his staff ashore, and cried out, 'Ho for heaven!' A storm came on, and the +whole company perished. In consequence of this sad event, the gentleman, +whose daughter was to have been married, conceiving that the father had +sacrificed his life while performing an act of friendship, adopted young +Marvell as his son. Owing to this, he received a better education, and +was sent abroad to travel. It is said that at Rome he met and formed a +friendship with Milton, then engaged on his immortal continental tour. +We find Marvell next at Constantinople, as Secretary to the English +Embassy at that Court. We then lose sight of him till 1653, when he was +engaged by the Protector to superintend the education of a Mr Dutton at +Eton. For a year and a half after Cromwell's death, Marvell assisted +Milton as Latin Secretary to the Protector. Our readers are all familiar +with the print of Cromwell and Milton seated together at the council-table, +--the one the express image of active power and rugged grandeur, the other +of thoughtful majesty and ethereal grace. Marvell might have been added as +a third, and become the emblem of strong English sense and incorruptible +integrity. A letter of Milton's was, not long since, discovered, dated +February 1652, in which he speaks of Marvell as fitted, by his knowledge +of Latin and his experience of teaching, to be his assistant. He was not +appointed, however, till 1657. In 1660, he became member for Hull, and was +re-elected as long as he lived. He was absent, however, from England for +two years, in the beginning of the reign, in Germany and Holland. After- +wards he sought leave from his constituents to act as Ambassador's +Secretary to Lord Carlisle at the Northern Courts; but from the year 1665 +to his death, his attention to his parliamentary duties was unremitting. +He constantly corresponded with his constituents; and after the longest +sittings, he used to write out for their use a minute account of public +proceedings ere he went to bed, or took any refreshment. He was one of +the last members who received pay from the town he represented; (2s. +a-day was probably the sum;) and his constituents were wont, besides, to +send him barrels of ale as tokens of their regard. Marvell spoke little +in the House; but his heart and vote were always in the right place. Even +Prince Eupert continually consulted him, and was sometimes persuaded by +him to support the popular side; and King Charles having met him once in +private, was so delighted with his wit and agreeable manners, that he +thought him worth trying to bribe. He sent Lord Danby to offer him a mark +of his Majesty's consideration. Marvell, who was seated in a dingy room +up several flights of stairs, declined the proffer, and, it is said, +called his servant to witness that he had dined for three successive days +on the same shoulder of mutton, and was not likely, therefore, to care +for or need a bribe. When the Treasurer was gone, he had to send to a +friend to borrow a guinea. Although, a silent senator, Marvell was a +copious and popular writer. He attacked Bishop Parker for his slavish +principles, in a piece entitled 'The Rehearsal Transposed,' in which he +takes occasion to vindicate and panegyrise his old colleague Milton. His +anonymous 'Account of the Growth of Arbitrary Power and Popery in England' +excited a sensation, and a reward was offered for the apprehension of the +author and printer. Marvell had many of the elements of a first-rate +political pamphleteer. He had wit of a most pungent kind, great though +coarse fertility of fancy, and a spirit of independence that nothing could +subdue or damp. He was the undoubted ancestor of the Defoes, Swifts, +Steeles, Juniuses, and Burkes, in whom this kind of authorship reached its +perfection, ceased to be fugitive, and assumed classical rank. + +Marvell had been repeatedly threatened with assassination, and hence, +when he died suddenly on the 16th of August 1678, it was surmised that +he had been removed by poison. The Corporation of Hull voted a sum to +defray his funeral expenses, and for raising a monument to his memory; +but owing to the interference of the Court, through the rector of the +parish, this votive tablet was not at the time erected. He was buried in +St Giles-in-the-Fields. + +'Out of the strong came forth sweetness,' saith the Hebrew record. And +so from the sturdy Andrew Marvell have proceeded such soft and lovely +strains as 'The Emigrants,' 'The Nymph complaining for the Death of her +Fawn,' 'Young Love,' &c. The statue of Memnon became musical at the dawn; +and the stern patriot, whom no bribe could buy and no flattery melt, is +found sympathising in song with a boatful of banished Englishmen in the +remote Bermudas, and inditing 'Thoughts in a Garden,' from which you might +suppose that he had spent his life more with melons than with men, and was +better acquainted with the motions of a bee-hive than with the contests of +Parliament, and the distractions of a most distracted age. It was said +(not with thorough truth) of Milton, that he could cut out a Colossus from +a rock, but could not carve heads upon cherry-stones--a task which his +assistant may be said to have performed in his stead, in his small but +delectable copies of verse. + + +THE EMIGRANTS. + +1 Where the remote Bermudas ride, + In the ocean's bosom unespied, + From a small boat that rowed along, + The listening winds received this song. + +2 'What should we do but sing His praise + That led us through the watery maze, + Unto an isle so long unknown, + And yet far kinder than our own! + +3 'Where he the huge sea-monsters racks, + That lift the deep upon their backs; + He lands us on a grassy stage, + Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. + +4 'He gave us this eternal spring + Which here enamels everything, + And sends the fowls to us in care, + On daily visits through the air. + +5 'He hangs in shades the orange bright, + Like golden lamps in a green night: + * * * * * + And in these rocks for us did frame + A temple where to sound his name. + +6 'Oh, let our voice his praise exalt + Till it arrive at heaven's vault, + Which then perhaps rebounding may + Echo beyond the Mexique bay.' + +7 Thus sung they in the English boat, + A holy and a cheerful note; + And all the way, to guide their chime, + With falling oars they kept the time. + + +THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. + +The wanton troopers riding by +Have shot my fawn, and it will die. +Ungentle men! they cannot thrive +Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive +Them any harm; alas! nor could +Thy death to them do any good. +I'm sure I never wished them ill; +Nor do I for all this; nor will: +But, if my simple prayers may yet +Prevail with Heaven to forget +Thy murder, I will join my tears, +Rather than fail. But, O my fears! +It cannot die so. Heaven's King +Keeps register of every thing, +And nothing may we use in vain: +Even beasts must be with justice slain. + + * * * * * + +Inconstant Sylvio, when yet +I had not found him counterfeit, +One morning (I remember well) +Tied in this silver chain and bell, +Gave it to me: nay, and I know +What he said then: I'm sure I do. +Said he, 'Look how your huntsman here +Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.' +But Sylvio soon had me beguiled. +This waxed tame while he grew wild, +And, quite regardless of my smart, +Left me his fawn, but took his heart. +Thenceforth I set myself to play +My solitary time away +With this, and very well content +Could so my idle life have spent; +For it was full of sport, and light +Of foot and heart; and did invite +Me to its game; it seemed to bless +Itself in me. How could I less +Than love it? Oh, I cannot be +Unkind to a beast that loveth me! +Had it lived long, I do not know +Whether it too might have done so +As Sylvio did; his gifts might be +Perhaps as false, or more, than he. +But I am sure, for aught that I +Could in so short a time espy, +Thy love was far more better than +The love of false and cruel man. +With sweetest milk and sugar first +I it at my own fingers nursed; +And as it grew, so every day +It waxed more white and sweet than they: +It had so sweet a breath; and oft +I blushed to see its foot more soft +And white, shall I say, than my hand? +Nay, any lady's of the land. +It is a wondrous thing how fleet +'Twas on those little silver feet; +With what a pretty skipping grace +It oft would challenge me the race; +And when't had left me far away, +'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; +For it was nimbler much than hinds, +And trod as if on the four winds. +I have a garden of my own, +But so with roses overgrown, +And lilies, that you would it guess +To be a little wilderness, +And all the spring-time of the year +It only loved to be there. +Among the beds of lilies I +Have sought it oft where it should lie, +Yet could not, till itself would rise, +Find it, although before mine eyes; +For in the flaxen lilies' shade +It like a bank of lilies laid; +Upon the roses it would feed, +Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed; +And then to me 'twould boldly trip, +And print those roses on my lip. +But all its chief delight was still +On roses thus itself to fill, +And its pure virgin limbs to fold +In whitest sheets of lilies cold. +Had it lived long, it would have been +Lilies without, roses within. * * * + + +ON PARADISE LOST. + +When I beheld the poet blind, yet bold, +In slender book his vast design unfold, +Messiah crowned, God's reconciled decree, +Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree, +Heaven, Hell, Earth, Chaos, all; the argument +Held me a while misdoubting his intent, +That he would ruin (for I saw him strong) +The sacred truths to fable and old song; +(So Sampson groped the temple's posts in spite) +The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight. + +Yet as I read, still growing less severe, +I liked his project, the success did fear; +Through that wild field how he his way should find, +O'er which lame Faith leads Understanding blind; +Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain, +And what was easy he should render vain. + +Or if a work so infinite be spanned, +Jealous I was that some less skilful hand +(Such as disquiet always what is well, +And, by ill imitating, would excel) +Might hence presume the whole creation's day +To change in scenes, and show it in a play. + +Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise +My causeless, yet not impious, surmise. +But I am now convinced, and none will dare +Within thy labours to pretend a share. +Thou hast not missed one thought that could be fit. +And all that was improper dost omit; +So that no room is here for writers left, +But to detect their ignorance or theft. + +That majesty, which through thy work doth reign, +Draws the devout, deterring the profane. +And things divine thou treat'st of in such state +As them preserves, and thee, inviolate. +At once delight and horror on us seize, +Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease; +And above human flight dost soar aloft +With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft. +The bird named from that Paradise you sing, +So never flags, but always keeps on wing. + +Where couldst thou words of such a compass find? +Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind? +Just Heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite, +Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight. + +Well mightst thou scorn thy readers to allure +With tinkling rhyme, of thy own sense secure; +While the Town-Bays writes all the while and spells, +And like a pack-horse tires without his bells: +Their fancies like our bushy points appear; +The poets tag them, we for fashion wear. +I too, transported by the mode, offend, +And while I meant to praise thee, must commend. +Thy verse created, like thy theme, sublime, +In number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme. + + +THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. + +1 How vainly men themselves amaze, + To win the palm, the oak, or bays! + And their incessant labours see + Crowned from some single herb or tree, + Whose short and narrow-verged shade + Does prudently their toils upbraid; + While all the flowers and trees do close, + To weave the garlands of repose. + +2 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, + And Innocence, thy sister dear? + Mistaken long, I sought you then + In busy companies of men. + Your sacred plants, if here below, + Only among the plants will grow. + Society is all but rude + To this delicious solitude. + +3 No white nor red was ever seen + So amorous as this lovely green. + Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, + Cut in these trees their mistress' name. + Little, alas, they know or heed, + How far these beauties her exceed! + Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, + No name shall but your own be found. + +4 What wondrous life in this I lead! + Ripe apples drop about my head. + The luscious clusters of the vine + Upon my mouth do crush their wine. + The nectarine, and curious peach, + Into my hands themselves do reach. + Stumbling on melons as I pass, + Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. + +5 Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less + Withdraws into its happiness. + The mind, that ocean where each kind + Does straight its own resemblance find; + Yet it creates, transcending these, + Far other worlds and other seas; + Annihilating all that's made + To a green thought in a green shade. + +6 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, + Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, + Casting the body's vest aside, + My soul into the boughs does glide; + There, like a bird, it sits and sings, + Then whets and claps its silver wings, + And, till prepared for longer flight, + Waves in its plumes the various light. + +7 Such was the happy garden state, + While man there walked without a mate: + After a place so pure and sweet, + What other help could yet be meet! + But 'twas beyond a mortal's share + To wander solitary there: + Two paradises are in one, + To live in paradise alone. + +8 How well the skilful gard'ner drew + Of flowers and herbs this dial new! + Where, from above, the milder sun + Does through a fragrant zodiac run: + And, as it works, the industrious bee + Computes its time as well as we. + How could such sweet and wholesome hours + Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers? + + +SATIRE ON HOLLAND. + +Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, +As but the offscouring of the British sand; +And so much earth as was contributed +By English pilots when they heaved the lead; +Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell, +Of shipwrecked cockle and the mussel-shell; +This indigested vomit of the sea +Fell to the Dutch by just propriety. +Glad then, as miners who have found the ore, +They, with mad labour, fished the land to shore: +And dived as desperately for each piece +Of earth, as if't had been of ambergris; +Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, +Less than what building swallows bear away; +Or than those pills which sordid beetles roll, +Transfusing into them their dunghill soul. +How did they rivet, with gigantic piles, +Thorough the centre their new-catched miles; +And to the stake a struggling country bound, +Where barking waves still bait the forced ground; +Building their watery Babel far more high +To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky. +Yet still his claim the injured Ocean laid, +And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played; +As if on purpose it on land had come +To show them what's their _mare liberum_. +A daily deluge over them does boil; +The earth and water play at level-coil. +The fish oft-times the burgher dispossessed, +And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest; +And oft the Tritons, and the sea-nymphs, saw +Whole shoals of Dutch served up for Cabillau; +Or, as they over the new level ranged, +For pickled herring, pickled heeren changed. +Nature, it seemed, ashamed of her mistake, +Would throw their land away at duck and drake, +Therefore necessity, that first made kings, +Something like government among them brings. +For, as with Pigmies, who best kills the crane, +Among the hungry he that treasures grain, +Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns, +So rules among the drowned he that drains. +Not who first see the rising sun commands, +But who could first discern the rising lands. +Who best could know to pump an earth so leak, +Him they their lord, and country's father, speak. +To make a bank was a great plot of state; +Invent a shovel, and be a magistrate. +Hence some small dikegrave unperceived invades +The power, and grows, as 'twere, a king of spades; +But, for less envy some joined states endures, +Who look like a commission of the sewers: +For these half-anders, half-wet and half-dry, +Nor bear strict service, nor pure liberty. +'Tis probable religion, after this, +Came next in order; which they could not miss. +How could the Dutch but be converted, when +The apostles were so many fishermen? +Besides, the waters of themselves did rise, +And, as their land, so them did re-baptize; +Though herring for their God few voices missed, +And Poor-John to have been the Evangelist. +Faith, that could never twins conceive before, +Never so fertile, spawned upon this shore +More pregnant than their Marg'ret, that laid down +For Hands-in-Kelder of a whole Hans-Town. +Sure, when religion did itself embark, +And from the east would westward steer its ark, +It struck, and splitting on this unknown ground, +Each one thence pillaged the first piece he found: +Hence Amsterdam, Turk, Christian, Pagan, Jew, +Staple of sects, and mint of schism grew; +That bank of conscience, where not one so strange +Opinion, but finds credit, and exchange. +In vain for Catholics ourselves we bear: +The universal church is only there. * * * + + + + +IZAAK WALTON. + + +This amiable enemy of the finny tribe was born in Stafford, in August +1593. We hear of him first as settled in London, following the trade +of a sempster, or linen-draper, having a shop in the Royal Burse, in +Cornhill, which was 'seven feet and a half long, and five wide,' and +where he became possessed of a moderate fortune. He spent his leisure +time in fishing 'with honest Nat and R. Roe.' From the Royal Burse, he +removed to Fleet Street, where he had 'one half of a shop,' a hosier +occupying the other half. In 1632, he married Anne, the daughter of +Thomas Ken of Furnival's Inn, and sister of Dr Ken, the celebrated +Bishop of Bath and Wells. Through her and her kindred, he became +acquainted with many eminent men of the day. His wife, 'a woman of +remarkable prudence and primitive piety,' died long before him. He +retired from business in 1643, and lived, for forty years after, a life +of leisure and quiet enjoyment, spending much of his time in the houses +of his friends, and much of it by the still waters, which he so dearly +loved. Walton commenced his literary career by writing a Life of Dr +Donne, and followed with another of Sir Henry Wotton, prefixed to his +literary remains. In 1653 appeared his 'Complete Angler,' four editions +of which were called for before his decease. He wrote, in 1662, a Life +of Richard Hooker; in 1670, a Life of George Herbert; and, in 1678, a +Life of Bishop Sanderson--all distinguished by _naļveté_ and heart. In +1680, he published an anonymous discourse on the 'Distempers of the +Times.' In 1683, he printed, as we have seen, Chalkhill's 'Thealma and +Clearchus;' and on the 15th of December in the same year, he died at +Winchester, while residing with his son-in-law, Dr Hawkins, Prebendary +of Winchester Cathedral. + +Walton is one of the most loveable of all authors. Your admiration of +him is always melting into affection. Red as his and is with the blood +of fish, you pant to grasp it and press it to yours. You go with him +to the fishing as you would with a bright-eyed boy, relishing his +simple-hearted enthusiasm, and leaning down to listen to his precocious +remarks, and to pat his curly head. It is the prevalence of the +childlike element which makes Walton's 'Angler' rank with Bunyan's +'Pilgrim,' 'Robinson Crusoe,' and White's 'Natural History of Selborne,' +as among the most delightful books in the language. Its descriptions of +nature, too, are so fresh, that you smell to them as to a green leaf. +Walton would not have been at home fishing in the Forth or Clyde, or in +such rivers as are found in Norway, the milk-blue Logen, or the grass- +green Rauma, uniting, with its rich mediation, Romsdale Horn to the +tremendous Witch-Peaks which lower on the opposite side of the valley; +--the waters of his own dear England, going softly and somewhat drowsily +on their path, are the sources of his inspiration, and seem to sound like +the echoes of his own subdued but gladsome spirit. Johnson defined angling +as a rod with a fish at one end, and a fool at the other; in Walton's +case, we may correct the expression to 'a rod with a fish at one end, and +a fine old fellow--the "ae best fellow in the world"--at the other'-- + + 'In wit a man, simplicity a child.' + +We have given a specimen of the verse he intersperses sparingly in a +book which _is itself a complete poem._ + + +THE ANGLER'S WISH. + +1 I in these flowery meads would be: + These crystal streams should solace me, + To whose harmonious bubbling noise + I with my angle would rejoice: + Sit here and see the turtle-dove + Court his chaste mate to acts of love: + +2 Or on that bank feel the west wind + Breathe health and plenty: please my mind + To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, + And then washed off by April showers! + Here hear my Kenna sing a song, + There see a blackbird feed her young, + +3 Or a leverock build her nest: + Here give my weary spirits rest, + And raise my low-pitched thoughts above + Earth, or what poor mortals love; + Or, with my Bryan[1] and my book, + Loiter long days near Shawford brook: + +4 There sit by him and eat my meat, + There see the sun both rise and set, + There bid good morning to next day, + There meditate my time away, + And angle on, and beg to have + A quiet passage to the grave. + +[1] Probably his dog. + + + + +JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER + + +We hear of the Spirit of Evil on one occasion entering into swine, but, +if possible, a stranger sight is that of the Spirit of Poesy finding a +similar incarnation. Certainly the connexion of genius in the Earl of +Rochester with a life of the most degrading and desperate debauchery is +one of the chief marvels of this marvellous world. + +John Wilmot was the son of Henry, Lord Rochester, and was born April 10, +1647, at Ditchley in Oxfordshire. He was taught grammar at the school of +Burford. He then 'entered a nobleman' into Wadham College, when twelve +years old, and at 1661, when only fourteen, he was, in conjunction with +some others of rank, made M.A. by Lord Clarendon in person. Pursuing his +travels in France and Italy, he went in 1665 to sea with the Earl of +Sandwich, and distinguished himself at Bergen in an attack on the Dutch +fleet. Next year, while serving under Sir Edward Spragge, his commander +sent him in the heat of an engagement with a reproof to one of his +captains--a duty which Wilmot gallantly accomplished amidst a storm of +shot. With this early courage some of his biographers have contrasted +his subsequent reputation for cowardice, his slinking away out of +street-quarrels, his refusing to fight the Duke of Buckingham, &c. This +diversity at different periods may perhaps be accounted for on the +ground of the nervousness which continued dissipation produces, and +perhaps from his poetical temperament. A poet, we are persuaded, is +often the bravest, and often the most pusillanimous of men. Byron was +unquestionably in general a brave, almost a pugnacious man; and yet he +confesses that at certain times, had one proceeded to horsewhip him, +he would not have had the hardihood to resist. Shelley, who, in a +tremendous storm, behaved with dauntless heroism, and who would at any +time have acted on the example of his own character in 'Prometheus,' +who, in a shipwreck, + + 'gave an enemy + His plank, then plunged aside to die,' + +was yet subject to paroxysms of nervous horror, which made him perspire +and tremble like a spirit-seeing steed. Rochester had the same +temperament, and a similar creed, with these men, although inferior to +them both in _morale_ and in genius. + +His character was certainly very depraved. He told Burnet on his +deathbed that for five years he had not known the sensation of sobriety, +having been all that time either totally drunk, or mad through the dregs +of drunkenness. He on one occasion, while in this state, erected a stage +on Tower Hill, and addressed the mob as a naked mountebank. Even after +he became more temperate, he continued and even increased his +licentiousness--one devil went out, and seven entered in. He pursued low +amours in disguise; he practised occasionally as a quack doctor; and at +other times he retired to the country, and, like Byron, amused himself +by libelling all his acquaintances--every line in each libel being a +lie. Notwithstanding all this, he was a favourite with Charles II., who +made him one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, and comptroller of +Woodstock Park. In his lucid intervals he recurred to his studies, wrote +occasional verses, read in French Boileau and in English Cowley, and is +called by Wood the best scholar among all the nobility. + +At last, ere he was thirty-one, the 'dreary old sort of feel,' and the +'rigid fibre and stiffening limbs,' of which Byron and Burns, when +scarcely older, complained, began to assail Rochester. He had exhausted +his capacity of enjoyment by excess, and had deprived himself of the +consolations of religion by infidelity. His unbelief was not like +Shelley's--the growth of his own mind, and the fruit of unbridled, +though earnest, speculation;--it was merely a drug which he snatched +from the laboratories of others to deaden his remorse, and enable him to +look with desperate calmness to the blotted Past and the lowering +Future. At this stage of his career, he became acquainted with Bishop +Burnet, who has recorded his conversion and edifying end in a book +which, says Johnson, 'the critic ought to read for its elegance, the +philosopher for its arguments, and the saint for its piety.' To this, +after Johnson's example, we refer our readers. Eochester died July 26, +1680, before he had completed his thirty-fourth year. He was married, +and left three daughters and a son named Charles, who did not long +survive his father. With him the male line ceased, and the title was +conferred on a younger son of Lord Clarendon. His poems appeared in the +year of his death, professing on the title-page to be printed at +Antwerp. They contain much that is spurious, but some productions that +are undoubtedly Rochester's. They are at the best, poor fragmentary +exhibitions of a vigorous, but undisciplined mind. His songs are rather +easy than lively. His imitations are distinguished by grace and spirit. +His 'Nothing' is a tissue of clever conceits, like gaudy weeds growing +on a sterile soil, but here and there contains a grand and gloomy image, +such as-- + + 'And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face.' + +His 'Satire against Man' might be praised for its vigorous misanthropy, +but is chiefly copied from Boileau. + +Rochester may be signalised as the first thoroughly depraved and vicious +person, so far as we remember, who assumed the office of the satirist, +--the first, although not, alas! the last human imitator of 'Satan +accusing Sin.' Some satirists before him had been faulty characters, +while rather inconsistently assailing the faults of others; but here, +for the first time, was a man of no virtue, or belief in virtue whatever, +(his tenderness to his family, revealed in his letters, is just that of +the tiger fondling his cubs, and seeming, perhaps, to _them_ a 'much- +misrepresented character,') and whose life was one mass of wounds, +bruises, and putrefying sores,--a naked satyr who gloried in his shame, +--becoming a severe castigator of public morals and of private character. +Surely there was a gross anomaly implied in this, which far greater +genius than Rochester's could never have redeemed. + + +SONG. + +1 Too late, alas! I must confess, + You need not arts to move me; + Such charms by nature you possess, + 'Twere madness not to love ye. + +2 Then spare a heart you may surprise, + And give my tongue the glory + To boast, though my unfaithful eyes + Betray a tender story. + + +SONG. + +1 My dear mistress has a heart + Soft as those kind looks she gave me, + When with love's resistless art, + And her eyes, she did enslave me. + But her constancy's so weak, + She's so wild and apt to wander, + That my jealous heart would break + Should we live one day asunder. + +2 Melting joys about her move, + Killing pleasures, wounding blisses: + She can dress her eyes in love, + And her lips can warm with kisses. + Angels listen when she speaks, + She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; + But my jealous heart would break, + Should we live one day asunder. + + + + +THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON. + + +Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, was the son of James Dillon and +Elizabeth Wentworth. She was the sister of the infamous Strafford, who +was at once uncle and godfather to our poet. In what exact year Dillon +was born is uncertain, but it was some time about 1633. His father had +been converted from Popery by Usher; and when the Irish Rebellion broke +out, Strafford, afraid of the fury of the Irish, sent for his godson, +and took him to his own seat in Yorkshire, where he was taught Latin +with great care. He was sent afterwards to Caen, where he studied under +Bochart. It is said that while playing extravagantly there at the +customary games of boys, he suddenly paused, became grave, and cried +out, 'My father is dead,' and that a fortnight after arrived tidings +from Ireland confirming his impression. Johnson is inclined to believe +this story, and we are more than inclined. Since the lexicographer's +day, many of what used to be called his 'superstitions' have been +established as certain facts, although their explanation is still +shrouded in darkness. Roscommon was then only ten years of age. + +From Caen he travelled to Italy, where he obtained a profound knowledge +of medals. At the Restoration he returned to England, where he was made +Captain of the Band of Pensioners, and subsequently Master of the Horse +to the Duchess of York. He became unfortunately addicted to gambling, +and, through this miserable habit, he got embroiled in endless quarrels, +as well as in pecuniary embarassments. + +Business compelled him to visit Ireland, where the Duke of Orrnond made +him Captain of the Guards. On his return to England in 1662, he married +the Lady Frances, daughter of the Earl of Burlington. By her he had no +issue. His second wife, whom he married in 1674, was Isabella, daughter +of Matthew Beynton of Barmister, in Yorkshire. + +Roscommon now began to meditate and execute literary projects. He +produced an 'Essay on Translated Verse,' (in 1681,) a translation of +Horace's 'Art of Poetry,' and other pieces. He projected, in conjunction +with his friend Dryden, a plan for refining our language and fixing its +standard, as if Time were not the great refiner, fixer, and enricher of +a tongue. While busy with these schemes and occupations, the troubles of +James II.'s reign commenced. Roscommon determined to retire to Rome, +saying, 'It is best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smokes.' +Death, however, prevented him from reaching the beloved and desired +focus of Roman Catholic darkness. He was assailed by gout, and an +ignorant French empiric, whom he consulted, contrived to drive the +disease into the bowels. Roscommon expired, uttering with great fervour +two lines from his own translation of the 'Dies Irae,'-- + + 'My God, my Father, and my Friend, + Do not forsake me in my end.' + +This was in 1684. He received a pompous interment in Westminster Abbey. + +Roscommon does not deserve the name of a great poet. He was a man of +varied accomplishments and exquisite taste rather than of genius. His +'Essay on Translated Verse' is a sound and sensible, not a profound and +brilliant production. In one point he went before his age. He praises +Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' although unfortunately he selects for encomium +the passage in the sixth book describing the angels fighting against +each other with fire-arms--a passage which most critics have considered +a blot upon the poem. + + +FROM "AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE." + +Immodest words admit of no defence; +For want of decency is want of sense. +What moderate fop would rake the park or stews, +Who among troops of faultless nymphs may choose? +Variety of such is to be found: +Take then a subject proper to expound; +But moral, great, and worth a poet's voice; +For men of sense despise a trivial choice; +And such applause it must expect to meet, +As would some painter busy in a street, +To copy bulls and bears, and every sign +That calls the staring sots to nasty wine. + +Yet 'tis not all to have a subject good: +It must delight us when 'tis understood. +He that brings fulsome objects to my view, +As many old have done, and many new, +With nauseous images my fancy fills, +And all goes down like oxymel of squills. +Instruct the listening world how Maro sings +Of useful subjects and of lofty things. +These will such true, such bright ideas raise, +As merit gratitude, as well as praise: +But foul descriptions are offensive still, +Either for being like, or being ill: +For who, without a qualm, hath ever looked +On holy garbage, though by Homer cooked? +Whose railing heroes, and whose wounded gods +Make some suspect he snores, as well as nods. +But I offend--Virgil begins to frown, +And Horace looks with indignation down: +My blushing Muse with conscious fear retires, +And whom they like implicitly admires. + +On sure foundations let your fabric rise, +And with attractive majesty surprise; +Not by affected meretricious arts, +But strict harmonious symmetry of parts; +Which through the whole insensibly must pass, +With vital heat to animate the mass: +A pure, an active, an auspicious flame; +And bright as heaven, from whence the blessing came: +But few, oh! few souls, preordained by fate, +The race of gods, have reached that envied height. +No rebel Titan's sacrilegious crime, +By heaping hills on hills can hither climb: +The grizzly ferryman of hell denied +Aeneas entrance, till he knew his guide. +How justly then will impious mortals fall, +Whose pride would soar to heaven without a call! + +Pride, of all others the most dangerous fault, +Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought. +The men who labour and digest things most, +Will be much apter to despond than boast: +For if your author be profoundly good, +'Twill cost you dear before he's understood. +How many ages since has Virgil writ! +How few are they who understand him yet! +Approach his altars with religious fear: +No vulgar deity inhabits there. +Heaven shakes not more at Jove's imperial nod, +Than poets should before their Mantuan god. +Hail, mighty Maro! may that sacred name +Kindle my breast with thy celestial flame, +Sublime ideas and apt words infuse; +The Muse instruct my voice, and thou inspire the Muse! + +What I have instanced only in the best, +Is, in proportion, true of all the rest. +Take pains the genuine meaning to explore! +There sweat, there strain: tug the laborious oar; +Search every comment that your care can find; +Some here, some there, may hit the poet's mind: +Yet be not blindly guided by the throng: +The multitude is always in the wrong. +When things appear unnatural or hard, +Consult your author, with himself compared. +Who knows what blessing Phoebus may bestow, +And future ages to your labour owe? +Such secrets are not easily found out; +But, once discovered, leave no room for doubt. + +Truth stamps conviction in your ravished breast; +And peace and joy attend the glorious guest. +Truth still is one; Truth is divinely bright; +No cloudy doubts obscure her native light; +While in your thoughts you find the least debase, +You may confound, but never can translate. +Your style will this through all disguises show; +For none explain more clearly than they know. +He only proves he understands a text, +Whose exposition leaves it unperplexed. +They who too faithfully on names insist, +Rather create than dissipate the mist; +And grow unjust by being over nice, +For superstitious virtue turns to vice. +Let Crassus' ghost and Labienus tell +How twice in Parthian plains their legions fell. +Since Rome hath been so jealous of her fame +That few know Pacorus' or Monaeses' name. + +Words in one language elegantly used, +Will hardly in another be excused; +And some that Rome admired in Caesar's time, +May neither suit our genius nor our clime. +The genuine sense, intelligibly told, +Shows a translator both discreet and bold. + +Excursions are inexpiably bad; +And 'tis much safer to leave out than add. +Abstruse and mystic thought you must express +With painful care, but seeming easiness; +For truth shines brightest through the plainest dress. +The Aenean Muse, when she appears in state, +Makes all Jove's thunder on her verses wait; +Yet writes sometimes as soft and moving things +As Venus speaks, or Philomela sings. +Your author always will the best advise, +Fall when he falls, and when he rises, rise. +Affected noise is the most wretched thing, +That to contempt can empty scribblers bring. +Vowels and accents, regularly placed, +On even syllables (and still the last) +Though gross innumerable faults abound, +In spite of nonsense, never fail of sound, +But this is meant of even verse alone, +As being most harmonious and most known: +For if you will unequal numbers try, +There accents on odd syllables must lie. +Whatever sister of the learned Nine +Does to your suit a willing ear incline, +Urge your success, deserve a lasting name, +She'll crown a grateful and a constant flame. +But if a wild uncertainty prevail, +And turn your veering heart with every gale, +You lose the fruit of all your former care, +For the sad prospect of a just despair. + +A quack, too scandalously mean to name, +Had, by man-midwifery, got wealth and fame; +As if Lucina had forgot her trade, +The labouring wife invokes his surer aid. +Well-seasoned bowls the gossip's spirits raise, +Who, while she guzzles, chats the doctor's praise; +And largely, what she wants in words, supplies, +With maudlin eloquence of trickling eyes. +But what a thoughtless animal is man! +How very active in his own trepan! +For, greedy of physicians' frequent fees, +From female mellow praise he takes degrees; +Struts in a new unlicensed gown, and then +From saving women falls to killing men. +Another such had left the nation thin, +In spite of all the children he brought in. +His pills as thick as hand grenadoes flew; +And where they fell, as certainly they slew: +His name struck everywhere as great a damp, +As Archimedes' through the Roman camp. +With this, the doctor's pride began to cool; +For smarting soundly may convince a fool. +But now repentance came too late for grace; +And meagre famine stared him in the face: +Fain would he to the wives be reconciled, +But found no husband left to own a child. +The friends, that got the brats, were poisoned too: +In this sad case, what could our vermin do? +Worried with debts, and past all hope of bail, +The unpitied wretch lies rotting in a jail: +And there, with basket-alms scarce kept alive, +Shows how mistaken talents ought to thrive. + +I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, +Compelled by want to prostitute their pen; +Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, +And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead! +But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pampered heirs, +Who to your country owe your swords and cares, +Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, +For rich ill poets are without excuse; +'Tis very dangerous tampering with the Muse, +The profit's small, and you have much to lose; +For though true wit adorns your birth or place, +Degenerate lines degrade the attainted race. +No poet any passion can excite, +But what they feel transport them when they write. +Have you been led through the Cumaean cave, +And heard the impatient maid divinely rave? +I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes; +And panting, 'Lo! the God, the God,' she cries: +With words not hers, and more than human sound, +She makes the obedient ghosts peep trembling through the ground. +But, though we must obey when Heaven commands, +And man in vain the sacred call withstands, +Beware what spirit rages in your breast; +For ten inspired, ten thousand are possess'd: +Thus make the proper use of each extreme, +And write with fury, but correct with phlegm. +As when the cheerful hours too freely pass, +And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting glass, +Your pulse advises, and begins to beat +Through every swelling vein a loud retreat: +So when a Muse propitiously invites, +Improve her favours, and indulge her flights; +But when you find that vigorous heat abate, +Leave off, and for another summons wait. +Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp, +Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp, +Appear not meaner than mere human lines, +Compared with those whose inspiration shines: +These, nervous, bold; those, languid and remiss; +There cold salutes; but here a lover's kiss. +Thus have I seen a rapid headlong tide, +With foaming waves the passive Saone divide; +Whose lazy waters without motion lay, +While he, with eager force, urged his impetuous way. + + + + +CHARLES COTTON. + + +Hearty, careless 'Charley Cotton' was born in 1630. His father, Sir +George Cotton, was improvident and intemperate in his latter days, and +left the poet an encumbered estate situated at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, +near the river Dove. This place will recall the words quoted by O'Connell +in Parliament in reference to the present Lord Derby:-- + + 'Down thy fair banks, romantic Ashbourne, glides + The Derby dilly, with its six insides.' + +Charles studied at Cambridge; and after travelling abroad, married the +daughter of Sir Thomas Owthorp in Nottinghamshire, who does not appear +to have lived long. His extravagance keeping him poor, he was compelled +to eke out his means by translating works from the French and Italian, +including those of a spirit somewhat kindred to his own--Montaigne. At +the age of forty, he obtained a captain's commission in the army, and +went to Ireland. There he met with his second wife, Mary, Countess +Dowager of Ardglass, the widow of Lord Cornwall. She possessed a +jointure of £1500 a-year, secured, however, after marriage, from her +husband's imprudent and reckless management. He returned to his English +estate, where he became passionately fond of fishing,--intimate with +Izaak Walton, whom he invited in a poem, although now eighty-three years +old, to visit him in the country--and where he built a fishing-house, +with the initials of Izaak's name and his own united in ciphers over +the door; the walls, too, being painted with fishing scenes, and the +portraits of Cotton and Walton appearing upon the beaufet. Poor Charles +had a less fortunate career than his friend, dying insolvent at +Westminster in 1687. + +Careless gaiety and reckless extravagance, blended with heart, sense, +and sincerity, were the characteristics of Cotton as a man, and were, as +is usually the case, transferred to his poetry. He squandered his pence +and his powers with equal profusion. His travestie of the 'Aeneid' is +pronounced by Christopher North (who must have read it, however,) a +beastly book. Campbell says, with striking justice, of another of +Cotton's productions, 'His imitations of Lucian betray the grossest +misconception of humorous effect, when he attempts to burlesque that +which is ludicrous already.' It is like trying to turn the 'Tale of +a Tub' into ridicule. But Cotton's own vein, as exhibited in his +'Invitation to Walton,' his 'New Year,' and his 'Voyage to Ireland,' +(which anticipates in some measure the style of Anstey in the 'New Bath +Guide,') is very rich and varied, full of ease, picturesque spirit, and +humour, and stamps him a genuine, if not a great poet. + + +INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON. + +1 Whilst in this cold and blustering clime, + Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, + We pass away the roughest time + Has been of many years before; + +2 Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks + The dullest blasts our peace invade, + And by great rains our smallest brooks + Are almost navigable made; + +3 Whilst all the ills are so improved + Of this dead quarter of the year, + That even you, so much beloved, + We would not now wish with us here: + +4 In this estate, I say, it is + Some comfort to us to suppose, + That in a better clime than this, + You, our dear friend, have more repose; + +5 And some delight to me the while, + Though Nature now does weep in rain, + To think that I have seen her smile, + And haply may I do again. + +6 If the all-ruling Power please + We live to see another May, + We'll recompense an age of these + Foul days in one fine fishing day. + +7 We then shall have a day or two, + Perhaps a week, wherein to try + What the best master's hand can do + With the most deadly killing fly. + +8 A day with not too bright a beam; + A warm, but not a scorching sun; + A southern gale to curl the stream; + And, master, half our work is done. + +9 Then, whilst behind some bush we wait + The scaly people to betray, + We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait, + To make the preying trout our prey; + +10 And think ourselves, in such an hour, + Happier than those, though not so high, + Who, like leviathans, devour + Of meaner men the smaller fry. + +11 This, my best friend, at my poor home, + Shall be our pastime and our theme; + But then--should you not deign to come, + You make all this a flattering dream. + + + +A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE. + +CANTO I. + +The lives of frail men are compared by the sages +Or unto short journeys, or pilgrimages, +As men to their inns do come sooner or later, +That is, to their ends, to be plain in my matter; +From whence when one dead is, it currently follows, +He has run his race, though his goal be the gallows; +And this 'tis, I fancy, sets folks so a-madding, +And makes men and women so eager of gadding; +Truth is, in my youth I was one of these people +Would have gone a great way to have seen a high steeple, +And though I was bred 'mongst the wonders o' th' Peak, +Would have thrown away money, and ventured my neck +To have seen a great hill, a rock, or a cave, +And thought there was nothing so pleasant and brave: +But at forty years old you may, if you please, +Think me wiser than run such errands as these; +Or had the same humour still run in my toes, +A voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have chose; +But to tell you the truth on 't, indeed it was neither +Improvement nor pleasure for which I went thither; +I know then you'll presently ask me for what? +Why, faith, it was that makes the old woman trot; +And therefore I think I'm not much to be blamed +If I went to the place whereof Nick was ashamed. + +O Coryate! thou traveller famed as Ulysses, +In such a stupendous labour as this is, +Come lend me the aids of thy hands and thy feet, +Though the first be pedantic, the other not sweet, +Yet both are so restless in peregrination, +They'll help both my journey, and eke my relation. + +'Twas now the most beautiful time of the year, +The days were now long, and the sky was now clear, +And May, that fair lady of splendid renown, +Had dressed herself fine, in her flowered tabby gown, +When about some two hours and an half after noon, +When it grew something late, though I thought it too soon, +With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart, +I tuned up my pipes to sing _'loth to depart;_' +The ditty concluded, I called for my horse, +And with a good pack did the jument endorse, +Till he groaned and he f----d under the burden, +For sorrow had made me a cumbersome lurden: +And now farewell, Dove, where I've caught such brave dishes +Of over-grown, golden, and silver-scaled fishes; +Thy trout and thy grayling may now feed securely, +I've left none behind me can take 'em so surely; +Feed on then, and breed on, until the next year, +But if I return I expect my arrear. + +By pacing and trotting betimes in the even, +Ere the sun had forsaken one half of the heaven, +We all at fair Congerton took up our inn, +Where the sign of a king kept a King and his queen: +But who do you think came to welcome me there'? +No worse a man, marry, than good master mayor, +With his staff of command, yet the man was not lame, +But he needed it more when he went, than he came; +After three or four hours of friendly potation, +We took leave each of other in courteous fashion, +When each one, to keep his brains fast in his head, +Put on a good nightcap, and straightway to bed. + +Next morn, having paid for boiled, roasted, and bacon, +And of sovereign hostess our leaves kindly taken, +(For her king, as 'twas rumoured, by late pouring down, +This morning had got a foul flaw in his crown,) +We mounted again, and full soberly riding, +Three miles we had rid ere we met with a biding; +But there, having over-night plied the tap well, +We now must needs water at a place called Holmes Chapel: +'A hay!' quoth the foremost, 'ho! who keeps the house?' +Which said, out an host comes as brisk as a louse; +His hair combed as sleek as a barber he'd been, +A cravat with black ribbon tied under his chin; +Though by what I saw in him, I straight 'gan to fear +That knot would be one day slipped under his ear. +Quoth he (with low conge), 'What lack you, my lord?' +'The best liquor,' quoth I, 'that the house will afford.' +'You shall straight,' quoth he; and then calls out, 'Mary? +Come quickly, and bring us a quart of Canary.' +'Hold, hold, my spruce host! for i' th' morning so early, +I never drink liquor but what's made of barley.' +Which words were scarce out, but, which made me admire, +My lordship was presently turned into 'squire: + +'Ale, 'squire, you mean?' quoth he nimbly again, +'What, must it be purled'--'No, I love it best plain.' +'Why, if you'll drink ale, sir, pray take my advice, +Here's the best ale i' th' land, if you'll go to the price; +Better, I sure am, ne'er blew out a stopple; +But then, in plain truth, it is sixpence a bottle.' +'Why, faith,' quoth I, 'friend, if your liquor be such, +For the best ale in England, it is not too much: +Let's have it, and quickly.'--'o sir! you may stay; +A pot in your pate is a mile in your way: +Come, bring out a bottle here presently, wife, +Of the best Cheshire hum he e'er drank in his life.' +Straight out comes the mistress in waistcoat of silk, +As clear as a milkmaid, as white as her milk, +With visage as oval and sleek as an egg, +As straight as an arrow, as right as my leg: +A curtsey she made, as demure as a sister, +I could not forbear, but alighted and kissed her: +Then ducking another, with most modest mien, +The first word she said was, 'Will 't please you walk in? +I thanked her; but told her, I then could not stay, +For the haste of my business did call me away. +She said, she was sorry it fell out so odd, +But if, when again I should travel that road, +I would stay there a night, she assured me the nation +Should nowhere afford better accommodation: +Meanwhile my spruce landlord has broken the cork, +And called for a bodkin, though he had a fork; +But I showed him a screw, which I told my brisk gull +A trepan was for bottles had broken their skull; +Which, as it was true, he believed without doubt, +But 'twas I that applied it, and pulled the cork out. +Bounce, quoth the bottle, the work being done, +It roared, and it smoked, like a new-fired gun; +But the shot missed us all, or else we'd been routed, +Which yet was a wonder, we were so about it. +Mine host poured and filled, till he could fill no fuller: +'Look here, sir,' quoth he, 'both for nap and for colour, +Sans bragging, I hate it, nor will I e'er do 't; +I defy Leek, and Lambhith, and Sandwich, to boot.' +By my troth, he said true, for I speak it with tears, +Though I have been a toss-pot these twenty good years, +And have drank so much liquor has made me a debtor, +In my days, that I know of, I never drank better: +We found it so good and we drank so profoundly, +That four good round shillings were whipt away roundly; +And then I conceived it was time to be jogging, +For our work had been done, had we stay'd t' other noggin. + +From thence we set forth with more metal and spright, +Our horses were empty, our coxcombs were light; +O'er Dellamore forest we, tantivy, posted, +Till our horses were basted as if they were roasted: +In truth, we pursued might have been by our haste, +And I think Sir George Booth did not gallop so fast, +Till about two o'clock after noon, God be blest, +We came, safe and sound, all to Chester i' th' west. + +And now in high time 'twas to call for some meat, +Though drinking does well, yet some time we must eat: +And i' faith we had victuals both plenty and good, +Where we all laid about us as if we were wood: +Go thy ways, Mistress Anderton, for a good woman, +Thy guests shall by thee ne'er be turned to a common; +And whoever of thy entertainment complains, +Let him lie with a drab, and be poxed for his pains. + +And here I must stop the career of my Muse, +The poor jade is weary, 'las! how should she choose? +And if I should further here spur on my course, +I should, questionless, tire both my wits and my horse: +To-night let us rest, for 'tis good Sunday's even, +To-morrow to church, and ask pardon of Heaven. +Thus far we our time spent, as here I have penned it, +An odd kind of life, and 'tis well if we mend it: +But to-morrow (God willing) we'll have t' other bout, +And better or worse be 't, for murder will out, +Our future adventures we'll lay down before ye, +For my Muse is deep sworn to use truth of the story. + + +CANTO II + +After seven hours' sleep, to commute for pains taken, +A man of himself, one would think, might awaken; +But riding, and drinking hard, were two such spells, +I doubt I'd slept on, but for jangling of bells, +Which, ringing to matins all over the town, +Made me leap out of bed, and put on my gown. +With intent (so God mend me) t' have gone to the choir, +When straight I perceived myself all on a fire; +For the two forenamed things had so heated my blood, +That a little phlebotomy would do me good: +I sent for chirurgeon, who came in a trice, +And swift to shed blood, needed not be called twice, +But tilted stiletto quite thorough the vein, +From whence issued out the ill humours amain; +When having twelve ounces, he bound up my arm, +And I gave him two Georges, which did him no harm: +But after my bleeding, I soon understood +It had cooled my devotion as well as my blood; +For I had no more mind to look on my psalter, +Than (saving your presence) I had to a halter; +But, like a most wicked and obstinate sinner, +Then sat in my chamber till folks came to dinner: +I dined with good stomach, and very good cheer, +With a very fine woman, and good ale and beer; +When myself having stuffed than a bagpipe more full, +I fell to my smoking until I grew dull; +And, therefore, to take a fine nap thought it best, +For when belly full is, bones would be at rest: +I tumbled me down on my bed like a swad, +Where, oh! the delicious dream that I had! +Till the bells, that had been my morning molesters, +Now waked me again, chiming all in to vespers: +With that starting up, for my man I did whistle, +And combed out and powdered my locks that were grizzle; +Had my clothes neatly brushed, and then put on my sword, +Resolved now to go and attend on the word. + +Thus tricked, and thus trim, to set forth I begin, +Neat and cleanly without, but scarce cleanly within; +For why, Heaven knows it, I long time had been +A most humble obedient servant to sin; +And now in devotion was even so proud, +I scorned forsooth to join prayer with the crowd; +For though courted by all the bells as I went, +I was deaf, and regarded not the compliment, +But to the cathedral still held on my pace, +As't were, scorning to kneel but in the best place. +I there made myself sure of good music at least, +But was something deceived, for 'twas none of the best: +But however I stay'd at the church's commanding +Till we came to the 'Peace passes all understanding,' +Which no sooner was ended, but whir and away, +Like boys in a school when they've leave got to play; +All save master mayor, who still gravely stays +Till the rest had made room for his worship and's mace: +Then he and his brethren in order appear, +I out of my stall, and fell into his rear; +For why, 'tis much safer appearing, no doubt, +In authority's tail, than the head of a rout. + +In this rev'rend order we marched from prayer; +The mace before me borne as well as the mayor; +Who looking behind him, and seeing most plain +A glorious gold belt in the rear of his train, +Made such a low congé, forgetting his place, +I was never so honoured before in my days: +But then off went my scalp-case, and down went my fist, +Till the pavement, too hard, by my knuckles was kissed; +By which, though thick-skulled, he must understand this, +That I was a most humble servant of his; +Which also so wonderful kindly he took, +(As I well perceived both b' his gesture and look,) +That to have me dogg'd home he straightway appointed, +Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted. +I was scarce in my quarters, and set down on crupper, +But his man was there too, to invite me to supper: +I start up, and after most respective fashion +Gave his worship much thanks for his kind invitation; +But begged his excuse, for my stomach was small, +And I never did eat any supper at all; +But that after supper I would kiss his hands, +And would come to receive his worship's commands. +Sure no one will say, but a patron of slander, +That this was not pretty well for a Moorlander: +And since on such reasons to sup I refused, +I nothing did doubt to be holden excused; +But my quaint repartee had his worship possess'd +With so wonderful good a conceit of the rest, +That with mere impatience he hoped in his breeches +To see the fine fellow that made such fine speeches: +'Go, sirrah!' quoth he, 'get you to him again, +And will and require, in his Majesty's name, +That he come; and tell him, obey he were best, or +I'll teach him to know that he's now in West-Chester.' +The man, upon this, comes me running again, +But yet minced his message, and was not so plain; +Saying to me only, 'Good sir, I am sorry +To tell you my master has sent again for you; +And has such a longing to have you his guest, +That I, with these ears, heard him swear and protest, +He would neither say grace, nor sit down on his bum, +Nor open his napkin, until you do come.' +With that I perceived no excuse would avail, +And, seeing there was no defence for a flail, +I said I was ready master may'r to obey, +And therefore desired him to lead me the way. +We went, and ere Malkin could well lick her ear, +(For it but the next door was, forsooth) we were there; +Where lights being brought me, I mounted the stairs, +The worst I e'er saw in my life at a mayor's: +But everything else must be highly commended. +I there found his worship most nobly attended, +Besides such a supper as well did convince, +A may'r in his province to be a great prince; +As he sat in his chair, he did not much vary, +In state nor in face, from our eighth English Harry; +But whether his face was swelled up with fat, +Or puffed up with glory, I cannot tell that. +Being entered the chamber half length of a pike, +And cutting of faces exceedingly like +One of those little gentlemen brought from the Indies, +And screwing myself into congés and cringes, +By then I was half-way advanced in the room, +His worship most rev'rendly rose from his bum, +And with the more honour to grace and to greet me, +Advanced a whole step and a half for to meet me; +Where leisurely doffing a hat worth a tester, +He bade me most heartily welcome to Chester. +I thanked him in language the best I was able, +And so we forthwith sat us all down to table. + +Now here you must note, and 'tis worth observation, +That as his chair at one end o' th' table had station; +So sweet mistress may'ress, in just such another, +Like the fair queen of hearts, sat in state at the other; +By which I perceived, though it seemed a riddle, +The lower end of this must be just in the middle: +But perhaps 'tis a rule there, and one that would mind it +Amongst the town-statutes 'tis likely might find it. +But now into the pottage each deep his spoon claps, +As in truth one might safely for burning one's chaps, +When straight, with the look and the tone of a scold, +Mistress may'ress complained that the pottage was cold; +'And all 'long of your fiddle-faddle,' quoth she. +'Why, what then, Goody Two-Shoes, what if it be? +Hold you, if you can, your tittle-tattle,' quoth he. +I was glad she was snapped thus, and guessed by th' discourse, +The may'r, not the gray mare, was the better horse, +And yet for all that, there is reason to fear, +She submitted but out of respect to his year: +However 'twas well she had now so much grace, +Though not to the man, to submit to his place; +For had she proceeded, I verily thought +My turn would the next be, for I was in fault: +But this brush being past, we fell to our diet, +And every one there filled his belly in quiet. +Supper being ended, and things away taken, +Master mayor's curiosity 'gan to awaken; +Wherefore making me draw something nearer his chair, +He willed and required me there to declare +My country, my birth, my estate, and my parts, +And whether I was not a master of arts; +And eke what the business was had brought me thither, +With what I was going about now, and whither: +Giving me caution, no lie should escape me, +For if I should trip, he should certainly trap me. +I answered, my country was famed Staffordshire; +That in deeds, bills, and bonds, I was ever writ squire; +That of land I had both sorts, some good, and some evil, +But that a great part on't was pawned to the devil; +That as for my parts, they were such as he saw; +That, indeed, I had a small smatt'ring of law, +Which I lately had got more by practice than reading, +By sitting o' th' bench, whilst others were pleading; +But that arms I had ever more studied than arts, +And was now to a captain raised by my deserts; +That the business which led me through Palatine ground +Into Ireland was, whither now I was bound; +Where his worship's great favour I loud will proclaim, +And in all other places wherever I came. +He said, as to that, I might do what I list, +But that I was welcome, and gave me his fist; +When having my fingers made crack with his gripes, +He called to his man for some bottles and pipes. + +To trouble you here with a longer narration +Of the several parts of our confabulation, +Perhaps would be tedious; I'll therefore remit ye +Even to the most rev'rend records of the city, +Where, doubtless, the acts of the may'rs are recorded, +And if not more truly, yet much better worded. + +In short, then, we piped and we tippled Canary, +Till my watch pointed one in the circle horary; +When thinking it now was high time to depart, +His worship I thanked with a most grateful heart; +And because to great men presents are acceptable, +I presented the may'r, ere I rose from the table, +With a certain fantastical box and a stopper; +And he having kindly accepted my offer, +I took my fair leave, such my visage adorning, +And to bed, for I was to rise early i' th' morning. + + +CANTO III. + +The sun in the morning disclosed his light, +With complexion as ruddy as mine over night; +And o'er th' eastern mountains peeping up's head, +The casement being open, espied me in bed; +With his rays he so tickled my lids that I waked, +And was half ashamed, for I found myself naked; +But up I soon start, and was dressed in a trice, +And called for a draught of ale, sugar, and spice; +Which having turned off, I then call to pay, +And packing my nawls, whipt to horse, and away. +A guide I had got, who demanded great vails, +For conducting me over the mountains of Wales: +Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is; +Yet that would not serve, but I must bear his charges; +And yet for all that, rode astride on a beast, +The worst that e'er went on three legs, I protest: +It certainly was the most ugly of jades, +His hips and his rump made a right ace of spades; +His sides were two ladders, well spur-galled withal; +His neck was a helve, and his head was a mall; +For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll spare, +For the creature was wholly denuded of hair; +And, except for two things, as bare as my nail, +A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail; +And by these the true colour one can no more know, +Than by mouse-skins above stairs, the merkin below. +Now such as the beast was, even such was the rider, +With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider; +A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, +The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat: +Even such was my guide and his beast; let them pass, +The one for a horse, and the other an ass. +But now with our horses, what sound and what rotten, +Down to the shore, you must know, we were gotten; +And there we were told, it concerned us to ride, +Unless we did mean to encounter the tide; +And then my guide lab'ring with heels and with hands, +With two up and one down, hopped over the sands, +Till his horse, finding the labour for three legs too sore, +Foaled out a new leg, and then he had four: +And now by plain dint of hard spurring and whipping, +Dry-shod we came where folks sometimes take shipping; +And where the salt sea, as the devil were in 't, +Came roaring t' have hindered our journey to Flint; +But we, by good luck, before him got thither, +He else would have carried us, no man knows whither. + +And now her in Wales is, Saint Taph be her speed, +Gott splutter her taste, some Welsh ale her had need; +For her ride in great haste, and * * +For fear of her being catched up by the fishes: +But the lord of Flint castle's no lord worth a louse, +For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his house; +But in a small house near unto 't there was store +Of such ale as, thank God, I ne'er tasted before; +And surely the Welsh are not wise of their fuddle, +For this had the taste and complexion of puddle. +From thence then we marched, full as dry as we came, +My guide before prancing, his steed no more lame, +O'er hills and o'er valleys uncouth and uneven, +Until 'twixt the hours of twelve and eleven, +More hungry and thirsty than tongue can well tell, +We happily came to Saint Winifred's well: +I thought it the pool of Bethesda had been, +By the cripples lay there; but I went to my inn +To speak for some meat, for so stomach did motion, +Before I did further proceed in devotion: +I went into th' kitchen, where victuals I saw, +Both beef, veal, and mutton, but all on 't was raw; +And some on't alive, but soon went to slaughter, +For four chickens were slain by my dame and her daughter; +Of which to Saint Win. ere my vows I had paid, +They said I should find a rare fricasée made: +I thanked them, and straight to the well did repair, +Where some I found cursing, and others at prayer; +Some dressing, some stripping, some out and some in, +Some naked, where botches and boils might be seen; +Of which some were fevers of Venus I'm sure, +And therefore unfit for the virgin to cure: +But the fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight, +The beautiful virgin's own tears not more bright; +Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear, +Her conscience, her name, nor herself, were more clear. +In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white, +But streaked with pure red, as the morning with light, +Which they say is her blood, and so it may be, +But for that, let who shed it look to it for me. +Over the fountain a chapel there stands, +Which I wonder has 'scaped master Oliver's hands; +The floor's not ill paved, and the margin o' th' spring +Is inclosed with a certain octagonal ring; +From each angle of which a pillar does rise, +Of strength and of thickness enough to suffice +To support and uphold from falling to ground +A cupola wherewith the virgin is crowned. +Now 'twixt the two angles that fork to the north, +And where the cold nymph does her basin pour forth, +Under ground is a place where they bathe, as 'tis said, +And 'tis true, for I heard folks' teeth hack in their head; +For you are to know, that the rogues and the * * +Are not let to pollute the spring-head with their sores. +But one thing I chiefly admired in the place, +That a saint and a virgin endued with such grace, +Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer +To that whoring and filching trade of a miller, +As within a few paces to furnish the wheels +Of I cannot tell how many water-mills: +I've studied that point much, you cannot guess why, +But the virgin was, doubtless, more righteous than I. +And now for my welcome, four, five, or six lasses, +With as many crystalline liberal glasses, +Did all importune me to drink of the water +Of Saint Winifreda, good Thewith's fair daughter. +A while I was doubtful, and stood in a muse, +Not knowing, amidst all that choice, where to choose. +Till a pair of black eyes, darting full in my sight, +From the rest o' th' fair maidens did carry me quite; +I took the glass from her, and whip, off it went, +I half doubt I fancied a health to the saint: +But he was a great villain committed the slaughter, +For Saint Winifred made most delicate water. +I slipped a hard shilling into her soft hand, +Which had like to have made me the place have profaned; +And giving two more to the poor that were there, +Did, sharp as a hawk, to my quarters repair. + +My dinner was ready, and to it I fell, +I never ate better meat, that I can tell; +When having half dined, there comes in my host, +A catholic good, and a rare drunken toast; +This man, by his drinking, inflamed the scot, +And told me strange stories, which I have forgot; +But this I remember, 'twas much on's own life, +And one thing, that he had converted his wife. + +But now my guide told me, it time was to go, +For that to our beds we must both ride and row; +Wherefore calling to pay, and having accounted, +I soon was down-stairs, and as suddenly mounted: +On then we travelled, our guide still before, +Sometimes on three legs, and sometimes on four, +Coasting the sea, and over hills crawling, +Sometimes on all four, for fear we should fall in; +For underneath Neptune lay skulking to watch us, +And, had we but slipped once, was ready to catch us. +Thus in places of danger taking more heed, +And in safer travelling mending our speed: +Redland Castle and Abergoney we past, +And o'er against Connoway came at the last: +Just over against a castle there stood, +O' th' right hand the town, and o' th' left hand a wood; +'Twixt the wood and the castle they see at high water +The storm, the place makes it a dangerous matter; +And besides, upon such a steep rock it is founded, +As would break a man's neck, should he'scape being drowned: +Perhaps though in time one may make them to yield, +But 'tis prettiest Cob-castle e'er I beheld. + +The sun now was going t' unharness his steeds, +When the ferry-boat brasking her sides 'gainst the weeds, +Came in as good time as good time could be, +To give us a cast o'er an arm of the sea; +And bestowing our horses before and abaft, +O'er god Neptune's wide cod-piece gave us a waft; +Where scurvily landing at foot of the fort, +Within very few paces we entered the port, +Where another King's Head invited me down, +For indeed I have ever been true to the crown. + + + + +DR HENRY MORE. + + +This eminent man was the son of a gentleman of good family and estate +in Grantham, Lincolnshire. He was born in 1614. His father sent him to +study at Eton, and thence, in 1631, he repaired to Cambridge, where he +was destined to spend the most of his life. Philosophy attracted him +early, in preference to science or literature, and he became a follower +of Plato, so decided and enthusiastic as to gain for himself the title +of 'The Platonist' _par excellence_. In 1639, he graduated M.A.; and the +next year, he published the first part of 'Psychozoia; or, The Song of +the Soul,' containing a Christiano-Platonical account of Man and Life. +In preparing the materials of this poem, he had studied all the +principal Platonists and mystical writers, and is said to have read +himself almost to a shadow. And not only was his body emaciated, but +his mind was so overstrung, that he imagined himself to see spiritual +beings, to hear supernatural voices, and to converse, like Socrates, +with a particular genius. He thought, too, that his body 'exhaled the +perfume of violets!' Notwithstanding these little peculiarities, his +genius and his learning, the simplicity of his character, and the +innocence of his life, rendered him a general favourite; he was made +a fellow of his college, and became a tutor to various persons of +distinguished rank. One of these was Sir John Finch, whose sister, Lady +Conway, an enthusiast herself, brought More acquainted with the famous +John Baptist Van Helment, a man after whom, in the beginning of the +seventeenth century, the whole of Europe wondered. He was a follower and +imitator of Paracelsus, like him affected universal knowledge, aspired +to revolutionise the science of medicine, and died with the reputation +of one who, with great powers and acquirements, instead of becoming a +great man, ended as a brilliant pretender, and was rather an 'architect +of ruin' to the systems of others, than the founder of a solid fabric of +his own. More admired, of course, not the quackery, but the adventurous +boldness of Helment's genius, and his devotion to chemistry; which is +certainly the most spiritual of all the sciences, and must, especially +in its transcendental forms, have had a great charm for a Platonic +thinker. Our author was entirely devoted to study, and resisted every +inducement to leave what he called his 'Paradise' at Cambridge. His +friends once tried to decoy him into a bishopric, and got him the length +of Whitehall to kiss the king's hand on the occasion; but when he +understood their purpose, he refused to go a single step further. His +life was a long, learned, happy, and holy dream. He was of the most +benevolent disposition; and once observed to a friend, 'that he was +thought by some to have a soft head, but he thanked God he had a soft +heart.' In the heat of the Rebellion, the Republicans spared More, +although he had refused to take the Covenant. Campbell says of him, +'He corresponded with Descartes, was the friend of Cudworth, and, as a +divine and a moralist, was not only popular in his own time, but has +been mentioned with admiration both by Addison and Blair.' One is rather +amused at the latter clause. That a man of More's massive learning, +noble eloquence, and divine genius should need the testimony of a mere +elegant wordmonger like Blair, seems ludicrous enough; and Addison +himself, except in wit and humour, was not worthy to have untied the +shoelatchets of the old Platonist. We were first introduced to this +writer by good Dr John Brown, late of Broughton Place, Edinburgh, and +shall never forget hearing him, in his library, read some splendid +passages from More's work, in those deep, mellow, antique tones which +flavoured whatever he read, like the crust on old wine. His chief works +are, 'A Discourse on the Immortality of the Soul,' 'The Mystery of +Godliness,' 'The Mystery of Iniquity,' 'Divine Dialogues,' 'An Antidote +against Atheism,' 'Ethical and Metaphysical Manuals,' &c. In writing +such books, and pursuing the recondite studies of which they were the +fruit, More spent his life happily. In 1661, he became a Fellow of +the Royal Society. For twenty years after the Restoration, his works +are said to have sold better than any of their day--a curious and +unaccountable fact, considering the levity and licentiousness of the +period. In September 1687, the fine old spiritualist, aged seventy- +three, went away to that land of 'ideas' to which his heart had been +translated long before. + +More's prose writings give us, on the whole, a higher idea of his powers +than his poem. This is not exactly, as a recent critic calls it, 'dull +and tedious,' but it is in some parts prosaic, and in others obscure. +The gleams of fancy in it are genuine, but few and far between. But his +prose works constitute, like those of Cudworth, Charnock, Jeremy Taylor, +and John Scott, a vast old quarry, abounding both in blocks and in gems +--blocks of granite solidity, and gems of starry lustre. The peculiarity +of More is in that poetico-philosophic mist which, like the autumnal +gossamer, hangs in light and beautiful festoons over his thoughts, and +which suggests pleasing memories of Plato and the Alexandrian school. +Like all the followers of the Grecian sage, he dwells in a region of +'ideas,' which are to him the only realities, and are not cold, but +warm; he sees all things in Divine solution; the visible is lost in the +invisible, and nature retires before her God. Surely they are splendid +reveries those of the Platonic school; but it is sad to reflect that +they have not cast the slightest gleam of light on the dark, frightful, +faith-shattering mysteries which perplex all inquirers. The old shadows +of sin, death, damnation, evil, and hell, are found to darken the 'ideas' +of Plato's world quite as deeply as they do the actualities of this weary, +work-day earth, into which men have, for some inscrutable purpose, been +sent to be, on the whole, miserable,--so often to toil without compen- +sation, to suffer without benefit, and to hope without fulfilment. + + +OPENING OF SECOND PART OF 'PSYCHOZOIA.' + +1 Whatever man he be that dares to deem + True poets' skill to spring of earthly race, + I must him tell, that he doth mis-esteem + Their strange estate, and eke himself disgrace + By his rude ignorance. For there's no place + For forced labour, or slow industry, + Of flagging wits, in that high fiery chase; + So soon as of the Muse they quickened be, + At once they rise, and lively sing like lark in sky. + +2 Like to a meteor, whose material + Is low unwieldy earth, base unctuous slime, + Whose inward hidden parts ethereal + Lie close upwrapt in that dull sluggish fime, + Lie fast asleep, till at some fatal time + Great Phoebus' lamp has fired its inward sprite, + And then even of itself on high doth climb: + That erst was dark becomes all eye, all sight, + Bright star, that to the wise of future things gives light. + +3 Even so the weaker mind, that languid lies, + Knit up in rags of dirt, dark, cold, and blind, + So soon that purer flame of love unties + Her clogging chains, and doth her sprite unbind, + She soars aloft; for she herself doth find + Well plumed; so raised upon her spreaden wing, + She softly plays, and warbles in the wind, + And carols out her inward life and spring + Of overflowing joy, and of pure love doth sing. + + +EXORDIUM OF THIRD PART. + +1 Hence, hence, unhallowed ears, arid hearts more hard + Than winter clods fast froze with northern wind, + But most of all, foul tongue! I thee discard, + That blamest all that thy dark straitened mind + Cannot conceive: but that no blame thou find; + Whate'er my pregnant muse brings forth to light, + She'll not acknowledge to be of her kind, + Till eagle-like she turn them to the sight + Of the eternal Word, all decked with glory bright. + +2 Strange sights do straggle in my restless thoughts, + And lively forms with orient colours clad + Walk in my boundless mind, as men ybrought + Into some spacious room, who when they've had + A turn or two, go out, although unbade. + All these I see and know, but entertain + None to my friend but who's most sober sad; + Although, the time my roof doth them contain + Their presence doth possess me till they out again. + +3 And thus possessed, in silver trump I sound + Their guise, their shape, their gesture, and array; + But as in silver trumpet nought is found + When once the piercing sound is passed away, + (Though while the mighty blast therein did stay, + Its tearing noise so terribly did shrill, + That it the heavens did shake, and earth dismay,) + As empty I of what my flowing quill + In needless haste elsewhere, or here, may hap to spill. + +4 For 'tis of force, and not of a set will, + Nor dare my wary mind afford assent + To what is placed above all mortal skill; + But yet, our various thoughts to represent, + Each gentle wight will deem of good intent. + Wherefore, with leave the infinity I'll sing + Of time, of space; or without leave; I'm brent + With eager rage, my heart for joy doth spring, + And all my spirits move with pleasant trembeling. + +5 An inward triumph doth my soul upheave + And spread abroad through endless 'spersed air. + My nimble mind this clammy clod doth leave, + And lightly stepping on from star to star + Swifter than lightning, passeth wide and far, + Measuring the unbounded heavens and wasteful sky; + Nor aught she finds her passage to debar, + For still the azure orb as she draws nigh + Gives back, new stars appear, the world's walls 'fore her fly. + + +DESTRUCTION AND RENOVATION OF ALL THINGS. + +1 As the seas, + Boiling with swelling waves, aloft did rise, + And met with mighty showers and pouring rain + From heaven's spouts; so the broad flashing skies, + With brimstone thick and clouds of fiery bane, + Shall meet with raging Etna's and Vesuvius' flame. + +2 The burning bowels of this wasting ball + Shall gallup up great flakes of rolling fire, + And belch out pitchy flames, till over all + Having long raged, Vulcan himself shall tire, + And (the earth an ash-heap made) shall then expire: + Here Nature, laid asleep in her own urn, + With gentle rest right easily will respire, + Till to her pristine task she do return + As fresh as Phoenix young under the Arabian morn. + +3 Oh, happy they that then the first are born, + While yet the world is in her vernal pride; + For old corruption quite away is worn, + As metal pure so is her mould well tried. + Sweet dews, cool-breathing airs, and spaces wide + Of precious spicery, wafted with soft wind: + Fair comely bodies goodly beautified. + +4 For all the while her purged ashes rest, + These relics dry suck in the heavenly dew, + And roscid manna rains upon her breast, + And fills with sacred milk, sweet, fresh, and new, + Where all take life and doth the world renew; + And then renewed with pleasure be yfed. + A green, soft mantle doth her bosom strew + With fragrant herbs and flowers embellished, + Where without fault or shame all living creatures bed. + + +A DISTEMPERED FANCY. + +1 Then the wild fancy from her horrid womb + Will senden forth foul shapes. O dreadful sight! + Overgrown toads, fierce serpents, thence will come, + Red-scaled dragons, with deep burning light + In their hollow eye-pits: with these she must fight: + Then think herself ill wounded, sorely stung. + Old fulsome hags, with scabs and scurf bedight, + Foul tarry spittle tumbling with their tongue + On their raw leather lips, these near will to her clung, + +2 And lovingly salute against her will, + Closely embrace, and make her mad with woe: + She'd lever thousand times they did her kill, + Than force her such vile baseness undergo. + Anon some giant his huge self will show, + Gaping with mouth as vast as any cave, + With stony, staring eyes, and footing slow: + She surely deems him her live, walking grave, + From that dern hollow pit knows not herself to save. + +3 After a while, tossed on the ocean main, + A boundless sea she finds of misery; + The fiery snorts of the leviathan, + That makes the boiling waves before him fly, + She hears, she sees his blazing morn-bright eye: + If here she 'scape, deep gulfs and threatening rocks + Her frighted self do straightway terrify; + Steel-coloured clouds with rattling thunder knocks, + With these she is amazed, and thousand such-like mocks. + + +SOUL COMPARED TO A LANTERN. + +1 Like to a light fast locked in lantern dark, + Whereby by night our wary steps we guide + In slabby streets, and dirty channels mark, + Some weaker rays through the black top do glide, + And flusher streams perhaps from horny side. + But when we've passed the peril of the way, + Arrived at home, and laid that case aside, + The naked light how clearly doth it ray, + And spread its joyful beams as bright as summer's day. + +2 Even so, the soul, in this contracted state, + Confined to these strait instruments of sense, + More dull and narrowly doth operate. + At this hole hears, the sight must ray from thence, + Here tastes, there smells; but when she's gone from hence, + Like naked lamp, she is one shining sphere, + And round about has perfect cognoscence + Whate'er in her horizon doth appear: + She is one orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear. + + + + +WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNE. + + +Chamberlayne was, during life, a poor man, and, till long after his +death, an unappreciated poet. He was a physician at Shaftesbury, +Dorsetshire; born in 1619, and died in 1689. He appears to have been +present among the Royalists at the battle of Newbury. He complains +bitterly of his narrow circumstances, and yet he lived to a long age. +He published, in 1658, a tragic comedy, entitled 'Love's Victory,' and +in 1659, 'Pharonnida,' a heroic poem. + +The latter is the main support of his literary reputation. It was +discovered to be good by Thomas Campbell, who might say, + + 'I was the first that ever burst + Into that silent sea.' + +Silent, however, it continues since, and can never be expected to be +thronged by visitors. The story is interesting, and many of the separate +thoughts, expressions, and passages are beautiful, as, for instance-- + + 'The scholar stews his catholic brains for food;' + +and this-- + + 'Harsh poverty, + That moth which frets the sacred robe of wit;' + +but the style is often elliptical and involved; the story meanders too +much, and is too long and intricate; and, on the whole, a few mutilated +fragments are all that are likely to remain of an original and highly +elaborate poem. + + +ARGALIA TAKEN PRISONER BY THE TURKS. + + * * The Turks had ought +Made desperate onslaughts on the isle, but brought +Nought back but wounds and infamy; but now, +Wearied with toil, they are resolved to bow +Their stubborn resolutions with the strength +Of not-to-be-resisted want: the length +Of the chronical disease extended had +To some few months, since to oppress the sad +But constant islanders, the army lay, +Circling their confines. Whilst this tedious stay +From battle rusts the soldier's valour in +His tainted cabin, there had often been, +With all variety of fortune, fought +Brave single combats, whose success had brought +Honour's unwithered laurels on the brow +Of either party; but the balance, now +Forced by the hand of a brave Turk, inclined +Wholly to them. Thrice had his valour shined +In victory's refulgent rays, thrice heard +The shouts of conquest; thrice on his lance appeared +The heads of noble Rhodians, which had struck +A general sorrow 'mongst the knights. All look +Who next the lists should enter; each desires +The task were his, but honour now requires +A spirit more than vulgar, or she dies +The next attempt, their valour's sacrifice; +To prop whose ruins, chosen by the free +Consent of all, Argalia comes to be +Their happy champion. Truce proclaimed, until +The combat ends, the expecting people fill +The spacious battlements; the Turks forsake +Their tents, of whom the city ladies take +A dreadful view, till a more noble sight +Diverts their looks; each part behold their knight +With various wishes, whilst in blood and sweat +They toil for victory. The conflict's heat +Raged in their veins, which honour more inflamed +Than burning calentures could do; both blamed +The feeble influence of their stars, that gave +No speedier conquest; each neglects to save +Himself, to seek advantage to offend +His eager foe * * * * +* * * But now so long +The Turks' proud champion had endured the strong +Assaults of the stout Christian, till his strength +Cooled, on the ground, with his blood--he fell at length, +Beneath his conquering sword. The barbarous crew +O' the villains that did at a distance view +Their champion's fall, all bands of truce forgot, +Running to succour him, begin a hot +And desperate combat with those knights that stand +To aid Argalia, by whose conquering hand +Whole squadrons of them fall, but here he spent +His mighty spirit in vain, their cannons rent +His scattered troops. + + * * * * * + +Argalia lies in chains, ordained to die +A sacrifice unto the cruelty +Of the fierce bashaw, whose loved favourite in +The combat late he slew; yet had not been +In that so much unhappy, had not he +That honoured then his sword with victory, +Half-brother to Janusa been, a bright +But cruel lady, whose refined delight +Her slave (though husband), Ammurat, durst not +Ruffle with discontent; wherefore, to cool that hot +Contention of her blood, which he foresaw +That heavy news would from her anger draw, +To quench with the brave Christian's death, he sent +Him living to her, that her anger, spent +In flaming torments, might not settle in +The dregs of discontent. Staying to win +Some Rhodian castles, all the prisoners were +Sent with a guard into Sardinia, there +To meet their wretched thraldom. From the rest +Argalia severed, soon hopes to be bless'd +With speedy death, though waited on by all +The hell-instructed torments that could fall +Within invention's reach; but he's not yet +Arrived to his period, his unmoved stars sit +Thus in their orbs secured. It was the use +Of the Turkish pride, which triumphs in the abuse +Of suffering Christians, once, before they take +The ornaments of nature off, to make +Their prisoners public to the view, that all +Might mock their miseries: this sight did call +Janusa to her palace-window, where, +Whilst she beholds them, love resolved to bear +Her ruin on her treacherous eye-beams, till +Her heart infected grew; their orbs did fill, +As the most pleasing object, with the sight +Of him whose sword opened a way for the flight +Of her loved brother's soul. + + + + +HENRY VAUGHAN. + + +Vaughan was torn in Wales, on the banks of the Uske, in Brecknockshire, +in 1614. His father was a gentleman, but, we presume, poor, as his son +was bred to a profession. Young Vaughan became first a lawyer, and then +a physician; and we suppose, had it not been for his advanced life, he +would have become latterly a clergyman, since he grew, when old, +exceedingly devout. In life, he was not fortunate, and we find him, like +Chamberlayne, complaining bitterly of the poverty of the poetical tribe. +In 1651, he published a volume of verse, in which nascent excellence +struggles with dim obscurities, like a young moon with heavy clouds. But +his 'Silex Scintillans,' or 'Sacred Poems,' produced in later life, +attests at once the depth of his devotion, and the truth and originality +of his genius. He died in 1695. + +Campbell, always prone to be rather severe on pious poets, and whose +taste, too, was finical at times, says of Vaughan--'He is one of the +harshest even of the inferior order of the school of conceit; but he has +some few scattered thoughts that meet the eye amidst his harsh pages, +like wild flowers on a barren heath.' Surely this is rather 'harsh' +judgment. At the same time, it is not a little laughable to find that +Campbell has himself appropriated one of these 'wild flowers.' In his +beautiful 'Rainbow,' he cries-- + + 'How came the world's gray fathers forth + To mark thy sacred sign!' + +Vaughan had said-- + + 'How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye, + Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry; + When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, + The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, + Did with intentive looks watch every hour + For thy new light, and trembled at each shower!' + +Indeed, all Campbell's 'Rainbow' is just a reflection of Vaughan's, and +reminds you of those faint, pale shadows of the heavenly bow you +sometimes see in the darkened and disarranged skies of spring. To steal +from, and then strike down the victim, is more suitable to robbers than +to poets. + +Perhaps the best criticism on Vaughan may be found in the title of his +own poems, 'Silex Scintillans.' He had a good deal of the dulness and +hardness of the flint about his mind, but the influence of poverty and +suffering,--for true it is that + + 'Wretched men + Are cradled into poetry by wrong; + They learn in suffering what they teach in song,'-- + +and latterly the power of a genuine, though somewhat narrow piety, +struck out glorious scintillations from the bare but rich rock. He ranks +with Crashaw, Quarles, and Herbert, as one of the best of our early +religious poets; like them in their faults, and superior to all of them +in refinement and beauty, if not in strength of genius. + + +ON A CHARNEL-HOUSE. + +Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast-tentered[1] hope, +Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope, +Whose stretched excess runs on a string too high, +And on the rack of self-extension die? +Chameleons of state, air-mongering[2] band, +Whose breath, like gunpowder, blows up a land, +Come, see your dissolution, and weigh +What a loathed nothing you shall be one day. +As the elements by circulation pass +From one to the other, and that which first was +Is so again, so 'tis with you. The grave +And nature but complete: what the one gave, +The other takes. Think, then, that in this bed +There sleep the relics of as proud a head, +As stern and subtle as your own; that hath +Performed or forced as much; whose tempest-wrath +Hath levelled kings with slaves; and wisely, then, +Calm these high furies, and descend to men. +Thus Cyrus tamed the Macedon; a tomb +Checked him who thought the world too strait a room. +Have I obeyed the powers of a face, +A beauty, able to undo the race +Of easy man? I look but here, and straight +I am informed; the lovely counterfeit +Was but a smoother clay. That famished slave, +Beggared by wealth, who starves that he may save, +Brings hither but his sheet. Nay, the ostrich-man, +That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can +Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough +To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff, +Is chapfallen here: worms, without wit or fear, +Defy him now; death has disarmed the bear. +Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score +Of erring men, and having done, meet more. +Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents, +Fantastic humours, perilous ascents, +False, empty honours, traitorous delights, +And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites,-- +But these, and more, which the weak vermins swell, +Are couched in this accumulative cell, +Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun +Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone: +Day leaves me in a double night, and I +Must bid farewell to my sad library, +Yet with these notes. Henceforth with thought of thee +I'll season all succeeding jollity, +Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit: +Excess hath no religion, nor wit; +But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, +One check from thee shall channel it again. + +[1] Vast-tentered: extended. +[2] Air-mongering: dealing in air or unsubstantial visions. + + +ON GOMBAULD'S ENDYMION. + +I've read thy soul's fair night-piece, and have seen +The amours and courtship of the silent queen; +Her stolen descents to earth, and what did move her +To juggle first with heaven, then with a lover; +With Latmos' louder rescue, and, alas! +To find her out, a hue and cry in brass; +Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad +Nocturnal pilgrimage; with thy dreams, clad +In fancies darker than thy cave; thy glass +Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass +In her calm voyage, what discourse she heard +Of spirits; what dark groves and ill-shaped guard +Ismena led thee through; with thy proud flight +O'er Periardes, and deep-musing night +Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green +The neighbour shades wear; and what forms are seen +In their large bowers; with that sad path and seat +Which none but light-heeled nymphs and fairies beat, +Their solitary life, and how exempt +From common frailty, the severe contempt +They have of man, their privilege to live +A tree or fountain, and in that reprieve +What ages they consume: with the sad vale +Of Diophania; and the mournful tale +Of the bleeding, vocal myrtle:--these and more, +Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score +To thy rare fancy for. Nor dost thou fall +From thy first majesty, or ought at all +Betray consumption. Thy full vigorous bays +Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays +Of style or matter; just as I have known +Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down +Derived her birth, in gentle murmurs steal +To the next vale, and proudly there reveal +Her streams in louder accents, adding still +More noise and waters to her channel, till +At last, swollen with increase, she glides along +The lawns and meadows, in a wanton throng +Of frothy billows, and in one great name +Swallows the tributary brooks' drowned fame. +Nor are they mere inventions, for we +In the same piece find scattered philosophy, +And hidden, dispersed truths, that folded lie +In the dark shades of deep allegory, +So neatly weaved, like arras, they descry +Fables with truth, fancy with history. +So that thou hast, in this thy curious mould, +Cast that commended mixture wished of old, +Which shall these contemplations render far +Less mutable, and lasting as their star; +And while there is a people, or a sun, +Endymion's story with the moon shall run. + + +APOSTROPHE TO FLETCHER THE DRAMATIST. + +I did believe, great Beaumont being dead, +Thy widowed muse slept on his flowery bed. +But I am richly cozened, and can see +Wit transmigrates--his spirit stayed with thee; +Which, doubly advantaged by thy single pen, +In life and death now treads the stage again. +And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit +Which starved the land, since into schisms split, +Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess +Wit's last edition is now i' the press. +For thou hast drained invention, and he +That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee. +But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain +At the designs of such a tragic brain? +Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see +Thy most abominable policy? +Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit +Their synod fast and pray against thy wit? +But they'll not tire in such an idle quest-- +Thou dost but kill and circumvent in jest; +And when thy angered muse swells to a blow, +Tis but for Field's or Swansteed's overthrow. +Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive +Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve +The peace of spirits; and when such deeds fail +Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail. +But, happy! thou ne'er saw'st these storms our air +Teemed with, even in thy time, though seeming fair. +Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease +Withdrew betimes into the land of peace. +So, nested in some hospitable shore, +The hermit-angler, when the mid seas roar, +Packs up his lines, and ere the tempest raves, +Retires, and leaves his station to the waves. +Thus thou diedst almost with our peace; and we, +This breathing time, thy last fair issue see, +Which I think such, if needless ink not soil +So choice a muse, others are but thy foil; +This or that age may write, but never see +A wit that dares run parallel with thee. +True Ben must live; but bate him, and thou hast +Undone all future wits, and matched the past. + + +PICTURE OF THE TOWN. + +Abominable face of things!--here's noise +Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys, +Pigs, dogs, and drums; with the hoarse, hellish notes +Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats; +With new fine worships, and the old cast team +Of justices, vexed with the cough and phlegm. +'Midst these, the cross looks sad; and in the shire- +Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, +With brotherly rufts and beards, and a strange sight +Of high, monumental hats, ta'en at the fight +Of Eighty-eight; while every burgess foots +The mortal pavement in eternal boots. +Hadst thou been bachelor, I had soon divined +Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; +Perhaps some nymph had been to visit; or +The beauteous churl was to be waited for, +And, like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, +You stayed and stroked the distaff for a kiss. + + * * * * * + +Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus, +Thy memory will scarce remain with us. +The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim +They have not seen thee here since Charles' reign; +Or, if they mention thee, like some old man +That at each word inserts--Sir, as I can +Remember--so the cipherers puzzle me +With a dark, cloudy character of thee; +That, certes, I fear thou wilt be lost, and we +Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee. +Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine +And precious wit lie dead for want of thine. +Shall the dull market landlord, with his rout +Of sneaking tenants, dirtily swill out +This harmless liquor shall they knock and beat +For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat? +Oh, let not such preposterous tippling be; +In our metropolis, may I ne'er see +Such tavern sacrilege, nor lend a line +To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine! +Here lives that chemic quick-fire, which betrays +Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays; +I have reserved, 'gainst thy approach, a cup, +That, were thy muse stark dead, should raise her up, +And teach her yet more charming words and skill, +Than ever Coelia, Chloris, Astrophil, +Or any of the threadbare names inspired +Poor rhyming lovers, with a mistress fired. +Come, then, and while the snow-icicle hangs +At the stiff thatch, and winter's frosty fangs +Benumb the year, blithe as of old, let us, +'Midst noise and war, of peace and mirth discuss. +This portion thou wert born for: why should we +Vex at the times' ridiculous misery? +An age that thus hath fooled itself, and will, +Spite of thy teeth and mine, persist so still. +Let's sit, then, at this fire, and while we steal +A revel in the town, let others seal, +Purchase, or cheat, and who can, let them pay, +Till those black deeds bring on a darksome day. +Innocent spenders we! A better use +Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse +Rout to their husks: they and their bags, at best, +Have cares in earnest--we care for a jest. + + +THE GOLDEN AGE. + +Happy that first white age! when we +Lived by the earth's mere charity; +No soft luxurious diet then +Had effeminated men-- +No other meat nor wine had any +Than the coarse mast, or simple honey; +And, by the parents' care laid up, +Cheap berries did the children sup. +No pompous wear was in those days, +Of gummy silks, or scarlet baize. +Their beds were on some flowery brink, +And clear spring water was their drink. +The shady pine, in the sun's heat, +Was their cool and known retreat; +For then 'twas not cut down, but stood +The youth and glory of the wood. +The daring sailor with his slaves +Then had not cut the swelling waves, +Nor, for desire of foreign store, +Seen any but his native shore. +No stirring drum had scared that age, +Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage; +No wounds, by bitter hatred made, +With warm blood soiled the shining blade; +For how could hostile madness arm +An age of love to public harm, +When common justice none withstood, +Nor sought rewards for spilling blood? +Oh that at length our age would raise +Into the temper of those days! +But--worse than Aetna's fires!--debate +And avarice inflame our state. +Alas! who was it that first found +Gold hid of purpose under ground-- +That sought out pearls, and dived to find +Such precious perils for mankind? + + +REGENERATION. + +1 A ward, and still in bonds, one day + I stole abroad; + It was high spring, and all the way + Primrosed, and hung with shade; + Yet was it frost within, + And surly wind + Blasted my infant buds, and sin, + Like clouds, eclipsed my mind. + +2 Stormed thus, I straight perceived my spring + Mere stage and show, + My walk a monstrous, mountained thing, + Rough-cast with rocks and snow; + And as a pilgrim's eye, + Far from relief, + Measures the melancholy sky, + Then drops, and rains for grief, + +3 So sighed I upwards still; at last, + 'Twixt steps and falls, + I reached the pinnacle, where placed + I found a pair of scales; + I took them up, and laid + In the one late pains, + The other smoke and pleasures weighed, + But proved the heavier grains. + +4 With that some cried, Away; straight I + Obeyed, and led + Full east, a fair, fresh field could spy-- + Some called it Jacob's Bed-- + A virgin soil, which no + Rude feet e'er trod, + Where, since he stept there, only go + Prophets and friends of God. + +5 Here I reposed, but scarce well set, + A grove descried + Of stately height, whose branches met + And mixed on every side; + I entered, and, once in, + (Amazed to see 't;) + Found all was changed, and a new spring + Did all my senses greet. + +6 The unthrift sun shot vital gold + A thousand pieces, + And heaven its azure did unfold, + Chequered with snowy fleeces. + The air was all in spice, + And every bush + A garland wore; thus fed my eyes, + But all the ear lay hush. + +7 Only a little fountain lent + Some use for ears, + And on the dumb shades language spent, + The music of her tears; + I drew her near, and found + The cistern full + Of divers stones, some bright and round, + Others ill-shaped and dull. + +8 The first, (pray mark,) as quick as light + Danced through the flood; + But the last, more heavy than the night, + Nailed to the centre stood; + I wondered much, but tired + At last with thought, + My restless eye, that still desired, + As strange an object brought. + +9 It was a bank of flowers, where I descried + (Though 'twas mid-day) + Some fast asleep, others broad-eyed + And taking in the ray; + Here musing long I heard + A rushing wind, + Which still increased, but whence it stirred, + Nowhere I could not find. + +10 I turned me round, and to each shade + Despatched an eye, + To see if any leaf had made + Least motion or reply; + But while I, listening, sought + My mind to ease + By knowing where 'twas, or where not, + It whispered, 'Where I please.' + + 'Lord,' then said I, 'on me one breath, + And let me die before my death!' + +'Arise, O north, and come, thou south wind; and blow upon my garden, +that the spices thereof may flow out.'--CANT. iv. 16. + + +RESURRECTION AND IMMORTALITY. + +'By that new and living way, which he hath prepared for us, through the +veil, which is his flesh.'--HEB. x. 20. + +BODY. + +1 Oft have I seen, when that renewing breath + That binds and loosens death + Inspired a quickening power through the dead + Creatures abed, + Some drowrsy silk-worm creep + From that long sleep, + And in weak, infant hummings chime and knell + About her silent cell, + Until at last, full with the vital ray, + She winged away, + And, proud with life and sense, + Heaven's rich expense, + Esteemed (vain things!) of two whole elements + As mean, and span-extents. + Shall I then think such providence will be + Less friend to me, + Or that he can endure to be unjust + Who keeps his covenant even with our dust? + +SOUL + +2 Poor querulous handful! was't for this + I taught thee all that is? + Unbowelled nature, showed thee her recruits, + And change of suits, + And how of death we make + A mere mistake; + For no thing can-to nothing fall, but still + Incorporates by skill, + And then returns, and from the womb of things + Such treasure brings, + As pheenix-like renew'th + Both life and youth; + For a preserving spirit doth still pass + Untainted through this mass, + Which doth resolve, produce, and ripen all + That to it fall; + Nor are those births, which we + Thus suffering see, + Destroyed at all; but when time's restless wave + Their substance doth deprave, + And the more noble essence finds his house + Sickly and loose, + He, ever young, doth wing + Unto that spring + And source of spirits, where he takes his lot, + Till time no more shall rot + His passive cottage; which, (though laid aside,) + Like some spruce bride, + Shall one day rise, and, clothed with shining light, + All pure and bright, + Remarry to the soul, for'tis most plain + Thou only fall'st to be refined again. + +3 Then I that here saw darkly in a glass + But mists and shadows pass, + And, by their own weak shine, did search the springs + And course of things, + Shall with enlightened rays + Pierce all their ways; + And as thou saw'st, I in a thought could go + To heaven or earth below, + To read some star, or mineral, and in state + There often sate; + So shalt thou then with me, + Both winged and free, + Rove in that mighty and eternal light, + Where no rude shade or night + Shall dare approach us; we shall there no more + Watch stars, or pore + Through melancholy clouds, and say, + 'Would it were day!' + One everlasting Sabbath there shall run + Without succession, and without a sun. + +'But go thou thy way until the end be: for thou shalt rest, and stand +in thy lot at the end of the days.'--DAN. xii. 13. + + +THE SEARCH. + +'Tis now clear day: I see a rose +Bud in the bright east, and disclose +The pilgrim-sun. All night have I +Spent in a roving ecstasy +To find my Saviour. I have been +As far as Bethlehem, and have seen +His inn and cradle; being there +I met the wise men, asked them where +He might be found, or what star can +Now point him out, grown up a man? +To Egypt hence I fled, ran o'er +All her parched bosom to Nile's shore, +Her yearly nurse; came back, inquired +Amongst the doctors, and desired +To see the temple, but was shown +A little dust, and for the town +A heap of ashes, where, some said, +A small bright sparkle was abed, +Which would one day (beneath the pole) +Awake, and then refine the whole. + +Tired here, I came to Sychar, thence +To Jacob's well, bequeathed since +Unto his sons, where often they, +In those calm, golden evenings, lay +Watering their flocks, and having spent +Those white days, drove home to the tent +Their well-fleeced train; and here (O fate!) +I sit where once my Saviour sate. +The angry spring in bubbles swelled, +Which broke in sighs still, as they filled, +And whispered, Jesus had been there, +But Jacob's children would not hear. +Loth hence to part, at last I rise, +But with the fountain in mine eyes, +And here a fresh search is decreed: +He must be found where he did bleed. +I walk the garden, and there see +Ideas of his agony, +And moving anguishments, that set +His blest face in a bloody sweat; +I climbed the hill, perused the cross, +Hung with my gain, and his great loss: +Never did tree bear fruit like this, +Balsam of souls, the body's bliss. +But, O his grave! where I saw lent +(For he had none) a monument, +An undefiled, a new-hewed one, +But there was not the Corner-stone. +Sure then, said I, my quest is vain, +He'll not be found where he was slain; +So mild a Lamb can never be +'Midst so much blood and cruelty. +I'll to the wilderness, and can +Find beasts more merciful than man; +He lived there safe, 'twas his retreat +From the fierce Jew, and Herod's heat, +And forty days withstood the fell +And high temptations of hell; +With seraphim there talked he, +His Father's flaming ministry, +He heavened their walks, and with his eyes +Made those wild shades a paradise. +Thus was the desert sanctified +To be the refuge of his bride. +I'll thither then; see, it is day! +The sun's broke through to guide my way. + +But as I urged thus, and writ down +What pleasures should my journey crown, +What silent paths, what shades and cells, +Fair virgin-flowers and hallowed wells, +I should rove in, and rest my head +Where my dear Lord did often tread, +Sugaring all dangers with success, +Methought I heard one singing thus: + + +1 Leave, leave thy gadding thoughts; + Who pores + And spies + Still out of doors, + Descries + Within them nought. + +2 The skin and shell of things, + Though fair, + Are not + Thy wish nor prayer, + But got + By mere despair + Of wings. + +3 To rack old elements, + Or dust, + And say, + Sure here he must + Needs stay, + Is not the way, + Nor just. + +Search well another world; who studies this, +Travels in clouds, seeks manna where none is. + +'That they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, +and find him, though he be not far off from every one of us: for in +him we live, and move, and have our being.'--ACTS xvii. 27, 28. + + +ISAAC'S MARRIAGE. + +'And Isaac went out to pray in the field at the eventide, and he +lifted up his eyes, and saw, and, behold, the camels were coming.' +--GEN. xxiv. 63. + +Praying! and to be married! It was rare, +But now 'tis monstrous; and that pious care +Though of ourselves, is so much out of date, +That to renew't were to degenerate. +But thou a chosen sacrifice wert given, +And offered up so early unto Heaven, +Thy flames could not be out; religion was +Hayed into thee like beams into a glass; +Where, as thou grew'st, it multiplied, and shined +The sacred constellation of thy mind. + +But being for a bride, prayer was such +A decried course, sure it prevailed not much. +Hadst ne'er an oath nor compliment? thou wert +An odd, dull suitor; hadst thou but the art +Of these our days, thou couldst have coined thee twenty +New several oaths, and compliments, too, plenty. +O sad and wild excess! and happy those +White days, that durst no impious mirth expose: +When conscience by lewd use had not lost sense, +Nor bold-faced custom banished innocence! +Thou hadst no pompous train, nor antic crowd +Of young, gay swearers, with their needless, loud +Retinue; all was here smooth as thy bride, +And calm like her, or that mild evening-tide. +Yet hadst thou nobler guests: angels did wind +And rove about thee, guardians of thy mind; +These fetched thee home thy bride, and all the way +Advised thy servant what to do and say; +These taught him at the well, and thither brought +The chaste and lovely object of thy thought. +But here was ne'er a compliment, not one +Spruce, supple cringe, or studied look put on. +All was plain, modest truth: nor did she come +In rolls and curls, mincing and stately dumb; +But in a virgin's native blush and fears, +Fresh as those roses which the day-spring wears. +O sweet, divine simplicity! O grace +Beyond a curled lock or painted face! +A pitcher too she had, nor thought it much +To carry that, which some would scorn to touch; +With, which in mild, chaste language she did woo +To draw him drink, and for his camels too. + +And now thou knew'st her coming, it was time +To get thee wings on, and devoutly climb +Unto thy God; for marriage of all states +Makes most unhappy, or most fortunates. +This brought thee forth, where now thou didst undress +Thy soul, and with new pinions refresh +Her wearied wings, which, so restored, did fly +Above the stars, a track unknown and high; +And in her piercing flight perfumed the air, +Scattering the myrrh and incense of thy prayer. +So from Lahai-roi[1]'s well some spicy cloud, +Wooed by the sun, swells up to be his shroud, +And from her moist womb weeps a fragrant shower, +Which, scattered in a thousand pearls, each flower +And herb partakes; where having stood awhile, +And something cooled the parched and thirsty isle, +The thankful earth unlocks herself, and blends +A thousand odours, which, all mixed, she sends +Up in one cloud, and so returns the skies +That dew they lent, a breathing sacrifice. + +Thus soared thy soul, who, though young, didst inherit +Together with his blood thy father's spirit, +Whose active zeal and tried faith were to thee +Familiar ever since thy infancy. +Others were timed and trained up to't, but thou +Didst thy swift years in piety outgrow. +Age made them reverend and a snowy head, +But thou wert so, ere time his snow could shed. +Then who would truly limn thee out must paint +First a young patriarch, then a married saint. + +[1] 'Lahai-roi:' a well in the south country where Jacob dwelt, between +Kadesh and Bered; _Heb.,_ The well of him that liveth and seeth me. + + +MAN'S FALL AND RECOVERY. + +Farewell, you everlasting hills! I'm cast +Here under clouds, where storms and tempests blast + This sullied flower, +Robbed of your calm; nor can I ever make, +Transplanted thus, one leaf of his t'awake; + But every hour +He sleeps and droops; and in this drowsy state +Leaves me a slave to passions and my fate. + Besides I've lost +A train of lights, which in those sunshine days +Were my sure guides; and only with me stays, + Unto my cost, +One sullen beam, whose charge is to dispense +More punishment than knowledge to my sense. + Two thousand years +I sojourned thus. At last Jeshurun's king +Those famous tables did from Sinai bring. + These swelled my fears, +Guilts, trespasses, and all this inward awe; +For sin took strength and vigour from the law. + Yet have I found +A plenteous way, (thanks to that Holy One!) +To cancel all that e'er was writ in stone. + His saving wound +Wept blood that broke this adamant, and gave +To sinners confidence, life to the grave. + This makes me span +My fathers' journeys, and in one fair step +O'er all their pilgrimage and labours leap. + For God, made man, +Reduced the extent of works of faith; so made +Of their Red Sea a spring: I wash, they wade. + +'As by the offence of one the fault came on all men to condemnation; +so by the righteousness of one, the benefit abounded towards all men +to the justification of life.'--ROM. v. 18. + + +THE SHOWER. + +1 'Twas so; I saw thy birth. That drowsy lake + From her faint bosom breathed thee, the disease + Of her sick waters, and infectious ease. + But now at even, + Too gross for heaven, + Thou fall'st in tears, and weep'st for thy mistake. + +2 Ah! it is so with me; oft have I pressed + Heaven with a lazy breath; but fruitless this + Pierced not; love only can with quick access + Unlock the way, + When all else stray, + The smoke and exhalations of the breast. + +3 Yet if, as thou dost melt, and, with thy train + Of drops, make soft the earth, my eyes could weep + O'er my hard heart, that's bound up and asleep, + Perhaps at last, + Some such showers past, + My God would give a sunshine after rain. + + +BURIAL. + +1 O thou! the first-fruits of the dead, + And their dark bed, + When I am cast into that deep + And senseless sleep, + The wages of my sin, + O then, + Thou great Preserver of all men, + Watch o'er that loose + And empty house, + Which I sometime lived in! + +2 It is in truth a ruined piece, + Not worth thy eyes; + And scarce a room, but wind and rain + Beat through and stain + The seats and cells within; + Yet thou, + Led by thy love, wouldst stoop thus low, + And in this cot, + All filth and spot, + Didst with thy servant inn. + +3 And nothing can, I hourly see, + Drive thee from me. + Thou art the same, faithful and just, + In life or dust. + Though then, thus crumbed, I stray + In blasts, + Or exhalations, and wastes, + Beyond all eyes, + Yet thy love spies + That change, and knows thy clay. + +4 The world's thy box: how then, there tossed, + Can I be lost? + But the delay is all; Time now + Is old and slow; + His wings are dull and sickly. + Yet he + Thy servant is, and waits on thee. + Cut then the sum, + Lord, haste, Lord, come, + O come, Lord Jesus, quickly! + +'And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the first-fruits of +the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.'--ROM. viii. 23. + + +CHEERFULNESS. + +1 Lord, with what courage and delight + I do each thing, + When thy least breath sustains my wing! + I shine and move + Like those above, + And, with much gladness + Quitting sadness, + Make me fair days of every night. + +2 Affliction thus mere pleasure is; + And hap what will, + If thou be in't,'tis welcome still. + But since thy rays + In sunny days + Thou dost thus lend, + And freely spend, + Ah! what shall I return for this? + +3 Oh that I were all soul! that thou + Wouldst make each part + Of this poor sinful frame pure heart! + Then would I drown + My single one; + And to thy praise + A concert raise + Of hallelujahs here below. + + +THE PASSION. + +1 O my chief good! + My dear, dear God! + When thy blest blood + Did issue forth, forced by the rod, + What pain didst thou + Feel in each blow! + How didst thou weep, + And thyself steep + In thy own precious, saving tears! + What cruel smart + Did tear thy heart! + How didst thou groan it + In the spirit, + O thou whom my soul loves and fears! + +2 Most blessed Vine! + Whose juice so good + I feel as wine, + But thy fair branches felt as blood, + How wert thou pressed + To be my feast! + In what deep anguish + Didst thou languish! + What springs of sweat and blood did drown thee! + How in one path + Did the full wrath + Of thy great Father + Crowd and gather, + Doubling thy griefs, when none would own thee! + +3 How did the weight + Of all our sins, + And death unite + To wrench and rack thy blessed limbs! + How pale and bloody + Looked thy body! + How bruised and broke, + With every stroke! + How meek and patient was thy spirit! + How didst thou cry, + And groan on high, + 'Father, forgive, + And let them live! + I die to make my foes inherit!' + +4 O blessed Lamb! + That took'st my sin, + That took'st my shame, + How shall thy dust thy praises sing? + I would I were + One hearty tear! + One constant spring! + Then would I bring + Thee two small mites, and be at strife + Which should most vie, + My heart or eye, + Teaching my years + In smiles and tears + To weep, to sing, thy death, my life. + + +RULES AND LESSONS. + +1 When first thy eyes unvail, give thy soul leave + To do the like; our bodies but forerun + The spirit's duty. True hearts spread and heave + Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun. + Give him thy first thoughts then; so shalt thou keep + Him company all day, and in him sleep. + +2 Yet never sleep the sun up. Prayer should + Dawn with the day. There are set, awful hours + 'Twixt Heaven and us. The manna was not good + After sun-rising; far-day sullies flowers. + Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, + And heaven's gate opens when this world's is shut. + +3 Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush + And whispers amongst them. There's not a spring + Or leaf but hath his morning-hymn. Each bush + And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing? + Oh, leave thy cares and follies! go this way, + And thou art sure to prosper all the day. + +4 Serve God before the world; let him not go + Until thou hast a blessing; then resign + The whole unto him, and remember who + Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine; + Pour oil upon the stones; weep for thy sin; + Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. + +5 Mornings are mysteries; the first world's youth, + Man's resurrection and the future's bud + Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth + Is styled their star, the stone, and hidden food. + Three blessings wait upon them, two of which + Should move. They make us holy, happy, rich. + +6 When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, + Keep thou thy temper; mix not with each clay; + Despatch necessities; life hath a load + Which must be carried on, and safely may. + Yet keep those cares without thee, let the heart + Be God's alone, and choose the better part. + +7 Through all thy actions, counsels, and discourse, + Let mildness and religion guide thee out; + If truth be thine, what needs a brutish force? + But what's not good and just ne'er go about. + Wrong not thy conscience for a rotten stick; + That gain is dreadful which makes spirits sick. + +8 To God, thy country, and thy friend be true; + If priest and people change, keep thou thy ground. + Who sells religion is a Judas Jew; + And, oaths once broke, the soul cannot be sound. + The perjurer's a devil let loose: what can + Tie up his hands that dares mock God and man? + +9 Seek not the same steps with the crowd; stick thou + To thy sure trot; a constant, humble mind + Is both his own joy, and his Maker's too; + Let folly dust it on, or lag behind. + A sweet self-privacy in a right soul + Outruns the earth, and lines the utmost pole. + +10 To all that seek thee bear an open heart; + Make not thy breast a labyrinth or trap; + If trials come, this will make good thy part, + For honesty is safe, come what can hap; + It is the good man's feast, the prince of flowers, + Which thrives in storms, and smells best after showers. + +11 Seal not thy eyes up from the poor, but give + Proportion to their merits, and thy purse; + Thou may'st in rags a mighty prince relieve, + Who, when thy sins call for't, can fence a curse. + Thou shalt not lose one mite. Though waters stray, + The bread we cast returns in fraughts one day. + +12 Spend not an hour so as to weep another, + For tears are not thine own; if thou giv'st words, + Dash not with them thy friend, nor Heaven; oh, smother + A viperous thought; some syllables are swords. + Unbitted tongues are in their penance double; + They shame their owners, and their hearers trouble. + +13 Injure not modest blood, while spirits rise + In judgment against lewdness; that's base wit + That voids but filth and stench. Hast thou no prize + But sickness or infection? stifle it. + Who makes his jest of sins, must be at least, + If not a very devil, worse than beast. + +14 Yet fly no friend, if he be such indeed; + But meet to quench his longings, and thy thirst; + Allow your joys, religion: that done, speed, + And bring the same man back thou wert at first. + Who so returns not, cannot pray aright, + But shuts his door, and leaves God out all night. + +15 To heighten thy devotions, and keep low + All mutinous thoughts, what business e'er thou hast, + Observe God in his works; here fountains flow, + Birds sing, beasts feed, fish leap, and the earth stands fast; + Above are restless motions, running lights, + Vast circling azure, giddy clouds, days, nights. + +16 When seasons change, then lay before thine eyes + His wondrous method; mark the various scenes + In heaven; hail, thunder, rainbows, snow, and ice, + Calms, tempests, light, and darkness, by his means; + Thou canst not miss his praise; each tree, herb, flower + Are shadows of his wisdom and his power. + +17 To meals when thou dost come, give him the praise + Whose arm supplied thee; take what may suffice, + And then be thankful; oh, admire his ways + Who fills the world's unemptied granaries! + A thankless feeder is a thief, his feast + A very robbery, and himself no guest. + +18 High-noon thus past, thy time decays; provide + Thee other thoughts; away with friends and mirth; + The sun now stoops, and hastes his beams to hide + Under the dark and melancholy earth. + All but preludes thy end. Thou art the man + Whose rise, height, and descent is but a span. + +19 Yet, set as he doth, and 'tis well. Have all + Thy beams home with thee: trim thy lamp, buy oil, + And then set forth; who is thus dressed, the fall + Furthers his glory, and gives death the foil. + Man is a summer's day; whose youth and fire + Cool to a glorious evening, and expire. + +20 When night comes, list[1] thy deeds; make plain the way + 'Twixt heaven and thee; block it not with delays; + But perfect all before thou sleep'st; then say + 'There's one sun more strung on my bead of days.' + What's good score up for joy; the bad, well scanned, + Wash off with tears, and get thy Master's hand. + +21 Thy accounts thus made, spend in the grave one hour + Before thy time; be not a stranger there, + Where thou may'st sleep whole ages; life's poor flower + Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad spirits fear + This conversation; but the good man lies + Entombed many days before he dies. + +22 Being laid, and dressed for sleep, close not thy eyes + Up with thy curtains; give thy soul the wing + In some good thoughts; so, when the day shall rise, + And thou unrak'st thy fire, those sparks will bring + New flames; besides where these lodge, vain heats mourn + And die; that bush where God is shall not burn. + +23 When thy nap's over, stir thy fire, and rake + In that dead age; one beam i' the dark outvies + Two in the day; then from the damps and ache + Of night shut up thy leaves; be chaste; God pries + Through thickest nights; though then the sun be far, + Do thou the works of day, and rise a star. + +24 Briefly, do as thou wouldst be done unto, + Love God, and love thy neighbour; watch and pray. + These are the words and works of life; this do, + And live; who doth not thus, hath lost heaven's way. + Oh, lose it not! look up, wilt change those lights + For chains of darkness and eternal nights? + +[1] 'List:' weigh. + + +REPENTANCE. + +Lord, since thou didst in this vile clay + That sacred ray, +Thy Spirit, plant, quickening the whole + With that one grain's infused wealth, +My forward flesh crept on, and subtly stole + Both growth and power; checking the health +And heat of thine. That little gate + And narrow way, by which to thee +The passage is, he termed a grate + And entrance to captivity; +Thy laws but nets, where some small birds, + And those but seldom too, were caught; +Thy promises but empty words, + Which none but children heard or taught. +This I believed: and though a friend + Came oft from far, and whispered, No; +Yet, that not sorting to my end, + I wholly listened to my foe. +Wherefore, pierced through with grief, my sad, + Seduced soul sighs up to thee; +To thee, who with true light art clad, + And seest all things just as they be. +Look from thy throne upon this roll + Of heavy sins, my high transgressions, +Which I confess with all my soul; + My God, accept of my confession! + It was last day, +Touched with the guilt of my own way, +I sat alone, and taking up, + The bitter cup, +Through all thy fair and various store, +Sought out what might outvie my score. + The blades of grass thy creatures feeding; + The trees, their leaves; the flowers, their seeding; + The dust, of which I am a part; + The stones, much softer than my heart; + The drops of rain, the sighs of wind, + The stars, to which I am stark blind; + The dew thy herbs drink up by night, + The beams they warm them at i' the light; + All that have signature or life + I summoned to decide this strife; + And lest I should lack for arrears, + A spring ran by, I told her tears; + But when these came unto the scale, + My sins alone outweighed them all. + O my dear God! my life, my love! + Most blessed Lamb! and mildest Dove! + Forgive your penitent offender, + And no more his sins remember; + Scatter these shades of death, and give + Light to my soul, that it may live; + Cut me not off for my transgressions, + Wilful rebellions, and suppressions; + But give them in those streams a part + Whose spring is in my Saviour's heart. + Lord, I confess the heinous score, + And pray I may do so no more; + Though then all sinners I exceed, + Oh, think on this, thy Son did bleed! + Oh, call to mind his wounds, his woes, + His agony, and bloody throes; + Then look on all that thou hast made, + And mark how they do fail and fade; + The heavens themselves, though fair and bright, + Are dark and unclean in thy sight; + How then, with thee, can man be holy, + Who dost thine angels charge with folly? + Oh, what am I, that I should breed + Figs on a thorn, flowers on a weed? + I am the gourd of sin and sorrow, + Growing o'er night, and gone to-morrow. + In all this round of life and death + Nothing's more vile than is my breath; + Profaneness on my tongue doth rest, + Defects and darkness in my breast; + Pollutions all my body wed, + And even my soul to thee is dead; + Only in him, on whom I feast, + Both soul and body are well dressed; + His pure perfection quits all score, + And fills the boxes of his poor; +He is the centre of long life and light; +I am but finite, he is infinite. +Oh, let thy justice then in him confine, +And through his merits make thy mercy mine! + + +THE DAWNING. + +Ah! what time wilt thou come? when shall that cry, + 'The Bridegroom's coming!' fill the skyl? + Shall it in the evening run + When our words and works are done? + Or will thy all-surprising light + Break at midnight, + When either sleep or some dark pleasure + Possesseth mad man without measure? + Or shall these early, fragrant hours + Unlock thy bowers, + And with their blush of light descry + Thy locks crowned with eternity? + Indeed, it is the only time + That with thy glory doth best chime; + All now are stirring, every field + Full hymns doth yield; + The whole creation shakes off night, + And for thy shadow looks the light; + Stars now vanish without number, + Sleepy planets set and slumber, + The pursy clouds disband and scatter, + All expect some sudden matter; + Not one beam triumphs, but from far + That morning-star. + + Oh, at what time soever thou, + Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow, + And, with thy angels in the van, + Descend to judge poor careless man, + Grant I may not like puddle lie + In a corrupt security, + Where, if a traveller water crave, + He finds it dead, and in a grave. + But as this restless, vocal spring + All day and night doth run and sing, + And though here born, yet is acquainted + Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted; + So let me all my busy age + In thy free services engage; + And though, while here, of force I must + Have commerce sometimes with poor dust, + And in my flesh, though vile and low, + As this doth in her channel flow, + Yet let my course, my aim, my love, + And chief acquaintance be above; + So when that day and hour shall come + In which thyself will be the Sun, + Thou'lt find me dressed and on my way, + Watching the break of thy great day. + + +THE TEMPEST. + +1 How is man parcelled out! how every hour + Shows him himself, or something he should see! + This late, long heat may his instruction be; + And tempests have more in them than a shower. + + When nature on her bosom saw + Her infants die, + And all her flowers withered to straw, + Her breasts grown dry; + She made the earth, their nurse and tomb, + Sigh to the sky, + Till to those sighs, fetched from her womb, + Rain did reply; + So in the midst of all her fears + And faint requests, + Her earnest sighs procured her tears + And filled her breasts. + +2 Oh that man could do so! that he would hear + The world read to him! all the vast expense + In the creation shed and slaved to sense, + Makes up but lectures for his eye and ear. + +3 Sure mighty Love, foreseeing the descent + Of this poor creature, by a gracious art + Hid in these low things snares to gain his heart, + And laid surprises in each element. + +4 All things here show him heaven; waters that fall + Chide and fly up; mists of corruptest foam + Quit their first beds and mount; trees, herbs, flowers, all + Strive upwards still, and point him the way home. + +5 How do they cast off grossness? only earth + And man, like Issachar, in loads delight, + Water's refined to motion, air to light, + Fire to all three,[1] but man hath no such mirth. + +6 Plants in the root with earth do most comply, + Their leaves with water and humidity, + The flowers to air draw near and subtilty, + And seeds a kindred fire have with the sky. + +7 All have their keys and set ascents; but man + Though he knows these, and hath more of his own, + Sleeps at the ladder's foot; alas! what can + These new discoveries do, except they drown? + +8 Thus, grovelling in the shade and darkness, he + Sinks to a dead oblivion; and though all + He sees, like pyramids, shoot from this ball, + And lessening still, grow up invisibly, + +9 Yet hugs he still his dirt; the stuff he wears, + And painted trimming, takes down both his eyes; + Heaven hath less beauty than the dust he spies, + And money better music than the spheres. + +10 Life's but a blast; he knows it; what? shall straw + And bulrush-fetters temper his short hour? + Must he nor sip nor sing? grows ne'er a flower + To crown his temples? shall dreams be his law? + +11 O foolish man! how hast thou lost thy sight? + How is it that the sun to thee alone + Is grown thick darkness, and thy bread a stone? + Hath flesh no softness now? mid-day no light? + +12 Lord! thou didst put a soul here. If I must + Be broke again, for flints will give no fire + Without a steel, oh, let thy power clear + Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust! + +[1] 'All three:' light, motion, heat + + +THE WORLD. + +1 I saw eternity the other night, + Like a great ring of pure and endless light, + All calm, as it was bright; + And round beneath it, time, in hours, days, years, + Driven by the spheres, + Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world + And all her train were hurled. + The doting lover in his quaintest strain + Did there complain; + Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, + Wit's sour delights; + With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure, + Yet his dear treasure, + All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour + Upon a flower. + +2 The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe, + Like a thick midnight fog, moved there so slow, + He did nor stay, nor go; + Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses, scowl + Upon his soul, + And clouds of crying witnesses without + Pursued him with one shout. + Yet digged the mole, and, lest his ways be found, + Worked under ground, + Where he did clutch his prey. But one did see + That policy. + Churches and altars fed him; perjuries + Were gnats and flies; + It rained about him blood and tears; but he + Drank them as free. + +3 The fearful miser on a heap of rust + Sat pining all his life there, did scarce trust + His own hands with the dust, + Yet would not place one piece above, but lives + In fear of thieves. + Thousands there were as frantic as himself, + And hugged each one his pelf; + The downright epicure placed heaven in sense, + And scorned pretence; + While others, slipped into a wide excess, + Said little less; + The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave, + Who think them brave, + And poor, despised truth sat counting by + Their victory. + +4 Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, + And sing and weep, soared up into the ring; + But most would use no wing. + 'O fools,' said I,'thus to prefer dark night + Before true light! + To live in grots and caves, and hate the day + Because it shows the way, + The way, which from this dead and dark abode + Leads up to God, + A way where you might tread the sun, and be + More bright than he!' + But, as I did their madness so discuss, + One whispered thus, + 'This ring the bridegroom did for none provide, + But for his bride.' + + +'All that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, +and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And +the world passeth away, and the lusts thereof; but he that doeth the +will of God abideth for ever.'--1 JOHN ii. 16, 17. + + +THE CONSTELLATION. + +1 Fair, ordered lights, whose motion without noise + Resembles those true joys, + Whose spring is on that hill where you do grow, + And we here taste sometimes below. + +2 With what exact obedience do you move, + Now beneath, and now above! + And in your vast progressions overlook + The darkest night and closest nook! + +3 Some nights I see you in the gladsome east, + Some others near the west, + And when I cannot see, yet do you shine, + And beat about your endless line. + +4 Silence and light and watchfulness with you + Attend and wind the clue; + No sleep nor sloth assails you, but poor man + Still either sleeps, or slips his span. + +5 He gropes beneath here, and with restless care, + First makes, then hugs a snare; + Adores dead dust, sets heart on corn and grass, + But seldom doth make heaven his glass. + +6 Music and mirth, if there be music here, + Take up and tune his ear; + These things are kin to him, and must be had; + Who kneels, or sighs a life, is mad. + +7 Perhaps some nights he'll watch with you, and peep + When it were best to sleep; + Dares know effects, and judge them long before, + When the herb he treads knows much, much more. + +8 But seeks he your obedience, order, light, + Your calm and well-trained flight? + Where, though the glory differ in each star, + Yet is there peace still and no war. + +9 Since placed by him, who calls you by your names, + And fixed there all your flames, + Without command you never acted ought, + And then you in your courses fought. + +10 But here, commissioned by a black self-will, + The sons the father kill, + The children chase the mother, and would heal + The wounds they give by crying zeal. + +11 Then cast her blood and tears upon thy book, + Where they for fashion look; + And, like that lamb, which had the dragon's voice, + Seem mild, but are known by their noise. + +12 Thus by our lusts disordered into wars, + Our guides prove wandering stars, + Which for these mists and black days were reserved, + What time we from our first love swerved. + +13 Yet oh, for his sake who sits now by thee + All crowned with victory, + So guide us through this darkness, that we may + Be more and more in love with day! + +14 Settle and fix our hearts, that we may move + In order, peace, and love; + And, taught obedience by thy whole creation, + Become an humble, holy nation! + +15 Give to thy spouse her perfect and pure dress, + Beauty and holiness; + And so repair these rents, that men may see + And say, 'Where God is, all agree.' + + +MISERY. + +Lord, bind me up, and let me lie +A prisoner to my liberty, +If such a state at all can be +As an impris'ment serving thee; +The wind, though gathered in thy fist, +Yet doth it blow still where it list, +And yet shouldst thou let go thy hold, +Those gusts might quarrel and grow bold. + +As waters here, headlong and loose, +The lower grounds still chase and choose, +Where spreading ail the way they seek +And search out every hole and creek; +So my spilt thoughts, winding from thee, +Take the down-road to vanity, +Where they all stray, and strive which shall +Find out the first and steepest fall. +I cheer their flow, giving supply +To what's already grown too high, +And having thus performed that part, +Feed on those vomits of my heart. +I break the fence my own hands made +Then lay that trespass in the shade; +Some fig-leaves still I do devise, +As if thou hadst not ears nor eyes. +Excess of friends, of words, and wine +Take up my day, while thou dost shine +All unregarded, and thy book +Hath not so much as one poor look. +If thou steal in amidst the mirth +And kindly tell me, I am earth, +I shut thee out, and let that slip; +Such music spoils good fellowship. +Thus wretched I and most unkind, +Exclude my dear God from my mind, +Exclude him thence, who of that cell +Would make a court, should he there dwell. +He goes, he yields; and troubled sore +His Holy Spirit grieves therefore; +The mighty God, the eternal King +Doth grieve for dust, and dust doth sing. +But I go on, haste to divest +Myself of reason, till oppressed +And buried in my surfeits, I +Prove my own shame and misery. +Next day I call and cry for thee +Who shouldst not then come near to me; +But now it is thy servant's pleasure, +Thou must and dost give him his measure. +Thou dost, thou com'st, and in a shower +Of healing sweets thyself dost pour +Into my wounds; and now thy grace +(I know it well) fills all the place; +I sit with thee by this new light, +And for that hour thou'rt my delight; +No man can more the world despise, +Or thy great mercies better prize. +I school my eyes, and strictly dwell +Within the circle of my cell; +That calm and silence are my joys, +Which to thy peace are but mere noise. +At length I feel my head to ache, +My fingers itch, and burn to take +Some new employment, I begin +To swell and foam and fret within: + 'The age, the present times are not + To snudge in and embrace a cot; + Action and blood now get the game, + Disdain treads on the peaceful name; + Who sits at home too bears a load + Greater than those that gad abroad.' +Thus do I make thy gifts given me +The only quarrellers with thee; +I'd loose those knots thy hands did tie, +Then would go travel, fight, or die. +Thousands of wild and waste infusions +Like waves beat on my resolutions; +As flames about their fuel run, +And work and wind till all be done, +So my fierce soul bustles about, +And never rests till all be out. +Thus wilded by a peevish heart, +Which in thy music bears no part, +I storm at thee, calling my peace +A lethargy, and mere disease; +Nay those bright beams shot from thy eyes +To calm me in these mutinies, +I style mere tempers, which take place +At some set times, but are thy grace. + +Such is man's life, and such is mine, +The worst of men, and yet still thine, +Still thine, thou know'st, and if not so, +Then give me over to my foe. +Yet since as easy 'tis for thee +To make man good as bid him be, +And with one glance, could he that gain, +To look him out of all his pain, +Oh, send me from thy holy hill +So much of strength as may fulfil +All thy delights, whate'er they be, +And sacred institutes in me! +Open my rocky heart, and fill +It with obedience to thy will; +Then seal it up, that as none see, +So none may enter there but thee. + +Oh, hear, my God! hear him, whose blood +Speaks more and better for my good! +Oh, let my cry come to thy throne! +My cry not poured with tears alone, +(For tears alone are often foul,) +But with the blood of all my soul; +With spirit-sighs, and earnest groans, +Faithful and most repenting moans, +With these I cry, and crying pine, +Till thou both mend, and make me thine. + + +MOUNT OF OLIVES. + +When first I saw true beauty, and thy joys, +Active as light, and calm without all noise, +Shined on my soul, I felt through all my powers +Such a rich air of sweets, as evening showers, +Fanned by a gentle gale, convey, and breathe +On some parched bank, crowned with a flowery wreath; +Odours, and myrrh, and balm in one rich flood +O'erran my heart, and spirited my blood; +My thoughts did swim in comforts, and mine eye +Confessed, 'The world did only paint and lie.' +And where before I did no safe course steer, +But wandered under tempests all the year; +Went bleak and bare in body as in mind, +And was blown through by every storm and wind, +I am so warmed now by this glance on me, +That 'midst all storms I feel a ray of thee. +So have I known some beauteous passage rise +In sudden flowers and arbours to my eyes, +And in the depth and dead of winter bring +To my cold thoughts a lively sense of spring. + +Thus fed by thee, who dost all beings nourish, +My withered leaves again look green and flourish; +I shine and shelter underneath thy wing, +Where, sick with love, I strive thy name to sing; +Thy glorious name! which grant I may so do, +That these may be thy praise, and my joy too! + + +ASCENSION-DAY. + +Lord Jesus! with what sweetness and delights, +Sure, holy hopes, high joys, and quickening flights, +Dost thou feed thine! O thou! the hand that lifts +To him who gives all good and perfect gifts, +Thy glorious, bright ascension, though removed +So many ages from me, is so proved +And by thy Spirit sealed to me, that I +Feel me a sharer in thy victory! + I soar and rise + Up to the skies, + Leaving the world their day; + And in my flight + For the true light + Go seeking all the way; +I greet thy sepulchre, salute thy grave, +That blest enclosure, where the angels gave +The first glad tidings of thy early light, +And resurrection from the earth and night, +I see that morning in thy convert's[1] tears, +Fresh as the dew, which but this dawning wears. +I smell her spices; and her ointment yields +As rich a scent as the now primrosed fields. +The day-star smiles, and light with the deceased +Now shines in all the chambers of the east. +What stirs, what posting intercourse and mirth +Of saints and angels glorify the earth? +What sighs, what whispers, busy stops and stays, +Private and holy talk, fill all the ways? +They pass as at the last great day, and run +In their white robes to seek the risen Sun; +I see them, hear them, mark their haste, and move +Amongst them, with them, winged with faith and love. +Thy forty days' more secret commerce here +After thy death and funeral, so clear +And indisputable, shows to my sight +As the sun doth, which to those days gave light. +I walk the fields of Bethany, which shine +All now as fresh as Eden, and as fine. +Such was the bright world on the first seventh day, +Before man brought forth sin, and sin decay; +When like a virgin clad in flowers and green +The pure earth sat, and the fair woods had seen +No frost, but flourished in that youthful vest +With which their great Creator had them dressed: +When heaven above them shined like molten glass, +While all the planets did unclouded pass; +And springs, like dissolved pearls, their streams did pour, +Ne'er marred with floods, nor angered with a shower. +With these fair thoughts I move in this fair place, +And the last steps of my mild Master trace. +I see him leading out his chosen train +All sad with tears, which like warm summer rain +In silent drops steal from their holy eyes, +Fixed lately on the cross, now on the skies. +And now, eternal Jesus! thou dost heave +Thy blessed hands to bless those thou dost leave. +The cloud doth now receive thee, and their sight +Having lost thee, behold two men in white! +Two and no more: 'What two attest is true,' +Was thine own answer to the stubborn Jew. +Come then, thou faithful Witness! come, dear Lord, +Upon the clouds again to judge this world! + +[1] 'Thy convert:' St Mary Magdalene. + + +COCK-CROWING. + +1 Father of lights! what sunny seed, + What glance of day hast thou confined + Into this bird? To all the breed + This busy ray thou hast assigned; + Their magnetism works all night, + And dreams of paradise and light. + +2 Their eyes watch for the morning hue, + Their little grain-expelling night + So shines and sings, as if it knew + The path unto the house of light. + It seems their candle, howe'er done, + Was tinned and lighted at the sun. + +3 If such a tincture, such a touch, + So firm a longing can empower, + Shall thy own image think it much + To watch for thy appearing hour? + If a mere blast so fill the sail, + Shall not the breath of God prevail? + +4 O thou immortal light and heat! + Whose hand so shines through all this frame, + That by the beauty of the seat, + We plainly see who made the same, + Seeing thy seed abides in me, + Dwell thou in it, and I in thee! + +5 To sleep without thee is to die; + Yea,'tis a death partakes of hell: + For where thou dost not close the eye + It never opens, I can tell. + In such a dark, Egyptian border, + The shades of death dwell, and disorder. + +6 If joys, and hopes, and earnest throes, + And hearts, whose pulse beats still for light, + Are given to birds; who, but thee, knows + A love-sick soul's exalted flight? + Can souls be tracked by any eye + But his, who gave them wings to fly? + +7 Only this veil which thou hast broke, + And must be broken yet in me, + This veil, I say, is all the cloak + And cloud which shadows me from thee. + This veil thy full-eyed love denies, + And only gleams and fractions spies. + +8 Oh, take it off! make no delay; + But brush me with thy light, that I + May shine unto a perfect day, + And warm me at thy glorious eye! + Oh, take it off! or till it flee, + Though with no lily, stay with me! + + +THE PALM-TREE. + +1 Dear friend, sit down, and bear awhile this shade, + As I have yours long since. This plant you see + So pressed and bowed, before sin did degrade + Both you and it, had equal liberty + +2 With other trees; but now, shut from the breath + And air of Eden, like a malcontent + It thrives nowhere. This makes these weights, like death + And sin, hang at him; for the more he's bent + +3 The more he grows. Celestial natures still + Aspire for home. This Solomon of old, + By flowers, and carvings, and mysterious skill + Of wings, and cherubims, and palms, foretold. + +4 This is the life which, hid above with Christ + In God, doth always (hidden) multiply, + And spring, and grow, a tree ne'er to be priced, + A tree whose fruit is immortality. + +5 Here spirits that have run their race, and fought, + And won the fight, and have not feared the frowns + Nor loved the smiles of greatness, but have wrought + Their Master's will, meet to receive their crowns. + +6 Here is the patience of the saints: this tree + Is watered by their tears, as flowers are fed + With dew by night; but One you cannot see + Sits here, and numbers all the tears they shed. + +7 Here is their faith too, which if you will keep + When we two part, I will a journey make + To pluck a garland hence while you do sleep, + And weave it for your head against you wake. + + +THE GARLAND. + +1 Thou, who dost flow and flourish here below, + To whom a falling star and nine days' glory, + Or some frail beauty, makes the bravest show, + Hark, and make use of this ensuing story. + + When first my youthful, sinful age + Grew master of my ways, + Appointing error for my page, + And darkness for my days; + I flung away, and with full cry + Of wild affections, rid + In post for pleasures, bent to try + All gamesters that would bid. + I played with fire, did counsel spurn, + Made life my common stake; + But never thought that fire would burn, + Or that a soul could ache. + Glorious deceptions, gilded mists, + False joys, fantastic flights, + Pieces of sackcloth with silk lists, + These were my prime delights. + I sought choice bowers, haunted the spring, + Culled flowers and made me posies; + Gave my fond humours their full wing, + And crowned my head with roses. + But at the height of this career + I met with a dead man, + Who, noting well my vain abear, + Thus unto me began: + 'Desist, fond fool, be not undone; + What thou hast cut to-day + Will fade at night, and with this sun + Quite vanish and decay.' + +2 Flowers gathered in this world, die here; if thou + Wouldst have a wreath that fades not, let them grow, + And grow for thee. Who spares them here, shall find + A garland, where comes neither rain nor wind. + + +LOVE-SICK. + +Jesus, my life! how shall I truly love thee! +Oh that thy Spirit would so strongly move me, +That thou wert pleased to shed thy grace so far +As to make man all pure love, flesh a star! +A star that would ne'er set, but ever rise, +So rise and run, as to outrun these skies, +These narrow skies (narrow to me) that bar, +So bar me in, that I am still at war, +At constant war with them. Oh, come, and rend +Or bow the heavens! Lord, bow them and descend, +And at thy presence make these mountains flow, +These mountains of cold ice in me! Thou art +Refining fire; oh, then, refine my heart, +My foul, foul heart! Thou art immortal heat; +Heat motion gives; then warm it, till it beat; +So beat for thee, till thou in mercy hear; +So hear, that thou must open; open to +A sinful wretch, a wretch that caused thy woe; +Thy woe, who caused his weal; so far his weal +That thou forgott'st thine own, for thou didst seal +Mine with thy blood, thy blood which makes thee mine, +Mine ever, ever; and me ever thine. + + +PSALM CIV. + +1 Up, O my soul, and bless the Lord! O God, + My God, how great, how very great art thou! + Honour and majesty have their abode + With thee, and crown thy brow. + +2 Thou cloth'st thyself with light as with a robe, + And the high, glorious heavens thy mighty hand + Doth spread like curtains round about this globe + Of air, and sea, and land. + +3 The beams of thy bright chambers thou dost lay + In the deep waters, which no eye can find; + The clouds thy chariots are, and thy pathway + The wings of the swift wind. + +4 In thy celestial, gladsome messages + Despatched to holy souls, sick with desire + And love of thee, each willing angel is + Thy minister in fire. + +5 Thy arm unmoveable for ever laid + And founded the firm earth; then with the deep + As with a vail thou hidd'st it; thy floods played + Above the mountains steep. + +6 At thy rebuke they fled, at the known voice + Of their Lord's thunder they retired apace: + Some up the mountains passed by secret ways, + Some downwards to their place. + +7 For thou to them a bound hast set, a bound + Which, though but sand, keeps in and curbs whole seas: + There all their fury, foam, and hideous sound, + Must languish and decrease. + +8 And as thy care bounds these, so thy rich love + Doth broach the earth; and lesser brooks lets forth, + Which run from hills to valleys, and improve + Their pleasure and their worth. + +9 These to the beasts of every field give drink; + There the wild asses swallow the cool spring: + And birds amongst the branches on their brink + Their dwellings have, and sing. + +10 Thou from thy upper springs above, from those + Chambers of rain, where heaven's large bottles lie, + Dost water the parched hills, whose breaches close, + Healed by the showers from high. + +11 Grass for the cattle, and herbs for man's use + Thou mak'st to grow; these, blessed by thee, the earth + Brings forth, with wine, oil, bread; all which infuse + To man's heart strength and mirth. + +12 Thou giv'st the trees their greenness, even to those + Cedars in Lebanon, in whose thick boughs + The birds their nests build; though the stork doth choose + The fir-trees for her house. + +13 To the wild goats the high hills serve for folds, + The rocks give conies a retiring place: + Above them the cool moon her known course holds, + And the sun runs his race. + +14 Thou makest darkness, and then comes the night, + In whose thick shades and silence each wild beast + Creeps forth, and, pinched for food, with scent and sight + Hunts in an eager quest. + +15 The lion's whelps, impatient of delay, + Roar in the covert of the woods, and seek + Their meat from thee, who dost appoint the prey, + And feed'st them all the week. + +16 This past, the sun shines on the earth; and they + Retire into their dens; man goes abroad + Unto his work, and at the close of day + Returns home with his load. + +17 O Lord my God, how many and how rare + Are thy great works! In wisdom hast thou made + Them all; and this the earth, and every blade + Of grass we tread declare. + +18 So doth the deep and wide sea, wherein are + Innumerable creeping things, both small + And great; there ships go, and the shipmen's fear, + The comely, spacious whale. + +19 These all upon thee wait, that thou mayst feed + Them in due season: what thou giv'st they take; + Thy bounteous open hand helps them at need, + And plenteous meals they make. + +20 When thou dost hide thy face, (thy face which keeps + All things in being,) they consume and mourn: + When thou withdraw'st their breath their vigour sleeps, + And they to dust return. + +21 Thou send'st thy Spirit forth, and they revive, + The frozen earth's dead face thou dost renew. + Thus thou thy glory through the world dost drive, + And to thy works art true. + +22 Thine eyes behold the earth, and the whole stage + Is moved and trembles, the hills melt and smoke + With thy least touch; lightnings and winds that rage + At thy rebuke are broke. + +23 Therefore as long as thou wilt give me breath + I will in songs to thy great name employ + That gift of thine, and to my day of death + Thou shalt be all my joy. + +24 I'll spice my thoughts with thee, and from thy word + Gather true comforts; but the wicked liver + Shall be consumed. O my soul, bless thy Lord! + Yea, bless thou him for ever! + + +THE TIMBER. + +1 Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, + Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers + Passed o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, + Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers. + +2 And still a new succession sings and flies; + Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot + Towards the old and still-enduring skies, + While the low violet thrives at their root. + +3 But thou, beneath the sad and heavy line + Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; + Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, + Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark. + +4 And yet, as if some deep hate and dissent, + Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, + Were still alive, thou dost great storms resent, + Before they come, and know'st how near they be. + +5 Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath + Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; + But this thy strange resentment after death + Means only those who broke in life thy peace. + +6 So murdered man, when lovely life is done, + And his blood freezed, keeps in the centre still + Some secret sense, which makes the dead blood run + At his approach that did the body kill. + +7 And is there any murderer worse than sin? + Or any storms more foul than a lewd life? + Or what resentient can work more within + Than true remorse, when with past sins at strife? + +8 He that hath left life's vain joys and vain care, + And truly hates to be detained on earth, + Hath got an house where many mansions are, + And keeps his soul unto eternal mirth. + +9 But though thus dead unto the world, and ceased + From sin, he walks a narrow, private way; + Yet grief and old wounds make him sore displeased, + And all his life a rainy, weeping day. + +10 For though he should forsake the world, and live + As mere a stranger as men long since dead; + Yet joy itself will make a right soul grieve + To think he should be so long vainly led. + +11 But as shades set off light, so tears and grief, + Though of themselves but a sad blubbered story, + By showing the sin great, show the relief + Far greater, and so speak my Saviour's glory. + +12 If my way lies through deserts and wild woods, + Where all the land with scorching heat is cursed; + Better the pools should flow with rain and floods + To fill my bottle, than I die with thirst. + +13 Blest showers they are, and streams sent from above; + Begetting virgins where they use to flow; + The trees of life no other waters love, + Than upper springs, and none else make them grow. + +14 But these chaste fountains flow not till we die. + Some drops may fall before; but a clear spring + And ever running, till we leave to fling + Dirt in her way, will keep above the sky. + +'He that is dead is freed from sin.'--ROM. vi. 7. + + +THE JEWS. + +1 When the fair year + Of your Deliverer comes, + And that long frost which now benumbs + Your hearts shall thaw; when angels here + Shall yet to man appear, + And familiarly confer + Beneath the oak and juniper; + When the bright Dove, + Which now these many, many springs + Hath kept above, + Shall with spread wings + Descend, and living waters flow + To make dry dust, and dead trees grow; + +2 Oh, then, that I + Might live, and see the olive bear + Her proper branches! which now lie + Scattered each where; + And, without root and sap, decay; + Cast by the husbandman away. + And sure it is not far! + For as your fast and foul decays, + Forerunning the bright morning star, + Did sadly note his healing rays + Would shine elsewhere, since you were blind, + And would be cross, when God was kind,-- + +3 So by all signs + Our fulness too is now come in; + And the same sun, which here declines + And sets, will few hours hence begin + To rise on you again, and look + Towards old Mamre and Eshcol's brook. + For surely he + Who loved the world so as to give + His only Son to make it free, + Whose Spirit too doth mourn and grieve + To see man lost, will for old love + From your dark hearts this veil remove. + +4 Faith sojourned first on earth in you, + You were the dear and chosen stock: + The arm of God, glorious and true, + Was first revealed to be your rock. + +5 You were the eldest child, and when + Your stony hearts despised love, + The youngest, even the Gentiles, then, + Were cheered your jealousy to move. + +6 Thus, righteous Father! dost thou deal + With brutish men; thy gifts go round + By turns, and timely, and so heal + The lost son by the newly found. + + +PALM-SUNDAY. + +1 Come, drop your branches, strew the way, + Plants of the day! + Whom sufferings make most green and gay. + The King of grief, the Man of sorrow, + Weeping still like the wet morrow, + Your shades and freshness comes to borrow. + +2 Put on, put on your best array; + Let the joyed road make holyday, + And flowers, that into fields do stray, + Or secret groves, keep the highway. + +3 Trees, flowers, and herbs; birds, beasts, and stones, + That since man fell expect with groans + To see the Lamb, come all at once, + Lift up your heads and leave your moans; + For here comes he + Whose death will be + Man's life, and your full liberty. + +4 Hark! how the children shrill and high + 'Hosanna' cry; + Their joys provoke the distant sky, + Where thrones and seraphim reply; + And their own angels shine and sing, + In a bright ring: + Such young, sweet mirth + Makes heaven and earth + Join in a joyful symphony. + +5 The harmless, young, and happy ass, + (Seen long before[1] this came to pass,) + Is in these joys a high partaker, + Ordained and made to bear his Maker. + +6 Dear Feast of Palms, of flowers and dew! + Whose fruitful dawn sheds hopes and lights; + Thy bright solemnities did shew + The third glad day through two sad nights. + +7 I'll get me up before the sun, + I'll cut me boughs off many a tree, + And all alone full early run + To gather flowers to welcome thee. + +8 Then, like the palm, though wronged I'll bear, + I will be still a child, still meek + As the poor ass which the proud jeer, + And only my dear Jesus seek. + +9 If I lose all, and must endure + The proverbed griefs of holy Job, + I care not, so I may secure + But one green branch and a white robe. + +[1] Zechariah ix. 9. + + +PROVIDENCE. + +1 Sacred and secret hand! + By whose assisting, swift command + The angel showed that holy well + Which freed poor Hagar from her fears, + And turned to smiles the begging tears + Of young, distressed Ishmael. + +2 How, in a mystic cloud, + Which doth thy strange, sure mercies shroud, + Dost thou convey man food and money, + Unseen by him till they arrive + Just at his mouth, that thankless hive, + Which kills thy bees, and eats thy honey! + +3 If I thy servant be, + Whose service makes even captives free, + A fish shall all my tribute pay, + The swift-winged raven shall bring me meat, + And I, like flowers, shall still go neat, + As if I knew no month but May. + +4 I will not fear what man + With all his plots and power can. + Bags that wax old may plundered be; + But none can sequester or let + A state that with the sun doth set, + And comes next morning fresh as he. + +5 Poor birds this doctrine sing, + And herbs which on dry hills do spring, + Or in the howling wilderness + Do know thy dewy morning hours, + And watch all night for mists or showers, + Then drink and praise thy bounteousness. + +6 May he for ever die + Who trusts not thee, but wretchedly + Hunts gold and wealth, and will not lend + Thy service nor his soul one day! + May his crown, like his hopes, be clay; + And what he saves may his foes spend! + +7 If all my portion here, + The measure given by thee each year, + Were by my causeless enemies + Usurped; it never should me grieve, + Who know how well thou canst relieve, + Whose hands are open as thine eyes. + +8 Great King of love and truth! + Who wouldst not hate my froward youth, + And wilt not leave me when grown old, + Gladly will I, like Pontic sheep, + Unto my wormwood diet keep, + Since thou hast made thy arm my fold. + + +ST MARY MAGDALENE. + +Dear, beauteous saint! more white than day, +When in his naked, pure array; +Fresher than morning-flowers, which shew, +As thou in tears dost, best in dew. +How art thou changed, how lively, fair, +Pleasing, and innocent an air, +Not tutored by thy glass, but free, +Native, and pure, shines now in thee! +But since thy beauty doth still keep +Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep? +This dusky state of sighs and tears +Durst not look on those smiling years, +When Magdal-castle was thy seat, +Where all was sumptuous, rare, and neat. +Why lies this hair despised now +Which once thy care and art did show? +Who then did dress the much-loved toy +In spires, globes, angry curls and coy, +Which with skilled negligence seemed shed +About thy curious, wild, young head? +Why is this rich, this pistic nard +Spilt, and the box quite broke and marred? +What pretty sullenness did haste +Thy easy hands to do this waste? +Why art thou humbled thus, and low +As earth thy lovely head dost bow? +Dear soul! thou knew'st flowers here on earth +At their Lord's footstool have their birth; +Therefore thy withered self in haste +Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast, +That at the root of this green tree +Thy great decays restored might be. +Thy curious vanities, and rare +Odorous ointments kept with care, +And dearly bought, when thou didst see +They could not cure nor comfort thee; +Like a wise, early penitent, +Thou sadly didst to him present, +Whose interceding, meek, and calm +Blood, is the world's all-healing balm. +This, this divine restorative +Called forth thy tears, which ran in live +And hasty drops, as if they had +(Their Lord so near) sense to be glad. +Learn, ladies, here the faithful cure +Makes beauty lasting, fresh, and pure; +Learn Mary's art of tears, and then +Say you have got the day from men. +Cheap, mighty art! her art of love, +Who loved much, and much more could move; +Her art! whose memory must last +Till truth through all the world be passed; +Till his abused, despised flame +Return to heaven, from whence it came, +And send a fire down, that shall bring +Destruction on his ruddy wing. +Her art! whose pensive, weeping eyes, +Were once sin's loose and tempting spies; +But now are fixed stars, whose light +Helps such dark stragglers to their sight. + +Self-boasting Pharisee! how blind +A judge wert thou, and how unkind! +It was impossible that thou, +Who wert all false, shouldst true grief know. +Is't just to judge her faithful tears +By that foul rheum thy false eye wears? +'This woman,' sayst thou, 'is a sinner!' +And sat there none such at thy dinner? +Go, leper, go! wash till thy flesh +Comes like a child's, spotless and fresh; +He is still leprous that still paints: +Who saint themselves, they are no saints. + + +THE RAINBOW. + +Still young and fine! but what is still in view +We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. +How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye +Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry! +When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, +The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, +Did with intentive looks watch every hour +For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! +When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair, +Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air: +Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours +Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. +Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie +Of thy Lord's hand, the object[1] of his eye! +When I behold thee, though my light be dim, +Distant, and low, I can in thine see him, +Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, +And minds the covenant 'twixt all and one. +O foul, deceitful men! my God doth keep +His promise still, but we break ours and sleep. +After the fall the first sin was in blood, +And drunkenness quickly did succeed the flood; +But since Christ died, (as if we did devise +To lose him too, as well as paradise,) +These two grand sins we join and act together, +Though blood and drunkenness make but foul, foul weather. +Water, though both heaven's windows and the deep +Full forty days o'er the drowned world did weep, +Could not reform us, and blood in despite, +Yea, God's own blood, we tread upon and slight. +So those bad daughters, which God saved from fire, +While Sodom yet did smoke, lay with their sire. + +Then, peaceful, signal bow, but in a cloud +Still lodged, where all thy unseen arrows shroud; +I will on thee as on a comet look, +A comet, the sad world's ill-boding book; +Thy light as luctual and stained with woes +I'll judge, where penal flames sit mixed and close. +For though some think thou shin'st but to restrain +Bold storms, and simply dost attend on rain; +Yet I know well, and so our sins require, +Thou dost but court cold rain, till rain turns fire. + +[1] Genesis ix. 16. + + +THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY. + +MARK IV. 26. + +1 If this world's friends might see but once + What some poor man may often feel, + Glory and gold and crowns and thrones + They would soon quit, and learn to kneel. + +2 My dew, my dew! my early love, + My soul's bright food, thy absence kills! + Hover not long, eternal Dove! + Life without thee is loose and spills. + +3 Something I had, which long ago + Did learn to suck and sip and taste; + But now grown sickly, sad, and slow, + Doth fret and wrangle, pine and waste. + +4 Oh, spread thy sacred wings, and shake + One living drop! one drop life keeps! + If pious griefs heaven's joys awake, + Oh, fill his bottle! thy child weeps! + +5 Slowly and sadly doth he grow, + And soon as left shrinks back to ill; + Oh, feed that life, which makes him blow + And spread and open to thy will! + +6 For thy eternal, living wells + None stained or withered shall come near: + A fresh, immortal green there dwells, + And spotless white is all the wear. + +7 Dear, secret greenness! nursed below + Tempests and winds and winter nights! + Vex not that but One sees thee grow, + That One made all these lesser lights. + +8 If those bright joys he singly sheds + On thee, were all met in one crown, + Both sun and stars would hide their heads; + And moons, though full, would get them down. + +9 Let glory be their bait whose minds + Are all too high for a low cell: + Though hawks can prey through storms and winds, + The poor bee in her hive must dwell. + +10 Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still + To what most takes them is a drudge; + And they too oft take good for ill, + And thriving vice for virtue judge. + +11 What needs a conscience calm and bright + Within itself an outward test? + Who breaks his glass to take more light, + Makes way for storms into his rest. + +12 Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch + At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; + Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch, + Till the white-winged reapers come! + + +CHILDHOOD. + +I cannot reach it; and my striving eye +Dazzles at it, as at eternity. + Were now that chronicle alive, +Those white designs which children drive, +And the thoughts of each harmless hour, +With their content too in my power, +Quickly would I make my path even, +And by mere playing go to heaven. + + Why should men love +A wolf more than a lamb or dove? +Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams +Before bright stars and God's own beams? +Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face, +But flowers do both refresh and grace; +And sweetly living (fie on men!) +Are, when dead, medicinal then. +If seeing much should make staid eyes, +And long experience should make wise, +Since all that age doth teach is ill, +Why should I not love childhood still? +Why, if I see a rock or shelf, +Shall I from thence cast down myself, +Or by complying with the world, +From the same precipice be hurled? +Those observations are but foul, +Which make me wise to lose my soul. + +And yet the practice worldlings call +Business and weighty action all, +Checking the poor child for his play, +But gravely cast themselves away. + +Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span +Where weeping virtue parts with man; +Where love without lust dwells, and bends +What way we please without self-ends. + +An age of mysteries! which he +Must live twice that would God's face see; +Which angels guard, and with it play, +Angels! which foul men drive away. + +How do I study now, and scan +Thee more than ere I studied man, +And only see through a long night +Thy edges and thy bordering light! +Oh for thy centre and mid-day! +For sure that is the narrow way! + + +ABEL'S BLOOD. + +Sad, purple well! whose bubbling eye +Did first against a murderer cry; +Whose streams, still vocal, still complain + Of bloody Cain; +And now at evening are as red +As in the morning when first shed. + If single thou, +Though single voices are but low, +Couldst such a shrill and long cry rear +As speaks still in thy Maker's ear, +What thunders shall those men arraign +Who cannot count those they have slain, +Who bathe not in a shallow flood, +But in a deep, wide sea of blood-- +A sea whose loud waves cannot sleep, +But deep still calleth upon deep; +Whose urgent sound, like unto that +Of many waters, beateth at +The everlasting doors above, +Where souls behind the altar move, +And with one strong, incessant cry +Inquire 'How long?' of the Most High? + Almighty Judge! +At whose just laws no just men grudge; +Whose blessed, sweet commands do pour +Comforts and joys and hopes each hour +On those that keep them; oh, accept +Of his vowed heart, whom thou hast kept +From bloody men! and grant I may +That sworn memorial duly pay +To thy bright arm, which was my light +And leader through thick death and night! + Aye may that flood, +That proudly spilt and despised blood, +Speechless and calm as infants sleep! +Or if it watch, forgive and weep +For those that spilt it! May no cries +From the low earth to high heaven rise, +But what, like his whose blood peace brings, +Shall, when they rise, speak better things +Than Abel's doth! May Abel be +Still single heard, while these agree +With his mild blood in voice and will, +Who prayed for those that did him kill! + + +RIGHTEOUSNESS. + +1 Fair, solitary path! whose blessed shades + The old, white prophets planted first and dressed; + Leaving for us, whose goodness quickly fades, + A shelter all the way, and bowers to rest; + +2 Who is the man that walks in thee? who loves + Heaven's secret solitude, those fair abodes, + Where turtles build, and careless sparrows move, + Without to-morrow's evils and future loads? + +3 Who hath the upright heart, the single eye, + The clean, pure hand, which never meddled pitch? + Who sees invisibles, and doth comply + With hidden treasures that make truly rich? + +4 He that doth seek and love + The things above, + Whose spirit ever poor is, meek, and low; + Who simple still and wise, + Still homeward flies, + Quick to advance, and to retreat most slow. + +5 Whose acts, words, and pretence + Have all one sense, + One aim and end; who walks not by his sight; + Whose eyes are both put out, + And goes about + Guided by faith, not by exterior light. + +6 Who spills no blood, nor spreads + Thorns in the beds + Of the distressed, hasting their overthrow; + Making the time they had + Bitter and sad, + Like chronic pains, which surely kill, though slow. + +7 Who knows earth nothing hath + Worth love or wrath, + But in his Hope and Rock is ever glad. + Who seeks and follows peace, + When with the ease + And health of conscience it is to be had. + +8 Who bears his cross with joy, + And doth employ + His heart and tongue in prayers for his foes; + Who lends not to be paid, + And gives full aid + Without that bribe which usurers impose. + +9 Who never looks on man + Fearful and wan, + But firmly trusts in God; the great man's measure, + Though high and haughty, must + Be ta'en in dust; + But the good man is God's peculiar treasure. + +10 Who doth thus, and doth not + These good deeds blot + With bad, or with neglect; and heaps not wrath + By secret filth, nor feeds + Some snake, or weeds, + Cheating himself--That man walks in this path. + + +JACOB'S PILLOW AND PILLAR. + +I see the temple in thy pillar reared, +And that dread glory which thy children feared, +In mild, clear visions, without a frown, +Unto thy solitary self is shown. +'Tis number makes a schism: throngs are rude, +And God himself died by the multitude. +This made him put on clouds, and fire, and smoke; +Hence he in thunder to thy offspring spoke. +The small, still voice at some low cottage knocks, +But a strong wind must break thy lofty rocks. + +The first true worship of the world's great King +From private and selected hearts did spring; +But he most willing to save all mankind, +Enlarged that light, and to the bad was kind. +Hence catholic or universal came +A most fair notion, but a very name. +For this rich pearl, like some more common stone, +When once made public, is esteemed by none. +Man slights his Maker when familiar grown, +And sets up laws to pull his honour down. +This God foresaw: and when slain by the crowd, +Under that stately and mysterious cloud +Which his death scattered, he foretold the place +And form to serve him in should be true grace, +And the meek heart; not in a mount, nor at +Jerusalem, with blood of beasts and fat. +A heart is that dread place, that awful cell, +That secret ark, where the mild Dove doth dwell, +When the proud waters rage: when heathens rule +By God's permission, and man turns a mule, +This little Goshen, in the midst of night +And Satan's seat, in all her coasts hath light; +Yea, Bethel shall have tithes, saith Israel's stone, +And vows and visions, though her foes cry, None. +Thus is the solemn temple sunk again +Into a pillar, and concealed from men. +And glory be to his eternal name, +Who is contented that this holy flame +Shall lodge in such a narrow pit, till he +With his strong arm turns our captivity! + +But blessed Jacob, though thy sad distress +Was just the same with ours, and nothing less; +For thou a brother, and bloodthirsty too, + +Didst fly,[1] whose children wrought thy children's woe: +Yet thou in all thy solitude and grief, +On stones didst sleep, and found'st but cold relief; +Thou from the Day-star a long way didst stand, +And all that distance was law and command. +But we a healing Sun, by day and night, +Have our sure guardian and our leading light. +What thou didst hope for and believe we find +And feel, a Friend most ready, sure, and kind. +Thy pillow was but type and shade at best, +But we the substance have, and on him rest. + +[1] Obadiah 10; Amos i, 11. + + +THE FEAST. + +1 Oh, come away, + Make no delay, + Come while my heart is clean and steady! + While faith and grace + Adorn the place, + Making dust and ashes ready! + +2 No bliss here lent + Is permanent, + Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit; + Short sips and sights + Endear delights: + Who seeks for more he would inherit. + +3 Come then, true bread, + Quickening the dead, + Whose eater shall not, cannot die! + Come, antedate + On me that state, + Which brings poor dust the victory. + +4 Aye victory, + Which from thine eye + Breaks as the day doth from the east, + When the spilt dew + Like tears doth shew + The sad world wept to be released. + +5 Spring up, O wine, + And springing shine + With some glad message from his heart, + Who did, when slain, + These means ordain + For me to have in him a part! + +6 Such a sure part + In his blest heart, + The well where living waters spring, + That, with it fed, + Poor dust, though dead, + Shall rise again, and live, and sing. + +7 O drink and bread, + Which strikes death dead, + The food of man's immortal being! + Under veils here + Thou art my cheer, + Present and sure without my seeing. + +8 How dost thou fly + And search and pry + Through all my parts, and, like a quick + And knowing lamp, + Hunt out each damp, + Whose shadow makes me sad or sick! + +9 O what high joys! + The turtle's voice + And songs I hear! O quickening showers + Of my Lord's blood, + You make rocks bud, + And crown dry hills with wells and flowers! + +10 For this true ease, + This healing peace, + For this [brief] taste of living glory, + My soul and all, + Kneel down and fall, + And sing his sad victorious story! + +11 O thorny crown, + More soft than down! + O painful cross, my bed of rest! + O spear, the key + Opening the way! + O thy worst state, my only best! + +12 O all thy griefs + Are my reliefs, + As all my sins thy sorrows were! + And what can I, + To this reply? + What, O God! but a silent tear? + +13 Some toil and sow + That wealth may flow, + And dress this earth for next year's meat: + But let me heed + Why thou didst bleed, + And what in the next world to eat. + +'Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the +Lamb.'--Rev. xix. 9. + + +THE WATERFALL. + +With what deep murmurs, through time's silent stealth, +Does thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth + Here flowing fall, + And chide and call, +As if his liquid, loose retinue staid +Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid; + The common pass, + Where, clear as glass, + All must descend, + Not to an end, +But quickened by this deep and rocky grave, +Rise to a longer course more bright and brave. + + Dear stream! dear bank! where often I + Have sat, and pleased my pensive eye; + Why, since each drop of thy quick store + Runs thither whence it flowed before, + Should poor souls fear a shade or night, + Who came (sure) from a sea of light? + Or, since those drops are all sent back + So sure to thee that none doth lack, + Why should frail flesh doubt any more + That what God takes he'll not restore? + + O useful element and clear! + My sacred wash and cleanser here; + My first consigner unto those + Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes! + What sublime truths and wholesome themes + Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams! + Such as dull man can never find, + Unless that Spirit lead his mind, + Which first upon thy face did move + And hatched all with his quickening love. + As this loud brook's incessant fall + In streaming rings re-stagnates all, + Which reach by course the bank, and then + Are no more seen: just so pass men. + O my invisible estate, + My glorious liberty, still late! + Thou art the channel my soul seeks, + Not this with cataracts and creeks. + + + + +DR JOSEPH BEAUMONT. + + +This writer, though little known, appears to us to stand as high almost +as any name in the present volume, and we are proud to reprint here some +considerable specimens of his magnificent poetry. + +Joseph Beaumont was sprung from a collateral branch of the ancient +family of the Beaumonts, that family from which sprung Sir John Beaumont, +the author of 'Bosworth Field,' and Francis Beaumont, the celebrated +dramatist. He was born at Hadleigh, in Suffolk. Of his early life nothing +is known. He received his education at Cambridge, where, during the Civil +War, he was fellow and tutor of Peterhouse. Ejected by the Republicans +from his offices, he retired to Hadleigh, and spent his time in the com- +position of his _magnum opus_, 'Psyche.' This poem appeared in 1648; and +in 1702, three years after the author's death, his son published a second +edition, with numerous corrections, and the addition of four cantos by the +author. Beaumont also wrote several minor pieces in English and Latin, a +controversial tract in reply to Henry More's 'Mystery of Godliness,' and +several theological works which are still in MS., according to a provision +in his will to that effect. Peace and perpetuity to their slumbers! + +After the Restoration, our author was not only reinstated in his former +situations, but received from his patron, Bishop Wren, several valuable +pieces of preferment besides. Afterwards, he exercised successively the +offices of Master of Jesus and of Peterhouse, and was King's Professor +of Divinity from 1670 to 1699. In the latter year he died. + +While praising the genius of Beaumont, we are far from commending his +'Psyche,' either as an artistic whole, or as a readable book. It is, +sooth to say, a dull allegory, in twenty-four immense cantos, studded +with the rarest beauties. It is considerably longer than the 'Faery +Queen,' nearly four times the length of the 'Paradise Lost,' and five or +six times as long as the 'Excursion.' To read it through now-a-days were +to perform a purgatorial penance. But the imagination and fancy are +Spenserian, his colouring is often Titianesque in gorgeousness, and his +pictures of shadows, abstractions, and all fantastic forms, are so +forcible as to seem to start from the canvas. In painting the beautiful, +his verse becomes careless and flowing as a loosened zone; in painting +the frightful and the infernal, his language, like his feeling, seems to +curdle and stiffen in horror, as where, speaking of Satan, he says-- + + 'His tawny teeth + Were ragged grown, by endless _gnashing at + The dismal riddle of his living death._' + +The 'Psyche' may be compared to a palace of Fairyland, where successive +doors fly open to the visitor--one revealing a banqueting-room filled +with the materials of exuberant mirth; another, an enchanted garden, +with streams stealing from grottos, and nymphs gliding through groves; +a third conducting you to a dungeon full of dead men's bones and all +uncleanness; a fourth, to a pit which seems the mouth of hell, and +whence cries of torture come up, shaking the smoke that ascendeth up for +ever and ever; and a fifth, to the open roof, over which the stars are +seen bending, and the far-off heavens are opening in glory; and of these +doors there is no end. We saw, when lately in Copenhagen, the famous +tower of the Trinity Church, remarkable for the grand view commanded +from the summit, and for the broad spiral ascent winding within it +almost to the top, up which it is said Peter the Great, in 1716, used to +drive himself and his Empress in a coach-and-four. It was curious to +feel ourselves ascending on a path nearly level, and without the +slightest perspiration or fatigue; and here, we thought, is the +desiderated 'royal road' to difficulties fairly found. Large poems +should be constructed on the same principle; their quiet, broad interest +should beguile their readers alike to their length and their loftiness. +It is exactly the reverse with 'Psyche.' But if any reader is wearied of +some of the extracts we have given, such as his verses on 'Eve,' on +'Paradise,' on 'End,' on 'The Death of his Wife,' and on 'Imperial +Rome,' we shall be very much disposed to question his capacity for +appreciating true poetry. + + +HELL. + +1 Hell's court is built deep in a gloomy vale, + High walled with strong damnation, moated round + With flaming brimstone: full against the hall + Roars a burnt bridge of brass: the yards abound + With all envenomed herbs and trees, more rank + And fruitless than on Asphaltite's bank. + +2 The gate, where Fire and Smoke the porters be, + Stands always ope with gaping greedy jaws. + Hither flocked all the states of misery; + As younger snakes, when their old serpent draws + Them by a summoning hiss, haste down her throat + Of patent poison their awed selves to shoot. + +3 The hall was roofed with everlasting pride, + Deep paved with despair, checkered with spite, + And hanged round with torments far and wide: + The front displayed a goodly-dreadful sight, + Great Satan's arms stamped on an iron shield, + A crowned dragon, gules, in sable field. + +4 There on's immortal throne of death they see + Their mounted lord; whose left hand proudly held + His globe, (for all the world he claims to be + His proper realm,) whose bloody right did wield + His mace, on which ten thousand serpents knit, + With restless madness gnawed themselves and it. + +5 His awful horns above his crown did rise, + And force his fiends to shrink in theirs: his face + Was triply-plated impudence: his eyes + Were hell reflected in a double glass, + Two comets staring in their bloody stream, + Two beacons boiling in their pitch and flame. + +6 His mouth in breadth vied with his palace gate + And conquered it in soot: his tawny teeth + Were ragged grown, by endless gnashing at + The dismal riddle of his living death: + His grizzly beard a singed confession made + What fiery breath through his black lips did trade. + +7 Which as he oped, the centre, on whose back + His chair of ever-fretting pain was set, + Frighted beside itself, began to quake: + Throughout all hell the barking hydras shut + Their awed mouths: the silent peers, in fear, + Hung down their tails, and on their lord did stare. + + +JOSEPH'S DREAM. + +1 When this last night had sealed up mine eyes, + And opened heaven's, whose countenance now was clear, + And trimmed with every star; on his soft wing + A nimble vision me did thither bring. + +2 Quite through the storehouse of the air I passed + Where choice of every weather treasured lies: + Here, rain is bottled up; there, hail is cast + In candied heaps: here, banks of snow do rise; + There, furnaces of lightning burn, and those + Long-bearded stars which light us to our woes. + +3 Hence towered I to a dainty world: the air + Was sweet and calm, and in my memory + Waked my serener mother's looks: this fair + Canaan now fled from my discerning eye; + The earth was shrunk so small, methought I read, + By that due prospect, what it was indeed. + +4 But then, arriving at an orb whose flames, + Like an unbounded ocean, flowed about, + Fool as I was, I quaked; till its kind beams + Gave me a harmless kiss. I little thought + Fire could have been so mild; but surely here + It rageth, 'cause we keep it from its sphere. + +5 There, reverend sire, it flamed, but with as sweet + An ardency as in your noble heart + That heavenly zeal doth burn, whose fostering heat + Makes you Heaven's living holocaust: no part + Of my dream's tender wing felt any harm; + Our journey, not the fire, did keep us warm. + +6 But here my guide, his wings' soft oars to spare, + On the moon's lower horn clasped hold, and whirled + Me up into a region as far, + In splendid worth, surmounting this low world + As in its place: for liquid crystal here + Was the tralucid matter of each sphere. + +7 The moon was kind, and, as we scoured by, + Showed us the deed whereby the great Creator + Instated her in that large monarchy + She holdeth over all the ocean's water: + To which a schedule was annexed, which o'er + All other humid bodies gives her power. + +8 Now complimental Mercury was come + To the quaint margin of his courtly sphere, + And bid us eloquent welcome to his home. + Scarce could we pass, so great a crowd was there + Of points and lines; and nimble Wit beside + Upon the back of thousand shapes did ride. + +9 Next Venus' face, heaven's joy and sweetest pride, + (Which brought again my mother to my mind,) + Into her region lured my ravished guide. + This strewed with youth, and smiles, and love we find; + And those all chaste: 'tis this foul world below + Adulterates what from thence doth spotless flow. + +10 Then rapt to Phoebus' orb, all paved with gold, + The rich reflection of his own aspect: + Most gladly there I would have stayed, and told + How many crowns and thorns his dwelling decked, + What life, what verdure, what heroic might, + What pearly spirits, what sons of active light. + +11 But I was hurried into Mars his sphere, + Where Envy, (oh, how cursed was its grim face!) + And Jealousy, and Fear, and Wrath, and War + Quarrelled, although in heaven, about their place. + Yea, engines there to vomit fire I saw, + Whose flame and thunder earth at length must know. + +12 Nay, in a corner, 'twas my hap to spy + Something which looked but frowardly on me: + And sure my watchful guide read in mine eye + My musing troubled sense; for straightway he, + Lest I should start and wake upon the fright, + Speeded from thence his seasonable flight. + +13 Welcome was Jupiter's dominion, where + Illustrious Mildness round about did flow; + Religion had built her temple there, + And sacred honours on its walks did grow: + No mitre ever priest's grave head shall crown, + Which in those mystic gardens was not sown. + +14 At length, we found old Saturn in his bed; + And much I wondered how, and he so dull, + Could climb thus high: his house was lumpish lead, + Of dark and solitary comers full; + Where Discontent and Sickness dwellers be, + Damned Melancholy and dead Lethargy. + +15 Hasting from hence into a boundless field, + Innumerable stars we marshalled found + In fair array: this earth did never yield + Such choice of flowery pride, when she had crowned + The plains of Shechem, where the gaudy Spring + Smiles on the beauties of each verdant thing. + + +PARADISE. + +1 Within, rose hills of spice and frankincense, + Which smiled upon the flowery vales below, + Where living crystal found a sweet pretence + With musical impatience to flow, + And delicately chide the gems beneath + Because no smoother they had paved its path. + +2 The nymphs which sported on this current's side + Were milky Thoughts, tralucid, pure Desires, + Soft turtles' Kisses, Looks of virgin brides, + Sweet Coolness which nor needs nor feareth fires, + Snowy Embraces, cheerly-sober Eyes, + Gentleness, Mildness, Ingenuities. + +3 The early gales knocked gently at the door + Of every flower, to bid the odours wake; + Which, catching in their softest arms, they bore + From bed to bed, and so returned them back + To their own lodgings, doubled by the blisses + They sipped from their delicious brethren's kisses. + +4 Upon the wings of those enamouring breaths + Refreshment, vigour, nimbleness attended; + Which, wheresoe'er they flew, cheered up their paths, + And with fresh airs of life all things befriended: + For Heaven's sweet Spirit deigned his breath to join + And make the powers of these blasts divine. + +5 The goodly trees' bent arms their nobler load + Of fruit which blest oppression overbore: + That orchard where the dragon warder stood, + For all its golden boughs, to this was poor, + To this, in which the greater serpent lay, + Though not to guard the trees, but to betray. + +6 Of fortitude there rose a stately row; + Here, of munificence a thickset grove; + There, of wise industry a quickset grew; + Here, flourished a dainty copse of love; + There, sprang up pleasant twigs of ready wit; + Here, larger trees of gravity were set, + +7 Here, temperance; and wide-spread justice there, + Under whose sheltering shadow piety, + Devotion, mildness, friendship planted were; + Next stood renown with head exalted high; + Then twined together plenty, fatness, peace. + O blessed place, where grew such things as these! + + +EVE. + +1 Her spacious, polished forehead was the fair + And lovely plain where gentle majesty + Walked in delicious state: her temples clear + Pomegranate fragments, which rejoiced to lie + In dainty ambush, and peep through their cover + Of amber-locks whose volume curled over. + +2 The fuller stream of her luxuriant hair + Poured down itself upon her ivory back: + In which soft flood ten thousand graces were + Sporting and dallying with every lock; + The rival winds for kisses fell to fight, + And raised a ruffling tempest of delight. + +3 Two princely arches, of most equal measures, + Held up the canopy above her eyes, + And opened to the heavens far richer treasures, + Than with their stars or sun e'er learn'd to rise: + Those beams can ravish but the body's sight, + These dazzle stoutest souls with mystic light. + +4 Two garrisons were these of conquering love; + Two founts of life, of spirit, of joy, of grace; + Two easts in one fair heaven, no more above, + But in the hemisphere of her own face; + Two thrones of gallantry; two shops of miracles; + Two shrines of deities; two silent oracles. + +5 For silence here could eloquently plead; + Here might the unseen soul be clearly read: + Though gentle humours their mild mixture made, + They proved a double burning-glass which shed + Those living flames which, with enlivening darts, + Shoot deaths of love into spectators' hearts. + +6 'Twixt these, an alabaster promontory + Sloped gently down to part each cheek from other; + Where white and red strove for the fairer glory, + Blending in sweet confusion together. + The rose and lily never joined were + In so divine a marriage as there. + +7 Couchant upon these precious cushionets + Were thousand beauties, and as many smiles, + Chaste blandishments, and modest cooling heats, + Harmless temptations, and honest guiles. + For heaven, though up betimes the maid to deck, + Ne'er made Aurora's cheeks so fair and sleek. + +8 Enamouring neatness, softness, pleasure, at + Her gracious mouth in full retinue stood; + For, next the eyes' bright glass, the soul at that + Takes most delight to look and walk abroad. + But at her lips two threads of scarlet lay, + Or two warm corals, to adorn the way,-- + +9 The precious way whereby her breath and tongue, + Her odours and her honey, travelled, + Which nicest critics would have judged among + Arabian or Hyblaean mountains bred. + Indeed, the richer Araby in her + Dear mouth and sweeter Hybla dwelling were. + +10 More gracefully its golden chapiter + No column of white marble e'er sustained + Than her round polished neck supported her + Illustrious head, which there in triumph reigned. + Yet neither would this pillar hardness know, + Nor suffer cold to dwell amongst its snow. + +11 Her blessed bosom moderately rose + With two soft mounts of lilies, whose fair top + A pair of pretty sister cherries chose, + And there their living crimson lifted up. + The milky countenance of the hills confessed + What kind of springs within had made their nest. + +12 So leggiadrous were her snowy hands + That pleasure moved as any finger stirred: + Her virgin waxen arms were precious bands + And chains of love: her waist itself did gird + With its own graceful slenderness, and tie + Up delicacy's best epitome. + +13 Fair politure walked all her body over, + And symmetry rejoiced in every part; + Soft and white sweetness was her native cover, + From every member beauty shot a dart: + From heaven to earth, from head to foot I mean, + No blemish could by envy's self be seen. + +14 This was the first-born queen of gallantry; + All gems compounded into one rich stone, + All sweets knit into one conspiracy; + A constellation of all stars in one; + Who, when she was presented to their view, + Both paradise and nature dazzled grew. + +15 Phoebus, who rode in glorious scorn's career + About the world, no sooner spied her face, + But fain he would have lingered, from his sphere + On this, though less, yet sweeter, heaven, to gaze + Till shame enforced him to lash on again, + And clearer wash him in the western main. + +16 The smiling air was tickled with his high + Prerogative of uncontrolled bliss, + Embracing with entirest liberty + A body soft, and sweet, and chaste as his. + All odorous gales that had but strength to stir + Came flocking in to beg perfumes of her. + +17 The marigold her garish love forgot, + And turned her homage to these fairer eyes; + All flowers looked up, and dutifully shot + Their wonder hither, whence they saw arise + Unparching courteous lustre, which instead + Of fire, soft joy's irradiations spread. + +18 The sturdiest trees, affected by her dear + Delightful presence, could not choose but melt + At their hard pith; whilst all the birds whose clear + Pipes tossed mirth about the branches, felt + The influence of her looks; for having let + Their song fall down, their eyes on her they set. + + +TO THE MEMORY OF HIS WIFE. + +1 Sweet soul, how goodly was the temple which + Heaven pleased to make thy earthly habitation! + Built all of graceful delicacy, rich + In symmetry, and of a dangerous fashion + For youthful eyes, had not the saint within + Governed the charms of her enamouring shrine. + +2 How happily compendious didst thou make + My study when I was the lines to draw + Of genuine beauty! never put to take + Long journeys was my fancy; still I saw + At home my copy, and I knew 'twould be + But beauty's wrong further to seek than thee. + +3 Full little knew the world (for I as yet + In studied silence hugged my secret bliss) + How facile was my Muse's task, when set + Virtue's and grace's features to express! + For whilst accomplished thou wert in my sight + I nothing had to do, but look and write. + +4 How sadly parted are those words; since I + Must now be writing, but no more can look! + Yet in my heart thy precious memory, + So deep is graved, that from this faithful book, + Truly transcribed, thy character shall shine; + Nor shall thy death devour what was divine. + +5 Hear then, O all soft-hearted turtles, hear + What you alone profoundly will resent: + A bird of your pure feather 'tis whom here + Her desolate mate remaineth to lament, + Whilst she is flown to meet her dearer love, + And sing among the winged choir above. + +6 Twelve times the glorious sovereign of day + Had made his progress, and in every inn + Whose golden signs through all his radiant way + So high are hung, as often lodged been, + Since in the sacred knot this noble she + Deigned to be tied to (then how happy) me. + +7 Tied, tied we were so intimately, that + We straight were sweetly lost in one another. + Thus when two notes in music's wedlock knit, + They in one concord blended are together: + For nothing now our life but music was; + Her soul the treble made, and mine the base. + +8 How at the needless question would she smile, + When asked what she desired or counted fit? + Still bidding me examine mine own will, + And read the surest answer ready writ. + So centred was her heart in mine, that she + Would own no wish, if first not wished by me. + +9 Delight was no such thing to her, if I + Relished it not: the palate of her pleasure + Carefully watched what mine could taste, and by + That standard her content resolved to measure. + By this rare art of sweetness did she prove + That though she joyed, yet all her joy was love. + +10 So was her grief: for wronged herself she held + If I were sad alone; her share, alas! + And more than so, in all my sorrows' field + She duly reaped: and here alone she was + Unjust to me. Ah! dear injustice, which + Mak'st me complain that I was loved too much! + + * * * * * + +11 She ne'er took post to keep an equal pace + Still with the newest modes, which swiftly run: + She never was perplexed to hear her lace + Accused for six months' old, when first put on: + She laid no watchful leaguers, costly vain, + Intelligence with fashions to maintain. + +12 On a pin's point she ne'er held consultation, + Nor at her glass's strict tribunal brought + Each plait to scrupulous examination: + Ashamed she was that Titan's coach about + Half heaven should sooner wheel, than she could pass + Through all the petty stages of her dress. + +13 No gadding itch e'er spurred her to delight + In needless sallies; none but civil care + Of friendly correspondence could invite + Her out of doors; unless she 'pointed were + By visitations from Heaven's hand, where she + Might make her own in tender sympathy. + +14 Abroad, she counted but her prison: home, + Home was the region of her liberty. + Abroad diverson thronged, and left no room + For zeal's set task, and virtue's business free: + Home was her less encumbered scene, though there + Angels and gods she knew spectators were. + + * * * * * + +15 This weaned her heart from things below, + And kindled it with strong desire to gain + Her hope's high aim. Life could no longer now + Flatter her love, or make her prayers refrain + From begging, yet with humble resignation, + To be dismissed from her mortal station. + +16 Oh, how she welcomed her courteous pain, + And languished with most serene content! + No paroxysms could make her once complain, + Nor suffered she her patience to be spent + Before her life; contriving thus to yield + To her disease, and yet not lose the field. + +17 This trying furnace wasted day by day + (What she herself had always counted dross) + Her mortal mansion, which so ruined lay, + That of the goodly fabric nothing was + Remaining now, but skin and bone; refined + Together were her body and her mind. + +18 At length the fatal hour--sad hour to me!-- + Released the longing soul: no ejulation + Tolled her knell; no dying agony + Frowned in her death; but in that lamb-like fashion + In which she lived ('O righteous heaven!' said I, + Who closed her dear eyes,) she had leave to die. + +19 O ever-precious soul! yet shall that flight + Of thine not snatch thee from thy wonted nest: + Here shalt thou dwell, here shalt thou live in spite + Of any death--here in this faithful breast. + Unworthy 'tis, I know, by being mine; + Yet nothing less, since long it has been thine. + +20 Accept thy dearer portraiture, which I + Have on my other Psyche fixed here; + Since her ideal beauties signify + The truth of thine: as for her spots, they are + Thy useful foil, and shall inservient be + But to enhance and more illustrate thee. + + +IMPERIAL ROME PERSONIFIED. + +1 Thus came the monster to his dearest place + On earth, a palace wondrous large and high, + Which on seven mountains' heads enthroned was; + Thus, by its sevenfold tumour, copying + The number of the horns which crowned its king. + +2 Of dead men's bones were all the exterior walls, + Raised to a fair but formidable height; + In answer to which strange materials, + A graff of dreadful depth and breadth + Upon the works, filled with a piteous flood + Of innocently-pure and holy blood. + +3 Those awful birds, whose joy is ravenous war, + Strong-taloned eagles, perched upon the head + Of every turret, took their prospect far + And wide about the world; and questioned + Each wind that travelled by, to know if they + Could tell them news of any bloody prey. + +4 The inner bulwarks, raised of shining brass, + With firmitude and pride were buttressed. + The gate of polished steel wide opened was + To entertain those throngs, who offered + Their slavish necks to take the yoke, and which + That city's tyrant did the world bewitch. + +5 For she had wisely ordered it to be + Gilded with Liberty's enchanting name; + Whence cheated nations, who before were free, + Into her flattering chains for freedom came. + Thus her strange conquests overtook the sun + Who rose and set in her dominion. + +6 But thick within the line erected were + Innumerable prisons, plated round + With massy iron and with jealous fear: + And in those forts of barbarism, profound + And miry dungeons, where contagious stink, + Cold, anguish, horror, had their dismal sink. + +7 In these, pressed down with chains of fretting brass, + Ten thousand innocent lambs did bleating lie; + Whose groans, reported by the hollow place, + Summoned compassion from the passers by; + Whom they, alas! no less relentless found, + Than was the brass which them to sorrow bound. + +8 For they designed for the shambles were + To feast the tyrant's greedy cruelty, + Who could be gratified with no fare + But such delight of savage luxury. + + +END. + +1 Sweet End, thou sea of satisfaction, which + The weary streams unto thy bosom tak'st; + The springs unto the spring thou first doth reach, + And, by thine inexhausted kindness, mak'st + Them fall so deep in love with thee, that through + All rocks and mountains to thy arms they flow. + +2 Thou art the centre, in whose close embrace, + From all the wild circumference, each line + Directly runs to find its resting-place: + Upon their swiftest wings, to perch on thine + Ennobling breast, which is their only butt, + The arrows of all high desires are shot. + +3 All labours pant and languish after thee, + Stretching their longest arms to catch their bliss; + Which in the way, how sweet soe'er it be, + They never find; and therefore on they press + Further and further, till desired thou, + Their only crown, meet'st their ambition's brow. + +4 With smiles the ploughman to the smiling spring + Returns not answer, but is jealous till + His patient hopes thy happy season bring + Unto their ripeness with his corn, and fill + His barns with plenteous sheaves, with joy his heart; + For thou, and none but thou, his harvest art. + +5 The no less sweating and industrious lover + Lays not his panting heart to rest upon + Kind looks and gracious promises, which hover + On love's outside, and may as soon be gone + As easily they came; but strives to see + His hopes and nuptials ratified by thee. + + 6 The traveller suspecteth every way, + Though they thick traced and fairly beaten be; + Nor is secure but that his leader may + Step into some mistake as well as he; + Or that his strength may fail him; till he win + Possession of thee, his wished inn. + + 7 Nobly besmeared with Olympic dust, + The hardy runner prosecutes his race + With obstinate celerity, in trust + That thou wilt wipe and glorify his face: + His prize's soul art thou, whose precious sake + Makes him those mighty pains with pleasure take. + + 8 The mariner will trust no winds, although + Upon his sails they blow fair flattery; + No tides which, with all fawning smoothness, flow + Can charm his fears into security; + He credits none but thee, who art his bay, + To which, through calms and storms, he hunts his way. + + 9 And so have I, cheered up with hopes at last + To double thee, endured a tedious sea; + Through public foaming tempests have I passed; + Through flattering calms of private suavity; + Through interrupting company's thick press; + And through the lake of mine own laziness: + +10 Through many sirens' charms, which me invited + To dance to ease's tunes, the tunes in fashion; + Through many cross, misgiving thoughts, which frighted + My jealous pen; and through the conjuration + Of ignorant and envious censures, which + Implacably against all poems itch: + +11 But chiefly those which venture in a way + That yet no Muse's feet have chose to trace; + Which trust that Psyche and her Jesus may + Adorn a verse with as becoming grace + As Venus and her son; that truth may be + A nobler theme than lies and vanity. + +12 Which broach no Aganippe's streams, but those + Where virgin souls without a blush may bathe; + Which dare the boisterous multitude oppose + With gentle numbers; which despise the wrath + Of galled sin; which think not fit to trace + Or Greek or Roman song with slavish pace. + +13 And seeing now I am in ken of thee, + The harbour which inflamed my desire, + And with this steady patience ballas'd[1] me + In my uneven road; I am on fire, + Till into thy embrace myself I throw, + And on the shore hang up my finished vow. + +[1] 'Ballas'd:' ballasted. + + + + +MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. + + +FROM ROBERT HEATH. + + +WHAT IS LOVE? + +1 Tis a child of fancy's getting, + Brought up between hope and fear, + Fed with smiles, grown by uniting + Strong, and so kept by desire: + 'Tis a perpetual vestal fire + Never dying, + Whose smoke like incense doth aspire, + Upwards flying. + +2 It is a soft magnetic stone, + Attracting hearts by sympathy, + Binding up close two souls in one, + Both discoursing secretly: + 'Tis the true Gordian knot, that ties + Yet ne'er unbinds, + Fixing thus two lovers' eyes, + As well as minds. + +3 Tis the spheres' heavenly harmony, + Where two skilful hands do strike; + And every sound expressively + Marries sweetly with the like: + 'Tis the world's everlasting chain + That all things tied, + And bid them, like the fixed wain, + Unmoved to bide. + + +PROTEST OF LOVE. + +When I thee all o'er do view +I all o'er must love thee too. +By that smooth forehead, where's expressed +The candour of thy peaceful breast, +By those fair twin-like stars that shine, +And by those apples of thine eyne: +By the lambkins and the kids +Playing 'bout thy fair eyelids: +By each peachy-blossomed cheek, +And thy satin skin, more sleek +And white than Flora's whitest lilies, +Or the maiden daffodillies: +By that ivory porch, thy nose: +By those double-blanched rows +Of teeth, as in pure coral set: +By each azure rivulet, +Running in thy temples, and +Those flowery meadows 'twixt them stand: +By each pearl-tipt ear by nature, as +On each a jewel pendent was: +By those lips all dewed with bliss, +Made happy in each other's kiss. + + +TO CLARASTELLA. + +Oh, those smooth, soft, and ruby lips, + * * * * * +Whose rosy and vermilion hue +Betrays the blushing thoughts in you: +Whose fragrant, aromatic breath +Would revive dying saints from death, +Whose siren-like, harmonious air +Speaks music and enchants the ear; +Who would not hang, and fixed there +Wish he might know no other sphere? +Oh for a charm to make the sun +Drunk, and forget his motion! +Oh that some palsy or lame gout +Would cramp old Time's diseased foot! +Or that I might or mould or clip +His speedy wings, whilst on her lip +I quench my thirsty appetite +With the life-honey dwells on it! + * * * * * +Then on his holy altar, I +Would sacrifice eternally, +Offering one long-continued mine +Of golden pleasures to thy shrine. + + + +BY VARIOUS AUTHORS. + + +MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. +(FROM BYRD'S 'PSALMS, SONNETS,' ETC. 1588.) + +1 My mind to me a kingdom is, + Such perfect joy therein I find, + That it excels all other bliss + That God or nature hath assigned: + Though much I want that most would have, + Yet still my mind forbids to crave. + +2 No princely port, nor wealthy store, + Nor force to win a victory; + No wily wit to salve a sore, + No shape to win a loving eye; + To none of these I yield as thrall, + For why, my mind despise them all. + +3 I see that plenty surfeits oft, + And hasty climbers soonest fall; + I see that such as are aloft, + Mishap doth threaten most of all; + These get with toil, and keep with fear: + Such cares my mind can never bear. + +4 I press to bear no haughty sway; + I wish no more than may suffice; + I do no more than well I may. + Look what I want, my mind supplies; + Lo, thus I triumph like a king, + My mind's content with anything. + +5 I laugh not at another's loss, + Nor grudge not at another's gain; + No worldly waves my mind can toss; + I brook that is another's bane; + I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; + I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. + +6 My wealth is health and perfect ease, + And conscience clear my chief defence; + I never seek by bribes to please, + Nor by desert to give offence; + Thus do I live, thus will I die; + Would all do so as well as I! + + +THE OLD AND YOUNG COURTIER. + +1 An old song made by an aged old pate, + Of an old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate, + That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, + And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate: + Like an old courtier of the queen's, + And the queen's old courtier. + +2 With an old lady, whose anger one word assuages; + They every quarter paid their old servants their wages, + And never knew what belonged to coachmen, footmen, nor pages, + But kept twenty old fellows with blue coats and badges: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +3 With an old study filled full of learned old books, + With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, + With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, + And an old kitchen, that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +4 With an old hall, hung about with pikes, guns, and bows, + With old swords and bucklers, that had borne many shrewd blows, + And an old frieze coat, to cover his worship's trunk-hose, + And a cup of old sherry, to comfort his copper nose: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +5 With a good old fashion, when Christmas was come, + To call in all his old neighbours with bagpipe and drum, + With good cheer enough to furnish every old room, + And old liquor able to make a cat speak, and man dumb: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +6 With an old falconer, huntsmen, and a kennel of hounds, + That never hawked, nor hunted, but in his own grounds; + Who, like a wise man, kept himself within his own bounds, + And when he died, gave every child a thousand good pounds: + Like an old courtier, &c. + +7 But to his eldest son his house and lands he assigned, + Charging him in his will to keep the old bountiful mind, + To be good to his old tenants, and to his neighbours be kind: + But in the ensuing ditty you shall hear how he was inclined: + Like a young courtier of the king's, + And the king's young courtier. + +8 Like a flourishing young gallant, newly come to his land, + Who keeps a brace of painted madams at his command, + And takes up a thousand pounds upon his father's land, + And gets drunk in a tavern till he can neither go nor stand: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +9 With a newfangled lady, that is dainty, nice, and spare, + Who never knew what belonged to good housekeeping or care, + Who buys gaudy-coloured fans to play with wanton air, + And seven or eight different dressings of other women's hair: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +10 With a new-fashioned hall, built where the old one stood, + Hung round with new pictures that do the poor no good, + With a fine marble chimney, wherein burns neither coal nor wood, + And a new smooth shovel-board, whereon no victual ne'er stood: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +11 With a new study, stuffed full of pamphlets and plays, + And a new chaplain, that swears faster than he prays, + With a new buttery hatch, that opens once in four or five days, + And a new French cook, to devise fine kickshaws and toys: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +12 With a new fashion, when Christmas is drawing on, + On a new journey to London straight we all must begone, + And leave none to keep house, but our new porter John, + Who relieves the poor with a thump on the back with a stone: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +13 With a new gentleman usher, whose carriage is complete, + With a new coachman, footmen, and pages to carry up the meat, + With a waiting gentlewoman, whose dressing is very neat, + Who, when her lady has dined, lets the servants not eat: + Like a young courtier, &c. + +14 With new titles of honour, bought with his father's old gold, + For which sundry of his ancestors' old manors are sold; + And this is the course most of our new gallants hold, + Which makes that good housekeeping is now grown so cold + Among the young courtiers of the king, + Or the king's young courtiers. + + +THERE IS A GARDEN IN HER FACE. + +(FROM 'AN HOUR'S RECREATION IN MUSIC,' BY RICH. ALISON. 1606.) + +1 There is a garden in her face, + Where roses and white lilies grow; + A heavenly paradise is that place, + Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; + There cherries grow that none may buy, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + +2 Those cherries fairly do enclose + Of orient pearl a double row, + Which when her lovely laughter shows, + They look like rose-buds filled with snow: + Yet them no peer nor prince may buy, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + +3 Her eyes like angels watch them still; + Her brows like bended bows do stand, + Threatening with piercing frowns to kill + All that approach with eye or hand + These sacred cherries to come nigh, + Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. + + +HALLO, MY FANCY. + +1 In melancholic fancy, + Out of myself, + In the vulcan dancy, + All the world surveying, + Nowhere staying, + Just like a fairy elf; + Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping, + Out o'er the hills, the trees, and valleys tripping, + Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +2 Amidst the misty vapours, + Fain would I know + What doth cause the tapers; + Why the clouds benight us + And affright us, + While we travel here below. + Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunder, + And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds asunder, + And what these comets are on which we gaze and wonder. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +3 Fain would I know the reason + Why the little ant, + All the summer season, + Layeth up provision + On condition + To know no winter's want; + And how housewives, that are so good and painful, + Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainful; + And why the lazy drones to them do prove disdainful. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go 1 + +4 Ships, ships, I will descry you + Amidst the main; + I will come and try you + What you are protecting, + And projecting, + What's your end and aim. + One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, + Another stays to keep his country from invading, + A third is coming home with rich wealth of lading. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +5 When I look before me, + There I do behold + There's none that sees or knows me; + All the world's a-gadding, + Running madding; + None doth his station hold. + He that is below envieth him that riseth, + And he that is above, him that's below despiseth, + So every man his plot and counter-plot deviseth. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +6 Look, look, what bustling + Here I do espy; + Each another jostling, + Every one turmoiling, + The other spoiling, + As I did pass them by. + One sitteth musing in a dumpish passion, + Another hangs his head, because he's out of fashion, + A third is fully bent on sport and recreation. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +7 Amidst the foamy ocean, + Fain would I know + What doth cause the motion, + And returning + In its journeying, + And doth so seldom swerve! + And how these little fishes that swim beneath salt water, + Do never blind their eye; methinks it is a matter + An inch above the reach of old Erra Pater! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + + +8 Fain would I be resolved + How things are done; + And where the bull was calved + Of bloody Phalaris, + And where the tailor is + That works to the man i' the moon! + Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly; + And how these little fairies do dance and leap so lightly; + And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go! + +9 In conceit like Phaeton, + I'll mount Phoebus' chair; + Having ne'er a hat on, + All my hair a-burning + In my journeying, + Hurrying through the air. + Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing, + And see how they on foamy bits are playing; + All the stars and planets I will be surveying! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +10 Oh, from what ground of nature + Doth the pelican, + That self-devouring creature, + Prove so froward + And untoward, + Her vitals for to strain? + And why the subtle fox, while in death's wounds is lying, + Doth not lament his pangs by howling and by crying; + And why the milk-white swan doth sing when she's a-dying. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou got + +11 Fain would I conclude this, + At least make essay, + What similitude is; + Why fowls of a feather + Flock and fly together, + And lambs know beasts of prey: + How Nature's alchemists, these small laborious creatures, + Acknowledge still a prince in ordering their matters, + And suffer none to live, who slothing lose their features. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +12 I'm rapt with admiration, + When I do ruminate, + Men of an occupation, + How each one calls him brother, + Yet each envieth other, + And yet still intimate! + Yea, I admire to see some natures further sundered, + Than antipodes to us. Is it not to be wondered, + In myriads ye'll find, of one mind scarce a hundred! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +13 What multitude of notions + Doth perturb my pate, + Considering the motions, + How the heavens are preserved, + And this world served, + In moisture, light, and heat! + If one spirit sits the outmost circle turning, + Or one turns another continuing in journeying, + If rapid circles' motion be that which they call burning! + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +14 Fain also would I prove this, + By considering + What that which you call love is: + Whether it be a folly + Or a melancholy, + Or some heroic thing! + Fain I'd have it proved, by one whom love hath wounded, + And fully upon one his desire hath founded, + Whom nothing else could please though the world were rounded. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +15 To know this world's centre, + Height, depth, breadth, and length, + Fain would I adventure + To search the hid attractions + Of magnetic actions, + And adamantic strength. + Fain would I know, if in some lofty mountain, + Where the moon sojourns, if there be trees or fountain; + If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to hunt in. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? + +16 Fain would I have it tried + By experiment, + By none can be denied; + If in this bulk of nature, + There be voids less or greater, + Or all remains complete? + Fain would I know if beasts have any reason; + If falcons killing eagles do commit a treason; + If fear of winter's want makes swallows fly the season. + Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go; + +17 Hallo, my fancy, hallo, + Stay, stay at home with me, + I can thee no longer follow, + For thou hast betrayed me, + And bewrayed me; + It is too much for thee. + Stay, stay at home with me; leave off thy lofty soaring; + Stay thou at home with me, and on thy books be poring; + For he that goes abroad, lays little up in storing: + Thou'rt welcome home, my fancy, welcome home to me. + + 'Alas, poor scholar! + Whither wilt thou go?' + or + 'Strange alterations which at this time be, + There's many did think they never should see.' + + +THE FAIRY QUEEN. + +1 Come, follow, follow me, + You, fairy elves that be; + Which circle on the green, + Come, follow Mab, your queen. + Hand in hand let's dance around, + For this place is fairy ground. + +2 When mortals are at rest, + And snoring in their nest; + Unheard and unespied, + Through keyholes we do glide; + Over tables, stools, and shelves, + We trip it with our fairy elves. + +3 And if the house be foul + With platter, dish, or bowl, + Up-stairs we nimbly creep, + And find the sluts asleep; + There we pinch their arms and thighs; + None escapes, nor none espies. + +4 But if the house be swept, + And from uncleanness kept, + We praise the household maid, + And duly she is paid; + For we use, before we go, + To drop a tester in her shoe. + +5 Upon a mushroom's head + Our tablecloth we spread; + A grain of rye or wheat + Is manchet which we eat; + Pearly drops of dew we drink, + In acorn cups filled to the brink. + +6 The brains of nightingales, + With unctuous fat of snails, + Between two cockles stewed, + Is meat that's easily chewed; + Tails of worms, and marrow of mice, + Do make a dish that's wondrous nice. + +7 The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, + Serve us for our minstrelsy; + Grace said, we dance a while, + And so the time beguile; + And if the moon doth hide her head, + The glow-worm lights us home to bed. + +8 On tops of dewy grass + So nimbly do we pass, + The young and tender stalk + Ne'er bends when we do walk; + Yet in the morning may be seen + Where we the night before have been. + +END OF VOL. 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