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 Poets' cornera manual for students in E 
 
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Cornell University 
 Library 
 
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 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013287978 
 
POETS' CORNER 
 
 A MANUAL 
 
 FOR 
 
 STUDENTS IN ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 
 OF THE AUTHORS: 
 
 BY J. C. M. BELLEAV. 
 
 Love Poetry ! for she is heaven's growth, 
 Wisdom's sublimer spirit^ made alone 
 For man, and man for her ; Nature fbr both. 
 Affection makes her glowing heart its tnrone ; 
 Beauty meets music on her lips ; her tone 
 Gives life to thought when all save thought's expired. 
 Love Poetry, and make her charms thine own ! 
 She loves tkee ; never spirit more desired 
 To bless and grace mankind than she, the God-inspired. 
 
 C Swain. 
 
 LONDON : 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, 
 
 THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE. 
 
 NEW YORK : 416, JBROOME STREET. 
 
 1868. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, 
 
 BREAD STREET HILL. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The sense of a want, both in the Library and in the School- 
 room, induced me to undertake the production of this 
 work. There has been a superabundant supply of " Selec- 
 tions," "Gems," "Specimens" of Poetry; but I am not 
 acquainted with any book that meets a need which the 
 education of my own children made me experience. 
 
 A Manual, a portable volume, wjiich gives the Student 
 a fair knowledgfe of the style of our great Poets, which 
 supplies him with the most famous or familiar passages 
 of their works, and, at the same time, prepares his mind 
 for the Poetry by first of all (through the aid of a Bio- 
 graphy) introducing him to the Poet, seems to me to have 
 been long required. I am bound to admit there are 
 publications which, in a measure, have done what I endea- 
 vour to accomplish ; but they have only strengthened my 
 conviction, that something fuller and more complete was 
 necessary. 
 
 The intent has been to produce a volume which, while 
 it can be easily held in the hand for Class purposes, 
 or carried about by the lover of poetry when travelling, 
 will secure a tolerably comprehensive knowledge of the 
 Poetry and Poets of England. In its compilation, the 
 whole "Corpus Poetarum" has been read through, and 
 
iv PREFACE. 
 
 the selections have been made irrespective of any exist- 
 ing publications. Those who are familiar with works of 
 this character will at a glance observe a great number 
 of quotations which have never before been similarly- 
 introduced. 
 
 The materials for the Biographies have not been derived 
 from any given book. Having invariably consulted the 
 " Biographia Britannica " as the worthiest authority, I have 
 noted and used whatever information Johnson's " Lives of 
 the Poets," or Campbell's, or any similar books provided, 
 which seemed to me to answer my purpose j so that it is to 
 be hoped the information drawn from a variety of sources 
 will be accurate ; and if any errors have crept into my 
 succinct narratives, that they may be of a trifling and 
 unimportant character. 
 
 Compression, in dealing with such abundant materials, 
 cannot deprive these Lives of their interest ; and conden- 
 sation of statement is perfectly compatible with accuracy 
 as to facts. 
 
 The selections made need some explanation, perhaps 
 apology; for he who undertakes to select what other 
 people shall read vaults on to the judgment-seat, and 
 must expect his judgment to be judged. 
 
 First of all, it is manifest, in turning over the pages of 
 the English Poets, that there are many authors who can 
 lay small claim to the consideration of the Student or 
 ordinary reader of the present day ; and also that there 
 are others, whose compositions are so greatly tainted with 
 licentiousness, that it cannot be desirable to reproduce 
 them. 
 
 My design has been to quote those whose names are 
 familiar to English ears, and of whose works a youth 
 receiving a poHte education would be expected to have 
 some knowledge. The list of such authors being com- 
 
PREFACE. V 
 
 pleted, I proceeded to study the minor or more obscure 
 Poets, for anything special that might seem to me desirable 
 to be made popular. After that, I read through my- " black 
 list" of authors, whose works it would be impossible to 
 put into the hands of a youth or a school-girl ; and I 
 examined their poems, to see what could, with propriety, 
 be used as an illustration of the style adopted by men 
 whose names were sufficiently famous, or notorious, to 
 hold a place in history. 
 
 As to the first principle adopted, there can be no 
 difference of opinion. The Poets chiefly omitted are 
 men of that wearisome period when Damon and Chloe 
 Strephon and Daphne, — the Chelsea china of poetry — 
 were the fashion in pastoral verse. Of this school it may 
 be truly said, " Ex uno disce omnes." . . In the first 
 half of the eighteenth century there were several writers 
 quite as unengaging. It is questionable whether many, 
 except those whose literary occupations lead them to the 
 study, know even by name, in the present age, such 
 writers as Dyer, Cawthome, Granger, Lloyd, Smart, Bond, 
 Hart. It can only be the bookworm who grubs among 
 these and many other such like authors. Having toiled 
 through them all, I can bear testimony to the torture 
 and fatigue of the undertaking. Such omissions, therefore, 
 seemed inevitable. 
 
 The Poets of the Restoration are a very different class. 
 It is their liveliness, and not their dullness, against which 
 we have to guard. No collection would be tolerably 
 complete that overlooked Sir John Suckling ; but it does 
 not, therefore, seem necessary to introduce Rochester, and 
 Sedley, and many others of the same stamp. My aim 
 has been to select the best authors even of a bad School ; 
 and in the selection, where a poem had attained fame 
 in our literature, to quote it in such form that it shall 
 not give offence. The task has been eminently difficult ; 
 and those who know familiarly the authors of the seven- 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 teenth century will be the most ready to exercise a for- 
 bearing criticism upon its execution. 
 
 The Poets of the earlier part of the present century have 
 been cited as fully as space would permit ; but no endeavour 
 has been made to accomplish a full list of the names of authors 
 now living, or of those who have lived within the memory 
 of this generation. The reasons for this are obvious. First, 
 because copyright interposes obstacles, which in some 
 cases become absolute prohibitions ; next, because modem 
 works are within reach of every one who loves Poetry, and 
 desires to read it; and lastly, because, were I fortified 
 with the consent of authors, or publishers holding copy- 
 rights, to make use of their property, the number of 
 Uving Poets, or lately deceased, is so extensive, that 
 quotations from their works would fill a volume. Con- 
 sequently I have been compelled to restrict myself to 
 those names which in the present century have been com- 
 monly regarded with the greatest public favour; and from 
 one or other of the above-stated causes to omit many 
 authors of modern date, whose names I originally hoped 
 would have appeared in these pages. Not being able 
 to do justice in this respect, and having confined myself 
 to English Poets, there is no necessity to explain the 
 omission of American authors. 
 
 My special thanks are due to Lord Lytton, Mr. Tennyson, 
 Mr. Browning, Mr. Swain, Mr. Procter, the Rev. Derwent 
 Coleridge, for leave to introduce the passages selected from 
 their poems, and those of Hartley Coleridge; and also 
 to Messrs. Longman and Co. and Messrs. Blackwood and 
 Co. for the quotations from Lord Macaula/s and Pro- 
 fessor Aytoun's works. 
 
 Care has been taken to introduce Poets of an early and 
 middle period as fully as possible : Lydgate, Henr}'sone, 
 Haines, Skelton, Roye, Sir Thomas More, Barklay, are 
 names too little known in works of " selection." 
 
 The primary intent of this volume must be borne in 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 mind. It is for the young Student; and two objects 
 have been carefully adhered to in its production : the one, 
 to keep it within such a compass that it might be a Manual ; 
 the other, to make it such a work as might give a fair 
 representation of our most important Poets, while excluding 
 everything that might prevent a tutor placing it with con- 
 fidence in the hands of his pupil. At the same time, it is 
 not intended for the use of children. On the contrary, 
 while the Biographies and Selections have been written and 
 compiled to engage the attention of adults, the endeavour 
 has been to produce a book that would likewise prove 
 acceptable to persons of mature years, and be companion- 
 able at any period of life. 
 
 Feeling that it was safer to speak in my own person, 
 and to state distinctly what the purpose is with which this 
 book is published, I now leave it to the judgment of others 
 to decide how far it meets that educational want, which 
 its compilation has been designed to supply. 
 
 J. C. M. BELLEW. 
 
 Holland Road, 
 Kensington. 
 
POETS' CORNER; 
 
 A MANUAL FOR STUDENTS IN ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 Bom 1328. Died, October 25, 1400. 
 
 Geoffrey Chaucer was born in London. King Edward III., and 
 John o' Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, were his patrons. Chaucer's poem 
 entitled ' ' The Dreme " is supposed to be an Epithalamium upon the 
 marriage of the Duke with Blanche, heiress of Lancaster. 
 
 Chaucer married Philippa Pykard, maid of honour to Philippa, con- 
 sort of Edward III., and sister of Catharine Swinford, rehct of Sir 
 John Swinford, and daughter of Payne de Rouet, King-at-Arms, in the 
 province of Guienne. Chaucer was in great favour with the Lancastrian 
 family. He resided for some time near the royal abode at Woodstock. 
 He took mUitary service under the King, in France, in 1359 ; and 
 received a pension of twenty marks per annum, in 1367. When 
 thirty-nine years of age he went as joint-envoy, with Sir James Pronan, 
 to Genoa ; and it is conjectured that he visited Petrarch at Padua. In 
 1374 he received a grant from Edward III. of a pitcher of wine per 
 diem ; and was made Comptroller of the small Customs of wool and 
 wine. He was also sent as envoy to France, by King Edward, to treat 
 of the marriage of Richard, Prince of Wales. In the reign of Richard 
 II. he fell into trouble, through his political connexion with John o' 
 Gaunt and John of Northampton. He fled to Hainault, to France, 
 and to Zealand. On returning to England, he was cast into -prison. 
 In 1389, when the Duke of Lancaster returned from Spain, he was 
 once more restored to royal favour, and appointed Clerk of the Works 
 at Westminster and at Windsor. At the age of sixty-four he retired to 
 Woodstock, where, it is supposed, he wrote the " Canterbury Tales." 
 Richard II. granted him a yearly tun of wine. When Bolingbroke, 
 the son of John o' Gaunt, mounted the throne, as Henry IV., he 
 extended his favour to Chaucer, confirming the former royal gifts, and 
 adding a pension of forty mai-ks a year. Cliaucer did not long enjoy 
 
 B 
 
2 CHAUCER. 
 
 Lis good fortune. He died in London, October 25, 1400, aged seventy- 
 two, and was buried in the south transept of Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Chaucer is regarded as the founder of English Poetry. He was the 
 first to give us pictures of the manners and the life of his period. 
 He also introduced the ten-syllable, or heroic measure. His poem 
 " Troilus and Cresside " was the delight of Sir Philip Sidney. The 
 " Canterbury Tales," down to the time of Queen Elizabeth, were the 
 most popular poems in the English language. The design of this work 
 was taken from Boccaccio's "Decameron." "While the action of the 
 poem is an event too simple to divert the attention altogether from the 
 pilgrim's stories, the pilgrimage itself is an occasion sufficiently important 
 to draw together almost all the varieties of existing society, from the 
 knight to the artisan, who, agreeaoly to the old, simple manners, 
 ■assemble in the same room of the hostellerie. Chaucer's forte is 
 description. His men and women are not mere ladies and gentlemen. 
 They rise before us minutely traced, profusely varied, and strongly 
 discriminated. What an intimate scene of English life in the fourteenth 
 century do we enjoy in these tales ! . . . Our ancestors are restored 
 to us, not as phantoms from the field of battle or the scaffold, but in 
 the full enjoyment of their social existence." 
 
 \lt has been usual in quoting Chaucer, to give unconnected extracts 
 from his poems. It seems to me far more satisfactory to put the Prologue 
 before the reader in a compressed form, which shall familiarize him with 
 all the Pilgrims assembled at the Tabard, and also acquaint him with the 
 Poet's purpose in his poem, . . . Wherever omissions have been made, 
 they are always marked with asterisks. — Ed.] 
 
 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 Whanne that April with his shouries sote^ 
 The droughte of March hath perced to the rote, 
 And bathed every veine in swiche'' licour, 
 Of whiche vertue engendred is the flour ; 
 Whan Zephirus eke with his sote brethe 
 Enspired hath in every holt^ and hethe 
 The tender croppes, and the younge sonne 
 Hath in the Ram* his halfe cours yronne, 
 And smale foiJes* makenmelodie, 
 That slepen alle night with open eye, 
 So priketh hem nature in hir corages ; 
 Than lohgen folk to gon on pilgrimages, 
 And palmeres for to seken strange strondes, 
 
 (i) 5^-e=t. W Such. (3) Grove. 
 
 (4) "Aries," meaning thereby the middle of April. (-) B{rds 
 
CHA UCER^ 3 
 
 To serve halwes couthe^ in sondry londes ; 
 
 And specially, from every shires ende 
 
 Of Englelond, to Canterbury they wende, 
 
 The holy blisful martyr for to sake, 
 
 That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke. 
 
 THE TABARD. 
 
 Befelle, that, in that seson on a day, 
 In South werk at the Tabard^ as I lay, 
 Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage 
 To Canterbury with devoute corage. 
 At night was come into that hostelrie 
 Wei nine and twenty in a compagnie 
 Of sondry folk, by aventurre yfaUe^ 
 In felawship, and pilgrimes were they alle. 
 That toward Canterbury wolden ride. 
 The chambres and the stables weren wide, 
 And wel we weren esed* atte beste. 
 
 And shortly, when the sonne was gon to reste, 
 So hadde I spoken with hem everich on,^ 
 That I was of hir° felawship anon. 
 And make forword erly for to rise, 
 To take oure way ther as I you devise. 
 
 But natheless, while I have time and space, 
 Or that I forther in this tale pace, 
 Me thinketh it accordant to reson. 
 To tellen you alle the condition 
 Of eche of hem, so as it semed me, 
 And whiche they weren, and of what degre ; 
 And eke in what araie that they were inne: 
 And at a knight than wol I firste beginne. 
 
 THE KNIGHT. 
 
 A knight ther was, and that a worthy man, 
 That fro the time that he firste began 
 
 (t) Known. 
 
 (2} In later times called the Talbot, in Southwark : "This is the Inn where Sir 
 JeiTrey Chaucer and the twenty-nine Pilgrims lodged in their journey to Canterbury, 
 anno 1383." Speght has left this accoimt of it : '' Tabard : A jai^et, or slevelesse 
 coate, worne in times past by noblemen in the warres, but now onely by heraults, 
 and is called theyre coate of armes inservise. It is thesigne of an inne in Southwarke 
 by London, within the which was the lodging of the Abbot of Hyde by Winchester. 
 This is the hostelry where Chaucer and the other pilgrims mett together, and, with 
 Henry Baily their hoste, accorded about the manner of their journey to Canterbury. 
 And whereas through time it hath bin' much decaied, it is now by Master J. Preston, 
 with the abbot's house thereto adjoyned, newly repaired, and with convenient roomes 
 much increased, for the receipt of many guests. " . 
 
 (3) Fallen. (4) Accommodated, (s) Every one of them. (6) Their. 
 
 B2 
 
4 CHA UCER. 
 
 To nden out, he loved chevalrie, 
 Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie. 
 Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, 
 And therto hadde he ridded, no man ferre,' 
 As wel in Cristendom as in Hethenesse, 
 And ever honoured for his worthinesse. 
 
 * * * 
 
 And though that he was worthy he was wise, 
 And of his port as meke as is a mayde. 
 He never yet no vilanie ne sayde 
 In alle his lif, unto no manere^ wight. 
 He was a veray parfit gentil knight. 
 But for to tellen you of his arraie. 
 His hors was good, but he ne was not gaie. 
 Of fustian he wered^ a gipon,* 
 Alle besniotred^ with his harbergeon. 
 For he was late ycome fro his viage,' 
 And wente for to don his pilgrimage. 
 
 THE knight's son. 
 
 With him ther was his sone, a yonge squier, 
 A lover, and a lusty bacheler. 
 With lockes cruU'' as they were laide in presse. 
 Of twenty yere of age he was, I gesse. 
 Of his stature he was of even lengthe, 
 And wonderly deliver,^ and grete of strengthe. 
 
 * * * 
 Embrouded was he, as it were a mede 
 
 Alle ful of freshe floures, white and rede. 
 
 Singing he was, or floyting' alle the day, 
 
 He was as freshe as is the moneth of May. 
 
 Short was his goune, with sieves long and wide. 
 
 Wel coude he sitte on hors, and fayre ride. 
 
 He coude songes make, and wel endite. 
 
 Juste and eke dance, and wel pourtraie and write. 
 
 * * * 
 Curteis he was, lowly, and servisable. 
 
 And carf before his fader at the table.*" 
 
 * * * 
 
 (i) Farther. So derre for dearer. (2) Meaner, inferior. (,) Wore 
 
 (4) A short cassock. (5) Smutted. (6) Tourney. M Curlerf 
 
 (8) Agile, nimble. (9) Playing on the flute. "' l-urlea 
 
 (10) fi was anciently the custom for squires, of the highest quality to carve at the 
 sires* tables. * tiic 
 
CHAUCER. 5 
 
 THE NUN. 
 
 There was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
 That of hire smiling was ful simple and coy ; 
 Hire gretest othe n'as but by Seint Eloy ; 
 And she was cleyed madame Eglentine. 
 Ful wel she sang the service devine, 
 Entuned in hire nose ful swetely ; 
 And Frenche she spake ful fayre and fetisly,* 
 After the scole of Stratford atte bowe, 
 For Frenche of Paris ^ was to hire unknowe. 
 « * * 
 
 And sikerly she was of grate disport, 
 And ful pleasant, and amiable of port, 
 And peined hire to contrefeten^ chere 
 Of court, and ben estatelich of manere, 
 And to ben holden digne of reverence. 
 * * * 
 
 Ful semely hire wimple* ypinched was ; 
 Hire nose tretis ;* hire eyen grey as glas ; 
 Hire mouth ful smale, and thereto soft and red ; 
 But sikerly she hadde a fayre forehed. 
 It was almost a spanne brode, I trowe ; 
 For hardily she was not undergrowe. 
 
 Full fetise ' was hire cloke, as I was ware. 
 Of smale corall aboute hire arm she bare 
 A pair of bedes, gauded ' all with grene ; 
 And thereon heng a broche of gold ful shene. 
 On whiche was first ywritten a crouned A, 
 And after. Amor vincit otnnia. 
 
 THE MONK. 
 
 A Monk ther was, a fayre ^ for the maistrie. 
 An out-rider, that loved venerie ; ' 
 A manly man, to ben an abbot able. 
 Ful many a deinte hors hadde he in stable : 
 
 (i) Neatly, cleverly. 
 
 (2) " Chaucer thought meanly of the English- French spoken in his time. It was 
 proper that the prioresse should speak some sort of French ; not only as a woman of 
 fashion, a character which she is represented to affect, but as a religious person. " — 
 Tyrwhitt f 3) She took great pains to assume. 
 
 (4) A covering for the neck. (s) Long and well proportioned. 
 
 (6J Neat, tasteful. (7) Decked. 
 
 (8) ^' A fair one. As to the phrase j^r the maistrie, I take it to he derived from 
 the French /(TO?- la jnaistre, which I find, in an old book of Physick, applied to such 
 medicines as we usually call Sovereign, excellent above all others. MS. Bod. ^61. 
 Secreta h. Samp de Clowbtcrtiei, fol. 17. b. *Ciroignebone_^r/« maistrie a briser 
 et a meurer apostemes,' " &c. — Tyrwhitt. (9) Hunting. 
 
CHAUCER. 
 
 And whan he rode, men mighte his bridel here 
 (jingeling in a whistUng wind as clere. 
 And eke as loude, as doth the chapell belle, 
 Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. 
 
 * * * 
 
 He yave not of the text a pulled hen,' 
 That saith, that hunters ben not holy men ; 
 Ne that a monk, whan he is rekkeless,^ 
 Is like to a fish that is waterles ; 
 This is to say, a monk out of his cloistre. 
 This ilke text held he not worth an oistre^ 
 And I say his opinion was good. 
 
 * * * 
 
 His hed was balled, and shone as any glas, 
 And eke his face, as it hadde ben anoint. 
 He was a lord ful fat and in good point. 
 His eyen stepe,^ and rolling in his hed, 
 That stemed as a forneis of a led. 
 His botes souple, his hors in gret estatj 
 Now certainly he was a fayre prelat. 
 He was not pale as a forpined* gost. 
 A fat swan loved he best of any rost. 
 His palfrey was as broune as is a bery. 
 
 THE FRIAR. 
 
 A Frere ther was, a wanton and a nieiry, 
 A Limitour,' a ful solempne man. 
 
 * « * 
 Ful wel beloved, and familier was he 
 With frankeleins' over all in his contree. 
 And eke with worthy wimmen of the toun : 
 For he had power of confession, 
 
 As saide himselfe, more than a curat, 
 For of his ordre he was licenciat. 
 Ful swetely herde he confession, 
 And plesant was his absolution. 
 
 (i) "I.e. he cared not a straw. One MS. reads a gullet hen, which seems more 
 intelhgible, unless it refer to the supposition that a plucked hen cannot lav eras "— 
 Tyrwkitt, gl. ' ^* ' 
 
 (2) *' As the known senses of ?-f,6;Sf/(?j-, viz., careless, negligent, by no means suit with 
 this passage, I am inclined to suspect that Chaucer possibly wrote reghelles i e* 
 without rule. Regol, from Regiila, was the Saxon word for a rule, and particu'larlv 
 ioi 3. monastic ntle." — Ibid. ' 
 
 (3) Sunk deep in his head. (4) Wasted, tormented. 
 
 (5) /. e. one licensed to beg within a certain district. 
 
 (6) Wealthy landholders ; country gentlemen of good estitc. 
 
CHAUCER. 7 
 
 His tippet was ay farsed^ ful of knives, 
 And pinnes, for to given fayre wives ; 
 And certainly he hadde a mery note. 
 Wei coude he singe and plaien on a rote.' 
 
 * * * 
 
 Of double worsted was his semicope, 
 That round was as a belle out of the presse. 
 Somwhat he lisped for his wantonnesse. 
 To make his English swete upon his tonge ; 
 And in his harping, whan that he hadde songe. 
 His eyen twinkeled in his hed aright, 
 As don the sterres in a frosty night. 
 This worty limitour was cleped Huberd. 
 
 THE MERCHANT. 
 
 A Marchant was ther with a forked herd, 
 In mottelee,^ and highe on hors he sat, 
 
 And on his hed a Flaundrish bever hat.' 
 
 * * * 
 
 Forsothe he was a worthy man withalle. 
 But soth to sayn, I n'ot how men him calle. 
 
 THE CLERK OF OXFORD. 
 
 A Clerk ther was of Oxenforde also. 
 That unto logike hadde long ygo. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Ful thredbare was his overest courtepy,* 
 For he hadde geten him yet no benefice, 
 Ne was nought worldly to have an office. 
 For him was lever han* at his beedes hed 
 A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red, 
 Of Aristotle, and his philosophie, 
 Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie." 
 
 * * * 
 
 Of studie toke he moste cure and hede. 
 Not a word spake he more than was nede ; 
 And that was said in forme and reverence. 
 And short and quike, and ful of high sentence. 
 Souning in moral vertue was his speche. 
 And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. 
 
 (i) Stuffed. (2) By rote, by heart. (3) Mixed, various colours, motley. 
 
 (4) A sort of short upper cloak. (5) /. <r. he had rather, he preferred. 
 
 (6) Psaltery. The psaltery was probably a. stringed instrument, and perhaps the 
 same as the ** rote " spoken of elsewhere.' 
 
CHAUCER. 
 
 THE SERGEANT OF LAW. 
 
 A sergeant of the lawe ware and wise, 
 That often hadde yben at the paruis, 
 Ther was also, ftil riche of excellence. 
 Discrete he was, and of gret reverence : 
 He semed swiche, his wordes were so wise. 
 Justice he was ful often in assise, 
 By patent, and by pleine commissioun ; 
 For his science, and for his high renoun, 
 Of fees and robes had he many on. 
 
 * » * 
 
 In termes hadde he cas and domes^ alle, 
 That fro the time of king Will, weren falle. 
 Therto he coude endite, and make a thing, 
 Ther coude no wight pinche at his writing. 
 And every statute coulde he plaine by rote. 
 
 THE FRANKLEIN. 
 
 A frankelein was in this compagnie ; 
 White was his herd, as is the dayesie. 
 
 * * * 
 To livenin delit was ever his wone, 
 For he was Epicures owen sone. 
 That held opinion, that plein delit 
 Was veraily felicite parfite. 
 
 * 'i * 
 
 A better envyned ^ man was no wher non. 
 Withouten bake mete never was his hous, 
 Of fish and flesh, and that so plenteous. 
 If snewed in his hous of mete and drinke, 
 Of alle deintees that men coud of thinke. 
 After the sondry sesons of the yere. 
 So changed he his mete and his soupere. 
 Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in mewe, 
 And many a breme, and many a luce^ in stewe. 
 
 « * » 
 
 His table dormant in his halle alway 
 Stode redy covered alle the longe day. 
 
 (i^ Opinions. (2) Better stocked with wine. (3) Pike. 
 
CHA UCER. 9 
 
 THE HABERDASHER, CARPENTER, WEAVER, DYER, TAPESTRY- 
 BEARER. 
 
 •An haberdasher, and a carpenter, 
 A webbe,' a deyer, and a tapiser,^ 
 Were alle yclothed in a livere, 
 Of a solempne and grete fraternite.^ 
 
 THE COOK. 
 
 A coke they hadden with hem for the nones,* 
 To boile the chikenes and the marie bones, 
 And poudre marchant, tart and gaUngale,' 
 Wei coude he knowe a draught of London ale. 
 He coude roste, and sethe, and broile, and frie, 
 Maken mortrewes,'' and wel bake a pie. 
 
 * * * 
 
 THE SAILOR. 
 
 A shipman was ther, woned fer by West : 
 For ought I wote, he was of Dertemouth. 
 
 * * * 
 And certainly he was a good felaw. 
 
 * * * 
 Hardy he was, and wise, I undertake: 
 
 With many a tempest hadde his herd be shake. 
 He knew wel alle the havens, as they were. 
 Fro Gotland to the Cape de finistere. 
 And every creke in Bretagne and in Spaine. 
 His barge ycleped was the Magdelaine. 
 
 THE DOCTOR. 
 
 With US ther was a doctour of phisike, 
 In all this world ne was ther non him like 
 
 (i) A weaver. j (2) A tapestry-worker. 
 
 {3) A reference to the guilds of the Middle Ages. The epithet " solempne " probably 
 refers to initiation into a species of freemasonry, which was bestowed upon licensed 
 workers. {4) The nonce, the occasion, 
 
 (s) " What kind of ingredient this was I cannot tell. Cotgrave mentions a Pouldre 
 Blanche and a Pouldre de due, which seem both to have been used in cookery. I 
 must take notice, that the epithet tart, in most of the MSS., is annexed to poudre 
 viarchant, and I rather wish I had left it there, as, for anything that I know, it may 
 suit that as well as Galingale." — Tyrwhttt. 
 
 (6) *' Lord Bacon, in his Nat. Hist. , i. 48, speaks of * a mortress made with the brawn 
 of capons stamped ajvA. strained.* He joins it with the cuUice [coulis) of cocks. It 
 seems to have been a rich broth, or soupe, in the preparation of which the flesh was 
 stamped, or beat, in a mortar ; from whence it probably derived its name, une 
 ■mortreuse ; though I cannot say that I have ever met with the French word." — 
 Thid. 
 
lo CHAUCER. 
 
 To speke of phisike, and of surgerie : 
 
 * # * 
 
 He knew the cause of every maladie, 
 Were it of cold, or bote, or moist, or drie. 
 And wher engendred, and of what humour. 
 He was a veray parfite practisour. 
 
 * * * 
 
 THE WIFE OF BATH. 
 
 A good wif was ther of beside Bathe, 
 But she was som deP defe, and that was scathe. 
 Of cloth making she hadde swiche an haunt,^ 
 She passed hem of Ipres, and of Gaunt. 
 
 * * * 
 She was a worthy woman hire live, 
 Housbondes at the chirche dore had she had five, 
 
 * * * 
 
 And thries hadde she ben at Jerusaleme. 
 She hadde passed many a strange streme. 
 At Rome she hadde ben, and at Boloine, 
 In Galice at Seint James, and at Coloine. 
 She coude moche of wandring by the way. 
 
 * * * 
 
 In felawship wel coude she laughe and carpe 
 Of remedies of love she knew parchance. 
 For of that arte she coude" the olde dance. 
 
 THE POOR PARSON. 
 
 A good man ther was of religioun, 
 That was a poure persone* of a toun : 
 But riche he was of holy thought and werk. 
 He was also a lerned man, a clerk. 
 That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche. 
 His parishens devoutly wolde he teche. 
 Benigne he was, and wonder diligent. 
 And in adversite ful patient. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder, 
 But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder. 
 In sikenesse and in mischief to visite 
 The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite,* 
 
 ( i) A little. (2) Practice, custom. (3) Knew. 
 
 (4) Parson, rector. (5) High and low. 
 
CHA UCER. 
 
 Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf. 
 This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf, 
 That first he wrought, and afterward he taught. 
 Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, 
 And this figure he added yet therto, 
 That if gold ruste, what shuld iren do ? 
 For if a preest be foule, on whom we trust, 
 No wonder is a lewed man to rust : 
 
 * * * 
 
 Wei ought a preest ensample for to yeve, 
 By his cleneness, how his shepe shulde live. 
 
 He sette not his benefice to hire. 
 And lette his shepe acombred in the mire, 
 And ran unto London, unto Seint Poules, 
 To seken him a chanterie'^ for soules, 
 Or with a brotherhede to be withold : 
 But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold. 
 So that the wolf ne made it not miscarie. 
 He was a shepherd, and no mercenarie.^ 
 And though he holy were, and vertuous, 
 He was to sinful men not dispitous. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A better preest I trowe that nowher non is. 
 He waited after no pompe ne reverence, 
 Ne maked him no spiced conscience,' 
 But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 
 He taught, hut first he folwed it himselve. 
 
 THE PLOUGHMAN. 
 
 With him ther was a plowman, was his brother, 
 That hadde ylaid of dong ful many a fother. 
 A trewe swinker,'' and a good was he, 
 Living in pees, and parfite charitee. 
 
 There was also a reve,^ and a millere, 
 A sompnour,^ and a pardoner also, 
 A manciple,' and myself, ther n'ere no mo. 
 
 (i) Thirty-five of these chantries were established at St, Paul's, being served by 
 fifty-four priests, —Dugdale, Hist. Pref, p, 41, — Tyrwhiit^ gl. 
 
 (2) An obvious allusion to John x, 12, 13, 
 • (3) Probably meaning, that he did not care to flavour his lectures with obliging 
 phrases, to malce them palatable, 
 
 (4) Labourer, C5) Steward, 
 
 (6) An officer appointed to summon delinquents to appear in ecclesiastical courts, 
 now called an apparitor, 
 
 (7) One who has the ofiice of purchasing provisions for a college, or inn of court. 
 
12 CHAUCER. 
 
 THE MILLER. 
 
 The miller was a stout carle for the nones, 
 Ful bigge he was of braun, and eke of bones ; 
 That proved wel, for over all ther he came, 
 At wrastling he wold bare away the ram. 
 He was short shuldered brode, a thikke gnarre,' 
 Ther n'as no dore, that he n'olde heve of barre. 
 Or breke it at a r.enning wish his hede. 
 His berd as any sowe or fox was rede. 
 And thereto brode, as though it were a spade. 
 Upon the cop^ right of his nose he hade 
 A wert, and theron, stode a tufte of heres, 
 Rede as the bristles of a sowes eres. 
 His nose-thirles biacke were and wide ; 
 A swerd and bokeler bare he by his side. 
 His mouth as wide was as a forneis. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A white cote and a blew hode wered he. 
 A baggepipe wel coude he blowe and soune, 
 And therwithall he brought us out of toune. 
 
 THE MANCIPLE. 
 
 A gentil manciple was ther of a temple. 
 Of which achatours ^ mighten take ensemple 
 For to ben wise in bying of vitaille. 
 
 * * * 
 
 THE REVE. 
 
 The reve was a slendre colerike man. 
 His berd was shave as neighe as ever he can. 
 His here was by his eres round yshorne. 
 His top was docked like a preest beforne. 
 Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, 
 Ylike a staff, ther was no calf ysene. 
 
 * * * 
 
 His lordes shepe, his nete, and his deirie, 
 His swine, his hors, his store, and his pultrie, 
 Were holly in this reves governing. 
 And by his covenant yave he rekening, 
 Sin that his lord was twenty years of age ; 
 Ther coude no man bring him in arerage. 
 
 (i) A hard knot in a tree. (2) Top. (3] Buyers. 
 
CHA UCER. 13 
 
 This reve sate upon a right good stot^ 
 That was all pomelee^ grey, and highte Scot. 
 A long surcote of perse' upon he hade, 
 And by his side he bare a rusty blade. 
 Of Norfolk was this reve, of which I tell. 
 Beside a toun, men clepen Baldeswell. 
 Tucked he was, as is a frere, aboute, 
 And ever he rode the hindrest of the route. 
 
 THE SOMPNOUR. 
 
 A sompnour was ther with us in that place. 
 That hadde a fire-red cherubinnes face, 
 For sausefleme'' he was, with eyen narwe. 
 As hote he was, and likerous as a sparwe. 
 With scalled browes blake, and pilled berd : 
 Of his visage children were sore aferd. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Wei loved he garlike, onions, and lekes. 
 And for to drinke strong win as rede as blood. 
 Than wolde he speake, and crie as he were wood. 
 And whan that he wel dronken had the win, 
 Than wold he speken no word but Latin. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Now have I told you shortly in a clause, 
 Th' estat, th' araie, the nombre, and eke the cause 
 Why that assembled was this compagnie 
 In Southwerk at this gentil hostehrie, 
 That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle. 
 But now is time to you for to telle. 
 How that we baren us that ilke night. 
 Whan we were in that hostelrie alight. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Gret chere made oure hoste us everich on, 
 And to the souper sette he us anon : 
 And served us with vitaille of the beste. 
 
 (i) A stallion. (z) Dappled, (3) Blue. 
 
 (4) " I find this word in an old French book of Physick, which I have quoted before. 
 'Oigneraent majestrel pur ^ausefisTne et pur chescune manere de roigne.'^ — Roigne 
 signifies any scorbutic eruption. So in the Thotisand notable Things, B. i. 70 : * A 
 sawsflefne or red pimpled face is helped with this medicine following.' — Two of the 
 ingredients are quicksilver and brimstone. In another place, B. ii. 20, ' Oyle of 
 Tartar is said to take away cleane all spots, freckles, and filthy wheales.' These 
 last, I suppose, are what Chaucer calls whelkes. The original of the word seems to 
 be pointed out in the following passage. Vit. R. ii. a Mon. Evesh. p. 169: * facies 
 albo — interdum sanguinis Jiou-mate viciata. '" — Tyruihitt. 
 
U CHAUCER. 
 
 Strong was the win, and wel to drinke us lesfe.* 
 
 A semely man our hoste was with alle 
 
 For to ban ben a marshall in an halle. 
 
 A large man he was with eyen stepe, 
 
 A fairer burgeis is ther non in Chepe : 
 
 Bold of his speche, and wise- and wel ytaught, 
 
 And of manhood him lacked righte naught. 
 
 Eke thereto was he right a merry man, 
 
 And after souper plaien he began. 
 
 And spake of mirthe amonges other thinges, 
 
 Whan that we hadden made our rekeninges ; 
 
 And saide thus ; Now, lordinges, trewely 
 
 Ye ben to me welcome right hertily : 
 
 For by my trouthe, if that I shall not lie, 
 
 I saw nat this yere swiche a compagnie 
 
 At ones in this herberwe,^ as is now. 
 
 Fayn wolde I do you mirthe, and I wiste how. 
 
 And of a mirthe, I am right now bethought, 
 
 To don you ese, and it shall coste you nought. 
 
 Ye gon to Canterbury ; God you spede. 
 
 The blisful martyr quite you your mede ; 
 
 And wel I wot, as ye gon by the way, 
 
 Ye shapen you to talken and to play : 
 
 For trewely comfort ne mirthe is non, 
 
 To riden by the way dombe as the ston : 
 
 And therfore wold I maken you disport. 
 
 As I said erst, and don you some comfort. 
 
 And if you liketh alle by on assent 
 
 Now for to stonden at my jugement : 
 
 And for to werchen ^ as I shal you say 
 
 To-morwe, whan ye riden on the way, 
 
 Now by my faders soule that is ded. 
 
 But ye be mery, smiteth of my hed. 
 
 Hold up your hondes withouten more speche. 
 
 Our conseil was not longe for to seche : 
 Us thought it was not worth to make it wise,* 
 And granted him withouten more avise, 
 And bad him say his verdit, as him leste. 
 
 Lordinges (quod he), now herkeneth for the beste ; 
 But take it nat, I pray you, in disdain ; 
 This is the point, to speke it plat and plain, 
 
 (i) It pleased us well. (2) Harbour, i. e. inn, hostel. 
 
 (3; To do. (4) /. e. To give it a long deliberation. 
 
CHAUCER. IS 
 
 That eche of you to shorten with youre wayj 
 In this viage, shal tellen tales tway, 
 To Canterbury ward, I mean it so, 
 And homeward he shall tellen other two, 
 Of aventures that whilom han befalle. 
 And which of you that bereth him best of alle. 
 That is to sayn, that telleth in this cas 
 Tales of best sentence and most solas,"^ 
 Shal have a souper at youre aller cost 
 Here in this place sitting by this post, 
 Whan that ye comen agen from Canterbury. 
 * * * 
 
 A morwe whan the day began to spring, 
 Up rose our hoste, and was our aller cok," 
 And gaderd us togeder in a flok. 
 And forth we riden a litel more than pas. 
 Unto the watering of Seint Thomas : 
 And there our hoste began his hors arest. 
 And saide ; Lordes, herkeneth if you lest. 
 Ye wete your forword,^ and I it record. 
 If even-song and morwe-song accord, 
 Letse now who shal telle the first tale. 
 As ever mote I drinken win or ale, 
 Who so is rebel to my jugement, 
 Shal pay for alle that by the way is spent. 
 Now draweth cutte, or that ye forther twinne.* 
 He which that hath the shortest shal beginne. 
 
 A BALLAD 
 
 MADE BY CHAUCER, TEACHING WHAT IS GENTILNESS, OR WHOM IS WORTHY TO 
 BE CALLED GENTILL. 
 
 The first stocke father of gentilnes, v 
 
 What man desireth gentil for to bee, 
 
 Must foUowe his trace, and all his wittes dres 
 
 Vertue to love and vices for to flee, 
 
 For unto vertue longeth dignitee, 
 
 And not the ravers falsly, dare I deme, 
 
 All weare he miter, crowne, or diademe. 
 
 This first stocke was full of rightwisnes, 
 Trewe of his worde, sober, pitous and free, 
 Clene of his goste, and loved besinesse, 
 
 ^i) Comfort, pleasure. (2) /. e. acted as cock for us all ; woke us in time 
 
 (3) You know your promise. (4) Draw lots before you proceed further. 
 
1 6 JOHN COWER. 
 
 Against the vice of slouth in honeste, 
 And, but his heire love vertue as did he, 
 He is not gentill, though he rich seme, 
 All weare he miter, crowne, or diademe. 
 
 Viceste may well be heir to old richesse. 
 
 But there may no man, as men may wel see, 
 
 Bequethe his heire his vertues noblenesse, 
 
 That is appropried unto no degree, 
 
 But to the first father in majestee. 
 
 That maketh his heires them that him queme, 
 
 All weare he miter, crowne, or diademe. 
 
 JOHN GOWER. 
 
 Born (circa) 1325. Died 1408. 
 
 GoWER was the contemporary of Chaucer. Whether he was a few 
 years older, or a few younger, seems uncertain. It is generally imagined 
 lie was the elder. Chaucer called him the "Morall Gower," on ac- 
 count of the gravity of his muse. A tradition runs in the family of 
 the Duke of Sutherland that their genealogy is dignified by possessing 
 Gower among its worthies. This seems extremely improbable, the 
 Stafford family being descended from the Gowers of Stitenham in 
 Yorkshire ; whereas it has been pretty conclusively shown that the 
 poet came of a knightly family in Kent. Gower was attached to 
 Thomas of Woodstock, as Chaucer was to John o' Gaunt. He was 
 presented in 1393 with a collar of S.S., by Henry of Lancaster 
 (Henry IV.), bearing Henry's badge— a swan. It is represented upon the 
 efiSgy on his monument. It is supposed to have been an acknowledg- 
 ment of the dedication of his great work to Henry. The poet was cer- 
 tainly a man of family and substance, possessing the manors of South- 
 well in Nottingham, and Malton in Suffolk. Gower's chief work, in 
 which, like Chaucer, he endeavours to estabhsh an English style, is 
 divided into three parts. 1st. The Speculum Meditantis (in French), 
 the purport being the repentance of a sinner. 2nd. The Vox Cla- 
 mantis (in Latin), which refers to the insurrection of the Commons, temp. 
 Richard II. 3rd. The Confessio Amantis (in Enghsh) is a dialogue 
 between a lover and his confessor, into which various stories and 
 philosophical illustrations, exhibiting the crude erudition and science of 
 that age, are introduced to show the influence of the evil affections of 
 the heart. 
 
JOHN GOWER. 17 
 
 The monument to Gower (very interesting, and thoroughly restored 
 in 1830 by the late Duke of Sutherland) stands in the North Transept 
 of St. Saviour's Church, Southwark. On the ledge there was formerly 
 
 this inscription :• — 
 
 " Hie jacet . J. Gower . arm. 
 Angl. poeta celeberrimus ac 
 Huic sacro ediiicio benefac. insignis 
 Vixit temporibus Ed. III. et R. II." 
 
 The following passage from the " Confessio Amantis " is the earliest 
 English version of the celebrated meeting between Alexander and 
 Diogenes. 
 
 "CONFESSIO AMANTIS." 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 " Hie ponit Confessor exemplum, quod omnis impetuosa voluntas sit diseretionis 
 moderamine g^abemanda. Et narrat qualiter Diogenes," &e. &e. &c. 
 
 A philosopher of whiche men tolde, 
 There was why lorn ^ by daies olde, 
 And Diogenes than he hight ; '^ 
 So olde he was, that he ne mighte 
 The world travaile, and for the best 
 He shope' him for to take his rest, 
 And dwelle at home in suche a wise, 
 That nigh his house he lette devise 
 Ende'' longe upon an axell tree 
 To sette a tonne^ in suche degree, 
 That he it might tourne aboute, 
 Wherof one heed was taken oute. 
 For he therin sitte shulde, 
 And tourne hym selfe as he wolde, 
 And take the ayre, and see the heuen, 
 And dreme of the pianettes seuen, 
 As he whiche couthe^ mochell' what. 
 
 And thus full ofte there he sat 
 To muse in his philosophic 
 Sole without encompanie. 
 So that upon a morrow tide 
 A thyng, whiche shulde the betide,^ 
 
 'i) Whylotn — once. 
 
 (2) Titan lie kight — i.e. that was his name — what he was called. 
 '3) .y/io^tf— shaped him: so arranged. 
 
 4) Ende—e.x\A, for "ending :" here lengthways. (s) 7««»— his tub. 
 
 ■ Couthe — ^knew. (Anglo-Saxon. So our word uncouth.) 
 Mac^U-Tatxdi ; greatly. (3) Skulrie the feW*— should then happen. 
 
 C 
 
 17) 
 
i8 JOHN GOWER. 
 
 Whan he was sette there as hym list, 
 
 To loke upon the sonne arist/ 
 
 MTierof the propertee he sighe, 
 
 It felle, there cam ridyng nigh 
 
 Kynge Alisander, with a rout : ^ 
 
 And as he cast his eie aboute, 
 
 He sight this tonne : and what it ment, 
 
 He wolde witte,' and thither sent 
 
 A knight, by whom he might it knowe. 
 
 And he hym selfe that ilke thro we'' 
 
 Abode, and houeth' there stille. 
 
 This knight after the kynges wille 
 With spore made his horse to gone, 
 And to the tonne he cam anone, 
 Where that he fonde a man of age, 
 And he hym tolde the message, 
 Suche as tlie kynge hym had bede : 
 And asketh why in thilke stede* 
 The tonne stode : and what he was. 
 And he, whiche vnderstode the cas. 
 Sat still, and spake no worde ayein. 
 
 The knight bad speke : and saith, Villein, 
 Thou shalt me telle, er that I go, 
 It is thy kynge, whiche axeth so. 
 
 My kyng, quod he, that were vnright. 
 What is he than ? saith the knight ; 
 Is he thy man ? That sale I nought. 
 Quod he, but this I am bethought. 
 My mannes man howe that he is. 
 
 Thou liest, fals chorle,' i-wis,* 
 The knight him said, and was right wroth 
 And to the kynge ayene he goth. 
 And tolde hym, how this man answerde. 
 The kynge whan he this tale herde. 
 Bad that they shulden all abide, 
 For he hym selfe wold thither ride. 
 And whan he came tofore the tonne, 
 He hath his tale thus begonne : 
 Al heil, he seith, what man art thou ? 
 Quod he : Such one as thou seest nowe. 
 The kynge, which had wordes wise, 
 
 (t) ^rir/— arisen. ' [o) Rout — company. (3) Wiiie learn 
 
 (4) like throwe—s.^ the same time. (5) HoKeth—^ove ; to hover about. 
 (6) Stede—placs. (7) J^ffis chorle — false churl. (8) I-wis certainly. 
 
JOHN GOWER. 19 
 
 His age wolde nought despise, 
 
 But saith : My father, I the praie, 
 
 That thou me wolt tlie cause saie. 
 
 How that I am thy mans man ? 
 
 Sire kynge, quod he, that I can, 
 
 Yf thou wilt. Yes, seith the Icyng. 
 
 Quod he : This is the sooth thyng. 
 
 Sith I first reson vnderstode. 
 
 And knew what thyng was yll and goode, 
 
 The will, whiche of my body moueth, 
 
 Whos werkes that the god reproueth, 
 
 I have restreigned euer more 
 
 Of hym, that slant ^ under the lore 
 
 Of Reson, whos subiect he is. 
 
 So that he male not done amis. 
 
 And thus by weie^ of couenant 
 
 Wil is my man, and my servant. 
 
 And euer hath bee, and euer shall. 
 
 And thi wil is thy principal. 
 
 And hath the lordship of thy wit. 
 
 So that thou couthest' neuer yet 
 
 Take a daie rest of thy laboure. 
 
 But for to be a Conqueror 
 
 Of worldes good, whiche male not laste, 
 
 Thou highest euer a liche'' faste. 
 
 Where thou no reson hast to winne. 
 
 Thus thy will is cause of sinne. 
 
 And is thy lorde, to whom thou seruest, 
 
 Wherof thou litel thonke deservest. 
 
 The kyng, of that he thus answerde, 
 
 Was nothyng wroth : but when he herde 
 
 The highe wisedome whiche he saide, 
 
 With goodly wordes thus he praide. 
 
 That he him wold tell his name. 
 
 I am, quod he, that ilke same, 
 
 Whiche men Diogenes calle. 
 
 Tho was the kyng right glad with alle ; 
 
 For he had herd oft tofore. 
 
 What man he was, so that therfore 
 
 He saide : O wise Diogene, 
 
 Nowe shall thy great witte be sene ; 
 
 For thou shalt of my yifte* haue, 
 
 (i) 5'/3«<— standeth. (2) Weie—vay. (3) Couthest—-aeM<x wast able, 
 
 (4) Zir^— thou hast ever a like. (s) Yifte—^i. 
 
 C 2 
 
20 L YDGA TE. 
 
 What worldes thyng thou wolte craue. 
 Quod he : Than houe ^ out of my sonne, 
 And lete it shyne into my tonne ; 
 For thou benimst^ me thilke yifte, 
 Which lith not in thy might to shifte. 
 None other good of the me nedeth. 
 The kyng, whom euery countrei dredeth, 
 So thus he was enformed there. 
 Whereof, my sonne, thou might lere, 
 How that thy wil shal nought be leued,^ 
 When it is nought of wit releued. 
 And thou hast said thy selfe er this, 
 How that thy wil thi maister is. 
 Through which thyn hertes thought within 
 Is euer of conteke* to beginne : 
 So that it is greatly to drede, 
 That it no homicide brede. 
 
 For loue is of a wondre kinde. 
 And hath his wittes oft blynde. 
 That thei fro mans reson falle. 
 But whan that it is so befalle, 
 That will shall the courage lede 
 In loues cause, it is to drede : 
 Wherof I finde ensample writte 
 Whiche is behouefuU that thou witte.' 
 
 LYDGATE. 
 
 Born 1375. Died 1461. 
 
 John Lydgate was born at Lydgate in Suffolk. He was a Benedic- 
 tine monk in the Abbey at Bury St. Edmunds, and was ordained 
 Sub-deacon 1389 ; Deacon 1393 ; Priest 1397. In 1423 he was elected 
 Prior of Hatfield Brodhook. Humphry, Duke of Gloucester, was his 
 patron and friend. Lydgate regarded Chaucer as his master, though he 
 must have been a very young man at the time of Chaucer's death. 
 Gray says of him, " I pretend not to set him on a level with Chaucer, but 
 he certainly comes the nearest to him of any contemporary writer I am 
 
 (1) Houe out — leave out — get out of the sunlight. 
 
 (2) Benitnst ine thilke yifte — thou deprivest me of that gift. 
 
 (3) Z-tf;<^(^— desired. {4) CiJWi?^^^— contention. [^ See note 3, p. 18. 
 
LYDGATE. 21 
 
 acquainted with." Lydgate may be said to belong to the reign of 
 Henry VI. He travelled in France and Italy, and was complete master 
 of the language and literature of both countries. He chiefly studied 
 Dante, Boccaccio, and Alain Chartier. He was not merely a poet and 
 rhetoriciau, but a theologian, geometrician, and astronomer. 
 
 Henry VI. granted him a pension in 1440, when he visited St. 
 Edmundsbury, and was presented with a MS. Life of St. Edmund, 
 the patron saint. This MS. splendidly illuminated, is preserved in the 
 British Museum. The title represents the King, surrounded by his 
 court, the abbot, and monks of St. Edmunds, while Lydgate kneels and 
 presents his book to the sovereign. 
 
 Lydgate's translation of Boccaccio was done while Henry was in France 
 — at the period of his coronation in Paris, 1432. Warton gives high 
 praise to John Lydgate as having improved and amplified the English 
 language. Ritson supplies a catalogue of 25 1 pieces of Lydgate's writing. 
 His most esteemed works are the "Story of Thebes," the "Fall of 
 Princes," and the "History, Siege, and Destruction of Troy." The 
 following piece has always been held in special esteem among lovers 
 of antiquity, as providing us with a singularly vivid and curious picture 
 of life in Old London. 
 
 "THE LONDON LACK-PENNY."^ 
 
 To London once my stepps I bent, 
 
 Where trouth^ in no wyse should bee faynt ; 
 
 To Westmynster-ward I forthwith went, 
 To a man of law to make complaynt ; 
 I sayd, " For Mary's love, that holy saynt, 
 
 Pity the poore that wold proceede ; " 
 
 But, for lack of mony, I could not spede. 
 
 And as I thrust the prese ^ amonge 
 
 By froward chaunce my hood * was gone ; 
 
 Yet for all that I stayd not longe, 
 TyU to the kyngs-bench I was come. 
 Before the judge I kneled anone, 
 
 And prayd hym for God's sake to take heede ; 
 
 But, for lack of mony, I might not speede. 
 
 Beneth them sat clarkes a great rout, 
 Which fast dyd wryte by one assent : 
 
 (i) Often called "Lick-penny." The whole character of the poem shows that it 
 ought to he " Lack-penny '*— *' the lack of mony." 
 
 (2) 7Vz>Ki4— truth. 
 
 (3) Prtfj?— pushed among the press — crowd. , 
 
 (4) i7<;oi/— the covering commonly worn on the head. (Seethepicluresol Chaucer.) 
 
22 LYDGATE. 
 
 There stoode up one and cryed about 
 "Rychard," " Robert," and "John of Kent.' 
 I wyst not well what this man ment, 
 
 He cryed so thycke there indede ; 
 
 But, he that lackt mony, myght not spede. 
 
 Unto the common-place ^ I yode thoo,^ 
 Where sat one with a sylken hoode ; 
 
 I dyd hym reverence, for I ought to do so. 
 And told my case as well as I coode. 
 How iny goods were defrauded me by falshood. 
 
 I gat not a mum of his mouth for my need, 
 
 And, for lack of mony, I myght not spede. 
 
 Unto the Rolls I gat me from thence, 
 Before the clarkes of the Chauncerye, 
 
 Where many I found earnyng of pence. 
 But none at all once regarded mee. 
 I gave them my playnt ^ uppon my knee ; 
 
 They lyked it well, when they had it reade ; 
 
 But, lacking mony, I could not be sped. 
 
 In Westmynster Hall 1 found out one 
 Which went in along gown of raye : ' 
 
 I crouched and kneled before hym anon, 
 P'or Mary's love, of help I hym praye. 
 " I wot not what thou meanest," gan hym say . 
 
 To get me thence he dyd me bede,* 
 
 For lack of mony. I cold not speed. 
 
 Within this hall,^ nether rich nor yett poore 
 Wold do for me aught, altho' I shold dye. 
 
 Which seing I gat me out of the doore, 
 Where Flemyngs '' began on me for to cry, 
 " Master, what will you koopen or buy .' 
 
 Fyne felt hatts, or spectacles to reede .■■ 
 
 Lay down your sylver, and here may you speede.'' 
 
 Then to Westmynster-gate I presently went. 
 When the sonn was at hyghe pryme ; ^ 
 
 (i) Common-place — Common Pleas Court. 
 
 (2) Yode thoo — he rode through, (3) Playnt — ^plea — complaint 
 
 (4) i?«y^^arrayed— dressed. (5) Beds — bid. 
 
 (6) Westminster. Lydgate supposes himself to have come to town in search of 
 legal redress for some wrong, and to have visited successively the different courts. 
 
 [i] The Flemings have been the instructors of the English in manufactures, 
 Kcifpen, in Flemish, is to purchase. 
 
 (8) The first canonical hour, or six o'clock. 
 
LYDGATE. 23 
 
 Cookes to me they tooke good entente, 
 And proffered me bread, with ale and wyne, 
 Rybbs of beef, both fat and ful fyne ; 
 A fayre cloth they 'gan for to sprede, 
 But, wantyng mony, I myght not then speede. 
 
 Then unto London I dyd me hye. 
 Of all the land it beareth the pryse. 
 
 " Hot pescodes ! " — one began to crye, 
 " Strabery rype, and cherryes in tlie ryse. ' 
 One bad me come nere and by some spyce. 
 
 Peper and saffome they gan me bede. 
 
 But, for lack of mony, I myght not spede. 
 
 Then to the Chepe ^ I began me drawne. 
 Where mutch people I saw for to stande ; 
 
 One ofred me velvet, sylke, and lawne. 
 Another he taketh me by the hande, — 
 " Here is Parys thread, the fynest in the land." 
 
 I never was used to such thyngs indede, 
 
 And, wantyng mony, I myght not spede. 
 
 Then went I forth by London Stone,^ 
 Through out all Canwyke Streete. 
 
 Drapers mutch cloth me offred anone. 
 
 Then comes me one cryed — " Hot sheps feete." 
 One cryde " Makerell," " Ryster ^ grene ! " another 
 'gan greete. 
 
 One bad me by a hood to cover my head. 
 
 But, for want of mony, I myght not be sped. 
 
 Then I hyed me into Est Chepe ; 
 
 One cryes Rybbs of befe, and many a pye ; 
 Pewter potts they clattered on a heape ; 
 
 There was harpe, pype, and mynstrelsye. 
 
 " Yea, by cock ! nay, by cock ! " — some began crye. 
 Some songe of Jenken and Julyan' for then mede; 
 But, for lack of mony, 1 myght not spede. 
 
 Then into Corn-hyl anon I yode. 
 
 Where was mutch stolen gere amonge : 
 
 (ij Market; Cheapside. 
 
 (2) Supposed to have been the Roman central miUiarium. It stul stands on the 
 south side of Cannon (anciently Canwyke or Candlewick) Street, enclosed m the 
 church walL (3) Rushes. (4) Ballads. 
 
24 LYDGATE. 
 
 I saw where hange myne owne hoode, 
 That I had lost amonge the thronge. 
 To by my own hood I thought it wronge ; 
 I knew it well as I dyd my crede, 
 But, for lack of mony, I could not spede. 
 
 The taverner took mee by the sieve, 
 
 " Sir," sayth he, " wyll you our wyne assay? " 
 
 I answered, " Than can not mutch me greve,— 
 A peny ^ can do no more then it may." 
 I drank a pynt, and for it dyd paye : 
 
 Yet'sone a-hungerd from thence I yode, 
 
 And, wantyng mony, I could not spede. 
 
 Then hyed 1 me to Belynsgate, 
 
 And one cryed " Hoo, go we hence ! " 
 
 I prayd a barge man for God's sake 
 That he would spare me my expence ; 
 " Thou scapst not here," quod he, " under ij pence ; 
 
 I lyst ^ not yet bestow any almesdede," 
 
 Thus, lackyng mony, I could not spede. 
 
 Then I convayd me into Kent : 
 
 For of the law wold I meddle no more ; 
 
 Because no man to me tooke entent,' 
 I dyght me to do as I dyd before. 
 Now Jesus, that in Bethlem was bore, 
 
 Save London, and send trew lawyers there mede !' 
 
 For who so wantes mony with them shall not spede. 
 
 LIFE AND PASSION OF ST. ALBON. 
 
 O blessed Albon ! O martyr most beninge ! 
 Called of Brytons stewarde most notable. 
 
 Prince of knyghtholde, preued* by many a signe, 
 In all thy workes iust,° prudent, and treatable. 
 And in thy domes' ryghtfull and mercyable ; 
 
 Be in cure paueys' shelde of protection, 
 
 O prothomartyr of Brutis Albion. 
 
 (i) In the fifteenth century a penny represented a much higher value than now. 
 'i'he shilling of this age would be its nearest equivalent. 
 (2I Lyst — please (a man's own will). (3) Enfent — ^heed. 
 
 {4) Mede — their desert. (5) Preued—^row&d.. (6) /wj^— just 
 
 {7) 23tfww.p— judgment , (8) Paueys — bucklers. 
 
LYDGATE. 25 
 
 Let all thy seruauntes grace and mercy fynde 
 Whiche that call to the in myschefe and distresse, 
 
 And haue thy passion and martyrdome in mynde 
 Agayn frowarde ennen[iyes and all frowarde duresse, 
 Of thy benigne mercyfull goodnes, 
 
 Them to defende : be thou theyr champion, • 
 
 O prothomartyr of Brutis Albion. 
 
 Syth thou art named gracious, benigne, and good, 
 The fyrste also whiche that in Britayne 
 
 SuflTered paynems to shede thy gentyU blode, 
 For Christes faith to die and suffire peyne, 
 O glorious prince of mercy, not disdeyne 
 
 To here the prayers and deuoute orison 
 
 Of aU thy seruauntes in Brutis Albion. 
 
 Thou were a myrour, and of mercy and pitie 
 Haddest a custome here in this worlde lyuyng 
 
 To cheryshe pylgrymes and heldest hospitalite : 
 All poure folke and strangers refreshyng, 
 Graunt our requestes for loue of thylke^ kynge 
 
 Called kynge Offa, whiche had a vision 
 
 Where thou were buryed in Brutis Albion. 
 
 Lyke a prince of ryght thou muste entende' 
 To forther all them that lyue in thy seruyce, 
 
 All theyr greuous' and mischefes to amende. 
 And by thy prayer a pathe for hym deuyse 
 To lyue in vertue, and vices to despise, 
 
 By thy most knyghtly mediacion, 
 
 O prothomartyr of Brutis Albion. 
 
 For his sake haue in remembraunce 
 To all thy seruauntes to do succoure, 
 
 Whiche of deuocion to do the pleasaunce 
 
 Was in thy chyrche chef bylder and foundour. 
 Of thy liberties royaU protector, 
 
 There brought in fyrst men of religion 
 
 One theldest* Abbeys in Brutis Albion. 
 
 Amonge all other remembre that place 
 It to preserue in longe prosperitie 
 
 (1) Thylke—&3.1. (2) £«<«!<*— listen, attend (French). 
 
 (3) Greumii — for griefs. (4) Thtldest — the eldest 
 
26 LYDGATE. 
 
 Where thou arte shryned to grete encrece of grace, 
 As there protectour ageyne all aduersitie 
 And doeri haue mynde vpon other citie 
 
 Whiche is made famous by thy passion, 
 
 O prothomartyr of Brutis Albion. 
 
 To the citie be patron, prince, and guyde. 
 In thy seruice make them diligent, 
 
 With long felicitie on the othersyde, 
 
 Conserb thyn Abbot and thy deuout couent, 
 Syth they are bounde of herte and hole entent 
 
 Euer the to serue by theyr profession, 
 
 O prothomartyr of Brutis Albion. 
 
 AS STRAIGHT AS A RAM'S HORN. 
 
 AUe ryghtwysness^ now dothe procede, 
 
 Sytte crownede lyke an emperesse, 
 Lawe hathe defyed guerdon and alle mede,' 
 
 Sett up trouthe on heyght as a goddesse : 
 Good feythe hathe contraryede dowblenes,'' 
 
 And prudence seethe aUe thynge aforne,* 
 Kepynge the ordre of parfithe stabylnes," 
 
 Conveyede by lyne ryght as a rammys horn. 
 
 Prynces of custome meyntene ryght in dede, 
 
 And prelatys lyvethe in parfytnesse, 
 Knyghthode woUe suffre no falsehede, 
 
 And presthode hathe refusyde al rychesse ; 
 Relygyous of veraye holynesse 
 
 With vertuous bene ' on heyght up borne, 
 Envye in cloystres hathe none entresse, 
 
 Conveyede by lyne ryght as a rammys horn. 
 
 Merchandys of lucre takethe no we none hede, 
 And usurye lyethe fetrede ^ in dystresse, 
 
 And, for to speke and wryte of womanhede. 
 They banysshed have from hem newfangelnes ; 
 
 And labourers done trewlye here busynesse 
 
 That of the daye they wolle none houre be lome,° 
 
 (i) Doer (an agent) — do thou, (2) Ryghtwysness — righteousness. 
 
 (3) Defyed gtierd^m. — i.e. refused all recompense and reward. 
 
 (4) Dowblenes — double-dealmg. (5) Aforne — ^before — looks ahead 
 (6) Parfithe stabylnes — perfect stability. 
 
 {7) Veriuoits bene — virtues to be. (8) Fetrede — fettered- (q) Lome — idle. 
 
L YDGA TE. 27 
 
 With swete ^ and travayle avoydynge ydelnesse, 
 Conveyde by lyne ryght as a rammes home. 
 
 Pore folkes pleyne ^ them for noo nede, 
 
 That ryche men dothe so grete almes. 
 Plenty eche daye dothe the hungrye fede, 
 
 Clothe the nakyde in here wrecchidnes, 
 And charyte ys nowe a cheffe maystresse, 
 
 Sclaundre ' from hys tunge hathe plukked out the thorne, 
 Detraccyon* hys langage dothe represse, 
 
 Conveyede by lyne ryght as a rammes home. 
 
 Ypocrysie chaungede hathe hys wede,* 
 
 Take an habyte of vertues gladnesse, 
 Deceyte dare not abrode hys wynges sprede, 
 
 Nor dyssymylynge ^ out homes dresse ; 
 For trouthe of kynde woUe shewe hys bryghtnes, 
 
 Without eclipsynge, thou falsnes had hit sworne, 
 To afferme thys dytd trewlye by processe, 
 
 Hit ys conveyede ryght as a rammes home. 
 
 Oute of thys lande and ellys/ God forbede ! 
 
 Feynynge outelawede and alsoo faleness ; 
 Flaterye ys fledde for verraye shame and drede ; 
 
 Ryche and pore have chose hem to sadnesse ; 
 Wymmene lefte pride and take hem to mekenes, 
 
 Whoos pacyens ys newe waat and shome, 
 Ther tunges have no carage of sharpenes, 
 
 Conveyede by lyne ryght as a rammys home. 
 
 Prynce ! remembre, and prudently take hede, 
 
 Howe vertue is of vices a duchesse. 
 Oure feithe not haltithe ' but lenythe on hys crede, 
 
 Thorghte ryght beleve the dede berythe ' witnes, 
 Heretyks have lefte there frowardnes, 
 
 Wedyde " the cokkeUe frome the puryed come, 
 Thus eche astate state ys govemede in sothnes, 
 \ Conveyed by lyne ryght as a rammes home. 
 
 (i; Swete and travayU — sweat of the brow and work. (2) i'&}/«^— complain. 
 (3) 6'ciia«<*-?— slander. (4) Z'«irairo'«»— detraction. 
 
 (5) Wede — -liis clothing, apparel (so we now speak of widow's weeds). 
 
 (6) i>j/ji)wv/jOT^<— dissimulation. (7) Ellye—'oa\mi., goal. 
 (8) Haltithe— iaes.nol'baS.i. (9) Berythe— \xxcah. 
 
 (10} JVedyde — ^weeded the cockle from the pure com. 
 
28 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 ST. URSULA AND THE ELEVEN THOUSAND 
 VIRGINS.i 
 
 Ye Britoun martirs, famous in parfitnesse, 
 
 Of herte avowyd in your tendir age, 
 To persevere in virginal clennesse, 
 
 Free from the yoke and bond of mariage, 
 Lyk hooly angelis hevenly of corage 
 
 Stable as a stoon ^ grounded on vertu, 
 Perpetually to your gret avauntage, 
 
 Knet to your spouse caUid Crist Jhesu. 
 
 O ye maidenys of thousandys full hellevene ! ^ 
 
 Rad in the gospel with five that war wyse, 
 Reynyng with Crist above the sterrys serene, 
 
 Your launpis ^ lihte for tryumphal emprise. 
 Upon your hed your stoory doth devise, 
 
 For martirdam crownyd with roosys reede, 
 Medlyd ^ with lilies for conquest in such wise, 
 
 Fresshe undiffadid,' tokne of your maydenheede. 
 
 Graunt us, Jhesu, of merciful pitd 
 
 Geyn our trespas gracious indulgence, 
 Nat lik our meritis peised ^ the quality, 
 
 Disespeyred ' of our owne offence, 
 Ner that good hoope with thy pacience 
 
 With help of Ursula and hir sustris ' alle, 
 Shal be meenys ^'' to thy magnificence. 
 
 Us to socoure, Lord, when we to thee calle. 
 
 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Born 1396. Died February, 1437- 
 
 James I. became heir to the throne of Scotland by the death of his 
 brother David, Duke of Rothesay. He was taken prisoner at sea by 
 the English, a-t the age of ten, when he was being sent to France by 
 
 (i) In the extremely ancient church of St, Ursula at Cologne {where the martyr- 
 dom occurred) the skulls of the eleven thousand vireins are shown. 
 
 (2) Stable as a stoon — firm as a rock. (3) Hellevene — eleven thousand. 
 
 (4) Launpis— i.&. light your lamps. (sj Medlyd— mixc^ — intertwmed. 
 
 (6) Und^adid—\.c. undefiled. 17) Peised— -poised. — weighed. 
 
 (8) Disespeyred^Aespoiircd. (g) Szcstris — sisters. 
 
 (10) Meenys — means. 
 
JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 29 
 
 Robert III. to avoid the plots of his uncle Albany. Henry IV. de- 
 tained him a prisoner in England. Many years of his captivity were 
 spent in Windsor Castle ; where, however, he enjoyed the benefit of an 
 excellent education. He accompanied Henry V. into France, and 
 distinguished himself by his bravery. It was from his prison window 
 in Windsor Castle that he first saw the Lady Jane Beavifort, daughter 
 of the Duke of Somerset. Henry, imagining that a union with the 
 grand-daughter of the Duke of Lancaster would bind the Scottish 
 King to English interests, promoted the marriage, and gave the King 
 his liberty. After nearly twenty years of imprisonment or restraint, 
 having contracted a romantic and happy marriage, he returned to 
 Scotland. He was a man altogether in advance of his age — a lover of 
 civilization, order and law, as well as of scholarship and poetry. He 
 was truly both Patriot and Poet. His lawless and tyrannical aristocracy 
 combined against him, and he was assassinated at Perth in 1437. 
 
 The chief poem written by King James is entitled ' ' The King's Quhair " 
 (i.e. Quire, or book). It is the story of his own life. The passage 
 quoted is that in which, looking down firom his prison tower, he sees the 
 beautiful lady who was destined to become his Queen. 
 
 THE KING'S QUHAIR. 
 
 The longe dayes and the nightis eke 
 
 I would bewail my fortune in this wise ; 
 
 For which, against distress comfort to seek, 
 
 My custom was on mornis for to rise. 
 
 Early as day : O happy exercise ! 
 
 By thee come I to joy out of torment : — 
 
 But now to purpose of my first entent. 
 
 Bewailing in my chamber thus alone, 
 Despaired of all joy and remedy, 
 For-tired of my thought, and woe-begone, 
 Unto the window gan I walk in hie ; 
 To see the world and folk that went forby ; 
 As, for the time (though I of mirthis food 
 Might have no more), to look it did me good. 
 
 Now there was made, fast by the tower's ^ wall, 
 
 A garden fair ; and, in the corners, set 
 
 An herbere ^ green, with wandis long and small 
 
 Railed about, and so with treis set ^ 
 
 Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet. 
 
 That lyf * was none, walking there forbye,* 
 
 That might within scarce any wight espie. 
 
 I In Windsor Castle. (2) An arbour. (3) Surrounded. 
 
 (4) Living person. (5) Beside. 
 
30 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 So thick the boughis and the leavis green 
 
 Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 
 
 And midst of every herbere, might be seen 
 
 The sharp, green, sweet juniper, 
 
 Growing so fair, with branches here and there. 
 
 That, as it seemed to a lyf without, 
 
 The boughis spread the arbour all about. 
 
 And on the smalle greene twistis sat 
 The little sweete nightingale, and sung 
 So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 
 Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 
 That all the gardens and the waUis rung 
 Right of their song ! and on the couple ' next 
 Of their sweet harmony : and to the text. 
 
 " Worshippe ye that lovers be this May, 
 
 For of your bliss the calends are begun ; 
 
 And sing with us, away ! winter away ! 
 
 Come summer, come ! the sweet season and sun ! 
 
 Awake, for shame ! that have your heavens won ! 
 
 And amorously lift up your headis all ! 
 
 Thank love, that list you to his merry call !" 
 
 And therewith, cast I down mine eye again 
 Where as ^ I saw walking under the tower 
 Full secretly, new comen her to pleyne,^ 
 "jThe fairest or the freshest young^ flower 
 That e'er I saw, methought, before that hour ; 
 For which sudden abate,* anon astart'' 
 The blood of all my body to my heart. 
 
 And though I stood abaisit tho a-lyte* 
 No wonder was ; for why.' my wittis all 
 Were so o'ercome with pleasaunce and delight. 
 Only through letting of mine eyfen fall, 
 That suddenly my heart became her thrall' 
 For ever of free will ; for of menkce 
 There was no token in her sweetfe face. 
 
 (i) Couple seems to be used as a musical term, like couplet. 
 
 (2) As seems used as a relative pronoun ; — whereas, at the place at which 
 
 (3) To play : to amuse herself. 
 
 (4) Abate, in the sense of the French verh abattre, to beat down ; an unexpected 
 stroke, 
 
 (5) Anon asiart—at once did start 
 
 (6) Abashed a little ; abash and abase from French aiaisser, to 1ow;.t ; tko (Sax 1 
 those or them. ' V -^ 
 
 17) Thrall — her slave. 
 
ROBER T HENR YSONE. 31 
 
 And in my head I drew right hastily ; 
 And aftfesoons ^ I leant it out again ; 
 And saw her walk that^ very womanly, 
 With no wight mo' but only woman twain. 
 Then 'gan I study in myself and sayn ; 
 " Ah, sweet, are ye a worldly creatiire ? 
 Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature ? 
 
 " Or are ye god Cupldis own princess, 
 And comen are to loose me out of band ? 
 Or are ye very Nature, the goddfess 
 That have depainted with your heavenly hand. 
 This garden full of flowers as they stand ? 
 What shall I think ? Alas ! what reverence 
 Shall I mester^ unto your excellence?" 
 
 And when she walked had, a little thraw * 
 Under the sweetfe, greenfe boughis bent, 
 Her fair fresh face, as white as ony snaw. 
 She turned has, and forth her wayis went. 
 But tho' ^ began mine axis^ and torm&nt, 
 To sene ■' her part, and follow I na might ; 
 Methought the day was turned into night. 
 
 'S>=«^ 
 
 ROBERT HENRYSONE. 
 
 Born 1425. Died 1495. 
 
 Henrysone was a monk of the Benedictine order, and fulfilled the 
 office of schoolmaster at Dunfermline. He is supposed to be the same 
 man whose signature is attached as notary-public to a charter granted in 
 1478, by the Abbot of Dunfermline. His "Fabils" were printed at 
 Edinburgh in 1631 ; his " Testament of Faire Cresside" in 1593. The 
 latter work was a continuation of Chaucer's "Troilus and Cresside. 
 His MSS. are preserved in the Scotch Advocate's Library. 
 
 (i) Eft, aft, after. Coleridge uses " eftsoons " in the " Ancient Mariner. " 
 (2) That— so. (3) Minister. (4) A short time, 
 
 (sl Then. (6) Anguish. (7) See. 
 
32 ROBERT HENRYSONE. 
 
 THE GARMENT OF GOOD LADIES.' 
 
 Would my good lady love me best, 
 
 And work after my will, 
 I should a garment goodliest 
 
 Gar make her body till.s 
 
 Of high honour should be her hood, 
 
 Upon her head to wear, 
 Garnish'd with governance so good, 
 
 Ne dreming should her deir.' 
 
 Her sark^ should be her body next, 
 
 Of chastity so white ; 
 With shame and dread together mixt, 
 
 The same should be perfyt.^ 
 
 Her kirtle should be of clean Constance, 
 
 Laced with lesum* love ; 
 The mailyeis' of continuance, 
 
 For never to remove. 
 
 Her gown should be of godliness. 
 
 Well ribbon'd with renown ; 
 Purfiled^ with pleasure in ilk place. 
 
 Furred with fine fashioun. 
 
 Her belt should be of benignity, 
 
 About her middle meet ; 
 Her mantle of humility 
 
 To thole' both wind and wet. 
 
 Her hat should be of fair having. 
 
 And her tippet of truth ; 
 Her patelet'" of good pausing,'' 
 
 Her hals-ribband of ruth.'^ 
 
 Her sleeves should be of esperance. 
 
 To keep her from despair ; 
 Her gloves of the good governance, 
 
 To hide her fingers fair. 
 
 'r, See Sir David Daliymple's Ancient Scottish Poems, 1770. 
 
 (2) Gar make — Get made to fit her body. 
 
 (3) Ne dreming — she should have no reason to fear censure, 
 
 (4) .Jar*— shift. (5) Perfyt—fSTka. (6) Zm«!k— loyal. 
 (7} Mailyeis (French) — the eyelet-holes for taking the lace. 
 
 (8) Pur/tled — bordered (Fx^nzb, purjile]. 
 
 (9) Thole — bear, resist (Saxon). ^ (10) Paielei—i\^^t. 
 
 (11) /'«7w//;,^— thinking, (i?) //.a/r— ribbon of truth, neck-ribbon of pity. 
 
ROBERT HENRYSONE. 33 
 
 Her shoen should be of sickerness,i 
 
 In sign that she not slide : 
 Her hose of honesty, I guess, 
 
 I should for her provide. 
 
 Would she put on this garment gay, 
 
 I durst swear by my seill,^ 
 That she. wore never green or gray^ 
 
 That set' her half so well. 
 
 THE ABBEY WALK. 
 
 Alone as I went up and down. 
 
 In an abbey, was fair, to see. 
 Thinking what consolation 
 
 Was bestunto adversity, 
 Oncase* I cast on side mine ee. 
 
 And saw this written, on a waU : 
 " Of what estate, Man, that thou be. 
 
 Obey, and thank thy God of « all ! " 
 
 Thy kingdom, and thy great empir,e, 
 
 Thy royalty, nor rich array. 
 Shall nought endure at thy desire ; 
 
 But, as the wind, will wend away. 
 Thy gold and all thy goodis gay. 
 
 When fortune list, will fra thee fall ; 
 Sin thou sic^ samples sees ilk day, 
 
 Obey^ and thank thy God of all !, 
 
 Though thou be blind, or have an halt, 
 
 Or in thy face deformed ill. 
 So it come not through thy default. 
 
 No man should thee reprief ' by skill. 
 Blame not thy Lord, so is His will ! 
 
 Spurn not thy foot against the wall ; 
 But with meek heart, and prayer still. 
 
 Obey, and thank thy God of all. 
 
 (l) Sickemess—SiCxrAoj, steadiness. (2) J"«7/— felicity. 
 
 (3) .Ju^— became her. (4) Omcoj^— accidentally. (5) Of—x.t. for. 
 
 (6) i'lV— such. (7) Se^rie/— reprove. 
 
 D 
 
34 WILLIAM DUNBAR. 
 
 God, of his justice, men ^ correct ; 
 
 And, of his mercy, pity have ; 
 He is a judge, to none suspect, 
 
 To punish sinful man and save. 
 Though thou be lord atour the laif,^ 
 
 And afterward made bound and thrall, 
 A poor beggar with scrip and staff — 
 
 Obey, and thank thy God of all. 
 
 This changing, and great variance 
 
 Of earthly statds, up and down, 
 Is not but casualty and chance, 
 
 (As some men says without reasown}, 
 But by the great provision 
 
 Of God above, that rule thee shall ! 
 Therefore, ever thou make thee boun ^ 
 
 To obey, and thank thy God of all. 
 
 In wealth be meek, heich •* not thyself' 
 
 Be glad in wilful poverty ; 
 Thy power and thy worldis pelf 
 
 Is nought but very vanity. 
 Remember Him that died on tree, 
 
 For thy sake tasted bitter gall : 
 Who heis ^ low hearts, and loweis hi. 
 
 Obey ; and thank thy God of all I 
 
 "«>*: 
 
 WILLIAM DUNBAR. 
 
 Born (circa) 1460. Z)ied\circa) 1520. 
 
 Very little is known of Dunbar's history. He was bom at Salton 
 East Lothian; and was entered among the " Determinantes " at St. 
 Salvator's College, St. Andrews, in 1475, and in 1479 took his degree 
 of M. A. He travelled as a Franciscan in France and England, and was 
 frequently employed abroad in the King's service. On his return to 
 Scotland he commemorated the marriage of the king, James IV with 
 
 (i)- MoH—mnst. (2) Atmir the /o;/— above the rest. (3) Bmn — readv 
 (4) Heieh^ciaXt. (5) /f«j— exalts. 
 
WILLIAM DUNBAR. 35 
 
 Margaret Tudor (daiighter of Henry VII. of England), in a poem entitled 
 "Tlie Thistle and tlie Rose." He seems to have been in the train of 
 the ambassadors who visited England to conclude the negotiations for 
 the marriage. In 1500, the Scotch king granted him a pension of ten 
 pounds, which was increased to twenty pounds in 1507, and to eighty in 
 1 5 10; and as such continued up to the time of the king's death at 
 Flodden, after which event Dunbar's name disappears from the treasurer's 
 books. In his poetry he records the fact of dancing in the queen's 
 chamber, firom which we may infer that he was received at Court. The 
 following admirable piece would do honour to any poet. 
 
 GLADNESS. 
 
 Be merry, man, and tak nought far in mynd,^ 
 
 The wavering of this wretched world of sorrow, 
 To God be humble, to thy friend be kind. 
 
 And with thy neighbours gladly lend and borrow : 
 His chance to-night, it may be thine to-morrow. 
 
 Be blythe in heart for ony aventiire, 
 For with wysane it hath been said aforrow ' 
 
 Without gladness availed no treasure. 
 
 Mak the gude cheer of it that God thee sends ; 
 
 For world's wrack' but weilfare nought avails, 
 Na gude is thine, save only but thou spends, 
 
 Remenant all, then bruikis but with bails,* 
 Seek to solkce when sadness thee assails, 
 
 In dolour lang thy life may not endure ; 
 Wherefore of comfort set up all thy sail, 
 
 Without gladness availes no treasure. 
 
 Follow on pity, flee trouble and debate ; 
 
 With famous folkis hold thy company.* 
 Be charitable and humble in thine estate, 
 
 For worldly honour lestis " but a cry ; 
 For trouble in earth tak no melkncholy : 
 
 Be rich in patience, if thou in goods be pool. 
 Who livis merry he livis mightily ; ^ 
 
 Without gladness availis no treasvire. 
 
 (1) Let nothing disturb your mind needlessly. • 
 
 (2) With wisdom it has been said before to-day. ^ ^ 
 
 (3) Worldly possession without happiness is of no value :— "but' i.e- without 
 
 (4) AH that remains you possess only with sorrow, 
 
 (5) Keep company with people of ^ood fame and reputation. ; 
 (& Continues only like a shout, which immediatelv dies away. 
 
 '7) " A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance ; but by sorrowof the heart the 
 spirit is broken."— jPriwerii xv. 13. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 
 GAWAIN DOUGLAS. 
 
 Born 1474. Died 1522. 
 
 Douglas was a son of Archibald, 5th Earl of Angus, who was 
 known by the nickname of " Bell-the-cat," from his joining in the 
 conspiracy against Lauder, the Minister of James III. of Scotland. 
 Gawain was born at Brechin in 1474. After receiving a liberal educa- 
 tion at St. Andrews, he became a priest, and was made provost of St 
 Giles's, Edinburgh. From thence he was promoted to the abbacy of 
 Aberbrotrick, through the favour of the Queen Mother, Margaret, who 
 subsequently to the fatal battle of Flodden, and the death of her hus- 
 band James IV, married the then Earl of Angus, nephew to Gawain 
 Douglas. Through the same high favour he was shortly afterwards 
 nominated to the Archbishopric of St. Andrews, but the Pope refused to 
 confirm the nomination. In 1515, however, he was consecrated Bishop 
 of Dunkeld, and despite the tempestuous times in which he lived, 
 devoted himself with great earnestness to the spiritual duties of his 
 diocese. But neither his sacred office, nor his high character, nor the 
 learning and devotion of his life were able to preserve him against the 
 enmity of the Regent Albany, who proscribed the whole family of 
 Douglas. The Bishop was compelled in 1521 to seek for safety in 
 flight, and betook himself to London, where he was kindly and liberally 
 treated by king Henry VIII. He fell a victim to the Plague, and died 
 in 1522. 
 
 The chief production of Bishop Douglas's pen is the translation of 
 Virgil's ^neid, in heroic measure. This was the first rendering of a 
 classic author into any British tongue. His poetry is greatly overlaid 
 with Latinized terms, and is as much as possible Celtic in its phrasing. 
 So far from wishing to please the English ear, he lamented his inca- 
 pacity to make his poetry exclusively Scotch. He wrote : — 
 
 *' And yet, forsooth, I see my busy pain, 
 (As that — I couth) to make it broad and plain ; 
 Keepaiid no Southern,! but our own language, 
 And speak as I leamt when I was a page. 
 Na yet sa clean all Southern I refuse 
 But some luord I pronounce as neighbours does I 
 Like as in Latin be Grew 2 wordis some 
 So me behoved, whilom {or be dumb) 
 Some bastard Latin, French, or English use 
 Where scant was Scotish : I had none other chtise." 
 
 The translation of the jEneid was commenced in January 15 12 and 
 concluded in July 1513. He also wrote the "Palace of Honour," a 
 work dedicated to James IV. 
 
 (i) Keepand no Sautkem—usmg no Southern, or English phrases. 
 \x) GrsK/— Greek. 
 
GAWAIN DOUGLAS. 37 
 
 [The following extract, descriptive of May, is taken from the Prologue 
 to the Twelfth Book of the ^neid.] 
 
 For to behold it was a gloire^ to see 
 
 The stabled windis, and the calmed sea, 
 
 The soft seas6n, the firmament serene, 
 
 The loun^ illumin'd air, and firth amene,' 
 
 The silver-scaled fishes on the grit * 
 
 O'er-thwart clear streams sprinkUland' for the heat : 
 
 With finnis shinand brown as cinnabar, 
 
 And chizzle taihs stirrand here and there. — 
 
 And lusty Flora did her bloomis spread 
 
 Under the feet of PhcEbus' sulyart° steed : 
 
 The swarded soil embrode' with selcouth^ hues, 
 
 Wood and forest obumbrate with the bews ! ' 
 
 Whose bUssfiil branches, portrayd on the ground, 
 
 With shadows sheen, show roches*" rubicund, 
 
 Tow'rs, turrets, kemells" and pinnacles high. 
 
 Of kirkis, castles, and ilk fair city ; 
 
 Stood painted every fane, phioU,^^ and stage, 
 
 Upon the plain ground by their own umbrage. 
 
 And blissfiil blossoms, in the bloomM sward, 
 Submits their heads in the young sun's safe-guard . 
 Ivy leaves rank o'erspread the barmkyn" wall ; 
 The bloomed hawthorn clad his pykis all :" 
 Forth of fresh burgeons,^* the wine-grapis ying 
 Endlong the trestles did on twistis hing.^° 
 The locked buttons on the gemmed trees 
 O'eispreadand leaves of nature's tapestries 
 Soft grassy verdure, after balmy showers, 
 - On curland stalkis smiland to their flowers, 
 Beholdand them so many divers hue, 
 Some pers,^^ some pale,^ some bumet,^' and some blue. 
 Some grey, some gules,™ some purpure, some sanguene, 
 Blanchet,^ or brown, fauch-yeUow^ many ane ; 
 
 (i) G&wif— glorious to see. (2) Loun — the clear air. 
 
 ■3) Firth amene — pleasant plain. (4) Grit — the giavel sand. 
 
 (5) SprinkiUaTtd—Azl^'az^oovX. (6) Sulyart—SiAsxy. 
 
 (7) EmbrocU — embroidered. (8) Seicouth-^T^x^^ unrommon (Saxon). 
 
 (91 ^£3KV— boughs. '10) Roches — rocks. 
 
 (11) JfiTTKfli— battlements (French fe^vWKrakr). (12) /"Ao?//— cupola (French,^»&)- 
 (13) Barm]cyn—m.aassA, tarme. (14) />*H^^ikes, points. 
 
 (15) .5B»x^i»f^-buds(French.) (16) Hixg—ians. 
 
 (17) /Vrj— light-blue(FxencU. (18) ^<i&— light-yellow (Frenchk 
 
 (19) Burnet — brown (French), hence our modem term "brunette." 
 
 (20) Guks — red. (21) Blanchet — white^ 
 '22) Fauch^elioua — fawn-coloured yellow. 
 
38 GA WAIN DO UGLAS. 
 
 Some, heavenly-colourd, in celestial gre,^ 
 Some watery hued, as the haw-waly' sea ; 
 And some, depaint in freezes, red and white. 
 Some bright as gold, with aureate leavis lite : " 
 The daisy did un-braid her crownel smale, 
 And every flow'r un-lapped in the dale. 
 The flower-de-luce forth spread his heavenly hue, 
 Flow'r damas,* and columbo black and blue. 
 Sire downis small on dandelion sprung, 
 The young green bloomed strawberry leaves among ■ 
 Gimp gilliflowers their own leaves un-shet :' 
 Fresh primrose, and the purpure violet. 
 The rose-knobbis tetand' forth their head, 
 Gan chip,^ and kyth * their vernal lippis red ; 
 
 Crisp scarlet leaves sheddand, baith' at anes. 
 Each fragrant smell amid from golden grains. 
 Heavenly lilies, with lockerand^" toppis white, 
 Opened, and shew their crestis redemite. i^ 
 The balmy vapour from their silver croppis'^ 
 Distilland wholesome suggar'd honey-droppis — 
 So that ilk burgeon, scion, herb, or flow'r 
 Wox^^ all embalmed of the fresh liquoiir 
 And bathed not did in dulce humours flete,^* 
 Whereof the beeis wrought their honey sweet. — 
 
 ***** 
 Forth of his palace royal issued Phoebus, 
 With golden crown and visage glorious, 
 Crisp hairs, bright as chrysolite or topkz. 
 For whose hue might nane behold his face, 
 The fiery sparkis brasting from his een 
 To purge the air and gilt the tender green. 
 
 ***** 
 Welcome, the lord of light, and lamp of day ! 
 Welcome, fosterer of tender herbis green ! 
 Welcome, quickener of fluriet flowers sheen ! 
 Welcome, support of every root and vane \^^ 
 Welcome, comfort of all kind fruit and grain .' 
 Welcome, the birdis bield upon the brier ! 
 
 ('! f^-^s sky-blue (French grU. (2) ^aa<-a/a/^--darked-waved. 
 
 rX %''f-y^'^^- . (4J Damns Jlcwer-43ia^k tax. (5) Un-sAet-mAMl. 
 6 /■^W-peepmg. (7) CAy>-break forth. {8 A>M-show. 
 
 (9) Baitk at aiies—hot\i aX ones. i\'\ /„,i„„_j ' , , 
 
 (14) FUte-&ai.t. (is) Fa««-sprout. '^' ^ ' 
 
STEPHEN HA WES. 39 
 
 Welcome, master and ruler of the year ! 
 Welcome, welfare of husbands* at the plews ! 
 Welcome, reparer of woods, trees, and bews I ^ 
 Welcome, depainter' of the bloomit meads ! 
 Welcome, the life of everything that spreads ! 
 
 STEPHEN HAWES. 
 
 Bom 1450. Died 1520. 
 
 Ha WES was a native of Suffolk, and was educated at Oxford. He 
 travelled not only in England and ScoUand, but in France and Italy, 
 and was excellently read in French and Italian poetry. His knowledge, 
 accomplishments, and great powers of conversation, recommended him 
 to Henry VII. before whom Hawes frequently recited the old English 
 poets, especially Lydgate. He was appointed Groom of the Chamber 
 to the king. 
 
 The principal work written by Hawes is entitled "Pastime of Plea- 
 sure." It was printed by Wynkyn de Worde in 1517, with woodcuts. 
 It is entided " The history of Grand Amoure and La bel Pucell, called 
 the Pastime of Pleasure, conteynyng the knowledge of the seven sciences, 
 and the course of man's lyfe in this worlde. Invented by Stephen 
 Hawes, Grome of ICyng Henry the Seventh, his chamber. " This poem 
 is of course an allegory ; and has all the quaintness and romantic action 
 popular in the isth and 1 6th centuries. Grand Amour goes through the 
 town of Doctrine., where he meets the Sciences, becomes enamoured of 
 La bel Pucell, whom he marries, and lives happily with her. Hawes 
 was the devoted admirer of Lydgate, and in his compositions copied 
 him. It has been said by some that he "improved upon him," but 
 such an assertion can hardly be sustained when the works of the two 
 poets are compared. Hawes may be regarded as the latest English poet 
 of mark, before the influences of the Reformation began to show them- 
 selves in literature, poetry, and the conduct of public men, on both sides 
 of the question. 
 
 PASTIME OF PLEASURE. 
 
 CANTO XXI. 
 
 So forth I went upon a craggy roche, 
 
 Unto the toure most wonderfully wrought 
 Of geometry, and as I did approche 
 
 (i) Husbands — husbandmen at the ploughs. fa) Bewt — Doughs. 
 
 (3) Depaititer — "de" used intensively. 
 
40 STEPHEN HA WES. 
 
 The altitude all in my mynd I sought 
 Sixe hundred fote as by my nomber thought, 
 Quadrant it was, and did heue and sette 
 At euery storme whan the wind was great. 
 
 Thus at the last I came into an hall 
 Hanged with arres riche and precious, 
 
 And euery window glased with cristall, 
 Lyke a place of plesure much solacious 
 Wyth knottes^ sixe-angled, gay and glorious, 
 
 The rofe did hange right high and pleasuntly 
 
 By geometry made right well and craftely. 
 
 In this marveylous hall replette with richesse 
 
 At the hye end she sat full wortely,^ 
 I came anone unto her great noblesse 
 
 And kneled adowne before her mekely ; 
 
 Madame, I sayd, ye werke full ryaUy,^ 
 I beseche you with all my diligence 
 To instructe me in your wonderfuU science 
 
 My science, she sayd, it is moost profitable 
 
 Unto astronomy, for I do it mesure. 
 In euerj- thing as it is probable 
 
 For I myselfe can ryght well discure' 
 ■ Of euery sterre which is sene in vre. 
 The meruaylous gretnes by my mesuring 
 For God made all at the begynnyng. 
 
 By good mesuring both the heyght and depnes 
 Of euery thing as I vnderstand, 
 
 The length and brede with al the greatnes 
 Of the firmament so compassing the land. 
 And who my cunning list^ to take in hand. 
 
 In his emyspery^ of hye or low degre 
 
 Nothing there is but it may measure be. 
 
 Though that it be from vs hye and farre 
 If ony thing fall we may it truely se. 
 
 As the Sonne or moone or ony other sterre, 
 We may therof know well the quantite 
 Who of this science dooth know the certaynte. 
 
 All mysteries might measure perfytely 
 ' For geometry doth shew it openly. 
 
 (i) ^woWffJ— garden-beds. (2) Wo>*^— worthily. (3) Ryally—ra\M.\ 
 
 (4) Z)H-f»r«— discover. (5) iif^— desire. (6) .Ewiyi^wy— hemisphere. 
 
STEPHEN HA WES. 41 
 
 Where that is mesure,* there is no lacking ; 
 
 Where that is mesure, hole is the body ; 
 Where that is mesure, good is the lining ; 
 
 Where that is mesure, wisdome is truely ; 
 
 Where that is mesure, werke is directly ; 
 Where that is mesure, natures werking ; 
 Nature increaseth by right good knowledging. 
 
 Where lacketh mesure. there is no plente ; 
 
 Where lacketh mesure, seke'' is the courage ; 
 Where lacketh mesure, ther is iniquite ; 
 
 Where lacketh mesure, there is great outrage ; 
 
 Where lacketh mesure, is none aduauntage ; 
 Where lacketh mesure, there is great glotony ; 
 Where lacketh mesure, is moost unhappy. 
 
 For there is no hye nor great estate 
 
 Without mesure can kepe his dignite, 
 It doth preserue him both early and late, 
 
 Keping him from the pytte of pouerte. 
 
 Mesiu-e is moderate to all bounte, 
 Gretely nedefiil for to take the charge, 
 Man for to rule that he go not at large. 
 
 Who loueth mesure can not do amys, 
 
 So perfitely is the high operacion ; 
 Among all thynges so wonderfuU it is 
 
 That it is full of all delectation. 
 
 And to vertue hath inclynacion, 
 Mesure also doth well exemplefy 
 The hasty dome to swage and modefy. 
 
 Without mesure, wo worth the jugement ; 
 
 Without mesure, wo worth the temperaunce ; 
 Without mesure, wo worth the punishment ; 
 
 Without mesure, wo worth the purueyance ; 
 
 Without mesure, wo worth the sustenaunce ; 
 Without mesure, wo worth the sadnes ; 
 And without mesure, wo worth the gladnes. 
 
 Mesure, mesuring, mesurably taketh ; 
 
 Mesure, mesuring, mesurably dooth all ; 
 Mesure, mesuring, mesurably maketh ; 
 
 Mesure has here the same ^sDification as the modem term " moderation." 
 (a) Seke — sick. 
 
42 STEPHEN HA WES. 
 
 Mesure, mesuring, mesurably guyde shall ; 
 
 Mesure, mesuring, mesurably doth call ; 
 Mesure, mesuring, to right hye pre-emynence ; 
 For always mesure is grounde of exellence. 
 
 Mesure mesureth mesure in eifecte ; 
 
 Mesure mesureth euery quantyte ; 
 Mesure mesureth all waye the aspecte ; 
 
 Mesure, mesureth, all in certayne ; 
 
 Mesure, mesureth, in the stabilitie ; 
 Mesure, mesuryth, in euery doutfuU case ; 
 And mesure is the lodesterre^ of all grace. 
 
 Affycte 2 of mesure is long continuance ; 
 
 Quantite without mesure is nought ; 
 Aspect of mesure denoydeth' repentaunce ; 
 
 Certayne wold weye all thinges thought ; 
 
 Stabilitie vpon a perfite grounde is wrought ; 
 Cace* doubtfull may yet a whyle abyde ; 
 Grace may in space a remedy prouyde. 
 
 Countenaunce causeth the promocyon ; 
 
 Naught anayleth seruice without attendance ; 
 Repentaunces is after all abusion' ; 
 
 Thought afore wolde haue had perseueraunce ; 
 
 Wrought how should be by dede the mischaunce : 
 Abyde nothing tyll thou doe the dede ; 
 Prouyde ° in mynde how thou mayst haue mede ; 
 
 Promocion groweth after good gouernaunce ; 
 
 Attendaunce doth attayne good fauour ; 
 Abusyon is causer of all variaunce ; 
 
 Perceyueraunce causeth great honour ; 
 
 Mischaunce alway is roote of dolour ; 
 Dede done, cannot be called agayne ; 
 Mede well rewarded both with joye and payne. 
 
 (i> LsdesUrre-Ao^istxr. (2) Ajffycfe—the effect. 
 
 (3) Denoydeih — denudetb, renders unnecessary. (4) Cace — a doubtful case. 
 
 (S) j4^«Wff— abuse. (6) Prouyde — provide. 
 
 'S'^S^ 
 
43 
 
 JOHN SKELTON. 
 
 Born (circa) 1460. Died 1529. 
 
 Skelton studied at Cambridge, if not at both Universities. He 
 began to write and publish between 1480 and 1490. He graduated at 
 Oxford before 1490, and took an " ad eimdem" degree at Cambridge in 
 1493. In 1498 he was unfortunately admitted to holy orders, and 
 somewhere about the same time was appointed by Henry VII. tutor 
 to the young Prince Henry, afterwards Henry VIII. For proficiency 
 and classical scholarship he was well fitted for the position. As a 
 scholar he obtained a great reputation, and was entitled by Erasmus 
 " Britannicanim literarum decus et lumen." His Latin verses were dis- 
 tinguished for their purity of diction and classical spirit. On the acces- 
 sion of Henry VIII. he was appointed Orator Royal, and also Poet 
 Laureate. The only ecclesiastical preferment he ever held was the 
 rectory of Diss, in Norfolk. He was a man singularly ill-suited for any 
 clerical duties, and gave himself up with far greater satisfaction to 
 satire and wild turbulent irregularity of living. Unfortunately he was 
 not content with lampooning his fellow-men on paper ; he carried his 
 buffoonery into the pulpit, and made that the place for his comic or 
 scurrilous invectives. He fell under the censure of the Bishop of Nor- 
 wich. Possibly he relied upon his ascendancy over the mind of his 
 royal pupil ; but, whatever was the reason, he persisted in his course. 
 He satirized the Mendicant Friars ; he gratified his taste next by malign- 
 ing in his verse the pure and upright Sir Thomas More ; then he 
 advanced to attacks upon the Lord Cardinal Wolsey, who had 
 been his friend and patron. In Wolsey, however, he found a different 
 object for'satire to Sir Thomas More. The Lord Cardinal was not to 
 be attacked with impunity. It was only by flight, and seeking sanctuary 
 at Westminster from Abbot Islip, that Skelton escaped punishment. 
 He remained in sanctuary until his death in 1529, and was buried in St. 
 Margaret's, Westminster. 
 
 It is hardly possible to believe that Skelton would have dared to 
 attack such distinguished men as More and Wolsey unless he knew it 
 pleased the humour of his royal master and quondam pupil. Indeed his 
 writings lead us to suspect that his tutorial talents may have exercised 
 an evil influence upon the mind of the pupil, who subsequently behaved 
 in such singular sympathy with the mind of the teacher. Skelton's 
 
44 JOHN SKELTON. 
 
 name ought not to be passed over in silence. His poetry is vei 
 commonly, as it has been called, the "jingling of a rhyming buffoon ; 
 but nevertheless it possesses life, and vivacious pictures of life. In th 
 respect it marks the awakening of the English muse from a somnolen 
 sluggish, style. In his recklessness he sweeps along, brawling an 
 foaming like a mountain streamlet. His poetry is significant of a tin 
 of storm. 
 
 The following extracts are from his attacks upon Sir Thomas Moi 
 and Cardinal Wolsey. Despite the bitterness of his invective we ha\ 
 a life-Uke presentation of the great Cardinal, and in introducing tli 
 poetry of Skelton and Roye into this work, it is to be observed that th 
 is probably the first occasion in which they have been presented to th 
 public in any volume of selections or quotations from the poets. Wh 
 they have hitherto been generally-^perhaps universally — overlooked it ; 
 hard to say. They certainly do no credit to their period, for they wet 
 both renegade priests who thought they saw their advantage in abusin 
 their own order, and pandering to the tastes of the king and the passion 
 of the day. But it is precisely because they do reflect — and that in kee 
 and vivid satire — a particular time, and show us the men of the time 
 and expose the feelings of the time, that they ought to be made knov/i 
 to the general reader, and no longer remain " curiosities of literature ' 
 to a few learned book-worms. 
 
 ON TYME. 
 
 Ye may here now, in this ryme. 
 How euery thing must haue a tyme. 
 
 Tyme is a thing that no man can resyst ; 
 
 Tyme is trancytory and irreuocable ; 
 Who sayeth the contrary, tyme passeth as hym lyst, 
 
 Tyme must be taken in season couenable ; 
 
 Take tyme when tyme is, for tyme is ay mutable"; 
 All thynge hath tyme, who can for it prouyde ; 
 Byde for tyme who wyU, for tyme wyll no man byde. 
 
 Tyme to be sad, and tyme to play and sporte ; 
 
 Tyme to take rest by way of recreacion ; 
 Tyme to study, and tyme to use comfort ; 
 
 Tyme of pleasure, and tyme of consolation ; 
 
 Thus tyme hath his tyme of diuers maner facion : 
 Tyme for to eate and drynke for thy repast ; 
 Tyme to be lyberall, and tyme to make no wast. 
 
JOHN SK ELTON. 45 
 
 Tyme to trauell, and tyme for to rest ; 
 
 Tyme for to speake, and tyme to hold thy pease ; 
 Tyme would be vsed when tyme is best ; 
 
 Tyme to begyn, and tyme for to cease ; 
 
 And when tyme is, [to] put thyselfe in prease ; 
 And when tyme is, to holde thyselfe abacke 
 For tyme well spent can neuer haue lacke. 
 
 The rotys^ take theyr sap in tyme of vere j^ 
 In tyme of somer flowres fresh and grene ; 
 
 In tyme of haniest men theyr com shere ; 
 
 In tyme of wynter the north wynde waxeth kene, . 
 
 So bytterly bytynge the flowres be not sene ; 
 
 The Kalendis of Janus, wyth hys frostes hore. 
 
 That tyme is when people must lyue vpon store. 
 
 WHY COME YE NAT TO COURT? 
 
 ***** 
 
 It is a wonders warke : 
 
 They shote all at one marke, 
 
 At the Cardynals hat, 
 
 They shote aU at that ; 
 
 Oute of thejfre stronge townes 
 
 They shote at him with crownes ; 
 
 With crownes of golde emblased 
 
 They make him so amased. 
 
 And his eyen so dased. 
 
 That he ne se can 
 
 To know God nor man. 
 
 He is set so hye 
 
 In his ierarchy 
 
 Of firantycke frenesy 
 
 And folysshe fantasy. 
 
 That in the Chambre of Starres ^ 
 
 All maters there he marres ; 
 
 Ji) Rotys—rot^s. I'z) ffry— spring-time. . 
 
 (3) ChaTttbre of Starres— Axibmaa^, ar'vaiamoMS Star-Oiamber, which continued 
 a tribunal of terror to the time of Charles I. It took its name from the Stana, or 
 Jewish covenants deposited in that room by order of Richard I. The Court ol 
 Star-Chamberwas instituted in the second year of Henry VII. (14B7), and was finaUy 
 abolished in the sixteenth year of Charles I. (1641). The Chancellor had the casting 
 vote. In that capacity Wolsey presided, and " clapped his rod upon the board. 
 
46 JOHN SK ELTON. 
 
 Clappynge his rod on the horde, 
 
 No man dare speke a worde, 
 
 For he hath all the sayenge 
 
 Without any renayenge ; 
 
 He rolleth in his recordes, 
 
 He sayth, How saye ye, my lordes ? 
 
 Is not my reason good ? 
 
 Good euyn, good Robin Hood ! 
 
 Some say yes, and some 
 
 Syt styll as they were dom : "^ 
 
 Thus thwartyng ouer thom, 
 
 He ruleth all the roste. 
 
 With braggynge and with host ; 
 
 Borne up on euery syde 
 
 With pompe and with pryde. 
 
 With, trompe vp, AUeluya ! 
 
 For dame Philargerya 
 
 Hathe so his herte in holde, 
 
 He loueth nothynge but golde ; 
 
 Adew, Philosophia ! 
 Adew, Theologia ! 
 Welcome, Dame Simonia, 
 With Dame Castrimergia, 
 To drinke and for to eate 
 Swete ypocras and swete meate ! 
 To kepe his flesshe chast, 
 In Lent for a repast, 
 He eateth capons stewed, 
 Fesaunt and partriche mewed, 
 Hennes, checkynges and pygges. 
 # * * * 
 
 Ones yet agayne 
 Of you I would -frayne, 
 Why come ye nat to court? ■ 
 To whyche court ? 
 To the Kynges court 
 Or to Hampton Court ? — 
 Nay to the Kynges court : 
 The Kynges courte 
 Eliulde haue the excellence ; 
 
 ti) Dom — dumb. 
 
JOHN SK ELTON. 47 
 
 But Hampton Court 
 
 Hath the preemynence, 
 
 And Yorkes Place, 
 
 With my lordes grace, 
 
 To whose magnyfycence 
 
 Is all the conflewence. 
 
 Sutys and supply cacyons 
 
 Embassades of all nacyons. 
 
 Strawe for lawe canon. 
 
 Or for the lawe common, 
 
 Or for lawe cyuyll ! 
 
 It shall be as he wyll : 
 
 Stop at law sancrete, 
 
 An abstract or a concrete ? 
 
 Be it soure or be it swete. 
 
 His wysdome is so dyscrete 
 
 That in a fume or an hete, 
 
 Wardeyne of the FJeete 
 
 Sete hym fast by the fete \ 
 
 And of his royall powre 
 
 Whan hym lyst to lowre 
 
 Than haue him to the Towre, 
 
 Saunz aulter remedy. 
 
 Haue hym forthe by and by 
 
 To the Marshalsy. 
 
 Or to the Kynges Benche ! 
 
 He dyggeth so in the trenche 
 
 Of the court royall, 
 
 That he ruleth them all. 
 
 So he dothe undermynde. 
 
 And such sleyghts dothe fynde, 
 
 That the Kynges mynde 
 
 By hym is subuerted, 
 
 And so streatly coarted. 
 
 In credensynge his tales, 
 
 That all is but nutshales 
 
 That any other sayth ; 
 
 He hath in hym suche fayth. 
 
 Now all this myght be 
 But all he bringeth to nought, 
 Suffred and taken in gre, 
 If that that he wrought 
 To any good ende were brought ; 
 By God, that me dere bought ! 
 
48 JOHN SK ELTON. 
 
 He bereth the Kyng on hand, 
 That he may pyll his lande, 
 To make his cofers ryche ; 
 But he laythe all in the dyche, 
 And vseth suche abusyoun, 
 All commeth to confusyon. 
 Perceyue the cause why, 
 To tell the trouth playnly. 
 He is so ambicyous. 
 So shamles and so vicyous, 
 And so supersticyous, 
 And so much obliyuous 
 From whens that he came 
 That he falleth into a caeciam, 
 Whiche, truly to espresse, 
 Is a forgetfulnesse. 
 Or wylfuU blyndnesse, 
 Wherewith the Sodomites 
 Lost theyr inward syghtes, 
 The Gommoryans also 
 Were brought to deadly wo, 
 As Scrypture recordis : 
 A caecitate cordis. 
 In the Latyne synge we. 
 Libera nos, Doniine ! 
 
 But this madde Amalecke, 
 Lyke to a Mamalek, 
 He regardeth lordes 
 No more than potshordes ; 
 He is in suche elacyon 
 Of his exaltacyon, 
 And the supportacyon 
 Of our souerayne lorde 
 That, God to recorde, 
 He ruleth all at wyll, 
 Without reason or skyll, 
 How be it the primordyall 
 Of his wretched originall 
 And his base progeny. 
 And his gresy genealogy, 
 He came of the sank royall 
 That was cast out of a bochers stall. 
 
JOHN SK ELTON. ,49 
 
 THE DEAD MAN'S HEAD. 
 
 [Skelton Laureat uppon a Deed man's Hed that was sent to hym 
 from an Honorable jentil woman for a token, Deuysyd this gostly 
 meditacion in Englysh, coventable in sentence comendable, lament- 
 able, lacrimable, profitable for the soule.] 
 
 Yotire vgly tokyn 
 My mynd hath brokyn, 
 From worldly lust. 
 For I have dyscust 
 We are but dust, 
 And dy we must. 
 
 It is generall 
 To be mortall. 
 I have well espyde 
 No mail may hym hyde : 
 With sinnews wyderyd 
 From deth holow eyed. 
 With bonys shyderyd, 
 With hys worme etyn maw, 
 And his gastly jaw. 
 Gaspyng asyde, 
 Nakyd of hyde, 
 Neyther flesh nor fell. 
 
 Then by my councell 
 
 Loke that ye spel 
 
 Well thys gospell. 
 
 For when so we dwell, 
 
 Deth will us quell, 
 
 And with us mell. 
 For all our pamperde paunchis 
 Ther may no fraunchys 
 For worldly blys, 
 Redeme vs from this, 
 Our days be daytyd, 
 To be check matyd, 
 With drawttys of deth, 
 Stopping oure breth, 
 Oure eyen synking, 
 Oure bodys stynkyng, 
 E 
 
5o JOHN SK ELTON. 
 
 Oure gummys grynnyng, 
 Oure soulys brynnyng. 
 To whom then shall we sew 
 For to have reskew, 
 Bvt to sweet Jesu, 
 On vs then for to rew. 
 O, goodly child 
 Of Mary mylde, 
 Then be our shylde, 
 That we be not exyld, 
 To the dyre dale 
 Of botomles bale, 
 Nor to the lake 
 Of fendys blake. 
 But graunt vs grace 
 To se thy face, 
 And to purchace, 
 Thyne heuenly ^Jaee, 
 And thy palace, 
 Full of solace, 
 Above the^ky, 
 That is so hy. Eternally, 
 To behold and se 
 The Trynyte. Amen. 
 
 Mirres Vous Y. 
 
 ON SIR THOMAS MORE. 
 
 But now we have a knight. 
 
 All armfed for to fight, 
 
 To put the truth to iMght, 
 
 By Bow-bell policy ; 
 
 With his poetry. 
 
 And his sophistry. 
 
 To mock and make a lie, 
 
 "With " quoth he, and- quoth I," 
 
 And his apology 
 
 Made for the prelacy ; 
 
 Their hugy pomp and pride, 
 
 To colour and to hide. 
 
 He maketh no nobbes. 
 
 But with his dialogues, 
 
 To prove our prelates god;;. 
 
JOHN SK ELTON. 51 
 
 And lajinen very lobbes, 
 Beating them with bobbes; 
 And with their own rods. 
 Thus he taketh pain 
 To fable and to feign, 
 Their mischief to maintain, 
 And to have them reign, 
 Over hill and plain ; 
 Yea, over heaven and hell. 
 And where as spirits dwell. 
 In purgatory's holes, 
 With hot fire and coals. 
 To sing for silly souls. 
 With a supplication. 
 And a confutation. 
 Without replication. 
 Having delectation, 
 To make exclamation, 
 By way of declamation, 
 In his debellation, 
 With a popish fashion. 
 To subvert our nation. 
 But this dawcock doctor, 
 And piu-gatory proctor, 
 Waketh now for wages ; 
 And aa a man that rages. 
 Or overcome with ages, 
 Disputeth per ambages, 
 To help these parasites. 
 And naughty hypocrites. 
 With legends of lies, 
 Feigned fantasies, 
 And very vanities. 
 Called verities. 
 Unwritten and unknown. 
 But as they be blown, 
 From liar to liar, 
 Invented by a frier. 
 In magnet copicl 
 Brought out of Utopia 
 Unto the maid of Kent, 
 Now from the devil sent, 
 A virgin fair and gent. 
 That hath our eyes yblent. 
 £ 2 
 
WILLIAM ROYE. 
 
 Born (circa) 1490. Died (circa) 1531-2-3. 
 
 William Roye was an ecclesiastic. Of his parentage, or time of 
 birth, we have no evidence. The first knowledge we possess concerning 
 him is, that he was a Friar Observant of the Franciscan Order, at 
 Greenwich. Belonging to Greenwich, and living close to the palace 
 where Henry VIII. constantly kept his court — where his connexion with 
 Anne Boleyn was first secretly promoted, to the wrong and insult of his 
 Queen, Katharine of Arragon — ^where the power and the decline from 
 power of Cardinal Wolsey was most clearly exhibited — Roye had 
 opportunities of observation and of information which, when he could 
 make a market of his wares, he did not scruple to try and sell to 
 advantage. He was one of those shrewd, unprincipled men, who 
 (to use an expressive vulgar phrase) knew " which way the wind blows. " 
 He seems, however, to have been too eager for the. blast ; and to avoid 
 the chastisement which 'his ribaldry deserved, he managed to escape 
 abroad through the assistance of Humphrey Mummuth, Alderman of 
 London. Having made his way to Hamburg about 1523— 1524, he 
 introduced himself to Tyndale, who was then engaged upon his transla- 
 tion of the New Testament. Tynd41e was only too glad to secure the 
 services of an Englishman who could aid him "both to vmte, and 
 compare the texts together." A man of Tyndale's character and 
 religious feeling was not long in taking a proper, measure of Roye's 
 character. It is not his enemy, but the man whom he ought to have 
 made his best friend, that has portrayed him. He was, says Tyndale, a 
 writer of " railing rhymes." In his preface to the Parable of the Wicked 
 Mammon, Tyndale speaks of Roye — " a man somewhat crafty when 
 he commeth unto new acquayntance, and before he be through'. knowne, 
 and namelly, when all is spent, came unto me, and oifred me his helpe. 
 As long as he had no mony, somwhat I could rule hym, but as soone as 
 he had gotten hym mony he became lyke hymselfe agayn." Tyndale 
 bore with him until his translation was ended : " When that was ended 
 I toke my leave and bade hym farewell for our two lyves, and, as men 
 say, * a day longer.'* ^^ 
 
 One Jerome, a brother of the Order at Greenwich, happened to pass 
 through Worms, where Tyndale then was, on his road to Argentine 
 (Strasburg). Tyndale "exhorted hym to beware of hym, and to walke 
 quietly." "Roye's tongue is aible itot only to make fooles starke 
 
WILLIAM ROVE. 53 
 
 mad, but also to deceave the wisest, that is— at the first sight, and 
 acquaintance." Tyndale dismissed Roye from his service as soon as he 
 could conveniently get rid of him ; but not before it was time, for his 
 association with the renegade priest only served to bring discredit upon 
 Tyndale. 
 
 Roye's taste for " raihng rhymes " seems to have been known to 
 Tyndale. He pursued it after his dismissal, and from translating 
 Scripture, gave himself up to writing the most bitter satires upon 
 Religion — the offices of Religion — and especially upon the Cardinal 
 Wolsey. He had too good reason to know that scurrility would be 
 acceptable in high quarters in England., His chief satire was published 
 under the title — 
 
 " Rede me and be nott wrothe, 
 For I saye no thynge but trothe. '' 
 
 It was published about 1526-1527, and has been pronounced " one of 
 the most extraordinary satires of any age." In 1529, Sir Thomas More 
 speaks of Roye as an "Apostate," and denounces this satire as it 
 deserves, calling it " a blasphemous booke. " Cardinal Wolsey was so 
 deeply offended by its publication, that he endeavoured to buy up the 
 whole edition. Consequently copies of it are very scarce. A second 
 edition appeared, but it was very much modified. Roye's " Rhymes " 
 were at first attributed to Tyndale, which made him feel keenly the 
 necessity of repudiating both the rhymes and their author. In the 
 margin of Bishop Tunstall's prohibition of Tyndale's Testament, there 
 is an entry "admonitio ad tradendum libros- Novi Testamenti in 
 idiomati Vulgari translatos per fratrem Augustinensem Lutherum et ejus 
 ministros, viz. Willielmum Tyndale, et fratrem Willielmum Roy, &c. &c. 
 &c. &c. . . . Prsefatus frater Roy. A.D, mdxxxi. eat combustus in 
 Portugallia ob haeresum ut dicebatur." It appears, however, that it 
 was only "ut dicebatur," i.e. a rumour at the time, for Roye was seen 
 in London the following year. Nothing more is known of him. He 
 perished as he deserved, in obscurity. Roye, like Skelton, is passed 
 over in all selections of the British Poets which have hitherto been 
 made. Whether this has arisen from considering them unimportant, or 
 whether the students of our old poets have been ashamed of such 
 " representative men " of a period, it need not be inquired here. How- 
 ever much we may despise such men, they are essentially the Poets of 
 the period of the Reformation. They express the thought and feeling 
 that was "popular" at the moment, and that was especially acceptable 
 to Henry VIII. In the nineteenth century there can be no question 
 that the cause they advocated gained nothing by such "railing" 
 advocacy. Tyndale was' thoroughly ashamed of ever having been 
 connected with such a foul-mouthed, blasphemous man as Roye. And 
 well he might. His poetry can now only be reached by the Antiquarian. 
 It has no place in modem literature ; but it ought not to be pushed 
 aside and hidden— however much its character deserves it— because 
 it is indicative of a certain tone and fashion, in the highest society in 
 
S4 WILLIAM ROVE. 
 
 England, when, to promote a particular object, even a king could receive 
 into his palace, and read with zest, productions Which any decent- 
 minded Englishman of the present day could only regard with disgust. 
 
 Despite this, Roye was a clever man, and a keen satirist. His poem 
 "Rede me," &c., is a marvellous production, and it makes the reader 
 regret its author had not lived in a better atmosphere, at a better time, 
 and used his talents to a better purpose. 
 
 The following quotation from "Rede me," gives a vivid picture 
 of Cardinal Wolsey in the Star Chamber, and as he went upon one of 
 his progresses. The description of the Cardinal mounted, with his 
 train of attendants, is certainly the most striking piece of "word- 
 painting " of the period, that exists in our language, realizing Wolsey 
 in the zenith of his power. 
 
 *' Rede me and be nott wrothe, 
 For I saye no thynge but troths. " 
 
 A BREFE DIALOGE 
 
 BETWEEN TWO PRESTES SERVAUNTS, NAMED WATKYN 
 AND JEFFRAYE. 
 
 Jeffraye. — Fyrst, as I sayde, there is a Cardinall, 
 Which is the Ruler principall, 
 Through the realme in every parte. 
 
 Watkyn. — Have they not in Englande a K3mge ? 
 
 Jeff. — Alas, mane, speake not of that thynge, 
 For it goeth to my verye harte ; 
 And I shall shewe the a cause whye 
 There is no Prynce under the skye 
 That to compare with hym is able. 
 
 ***** 
 Notwithstandynge for all this, 
 By the Cardinall ruled he is, 
 To the distayninge of his honoure. 
 
 Wat. — Doethe he folowe the Cardinall's intente? 
 
 Jeff. — Yee, and that the Comones repente, 
 With many a wepynge teare. 
 
 Wat. — The Cardinall vexeth theym than ? 
 
 Jeff. — Alas, sens Englande fyrst began, 
 Was never soch a tyrante theare. 
 He hath bene so intollerable. 
 That povre Comens with their wyves. 
 In maner are weary of their lyves, 
 To see the londe so miserable. 
 
WILLIAM RO YE 
 
 Through all the londe he caused perjurj'j 
 And afterwarde toke awaye their money. 
 Procedynge most tyrannously, 
 The povre people nedy and bare. 
 His cruell herte wolde not spare,, 
 Leavynge theym in greate misery. 
 Inasmuch that for lacke of fode, 
 Creatures bought with Christe's blode, 
 Were fayne to dye in petous cas. 
 Also, a right noble Prince of fame, 
 Henry, the Ducke of Buekyngame, 
 He caused to dye ; ailas ! alas ! 
 The goodes that he thus gaddered, 
 Wretchedly he hath scattered, 
 In causes nothynge expedient. 
 To make wyndowes, walles, and dores, 
 A great parte thereof is spent. 
 
 Wat». — Lett all this pas, I praye the hertely, 
 And shewe me somwhat seriously, 
 Of his spretuall magnificence ? 
 
 Jeff. — Fyrst, he hath a tytle of S. Cecile, 
 And is a Legate of Latere, 
 A dignitie of hye premynence. 
 He hetli bisshopryckes two or three, 
 With the Pope's fuU authorite 
 In cases of dispensacion. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Wat. — Doth he then use on niuks to ryde ? 
 
 Jeff. — Ye ! and that with so shamfuH prj'de, 
 That to tell it is not possible ; 
 More lyke a god celestiall, 
 Than any creature mortal], 
 With worldly pompe incredible. 
 Before hym rydeth two prestes stronge, 
 And they beare two crosses right longe, 
 Gapynge in every man's face. 
 After theym folowe two layemen secular, 
 And eache of theym holdynge a pillar, 
 In their hondes, steade of a mace. 
 Then foloweth my lorde on his mule, 
 Trapped with golde under her cule. 
 In every poynt most curiously. 
 On eache syde, a poll-axe 'is borne 
 Which in none wether use are worn. 
 
 ?5 
 
S6 WILLIAM ROYE. 
 
 Pretendynge some hid mistery. 
 
 Then hath he servaunte fyve or six score, 
 
 Some behynde, and some before, 
 
 A marvelous great company : 
 
 Of which are lordes and gentlemen, 
 
 With many gromes and yemen. 
 
 And also knaves amonge. 
 
 Thus daily he procedeth forthe, 
 
 And men must take it at worthe. 
 
 Whether he do right or wronge. 
 
 A grett carle he is, and a fatt, 
 
 Wearynge on his hed a red hatt, 
 
 Procur'd with angels' subsidy ; 
 
 And, as they say, in tyme of rayne, 
 
 Fower of his gentlemen are fayne 
 
 To holde over it a cannopy. 
 
 Besyde this, to tell thee more newes, 
 
 He hath a payre of costly shewes,^ 
 
 Which sildom touche eny grownde ; 
 
 They are so goodly and curious. 
 
 All of golde and stones precious, 
 
 Costynge many a thousande pownde. 
 
 Wat. — ^And who did for thes shewes paye ? 
 
 Jeff. — Truly, many a riche abbaye. 
 To be easied of his visitacion. 
 
 Wat. — Doth he in his own persona visit ? 
 
 Jeff. — No ; another for hym doth it. 
 That can skyll of the occupacion ; 
 A felowe nether wyse nor sadde. 
 But he was never yett full madde. 
 Though he be frantyke and more. 
 Doctor Alyn he is named. 
 One that to lye is not asshamed, 
 If 'he spye advantage therefore. 
 
 Wat. — Are soche with hym in eny pryce ? 
 
 Jeff. — Ye, for they do all his advyce, 
 Whether it be wronge or right. 
 
 Wat.— Hath the Cardinall eny gay mansion ? 
 
 Jeff. — Grett palaces without compareson. 
 Most glorious of outwarde sight, 
 And within decked poynt device, 
 More lyke unto a paradyce 
 Then an erthly habitacion. 
 
 (i) Shelves — shoes. 
 
S/H THOMAS MORE $7 
 
 Wat. — He cometh then of some noble stocke ? 
 
 Jeff. — His father coulde snatche a bullock — 
 A butcher by his occupacion. 
 
 Wat. — Howe cam he unto this glory ? 
 
 Jeff. — Plaguly, by the devil's policy, 
 As it is every wheare sayde. 
 
 Wat. — ^Are the states here with all content } 
 
 Jeff. — ^Yf they speake aught they are shent, 
 Wherefore I tell the they are a frayde. 
 
 Wat. — What abstinence useth he to take .'' 
 
 Jeff. — In Lent all fysshe he doth forsake ; 
 Fedde with partridges and plovers. 
 
 Wat. — He leadeth then a Lutheran's lyfe ? 
 
 Jeff. — O, naye ; for he hath no wyfe. 
 ***** 
 He favoureth lytell noble lynage, 
 Takynge a-way their heritage, 
 Rather then to sett theym forwardes. 
 He breaketh men's testamentes, 
 And contrary to their intentes, 
 At his owne mynde and pleasure. 
 He wil be nedes their executours, 
 Rychely to encreace his treasoure. 
 Many a goode lady's ioynter ' 
 He engrosseth up into his cofer, 
 Of the which some here to name, 
 I reckon the Countes of Darby, 
 With the Countes of Salsbury, 
 Also, the Duches of Buckyngame. 
 
 'ii^ 
 
 SIR THOMAS MORE. 
 
 Born 1480. Executed 1535. 
 
 After reading the poetry of Skelton and of Roye, the student will 
 naturally ask — " Are these worthless satirists the only representatives of 
 the Poets in the reign of Heniy VIII, ? Could the rising spirit of the 
 Reformation boast no purer and better advocates than such men as 
 these ? " We look in vain for any poet to do honour to those feverish 
 times, unless we turn to the party which was in opposition to the King's 
 
58 SIR THOMAS MORE. 
 
 divorce, and remained attached to the faith Henry determined to strip 
 of its wealth and power. Ben Jonson proclaimed Sir Thomas More 
 one of the models of English literature. That he was a model English- 
 man none will dispute : that he was a distinguished orator and prose 
 writer is also true ; but that he was a model Poet is perhaps more than 
 Jonson intended to assert. Nevertheless he is the only Poet [if such he 
 can with propriety be called] who flourished in the reign of Henry VUI, 
 and furnished history with a contrast in character, mind, and bearing to 
 such creatures as Skelton and Roye. 
 
 Sir Thomas More was born in Milk Street, in the City, 1480, during 
 the reign of Edward IV. His father. Sir John More, was one of the 
 Justices of the Ct)urt of King's Bench. Sir Thomas was educated at 
 St. Anthony's School, in Threadneedle Street, under Nicholas Hart. 
 When thirteen, he was placed in the household of Cardinal Morton, 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, it being usual in those times for youths to 
 pass a portion of their early years in the houses and service of their 
 superiors, whereby they derived great profit from intercourse with them. 
 The Cardinal Archbishop took great delight in young More's wit. 
 He remarked of him, " This child here waiting at the table, whosoever 
 shall live to see it, shall prove a marvellous man." At the Archbishop's 
 More first met Dean Colet, who used to say of him, "there was but 
 one wit in England, and that was young Thomas More ! " More pro- 
 ceeded to Oxford in 1497, where he occupied rooms in St. Mary's Hall, 
 while he studied at Canterbury College. He was at the University 
 when the study of the Greek language was revived, and the Academic 
 war was still waged against its introduction. Grocyn, the first Professor 
 of Greek in Oxford, was More's tutor, and taught-him the language ; at 
 the same period Linacre (the founder of the College of Physicians) and 
 the famous Erasmus, studied under Grocyn (1497- 1498). Erasmus 
 (setat. 30) and More (17) founded at Oxford that firm friendship which 
 only ended with death. Having completed his time at the University, 
 More applied himself to the learning of the Law. He studied at 
 New Inn, and Lincoln's Inn. He was appointed Reader at Fumival's 
 Inn ; and lectured there for three years. He also lectured at St. 
 Lavnrence's Church, Old Jewry, on St. Augustine's work " De civitate 
 Dei." Living in the neighbourhood of the Carthusian monastery (the 
 Charterhouse) More exhibited for a period a strong predilection to- 
 wards monastic life ; but having become acquainted with an Essex 
 family, named Colt, he married the eldest daughter, Jane. " His mind 
 served him to the second daughter for that he thought her fairest ; yet 
 when he considered that it would be great grief to the eldest to see her 
 younger sister preferred before her in marriage, he then of a certain 
 pity framed his fancy toward her, and soon after married her." The 
 marriage was very happy, but was not of long continuance. Jane 
 Colt died early, leaving a son and two daughters. Within two or 
 three years More married Alice Middleton, a widow, "seven years 
 older than himself, and not handsome ! " He seems to have married 
 
SIR THOMAS MORE. 59 
 
 her from motives of prudence and discretion, and as a manager for his 
 household. Erasmus says she was " a keen and watchful manager, with 
 whom More lived on terms of as much respect and kindness as if she 
 had been fair and young." " No husband ever gained so much obedience 
 from a wife by authority and severity, as More won by gentleness and 
 pleasantry." " His custom was daily (besides his private prayers with 
 his children) to say the seven psalms, the litany, and the suffrages 
 following : so was his guise with his wife, children, and household, 
 nightly, before he went to bed, to go to his thapel, and there, on his 
 knees, ordinarily to say certain psalms and collects with them." His 
 house was " a school and exercise bf the Christian religion. All its 
 inhabitants, male and female, applied their leisure to liberal studies and 
 profitable reading, although piety was their first care. No wrangling, 
 no angry word, was heard in it ; no one was idle ; every one did his 
 duty with alacrity, and not withotit a temperate cheerfulness." 
 
 He was appointed to a judicial office in the city of London' — that of 
 one of the Under-SherifFs. The Under-Sherifr was then a Judge of the 
 Sheriff's Court. Moi'e's practice became so considerable, that about 
 the accession of Henry VIII. (1509) his income amounted to^400 per 
 annum — a sum eqiiivalent to ^5,000 a year now-a-days. He had been 
 returned to Parliament towards the end of the reign of Heiiry VII. and 
 had given great offence by opposing the amount of dowry proposed to be 
 settled on the Princess Margaret, then about to marry King James IV. 
 of Scotland (1503). The King revenged himself by fastening a quarrel 
 upon Mbre's father, who was thrown into the Tower, and only liberated 
 upon the son paying a fine of ;f 100. More's presence in Parliament 
 when only twenty-three years of age is to be noted, because he was the 
 first person who rose to fame as an Orator in the House of Commons. 
 Parliamentary eloquence may be said to have had its birth in him ; and 
 as in the case of WUliam Pitt, this Father of Legislative Debate ex- 
 hibited his power at a singularly early period of life. 
 
 More's diplomatic career commenced in the year 1514, when he was 
 sent upon a mission to Bruges, in Company with Tunstall, then Master 
 of the Rolls,, and subsequently Bishop of Durham. In 1516 he was 
 made a Privy Councillor ; and about that date commenced his intimacj 
 with Henry VIII, who (as Erasmus says) drew him into Court-life, 
 away from his own domestic privacy, to which he so fondly clung. 
 The King would scarcely suffer his absence. He continued in his 
 singular favour and trusty service twenty years. Into his retirement at 
 Chelsea the King would follow him. " He used of a particular love to 
 come of a sudden to Chelsea, and, leaning on his shoulder, to talk with 
 him of secret counsel in his garden, yea, and to dine with him upon no 
 inviting." "In the moments of Henry's partiality (says Sir James 
 Mackintosh), the'sagacity of More was not .so utterly blinded that he 
 did not in some degree penetrate into the true character of these caresses 
 from a beast of prey." In 1518, More's "Utopia" was published at 
 Basle, by Erasmus' friend, Froben. The book was received with the. 
 
6o S/I{ THOMAS MORE. 
 
 utmost favour in France and Germany. More held the office of Under- 
 Sheriff until July 23rd, 1519. In 1521, he was created Treasurer of 
 the Exchequer, and knighted. Between 15 1 7 and 1522 he was em- 
 ployed upon various missions regarding commerce to the Flemish 
 Government, or at Calais, watching the movements of Francis I. In 
 1523, he was chosen Speaker of the House of Commons, and in that 
 office, by his promptitude, dignity, and spirit of reply, won for himself 
 great honour, when Wolsey came down to the House, and upbraided 
 the Commons for not giving the King certain grants which the Cardinal 
 demanded. Erasmus says that Wolsey rather feared than liked More. 
 In 1525, he was made Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster. In 1527 
 More accompanied Wolsey on his celebrated embassy to France, the 
 secret purpose of which was unknown to Sir Thomas, but which was 
 to pave the way for the divorce from Queen Catharine, with a view to 
 the marriage with Anne Boleyn, who had been bred at the Court of 
 France, where her father, the Earl of Wiltshire, had been Ambassador. 
 On the 25th of October, 1529, sixteen days after the commencement of 
 the prosecution against Wolsey, the King, then being at Greenwich, 
 delivered the Great Seal to Sir Thomas, and created him Lord Chan- 
 cellor, a post which had previously (except in two cases — Thorpe, 1371, 
 and Knivet, 1372) been held by ecclesiastics. 
 
 " He was led between the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk up West- 
 minster Hall to the Stone Chamber (Star Chamber), and there they 
 honourably placed him in the high Judgement Seat of Chancellor." 
 Sir John More, the eldest Judge of the King's Bench, was then nearly 
 ninety years of age. " What a grateful spectacle was it, to see the son 
 ask the blessing of the father every day upon his knees before he sat 
 upon his own seat." The King in. bestowing the Great Seal upon 
 More hoped to dispose him towards^ the divorce from the Queen, and 
 the marriage with; Anne Boleyn ; but in this, as^ history shows, 
 he was utterly disappointed. Long before More's Chancellorship 
 there was great opposition to, and even persecution of, the rising 
 opinions of the Protestants — then called Lutherans. Fox [who wrote 
 thirty years after More's Chancellorship] endeavoured vaguely to 
 accuse him of persecution. Bishop Burnet reproduced the charge. 
 Foxe charged More with putting Firth to death in 1533. It so 
 happens that More had ceased to be Chancellor a year before ! More 
 lived long enough, after his. fall, to challenge his accusers to the proof 
 of a single act of persecution during his Chancellorship. Defenceless 
 and obnoxious, no man dared to dispute his word ; but Erasmus virote : 
 " It is a sufficient proof of his clemency, that while he was Chancellor, 
 no man was put to death for these pestilent dogmas." 
 
 More's memory (as Sir James Mackintosh says) must be " absolved " 
 from the accusation of any such execrable practice. The King did not 
 cease to move More in the matter of the divorce, but only found his 
 Chancellor "unable to serve him in the matter." Despite all the 
 honour which More's administration of justice won for him— for he was 
 
SfJl THOMAS MORE. 6i 
 
 above all bribes or favours — the high position he held at last became 
 intolerable, and through the Duke of Norfolk he procured his discharge 
 from office, but with the distinct promise of the King's continued favour. 
 Of his resignation he had made no mention, even to his wife or family. 
 " On the Sunday following, he stood at the door of his wife's pew, in 
 Chelsea church, where one of his gentlemen had been used to stand, 
 and making a low obeisance to Alice as she entered, said to her, with 
 perfect gravity, " Madam, my Lord is gone." 
 
 From that time may be dated the King's enmity to his faithful servant. 
 One means after another was adopted, until in the end his destruction 
 was accomplished. The first charge brought against him was for com- 
 plicity with Elizabeth Barton, the "Holy Maid of Kent." In 1534 
 she was attainted of High Treason, and was executed at Tyburn, April 
 2ist. Proceedings against More were abandoned, his innocence being 
 vmassailable. In the session of 1533-34, it was made High Treason to 
 " write, print, act, do, or procure, anything to the prejudice, slander, 
 disturbance, or derogation of the King's lawful marriage " with Anne 
 3oleyn. All persons were enjoined by the same act to make oath to 
 maintain the whole contents of this Act. More was summoned to 
 appear before Commissioners at Lambeth, Monday, April 13th. Having 
 read the statute and form of oath, he declared his readiness to swear 
 that he would- maintain and defend the order of succession to the Crown 
 as established by Parliament ; but beyond that he would not swear ; nor 
 could he be induced to state his points of objection to the rest of the oath. 
 He said, if he did so he should only exasperate the King the more. 
 He was the same day committed to the custody of the Abbot of West- 
 minster; and -on the 17th conveyed to the Tower. His wife, Alice, 
 visited him in the Tower, and strove to induce him to take the oath. 
 She tried to move him by speaking of his fair house at Chelsea, his 
 library, gallery, garden, wife and children. " Is not this house as nigh 
 heaven as my own ? " he replied. She answered, with an exclamation of 
 impatience, "Tilly valle, tilly valle." 
 
 During his confinement in the Tower, More derived the greatest 
 comfort from the devoted solicitude and service of his beloved daughter, 
 Margaret Rc^er. She styled herself, " your own most loving obedient 
 daughter, and bedes woman," \i.e. one who prays for another.] More 
 used to write to her with a coal — the only substitute he could con- 
 trive for pen and ink : " Written with a coal, by your tender, loving 
 father, who in his poor prayers forgetteth none of you." On the 6th of 
 May, IS3S, More was brought to trial at Westminster. He remained 
 inflexible both as regards the King's marriage and the King's headship 
 of the Church. Sir Robin Rich, the Solicitor-General, in order to 
 ensure a conviction, stooped to the infamy of bearing false witness 
 against the accused. " I am more sorry for your perjury, than for my 
 own peril," said More. The Jury found a verdict of "guilty," and the 
 Chancellor Audley pronounced the sentence of the Court upon Treason. 
 On Tuesday, July 6th, the Lieutenant of the Tower led More to 
 
62 S/Ji THOMAS MORE. 
 
 execution. The scaffold was insecure. "Master Lieutenant," said 
 More, " I pray you see me safe up ; and for my coming down, let me 
 shift for myself." When he laid his head upon the block, he desired 
 the executioner to wait until he had removed his beard, " for that had 
 never offended his Highness." 
 
 In the "Spectator" (No. 349) occurs the following passage: "He 
 died upon a point of religion, and is respected as a martyr by that side 
 for which he suffered. That innocent mirth, which had been so con- 
 spicuous in his life, did not forsake him to the last. He maintained the 
 same cheerfulness of heart upon the scaffold which he used to show at his 
 table, and upon laying his head on the block, gave instances of that good 
 humour with which he always entertained his friends in the most ordinary 
 occurrences. His death was of a piece with his life. There was nothing 
 in it new, forced, or affected. He did not look upon the severing of his 
 head from his body as a circumstance that ought to produce any change 
 in the disposition of his mind ; and as he died under a fixed and settled 
 hope of immortality, he thought any unusual degree of sorrow and 
 concern improper on such an occasion. " After the execution his head 
 was fixed upon London Bridge ; but his daughter Margaret succeeded in 
 gaining possession of it, and rescuing it from indignity. The Ropers' 
 Manor House was at Canterbury, opposite St. Dunstan's Church. 
 There Margaret Roper spent her marriage life ; and was buried in the 
 Roper vault in the church. Her father's head (that sacred relic ! ) was 
 buried with her, laid upon her breast. There it still remains. The 
 letters of Erasmus diffused the story of the barbarous fate of liis illus- 
 trious friend throughout Europe. " The English ministers throughout 
 Europe were regarded with averted eyes as the agents of a monster. " 
 The Emperor, Charles V. said to Sir T. Elliot, the English ambassador, 
 " If we had been master of such a servant we should rather have lost the 
 best city in our dominions than have lost such a worthy counsellor." Sir 
 James Mackintosh, in concluding his " Life of Sir Thomas More," (from 
 which this sketch has in the main been condensed, ) says, " Of all men 
 nearly perfect. Sir Thomas More had, perhaps, the clearest marks of 
 individual character. It is not enough to say of him that he was 
 unaffected, that he was natural, that he was simple ; so the larger part 
 of truly great men have been. But there is something homespun in 
 More which is common to him with scarcely any other, and which gives 
 to all his faculties and qualities the appearance of being the native 
 growth of the soil. The homeliness of his pleasantry purifies ij; from 
 show. He walks on the scaffold clad only in his household goodness. 
 The unrefined benignity with which he ruled his patriarchal dwelling at 
 Chelsea enabled him to look on the axe without being disturbed by 
 feeling hatred for the tyrant. This quality bound together his genius 
 and learning, his eloquence and fame, with his homely and daily duties 
 — bestowing a genuineness on all his good qualities, a dignity on the 
 most ordinary offices of life, and an accessible familiarity on the virtues 
 of a hero and a martyr, which silences every suspicion that his excellences 
 
SfJi THOMAS MORE. 63 
 
 were magnified. He thus simply performed great acts, and uttered 
 great thoughts, because they were familiar to his great soul ! * * It 
 will naturally and very strongly excite the regret of the good in every 
 age, that the life of this best of men should have been in the power of 
 one who has been rarely surpassed in wickedness. But the execrable 
 Henry was the means of drawing forth the magnanimity, the fortitude, 
 and the meekness of More." 
 
 [The following specimens of Sir Thomas More's poetry were written 
 in his early years. This must be remembered. Distinguished as he 
 became by his prose writings — "Utopia," the "Life of Richard III." &c. 
 he does not seem to have cultivated the composition of Poetry at any 
 period later than adolescence and early manhood. " He is to be 
 considered as our earliest frose writer, and as the first Englishman who 
 wrote the history of his country in its present language. The com- 
 position has an ease and a rotundity (which gratify the ear, without 
 awakening the suspicion of art) of which there was no model in any 
 preceding writer of English prose. "J 
 
 THE NINE PAGEAUNTES. 
 
 Mayster Thomas More inliis youth deuysed in hys father's house 
 in London, a goodly hangyng of fyne paynted clothe, with nyne page- 
 anntes, and verses ouer of euery of those pageauntes : which verses 
 expressed and declared what the ymages in those pageauntes represented : 
 and also in those pageauntes were paynted, the thynges that the verses 
 ouer them dyd (in effecte) declare, whiche verses here folowe. 
 
 In the first pageant was painted a boy playing at top & squyrge. 
 
 And ouer this pageaunt was writen as foloweth : 
 
 ■^ CHYLDHOD. 
 
 I am called Chyldhod, in play is all my mynde, 
 
 To cast a coyte, a cokst^le, and a ball. 
 
 A toppe can I set, and dryue it in his kyndje. 
 
 But would to god these hatefuU bookes all 
 
 Were in a fyre brent to pouder small. 
 
 Than myght I lede my lyfe alwayes in play ; 
 
 Whiclie lyfe god sende me to myne endyng day. 
 
 In the second pageaunt was paynted a goodly freshe yonge man, 
 rydyng vppon a .goodly horse, hauynge an hawke on his fyste, and a 
 brase of grayhowndes folowyng hym. And vnder the horse fete was 
 paynted the same boy, that in the fyrst pageaunt was playinge ^t the 
 top & squyrge. And ouer this second pageant the wrytyng was thus : 
 
64 SIR THOMAS MORE. 
 
 MANHOD. 
 
 Manhod I Eim, therefore I me delyght, 
 
 To hunt and hawke, to nourishe vp and fede, 
 
 The grayhounde to the course, the hawke to the flyght, 
 
 And to bestryde a good and lusty stede. 
 
 These thynges become a very man in dede, 
 
 Yet thynketh this boy his peuishe game swetter, 
 
 But what no force, his reason is no better. 
 
 In the thyrd pageaunt, was paynted the goodly younge man, in 
 the seconde pageaunt lyeng on the grounde. And vppon hym stode layde 
 Venus goddes of loue, and by her vppon this man stode the lytle god 
 Cupyde. And ouer this thyrd pageaimt, this was the wrytyng that 
 foUoweth : 
 
 VENUS AND CUPYDE. 
 
 Whoso ne knoweth the strength power and myght, 
 
 Of Venus and her lytle sonne Cupyde, 
 
 Thou Manhod shalt a myrour bene a ryght, 
 
 By vs subdued for all thy great pryde. 
 
 My fyry dart perccth thy tender syde, 
 
 Now thou whiche erst despysedst childrern small, 
 
 Shall waxe a chylde agayne and be my thrall. 
 
 In the fourth pageaunt was paynted an olde sage father sittyng 
 in a chayre. And lyeng vnder his fete was painted the ymage of Venus 
 and Cupyde, that were in the third pageant. And ouer this fourth 
 pageant the scripture was thus - 
 
 AGE. 
 
 Olde Age am I, with lokkes, thynne and hore, 
 Of our short lyfe, the last and best part. 
 Wyse and discrete : the publike wele therefore 
 I help to rule to my labour and smart, 
 Therefore Cupyde withdrawe thy fyry dart. 
 Chargeable matters shall of loue oppresse. 
 Thy childish game and ydle bysinesse. 
 
 In the fyfth pageaunt was paynted an ymage of Death : and vnder 
 hys fete lay the olde man in the fourth pageaunte. And aboue this 
 fift pageant, this was the saying : 
 
 DETH. 
 Though I be foule vgly lene and mysshape, 
 Yet there is none in all this worlde wyde, 
 That may my power withstande or escape. 
 Therefore, sage father, greatly magnifyed, 
 
SIR THOMAS MORE. 65 
 
 Discende from your chayre, set a part your pryde, 
 Witsafe to lende (though it be to your payne) 
 To me a fole some of your wise brayne. 
 
 In the sixt pageant was painted lady Fame. And vnder her fete 
 was the picture of Death that was in the fifth pageant. And ouer this 
 sixt pageavmt the writyng was as foloweth : 
 
 FAME. 
 
 Fame I am called, maruayle you nothing, 
 
 Though with tongas am compassed all rounde, 
 
 For in voyce of people is my chiefe liuyng. 
 
 O cruel death, thy power I confounde, 
 
 When thou a noble man hast brought to the grounde 
 
 Maugry thy teeth to lyue cause hym shall I, 
 
 Of people in parpetuall memory. 
 
 . In the seuenth pageant was painted the ymage of Tyme, and vnder 
 hys fete was lyeng the picture of Fame that was in the sixt pageant. 
 And this was the scripture ouer this seuenth pageaunt : 
 
 I whom thou seest with horyloge in hande. 
 Am named tyme, the lord of euery howre, 
 I shall in space destroy both see and lande. 
 O simple fame, how darest thou man honowre. 
 Promising of his name, an endlesse flowre. 
 Who may in the world haue a name etemall, 
 When I shall in proces distroy the worlde and all. 
 
 In the eyght pageant was pictured the ymage of lady Etemitee, 
 sittyng in a chayre vnder a sumptions clothe of estate, crowned with an 
 imperiall crown. And vnder her fete lay the picture of Time, that was 
 in the seuenth pagent. And aboue this eight pageaunt was it writen 
 as foloweth : 
 
 ETERNITEE. 
 
 Me nedeth not to bost, I am Etemitee, 
 
 The very name signifyeth well. 
 
 That myne empyre infinite shal be. 
 
 Thou mortall Tyme euery man can tell. 
 
 Art nothyng els but the mobilite. 
 
 Of Sonne and mone chaungyng in euery degre. 
 
 When they shall leue theyr course thou shalt be brought. 
 
 For all thy pride and bostyng into nought. 
 
66 Sm THOMAS MORE. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN. 
 
 A ruful lamentacio (writen by master Thomas More in his youth) 
 of the deth of quene Elisabeth, mother to king Henry the eight, wife 
 to king Henry the seuenth, & eldest doughter to king Edward the fourth, 
 which quene Elisabeth dyed in childbed in February in the yere of our 
 lord, 1503, & in the 18 yere of the raigne of king Henry seuenth. 
 
 O ye that put your trust and confidence, 
 In worldly icy and frayle prosperitie, 
 That so lyue here as ye should neuer hence, 
 Remember death and loke here vppon me. 
 Ensaumple I thynke there may no better be. 
 Your selfe wotte well that in this realme was I, 
 Your quene but late, and lo now here I lye. 
 
 Was I not borne of olde worthy linage ? 
 Was not my mother queene, my father kyng ? 
 Was I not a kinges fere in marriage ? 
 Had I not plenty of euery plesaunt thyng ? 
 MercifuU god this is a straunge reckenyng : 
 Rychesse, honour, welth, and auncestry, 
 Hath me forsaken, and lo now here I lye. 
 
 If worship myght haue kept me, I had not gone. 
 If wyt myght haue me saued, I neded not fere. 
 If money myght haue holpe, I lacked none. 
 But O good God, what vayleth all this gere. 
 When deth is come thy mighty messangere 
 Obey we must^ there is no remedy. 
 Me hath he sommoned, and lo now here I lye. 
 
 Where are our Castels now, where are our Towers, 
 Goodly Rychmonde sone art thou gone from me, 
 At Westminster that costly worke of yours, 
 Myne owne dere lorde, now shall I neuer see. 
 Almighty god vouchesafe to graunt that ye. 
 For you and your children well may edefy. 
 My palyce bylded is, and lo now here I lye. 
 
 Adew myne owne dere spouse, my worthy lorde, 
 The faithful! loue, that dyd vs both combyne- 
 
ALEXANDER BARK LA Y. 
 
 In manage and peasable Concorde, 
 
 Into your handes here I cleane resyne, 
 
 To be bestowed vppon your children and myne. 
 
 Erst wer you father, now must ye supply 
 
 The mothers part also, for lo now here I lye. 
 
 Adew my lordes, adew my ladies all, 
 Adew my faithfull seruantes euery chone, 
 Adew my commons, whom I neuer shall 
 See in this world ; wherfore to the alone, 
 Immortall God, verely three and one, 
 1 me commende : thy infinite mercy 
 Shew to thy seruant, for lo now here I lye. 
 
 -«>=» 
 
 ALEXANDER BARKLAY. 
 
 67 
 
 Born 1480. Died 1552. 
 
 The place and time of Barklay's birth are uncertain, as also whether 
 he was an English or Scotch man. The probability is that he came 
 from Somerset. He was educated at Oriel College, Oxford, and was 
 resident there in 1498, when Cornish (afterwards suffragan Bishop of 
 Tyne, in the Diocese of Bath and Wells) was Provost of Oriel. Bark- 
 lay travelled in Holland, Germany, France, and Italy, and obtained 
 thereby great fluency of style in expression, and the mastery of a copious 
 vocabulary. On returning to England, his old master, having been con- 
 secrated, appointed Barklay his chaplain, and made him one of the 
 priests of the College of St. Mary Ottery, Devonshire. Some of his 
 poems bear his name, dated from that place. On the death of his 
 patron, Barklay seems to have moved to Ely, where he became a monk 
 of the order of St. Benedict. He was at Ely on the dissolution of that 
 monastery in 1539, but having made many friends and patrons by his 
 works, was not left without provision. He was presented first of all 
 to the Vicarage of St. Matthew at Wokey, Somerset. In July, 1546, 
 having taken his degree of D.D., he was presented to the Vicarage of 
 Badow-Magna, Essex. Once again he moved. The Dean and Chapter 
 of St. Paul's Cathedral preferred him to the living of AUhallows, Lom- 
 bard Street, in April, 1552. He only enjoyed this piece of preferment 
 for six weeks, dying in the month of June, at Croydon, Surrey ; in the 
 old parish church of which town he was interred. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 ALEXANDER BARKI.A Y. 
 
 Barklay lived to an advanced age, and having passed through all the 
 troubles which were involved in the visitations and dissolution of the 
 monasteries, he seems to have made up his mind to go with the current 
 and accept the "de facto" state of affairs. His memJfry has been 
 violently attacked by Bale with reference to his conduct as a Priest ; but 
 whatever the facts of the case may have been, he was a very different 
 man to Skelton, the Laureat of Henry VIII, whose virulent attacks 
 upon the priesthood turned Barklay's pen against him, in his "Treatise 
 against Skelton." 
 
 The most celebrated work of Barklay is the "Stultifera navis," or 
 " Ship of Fools," first printed in London by Richard Pynson, in 1509, 
 and dedicated to Barklay's patron, Dr. Cornish. Another work of im- 
 portance was his "Eclogues," translated into English "out of a book 
 in Latin named " Miserie Curialium," compiled by Eneas Silvius, Poete 
 and Oratour, which after was Pope of Rome and named Pius." There 
 are five of these Eclogues. 
 
 Barklay wrote several lives of the Saints, — the life of St. George, St. 
 Catherine, St. Margaret, and St. Ethelreda. The treatises and works 
 of Barklay were exceedingly numerous, and held in very great esteem 
 in his time. He was what would be styled "a polite writer," or re- 
 finer of the English language, and was esteemed a man of vrit and 
 learning. But he lived at an unfortunate period ; and a man of his 
 literary fame, passing from the monk of the Church of Rome into the 
 parish clergyman of the Reformation, became of necessity a mark for 
 the shaft of enmity. As a Poet his name deserves to be mentioned 
 with honour, and it is in that character alone that he is here presented. 
 
 THE SHIP OF FOOLS. 
 
 OF THE MUTABILITIE OF FORTUNE. 
 
 We dayly proue by example and euidence, 
 
 That many be made fooles mad and ignoraunt 
 
 By the brode worlde, putting trust and confidence 
 
 In fortune's wheele, vnsure and inconstant : 
 
 Some assay the wheele, thinking it pleasaunt, 
 
 But whyle they so climbe Tp haue pleasure and desire, 
 
 Their feete them fayleth, so fall they in the mire. 
 
 Promote a yeoman, make him a gentle man, 
 
 And make a bayliffe of a butcher's sonne, 
 
 Make of a squire, knight, yet will they, yf they can, 
 
 Coueyt in their minds hyer promotion : 
 
 And many in the worlde haue this condition, 
 
ALEXANDER BARK LA Y. 69 
 
 In hope of honour by treason to conspire, 
 But ofte they slide, and so fall in the mire. 
 
 Suche looke so hye, that they forget their fete 
 On fortune's wheele, which turneth as a ball, 
 They seeke degrees for their small might vnmeete, 
 Their foolish heartes and blinde see not their fall, 
 Some fooles purpose to haue a rowme royall. 
 Or climbe by fortune's whele to an empire. 
 The wheele the turneth, leauing them in the mire. 
 
 O blinde man say, what is thine intent, 
 To worldly honours so greatly to intende. 
 Or here to make thee hye, riche and excellent, 
 Since that so shortly thy life must haue an ende : 
 None is so woorthy, nor can so hye ascende, 
 Nor nought is so sure, if thou the truth enquire. 
 But that he may doubt to fall downe to the mire. 
 
 There is no lorde, duke, king, nor other estate 
 But dye they must, and from this world go : 
 All worldly thinges which God hath here create, 
 Shall not ay bide, but haue an ende also. 
 What mortall man hath bene promoted so 
 In worldly wealth or vncertayne dignitie. 
 That euer of hfe had houre of certaintie. 
 
 In stormy windes lowest trees are most sure. 
 And houses surest which are not builded hye. 
 Where as hye buildinges may no tempest endure 
 Without they be founded sure and stedfastly : 
 So greatest men haue moste feare and ieopardie, 
 Better is pouertie, though it be harde to beare. 
 Then is a hye degree in ieopardie and feare. 
 
 The hilles are hye, the valleys are but lowe. 
 In valleys is come, the hilles are barrayne. 
 On hyest places moste gras doth not ay growe : 
 A mery thing is measure and easy to sustayne, 
 The hyest in great feare, the lowest liue in payne. 
 Yet better lye on grounde, hauing no name at allj 
 Then hye on a differing alway to fall. 
 
70 ALEXANDER BARKLA Y. 
 
 THE LENUOY OF BARCLAY TO THE FOOLES. 
 
 O Man, that hast thy trust and confidence 
 Fixed on these frayle fantasies mundayne, 
 Remember at the ende there is no difference 
 Betwene that man that liued hath in payne, 
 And him that hath in wealth and ioy soueraygne, 
 They both must dye, their payne is of one sort. 
 Both riche and poore, no man can death refrayne. 
 For deathes dart expelleth all comfort. 
 
 Say where is Adam the first progenitour 
 Of all mankinde ; is he not dead and gone ? 
 And where is Abell, of innocencee the floure, 
 With Adam's other sonnes euerychone ? 
 A dreadfuU death of them hath left not one. 
 Where is Mathusalem and Tubal that was playne .'' 
 The first that played on Harpe or on Organe, 
 Ilz sont toutz mortz, ce monde est choce vayne. 
 
 Where is iust Noy and his ofspring become. 
 Where is Abraham and all his progenye, 
 As Isaac and Jacob, no strength nor wisedome 
 Could them ensure to liue continuallye. 
 Where is King Dauid whom God did magnifye, 
 And Salomon his sonne of wisedome soueraigne. 
 Where are his sonnes of wisdome and beautie ? 
 Hz sont toutz morts, ce monde est choce vayne. 
 
 Where are the princes and kinges of Babilon, 
 And also of Jude, and kinges of Isarell ; 
 Where is the mightie and valeaunt Sampson ? 
 He had no place in this life ay to dwell. 
 Where are the princes mightie and cruell 
 That reigned before Christ deliuered vs from payne, 
 And from the dongeons of darke and fearefuU hell 'i 
 Ilz sont toutz mortz, ce monde est choce vayne. 
 
 Of all worldly worship no man can him assure 
 In this our age whiche is the laste of all ; 
 No creature can here alway endure, 
 Yonge nor olde, poore man nor king royall, 
 Unstable fortune turneth as doth a ball. 
 And they that once passe can not retume agayne : 
 Wherefore I boldly dare speake in generall, 
 We all shall die : ce monde est choce vayne. 
 
ALEXANDER BARKLA Y. 71 
 
 Riches nor wisedome can none therfro defende, 
 Ne in his strength no man can him assure. 
 Say where is TuUy, is he not come to ende, 
 Senecke the sage, with Cato and Arture ; 
 The hye Aristotle of godly wit and pure, 
 The glorious Godfray, and mightie Charlemayne : 
 Though of their life they thought that they were sure, 
 Yet they are all dead : ce monde est choce vayne. 
 
 Where are the Philosophers and Poetes laureat. 
 The great Grammarians and pleasaunt Oratours ; 
 Are they not dead after the same fourme and rate, 
 As are all these other mightie conquerours ? 
 Where are their Realmes, their riches and treasures ? 
 Left to their heyres, and they be gone certayne, 
 And here haue left their riches and honours. 
 So haue they proued that this worlde is but vayne. 
 
 So I conclude because of breuitee. 
 That if one sought the world large and wide, 
 Therein should be found no maner of degree, 
 That can always in one case surely bide. 
 Strength, honour, riches, cunning and beautie, 
 All the decay dayly, though we complayne : 
 Omnia fert aetas, both health and iolitie, 
 We all shall dye : ce monde est choce vayne. 
 
 ECLOGUE V. 
 OF THE CITIZEN AND UPLANDISH MAN.'- 
 
 AMYNTAS. 
 How came thou to knowlege of this enormyte, 
 
 And of these manners of them of the cyte .■" 
 My selfe there wonned,^ and there was conuersaunt ; 
 
 Of some of these thinges yet am I ygnoraunt. 
 
 FAUSTUS. 
 
 Thou coude not perceyue well theyr enormyte ; 
 
 Parchance thy maners dyde with theyr lyfe agre. 
 There seldome is sene grete contradyccyon 
 
 Where men accordeth in dysposycyon. 
 
 (i) Countryman, (2) WonMed— dwelt. 
 
72 ALEXANDER BARKLA Y. 
 
 No faute with Moryans* isblacke dysfonnyte, 
 
 Because all the sorte lyke of theyr fauour be. 
 So couthe thou not se theyr vyces, nor them blame, 
 
 Because thy owne lyfe was fyled with the same. 
 But how I knowe them now shall I tell to the. 
 
 Whyle I brought butter to sell to the cyte, 
 And other vytayle,^ — I used mylke to cry, — 
 
 Then hadde I knowledge with an apotecary. 
 Of him I lerned much fashode' and practyse, 
 
 Not to the purpose the same to exercise. 
 He couthe'' make playsters r newe comyxcyons, 
 
 In valour scant^ worthe a couple of onyens : 
 Yet solde he the same as it were gold so dere, 
 
 Namely, yf happened ony infectyfe yere. 
 I was acquaynted with many an hucster. 
 
 With a costardemonger, and with an hostler. 
 This thefe was crafty, poore people to begyle. 
 
 None lyke I suppose within a dosen myle. 
 Amonge all other his fraudes and his crymes, 
 
 He solde one botell° of hey dosen tymes. 
 And in the oles couthe he well droppe a candell : 
 
 Well knewe he how his gestes for to handle. 
 And in the same In there dwelt a prety pryme ; ' 
 
 She couthe well flater and glose with hym and hym, 
 And necke* a mesure, — her smykynge' gan her sale ; 
 
 She made ten shylynge of one barell of ale. 
 Whome she begyled in pottes she was fayne 
 
 To wyn them w" fleshe and paynted loke agayne ; 
 And as I remember her name was wanton Besse, 
 
 Who leest with her delt he thryued not the lesse. 
 What nede more processe ? No crafte of the cyte 
 
 Is but myngled with fraude and subtylte, 
 Saue onely the crafte of an apotycary, 
 
 That is all fraude and gylefuU polecy. 
 But all these wolde swere that they were innocent 
 
 Or they to the cyte dyde fyrste of all frequent : 
 There learned they thefte and fraude to exercyse. 
 
 And man of nature is moued soone to vyce. 
 
 (ij Moryans—yioais, blackamoors. (2) Vyiayle—v\aiw!i 
 
 13) i?<MA(7<fe— falsehood. (4) Cmthe—txm\&. (,) Scani-^nrt-A-a 
 
 6 S.^.«-apottle(ofhay). (7) ^0«.-maM. " ^• 
 
 (8) Necke—01.^ a measure ; dmt the measure, to make it hold less. The term 
 seems to mean that the "prety pryme," or lass, could give false measure 
 
 (o) i-»«»/b^«-smirking (Swedish «K«j6<i, smircher, to caress, cajole); i.e. her 
 smiles and cajolery helped her sale of the beer. y j 1 > 
 
ALEXANDER BARKLA Y. 73 
 
 Some be also whiche spende theyr patrymony, 
 
 Whiche was to them lette by theyr olde auncestry. 
 With cost and paynes suche busuly labour, 
 
 Sekynge for shame and dethe before theyr houre. 
 Malyce, enuy, and all iniquyte, 
 
 Do these not rayne in myddes of the cyte ? 
 All newe abusyon, prouokynge men to synnes, 
 
 Hadde fyrst begynnynge amonge the cytezyns ; 
 Where dwell grete prynces and myghty gouernours, 
 
 Theyr lyfe dyspysynge for to haue vayne honours, 
 Capytaynes, souldyours, and all lyke company, 
 
 Whiche put for money theyr lyfe in ieopardy : 
 These dwell not vpon londe, but haunteth the cyte. 
 
 Pore herdes fyght not but for necessyte, 
 For lyberte, lyfe, and iustyce to vpholde ; 
 
 Towne dwellers fyght for vayne honour r golde. 
 We fyght our frendes and housholde to defende ; 
 
 They fyght for malyce, to ryches to ascende. 
 Our cause and quarell is to meynteyne the ryght ; 
 
 But all on selfe wyll without reason they fyght : 
 They seke by wounds for honour and rychesse, 
 
 And dryue the wekest to hardest busynes. 
 O blynde sowdyour, why sellest thou thy hert 
 
 For a vayne stypende agayne a mortall darte? 
 By thousande peryllys thou takest thy passage. 
 
 For a small lucre rennynge^ to grete dammage. 
 Theyr swete lyfe they gyue for a poore stipende. 
 
 And ofte lese^ they bothe, and heuen at the ende. 
 Whyle some contendeth and fyghteth for his wage, 
 
 His lyfe he spendeth, — than fare well auauntage ! 
 What is more folysshe or lyker to madnesse. 
 
 Than to spende the lyfe for glory and rychesse ? 
 What thynge is glory, laude, praysynge, or fame ? 
 
 What honour, report, or what is noble name ? 
 Forsothe nought but voyce qf wytles comonte,^ 
 
 And vayne opynyon subiecte to vanyte. 
 Proceste'' of yeres, reuoluynge of season, 
 
 Bryngeth all these soone in oblyuyon. 
 Whan lyfe is faded all these ben out of sight, 
 
 Lyke as with the sonne departeth the daye light. 
 They all be fooles whiche medleth with the see. 
 
 And other wyse myght lyue in theyr owne country. 
 
 \\) Rennynge — running. {2) iw^— lose. (3) Wytles comonte — witless commonalty. 
 (4) Proceste — process. 
 
74 SIR THOMAS WYAT. 
 
 He is but a foole whiche runneth to tempest, 
 
 And myght lyue on londe in suerte and in rest ; 
 He is but a foole which hathe of good plenty, 
 
 And it dysdayneth to vse and occupy. 
 And he whiche lyueth in care and wretchydnes. 
 
 His heyre to promote to londes and rychesse, 
 Is most foole of all ; to spare in mysery, 
 
 With good and londes his heyre to magnify. 
 And he which leueth that thynge for to be done. 
 
 Unto his doughter executour or sone, 
 Whiche he hymselfe myght in his lyfe fulfiU, 
 
 He is but a foole, ond hath but lytell skyll. 
 But all these sortes within the cyte be — 
 
 The want of wisdome and sue enormyte. 
 The weke they vse them in worldly busynesse; 
 
 The Sondaye seruethe to foUowe vycyousnes. 
 Upon the Sondaye, whan men shoulde God honour, 
 
 Left is good laboure, ensued is errour. 
 Oftyme the olde frere that wonned in Grenwyche 
 
 Agayne such folyes was boldly wont to preche. 
 
 'iyS 
 
 SIR THOMAS WYAT. 
 
 Born 1503. Died October, 1542. 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat was bom at AUington Castle in Kent ; and 
 was educated partly at Cambridge, and partly at Oxford. He was the 
 contemporary and faithful friend of the accomplished Earl of Surrey. 
 Sir Thomas was himself one of the most highly educated men of his 
 time. Possessed of great wit, power of penetration, and with a remark- 
 able knowledge of languages, he became a favourite of King Henry VIII. ; 
 by whom he was employed on several diplomatic missions. Wood says : 
 " The King was in a high manner delighted with his witty jests." It is 
 said of him that he aided in the downfall of Cardinal Wolsey, by relating 
 a humorous story. He and Surrey were esteemed the ckieftaines oi 
 "wit-makers" who sprang up in Henry's reign. They were likewise 
 
S/Ji THOMAS WYAT. 
 
 75 
 
 regarded as polishers of English metre and style, having studied in the 
 Italian School of Dante, Ariosto, and Petrarch. Leland writes 
 
 " Let Florence fair her Dante justly boast. 
 And Royal Rome her Petrarch's numbered feet : 
 In English Wyat both of them doth coast. 
 In whom all graceful elegance doth meet." 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat is said to have been attached to Anne Boleyn. At 
 her coronation he officiated as Ewerer. At her downfall his name was 
 freely used in the charges that led to her execution. Of Sir Thomas 
 Wyat's early partiality for Anne Boleyn there seems no doubt. The 
 perusal of his poetry was one of her last consolations in prison before her 
 death. Notwithstanding this, Wyat remained high in Royal favour. In 
 '537 te was sent as Ambassador to the Court of Charles V. It was 
 owing to his diplomacy Cardinal Pole was so coldly received at Madrid, 
 that he at once quitted Spain. On the meeting of Charles V. and 
 Francis I. Wyat was made use of by Henry to watch the movements 
 of the Emperor, and to fiithom his designs. When Cromwell dechned 
 in favour with King Henry, Wyat obtained his own recall, and spent 
 the greater portion of his time in retreat at Allington. From thence he 
 was summoned in 1542, to meet the Spanish ambassador on his landing 
 at Falmouth. Being overheated, with riding, he took cold, and died of 
 fever at Sherborne — aged 40. Puttenham, the author of "The Old 
 Art of English Poesie," says of Wyat and the Earl of Surrey : "I repute 
 them for the two chief lantemes of light to all others that have since 
 employed their pennes upon English poesie. Their conceits were lofty, 
 their styles stately, their conveyance cleanly, their terms proper, their 
 metre sweet and well-proportioned; in all, imitating very naturally 
 and studiously their maister, Francis Petrarch." 
 
 THE LOVER 
 
 THAT ONCE DISDAINED LOVE IS NOV? BECOME SUBJECT, BEING 
 CAUGHT IN HIS SNARE. 
 
 To this my song give eare who list, 
 
 And mine entent judge as ye will, 
 The time is come that I have mist 
 
 The thing whereon I hoped styll, 
 And from the toppe of all my trust 
 Myshap hath throwen me in the dust.^ 
 
 (i) This couplet is said to have been written by Mary, Queen of Scots, upon her prison 
 window at Fotheringay Castle. 
 
76 SIJi THOMAS WYAT. 
 
 The time hath been, and that of late, 
 My hart and I might leap at large ; 
 
 And was not shut within the gate 
 Of love's desire, nor took no charge 
 
 Of any thing that did pertaine, 
 
 As touching love in any paine. 
 
 My thought was free, my heart was lyght ; 
 
 I marked not who lost, who saught ; 
 I plaide by day, I slept by night ; 
 
 I forced not who wept, who laught ; 
 My thought from all such things was free, 
 And I myself at libertie. 
 
 I toke no hede to taunts or toys. 
 As leef to see them frowne as smyle. 
 
 Where fortune laught I scornde their joyes . 
 I found their frauddes and every wyle ; 
 
 And to myself oft tymes I smyled. 
 
 To see how love had them begiled. 
 
 Thus in the net of my conceit 
 I masked still among the sort 
 
 Of such as fed upon the bayte 
 That Cupide laide for his disport. 
 
 And ever as I saw them caught 
 
 I them beheld, and thereat laught. 
 
 Till at the length when Cupide spied 
 My scorneful wyll and spiteful use. 
 
 And how I past not who was tyed, 
 So that my self myght still live lose, 
 
 He set himself to lye in waite. 
 
 And in my way he threw a baite. 
 
 Such one as nature never made, 
 I dare well say save she alone ; 
 
 Such one she was as would invade 
 A hart more hard then marble stone ; 
 
 Such one she is, I know it right, 
 
 Her nature made to shew her might. 
 
 Then as a maji in a maze, 
 
 When use of reason is away. 
 So I began to stare and gase, 
 
 And sodeinly, without delay. 
 
S/Ji THOMAS WYAT. 
 
 Or ever I had the wit to loke, 
 
 I swallowed up both bait and hooke. 
 
 Which daily grieves me more and more, 
 By sundry sortes of careful wo, 
 
 And none alive may salve the sore 
 But only she that hurt me so, 
 
 In whom my lyfe dothe now consist, 
 
 To save or slay me as she lyst. 
 
 OF A NEW MARRIED STUDENT 
 
 THAT PLAID FAST OR LOSE. 
 
 A studient, at his bok so plast, 
 
 That welth he might have wonne, 
 From bok to wife did flete in hast, 
 
 From welth to wo to runne. 
 Now, who hath plaid a feater cast. 
 
 Since jugling first begonne ? 
 In knitting of himself so/ast, 
 
 Himself he hath undone.^ 
 
 -i>* 
 
 HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 
 
 Bom 1516. Executed 1547. 
 
 Henry Howard was the son and grandson of two Lords Treasurers, 
 Dukes of Norfolk. As a boy he passed a great portion of his time 
 about the Court at Windsor, in the position of companion to Henry 
 Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, a natural son of King Henry VIII. The 
 warmest affection and friendship existed between the boys. It has been 
 stated that Henry Howard was sent to Cambridge — of which University 
 he became High Steward. (See Campbell's Lives.) It has also been 
 asserted that the companions were sent together to Cardinal Wolsey's 
 College in Oxford. Possibly Howard resided at both Universities for 
 a time. At the early age of sixteen he was contracted in marriage to 
 Lady Frances Vere, daughter of John, Earl of Oxford. The marriage 
 was celebrated in 1535. Henry Fitzroy was likewise affianced to his 
 
 (i) Probably this is the fii-st epigram that is extant in our language 
 
78 HENR Y HO WA RD, EA RL OF SURRE Y. 
 
 friend's sister, Lady Mary Howard. That marriage was never fulfilled, 
 owing to the untimely death of the Duke, at the age of seventeen, A.D. 
 1536. Surrey sat with his father, as Earl Marshal, on the trial of 
 Anne Boleyn. 
 
 Many of the " facts " that have been related regarding Surrey's life 
 are mere romance. It has been asserted that he acted as Commander- 
 in-Chief of his father's army at the Battle of Flodden Field, when 
 James IV. of Scotland was slain : but as that fatal battle was fought 
 September 9th, 1513, three years before Surrey was born, the statement 
 is an absurd fiction. It was his father — the then Earl of Surrey^who 
 fought at Flodden. The travels of Surrey, as they are told, present a 
 strange air of Quixotic adventure. He is reported to have made 
 his tour of Europe, proclaiming the unrivalled charms of the fair 
 " Geraldine" — the mistress of his poetic fancy — and to have challenged 
 all to mortal combat who dared to dispute her charms. Whether Surrey 
 ever visited Italy is uncertain ;-but that he cultivated a critical knowledge 
 of the Italian language and of the works of Petrarch is most certain. 
 
 About 1540 Surrey was employed in the service of the State. He 
 was sent to France to look after the English possessions, as a rupture 
 with that country was expected. He was knighted on the marriage of 
 Henry VIII. with Anne of Cleves. In 1542 he was created K.G., 
 and it was in that year he accompanied his father to Scotland. Strangely 
 enough, at this period of his life he was twice committed to the Fleet 
 prison, — once for breaking the windows of the citizens of London with 
 stones fired from his cross bow, and the second time because he per- 
 sisted in eating meat in Lent. He smashed windows to disturb 
 citizens at Popish devotions ; and he ate meat to assert his religious 
 freedom. However childish his conduct may now seem, it is not 
 without its meaning, when we recall the history of the time on the 
 principle of coming events casting their shadows beforehand. The 
 war with France found him active employment. He acted under Sir 
 John Wallop at the siege of Landrecy. In the second expedition he 
 was Marshal of the army, his father, the Duke of Norfolk, commanding 
 the vanguard. 
 
 The siege of Montreuil was committed to the care of the Duke and 
 the Earl of Surrey ; but their plans were frustrated at home by the Earl 
 of Hertford, who regarded Norfolk and Surrey with a bitter jealousy. 
 In 1544 he commanded the vanguard of the army at Boulogne. His 
 plans for its defence are regarded as very skilful. Having attempted a 
 sally upon St. Etienne, and being repulsed, he lost favour with the King, 
 and was recalled. Hertford was sent to France as the King's Lieutenant 
 General. On his return to England Surrey was so indiscreet as to speak 
 menacingly of Hertford, and to threaten vengeance in a succeeding reign. 
 His incautious language was repeated, and he was flung into the Tower, 
 but shortly afterwards released. 
 
 Hertford and his friends had obtained influence over Henry's mind, 
 and working upon the natural jealousy and cruelty of the King's dis- 
 
HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 79 
 
 position, the ruin of Norfolk and Surrey was soon accomplished. It 
 has been stated that Surrey was suspected of a design to marry the 
 Princess Mary (afterwards Queen Mary). 
 
 This suspicion, looked at in the light of the 19th century, would 
 seem absurd, seeing that Surrey's wife was alive, and outlived him ; but 
 it might not appear so to a man like Henry VIII. , who was so accustomed 
 to getting rid of his own wives, that he may have considered Surrey 
 could easily imitate so royal an example. Hertford, having decided 
 upon the destruction of Norfolk and his son Surrey, soon found means 
 for carrying his scheme into execution, and unfortunately he was aided 
 by the vindictive hatred of the Duchess of Norfolk to her husband, 
 from whom she had long been separated. The Lady Mary, Duchess 
 of Richmond, seems to have taken an enmity to her brother likewise. 
 Surrey was arrested December 12, 1546, and sent to the Tower. The 
 chief accusation against him was that he quartered the arms of the 
 Confessor upon his shield ; Surrey proved that his ancestors had carried 
 them, and that he had the authority of the heralds for so doing. He 
 was found guilty, despite his manifest innocence ; and upon this trumpery 
 and unjust charge the Chancellor sentenced him to death. In the 
 thirty-first year of his age this brave soldier and accomplished poet 
 was beheaded upon Tower Hill, January 19, 1547. His father, the 
 Duke, luckily escaped the same fate by the opportune death of the 
 Royal bigamist and tyrant, who expired nine days after Surrey perished. 
 
 After the execution Surrey's body was buried in the church of All 
 Hallows, Barking, but subsequently removed to Framlingham, Suffolk, 
 where a monument was erected to his memory. 
 
 The romantic sentiments which Surrey entertained for the fair 
 Geraldine, which find so large an expression in his poetry, seem to 
 have been no more than poetic imaginations. Geraldine was the 
 daughter of Gerald Fitzgerald, Earl of Kildare, and a second cousin of 
 the Princess Mary, upon whom she attended. When Surrey first sang 
 her praises she was a child of thirteen years of age. When fifteen she 
 mamed Sir Anthony Wood, a respectable old gentleman of sixty; and 
 at his death became the wife of Edward Clinton, Earl of Lincoln. 
 
 Surrey is justly regarded as the first refiner of the English language. 
 "If he copies Petrarch," says Wharton, "it is Petrarch's best manner. 
 For his justness of thought, correctness of style, and purity of expression, 
 he may be pronounced the first English classical poet. He unquestion- 
 ably is the first polite writer of love verses in our language." His 
 poetry will remain famous for two particular characteristics. He 
 was the first translator in blank verse of the i'Eneid of Virgil : he 
 likewise introduced the Petrarchan sonnet into English literature. 
 
 [The first poem quoted is that in -which he recalls his days at Windsor, spent in 
 company with the Duke of Richmond. The celebrated and pui-e Petrarchan sonnet, 
 in which he describes the Lady Geraldine, is also given.] 
 
8o HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 
 
 PRISONER IN WINDSOR. 
 
 So cruell prison howe could betyde, alas ! 
 As proude Windsor : where I in lust and joy, 
 Wythe a kynge's sonne, my chyldysh yeres dyd passcj 
 In greater feast than Priam's sonnes of Troye : 
 Where eche swete place returns a tast ful sower : 
 The large greene where we were wont to trove, 
 Wyth eyes cast up into the Mayden's'- tower, 
 And easy sighs, such as folkes draw in Love : 
 The stately seats, the ladies brighte of hewe ; 
 The daunces short, long tales of greate delight ; 
 Wyth wordes and lookes that tygers could but rewe,^ 
 Where eche of us dyd pleade the other's ryght. 
 The palme' play, where, despoyled for the game. 
 With dazed eyes oft we by gleames of love 
 Have myst the ball, and gote sight of our, dame ; 
 To bayte^ her eyes, whyche kept the leads ^ above 
 The gravel grounde, wythe sieves tyde on the helme. 
 On fomyng horse, with swordes and frendly hartes, 
 Wythe chere as though one should another whelme 
 Where we have fought, and chased oft with dartes. 
 With silver droppes the meade yet spreade for ruthe 
 In active games of nimbleness and strength — 
 Where we did strayne, trayned with swarmes of youthe, 
 Our tender limmes, that yet shot up in lengthe. 
 The secrete groves, which oft we made resounde 
 Of pleasant playnte, and of our Ladies' prayse, 
 Recordynge oft what grace eche one had founde. 
 What hope of spede, what dread of long delayes. 
 The wylde forrest, the clothed holes with grene. 
 With raynes availed and swiftly breathed horse ; 
 Wyth cry of houndes and merry blastes betwene. 
 Where we did chase the fearful harte of force. 
 The wyde vales eke, that harborde us each nyghte, 
 Wherewyth (alas !) reviveth in my breste 
 The swete accorde, such slepes as yet delyt. 
 The pleasant dreames, the quyet bed of rest. 
 The secret thoughtes imparted with such trust, 
 The wanton talke, the dyvers chaunge of playe, 
 
 (i) Mayden — not our word maiden, but a. corruption of the French fnagne — 
 ittagmts : the great tower. _ (2) Rewe — rue, pity. 
 
 {3) Palfne play — splaying ball with the hand, like as in the fives-court, 
 (4) ,5iij//*— catch. (Sj Leads — the leads of the battlements. 
 
HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 8i 
 
 The friendship sworne, eche promise kept so fast, 
 
 Wherewith we past the winter nyghte away. 
 
 And wyth thys thought the blood forsakes the face, 
 
 The teares berayne my chekes of deadly hewe, 
 
 The whyche as soone as sobbynge sighes (alas !) 
 
 Upsupped have, thus I my playnt renewe : 
 
 O place of blisse ! renewer of»my woes ! 
 
 Give me accompt where is my noble fere, 
 
 Whom in thy walles thou doest eche nyghte enclose. 
 
 To other luse, but unto me most clere. 
 
 Eccho (alas !), that doth my sorrow rewe. 
 
 Returns thereto a hollowe sounde of playnt. 
 
 Thus I alone, where all my freedome grewe. 
 
 In pryson pyne, withe bondage and restraynt ; 
 
 And with remembrance of the greater griefe 
 
 To banish the lesse I fynd my chief reliefe. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF SPRING, 
 
 WHEREIN ECHE THING RENEWES, SAVE ONLY THE LOVER. 
 
 The soote season that bud and bloome fourth bringes 
 With grene hath cladde the hyll, and eke the vale : 
 The nightingall with fethers new she singes ; 
 The turtle too her mate hath told her tale : 
 Somer is come, for every spray now springes. 
 The hart hath hung hys olde head on the pale ; 
 The bucke in brake his winter coate he flynges ; 
 The fishes flete with newe repayred scale ; 
 The adder aU her slough away she flynges ; 
 The swift swallow pursueth the flyes smalle ; 
 The busy bee her honey how she mynges : 
 Winter is worne that was the sloures ball. 
 And thus I see among these pleasant thynges 
 Eche care decayes, and yet my sorrow springes. 
 
 DESCRIPTION AND PRAISE OF HIS LOVE 
 GERALD I NE. 
 From Tuscane came my Ladies worthy race, 
 Faire Florence was sometime her auncient seate : 
 The Western Yle, whose pleasant shore doth face 
 Wild Cambers clifs, did geve her lynely heate : 
 G 
 
82 HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 
 
 Fostered she was with milke of Irishe brest : 
 Her sire an erle, her dame of princes blood ; 
 From tender yeres in Britaine she doth rest, 
 With kinges childe, where she tasteth costly foode : 
 Honsdon^ did first present her to myne yien : 
 Bright is her hewe, and Geraldine she hight. 
 Hampton me taught to wishe her first for mine, 
 And Windsor, alas ! doth chase me from her sight. 
 Her beauty of kinde, her vertue from above, — 
 Happy is he that can obtain her Love. 
 
 HOW NO AGE IS CONTENT WITH HIS OWNE 
 ESTATE, 
 
 AND HOW THE AGE OF CHILDREN IS THE HAPPIEST, IF THEY HAD 
 SKILL TO UNDERSTAND IT. 
 
 Layd in my quiet bed, in study as I were, 
 
 I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear. 
 
 And every thought did shew so lyvely in myne eyes. 
 
 That now I sight, and then I smilde, as cause of thoughts did ryse. 
 
 I sawe the little boy, and thought how oft that he 
 
 Did wishe of God, to scape the rod, a tall young man to be. 
 
 The young man eake that feles his bones with paines opprest 
 
 How he would be a riche olde man, to live and lye at rest. 
 
 The riche olde man that sees his end draw on so sore 
 
 How he would be a boy againe, to live so much the more. 
 
 Whereat full oft I smylde, to see how all those three. 
 
 From boy to man, from man to boy, would chop and change 
 
 degree. 
 And musing thus, I think, the case is very strange, ' 
 That man from wealth, to live in wo, doth ever sake to chg.nge. 
 Thus thoughtfuU as I lay I sawe my withered skyn. 
 How it doth shew my dented chewes, the flesh was worn so thin ; 
 And eke my totheless chaps, the gates of my right way. 
 That opes and shuttcs as I do speak, do thus unto me say : 
 The white and horish heres, the messengers of age. 
 That shew like lines of true belief, that this life doth assuage, 
 Biddes the lay hand, and feele them hanging on thy chin : 
 The whiche doth write to ages past, the third now coming in. 
 Hang up therefore the bitte of thy yong wanton tyme. 
 And thou that therein beaten art the happiest life defyne. 
 
 (i) Hunsdon House, where she was educated with the Princess Mary. 
 
GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 83 
 
 Whereat I sighed, and sayde, Farewell, my wonted toye, 
 Truffe up thy packe, and trudge from me to every little boy, 
 And tell them thus from me, their time most happy is, 
 If to theyr time they reason had, to know the truth of this. 
 
 *«>«: 
 
 GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 
 
 Bom 1536. Died {circa) 1576 — 1577. 
 
 GASCOIGNE was of an ancient Essex family. He w.-is educated at 
 Cambridge, and entered at Gray's Inn. Being disinherited by his father, 
 he took foreign service in Holland under the Prince of Orange. At the 
 si^;e of Middleburgh the Prince was so much struck with his bravery, that 
 he rewarded him with 300 guilders above his pay. He was taken 
 prisoner by the Spaniards, and held for some months in captivity. On 
 his release he returned to England, and resided at Waltharastow, near 
 London. He was in the train of Queen Elizabeth on her celebrated 
 visit to Kenilworth, 157S, when he composed a Masque, for the Queen's 
 pleasure, entitled "The Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth Castle." 
 
 He wrote a Comedy, entitled " The Supposes," which was acted at 
 Gray's Inn, 1566, written "by one of the Students." He also trans- 
 lated Jocasta. His best known work is entitled "The Steele Glasse." 
 It is a Satire, and was held in high esteem for the sly kind of sarcasm 
 which runs through it. Gascoigne is reported to have died at Stamford, 
 in Lincolnshire, October 7, 1577. There is no evidence now existing 
 to show the exact time or place of his. decease. 
 
 His poetry is distinguished for the harmony and smoothness of the 
 versification, and exhibits considerable fertility of imagination, as well 
 as warmth and tenderness of feeling. He was not free from the conceits 
 of the Italian school, as will be seen from the quotations given. 
 
 GASCOIGNE'S GOOD MORROW. 
 
 You that have spent the silent night 
 
 In sleepe and quiet rest. 
 And joye to see the cheerefuU lyght 
 
 That ryseth in the East, 
 Now cleare your voyce, now chere your hart. 
 
 Come helpe me now to sing ; 
 Eche willing wight come beare a part, 
 
 To prayse the heavenly King. 
 G 2 
 
84 GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 
 
 And you whom care in prison keepes, 
 
 Or sickenes doth suppresse, 
 Or secret sorowe breakes your sleepes, 
 
 Or dolours doe distresse ; 
 Yet beare a parte in dolfull wise, 
 
 Yea thinke it good accorde, 
 And exceptable sacrifice, 
 
 Eche sprite to prayse the Lorde. 
 
 The dreadful! night with darkesomnesse 
 
 Had ouerspread the light, 
 And sluggish sleepe with drowsynesse 
 
 Had ouerprest our might : 
 A glasse wherin you may beholde 
 
 Eche storme that stopes our breath, 
 Our bed the graue, our clothes lyke molde. 
 
 And sleepe like dreadfuU death. 
 
 Yet as this deadly night did laste 
 
 But for a little space, 
 And heauenly daye, no we night is past, 
 
 Doth shewe his pleasaunt face : 
 So must we hope to see God's face 
 
 At last in heauen on hie. 
 When we haue chang'd this mortall place 
 
 For Immortalitie. 
 
 And of such happes and heauenly joyes 
 
 As then we hope to holde 
 All earthly sightes and worldly toyes 
 
 Are tokens to beholde. 
 The daye is like the daye of doome. 
 
 The sunne the Sonne of Man, 
 The skyes the heauens, the earth the tombe, 
 
 Wherein we rest tiU then. 
 
 The Rainbowe binding in the skye, 
 
 Bedeckte with sundrye hewes, 
 Is like the seate of God on hye, 
 
 And seemes to till these neues : 
 That as thereby he promised 
 
 To drowne the world no more. 
 So by the bloud which Christ hath shead 
 He will our helth restore. 
 
GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 85 
 
 The mistie cloudes that fall sometime, 
 
 And overcast the skyes, 
 Are like to troubles of our time, 
 
 Which do but dymme our eyes ; 
 But as suche dewes are dried vp quite 
 
 When Phoebus shewes his face. 
 So are such fansies put to flighte 
 
 Where God doth guide by grace. 
 
 The caryon Crowe, that lothsome beast, 
 
 Which cryes agaynst the rayne. 
 Both for hir hewe and for the rest 
 
 The Deuill resembleth playne : 
 And as with gonnes we kill the crowe. 
 
 For spoyling our releefe, 
 The Deuill so must we ouerthrowe 
 
 With gonshote of beleefe. 
 
 The little byrde which sing so swete 
 
 Are like the angelles voyce. 
 Which render God his prayses meete, 
 
 And teach vs to reioyce ; 
 And as they more esteem that myrth, 
 
 Then dread the nights anoy. 
 So much we deeme our days on earth 
 But hell to heauenly joye. 
 
 Unto which joyes for to attayne 
 
 God grant vs aU his grace, 
 And send vs after worldly payne 
 
 In heauen to have a place. 
 Where we may still enjoye that light, 
 
 Which neuer shall decaye. 
 Lord, for thy mercy lend vs might. 
 
 To see that joyful! daye ! 
 
 " DURUM, ^NEUM,ET MISERABILE ^VUM." 
 
 When peerelesse Princes courtes were free from flatterie, 
 The Justice from vnequal doome, the guest from periurie, 
 The pillers of the state from proude presumption, 
 The clearkes from heresie, the commones from rebellion : 
 Then right rewardes were giuen, by swaye of dewe desarte ; 
 Then vertues derlinges^ might be plaste aloft to play their part ; 
 
 (i) Derlinges-~63x\m^ (Anglo-Saxon deorling). 
 
8.6 GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 
 
 Then might they coumpt it true, that hath beene sayde of olde, 
 The children of those happie dayes were borne in beds of golde, 
 And swadled in the same : the Nurse that gaue them sucke 
 Was wife to Uberallitie, and lemman to good lucke. 
 When Caesar woon the fielde, his captaines caught the Townes, 
 And euery painful souldiours purse was crammed ful of crownes. 
 Licurgus for good Lawes lost his owne libertie, 
 And thought it better to preferre common commoditie. 
 But nowe the times are turnde ; it is not as it was ; 
 The golde is gone, the siluer sunke, and nothing left but brasse. 
 To see a King encroach what wonder should it seeme, 
 When commons cannot be content with countrie Dyadeeme ? * 
 The Prince may dye a babe, trust vp by trecherie, 
 Where vaine ambition doth moue trustlesse nobillitye. 
 Errours in pulpit preache, where faith in priesthood failes ; 
 Promotion (not deuotion) is cause why cleaigie quailes. 
 Thus is the stage stakt out, where all these partes be plaide, 
 And I the prologue should pronounce, but that I am afraide. 
 First Cayphas playes the Priest, and Herode sits as king, 
 Pylate the Judge, Judas the Jurour verdict in doth bring, 
 Vaine tatling plaies the vice, well cladde in ritche aray, [gay. 
 And poor Tom Trooth is laught to skorn, with garments nothing 
 The woman Wantonnesse, shee commes with ticing traine ; 
 Pride in hir pocket plaies bopeepe, and bawdry in hir braine. 
 Hir handmaides be Deceipte, Daunger, and Dalliaunce ; 
 Riot and Reuell follow hir, they be of her alliaunce. 
 Next there commes in Sim Swashe, to see what sturre they keepe : 
 CUmbing the Clough then takes his heeles ; tis time for him to 
 
 creepe. 
 To packe the pageante vp commes Sorrow with a song : 
 He says these sties can get no grotes, and al this gear goth 
 
 wrong. 
 Fryst pride without cause why he singes the treble parte ; 
 The meane hee mumbles out of tune, for lacke of life and hart. 
 Cost lost, the counter Tenor chanteth on apace : 
 Thus all in discords stands the cliffe, and beggrie sings the base. 
 The players loose their paines, where so fewe pence are sturring ; 
 Their garments weare for lacke of gains, and fret for lack of 
 
 furring. 
 When all is done and past, was no part plaide but one ; 
 For euerye player plaide the foole, tyll all be spent, and gone. 
 And thus this foolish iest 1 put in dogrell rime, 
 Because a crosier staffe is best for such a crooked time. 
 
 (i) Dvadeeme — diadem. 
 
87 
 SACKVILLE. • 
 
 Born 1536. Died April 19, 1608. 
 
 Thomas Sackviu-E, first Baron Buckhurst, and Earl of Dorset, was 
 the son of Sir Richard Sackville, and was bom at Withyam, in Sussex. 
 He received the benefits of education both at Oxford and Cambridge, 
 and was distinguished as a Latin scholar. As a poet Sackville may be 
 said to belong to the reign of Queen Mary ; as a statesman, to the reigns 
 of Queen Elizabeth and James I. When a student at the Inner Temple 
 he produced the first specimen in Enghsh literature of what is called 
 Tragic Drama. This piece, entitled "Gorboduc," was performed as a 
 Christinas Entertainment by the young students of the Temple. At a later 
 date its name was changed to "The Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex," 
 and it was enacted at Whitehall, A.D. 1561, in presence of Queen 
 Elizabeth. The tragedy abounds in monotonous recitations of historical 
 incidents. It is a cold and heavy composition, but nevertheless it led 
 the way in that path which was so shortly to be adorned by the genius 
 of Shakespeare. At the age of thirty Sackville entered Parliament. 
 He travelled in Europe, and, owing to pecuniary difficulties, was detained 
 a prisoner at Rome. On his father's death, 1566, having obtained his 
 release, he returned to England, and in 1567 was created, by Queen 
 Elizabeth, Baron Buckhurst. An interesting anecdote is told of the 
 manner whereby Sackville was suddenly reformed from prodigality to 
 prudence. Having squandered his income, he was compelled to have 
 recourse to the City in order to borrow money. One of the Aldermen 
 of the City, who was to lend the money, offered Sackville the indignity 
 of keeping Tiim waiting upon his leisure. Sackville's pride was so stung 
 by this affront, that he resolved never again to be in a position wherein 
 borrowing would be necessary. He became at once a prudent and 
 economical man. He was sent on an embassy to Charles IX. of France. 
 At the commencement of 1587 he was nominated a commissioner for the 
 trial of Mary, Queen of Scots. Happily for Sackville's isms, he was 
 not present at the condemnation of the victim of Queen Elizabeth's 
 jealousy. He was firee from participation in the guilt of the Scotch 
 Queen's murder ; though on him was imposed the odious task of 
 informing her of her impending fate, and seeing it carried into execution 
 (February 8th, 1587). 
 
 In the same year he was sent as ambassador to the United Provinces, 
 to deal with their complaints against the Earl of Leicester : Leicester's 
 influence over the Queen succeeded in getting Sackville recalled and 
 confined to his own house for several months. When Leicester died 
 Sackville was restored to the royal favour, and was created K.G. and 
 
88 THOMAS SACKVILLE. 
 
 Chancellor of Oxford. On the death of Lord Burleigh he was made 
 Lord High Treasurer of England. At the death of the Queen he was 
 one of the Privy Couhcillors who administered the kingdom, and pro- 
 claimed James I. The King confirmed Sackville in his office of 
 Treasurer by a patent for life. In 1604 he was raised to the earldom, 
 by the title of Earl of Dorset. Sitting at the Council-table in 1688, 
 he suddenly expired. 
 
 Sackville was called the Star-Chamber Bell, on account of his 
 eloquence. As a statesman he is regarded as a man of unblemished 
 character. Sackville's poetry belongs to his youth, when he was a 
 student. It consists of his "Tragedy of Gorboduc;" the "Induc- 
 tion to a Mirroiir for Magistrates;" and the "Legend of the Duke of 
 Buckingham." The "Mirror for Magistrates" was intended to celebrate 
 the chief illustrious and unfortunate heroes of English history, from the 
 Conquest to the 14th Century, in a series of poetical stories, contributed 
 by various writers. The diiferent characters were to pass in review 
 before the Poet, who, after the fashion of Dante, descends into hell, 
 being conducted by Sorrow. Every person was to recite his own 
 misfortunes, in a soliloquy. Sackville was only able to finish the preface, 
 "Master Sackville's Induction," and one of the legends, viz. that of 
 Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. The rest of the work was 
 referred to other writers of the time. It was published, 1559, under 
 the following title, "A Myrroure for Magistrates, wherein maybe seen, 
 by example of others, with how grevious plages vices are punished, and 
 how frail and unstable worldly prosperitie is founde, even of those whom 
 fortune seemeth most highly to favour." The "Induction" is written 
 with nervous vigour and immense creative power. 
 
 Conducted by Sorrow down to the "horrible lothly lake, as black as 
 pitche,"' the Poet enters "within the porche and jaws of hell." 
 There he sees Remorse of Conscience, Dread, Revenge, Greedy Care, 
 "his knuckles knobbed, his fleshe depe dented in;" "Slepe, the cosin 
 of Death," Old Age, Famine, War, &c. The Induction abounds with 
 passages muscular, vivid, and brilliantly imaginative. It well deserves 
 close study : and the name of Sackville must ever remain honoured 
 among poets, since there is no doubt that Shakespeare was indebted to 
 him for suggestions and ideas which the tragedy of Gorboduc^ gave him 
 in modelling what is now termed a Play; while the "Mirrourfor 
 Magistrates" supplied Shakespeare with the material for several of the 
 scenes of, and perhaps suggested to the poet, his Historical Plays. From 
 the Induction Spenser borrowed many thoughts, which may be traced 
 in passages of "The Faery Queen." 
 
 [The passage from the Induction which is quoted is that which intro- 
 duces Old Age, Famine, and War to the observation of the Poet, as he 
 is conducted by Sorrow " In dreadfuU feare amid the dreadfiiU place."] 
 
 (i) See "Twelftli Night," act 4, sc. 2. " As the old hermit of Prague, that never 
 saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, 'That that is is,*"— 
 
THOMAS SACKVILLE. 89 
 
 INDUCTION TO A MIRROUR FOR MAGISTRATES. 
 
 And next in order sad Old Age we found ; 
 
 His beard all hoare, his iyes hollow and blynde, 
 
 With drouping chere still poring on the ground, 
 As on the place where nature him aflSnde ^ 
 To rest, when that the sisters had untwynde 
 His vitall threde, and ended with theyr knyfe 
 The fleeting course of fast declining life. 
 
 There heard we him with broken and hollow playn, 
 Rewe with him selfe his ende approaching fast. 
 
 And all for nought his wretched minde torment 
 With swete remembrance of his pleasures past. 
 And freshe delites of lusty youth forwaste.^ 
 Recounting which, how would he sob and shrike,' 
 And to be yong againe of Jove beseke. 
 
 But and the cruell fates so fixed be 
 
 That time for past can not retourne again. 
 
 This one request of Jove yet prayed he : 
 That in such withered plight and wretched paine, 
 As elde * (accompanied with his loathsome trayne) 
 Had brought on him, all were it woe and griefe, 
 He might a while yet linger forth his lief ;^ 
 
 And not so soone descend into the pit. 
 
 Where death, when he the mortall corps hath slayne, 
 
 With retchles ^ hande in grave doth cover it, 
 Thereafter never to enjoy e agayne 
 The gladsome light, but in the ground ylayne 
 In depth of darknes waste and weare to nought. 
 As he had never into the world been brought. 
 
 Crookebackt he was, tooth shaken, and blere iyed, 
 
 Went on three feete, and sometime crept on fower,' 
 With old lame bones that ratled by his syde. 
 
 His skalpe all pilde, and he with elde forlore ; 
 
 His withered fist still knocking at deathes dore ; 
 
 Tumbling and driveling as he drawes his breth ; 
 
 For briefe, the shape and messenger of death. 
 
 (i) Affinde — had chosen, selected for him. fa) Forwtisie — desolate, destroyed. 
 
 (3) i-Anife— shriek. (4) Elde—as^- (s) Lte/—l\le. 
 
 (6) i?tf/cA^J— unrelenting. {7) Fower—ionr. 
 
90 THOMAS SACKVILLE. 
 
 But, oh ! the doleful sight that then we see : 
 We turnde our looke, and on the other side 
 
 A griefy shape of Famine mought ' we see, 
 
 With greedy lookes, and gaping mouth that cryed, 
 And roard for meat as she should there have dyed ; 
 Her body thin and bare as any bone, 
 Wharto was left nought but the case alone. 
 
 Great was her force whom stone wall could not stay ; 
 Her tearyng nayles scratching at all she sawe : 
 
 With gaping jawes that by no means ymay 
 Be satisfyed from hunger of her mawe, 
 But eates her selfe as she that hath no lawe : 
 Gnawing, alas ! her carkas all in vayne. 
 Where you may count eche sinow, bone, and vayne. 
 
 On her while we thus firmly fixt our iyes, 
 
 That bled for ruth of such a drery sight, 
 Soe sodaynelge she shryght ' in so huge wyse. 
 
 As made hell gates to shyver with the myght. 
 
 Wherewith a dart, we sawe howe it did lyght 
 
 Ryght on her breast, and therewithal pale death 
 
 Enthrylling it to rave ' her of her breath. 
 
 And by and by a dum dead corps we sawe. 
 Heavy and colde, the shape of death aryght, 
 
 That dauntes all earthly creatures to his lawe : 
 Agaynst whose force in vayne it is to fygiit. 
 Ne pieres, ne princes, nor no mortall wyght, 
 Ne townes, ne realmes, cities, ne strongest tower, 
 But al perforce must yield unto his power. 
 
 His dart anon out of the corps he tooke, 
 And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see) 
 
 With great triumphe eftsones the same he shooke, 
 That most of all my feares affrayed ■* me : 
 His bodie dight with nought but bones, perdye.' 
 The naked shape of man there sawe I playne. 
 All save the fleshe, the synowe, and the vayne. 
 
 Lastly stoode Warre, in glitteryng armes yclad, 
 
 With visage grym, sterne lookes and blackely hewed. 
 In his right hand a naked sworde he had, 
 
 (i) Mought— Toi^t. (2) Sfiiyght—shn^&A. 
 
 (3) Rave — bereave her, deprive. (4) A^ayed-~^Kri%\itai. 
 
 (5) Perdye—a. corruption of the French oath ** par Dieu." See " Twelfth Night,*' 
 act 4, sc. 2. " My lady is unkind, perdy." 
 
ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 91 
 
 That to the hiltes was all with blood embrewed : 
 And in his left (that kinges and kingdomes rewed) 
 Famine and fyer he held, and therewythall 
 He razed townes, and threwe do^vne towers and aU. 
 
 Cities he sakt, and realmes that whilom flowered 
 In honour, glory, and rule above the best 
 
 He overwhelmde ; and all theyr fame devoured, 
 Consumed, destroyed, wasted ; and never ceast, 
 Tyll he theyr wealth, their name, and all opprest : 
 His face forshewed with woundes, and by his side 
 There hunge his terge,^ with gashes depe and wyde. 
 
 -«>=«- 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 
 
 Bom (circa) 1550. Executed 1595. 
 
 Southwell was bom of a good family in Norfolk, which held sted- 
 fastly to the old religion of the country amidst the troublous times at 
 die dose of Henry Vin.'s reign. Southwell's parents therefore sent 
 him abroad for his education. At Rome he was received into the 
 Society of Jesus, and appointed Prefect of Studies in the Jesuits' College 
 in 1585. From Rome he was despatched as a missionary to England, 
 and was attached to the household of Anne, Countess of Arundel, who 
 perished in the Tower. Southwell shared the fate of all Priests who 
 could be found and seized in Elizabeth's reign. 
 
 In 1592 he was apprehended, and the usual expedients were had 
 recourse to, in order to extract from him some confession of secret 
 conspiracies against the Queen and Government. Refiising to answer 
 some questions, and unable to answer others, he was sent to prison, and 
 kept in close confinement for nearly three years, during which period he 
 was subjected to the tortures of the rank no less than ten times. There 
 have been few victims of religious intolerance in this country who 
 suffered such frequent inflictions of cruelty as did Southwell. Other 
 martyrs to their faith have generally been speedily done to death, by 
 
 (i) r«xv!^targt 
 
92 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 
 
 Catholic or Protestant. Southwell was kept for three years, under 
 periodical impositions of the brutality of his torturers. At length he 
 was brought to trial, February 20th, 1595, when he confessed that he 
 was a Catholic priest, who had come to England to preach his religion 
 among his own people. The Court of King's Bench condemned him, 
 and the following day he was released from his prolonged human 
 miseries, by being executed at Tyburn. 
 
 Southwell appears to have been a man of a most gentle disposition, 
 and his poetry was long held in high esteem among his co-religionists, 
 associated as it was with the memory of a man to murder whom at Tyburn 
 was as horrible as it would have been to have treated Cowper, or Kirke 
 White, or Robert Bums after the same manner, because they happened 
 to be Protestants. The execution of Southwell was, besides this, 
 a political blunder. He was no conspirator against the State, and 
 consequently was made a martyr to his faith. 
 
 His "Triumph over Death," "Mary Magdalen's Tears,'' "Self- 
 Contemplation," and a few other pieces, retain their place in English 
 literature, and deserve esteem for their elegance, sweetness, and 
 religious eloquence. 
 
 S. MARY MAGDALEN'S BLVSH. 
 
 The signes of shame that staine my blushing face 
 
 Rise from the feeling of my rauing fits, 
 
 Whose joy annoyes, whose guerdon is disgrace ; 
 
 Whose solace fiyes, whose sorrow never flies. 
 Bad seed I sowed, worse fruite is now my gaine, 
 Soone dying mirth begot long liuing paine. 
 
 Now pleasure ebbs reuenge begins to flow ; 
 One day doth wreake the wrath that many viTought : 
 Remorse doth teach my guilty thoughtes to know. 
 How cheape I sould that Christ so deerely bought. 
 Fault long vnfelt doth conscience now bewray, 
 Which care must cure, and teares must wash away. 
 
 All ghostly dynts that grace at me did dart. 
 
 Like stubbome rocke, I forced to recoyle ; 
 
 To other flights an ayme I made my hart, 
 
 Whose wounds, then welcome, now haue wrought my soylc. 
 Woe worth the bow, woe worth the archer's might, 
 That draue such arrowes to the marke so right. 
 
ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 93 
 
 To pull them out, to leaue them in, is death : 
 One to this world, one to the world to come : 
 Wounds may I weare, and draw a doubtfuU breath 
 But then my wounds will worke a dreadfull doome. 
 
 And for a world whose pleasures passe away 
 
 I lose a world whose joyes are past decay. 
 
 O sense, 6 soule, 6 hand, 6 hopefull blisse, 
 You wooe, you weane, you draw, you driue me backe. 
 Your crosse encountring like their combat is, 
 That neuer ends but with some deadly wiack. 
 
 When sense doth winne the soule doth loose the field, 
 And present haps makes future hopes to yeeld. 
 
 O heaven, lament ! sense robbeth the of saints : 
 Lament, 6 soules ! sense spoileth you of grace. 
 Yet sense doth scarce deserue these hard complaints •. 
 Loue is the thiefe, sense but the entring place. 
 
 Yet grant I must, sense is not free from sinne, 
 
 For thiefe he is that thiefe admitteth in. 
 
 AT HOME IN HEAUEN. 
 
 Faire soule, how long shall veUes thy graces shrowd ? 
 
 How long shall this exile with hold thy right ? 
 
 When will thy sunne disperse this mortall clowd. 
 
 And giue thy glorie scope to blaze their light ? 
 Oh that a starre more fit for Angels eyes 
 Should pyne in earth, not shine aboue the skies ! 
 
 This ghostly beauty offred force to God ; 
 
 It chayned him in the linkes of tender loue ; 
 
 It wonne his will with man to make abode ; 
 
 It stayd his sword, and did his wrath remoue ; 
 It made the rigor of his iustice yeeld. 
 And crowned mercy Empresse of the field. 
 
 This lulled our heauenly Sampson fast a sleep. 
 And layd him in our feebles Natures lap ; 
 This made him vnder mortall load to creepe. 
 And in our flesh his God-head to enwrap ; 
 This made hini soioume with vs in exile, 
 And not disdaine oiu: tytles in his stile. 
 
94 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 
 
 This brought him from the rankes of heauenly quires 
 Into this vale of teares and cursed soyle, 
 From flowers of grace into a world of bryers, 
 From life to death, from blisse to bafcfuU toyle. 
 This made him wander in our Pilgrim's weede, 
 And taste our torments, to relieue our need. 
 
 O soule ! do not thy noble thoughts abase. 
 To lose thy loue in any mortall wight : 
 Content thine eye at home with natiue grace, 
 Sith God himselfe is rauisht with thy sight. 
 
 If on thy beauty God enamoured be, 
 
 Base is my loue of any lesse then he. 
 
 Giue not assent to muddy minded skill. 
 That deemes the feature of a pleasing face 
 To be the sweetest baile to lure the will. 
 Not valuing right the worth of ghostly grace. 
 Let Gods and angels censure winne beliefe, 
 That of all beauties iudge our soules the chiefe. 
 
 Queene Hester was of rare and peerelesse hiew. 
 And Judith once for beauty bare the vaunt : 
 But he that could our soules endowments view 
 Would soone to soules the Crowne of beauty graunt. 
 O soule ! out of thy selfe seeke God alone : 
 Grace more the thine, but Gods, the world had none. 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN'S MANNA. 
 
 In Paschal feast, the end of ancient rite. 
 An entrance was to neuer fading grace : 
 Types to the truth, dimme glimpses to the light : 
 Performing deed presaging signes did chase. 
 
 Christ's finall meale was fountayne of our good ; 
 
 For mortall meale He gaue immortall food. 
 
 That which he gaue he was, — 6 peereles gift ! 
 
 Both God and man he was, and both he gaue: 
 
 He in his hands himselfe did truely lift : 
 
 Farre off they see whom in themselues they haue. 
 Twelue did he feede, twelue did the feeder eate : 
 He made, he drest, he gaue, he was their meate. 
 
ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 95 
 
 They saw, they heard, they felt him sitting neare : 
 
 Vnseene, vnfelt, vnheard, they him receaued. 
 
 No diuers things, though diuers it appeare ; 
 
 Though senses fayle, yet faith is not deceaued. 
 And if the wonder of the worke be new, 
 Beleeue the worke, because the word is true. 
 
 Heere true beliefe of force inuiteth love : 
 
 So sweet a truth loue neuer yet enioyde. 
 
 What thought can thinke, what will doth best approue, 
 
 Is here attaynd, where no desire is voyde. 
 
 The grace, the joy, the treasure here is such. 
 No wit can wish, nor will embrace so much. 
 
 Selfe loue here cannot craue more then it findes : 
 
 Ambition to no higher worth aspire. 
 
 The eagrest famine of most hungry mindes 
 
 May fiU, yea faiTe exceed their own desire. 
 
 In summe heres all, and in that some exprest 
 Of much the most, of euery good the best. 
 
 Heere, to delight the wit, true wisdome is : 
 
 To woo the will, of euery good the choyce : 
 
 For memory, a mirrour shewing blisse : 
 
 Heres all that can both sense and soule reioyce : 
 And if to all all this it doth not bring. 
 The fault is in the men, not in the thing. 
 
 Though blinde men see no light, the sunne doth shine : 
 Sweet cates are sweet, though swered ' tasts deny it : 
 Pearles precious are, though trodden on by swine : 
 Each truth is true, though all men do not tiy it. 
 The best still to the bad doth worke the worst : 
 Things bred to blisse doth make them more accurst 
 
 The angels eyes, whome veiles cannot deceaue. 
 Might best disclose what best they do discerne. 
 Men must with sound and silent faith receaue 
 More then they can by sense of reason leame. 
 
 Gods power our proofe, his works our wits, exceed : 
 
 The doers might is reason for his deed. 
 
 A body is indued with ghostly rights ; 
 And natures worke from natures law is free. 
 
 (1) Swered — cloyed, and vitiated (Anglo-Saxon swer^ heavy). 
 
96 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 
 
 In heauenly sunne lyes hidde eternall lights, 
 Lights cleare and neere ; yet them no eye can see. 
 Dead formes a neuer dying life doth shrowde : 
 A boundles sea lies in a little clowde. 
 
 The God of hostes in slender hosts doth dwell ; 
 Yea God and man, withall to eyther due. 
 That God that rules the heavens, and rifled hel ; 
 That man whose death did vs to life renew ; 
 
 That God and man it is that angels blisse ; 
 
 In forme of bread and wine our nourture is. 
 
 Whole may his body be in smallest bread : 
 Whole in the whole, yea whole in euery crumme. 
 With which be one or be ten thousand fedde, 
 All to each one, to all but one, doth come. 
 
 And though each one as much as all receaue, 
 Nor one too much, nor all too little haue. 
 
 One soule in man is all in euery part ; 
 
 One face at once in many glasses shines ; 
 
 One fearefull noyse doth make a thousand start ; 
 
 One eye at once of countlesse things defines. 
 If proofe of one in many nature frame. 
 Why may not God much more performe the same ? 
 
 God present is at once in euery place ; 
 
 Yet God in euery place is alwayes one. 
 
 So may there be, by gifts of ghostly grace. 
 
 One man in many roomes, yet filling none. 
 Sith angels may eifects of body show, 
 God angels gifts on bodyes may bestow. 
 
 What God as author made, he alter may : 
 
 No change so hard, as making all of nought. 
 
 If Adam framed were of slimy clay, 
 
 Bread may to Christs most sacred flesh be wrought.. 
 He still doth this that made, with mighty hand. 
 Of water wine, a snake of Moyses wand. 
 
97 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 Bam 1552. — Executed 1618. 
 
 KAI.EIGH was the second son of Walter Raleigh, by his third wife, 
 Catherine, daughter of Philip Champemon, and widow of Otho Gilbert, 
 Esq., of Compton, Devon. Raleigh's father was a Captain in the Navy 
 in the reign of Queen Mary. His son Walter was bom in 1552, at Hayes 
 Farm, in the parish of East Budleigh, Devonshire, and at an early age 
 proceeded to Oriel College, Oxford, where he was esteemed a, "pro- 
 ficient in oratory and philosophy." In 1569, when seventeen years of 
 age, he enlisted in the Band of Gentlemen Volunteers, under the com- 
 mand of his mother's kinsman, Henry Champemon, and proceeded to 
 France in the service of the Protestant princes, in those eventful 
 days when Conde and Coligni upheld the Huguenot standard. He 
 subsequently served in the same cause in the Netherlands. 
 
 Raleigh seems at this period to have been deeply interested in the dis- 
 coveries of Columbus, the conquests of Cortez, and the triumphs of 
 Pizarro. His step-brother. Sir Humphrey Gilbert, had published a. trea- 
 tise concerning a North- West passage to the East Indies. He obtained 
 a patent from Queen Elizabeth for the colonization of such parts of North 
 America as were not already possessed by the Queen's allies. Raleigh 
 returned to England in 1576, and entered enthusiastically into Gilbert's 
 schemes. He and Raleigh put to sea upon their first venture. They 
 were compelled to return home, their small squadron being dispersed 
 and disabled by a Spanish fleet. In 1579 he took service in Ireland, 
 when Lord Grey de Wilton was Lord Deputy. Raleigh was present 
 at the siege of Smerwick, in Kerry, when the Earl of Desmond was in 
 revolt Smerwick was held by Spanish and Italian soldiers, under the 
 command of Don Guiseppe. The garrison was compelled to capitulate, as 
 it was asserted, on honourable conditions. No sooner were the English 
 soldiers with Raleigh admitted, than the whole was massacred. This 
 foul breach of faith was subsequently inquired into by the Queen her- 
 self in Coimcil. Raleigh laid the blame at the door of Lord Grey, and 
 succeeded in persuading the Queen that he was himself blameless. After 
 holding various important commands in Ireland, he returned to London, 
 and attracted the Queen's attention (as the well-known story goes) by 
 spreading his cloak on her Majesty's path as she landed from her barge. 
 Elizabeth, who had something more than a liking for tall and handsome 
 men, summoned Raleigh to her presence. Thus commenced his favour 
 at Court The Queen, whose absurd vanity (having no beauty to be 
 
 H 
 
98 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 vain about) proved one of the besetting evils of her reign, was charmed 
 with Raleigh's flattery and conversation. It is said by Naunton, "she 
 took him for a kind of oracle. " 
 
 In 1583 Sir Humphrey Gilbert set out on his second expedition for 
 North America. Raleigh subscribed 2,oooZ. towards the adventure, 
 but did not accompany Gilbert. The expedition reached Newfound- 
 land, but was not attended with any success. In returning to England, 
 Gilbert was lost in a storm. He has been called "The Father of English 
 Planters," as the first who attempted to found Colonial settlements. 
 Nothing daunted, Raleigh obtained a patent in his own favour, fitted 
 out another expedition, which sailed April 27, 1584, and in July the 
 voyagers landed on the Island of Wokonon, off the coast of North 
 Carolina. The return of this successful expedition raised Raleigh into 
 favour at Court, and also in public esteem. The Queen, in reference 
 to her own unmarried state, ordefed the newly discovered country to be 
 called "Virginia." It is said, that on the return of this expedition tobacco 
 and potatoes were first introduced into England. Raleigh was returned 
 to Parliament to represent Devon, and the Queen conferred on him the 
 honour of knighthood. Her Majesty also made agrant to him of 12,000 
 acres of land in Munster, part of the forfeited principality of the Earl of 
 Desmond. In 1587 he was made Lord Warden of the Stannaries, and 
 Seneschal of Cornwall and Exeter. He was also appointed one of the 
 Council of War, to put the forces in order to withstand the threatened 
 Spanish invasion. In July, 1588, when the Armada had passed up the 
 Channel, he joined the fleet with a small squadron, and bravely assisted 
 Howard in his attacks upon the Spaniard's galleons. When Elizabeth 
 visited St. Paul's, on the Public Thanksgiving for the destruction of the 
 Armada and the retreat of the 53 vessels which alone remained out of 
 the 132 that had sailed from Spain, Raleigh was Captain of the Royal 
 Guard. In 1589 he assigned his rights in the Colony of Virginia to a 
 company of London merchants, and in the same year accompanied Sir 
 Francis Drake and Sir John Norris on their expedition to Lisbon, 
 carrying with them Don Antonio, who had fled to England, and in 
 whose favour Elizabeth sent out a large fleet of 120 vessels and 26,000 
 volunteers, in the vain hope of seating Don Antonio on the throne of 
 Portugal. The fleet was repulsed before Lisbon. 
 
 Don Antonio had been driven out of Portugal by Philip of Spain, and 
 no doubt this expedition was intended by Elizabeth as a return visit for 
 the favours conferred by sending the Spanish Armada to our shores. 
 Essex, who had established himself in the favour of Elizabeth (and 
 had probably been advanced by Leicester's interest in order to draw 
 away the Queen's favour firom Raleigh), joined the expedition privately 
 wheii it was before Corunna. The ill-feeling between him and Raleigh 
 was deepened on this occasion. When Raleigh returned to England, he 
 found his. favour with the Queen diminished, and during his absence from 
 Court he visited Spenser at KUcolman,' in Ireland, on the estate the 
 (i) See Spenser's Life, p. io5. 
 
S/X WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 99 
 
 Queen had granted the Poet. Spenser has commemorated this visit in 
 his celebrated pastoral, "Colin Clont's come home again," wherein 
 Raleigh is described as the " Shepherd of the Ocean," and the Queen 
 as "Cynthia, the Lady of the Sea." 
 
 In 1591 Raldg^ sailed on an expedition for intercepting the Spanish 
 Plate-fleet One of the Indian carracts (1,600 tons burden), the Madre 
 de Dios, was taken by Sir John Burgh, a Captain in the English fleet, 
 and brought to England as the largest prize ever taken. She was valued 
 by Raleigh at 500,000/. Instead, however, of being received with Royal 
 favour, no sooner had Raleigh landed than he found himself a prisoner 
 in the Tower. During his absence the Queen had discovered a court- 
 ship and intrigue between Raleigh and Elizabeth, daughter of Sir 
 Nicholas Throckmorton, one of her Majesty's maids of honoor. Queen 
 Elizabeth was one of those women who covet and desire a monopoly of 
 flattery and gallantry. For a fevourite of hers to love or admire any 
 person but herself was an outrage which she deeply resented. The 
 virtue of Elizabeth was likewise incensed by the conduct of Raleigh 
 and the fiailty of Throckmorton. In prison Raleigh threw himself into 
 paroxysms of despairing love, being shut out firom the charming but 
 inexorable Angelica (theQueen). He knew the weak part of her Majesty's 
 character, and diligently charged at it He wrote to Cecil : "My heart 
 was never broken till this day, that I hear the Queen goes so far off I 
 that was wont to behold her riding like Alexander, hunting like Diana, 
 walking like Venus, the gentle wind blowing her fair hair about her 
 pure cheeks like a nymph, sometime sitting in the shade like a goddess, 
 sometime singing like an angel, sometime playing like Orpheus : 
 behold the .sorrow of this world ! once amiss hath bereaved me of all. 
 AH those times past-^the loves, the sighs, the sorrows, the desires, can 
 they not wdgh down one frail misfortune ? Cannot one drop of gall 
 be hidden in so great deeps of sweetness ? " &c. &c &c 
 
 This charming, blooming creature, on whom Raleigh lavished the 
 extravagance of his bombastic admiration, was already nearly sixty 
 yems of age ! But the courtier knew the Queen ! No amount of 
 flattery could be too luscious for that insatiable appetite ; and accord- 
 ingly Raleigh's impassioned grief and desperate devotion were rewarded 
 with his release ! He married Elizabeth Throckmorton, and retired to 
 Sherborne, which had been alienated from the See of Salisbury, 
 and granted to him by the Crown as a reward for his services in Parlia- 
 ment Being still excluded from the Court, he was enabled to project, 
 in the retirement of his beautrfiil Sherborne, (which, "with orchards, 
 gardens, and groves of much variety and great delight, rests unparalleled 
 in these parts,") his expedition to the golden kingdom, the Eldorado 
 of the Spaniards, which had inflamed his imagination and credulity ; ard 
 in the existence of which, as a land of gold in the interior of South 
 America, his romantic and ardently adventurous mind seems to have 
 led him thoroughly to believe. In February, 159S, he sailed from 
 Plymouth with five vessels, and arrived at Trinidad the end of March. 
 
 H2 
 
loo S/Ji WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 Having surprised the newly-founded town of San Joseph, and gained 
 certain information from the Governor, his prisoner, he ascended the 
 Orinoco about sixty leagues, when he was compelled to return to England. 
 He published an account of his expedition, entitled "The discovery of 
 the large, rich, and beautiful Empire of Guinea." On returning to 
 England, Raleigh was once more restored to favour at Court. In 1596 
 he received the rank of Rear- Admiral, and was employed at the taking of 
 Cadiz. In 1597 he took Fayat. He was reinstated Captain of the Guard 
 and Governor of Jersey. At this period Raleigh was mixed up with all 
 the intrigues of the Court, and took an active part in scheming the 
 destruction of Essex. The deepest blot upon his character exists in the 
 infamous letter he wrote to Cecil, deliberately advising the destruction 
 of Essex. In that letter Raleigh writes, "If you take it for a good 
 counsel to relent towards this tyrant, you will repent — when it is too 
 late. The less you make him, the less he shall be able to harm you 
 and yours. . . . For after-revenges, fear them not. Look to the 
 present, and you do wisely. His son shall be the youngest Earl of 
 England but one : and if his father be now kept down,'^'-i&. Cecil shall be 
 able to keep as many men at his heels as he, and more too. . . . But 
 if the father continue, he will be able to break the branches, and pull up 
 the tree, root and all. Lose not your advantage : if you do, I read your 
 destiny," &c. &c. This letter, full of craft and revenge, expresses the 
 deliberate desire of Raleigh to destroy Essex. As such it is infamous. 
 The destruction of Essex followed : and Raleigh took advantage of his 
 influence with the Queen to procure remission of the sentences passed 
 upon Essex's friends — for such as could afford to bribe him. Mr. Lyttleton 
 paid him 10,000/. for his own pardon. There can be but one opinion 
 of such shameless transactions. With the death of Elizabeth Raleigh's 
 fortunes declined. His share in the destruction of Essex had made him 
 most unpopular. The mind of James I. was strongly prejudiced 
 against him. His offices and patents were taken away from him. In 
 1602 he was committed to the Tower on a charge of High Treason, for 
 being privy to the Cobham conspiracy against the life of the King, and 
 for placing the Lady Arabella Stuart upon the throne. Raleigh was 
 tried at Winchester, and found guilty. It is very doubtful whether 
 Raleigh was a participator in any such plot. His condemnation was 
 certainly procured by his enemies. Being reprieved by the King, he 
 was committed to the Tower, and detained a prisoner for thirteen years. 
 His beautiful estate at Sherborne was escheated, and conferred upon the 
 King's favourite, the infamous Carr, afterwards Duke of Somerset. It 
 was during this imprisonment that Raleigh devoted himself to intellectual 
 pursuits. He wrote his "History of the World," the best model of 
 the ancient style. He only completed the first part, commencing with 
 the Creation, and ending vrith the first Macedonian war. In 1615, by 
 means of bribery, Raleigh obtained his release (which was conditional), 
 but not his pardon. He then started his project for an expedition to 
 Guinea, and equipped thirteen ships, with which he sailed, and arrived oif 
 
SIX WALTER RALEIGH. loi 
 
 the coast November, 1 617. An exploring party, led by Captain Keymls, 
 ascended the Orinoco. A conflict with the Spaniards at the town 
 of St. Thomas ensued, in which the Spanish Governor and Raleigh's 
 son, Walter, were killed. Keymis committed suicide. Raleigh sailed 
 for Newfoundland, intending to attack the Spanish fleet. Before his 
 arrival there, the fleet had separated, and, owing to the mutiny of his. 
 own saUois, Raleigh was compelled to return to England. On arriving 
 at Plymouth, July, 1618, he was arrested, and conveyed to London. 
 The King was strongly urged by the King of Spain to punish Raleigh 
 for the attack upon St. Thomas, a Spanish settlement. At that period 
 the proposed marriage of Prince Charles (Charles I.) with the Infanta 
 of Spain was being n^otiated ; and James I. (influenced by Gondomar, 
 the ambassador) was anxious to conciliate the King of Spain. 
 Raleigh's case was laid before the Council ; but as he was already 
 unpardoned nnder a sentence of High Treason (passed sixteen years 
 before), he was judged to be civilly dead already : and the King decided 
 npon carrying the old sentence into execution. 
 
 On Wednesday, October 28, 1618, Raleigh was removed to the 
 Gate-house, Palace-yard, and then brought up before the Court of King's 
 Bench. Sentence of death was passed upoD him. The following day, 
 Thursday, October 29, he was led out to execution in Palace-yard, 
 attended by the Dean of Westminster. " He was very cheerful the 
 morning he died, and took tobacco ; and made no more of his death 
 than if he had been to take a journey." 
 
 Raleigh died in the sixty-sixth year of his age. 
 
 Aubrey has described him as " a tall, handsome, bold man ; but 
 his ntjeeve was that he was damnable proud ; he had a most 
 remarkable aspect, an exceeding high forehead, long-faced, and sour 
 eU-liddei, a kind of pigge-eie ! l" He was noted for his splendour, and as 
 an accomplished courtier. As a discoverer and navigator he will 
 always occupy a niche of fame in English history ; albeit in his nature 
 he was what is trans-atlantioally termed a "filibuster." Raleigh was 
 crafty, selfish, rapacious, and in his moral character there is much to 
 condemn — Uttle to admire. But he was a man of great genius, originality, 
 and daring. Among the eminent men of Elizabeth's reign he was 
 nndoubtedly one of the most distinguished, whether we regard the part 
 he played, the favour he won, or the intellectual power he exhibited. 
 In this book he appears to the least advantage, because his compositions 
 as a poet are very inferior to his prose writings : nevertheless, in poetry 
 he has left us lines which will always live, and be familiar to the people ; 
 and the " Soul's Errand " — assuming it to be his composition, which 
 seems now to be almost certain — is worthy the pen of any poet. 
 
S/Ji WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 HIS PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Give me my scallop-shell of quiet ; ' 
 
 My staff of faith to walk upon ; 
 
 My scrip of joy, immortal diet ; 
 
 My bottle of salvation ; 
 
 My crown of glory (Hope's true gage) ; 
 
 And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. 
 
 Blood must be my body's only balmer, 
 
 Whilst my soul, like a quiet Palmer,^ 
 
 Travelleth towards the land of Heaven : 
 
 No other balm will there be given. 
 
 Over the silver mountains, 
 
 Where spring the nectar fountains : 
 There will I kiss 
 The bowl of bliss. 
 
 And drink mine everlasting fill 
 
 Upon every milken hill. 
 
 My soul will be a-dry before ; 
 
 But after it will thirst no more. 
 I'll take them first 
 To quench my thirst, 
 
 And taste of nectar's suckets 
 At those clear wells 
 Where sweetness dwells. 
 
 Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. 
 
 Tlien by that happy blissful day 
 
 More peaceful pilgrims I shall see. 
 That have cast off their rags of clay, 
 And walk apparelled fresh like me : 
 And when our bodies and all we 
 Are filled with immortality. 
 Then the blessed parts we'll travel, 
 Strowed with rubies thick as gravel ; 
 Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire flowers, 
 High walls of coral, and pearly bowers ; 
 From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall,^ 
 Where no corrupted voices brawl, 
 
 (i) " This is a most extraordinary poem ; a mixture of sublime ideas and sentiments 
 with quaint and degrading images. It is said to have been written between his 
 sentence and execution." — Sir Egerion Brydges, 
 
 {2) Palmer — a religious pilgrim. 
 
 (3) Alluding to the common custom of bribery. Raleigh had himself given bribes, 
 and had himself taken them. 
 
SIJi WALTER RALEIGH. 103 
 
 No conscience molten into gold, 
 
 No forged accuser bought or sold,^ 
 
 No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey 
 
 For there Christ is the King's attorney ; ^ 
 
 Who pleads for all without degrees ; 
 
 And he hath angels,' but no fees : 
 
 And when the twelve grand million jury 
 
 Of our sins, with direful fury, 
 
 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, 
 
 Christ pleads his death, and then we live ! 
 
 Be thou my Speaker (taintless Pleader, 
 
 Unblotted Lawyer, true Proceeder) : 
 
 Thou wouldst salvation even for alms. 
 
 Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. 
 
 And this is mine eternal plea 
 
 To him that made Heaven, Earth, and Sea : 
 
 That since my flesh must die so soon. 
 
 And want a head to dine next noon,* 
 
 Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread, 
 
 Set on my soul an everlasting head. 
 
 Then am I ready, like a Palmer fit. 
 
 To tread those blessed paths which before I writ. 
 
 Of death and judgment, heaven and hell. 
 
 Who oft doth think, must needs die well ! 
 
 VERSES 
 
 SAID TO HAVE BEEN FOUND IN HIS BIBLE, IN THE GATE-HOUSE, 
 , WESTMINSTER, 
 
 Even such is time ; that takes in trust 
 Our youth, our joys, our all we have, 
 And pays us nought but age and dust : 
 Which in the dark and silent grave. 
 When we have wandered aU our ways. 
 Shuts up the story of our days. 
 But from this earth, this grave, this dust. 
 My God shall raise me up, I trust ! 
 
 ill lake Lord Cobhasn, at his trial in re Arabella Stuart. 
 2) Unlike Coke^ the King's attorney in Raleigh's trial. 
 3) Angels — A. play upon the wonl, alluding to the coin called an '* angel " then in 
 common circulation, and at that time worth ten shillings. 
 (4) Alluding to his impending execution. 
 
104 S/Ji WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 DE MORTE. 
 
 Man's life's a Tragedy : his mother's womb, 
 From which he enters, is the Tiring-room ; 
 This spacious earth the Theatre ; and the Stage 
 That country which he lives in : Passions, Rage, 
 FoUy, and Vice, are actors ; the first cry 
 The Prologue to the ensuing Tragedy. 
 The former act consisteth of dumb shows ; 
 The second he to more perfection grows ; 
 I'th' third he is a man, and doth begin 
 To nurture vice, and act the deeds 6f sin ; 
 I' th' fourth declines ; i' th' fifth diseases clog 
 And trouble him ; then Death 's his Epilogue. 
 
 ON THE SNUFF OF A CANDLE. 
 
 Cowards fear to die : but courage stout, 
 Rather than live in snuff, will be put out 
 
 THE SOUL'S ERRAND.i 
 
 SOMETIMES CALLED "THE LIE." 
 
 Go, soul, the body's guest. 
 
 Upon a thankless errand ! 
 Fear not to touch the best ; 
 
 The truth shall be thy warrant. 
 Go, since I needs must die, 
 And give the world the lie. 
 
 Go, tell the tourt — it glows 
 
 And shines like rotten wood ; 
 Go, tell the Church — it shows 
 
 What's good, and doth no good. 
 If Church and Court reply. 
 Then give them both the he. 
 
 (i) This celebrated poem has been attributed to Joshua Sylvester. In a note of Mr. 
 Peter Cmmmel^ s to his edition of Campbell's ' Lives of the Poets'-refening to the 
 passage m which Campbell says, " We would vnllingly ascribe the Soul's Erfa«dZ 
 hun (Raleigh) '—we read, The Lie is ascribed to Sir Walter Raleieh in an answir to 
 't written at thctt«,^, agd recently discovered in the Cheetham LibrSry at Manchester 
 ITiat It was written by Raleigh IS now almost past a doubt" »<u.i.uebicr. 
 
SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 105 
 
 Tell Potentates — they live 
 
 Acting by other's actions ; 
 Not loved unless they give, 
 
 Not strong but by their factions. 
 If Potentates reply, 
 Give Potentates the lie. 
 
 Tell men of high condition 
 
 That rule affairs of state — 
 Their purpose is ambition. 
 
 Their practice only hate. 
 And if they once reply, 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell them that brave it most, 
 
 They beg for more by spending, 
 Who in their greatest cost 
 
 Seek nothing but commending. 
 And if they make reply, 
 Then give them aU the lie. 
 
 Tell Zeal — it lacks devotion ; 
 
 TeU Love — it is but lust ; 
 Tell Time — it is but motion ; 
 
 Tell Flesh— it is but dust. 
 And wish them not reply, 
 For thou must give the lie. 
 
 Tell Age— it daily wasteth ; 
 
 TeU Honour — how it alters ; 
 Tell Beauty — how she blasteth ; 
 
 Tell Favour how she falters. 
 And as they shaU reply. 
 Give every one the lie. 
 
 TeU Wit — how much it wrangles 
 
 In tickle-points of niceness ; 
 TeU Wisdom — she entangles 
 
 Herself in over-wiseness. 
 And when they do reply, 
 Straight give them both the lie. 
 
 TeU Physic- — of her boldness ; 
 
 Tell SkUl — it is pretension ; 
 Tell Charity — of coldness ; 
 
 Tell Law — it is contention. 
 And as they do reply, 
 So give them stiU the lie. 
 
io6 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Tell Fortune— of her blindness ; 
 
 Tell Nature — of decay ; 
 Tell Friendship — of unkindness ; 
 
 Tell Justice— of delay. 
 And if they will reply, 
 Then give them all the he. 
 
 Tell Arts — they have no soundness, 
 But vary by esteeming ; 
 
 Tell Schools — they want profoundness, 
 And stand too much on seeming. 
 
 If Arts and Schools reply. 
 
 Give Arts and Schools the he. 
 
 Tell Faith— it's fled the city; 
 
 Tell— how the Country erreth ; 
 Tell — Manhood shakes off pity ; 
 
 Tell— Virtue least preferreth. 
 And if they do reply, 
 Spare not to give the lie. 
 
 So when thou hast, as I 
 Commanded thee, done blabbing ; 
 
 Although to give the he 
 
 Deserves no less than stabbing, 
 
 Yet stab at thee who will, 
 
 No stab the Soul can kill.* 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Born 1553.— Z)«Vif 1598. 
 
 Spenser was bom in East Smithfield, near the Tower. Nothing is 
 known of his parents, although he is commonly supposed to have been 
 of gentle blood. When sixteen years of age, he was entered at Pem- 
 broke Hall, Cambridge, as a Sizar, May, 1569. In 1572 he took his 
 degree of B.A., and in 1576 his M.A. 
 
 It is said that he unsuccessfiilly contested an election for a FeUowship 
 with the famous Launcelot Andrewes, afterwards Bishop of Winchester, 
 and that thereupon he left the University. Having gone to reside in 
 
 * Sir Walter Raleigh's celebrated poem, entitled "The NympVs Reply to the 
 Shepherd," being a rejoinder to Kit Marlowe's verses, "The Passionate Shepherd to 
 his Love," is inserted in conjunction with those lines a few pa^es further on, as it 
 seems more fitting for the Reply to follow the Address: see "Christopher Marlowe." 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 107 
 
 the North with some ftiends, he there wrote his Brst work, " The Shep- 
 heard's Calendar," which was published in 1579, " Printed and sold by 
 Hugh Singleton, dwelling at the Signe of the Golden Tun in Creed 
 Lane, Ludgate," and dedicated to the "ever-memorable" Sir Philip 
 Sydney. Several of Spenser's letters beii^ dated from Leicester House 
 (Sydney's ordinary residence), it seems certain that a very warm and 
 affectionate intimacy had sprung up between them. In 1580 the Earl 
 of Leicester — Sydney's uncle — sent Spenser to Ireland as Secretary to 
 Arthur, Lord Grey de Wilton, the Lord Lieutenant. This led to his 
 receivings as reward for his services, a grant from the Crown of three 
 thousand acres of land, at Kilcolman, County Cork, part of the estate 
 forfeited by the Earl of Desmond. 
 
 The same year Sir Philip Sydney died, and Spenser produced the 
 pastoral elegy entitled " Astrophel." Kilcolman was an ancient Castle 
 of the Earls of Desmond, situated on the banks of a lake, with the 
 river Mulla (celebrated in the poet's verse) running through the grounds. 
 On the east were the Waterford moontains, and on the south the Kerry 
 ranges. In this picturesque retreat — a poet's home — Spenser was visited 
 by Sir Walter Raleigh, who, after the death of Sydney, seems to have 
 become Spenser's chief friend, and to have introduced him to Queen 
 Elizabeth. It was owing to this visit that Spenser undertook the " Faery 
 Queen." In 1590 the first three books appeared ; in 1591 " Colin Clout's 
 come home again." He accompanied Raleigh to England, and had a 
 pension of ;^SO per annum conferred upon In'm by her Majesty. 
 
 Shortly afterwards his minor pieces were collected and printed, con- 
 tainings among others, "The Ruines of Time," " Mother Hubbard's 
 Tale," and " Petrarch's Visions." 
 
 Returning to Ireland, a long period elapsed dtuing which we know 
 scarcely anything of Spenser's life. In 1594 he married, at Cork, an 
 Irish lady ; but her name is unrecorded. By her he had two sons, 
 Sylvanus and Peregrine. In 1596 the second part of the " Faery Queen " 
 appeared, and in the same year being in London he presented to the 
 Queen his celebrated " View of the State of Ireland." The interest of 
 this essay consists chiefly in the curious pictures it presents of the 
 national manners and condition of the Irish at the period. Spenser 
 was at that date Clerk to the Council of the province of Ulster. 
 
 In 1597 the poet again returned to Ireland, from which the following 
 year he was to be driven forth for ever. Spenser had been nomi- 
 nated by the Queen Sheriff of Cork, and therefore, when Tyrone's 
 rebellion broke out, in 1598, we can understand the fury of the lower 
 orders being directed against the representative of the Crown. The 
 mob attacked Kilcolman, pillaged the goods, and burnt the house to 
 the ground. One of his children perished in the flames ; and Spenser, 
 with his wife, was obliged to fly for his life. Having reached England, 
 he was completely overwhelmed with his calamities, and died in con- 
 sequence. Ben Jonson, ia his Conversations with Drummond of Haw- 
 thomden, said, " The Irish having robbed Spenser's goods, and burnt 
 
io8 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 his house and a little child new-bom, he and his wife escaped j and 
 after he died for lake of bread in King Street, and refused twenty pieces 
 sent to him by my Lord of Essex, adding, ' He was sorrie he had no 
 time to spend them.' " In this version of the poet's death there is most 
 probably some error. Doubtless Spenser was overwhelmed with 
 calamity ; but considering that he retained his pension, it seems very 
 improbable that he died from "lake of bread." On the 1 6th of January, 
 1598-99, he expired in King Street, Westminster, and, according 10 
 his own request, was buried in Westminster Abbey, near the tomb of 
 Chaucer. 
 
 The expenses of his funeral were discharged by the Earl of Essex, 
 and the monument to his memory was erected by the Countess of 
 Dorset. In 1778 it was restored at the expense of Pembroke Hall. 
 
 The inscription upon his monument calls Spenser the "Prince of 
 Poets. " Monumental phraseology is in numberless cases licensed lying. 
 He justly deserved to be called one of the princes among poets, and to be 
 reckoned a fellow in honour with Chaucer and Milton, who like himself 
 were Londoners. But as the English language and Englishmen own 
 only one Prince of Poets, it is unnecessary to say that Spenser is not that 
 man. Craik remarks, " Without calling Spenser the greatest of all poets, 
 we may still say that his poetry is the most poetical of all poetry. The 
 shaping spirit qi imagination, considered apart from moral sensibility — 
 from intensity of passion on the one hand, and grandeur of conception 
 on the other — certainly never was possessed in the like degree by any 
 other writer : nor has any other evinced a deeper feeling of all forms of 
 the beautiful : nor have words ever been made by any other to embody 
 thought with a more wonderful art. On the one hand, invention and 
 fancy in the creation or conception of his thoughts ; on the other, the 
 most exquisite sense of beauty, united with a command over all the 
 resources of language, in their vivid and musical expression — these are 
 the great distinguishing characteristics of Spenser's poetry." Campbell 
 has designated him "The Rubens of English poetry." 
 
 FAERY QUEEN. 
 
 A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine, 
 
 Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde, 
 
 Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine, 
 
 The cruel markes of many a bloody fielde ; 
 
 Yet armes till that time did he never wield. 
 
 His an^ steede did chide his foaming bitt, 
 
 As much disdayning to the curbe to yield. 
 
 Full jolly knight he seemed, and faire did sitt, 
 
 As one for knightly giusts ' and fierce encounters fitt. 
 
 (1) GrWiSj— jousts. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 109 
 
 And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, 
 The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, 
 For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, 
 And dead, as living, ever him adored : 
 Upon his shield the Uke was also scored, 
 For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had. 
 Right, faithfiill, true he was in deede and word ; 
 But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad : 
 Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.^ 
 * * * * 
 
 A lovely ladie rode him faire beside. 
 Upon a lowly asse more white then snow ; 
 Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide 
 Under a vele, that wimpled ''^ was full low ; 
 And over all a blacke stole shee did throw, 
 As one that inly moumd : so was she sad. 
 And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow ; 
 Seemed in heart some hidden care she had . 
 And by her in a line a milke-white lambe she lad.^ 
 
 So pure and innocent, as that same lambe. 
 
 She was in life and every vertuous lore. 
 
 And by descent from royall lynage came 
 
 Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of yore 
 
 Their scepters stretcht firom east to westerne shore. 
 
 And all the world in their subjection held ; 
 
 Till that infernal feend with foule uprore 
 
 Forwasted all their land, and them expeld ; 
 
 Whom to avenge she had this knight from far compeld. 
 
 Behind her farre away a dwarfe did lag. 
 
 That lasie seemd, in being ever last. 
 
 Or wearied with bearing of her bag 
 
 Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past 
 
 The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast. 
 
 And angry love an hideous storm of raine 
 
 Did poure into his leman's lap so fast. 
 
 That everie wight to shrowd it did constrain ; 
 
 And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain. 
 
 Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
 A shadie grove not farr away they spide, 
 
 (i) Ydrad—iieaAcA. (2) WimpUd—talitA Uke a veil. (3) Lad—\tA 
 
no EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 That promist ayde the tempest to withstand ; 
 Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommet's pride, 
 Did spred so broad, that heaven's light did hide, 
 Not perceable with power of any starr ; 
 And all within were pathes and aUeies wide, 
 With footing worne, and leading inward farr : 
 Faire harbour that them seems, so in they entred arrc. 
 # # # * 
 
 Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, 
 
 Untill the blustring storme is overblowne ; 
 
 When, weening to returne whence they did stray. 
 
 They cannot finde that path which first was showne, 
 
 But wander too and fro in waies unknowne. 
 
 Furthest from end then when they neerest weene. 
 
 That makes them doubt their wits be not their owne ; 
 
 So many pathes, so many turnings seene. 
 
 That which of them to take in diverse doubt they beene. 
 
 At last resolving forward still to fare. 
 
 Till that some end they find, or in or out. 
 
 That path they take that beaten seemd most bare. 
 
 And like to lead the labyrinth about ; 
 
 Which when by tract they hunted had throughout, 
 
 At length it brought them to a hollowe cave 
 
 Amid the thickest woods. The champion stout 
 
 Eftsoones dismounted from his courser brave. 
 
 And to the dwarfe awhile his needles^ spere he gave. 
 
 " Be well aware," quoth then that ladie milde, 
 
 " Lest sudden mischiefe ye too rash provoke : 
 
 The danger hid, the place unknowne and wilde, 
 
 Breedes dreadfuU doubts : oft fire is without smoke, 
 
 And periU without show ; therefore your stroke. 
 
 Sir Knight, withhold, till further tryall made." 
 
 " Ah, Ladie," sayd he, " shame were to revoke 
 
 The forward footing for an hidden shade : 
 
 Vertue gives her selfe light through darknesse for to wade." 
 
 " Yea, but," quoth she, " the perill of this place 
 I better wot then you. Though nowe too late 
 To wish you backe returne with foul disgrace, 
 Yet wisedome wames, whilest foot is in the gate, 
 ,To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate. 
 
 (i) Nei:dUs — unused, useless. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. i 
 
 This is the Wandring Wood, the Errours Den, 
 A monster vile, whom God and man does hate : 
 Therefore I read beware." " Fly, fly," quoth then 
 The fearefiiU dwarfe ; " this is no place for living men." 
 
 But, fiill of fire and greedy hardiment,* 
 
 The youthftd knight could not for ought be staide ; 
 
 But forth unto the darksom hole he went. 
 
 And looked in : his glistring armor made 
 
 A Uttle glooming light, much like a shade : 
 
 By which he saw the ugly monster plaine ; 
 
 Halfe hke a serpent horribly displaide. 
 
 But th' other halfe did woman's shape retaine, 
 
 Most lothsom, filthie, foule, and fuU of vile disdaine. 
 
 And, as she lay upon the durtie ground. 
 
 Her huge long taile her den all overspred, 
 
 Yet was in knots and many boughtes* upwound, 
 
 Pointed with mortal sting : of her there bred 
 
 A thousand young ones, which she dayly fed. 
 
 Sucking upon her poisnous dugs ; each one 
 
 Of sundrie shapes, yet aU iU-favored : 
 
 Soone as that imcouth light upon them shone. 
 
 Into her mouth they crept, and suddain all were gone. 
 
 Their dam upstart out of her den effraide, 
 
 And rushed forth, hurling her hideous taile 
 
 Around her cursed head ; whose folds displaid 
 
 Were stretched now forth at length without entraile." 
 
 She lookt about, and seeing one in mayle. 
 
 Armed to point, sought backe-to tume againe ; 
 
 For Ught she hated as the deadly bale,* 
 
 Ay wont in desert darkness to remaine 
 
 Where plain none might her see, nor she see any plaine, 
 
 Which when the valiant Elfe perceived, he lept 
 
 As lyon fierce upon the flying pray. 
 
 And with his trenchand blade her boldly kept 
 
 From turning backe, and forced her to stay : 
 
 Therewith enraged, she loudly gan to bray, 
 
 And turning fierce her speckled taile advaunst, 
 
 Threatning her angry sting, him to dismay ; 
 
 Who, nought aghast, his mightie hand enhaunst ; 
 
 The stroke down from her head unto her shoulder glaunst. 
 
 (i) Hardirnent — caacrs:i^^^_ boldness. (2) Bougkies — circular folds. 
 
 (3) EniraiU — widiout being iaterlaced. (4) Bale—cr^ mischief. 
 
112 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Much daunted with that dint, her sence was dazd ; 
 
 Yet kindling rage, her selfe she gathered round, 
 
 And all at once her beastly bodie raizd 
 
 With doubled forces high above the ground : 
 
 Tho, wrapping up her wrethed sterne arownd, 
 
 Lept fierce upon his shield, and her huge traine 
 
 All suddenly about his body wound. 
 
 That hand or foot to stirr he strove in vaine. 
 
 God helpe the man so wrapt in Errours endlesse traine ! 
 
 His lady, sad to see his sore constraint, 
 
 Cride out, " Now, now, Sir Knight, shew what ye bee ; 
 
 Add faith unto your force, and be not faint ; 
 
 Strangle her, els she sure will strangle thee." 
 
 That when he heard, in great perplexitie, 
 
 His gall did grate for griefe and high disdaine ; 
 
 And, knitting all his force, got one hand free. 
 
 Wherewith he grypt her gorge with so great paine, 
 
 That soon to loose her wicked bands did her constraine. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Thus ill bestedd, and fearfuU more of shame 
 
 Then of the certaine perill he stood in, 
 
 Halfe furious unto his foe he came, 
 
 (Resolved in minde all suddenly to win, 
 
 Or soon to lose, before he once would lin* ;) 
 
 And stroke at her with more then manly force ; 
 
 That from her body, full of filthy sin. 
 
 He raft her hatefuU heade without remorse : 
 
 A streame of cole-black blood forth gushed from her corse. 
 
 * # * * 
 
 His lady, seeing all that chaunst from farre, 
 
 Approcht in hast to greet his victorie ; 
 
 And saide : " Faire knight, borne under happie starre, 
 
 Who see your vanquisht foes before you lye ; 
 
 Well worthie be you of that armory, 
 
 Wherein you have great glory wonne this day, 
 
 And prooved your strength on a strong enimie ; 
 
 Your first adventure : many such I pray, 
 
 And henceforth ever wish that like succeed it may !" 
 
 (i) Lin — cease, give way. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 UNA AND THE LION. 
 
 Nought is there under heaven's wide hollownesse 
 That moves more deare compassion of mind, 
 Then beautie brought funworthie wretchednesse 
 Through Envies snares or Fortunes freakes vmkind. 
 I, whether lately through her brightnes blynd 
 Or through alleageance and fast fealty, 
 Which I do owe unto all womankynd, 
 Feele my hart prest with so great agony, 
 When such I see, that all for pitty I could dy. 
 
 And now it is empassioned so deepe 
 
 For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing, 
 
 That my frayle eies these lines with teares do steepe, 
 
 To thinke how she through guyleful handeling. 
 
 Though true as touch, though daughter of a king, 
 
 Though faire as ever living wight was fayre. 
 
 Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting. 
 
 Is from her knight divorced in despayre. 
 
 And her dew loves deryvd to that vile witches shayre. 
 
 Yet she, most faithful ladie, all this while 
 
 Forsaken, wofull, solitarie mayd. 
 
 Far from all peoples preace,^ as in exile. 
 
 In wUdemesse and wastfuU deserts strayd. 
 
 To seeke her knight ; who, subtily betrayd 
 
 Through that late vision which th' enchaunter wrought, 
 
 Had her abandond : she of nought afraid. 
 
 Through woods and wastnes wide him daUy sought ; 
 
 Yet wished tydinges none of him unto her brought. 
 
 One day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome way. 
 From her unhastie beast she did alight ; 
 And on the grasse her daintie limbes did lay 
 In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight. 
 From her fayre head her fillet she undight, 
 And layd her stole asyde : her angels face. 
 As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, 
 And made a sunshine in the shady place. 
 Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace ? 
 
 (i) Preace — press, crowd. 
 I 
 
114 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 It fortuned out of the thickest wood 
 
 A ramping lyon rushed suddeinly, 
 
 Hunting full greedy after salvage blood. 
 
 Soone as the royall virgin he did spy, 
 
 With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, 
 
 To have attonce devourd her tender corse ; 
 
 But to the pray when as he drew more ny, 
 
 His bloody rage as waged with remorse, 
 
 And, with the sight amazd, forgat his furious forse. 
 
 Instead thereof, he kist her wearie feet. 
 And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong ; 
 jVs he her wronged innocence did weet.^ 
 O how can beautie maister the most strong. 
 And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 
 Whose yielded pryde and proud submission, 
 Still dreading death, when she had marked long. 
 Her hart gan melt in great compassion, 
 And drizling tears did shed for pure affection. 
 
 " The lyon, lord of everie beast in field," 
 
 Quoth she, " his princely puissance doth abate. 
 
 And mightie proud to humble weake does yield, 
 
 Forgetful of the hungry rage which late 
 
 Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate : 
 
 But he, my lyon and my noble lord. 
 
 How does he find in cruell hart to hate 
 
 Her that him loVd, and ever most ador'd 
 
 As the God of my life ? why hath he me abhor'd ? •' 
 
 Redounding tears did choke th' end of her plaint. 
 
 Which softly echoed from the neighbour wood ; 
 
 And, sad to see her sorrowfuU constraint. 
 
 The kingly beast upon her gazing stood : 
 
 With pittie calmed, downe fell his angry mood. 
 
 At last, in close hart shutting up her payne. 
 
 Arose the virgin, borne of heavenly brood. 
 
 And to her snowy palfrey got agayne, 
 
 To seek her strayed champion if she might attaync. 
 
 The lyon would not leave her desolate, 
 But with her went along, as a strong gard 
 Of her chast person, and a faythfull mate 
 Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard. 
 
 (i) Weet — know. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and ward ; 
 And, when she wakt, he wayted diligent. 
 With humble service to her wUl prepard : 
 From her fayre eyes he took commandement. 
 And ever by her lookes conceived her intent. 
 
 Long she thus travelled through deserts wyde, 
 
 By which she thought her wandering knight shold pas, 
 
 Yet never shew of Uving wight espyde ; 
 
 Till that at length she found the trodden gras. 
 
 In which the tract of peoples footing was. 
 
 Under the steepe foot of a mountain hore. 
 
 The same she follows, till at last she has 
 
 A damsel spyde slow-footing her before. 
 
 That on her shoulders sad a pot of water bore. 
 
 To whom approaching, she to her gan call. 
 
 To weet if dwelling-place were nigh at hand ; 
 
 But the rude wench her answered not at all : 
 
 She could not heare, nor speake, nor understand, 
 
 Till, seeing by her side the lyon stand. 
 
 With suddein feare her pitcher downe she threw 
 
 And fled away ; for never in that land 
 
 Face of fayre lady she before did vew. 
 
 And that dredd lyons looke her cast in deadly hew 
 
 Full fast she fled, ne ever lookt behynd. 
 
 As if her life upon the wager lay ; 
 
 And home she came, whereas her mother blynd 
 
 Sate in eternal night. Nought could she say ; 
 
 But suddein catching hold, did her dismay 
 
 With quacking hands and other signes of feare. 
 
 Who, full of ghastly fright and cold affray, 
 
 Gan shut the dore. By this arrived there 
 
 Dame Una, weary dame, and entrance did requere : 
 
 Which when none yielded, her unruly page 
 With his rude clawes the wicket open rent, 
 And let her in ; where, of his cruel rage 
 Nigh dead with feare and famt astonishment, 
 Shee found them both in darksome comer pent. 
 Where that old woman day and night did pray 
 Upon her beads, devoutly penitent : 
 Nine hundred Pater nosfers every day 
 And thrice nine hundred Aves she was wont to sav. 
 
 "5 
 
ii6 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 And, to augment her painefuU penaunce more, 
 
 Thrise every weeke in ashes shee did sitt, 
 
 And next her wrinkled skin rough sackecloth wore, 
 
 And thrise three times did fast from any bitt : 
 
 But now for feare her beads she did forgett. 
 
 Whose needlesse dread for to remove away 
 
 Faire Una framed words and countnaunce fitt ; 
 
 Which hardly doen, at length she gan them pray, 
 
 That in their cotage small that night she rest her may. 
 
 When every creature shrouded is in sleep 
 
 Sad Una downe her laies in weary plight, 
 
 And at her feete the lyon watch doth keepe. 
 
 In stead of rest, she does lament and weepe 
 
 For the late losse of her deare-loved knight, 
 
 And sighs, and grones, and evermore does steepe 
 
 Her tender brest in bitter tears all night : 
 
 All night she thinks too long, and often lookes for light. 
 
 GUARDIAN ANGELS. 
 
 And is there care in heaven ? And is there love 
 In heavenly spirits to these creatures bace, 
 That may compassion of their evils move ? 
 There is : else much more wretched were the cace 
 Of men then beasts. But O ! th' exceeding grace 
 Of highest God, that loves his creatures so, 
 And all his workes with mercy doth embrace, 
 That blessed angels he sends to and fro 
 To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe ! 
 
 How oft do they their silver bowers leave 
 
 To come to succour us that succour want ! 
 
 How oft do they with golden pineons cleave 
 
 The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, 
 
 Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant ! 
 
 They for us fight ; they watch and dewly ward ; 
 
 And their bright squadrons round about us plant ; 
 
 And all for love and nothing for. reward. — 
 
 O, why should hevenly God to men have such regard.-' 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 1 1 7 
 
 TEMPERANCE. 
 
 Of all Gods workes which doe this worlde adome 
 There is no one more faire and excellent 
 Then is mans body, both for po\vre and forme. 
 Whiles it is kept in sober government ; 
 But none then it more fowle and indecent, 
 Distempred through misrule and passions bace : 
 It grows a monster, and incontinent 
 Doth lose his dignity and native grace. 
 Behold, who Ust, both one and other in this place ! 
 
 THE RUINS OF TIME.i 
 
 It chaunced me on day beside the shore 
 
 Of silver-streaming Thamesis to bee, 
 
 Nigh where the goodly Verlame^ stood of yore, 
 
 Of which there now remaines no memorie, 
 
 Nor anie little moniment to see, 
 
 By which the travailer that fares that way 
 
 This once was she may warned be to say. 
 
 There, on the other side, I did behold 
 
 A Woman sitting sorrowfiiUie wailing. 
 
 Rending her yellow locks, like wyrie gold 
 
 About her shoulders carelesslie downe trailing, 
 
 And streames of teares from her faire eyes forth railing : ^ 
 
 In her right hand a broken rod she held, 
 
 Which towards heaven shee seemd on high to weld. 
 
 Much was I mooved at hec piteous plaint, 
 And felt my heart nigh riven in my brest 
 With tender ruth to see her sore constraint ; 
 That, shedding teares a while, I still did rest. 
 And after did her name of her request 
 " Name have I none (quoth she), nor any being. 
 Bereft of both by Fates uniust decreeing. 
 
 (i) This lovely poem — ^the forerunner of Shelley's Adonais — ^was dedicated to 
 Mary, Countess of Pembroke, the sister of Sir Philip Sydney. It is the poet's 
 monument erected to the memory of his lost and beloved friend, and earliest patron. 
 
 (2) Verlame — ^Verulam. (3) Railing— ^omaZ' 
 
ii8 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 " I was that Citie which the garland wore 
 Of Britaines pride, delivered unto me 
 By Romane Victors, which it wonne of yore ; 
 Though nought at all but ruins now I bee, 
 And lye in mine owne ashes, as ye see: 
 Verlame I was. What bootes it that I was, 
 Sith now I am but weedes and wastefull gras ? 
 
 " O vaine worlds glorie, and unstedfast state 
 Of all that lives on face of sinfull earth ! ^ 
 
 Which from their first untill their utmost date 
 Taste no one houre of happines or merth ; 
 But like as at the ingate of their berth ^ 
 They crying creep out of their mothers woomb, 
 So wailing back go to their wofuU toomb. 
 
 " Why then dooth flesh, a bubble-glas of breath, 
 Hunt after honour and advauncement vaine, 
 And reare a trophee for devouring death 
 With so great labour and long lasting paine. 
 As if his dales for ever should remaine ? 
 Sith all that in this world is great or gaie 
 ; Doth as a vapour vanish and decaie. 
 
 " Looke backe, who list, unto the former ages, 
 And call to count what is of them become. 
 Where be those learned wits and antique sages 
 Which of all wisedome knew the perfect somme ? 
 Where those great warriors which did overcome 
 The world with conquest of their might and maine. 
 And made one meare^ of th' earth and of their raine ? 
 
 " O Rome, thy ruine I lament and rue. 
 
 And in thy fall my fatall overthrowe. 
 
 That whilom' was, whilst heavens with equall vewe 
 
 Deignd to behold me, and their gifts bestowe, 
 
 The picture of thy pride in pompous shew : 
 
 And of the whole world as thou wast the Empresse, 
 
 So I of this small Northerne world was Princesse. 
 
 " To tell the beawtie of my buildings fayre, 
 Adornd with purest golde and precious stone ; 
 To tell my riches, and endowments rare, 
 
 {i)' Ingaie — entrance. (2) Mear — limit, boundary. (3) JV&ilom — formerlv- 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 119 
 
 That by my foes are now all spent and gone ; 
 To teU my forces, matchable to none ; 
 Were but lost labour, that few would beleeve. 
 And with rehearsing would me more agreeve. 
 
 " High towers, faire temples, goodly theaters. 
 Strong walls, rich porches, princelie paUaces, 
 Large streetes, brave houses, sacred sepulchers, 
 Sure gates, sweete gardens, stately galleries, 
 Wrought with faire piUours and fine imageries : 
 All those (O pitie !) now are tumd to dust, 
 And overgrowne with black oblivions rust. 
 * * •*■ * 
 
 " It is not long since these two eyes beheld 
 A mightie Prince,^ of most renowmed race. 
 Whom England high in count of honour held, 
 And greatest ones did sue to gaine his grace : 
 Of greatest ones he greatest in his place, 
 Sate in the bosome of his Soveraine, 
 And Right and Loyall did his word maintaine. 
 
 " I saw him die ; I saw him die as one 
 
 Of the meane people, and brought foorth on beare 
 
 1 saw him die, and no man left to mone 
 
 His dolefuU fate that late him loved deare : 
 
 Scarse anie left to close his eyhds neare ; 
 
 Scarse anie left upon his lips to laie 
 
 The sacred sod, or Requiem to saie. 
 
 " O trustlesse state of miserable men, 
 That builde your blis on hope of earthly thing, 
 And vainly thinke your selves halfe happie then 
 When painted faces with smooth flattering 
 Doo fawne on you, and your wide praises sing ! 
 And when the courting masker louteth lowe,^ 
 Him true in heart and trustie to you trow ! ' 
 
 " All is but fained, and with oaker dide,* 
 That everie shower wiU wash and wipe away : 
 All things doo change that under heaven abide, 
 And after death all friendship doth decaie. 
 Therefore, whatever man bearst worldUe sway. 
 Living, on God and on thyselfe relie ; 
 For, when thou diest, all shall with thee die." 
 
 (i) Sir FhOip Sydney. (=) Loatetk-hoiis servilely. (3) 7V»a/— believe. 
 
 [4) <5<»/f«- (/k*— dyed with ochre ; z.«. painted or covered with dissimulation. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF BELPHEBE. 
 
 Her face so fair as flesh it seemed not, 
 But heavenly portrait of bright angels hue, 
 Clear as the sky, withouten blame or blot. 
 Through goodly mixture of complexions due ; 
 And in her cheeks the vermeil red did shew, 
 Like roses in a bed of lilies shed. 
 The which ambrosial odcurs from them threw, 
 And gazers sense with double pleasure fed. 
 Able to heal the sick and ta revive the dead. 
 
 In her fair eyes two living lamps did flame, 
 
 Kindled above at th' heavenly Makers light. 
 
 And darted fiery beams out of the same, 
 
 So passing piercing, and so wondrous bright. 
 
 That quite bereav'd the rash beholders sight. 
 
 In them the blinded god his lustful fire 
 
 To kindle oft essay'd, but had no might ; 
 
 For with dread majesty and awful ire 
 
 She broke his wanton darts, and quenched base desire. 
 
 Her ivory forehead, full of bounty brave. 
 
 Like a broad table did itsdlf dispread 
 
 For Love his lofty triumphs to engrave. 
 
 And write the battles of his great godhead : 
 
 All good and honour might therein be read ; 
 
 For there their dwelling was. And when she spake, 
 
 Sweet words, like dropping honey, she did shed, 
 
 And 'twixt the pearls and rubies softly brake 
 
 A silver sound, that heavenly music seemd to make. 
 
 Upon her eyelids many graces sate, 
 
 Upon the shadow of her even brows. 
 
 Working belgards ^ and amorous retreat, 
 
 And every one her with a grace endows : 
 
 And every one with meekness to her bows. 
 
 So glorious mirror of celestial grace 
 
 And sovereign monument of mortal vows, 
 
 How shall frail pen describe her heavenly face. 
 
 For fear, through want of skill, her beauty to disgrace ? 
 
 (i) Bilgard—'beaxaSixi looks (from the French). 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 So fair, and thousand thousand times more fair, 
 She seemd when she presented was to sight. 
 And was yclad (for heat of scorching air) 
 All in a silken camus,* lily white, 
 Purfled * upon with many a folded plight,* 
 Which all above besprinkled was throughout 
 With golden aigulets,* that glistered bright, 
 Like twinkling stars ; and all the skirt about 
 Was hemmed with golden fringe. 
 
 Below her ham her weed ° did somewhat train. 
 
 And her strait legs most bravely were embailed^ 
 
 In golden buskins of costly cordwain 
 
 All barrd with golden bands, which were entailed 
 
 With ciuious anticks, and full fair aumailed.^ 
 
 Before they fastened were under her knee 
 
 In a rich jewel, and therein entrailed ' 
 
 The end of all their knots, that none might see 
 
 How they, within their foldings, close enwrapped be. 
 
 Like two fair marble pillars they were seen 
 
 AVhich do the temple of the gods support, 
 
 Whom all the people deck with garlands green, 
 
 And honour in their festival resort. 
 
 Those same with stately grace and princely port 
 
 She taught to tread, when she herself would grace ; 
 
 But with the woody nymphs when she did play. 
 
 Or when the flying Ubbard* she did chace. 
 
 She could them nimbly move, and after fly apace. 
 
 And in her hand a sharp boar-spear she held, 
 
 And at her back a bow and quiver gay. 
 
 Stuffed with steel-headed darts, wherewith she quelld 
 
 The savage beasts in her victorious play, 
 
 Knit in a golden bauldrick," which forelay 
 
 Athwart her snowy breasts, and did divide 
 
 Her dainty paps ; which, like young fruit in May, 
 
 Now little gan to swell, and being tied. 
 
 Through her thin weed their places only signified. 
 
 (ij CaTKTts — a gown of very fine texture, (a) Purjled — embroidered. 
 
 (3) Plight — condition. (4) Aigulets — the tags of fringes. 
 
 (51 JVeed-^ec Lydgate, p. 27. (6) Embailed — encased. 
 
 (7) .<4»ffftzz2f<^— enamelled. (81 Entrailed — interlaced. 
 
 (g) L^bard — leopaid. _^ (10) Bauldrick — ^belc 
 
: EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Her yellow locks, crisped like golden wire, 
 
 About her shoulders weren loosely shed, 
 
 And when the wind amongst them did inspire. 
 
 They waved like a pennon wide dispread. 
 
 And low behind her back were scattered ; 
 
 And whether art it were or heedless hap. 
 
 As through the ilowering forest rash she fled 
 
 In her rude hairs sweet flowers themselves did lap, 
 
 And flowering fresh leaves and blossoms did enwrap 
 
 EPITHALAMION.i 
 
 Ye nymphs of Mulla, which with careful heed 
 The silver scaly trouts do tend full well, 
 And greedy pikes which use therein to feed 
 (Those trouts and pikes all others do excel) ; 
 And ye likewise, which keep the rushie lake. 
 
 Where none do fishes take ; 
 Bind up the locks the which hang scattered light, 
 And in his waters, which your mirror make, 
 Behold your faces as the crystal bright. 
 That when you come whereas my love doth lie, 
 
 No blemish she may spie. 
 And eke, ye lightfoot Maids ! which keep the door, 
 That on the hoary mountain use to towre. 
 And the wild wolves which seek them to devour, 
 Which your steel darts do chace from coming near, 
 
 Be also present here. 
 To help to deck her, and to help to sing, 
 That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 
 
 Wake now, my love ! awake, for it is time ; 
 
 The rosie morn long since left Tithons bed. 
 
 All ready to her silver coach to clime. 
 
 And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious head. 
 
 Hark ! how the cheerful birds do chaunt their layes, 
 
 And carol of Loves praise. 
 The merry lark her mattins sings aloft ; 
 The thrush replies, the mevis descant ^ plays. 
 The ouzel shrills, the ruddock warbles soft ; 
 So goodly all agree, with sweet consent. 
 
 To this dayes merriment. 
 
 (i) Written by Spenser at Kilcolman, at the time of his marriage, 
 (a) Descant — an air, tune. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Ah ! my dear love I why do you sleep thus long. 
 When meeter were that ye should now awake, 
 T' await the coming of your joyous make, 
 And hearken to the birds love-leamed song, 
 
 The dewie leaves among ! ■■ 
 For they of joy and pleasance to you sing. 
 That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring. 
 
 My love is now awake out of her dreams, 
 And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were 
 With darksome cloud, now shew their goodly beams. 
 More bright than Hesperus his head doth rere. 
 Come now, ye Damsels ! daughters of deUght, 
 
 Help quickly her to dight. 
 But first come, ye fair Houres ! which were begot 
 In Joves sweet Paradise of day and night. 
 Which do the seasons of the year allot, 
 And all that ever in this world is fair 
 
 Do make and still repair ; 
 And ye three Handmaids of the Cyprian queen. 
 The which do stiU adorn her beauties pride ; 
 Help to adorn my beautifullest bride : 
 And as ye her array, still throw between 
 
 Some graces to be seen ; 
 And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, 
 The whiles the woods shall answer, and yoiu- echo ring. 
 
 Now is my love all ready forth to come ; 
 Let aU the virgins therefore well await : 
 And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon her groom. 
 Prepare yomselves, for he is coming strait. 
 Set aU your things in seemly good array. 
 
 Fit for so joyful day. 
 The joyfuUest day that ever sun did see. 
 Fair Sun ! shew forth thy favourable ray, 
 And let thy Ufefiil heat not fervent be. 
 For fear of burning her sun-shiny face. 
 
 Her beauty to disgrace. 
 O fairest Phoebus ! father of the Muse, 
 If ever I did honour thee aright. 
 Or sing the thing that mote ' thy mind delight. 
 Do not thy servants simple boon refuse, 
 
 (i*, Moie — must. 
 
124 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 But let this day, let this one day be mine ; 
 
 Let all the rest be thine : 
 Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing, 
 That aU the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. 
 
 Hark ! how the minstrels gin to shrill aloud 
 Their merry music, that resounds from far ; 
 The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud. 
 That will agree withouten breach or jar : 
 But most of all the damzels do delite 
 
 When they their timbrels smite, 
 And thereunto do daunce and carol sweet. 
 That all the senses they do ravish quite. 
 The whiles the boys run up and down the street. 
 Crying aloud, with strong confused noise, 
 
 As if it were one voice, 
 Hymen, lo Hymen! Hymen they do shout. 
 That even to the heavens their shouting shrill 
 Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill ; 
 To which the people standing all about. 
 As in approvance, do thereto applaud. 
 
 And loud advance her laud. 
 And ever more they Hymen, Hymen sing, 
 That aU the woods them answer, and their echo ring. 
 
 Loe ! where she comes along with portly pace. 
 Like Phoebe, from her chamber of the East, 
 Arising forth to run her mighty race, 
 Clad aU in white, that seems a virgin best. 
 So well it her beseems, that ye would ween 
 
 Some angel she had been. 
 Her long loose yellow locks, like golden wire, 
 Sprinkled with pearl, and perling flowers atween. 
 Do like a golden mantle her attire, 
 And being crowned with a girland green. 
 
 Seem Uke some maiden queen. 
 Her modest eyes, abashed to behold 
 So many gazers as on her do stare. 
 Upon the lowly ground affixed are, 
 Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold. 
 But blush to hear her praises sung so loud. 
 
 So far from being proud. 
 Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing, 
 That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 
 * * # ». 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 125 
 
 Open the temple-gates unto my love, 
 Open them wide that she may enter in, 
 And all the posts adorn as doth behove. 
 And all the pillars deck with girlands trim. 
 For to receive this saint with honour due. 
 
 That Cometh in to you. 
 With trembling steps and humble reverence 
 She Cometh in before th' Almighties view ; — 
 Of her, ye Virgins ! learn obedience, 
 Whenso ye come into those holy places, 
 
 To humble your proud faces. 
 Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may 
 The sacred ceremonies there partake, 
 The which do endless matrimony make ; 
 And let the roaring organs loudly play 
 The praises of the Lord, in Uvely notes. 
 
 The whiles with hollow throats 
 The choristers the joyous anthems sing. 
 That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring. 
 
 Behold, whiles she before the altar stands. 
 Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks. 
 And blesses her with his tw6 happy hands,' 
 How the red roses flush up in her cheeks ! 
 And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain. 
 
 Like crimson dyde in grain ! 
 That even the angels, which continually 
 About the sacred altar do remain. 
 Forget their service, and about her fly. 
 Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair 
 
 The more they on it stare : 
 But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, 
 Are governed with goodly modesty. 
 That suifers not one look to glaunce awry, 
 Which may let in a httle thought unsound. 
 Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand. 
 
 The pledge of all your band ? 
 Sing, ye sweet angels ! AUeluya sing ! 
 That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 
 
 Now all is done : bring home the bride again ; 
 Bring home the triumph of our victory : 
 
 (i) This seems to indicate the manner in which the nuptial benediction wac 
 pronounced in Spenser's time. 
 
126 S/H PHILIP SYDNEY. 
 
 Bring home with you the glory of her gain ; 
 With joyance bring her, and with jolHty. 
 Never had man more joyful day than this, 
 
 Whom Heaven would heap with bliss. 
 Make feast, therefore, now all this live-long day ; 
 This day for ever to me holy is. 
 Pour out the wine without restraint or stay ; 
 Pour not by cups, but by the belly-full ; 
 
 Pour out to all that wull ; ^ 
 And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine, 
 ■ That they may sweat and drunken be withal. 
 Crown ye god Bacchus with a coronal. 
 And Hymen also crown with wreathes of vine ; 
 And let the Graces daunce unto the rest. 
 
 For they can do it best ; 
 The whiles the maidens do their carol sing, 
 To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. 
 
 '*>:»; 
 
 SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. 
 
 Bom 1554. Died 1586. 
 
 Sir Philip Sydney was the son of Sir Henry Sydney, of Penshurst, 
 Kent. After receiving the best education which could be given at that 
 date, upon leaving college he tnavelled in France, Germany, and Italy. 
 He came to be esteemed one of the most accomplished men of his day, 
 and being both statesman, writer, poet, and soldier, was regarded as one 
 of the chief ornaments of the Court of Queen Elizabeth. Possibly his 
 grace as a courtier and favourite of the Queen made him more highly 
 regarded in his day as a poet than a dispassionate study of his 
 poetry would seem to justify. Horace Walpole took special pains to 
 depreciate Sydney's muse ; but probably the opinions of Lord Orford 
 circulate at a much smaller value in the present day than when he 
 hved, and wrote, and affected to build. Certainly his criticism would 
 not be accepted either to uphold or to pull down a literary fame. 
 
 In 1576 the Queen despatched Sydney on a mission to the Emperor 
 Rudolph, the object of which was to establish a league among the 
 
 \\) IViill—mW. 
 
SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. 127 
 
 Protestant princes. When the Dnke of Anjou visited England, Sydney 
 was conspicuons in the tonmaments given in his honour. He accom- 
 panied the Prince as &r as Antwerp, on his return to the Continent. 
 When the Garter was conferred on the Prince Palatine, Sydney was 
 selected to represent him by proxy at the installation, and was 
 knighted by the Queen on the occasion. In 1585 he and Sir Francis 
 Drake projected an expedition against the Spaniards in South America ; 
 but Sydney was recalled from Plymouth, by the Queen's special 
 command, when upon the point of embarking. The Crown of Poland 
 was about to be offered to Sydney, when the Queen again interposed, 
 for fear (as Camden said) of losing "the jewel of her times." Sydney 
 was made Governor of Flushing, and promoted to the ccnnmand of the 
 cavalry under his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, General of the Army, sent 
 into Holland to aid the Dutch against the Spaniards. On the 22nd 
 September, 1586, Sydney fell in with a convoy of the enemy, led by 
 the Marquis of Guisto, proceeding to the relief of Zutphen, over which 
 his troops (though inferior in numbers) gained a signal victory, the 
 Marquis of Gonzaga being left on the field dead. The triumph, how- 
 ever, was dearly bought at the cost of Sydney's life. Having had one 
 horse shot under him, he mounted another, and continued in the thick 
 of the fight, until a ball pierced his left thigh, and inflicted a fetal 
 wound. As he was being carried away from the field, exhausted with 
 the loss of blood, he be^ed for a draught of water. On the water being 
 lifted to his lips his eyes fell on a dying soldier, looking eagerly at it 
 Sydney desired the water to be given to the soldier, saying, "This 
 man's necessity is greater than mine." He lingered for a few days, and 
 died October 15th. The body was brought over to England, and by 
 the Queen's command was buried with great state in St. Paul's Cathedral. 
 Sydney is described by writers of his time as the most accom- 
 plished man of his age. " Virtuous conduct, polite conversation, heroic 
 valonr, and elegant erudition," says Hume, " all concurred to render 
 him the ornament and delight of the English Court : and as the credit 
 which he possessed with the Queen and the Earl of Leicester was 
 wholly employed in the encouragement of genius and literature, his 
 praises have been transmitted with advantage to posterity." Nothing 
 that Sydney vrrote was ever published in his lifetime. His chief poem 
 is the " Arcadia," — or, as he called it, " The Countess of Pembroke's 
 Arcadia," — and was dedicated to "Sydnejf's aster," the "feir, good, 
 and learned" Countess whose fame was sung by Ben Jonson. The 
 "Arcadia," published in 1590, was completed in 1593. His Songs 
 and Sonnets, entitled "Astrophel and Stella," appeared in 1591. In 
 prose Sydney wrote his most celebrated work, "The Defence of Poesy," 
 published in 1595. Sydney's prose was the most flexible, harmonious, 
 and flowing that had as yet appeared in our language; and notwith- 
 standing the conceits into which it runs — characteristic of his age — ^it 
 fi-equently rises into stateliness of expression and nobleness of feeling. 
 
128 SIJi PHILIP SYDNEY. 
 
 THE SEVEN WONDERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 \st WONDER. 
 
 Near Wilton sweet huge heaps of stones are found,' 
 But so confused, that neither any eye 
 Can count them just, nor reason reason try, 
 
 WTiat force brought them to so unlikely ground. 
 
 To stranger weights my mind's waste soil is bound, 
 Of passion-hills, reaching to reason's sky. 
 
 From fancy's earth, passing all numbers bound, 
 Passing all guess, whence into me should fly 
 
 So maz'd a mass ; or, if in me it grows, 
 
 A simple soul should breed so mixed woes. 
 
 Wnd. 
 
 The Bruertons have a lake, which when the sun 
 Approaching warms (not else) dead logs up sends 
 From hideous depth ; which tribute, when it ends 
 
 Sure sign it is, the lord's last thread is spun. 
 
 My lake is sense, whose still streams never run 
 But when my sun her shining beams there bends : 
 
 Then from his depth, with force in her begun, 
 Long drowned hopes to watry eyes it lends ; 
 
 But when that fails my dead hopes up to take. 
 
 Their master is fair warned his wiU to make. 
 
 \\\rd. 
 
 We have a fish, by strangers much admired, 
 Which caught, to cruel search yields his chief part : 
 With gall cut out, closed up again by art. 
 
 Yet lives until his life be new required. 
 
 A stranger fish myself, not yet expired, 
 Tho' wrap'd with beauty's hook, I did impart 
 
 My-self unto th' anatomy desired, 
 Instead of gall, leaving to her my heart : 
 
 Yet live with thoughts clos'd up, till that she will, 
 
 By conquest's right, instead of searching, kiU. 
 
 (i) Stonehenge. on Salisbury Plain. 
 
SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. 
 
 Vfih. 
 
 129 
 
 Peak* hath a cave, whose narrow entries find 
 Large rooms within, where drops distil amain ; 
 Till knit with cold, tho' there unknown remain,' 
 
 Deck that poor place with alabaster lined. 
 
 Mine eyes the streight, the roomy cave my mind ; 
 Whose cloudy thoughts let fall an inward rain 
 
 Of sorrow's drops, 'till colder reason bind 
 Their running fall into a constant vein 
 
 Of truth, far more than alabaster pure ; 
 
 Which, tho' despis'd, yet still doth truth endure. 
 
 -vth. 
 
 A field there is, where, if a stake be prest 
 Deep in the earth, what hath in earth receipt 
 Is changed to stone in hardness, cold, and weight, 
 
 The wood above doth soon consuming rest. 
 
 The earth her ears ; the stake is my request ; 
 Of which how much may peirce to that sweet seat, 
 
 To honour tum'd, doth dwell in honour's nest. 
 Keeping that form, tho' vain of wonted heat ; 
 
 But all the rest, which fear durst not apply. 
 
 Failing themselves, with wither'd conscience die. 
 
 vith. 
 
 Of ships by shipwreck cast on Albion coast. 
 Which roUing on the rocks, their death to die ; 
 From wooden bones and blood of pitch doth fly 
 
 A bird which gets more life than ship had lost. 
 
 My ship, desire, with wind of lust long tost. 
 Brake on fair cliffs of constant chastity : 
 
 Where plagu'd for rash attempt, gives up his ghost. 
 So deep in seas of ■wrtue beauties he ; 
 
 But of this death flies up the purest love. 
 
 Which seeming less, yet nobler hfe doth move. 
 
 [i) The Peak, Derbyshire. 
 
 (2) TJu^ there unkttown — they (the large rooms in the cave) remain ; whilst the 
 dripping water *' knit," frozen, lines them with the alabaster-like stalactites. 
 
 K 
 
130 S/H PHILIP SYDNEY. 
 
 with. 
 
 These Wonders England breeds ; the last remains : 
 A lady ' in despite of nature chaste ; 
 On whom all love, in whom no love is placed ; 
 
 Where fairness yields to wisdom's shortest reins. 
 
 An humble pride, a scorn that favour stains ; 
 A woman's mould, but like an angel graced ; 
 An angel's mind, but in a woman cased ; 
 
 A heav'n on earth, or earth that heaVn contains : 
 Now thus this wonder to myself I frame ; 
 She is the cause that all the rest I am. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Who is it that this dark night 
 
 Underneath my window plaineth ? — 
 
 It is one who, from thy sight 
 Being (ah !) exil'd, disdaineth 
 
 Ev'ry other vulgar light. 
 
 Why, alas ! and are you he ? 
 
 Be not yet those fancies chang'd ? — 
 Dear, when you find change" in me, 
 
 Tho' from me you be estrang'd, 
 Let my change to ruin be. 
 
 Well, in absence this will die. — 
 Leave to see, and leave to wonder : 
 
 Absence sure will help, if I 
 
 Can learn how myself to sunder 
 
 From what in my heart doth lie. 
 
 But time will these thoughts remove ; 
 
 Time doth work what no man knoweth.- 
 Time doth as the subject prove ; 
 
 With time still affection groweth 
 In the faithful turtle-dove. 
 
 What ! if ye new beauties see, 
 
 Will not they stir new affection ? — 
 
 I will think they pictures be 
 (Image-like, of saint-perfection). 
 
 Poorly counterfeiting thee. 
 
 (i) Queen Elizabeth. 
 
SIX PHILIP SYDNEY. 131 
 
 Bnt your reason's purest light 
 
 Bids you leave such minds to nourish. — 
 Dear, do reason no such spite ; 
 
 Never doth thy beauty flourish 
 More than in thy reason's sight. 
 
 But the wrongs Love bears vi^ill make 
 
 Love at length leave undertaking. — 
 No ! the more fools it doth shake 
 
 In a ground of so firm making. 
 Deeper still they drive the stake. 
 
 Peace ! I think that some give ear. 
 
 Come no more, lest I get anger, — 
 Bliss, I will my bliss forbear ; 
 
 Fearing, sweet, you to endanger ; 
 But my soul harbour there. 
 
 Well, begone : begone, I say ; 
 
 Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you. — 
 O, unjust is fortune's sway ! 
 
 Which can make me thus to leave you, 
 And from louts to run away. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread. 
 For Love is dead. 
 
 All Love is dead, infected 
 With plague of deep disdain : 
 
 Worth, as nought worth, rejected. 
 And Faith fair scorn doth gain. 
 
 From so ungrateful fancy. 
 
 From such a female frenzy. 
 
 From them that use men thus, 
 
 Good Lord, deliver us. 
 
 Weep, neighbours, weep: do you not hear it said 
 That Love is dead ? 
 
 His death-bed peacock's folly ; 
 His winding-sheet is shame ; 
 
 His will false-seeming holy ; 
 His sole exec'tor blame. 
 
 From so imgrateful, &c. 
 
132 Sm PHILIP SYDNEY. 
 
 Let Dirge be sung, and Trentals^ rightly read, 
 'For Love is dead : 
 
 Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth 
 My mistress' marble-heart ; 
 
 Which epitaph containeth. 
 Her eyes were once his dart. 
 From so ungrateful, &c. 
 
 Alas ! I lye ; Rage hath this error bred ; 
 Love is not dead, but sleepeth 
 In her unmatched mind ; 
 
 Where she his counsel keepeth, 
 Till due deserts she find. 
 Therefore from so vile fancy. 
 To caU such wit a frenzy ; 
 Who Love can temper thus. 
 Good Lord, deliver us. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Leave me, O love which reachest but to dust ; 
 
 And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things : 
 Grow rich in that which never taketh rust ; 
 
 Whatever fades, but, fading,^ pleasure brings. 
 
 Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might 
 To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be. 
 
 Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light. 
 That doth both shine and give us sight to see. 
 
 O, take fast hold ! let that light be thy guide 
 In this small course which birth draws out to death ; 
 
 And think how ill ^ becometh him to slide 
 Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly breath. 
 
 Then farewell. World, thy uttermost I see. 
 Eternal Love, maintain Thy Love in Me ! 
 
 (x) Treitieils—Aservice of thirty masses for the repose of the soul of some one dead 
 repeated ou thirty successive days. 
 
 (2) But fading— 'by fading ; i.e. in passing away brings me to eternal pleasure. 
 
 (3) Ill—\.^. how ill it becometh. 
 
SIR PHILIP SYDNEY. 133 
 
 SONNET TO SLEEP. 
 
 Come sleep ! O sleep ! the certain knot of peace, 
 The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe. 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
 The indifferent judge between the high and low. 
 With shield of proof shield me from out the prease 
 Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw : 
 
 make in me those civil wars to cease : 
 
 1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
 
 Take then of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
 A chamber deaf to noise or blind to light, 
 A rosy garland, and a weary head ; 
 And if these things, as being thine by right. 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shall in me 
 Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. 
 
 SONNET ON EDWARD IV. 
 
 Of all the kings that ever here did reign 
 Edward named Fourth as first in praise I name ; 
 Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain, 
 Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame ; 
 Not that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame 
 His sire's revenge,^ join'd with a kingdom's gain,^ 
 And, gain'd by Mars, ctfuld yet mad Mars so tame. 
 That balance weigh'd ' what sword did late attain ; 
 Nor that he made the Flower-de-Luce so fraid, 
 Though strongly hedg'd of bloody Lion's paws, 
 That witty Lewis* to him a tribute paid : 
 
 (1) Alluding to the Battle of Wakefield, December 31, 1460, in which Margaret 
 of Anjou, wife of Henry VI. was victorious, and Edward IVth's father, Richard, 
 Duke of York, was slain. 
 
 (2} Referring to the ultimate defeat of Henry VI. and to Edward's (then Earl of 
 March) accession to the throne as Edward IV. — a title which he claimed as descen- 
 dant and representative of the Mortimers, Earls of March, who in the female line, 
 through Philippa (daughter of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, third son of Edward III.), 
 wife of Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, as.serted a superior claim to the crown to 
 that of Henry VI., who descended from John CGaunt, fourth son of Edward III. 
 
 (3) Balance weighed — Edward IV, was distinguished for his impartial adminis- 
 tration of justice : and for his avoidance of making any innovations in the laws. 
 
 [4) Louis XL of France, who was glad to get rid of Edward out of France, 
 by signing the treaty of 'Pacquigny, and by allowing the king and his ministers large 
 pensions — in reahty, bribes to keep out of the kinj^dom. 
 
134 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause ; 
 But only for this worthy knight durst prove 
 To lose his crown rather than fail his love.* 
 
 -S;^ 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 Bom 1563. Died 1593. 
 
 Christopher Marlowe was bom at Canterbury, and baptized in 
 the church of St. George the Martyr in that city February 26, 1563. 
 He was educated at the King's School, in which he held a scholarship. 
 In March, 1580, he entered as a Pensioner at Benet College, Cambridge, 
 and took his degree of B.A. in 1583, M.A. in 1587. Marlowe must 
 have come to London shortly after taking his Bachelor's degree, for 
 before he took his Master's he had produced his successful play of 
 " Tamburlaine the Great. " As he possessed no property, and could 
 have received little or nothing from his father, it is conjectured that he 
 was aided in his university career by some friend who admired his 
 youthful talent ; and that having graduated, he joined the crowd of 
 literary adventurers in the metropolis, in order to earn a living by his 
 own abilities. It is said that he was both actor and author. Phillips 
 says he " rose from an actor to be a maker of plays. " 
 
 *' He had also a player been 
 Upon the Curtain s stage,2 
 But broke his leg in one lewd scene. 
 When in his early age." 
 
 If he ever was an actor, it must have been for a very brief period, 
 and in that case it is highly probable that he was led to write for the 
 theatres from his association with the actors. His ability could not 
 escape observation among men who in education and the advantages 
 of a university career were greatly his inferiors. " Tamburlaine " was 
 produced in 1586, and was succeeded by " Faustus," founded upon the 
 same story on which Goethe wrote his celebrated "Faust." Hallam 
 says : " There is an awful melancholy about Marlowe's Mephistopheles, 
 perhaps more impressive than the malignant mirth of that fiend in the 
 renowned work of Goethe.'' 
 
 (i) Edward was so passionately enamoured of Elizabeth Woodville (the beautiful 
 widow of Sir Thomas Gray), whose connexions were entirely Lancastrian, that no 
 considerations of prudence or state could induce him to refrain from marrying her, 
 which he did privately at Grafton, near Stoney-Stratford, May i. 1464. This love- 
 match led to the disaffection of the Earl of Warwick, one of Edward's staunchest 
 supporters, who joined Margaret of Anjou, and revived the civil wars. Edward was 
 compelled to fly to Burgundy, but shortly returned, rallied his forces, and regained 
 the Kingdom. 
 
 (a) The Curtain Theatre, Shoreditch. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 135 
 
 The " Jew of Malta " followed " Faustus," and is the oiily play by 
 Marlowe which can be said to have lived to the present times. An 
 adaptation of it was produced at Druiy Lane Theatre in 1818, in 
 order to aSbrd the celebrated tragedian, Edmond Kean, an oppor- 
 tunity of perform"j:g the part of " Barabbas the Jew," in which 
 Alleyn — the founder of Diilwich Collie — ^had originally appeared. 
 ADeyn played Baiabbas, wearing a big, false nose, which a line in the 
 play, speaking of the Jew's nose, rendered necessary. The false nose, 
 to identify the stage-Jews, was an object of particular interest when the 
 Jew of Malta was originally produced, and it has kept its place as a 
 " property " in dramatic dress to the present day. 
 
 Marlowe was extremely fortunate in having so well-trained an actor as 
 Alleyn to take the chief characters in his plays as they were succes- 
 sively produced. Nash said that the name of Ned Alleyn on the 
 common stage was able to make an ill matter good. Heywood pro- 
 nounced him 
 
 " Frotens for shapes, and Roscius for a tongue.'' 
 
 He appeared in " Tamburlaine. '' He was the original Mephistopheles of 
 the stage in the play of "Faustus." He was the original likewise of 
 Barabbas, in the "Jew of Malta," and in 1590, when Marlowe's play of 
 "Edward TV was produced, Alleyn supported it ; as he did also the 
 " Massacre of Paris," in which he enacted fhe part of the Duke de 
 Gnise. In speaking of " Edward IL" Charles Lamb said : " The death- 
 scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond any scene, ancient 
 or modem, with which I am acquainted." 
 
 The " Massacre of Paris " is founded apon the dreadiiil tragedy of 
 St Bartholomew's Day, and introduces the chief personages concerned 
 in that event In the speech of Guise, wherein he directs the soldier to 
 murder Admiral Coligni, Alleyn must have had a rare opportunity of 
 exhibiting his tragic power. The above were the chief plays written by 
 Mailowe. One or two others are attributed to him, but the author- 
 ship is donbtAU. 
 
 But little is known of Marlowe's life and character ; and even that 
 little is to be regarded with hesitation. He is said to have been a man 
 of infidel opinions, openly expressed in blasphemous language. ' He is 
 also said to have lived a dissolute life, and to have perished in the 
 pursuit of a d^iaded intrigue. 
 
 The latter statement is unhappily strengthened by the circumstances 
 of his tragical end. In the register of St. Nicholas, Deptford, may be 
 read as follows : " Christopher Marlowe, slain by Ffrances Archer, the 
 L of June, 1593." The stoiy goes that Marlowe, hindered in the 
 pursuit of his object by this Francis Archer, who was a serving-man, 
 attempted to stab him with his da^er in the brawl that ensued. Archer 
 saved himself by seizing Marlowe's hand at the wrist, and flinging his 
 arm upward, whereby the da^er penetrated through Marlowe's eye, and 
 was plunged into his brain. So, in the thirtieth year of his age, perished 
 Kit Marlowe ; another instance of brilliant talent, rare wit, and great 
 
136 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 accomplishments sacrificed, because unsustained by any high principle, 
 any noble or holy estimate of life. There have been few writers, 
 especially dramatic, who have given so much promise, and from whom 
 the world might have expected richer gifts in poetry ; but profanity of 
 thought, coupled as it so often is with dissoluteness of life, led Marlowe 
 where it has so many before, and so many since — to an untimely grave ! 
 In the freshness and vigour of his great talents, he died a death of 
 which no friend could speak without a blush of shame. 
 
 Mr. Dyce says, " Though immeasurably superior to the other 
 dramatists of his time, he is, like them, a very unequal writer : it is in 
 detached passages and single scenes, rather than in any of his pieces 
 taken as a whole, that he displays the vast vigour and richness of his 
 genius. But we can hardly doubt that if death had not so suddenly 
 arrested his career, he would also have given still grander manifestations 
 of dramatic power : indeed, for my own part, I feel a strong persuasion 
 that with added years and well-directed efforts he would have made a 
 much nearer approach in tragedy to Shalcespere than has yet been made 
 by any of his countrymen." 
 
 Among the quotations which follow will be found the death-scene of 
 " Edward II. " alluded to above, and the speech of Guise, from the 
 " Massacre of Paris." 
 
 EDWARD I. 
 
 K. Edw. Who's there ? what light is that ? wherefore com'st 
 thou? 
 
 Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news. 
 
 K. Edw. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks. 
 Villain ! I know thou com'st to murder me. 
 
 Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord ! 
 Far is it from my heart to do you harm. 
 The Queen sent me to see how you were used, 
 For she relents at this your misery : 
 And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears 
 To see a king in this most piteous state ? 
 
 K. Edw. Weep'st thou already ? List a while to me ; 
 And then thy heart, were it as Gumey's is, 
 Or as Matrevis', hewn from the Caucasus, 
 Yet will it melt ere I have done my tale. 
 This dungeon where they keep me is the sink 
 Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. 
 
 Light. O villains ! 
 
 K. Edw. And there in mire and puddle have I stood 
 This ten days' space ; and, lest that I should sleep, 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 137 
 
 One plays continually upon a drum ; 
 
 They give me bread and water, being a king ; 
 
 So that for want of sleep and sustenance 
 
 My mind's distempered and my body's numbed. 
 
 And whether I have limbs or no I know not. 
 
 O, would my blood dropp'd out from every vein, 
 
 As doth this water from my tattered robes ! 
 
 Ten Isabel, the Queen, I looked not thus 
 
 WTien for her sake I ran a tilt in France, 
 
 And there unhorsed the Duke of Qeremont. 
 
 Light. O, speak no more, my lord ! this breaks my heart 
 Lie on this bed,^ and rest yourself a while. 
 
 K. Eehv. These looks of thine can harbour naught but death : 
 I see my tragedy written in thy brows. 
 Yet stay a while ; forbear thy bloody hand. 
 And let me see the stroke before it comes, 
 That even then, when I shall lose my life. 
 My mind may be more steadfast on my God. 
 
 Light. What means your highness, to mistrust me thus ? 
 
 K. Ediv. What mean'st thou, to dissemble with me thus ? 
 
 Light. These hands were never stained with innocent blood. 
 Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. 
 
 K. Ediv. Forgive my thought for having such a thought. 
 One jewel have I left : receive thou this {giving jewel). 
 Still fear I ; and I know not what's the cause. 
 But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 
 O, if thou harboui'st murder in thy heart. 
 Let this gift change thy mind, and save thy soul ! 
 Know that I am a king. O, at that name 
 I feel a hell of grief! Where is my crown ? 
 Gone, gone ! and do I still remain alive ? 
 
 Light. You're overwatch'd, my lord : lie down and rest. 
 
 K. Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep ; 
 For not these ten days have these eyehds closed. 
 Now as I speak, they fall ; and yet with fear 
 Open again. O, wherefore sitfst thou here ? 
 
 Light. If you mistrust me. 111 be gone, my lord. 
 
 K. Edw. No, no; for, if thou mean'st to murder me, 
 Thou wilt return again ; and therefore stay. [Sleeps. 
 
 Light. He sleeps. 
 
 {i) Lie on this bed. — From the account which the king has given of his dun- 
 geon, we may conclude that a bed was not part of its fbmiture. Therefore 
 *• this bed" must be the "feather bed" which ihaxi been mentioned, and which was 
 presently used in murdering the king. It was, no doubt, thrtist upon the stage from 
 the wing. 
 
138 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 K. Edw. {waking) O, let me not die yet ! O, stay a whil 
 
 Light. How now, my lord! 
 
 K. Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine ears, 
 And tells me, if I sleep, I never wake : 
 This fear is that which makes me tremble thus ; 
 And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ? 
 
 Light. To rid thee of thy life. Matrevis, come ! 
 
 Enter MATREVIS and Gurney. 
 
 K. Edw. I am too weak and feeble to resist. 
 Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul ! 
 Light. Run for the table. 
 K. Edw. O, spare me, or dispatch me in a trice. 
 
 MASSACRE AT PARIS.* 
 
 Enter a Soldier.^ 
 
 Sold. My lord ? 
 
 Guise. Now come thou forth, and play thy tragic part : 
 Stand in some window, opening near the street. 
 And when thou see'st the Admiral ride by. 
 Discharge thy musket, and perform his death ; 
 And then I'll guerdon thee with store of crowns. 
 
 Sold. I will, my lord. \Exit. 
 
 Guise [solus). Now, Guise, begin those deep-engendere 
 To burst abroad those never-dying flames [thought! 
 
 Which cannot be extinguish'd but by blood. 
 Oft have I levell'd, and at last have learn'd 
 That peril is the chiefest way to happiness,. 
 And resolution honour's fairest aim. 
 What glory is there in a common good, 
 That hangs for every peasant to achieve ? 
 That like I best that flies beyond my reach. 
 Set me to scale the high Pyramides, 
 And thereon set the diadem of France ; 
 I'll either rend it with my nails to naught. 
 Or mount the top with my aspiring wings. 
 Although my downfall be the deepest hell. 
 
 fi) The massacre of St. Bartholomew, August 24, 1572. 
 
 (2) Enter a Soldier, &»«.—" L'assassin fut bientflt trouv6. On choisit le fameu 
 Maurevel, qui se cacha dans une maison devant laquelle I'Amiral passoit tous les joui 
 en revenant du Louvre," &c. Anquetil, HUt de France, t. v. 226, ed. 1817. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 139 
 
 For this I wake, when others think I sleep ; 
 
 For this I wait, that scorn attendance else ; 
 
 For this my quenchless thirst, whereon I build. 
 
 Hath often pleaded kindred to the king ; 
 
 For this this head, this heart, this hand, and sword. 
 
 Contrives, imagines, and fiilly executes. 
 
 Matters of import aimM at by many. 
 
 Yet understood by none ; 
 
 For this hath heaven engendered me of earth ; 
 
 For this this earth sustains my body's weight. 
 
 And with this weight ITl counterpoise a crown, 
 
 Or with seditions weary all the world ; 
 
 For this from Spain the stately Catholics 
 
 Send Indian gold to coin me French ecues ;* 
 
 For this have I a largess from the Pope, 
 
 A pension and a dispensation too ; 
 
 And by that privilege to work upon 
 
 My policy hath fram'd religion. 
 
 Beligion ! O Diabole ! 
 
 Fie, I am ashamed (however that I seem !) 
 
 To think a word of such a simple sound 
 
 Of so great matter should be made the ground ! 
 
 The gentle king,* whose pleasure uncontroll'd 
 
 Weakeneth his body, and wfll waste his realm. 
 
 If I repair not what he ruinates, — 
 
 Him, as a child, I daily win with words. 
 
 So that, for proof, he barely bears the name : 
 
 I execute, and he sustains the blame. 
 
 The Mother-Queen* works wonders for my sake, 
 
 And in my love entombs the hope of France; 
 
 Rifling the bowels of her treasury 
 
 To supply my wants and necessity. 
 
 Paris hath full five hundred colleges. 
 
 As monasteries, priories, abbeys, and halls, 
 
 Wherein are thirty thousand able men. 
 
 Besides a thousand sturdy student Catholics ; 
 
 And more, — of my knowledge, in one cloister keep 
 
 Five hundred fat Franciscan friars and priests : 
 
 All this, and more, if more may be comprised. 
 
 To bring the will of our desires to end. 
 
 {1) Ecues — crown pieces. 
 
 Iz) Charies DC of France, in whose xeign the massacre was perpetrated. 
 
 (3) Catherine de Medici, who herself gave ordeis for the beil of die church of 
 St, Germain rAu:cerrois (adjoining the Louvre) to be knelled as the signal for the 
 massacre to commence. 
 
140 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 Then, Guise, 
 
 Since thou hast all the cards within thy hands, 
 
 To shuffle or cut, take this as surest thing, 
 
 That, right or wrong, thou deal thyself a king.— 
 
 Ay, but Navarre !— 'tis but a nook of France ; 
 
 Sufficient yet for such a petty king, 
 
 That with a rabblement of his heretics 
 
 Blinds Europe's eyes, and troubleth our estate.^ 
 
 Him will vit— {pointing to Ms sword) ;— but first 
 
 let's follow those in France 
 That hinder our possession to the crown. 
 As Caesar to his soilders, so say I, — 
 Those that hate me will I learn to loathe. 
 Give me a look that, when I bend the brows. 
 Pale death may walk in furrows of my face ; 
 A hand that with a grasp may grip the world ; 
 An ear to hear what my detractors say ; 
 A royal seat, a sceptre, and a crown ; 
 That those which do behold them may become 
 As men that stand and gaze against the sun. 
 The plot is laid, and things shall come to pass 
 Where resolution strives for victory. 
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 Off went his silken robe, and in he leapt. 
 
 Whom the kind waves so licorously cleapt,^ 
 
 Thickening for haste, one in another so, 
 
 To kiss his skin, that he might almost go 
 
 To Hero's tower, had that kind minute lasted. 
 
 But now the cruel Fates with Atd hasted 
 
 To all the Winds, and made them battle fight 
 
 Upon the Hellespont for cither's right 
 
 Pretended to the windy monarchy ; 
 
 And forth they brake, the seas mix'd with the sky, 
 
 And toss'd distressed Leander, being in hell. 
 
 As high as heaven : bliss not in height doth dwell. 
 
 The Destinies sate dancing on the waves, 
 
 To see the glorious Winds with mutual braves 
 
 Consume each other. O, true glass, to see 
 
 How ruinous ambitious statists be 
 
 (i) Alluding to Henry of Navarre, afterwards Henri Quatre. Kinj? of France. 
 (z) Cleapt — an alteration, for the rhyme, oiclipt, i.e. emhraced. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. \s\ 
 
 To their own glories ! Poor Leander cried 
 
 For help to sea-bom Venus, she denied ;i 
 
 To Boreas, that for his Althaea's sake ^ 
 
 He would some pity on his Hero take, 
 
 And for his own love's sake on his desires ; 
 
 But Glory never blows cold Pity's fires. 
 
 Then call'd he Neptune, who through all the noise 
 
 Knew with afinght his wreck'd Leander's voice, 
 
 And up he rose; for haste his forehead hit 
 
 'Gainst heaven's hard crystal: his proud waves he sm t 
 
 With his forked sceptre, that could not obey; 
 
 Much greater powers than Neptune's gave them sway. 
 
 They lov'd Leander so, in groans they brake 
 
 When they came near him ; and such space did take 
 
 Twixt one another, loath to issue on, 
 
 That in their shallow furrows earth was shown, 
 
 And the poor lover took a little breath : 
 
 But the curst Fates sate spinning of his death 
 
 On every wave, and with the servile Winds 
 
 Tumbled them on him. And now Hero finds, 
 
 By that she felt, her dear Leander's state. 
 
 She wept, and prayed for him to every Fate ; 
 
 And every Wind that whipp'd her with her hair 
 
 About the face she kiss'd, and spake it fair, 
 
 Kneeled to it, gave it drink out of her eyes 
 
 To quench his thirst : but stiU their cruelties 
 
 Even her poor torch envied, and rudely beat 
 
 The baiting flame^ from that dear food it eat ; 
 
 Dear, for it nourish'd her Leander's Ufe, 
 
 Which with her robe she rescued from their strife ; 
 
 But silk too soft was such hard hearts to break ; 
 
 And she, dear soul, even as her sUk, faint, weak. 
 
 Could not preserve it : out, O, out it went ! 
 
 Leander stiU called Neptune, that now rent 
 
 His brackish curls, and tore his wrinkled face, 
 
 Where tears in billows did each other chase ; 
 
 And, burst with ruth, he hurled his marble mace 
 
 At the stern Fates : it wounded Lachesis, 
 
 That drew Leander's thread, and could not miss 
 
 The thread itself, as it her hand did hit. 
 
 But smote it fuU, and quite did sunder it. 
 
 fi) she denied — i.e. 'which^^ denied. 
 2) For his Atthaas sake— [or the sake of Orithyia, the fair Athenian princess. 
 t3) The baiting Jiame—'CoA flame taking bait (refre^imentj, feedirig. 
 
142 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 The more kind Neptune raged, the more he razed 
 
 His love's life's fort, and killed as he embraced : 
 
 Anger doth still his own mishap increase ; 
 
 If any comfort live, it is in peace. 
 
 O thievish Fates, to let blood, fleSh, and sense 
 
 Build two fair temples for their excellence, 
 
 To rob it with a poisoned influence ! 
 
 Though souls' gifts starve, the bodies are held dear 
 
 In ugUest things ; sense-sport preserves a bear : 
 
 But here naught serves our turns : O heaven and earth, 
 
 How most-most wretched is our human birth ! 
 
 And now did all the tyrannous crew depart, 
 
 Knowing there was a storm in Hero's heart 
 
 Greater than they could make, and scorned their smart. 
 
 She bowed herself so low out of her tower, 
 
 That wonder 'twas she fell not ere her hour, 
 
 With searching the lamenting waves for him : 
 
 Like a poor snail, her gentle supple limb 
 
 Hung on her turret's top so most downright. 
 
 As she would dive beneath the darkness quite, 
 
 To find her jewel ; — jewel ! — her Leander : 
 
 A name of all earth's jewels pleased not her 
 
 Like his dear name. " Leander, still my choice ! 
 
 Come naught but my Leander ! O my voice, 
 
 Turn to Leander ! henceforth be all sounds, 
 
 Accents, and phrases, that shew all griefs' wounds, 
 
 Analyz'd in Leander ! O black change ! 
 
 Trumpets, do you with thunder of your clange 
 
 Drive out this change's horror ! My voice faints : 
 
 Where all joy was, now shriek out all complaints !" 
 
 Thus cried she ; for her mixfed soul could tell 
 
 Her love was dead : and when the Morning fell 
 
 Prostrate upon the weeping earth for woe. 
 
 Blushes that bled out of her cheeks did show 
 
 Leander brought by Neptune, bruised and torn 
 
 With cities' ruins he to rocks had worn. 
 
 To filthy usuring rocks, that would have blood, 
 
 Though they could get of him no other good. 
 
 She saw him, and the sight was much-much more 
 
 Than might have served to kill her. Should her store 
 
 Of giant sorrows speak? — Burst, — die, — bleed. 
 
 And leave poor plaints to us that shall succeed. 
 
 She fell on her love's bosom, hugged it fast, 
 
 And with Leander's name she breathed her last. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 143 
 
 EPIGRAM OF A GULL. 
 
 Oft in my laughing rhymes I name a guU : 
 
 But this new term will many questions breed ; 
 
 Therefore at first I wiU express at full 
 
 Who is a true and perfect gull indeed. 
 
 A gull is he who fears a velvet gown, 
 
 And when a wench is brave dares not speak to her ; 
 
 A guU is he which traverseth the town, 
 
 And is for marriage known a common wooer ; 
 
 A gull is he which, when he proudly wears 
 
 A silver-hilted rapier by his side, 
 
 Endures the lie and knocks about the ears, 
 
 Whilst in his sheath his sleeping sword doth bide ; 
 
 A gull is he which wears good handsome clothes, 
 
 And stands in presence stroking up his hair. 
 
 And fills up his unperfect speech with oaths, 
 
 But speaks not one wise word throughout the year : 
 
 But to define a guU in terms precise, — 
 
 A gull is he which seems and is not wise. 
 
 IGNOTO. 
 
 I love thee not for sacred chastity, — 
 
 Who loves for that ? — ^nor for thy sprightly wit ; 
 
 I love thee not for thy sweet modesty. 
 
 Which makes thee in perfection's throne to sit ; 
 
 I love thee not for thy enchanting eye. 
 
 Thy beauty's ravishing perfection .; 
 
 I love thee not for unchaste luxury. 
 
 Nor for thy body's fair proportion ; 
 
 I love thee not for that my soul doth dance 
 
 And leap with pleasure when those Kps of thine 
 
 Give musical and graceful utterance 
 
 To some (by thee made happy) poet's line ; 
 
 I love thee not for voice or slender small : ^ 
 
 But wilt thou know wherefore ? fair sweet, — for al). 
 
 Faith, wench, I cannot court thy sprightly eyes. 
 
 With the base-viol placed between my thighs ; 
 
 I cannot lisp, nor to some fiddle sing, 
 
 Nor run upon a high-stretch'd minikin ; ^ 
 
 U) slender small — \.^. a slender voice from a woman of small waist 
 (2; Minikin — diminutive ; here a diminutive fiddle, a kit. 
 
144 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 I cannot whine in puling elegies, 
 Entombing Cupid with sad obsequies ; 
 I am not fashioned for these amorous times, 
 To court thy beauty with lascivious rhymes ; 
 I cannot dally, caper, dance, and sing, 
 Oiling my saint with supple sonnetting ; 
 I cannot cross my arms, or sigh, " Ay me, 
 Ay me, forlorn ! " — egregious foppery ! 
 I cannot buss^ thy fill, play with thy hair. 
 Swearing by Jove, " thou art most debonair ! " 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Sweet wench, I love thee : yet I will not sue, 
 Or show my love as musky courtiers do ; 
 I'll not carouse a health to honour thee. 
 In this same bezzling,'' drunken courtesy, 
 And, when all's quaffed, eat up my bousing-glass,' 
 In glory that I am thy servile ass ; 
 Nor will I wear a rotten Bourbon lock,* 
 As some sworn peasant to a female smock. 
 Well-featured lass, thou know'st I love thee dear : 
 Yet for thy sake I will not bore mine ear, 
 To hang thy dirty silken shoe-tires there ; ^ 
 Nor for thy love will I once gnash a brick. 
 Or some pied colours in my bonnet stick ; 
 But by the chaps of hell, to do thee good, 
 rU freely spend my thrice-decocted blood. 
 
 (i| B-uss — kiss. (2) .5^jSjsft«p'-^tippling, sotting. (3) Bousing-fclass — drinking-glass. 
 
 (4) Rotten Bourbon lock — alluding to the "love-locks" worn by men of fashion, 
 and introduced from France. In Robert Greene's *' Quip for an Upstart Courtier" 
 (1592) we read : *' Sir, will you have your worship's hair cut after the Italian manner? 
 or, will you be Frenchified, with a love-lock down to your shoulders, wherein you 
 may wear your mistress's favour ? " The love-lock was a long curl, hanging over the 
 left shouldel-, and tied at the end with a ribbon, frequently the favour of some lady. 
 It is often represented in pictures of Charles I. and of the courtiers of his time— see 
 the portrait of Edward, fourth Earl of Dorset, in the ball-room at Knole. The 
 Puritans took great offence at the flowing hair and love-locks of the cavaUers ; 
 hence their cropped hair and designation as Roundheads. In Charles II.'s reign, 
 when periwigs came into fashion, the wig was sometimes divided with a parting at the 
 back, from the crown downwards, and the love-lock, or curl, was introduced, banging 
 from the nape of the neck between the shoulders. "This was called the dildo, or pole- 
 lock. A specimen of this periwig [exhibiting the pole-lock], which was commonly 
 worn by officers, and was called the " campaign wig," may be seen on the marble 
 statue of Richard, fifth Earl of Dorset, in Withyham Church, Sussex. (He died 
 1677.) It is evident that the queue of the last century, which so long survived in the 
 form of the sailor's pigtail, was the direct descendant of the pole-lock, which was the 
 offspring of the "love-lock." 
 
 (SJ In the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. the gentry frequently wore earriugs. 
 Dr. Donne's picture shows them, with a Maltese cross hanging from the ring. Silken 
 cords were likewise worn, as tokens of gallantry. The portrait of Shakespere at 
 Hampton Court shows the ear himg with a silken tire. 
 
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 145 
 
 THE DEATH OF FAUSTUS. 
 
 Faiistus. — Oh ! Faustus ! 
 
 Now hast thou but one bare hour to live. 
 * ♦ * » 
 
 Stand still, ye ever-moving spheres of heaven. 
 That time may cease and midnight never come. 
 Oh ! I'd leap up to heaven ! Who pulls me down ? 
 Yet wiU I call on Him — Oh, spare me, Lucifer ! 
 Where is it now ? 'Tis gone : 
 And see — z. threatening arm — an angry brow ! 
 Mountains and hills come, come, and fall on me, 
 And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven ! 
 No ! — Then will I headlong run into the earth : 
 Gape, earth ! — Oh, no : it will not harbour me. 
 Ye stars that reigned at my nativity, 
 Whose influence hath allotted death and hell, 
 Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist, 
 Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud ; 
 That when you vomit forth into the air, 
 My limbs may issue from yotu: smoky mouths. 
 But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven ! 
 
 THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 Come live with me, and be my love, 
 And we will all the pleasures prove 
 That valleys, groves, or hiUs and fields, 
 And aU that steepy mountain yields. 
 
 And we will sit upon the rocks, 
 Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
 
 And I will make thee beds of roses, 
 And then a thousand fragrant posies, 
 A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
 Embroider'd all with leaves of mirtle. 
 L 
 
U6 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 A gown made of the finest wool, 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
 Fair lined slippers for the cold, 
 With buckles of the purest gold : 
 
 A belt of straw, and ivy buds, 
 With coral clasps and amber studs : 
 And if these pleasures may thee move. 
 Come, live with me, and be my love. 
 
 Thy silver dishes for thy meat 
 As precious as the gods do eat, 
 Shall on an ivory table be 
 Prepared each day for thee and me. 
 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
 For thy delight each May morning : 
 If these delights thy mind may move, 
 Then live with me, and be my love. 
 
 THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD. 
 
 (SIR W. RALEIGH'S REJOINDER.)! 
 
 If all the world and love were young. 
 And truth on every shepherd's tongue, 
 These pleasures might my passion move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 Time drives the flocks from field to fold. 
 When rivers rage and rocks grow cold. 
 Then Philomel becometh dumb ; 
 And age complains of cares to come. 
 
 But fading flowers in every field 
 To winter floods their treasures yield : 
 A honeyed tongue, a heart of gall. 
 Is Fancy's spring, but Sorrow's fall. 
 
 Thy gowns,, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. 
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. 
 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten. 
 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 
 
 (z) See footnote, p. io6. 
 
MICHAEL DRAYTON. 147 
 
 Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds, 
 Thy coral clasps and amba- studs, 
 Can me with no enticements move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love, 
 
 But could youth last, could love still breed. 
 Had joys no date, had age no need ; 
 Then those deUghts my inind might move 
 To Uve with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 -«>« 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 Born 1563. Died 1631. 
 
 Dratton was bom in the parish of Atheiston, Warwickshire, in 
 1563. He was educated at the expense of Sir Godfrey Godere. Little 
 or nothing is known of his early life. It is supposed he went to Oxford, 
 but did not long continue there. He seems to have been well known as 
 » poet during the last ten years of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. In 
 1593 he published a collection of pastoral poems under the title of 
 " The Shepherd's Garland." Shortly afterwards appeared " The 
 Barons' Wars " and " England's Heroical Epistles.'' When James I. 
 succeeded to the throne, Drayton courted him with verses, but was 
 received coldly, although he had the favour of the Earl of Dorset, and 
 received a yearly pension of ;^lo from Prince Henry. In 1613 his 
 Polyolbion appeared, with Notes by Selden. This is a descriptive 
 poem of England, her productions and legends ; it is the most impor- 
 tant work of Drayton's muse. In 1626 he is spoken of as poet-laureate, 
 which was no more than an empty title, carrying with it neither emolu- 
 ment, nor even the butt of canary. For many years Drayton was 
 indebted to the Countess of Bedford for substantial obHgations. To- 
 wards the close of his life he lived with the Earl of Dorset ; and when 
 he died, in 1631, the Countess of Dorset erected the monument over his 
 grave in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Perhaps there is no poet of his period who is less read than Drayton. 
 The reason is, that his verse is ponderous, his poems lengthy, and his 
 diction often obscure. And yet there is often great boldness and mag- 
 nificence of expression; and his Polyolbion is a map-hke description 
 of Great Britain. Drayton's poetry wants a centre of interest. He 
 
 L2 
 
hS MICHAEL DRA YTON. 
 
 becomes geographical, historical, legendary, instructive ; but he i 
 not appeal to the fancy, and consequently fatigues with the length ; 
 ponderous cliaracter of his versification. Singularly enough, he has 
 one piece, which is a complete contrast to his usual style. It is entil 
 " Nymphidia," and is a fairy story of Oberon, Mab, and Puck. A 
 creation of the fairy world, it is the most excellent composition in 
 English language. Neither before nor since has there ever been a k 
 tale to compare with it. It stands alone and unapproached, the m 
 thoroughly elfin work in our language. The description of chariots ; 
 horses, the harness for battle, the retreat of the fairies, and the ultim 
 rout of Oberon and Pigwiggen, are alike calculated to delight the yov 
 and to astonish the adult. Among the quotations which follow, la; 
 extracts have been made from the " Nymphidia." 
 
 THE BARONS' WARS. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 Queen Isabel' then landing with delight, 
 Had what rich France could lend her for her ease ; 
 And as she passed, no tovm but did invite 
 Her with some show, her appetite to please : 
 But Mortimer once coming in her sight, 
 His shape and features did her fancy seize ; 
 When she, that knew how her fit time to take, 
 Thus she her most loved Mortimer bespake : 
 
 " O Mortimer, sweet Mortimer," (quoth she) 
 " What angry power did first the means devise 
 To separate Queen Isabel and thee, 
 Whom (to despite) love yet together ties ? 
 But if thou think'st the fault was made by me 
 For a just penance to my longing eyes, 
 Though guiltless they, this be to them assigned, 
 To gaze upon thee till they leave me blind, 
 
 " My dear, dear heart, thought I to see thee thus, 
 When first in court thou didst my favour wear, 
 When we have watched lest any noted us. 
 Whilst our looks used love's messages to bear, 
 
 (i) Isabella, Queen of Edward II. daughter of Philip V. of France. When I 
 brother, Charles the Fair, seized Edward's French territories, Isabella crossed 
 France to negotiate arrangements. At the French court she met Roger 
 Mortimer, one of the banished lords of the confederacy which had been form 
 against Edward's favourites, the Despencers. The criminal relations betwe 
 Isabel and Mortimer are matters of, history, leading as they did to Edwar 
 murder in Berkeley Castleu 
 
MICHAEL DRA YTON. 149 
 
 And we by signs sent many a secret buss ? 
 An exile then, thought I, to see thee here ? 
 But what couldst thou be then, but now thou art ? 
 Though banished England, yet not from my heart. 
 
 " That fate -which did thy franchisement enforce, 
 And from the depth of danger set thee free. 
 Still regular and constant in that course, 
 Made me this strait and even path to thee, 
 Of our affections as it took remorse ; 
 Our birth-fixed stars so luckily agree, 
 Whose revolution seriously directs 
 Our like proceedings to the like effects. 
 
 " Only ivise counsel hath contrived this thing, 
 For which we wished so many a wofiil day. 
 Of which the clear and perfect managing 
 Is that strong prop whereon our hopes may stay : 
 Which in itself the authority doth bring, 
 That weak opinion hath not power to sway. 
 Confuting those whose sightless judgments sit 
 In the thick rank with every common wit. 
 
 " Then since th' assay our good success assures. 
 And we her favourites lean on Fortune's breast. 
 That every hour new comfort us procures, 
 Of these her blessings let us choose the best ; 
 And whilst the day of our good hap endures. 
 Let's take the bounteous benefits of rest : 
 Let's fear no storm before we feel a shower. 
 My son a King, two kingdoms help my dower. 
 
 " Of wanton Edward when I first was woo'd, 
 Why cam'st thou not into the comt of France .' 
 Before thy king, thou in my grace hadst stood : 
 
 Mortimer, how good had been thy chance ! 
 My love attempted in that youthful mood, 
 
 1 might have been thine own inheritance ; 
 
 Where entering now by force, thou hold'st by might. 
 And art disseisor' of another's right. 
 
 Thou idol, honour, which we fools adore, 
 (How many plagues do rest in thee to grieve us .'') 
 Which when we have, we find there is much more 
 Than that which only is a name can give us : 
 
 (i) Disseisor— one who dispossesses illegally (N. French, dissaiser). 
 
ISO MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 Of real comforts thou dost leave us poor, 
 And of those joys thou often dost deprive us, 
 That with ourselves doth set us at debate, 
 And make us beggars in our greatest state." 
 
 With such brave raptures from her words that rise, 
 She made a breach in his impressive breast. 
 And all his powers so fully did surprise. 
 As seemed'^to rock his senses to their rest, 
 So that his wit could not that thing devise. 
 Of which he thought his soul was not possest : 
 Whose great abundance, like a swelling flood 
 After a shower, ran through his ravish'd blood. 
 
 Like as a lute that's touched with curious skill, 
 Each string- stretched up his right tone to retain. 
 Music's true language that doth speak at will, 
 The bass and- treble married by the mean. 
 Whose sounds each note with harmony do fill, 
 Whether it be in descant or on plain ; 
 So their affections, set in keys alike. 
 In true concert meet, as their humours strike. 
 
 EDWARD II. AT BERKELEY CASTLE. 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 With shameful scoffs, and barbarous disgrace 
 Him on a lean ill-favoured jade they set, 
 In a vile garment, beggarly and base. 
 Which (it should seem) they purposely did get ; 
 So carrying him in a most wretched case. 
 Benumbed and beaten with the cold and wet. 
 Deprived of all repose and natural rest, 
 With thirst and hunger grievously opprest. 
 
 Yet still suspicious that he should be known, 
 From beard and head they shaved away the hair. 
 Which was the last that he could call his own : 
 Never left Fortune any wight so bare. 
 Such tyranny on king was never shown. 
 And till that time with mortals had been rare ; 
 His comfort then did utterly deceive him, 
 But to his death his sorrows did not leave him. 
 
MICHAEL DRAYTON. 151 
 
 Vile traitors, hold off your unhallowed hands, 
 
 His brow upon it majesty still bears ; 
 
 Dare you thus keep your sovereign lord in bands ? 
 
 And can your eyes behold the anointed tears ? 
 
 Or if your sight all pity thus withstands. 
 
 Are not your hearts yet piercfed through your ears ? 
 
 The mind is free, whate'er afficts the man ; 
 
 A king's a king, do Fortune what she can. 
 
 Dare man take that which God himself hath given ? 
 Or mortal spill the spirit by him infused, 
 Whose power is subject to the power of heaven ? 
 Wrongs pass not unrevenged, although excused. 
 Except that thou set all at six and seven. 
 Rise, Majesty, when thou art thus abused ; 
 Or for thy refiige which way wilt thou take, 
 When in this sort thou dost thyself forsake? 
 
 Thus they to Berkely brought the wretched king. 
 Which for their purpose was the place forethought. 
 Ye heavenly powers, do ye behold this thing, 
 And let this deed of horror to be wrought, 
 That might the nation into question bring.'' 
 But oh, your ways with justice stiU are fraught : 
 But he is hap'd into his earthly hell, 
 From whence he bade the wicked world fareweU. 
 
 They lodged him in a melancholic room, 
 
 Where through strait windows the dull light came far, 
 
 (In which the sun did at no season come,) 
 
 Which strengthen'd were by many an iron bar. 
 
 Like to a vault under some mighty tomb. 
 
 Where night and day waged a continual war ; 
 
 Under whose floor the common sewer passed. 
 
 Up to the same loathsome stench that cast. 
 
 The ominous raven often he doth hear. 
 
 Whose croaking him of following horror teUs, 
 
 Begetting strange imaginary fear. 
 
 With heavy echoes, like to passing-bells ; 
 
 The howling dog a doleful part doth bear. 
 
 As though they chimed his last sad burying kneUs ; 
 
 Under his cave the buzzing screech-owl sings. 
 
 Beating the windows with her fatal wings. 
 
152 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 By night affrighted in his fearful dreams, 
 Of raging fiends and goblins that he meets ; 
 Of falling down from steep rocks into streams ; 
 Of deaths, of burials, and of winding-sheets : 
 Of wandering helpless in far foreign realms ; 
 Of strong temptations by seducing sprights : 
 Wherewith awaked and calling out for aid 
 His hollow voice doth make himself afraid. 
 
 Then came the vision of his bloody reign, 
 Marching along with Lancaster's ^ stern ghost ; 
 Twenty-eight barons, either hanged or slain, 
 Attended with the rueful mangled host. 
 That unrevenged did all that while remain. 
 At Burton-bridge and fatal Borough lost ; 
 Threat'ning with frowns, and quaking every limb. 
 As though that piece-meal they would torture him. 
 
 And if it chanced that from the troubled skies 
 The least small star through any chink gave light, 
 Straitways on heaps the thronging clouds did rise. 
 As though that Heaven were angry with the night. 
 That it should lend that comfort to his eyes : 
 Deformed shadows glimpsing in his sight, 
 As darkness, that it might more ugly be. 
 Through the least cranny would not let him see. 
 
 When all the affliction that they could impose 
 Upon him, to the utmost of their hate. 
 Above his torments yet his strength so rose. 
 As though that Nature had conspired with Fate ; 
 When as his watchful and too wary foes. 
 That ceased not still his woes to aggravate. 
 His further helps suspected, to prevent. 
 To take away his life to Berkely sent. 
 
 (i) The, Earl of Lancaster, the King's cousin, had taken part with the Barons 
 against Gaveston, and aJso against the Despenceis. He was seized and beheaded at 
 Pontefract, March 22, 1322. 
 
MICHAEL DRA YTON. 153 
 
 HENRY HOWARD TO THE LADY GERALDINE.i 
 
 From learned Florence (long time rich in fame) 
 
 From whence thy race, thy noble grandsires came ;^ 
 
 To famous England, that kind niu'se of mine. 
 
 Thy Surrey sends to heavenly Geraldine. 
 
 Yet let not Tuscan think I do it wrong, 
 
 That I from thence write in my native tongue ; 
 
 That in these harsh-tuned cadences I sing, 
 
 Sitting so near the Muse's sacred spring ; 
 
 But rather think itself adorned thereby. 
 
 That England reads the praise of Italy. 
 
 Though to the Tuscans 1 the smoothness grant, 
 
 Our dialect no majesty doth want, 
 
 To set thy praises in as high a key 
 
 As France or Spain, or Germany, or they. 
 
 What day I quit the Foreland of fair Kent, 
 
 And that my ship her course for Flanders bent, 
 
 Yet think I with how many a heavy look 
 
 My leave of England and of thee I took. 
 
 And did intreat the tide (if it might be) 
 
 But to convey me one sigh back to thee. 
 
 Up to the deck a billow Ughtly skips. 
 
 Taking my sigh, and down again it slips, 
 
 Into the gulph itself it headlong throws, 
 
 And as a post, to England-ward it goes. 
 
 As I sate wondering how the rough sea stin'ed, 
 
 1 might far off perceive a little bird. 
 
 Which as she fain from shore to shore would fly. 
 
 Had lost herself in the broad vasty sky. 
 
 Her feeble wing, beginning to deceive her. 
 
 The seas of life still gaping to bereave her : 
 
 Unto the ship she makes, which she discovers, 
 
 And there (poor fool !) a while for refuge hovers ; 
 
 And when at length her flagging pinion fails. 
 
 Panting she hangs upon the roUing sails, 
 
 And being forced to loose her hold with pain. 
 
 Yet beaten off, she straight lights on again. 
 
 And tossed with flaws, with storms, with wind, with weather. 
 
 Yet stiU departing thence, still tumeth thither ! 
 
 1 ) See p. 78. Drayton assumes the truth of Howard's reported travels in Italy, 
 proclai m in g tiie beauty of the lair Geraldine. 
 \^) See Howard's Sonnet, p. 8i, to Geraldine. 
 
154 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 Now with the poop, now with the prow doth bear, 
 Now on this side, now that, now here, now there, 
 Methinks these storms should be my sad depart, 
 The silly helpless bird is my poor heart ; 
 The ship to which for succour it repairs, 
 That is yourself, regardless of my cares. 
 Of every surge doth fall, or wave doth rise. 
 To some one thing I sit and moralize. 
 
 When for thy love I left the Belgic shore. 
 
 Divine Erasmus and our famous More, 
 
 Whose happy presence gave me such delight, 
 
 As made a minute of a winter's night ; 
 
 With whom a while I staid at Roterdame, 
 
 Now so renowned by Erasmus' name .-^ 
 
 Yet every hour did seem a world of time, 
 
 Till I had seen that soul-reviving clime, 
 
 And thought the foggy Netherlands unfit, 
 
 A watery soil to clog a fiery wit. 
 
 And as that wealthy Germany I passed, 
 
 Coming unto the Emperor's court at last, 
 
 Great-learned Agrippa,^ so profound in art. 
 
 Who the infernal secrets doth impart, 
 
 When of thy health I did desire to know. 
 
 Me in a glass my Geraldine did show, 
 
 Sick in thy bed ; and for thou couldst not sleep, 
 
 By a wax taper set the light to keep ; 
 
 I do remember thou didst read that ode. 
 
 Sent back whilst I in Thanet made abode, 
 
 Where when thou cam'st unto that word of love, 
 
 E'en in thine eyes I saw how passion strove : 
 
 That snowy lawn which covered thy bed, 
 
 Methought look'd white, to see thy cheek so red ; 
 
 Thy rosy cheek oft changing in my sight. 
 
 Yet still was red, to see the lawn so white : 
 
 The little taper which should give thee light, 
 
 Methought waxed dim to see thy eyes so bright ; 
 
 Thine eye again supplied the taper's turn, 
 
 And with his beams more brightly made it bum : 
 
 The shrugging air about thy temples hurls, 
 
 And wrapt thy breath in little clouded curls. 
 
 And as it did ascend it straight did seize it. 
 
 And as it sunk it presently did raise it. 
 
 (i) Erasmus was bom at Rotterdam, 1467. In England he was the intimate fr 
 of Sir Thomas More. (2) Cornelius Agrippa, the famous magician. 
 
MICHAEL DRAYTON. 155 
 
 Canst thou by sickness banish beauty so. 
 
 Which, if put from thee, knows not where to go 
 
 To make her shift, and for succour seek 
 
 To every rival'd face, each bankrupt cheek ? 
 
 If health preserved, thou beauty still dost cherish ; 
 
 If that neglected, beauty soon doth perish. 
 
 Care draws on care, woe comforts woe again. 
 
 Sorrow breeds sorrow, one grief brings forth twain. 
 
 If hve or die, as thou dost, so do I ; 
 
 If Uve, I live ; and if thou die, I die : 
 
 One heart, one love, one joy, one grief or troth, 
 
 One good, one ill, one life, one death to both. 
 
 If Howard's blood thou hold'st as but too vile, 
 
 Or not esteem'st of Norfolk's princely stile ; 
 
 If Scotland's coat no mark of fame can lend,' 
 
 That Uon placed in our bright silver bend. 
 
 Which as a trophy beautifies our shield 
 
 Since Scottish blood discoloured Flodden field ; 
 
 When the proud Cheviot our brave ensign bear 
 
 As a rich jewel in a lady's hair, 
 
 And did fair Bramston's' neighbouring valleys choke 
 
 With clouds of cannons' fire-disgorgM smoke ; 
 
 Or Surrey's Earldonx insufficient be, 
 
 And not a dower so well contentii^ thee ; 
 
 Yet am I one of great Apollo's heirs. 
 
 The sacred Mjises challenge me for theirs. 
 
 By princes my immortal lines are sung, 
 
 My flowing verses graced with every tongue : 
 
 The little children when they learn to go. 
 
 By painfiil ' mothers daded to and fro, 
 
 Are taught by sugared numbers to rehearse, 
 
 And have their sweet Ups seasoned with my verse. 
 
 When heaven would strive to do the best it can. 
 And put an angel's spirit into man. 
 The utmost power it hath, it then doth spend, 
 When to the world a poet it doth intend. 
 That little difference 'twixt the gods and us, 
 (By them confirmed) distinguished only thus ; 
 
 (1) Allnding to the addition made to the hlazen of the Howard's annour after 
 FhKJden. Camden says, " In the canton point of the bend an escutcheon or, within 
 the Scottish pressure a demi lion rampant gules/' &a 
 
 (s) Bramston, near Flodden, a part of t& Cheviot. 
 
 [^ "Painfol," the term tlien in common use, and corresponding to our present 
 " painstaking. " A Puritan divine was described by a tablet in Worcester Ouhedrat 
 (lately removed) 3s" a rif^ paiaftd preacher " 
 
iS6 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 Whom they in birth ordain to happy days, 
 The gods commit their glory to our praise ; 
 The eternal life when they disolve their breath, 
 We likewise share a second power by death. 
 
 When time shall turn those amber locks to gray, 
 My verse again shall gild and make thee gay, 
 And trick them up in knotted curls anew, 
 And to thy autumn give a summer's hue ; 
 That sacred power, that in my ink remains, 
 Shall put fresh blood into thy withered veins. 
 And on thy red decayed, thy whiteness dead, 
 Shall set a white more white, a red more red. 
 When thy dim sight thy glass can not descry. 
 Nor thy crazed mirror can discern thy eye ; 
 My verse to tell the one what th' other was. 
 Shall represent them both thine eye and glass : 
 Where both thy mirror and thine eye shall see. 
 What once thou saw'st in that, that saw in thee ; 
 And to them both shall tell the simple truth. 
 What that in pureness was, what thou in youth. 
 
 If Florence once should lose her old renown. 
 As famous Athens, now a fisher-town ; 
 My lines for thee a Florence shall erect. 
 Which great Apollo ever shall protect. 
 And with the numbers from my pen that falls 
 Bring marble mines to re-erect those walls. 
 
 * * * 
 
 What time I came into this famous town. 
 And made the cause of my arrival known, 
 Great Medicis"^ a list for triumphs built ; 
 Within the which upon a tree of gilt, 
 (Which was with sundry rare devices set) 
 I did erect thy lovely counterfeit. 
 To answer those Italian dames' desire 
 Which daily came thy beauty to admire ; 
 By which, my lion in his gaping jaws 
 Held up my lance, and in his dreadful paws 
 Reacheth my gauntlet unto him that dare 
 A beauty with my Geraldine's compare. 
 Which when each manly valiant arm assays, 
 After so many brave triumphant days, 
 
 (i) This would be Cosmo de Medici, who was created Duke of Florence and C 
 Duke of Tuscany by the Bull of Pope Pius V. 
 
MICHAEL DRAYTON. 157 
 
 The glorious prize upon my lance I bear, 
 By herald's voice proclaimed to be thy share. 
 The shivered staves here for thy beauty broke 
 With fierce encounters past at every stroke, 
 When stormy courses answer cuif for cuff, 
 Denting proud bevers with the counter-buff, 
 Upon an altarj burnt with holy flame, 
 I sacrificed as incense to thy fame : 
 Where, as the phoenix from her spicfed fume 
 Renews herselfj in that she doth consume ; 
 So from these sacred ashes live we both. 
 Even as that one Arabian wonder doth. 
 
 When to my chamber I myself retire, 
 Burnt with the sparks that kindled all this fire. 
 Thinking of England, which my hope contains, 
 The happy isle where Geraldine remains : 
 Of Hunsdon, where those sweet celestial eyne 
 At first did pierce this tender breast of mine : 
 Of Hampton Court and Windsor, where abound 
 All pleasures that in Paradise were found ; 
 Near that fair castle is a little grove. 
 With hanging rocks all covered from abovej 
 Which on the bank of goodly Thames doth stand, 
 Clipt by the water from the other land. 
 
 * * * 
 
 There the soft poplar and smooth beach doth bear 
 Our names together carvM everywhere. 
 And Gordian knots do curiously entwine 
 The names of Henry and Geraldine. 
 O let this grove in happy times to come, 
 Be called the lovers' bless'd Elysium ; 
 Whither my mistress wonted to resort 
 In summer's heat in those sweet shades to sport : 
 A thousand sundry names I have it given, 
 And called it Wonder-hider, Cover-heaven, 
 The roof where Beauty her rich court doth keep. 
 Under whose compass all the stars do sleep. 
 There is one tree which now I call to mind. 
 Doth bear these verses carvfed in the rind : 
 " When Geraldine shall sit in thy fair shade, 
 " Fan her fair tresses with perfum&d air, 
 " Let thy large boughs a canopy be made, , 
 " To keep the sun from gazing on my fair ; 
 
158 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 "And when thy spreading branched arms be sunk, 
 " And thou no sap nor pith shalt more retain, 
 " E'en from the dust of thy unwieldy trunk 
 " I will renew thee, phoenix-like, again, 
 " And from thy dry decayed root will bring 
 " A new-bom stem, another jEson's spring." ' 
 
 I find no cause, nor judge I reason why. 
 My country should give place to Lombardy : 
 As goodly flowers on Thamesis do grow 
 As beautify the banks of wanton Po ; 
 As many nymphs as haunt rich Amu's strand 
 By silver Severn tripping hand in hand : 
 Our shade's as sweet, though not to us so dear, 
 Because the sun hath greater power there. 
 This distant place doth give me greater woe ; 
 Far off, my sighs the farther have to go. 
 Ah, absence ! why shouldst thou seem so long ? 
 Or wherefore shouldst thou offer time such wrong ? 
 Summer's so soon to steal on winter's cold, 
 Or Winter's blasts so soon make summer old ? 
 Love did us both with one self arrow strike. 
 Our wounds both one, our cure should be the like ; 
 Except thou hast found out some mean by art. 
 Some powerful med'cine to withdraw the dart ; 
 But mine is fixt, and absence being proved. 
 It sticks too fast, it cannot be removed. 
 
 NYMPHIDIA. 
 
 Old Chaucer doth of Topas tell. 
 Mad Rablais ^ of Pantagruel, 
 A later third of Dowsabel 
 
 With such poor trifles playing : 
 Others the like have laboured at. 
 Some of this thing and some of that. 
 And many of they know not what, 
 
 But that they must be saying. 
 
 (i) When Jaso returned from the quest of the Golden Fleece accompanied by 
 Medea, and reached lolchos, his father ^so was unahle through infirmity to assist at 
 the celebration of the victories of the Argonauts. At her husband's request Medea 
 removed the weakness of jEso, by drawing away the blood from his veins, and 
 injecting the juice of certain herbs which restored his vigour. 
 
 (2) Francois Rabelais, bom 1483, was a priest, but practised at the comt of 
 Francis I. as a physician. Pantagruel is the son of Gargantua, in Rabelais' Satire on 
 the follies of his time. 
 
MICHAEL DRAYTON. 159 
 
 Another sort there be, that will 
 Be talking of the Fairies still, 
 Nor never can they have their fill, 
 
 As they were wedded to them : 
 No tales of them their thirst can slake, 
 So much delight therein they take. 
 And some strange things they fain would make 
 
 Knew they the way to do them. 
 
 Then since no Muse hath been so bold, 
 Or of the later, or the old. 
 Those elvish secrets to unfold. 
 
 Which lie from others' reading. 
 My active Muse to light shall bring 
 The court of that proud Fairy King, 
 And teU there of the revelling : 
 
 Jove prosper my proceeding. 
 
 * * * 
 This palace standeth in the air, 
 By necromancy placfed there, 
 That it no tempest needs to fear, 
 
 Which way soe'er it blow it : 
 And somewhat southward of the noon, 
 Whence lies a way up to the moon, 
 And thence the Fairy can as soon 
 
 Pass to the earth below it. 
 
 The walls of spiders' legs are made, 
 Well morticfed and finely laid, — 
 He was the master of his trade 
 
 It curiously that builded : 
 The windows of the eyes of cats. 
 And for the roof, instead of flats. 
 Is covered with the skins of bats. 
 
 With moonshine that are guilded. 
 
 * * » 
 But listen, and I shall you teU 
 A chance in fairy that befell. 
 Which certainly may please some well 
 
 In love and arms delighting : 
 Of Oberon, that jealous grew. 
 Of one of his own Fairy crew, 
 Too well (he fear'd) his Queen that knew, 
 
 His love but ill requiting. 
 
i6o MICHAEL DRA YTON. 
 
 Pigwiggen was this Fairy Knight, 
 
 One wondrous graeious in the sight 
 
 Of fair Queen Mab, which day and night 
 
 He amorously observed ; 
 Which made King Oberon suspect 
 His service took too good effect, 
 His sauciness he often checkt, 
 
 And could have wished him starved.' 
 
 Pigwiggen gladly would commend 
 Some token to Queen Mab to send, 
 If sea or land him aught could lend. 
 
 Were worthy of her wearing : 
 At length this lover doth devise 
 A bracelet made of emmets' eyes ; 
 A thing he thought that she would prize. 
 
 No whit her state impairing. 
 
 And to the Queen a letter writes. 
 Which he most curiously indites, 
 Conjiu'ing her by all the rites 
 
 Of love, she would be pleased 
 To meet him, her true servant, where 
 They might without suspect or fear 
 Themselves to one another clear. 
 
 And have their poor hearts eased. 
 
 " At midnight, the appointed hour. 
 And for the Queen a fitting bower, 
 (Quoth he) is that fair cowslip flower, 
 
 On Hip-cut-Hill that groweth : 
 In all your train there's not a Fay, 
 That ever went to gather May, 
 But she hath made it, in her way, 
 
 The tallest there that groweth." 
 
 When by Tom Thum, a Fairy page, 
 He sent it, and doth him engage 
 By promise of a mighty wage. 
 
 It secretly to carry : 
 Which done, the Queen her maids doth call, 
 And bids them to be ready all ; 
 She would go see her summer hall. 
 
 She could no longer tarry. 
 
MICHAEL DRAYTON. i6i 
 
 Her chariot ready straight is made. 
 Each thing therein is fitting laid 
 That she by nothing might be stayed. 
 
 For naught must be her letting: 
 Foiu: nimble gnats the horses were, 
 Their harnesses of gossamere. 
 Fly Cranion her charioteer, 
 
 Upon the coach-box getting. 
 
 Her chariot of a snail's fine shell, 
 Which for the colours did excell ; 
 The ferr Queen Mab becoming well. 
 
 So lively was the limning ; 
 The seat the soft wool of the bee 
 The cover gallantly to see) 
 The wings of a pyed butterflie 
 
 I trow 'twas simply tr immin g. 
 
 * * * 
 
 But let us leave Queen Mab a while. 
 Through many a gate, o'er many a stile. 
 That now had gotten by this wile, 
 
 Her dear Pigwiggen kissing ; 
 And tell how Oberon doth fare, 
 Who grew as mad as any hare, 
 When he had sought each place with care, 
 
 And found his Queen was missing. 
 
 * * » 
 Quoth Puck, " My liege. 111 never Vm, 
 But I will thorough thick and thin. 
 Until at length I bring her in. 
 
 My dearest lord, ne'er doubt it" 
 Thorough brake. Thorough brier, 
 Thorough muck, thorough mier. 
 Thorough water, thorough fier — 
 
 And thus goes Puck about it. 
 
 * ♦ * 
 
 The Queen bound with love's powerliil charm, 
 
 Sate with Pigwiggen arm in arm ; 
 
 Her merry maids that thought no harm, 
 
 About the room were skipping : 
 A humble bee, their minstrel, played 
 Upon his hautbois, every maid 
 Fit for this revel was arrayed. 
 
 The hornpipe neatly tripping. 
 
i62 MICHAEL DRA YTON. 
 
 In comes Nymphidia, and doth cry, 
 " My Sovereign, for your safety fly. 
 For there is danger but too nigh, 
 
 I posted to forewarn you : 
 The King hath sent Hobgobblin out. 
 To seek you all the fields about. 
 And of your safety you may doubt, 
 
 If he but once discern you." 
 
 * * * 
 Forth ran they by a secret way, 
 Into a brake that near them lay ; 
 Yet much they doubted there to stay, 
 
 Lest Hob should hap to find them : 
 He had a sharp and piercing sight, 
 AU one to him the day and night,' 
 And therefore were resolved by flight 
 
 To leave this place behind them. 
 
 At length one chanced to find a nut. 
 In the end of which a hole was cut. 
 Which lay upon a hazel root, 
 
 There scattered by a squirrel, 
 Which out the kernel gotten had : 
 When, quoth this fay, " Dear Queen, be glad, 
 Let Oberon be ije'er so mad, 
 
 I'll let you safe from peril" 
 
 " Come all into this nut" (quoth she)^ 
 " Come closely in, be ruled by me, 
 Each one may here a chuser be. 
 
 For room ye need not wrestle ; 
 Nor need ye be together heapt." 
 So one by one therein they crept, 
 And lying down they soundly slept. 
 
 And safe as in a castle. 
 
 * * * 
 But leave we Hob to clamber out. 
 Queen Mab and all her Fairy rout. 
 And come again to have a bout. 
 
 With Oberon yet madding : 
 And with Pigwiggen now distraught, 
 Who much was troubled in his thought 
 That he so long the Queen had sought 
 
 And through the fields was gadding. 
 
MICHAEL DRA YTON. 163 
 
 And as he runs he still doth cry, 
 " King Oberon, I thee defy, 
 And dare thee here in arms to try 
 
 For my dear lady's honour : 
 For that she is a Queen right good 
 In whose defence 111 shed my blood, 
 And that thou in this jealous mood 
 
 Hast laid this slander on her." 
 
 And quickly arms him for the field, 
 A little cockle-shell his shield. 
 Which he could very bravely wield, 
 
 Yet could it not be pierced : 
 His spear a beirt both stiff and strong, 
 And well near of two inches long : 
 The pile was of a horse-fly's tongue, 
 
 Whose sharpness nought reversed. 
 
 And puts tiim on a coat of mail. 
 
 Which was of a fish's scale, 
 
 That when his foe should him assail 
 
 No point should be prevailing. 
 His rapier was a homef s sting. 
 It was a very dai^erous thing ; 
 For if he chanced to hurt the king. 
 
 It would be long in healing. 
 
 His helmet was a beetle's head, 
 Most horrible and full of dread. 
 That able was to strike one dead. 
 
 Yet it did weU become him ; 
 And for a plume a horse's hair. 
 Which being tossM by the air, 
 Had force to strike his foe with fear. 
 
 And turn his weapon from him. 
 
 Himself he on an earwig set. 
 
 Yet scarce he on his back could get, 
 
 So oft and high he did curvet. 
 
 E'er he himself could settle ; 
 He made him turn, and stop, and bound. 
 To gaUop and to trot the round, 
 He scarce could stand on any ground. 
 
 He was so fuU of mettle. 
 M 2 
 
i64 MICHAEL DRA YTON. 
 
 When soon he met with Tomalin, 
 One that a valiant knight had been, 
 And to great Oberon of kin. 
 
 Quoth he, " Thou manly Fairy, 
 Tell Oberon I come prepared, 
 Then bid him stand upon his guard, 
 This hand his baseness shall reward 
 
 Let him be ne'er so wary. 
 
 " Say to him thus, that I defy 
 His slanders and his infamy, 
 And as a mortal enemy 
 
 Do publicly proclaim him ; 
 Withal, that if I had mine own, 
 He should not wear the Fairy crown. 
 But with a vengeance should come down ; 
 
 Nor we a King should name him." 
 
 * * * 
 Stout Tomalin came with the King, 
 Tom Thum doth on Pigwiggen bring. 
 That perfect were in everything 
 
 To single sights belonging : 
 And therefore they themselves engage, 
 To see them exercise their rage, 
 With fair and comely equipage. 
 
 Not one the other wronging. 
 
 * * * 
 Together furiously they ran 
 
 That to the ground came horse and man ; 
 The blood out of their helmets span. 
 
 So sharp were their encounters ! 
 And though they to the earth were thrown. 
 Yet quickly they regained their own ; 
 Such nimbleness was never shown ; 
 
 They were two gallant mounters. 
 
 When in a second course again 
 
 They forward came with might and main, 
 
 Yet which had better of the twain 
 
 The seconds could not judge yet : 
 Their shields were into pieces cleft. 
 Their helmets from their heads were reft, 
 And to defend them nothing left, 
 
 These champions would not budge yet. 
 
MICHAEL DRAYTON. 165 
 
 Away from them their staves they threw, 
 Their cruel swords they quickly drew, 
 And freshly they the fight renew, 
 
 They every stroke redoubled : 
 Which made Proserpina take heed, 
 And make to them the greater speed. 
 For fear lest they too much should bleed, 
 
 Which wondrously her troubled. 
 
 When to the infernal Styx she goes, 
 She takes the fogs from thence that rose, 
 And in a bag doth them enclose 
 
 When well she had them blended. 
 She hies her then to Lethe spring, 
 A bottle and thereof doth bring. 
 Wherewith she meant to work the thing 
 
 Which only she intended. 
 
 Now Proserpine with Mab is gone 
 Unto the place where Oberon 
 And proud Pigwiggen one to one. 
 
 Both to be slain were likely ; 
 And there themselves they closdy hide 
 Because they would not be esp/d ; 
 For Proserpine meant to decide 
 
 The matter very quickly; 
 
 And suddenly unties the poke, 
 
 Which out of it sent such a smoke. 
 
 As ready was them all to choke, 
 
 So grievous was the pother : 
 
 So that the knights each other lost. 
 
 And stood as stUl as any post, 
 
 Tom Thum nor Tomalin could boast 
 
 Themselves of any other. 
 * * # 
 
 THE CRYER. 
 
 Good folk, for gold or hire, 
 But help me to a cryer. 
 For my poor heart is run astray 
 After two eyes that passed this way. 
 O yes, O yes, O yes • 
 
i66 MICHAEL DRA YTON. 
 
 If there be any man 
 
 In town or country, can 
 
 Bring me my heart again, 
 
 111 please him for his pain ; 
 
 And by these marks I wUl you show, 
 
 That only I this heart do owe. 
 
 It is a wounded heart, 
 
 Wherein yet sticks the dart, 
 
 Ev'ry pierce sore hurt throughout it, 
 
 Faith and troth, writ round about it. 
 
 It was a tame heart, and a dear, 
 
 And never used to roam ! 
 But having got this haunt, I fear 
 
 'TwiU hardly stay at home. 
 For God's sake, walking by the way 
 
 If you my heart do see. 
 Either impound it for a stray, 
 
 Or send it back to me ! 
 
 BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. 
 
 Fair stood the wind for France, 
 When we our sails advance, 
 Nor now to prove our chance 
 
 Longer will tarry ; 
 But putting to the main 
 At Kaux the mouth of Seine, 
 With all his martial train. 
 
 Landed King Harry. 
 
 And taking many a fort 
 Furnished in warlike sort. 
 Marched towards Agincourt 
 
 In happy hour ; 
 Skirmishing day by day 
 With those that stopp'd his way, 
 Where the French general lay 
 
 With all his power. 
 
 Which in his height of pride. 
 King Henry to 'deride. 
 His ransom to provide, 
 To the king sending ; 
 
MICHAEL DRA YTON. 167 
 
 Which he neglects the while, 
 As from a nation vile, 
 Yet with an angry smile 
 Their fall portending. 
 
 And turning to his men 
 Quoth our brave Henry then, 
 Though they to one be ten, 
 
 Be not amazed. 
 Yet have we well begun. 
 Battles so bravely won 
 Have ever to the sun 
 
 By fame been raised. 
 
 And for myself, quoth he. 
 This my full rest shall be, 
 England ne'er mourn for me, 
 
 Nor more esteem me. 
 Victor I will remain 
 Or on this earth he slain. 
 Never shall she sustain 
 
 Loss to redeem me. 
 
 Poictiers and Cressy tell. 
 When most their pride did swell, 
 Under our swords they fell ; 
 
 No less our skill is. 
 Than when our grandsire great; 
 Claiming the regal feast. 
 By many a warlike feat. 
 
 Lopped the French lilies. 
 
 The Duke of York so dread. 
 The eager vanward led. 
 With the main Henry sped. 
 
 Amongst his henchmen. 
 Excester had the rear, 
 A braver man not there, 
 O Lord, how hot they were 
 
 On the false Frenchmen ! 
 
 They now to fight are gone. 
 Armour on armour shone, 
 Drum now to drum did groan, 
 To hear was wonder, 
 
i68 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 That with cries they make, 
 The very earth did shake, 
 Trumpet to trumpet spake, 
 Thunder to thunder. 
 
 Well it thine age became, 
 O noble Erpingham, 
 Which did the signal aim 
 
 To our hid forces ; 
 When from a meadow by, 
 Like a storm suddenly, 
 The English archery 
 
 Stuck the French horses. 
 
 With Spanish yew so strong. 
 Arrows a cloth-yard long. 
 That like to serpents stung, 
 
 Piercing the weather ; 
 None from his fellow starts, 
 But playing manly parts. 
 And like true English hearts 
 
 Stuck close together. 
 
 When down their bows they threw. 
 And forth their bilbows drew, 
 And on the French they flew, 
 
 Not one was tardy ; 
 Arms were from shoulders sent, 
 Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
 Down the French peasants went, 
 
 Our men were hardy. 
 
 This while our noble King, 
 His broadsword brandishing, 
 Down the French host did ding, 
 
 As to o'erwhelm it ; 
 And many a deep wound lent. 
 His arms with blood besprent. 
 And many a cruel dent, 
 
 Bruisfed his helmet. 
 
 Glo'ster, that duke so good. 
 Next of the royal blood. 
 For famous England stood. 
 With his brave brother. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 169 
 
 Clarence in steel so bright, 
 Though but a maiden knight, 
 Yet in that furious fight 
 Scarce such another. 
 
 Warwick in blood did wade, 
 Oxford the foe invade, 
 And cruel slaughter made, 
 
 Still as they ran up, 
 Suffolk his axe did ply, 
 Beaimiont and WiDoughby 
 Bare them right doughtily, 
 
 Ferrers and Fanhope. 
 
 Upon Saint Crispin's day. 
 Fought was this noble fray, 
 Which fame did not delay, 
 
 To England to carry. 
 O when shall Englishmen 
 With such acts fill a pen, 
 Or England breed again 
 
 Such a King Harry? 
 
 -«»«; 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 
 
 Born 1564. Diea 1616. 
 
 The greatest genius that the world has ever known was cradled at 
 Stratford-upon-Avon ; and all that was mortal of him whose name is 
 immortal now lies bmied before the altar of that fitting resting-place 
 for so great a man, the noble church of Stratford-upon-Avon ! As we 
 approach nearer to modem times, and as we speak of the men whose 
 names are household words, it will not be necessary to give more than a 
 brief outline of those lives with which it is commonly supposed that 
 they who have enjoyed a tolerable education will be familiar. 
 
 This should be specially the case with Shakespere, and therefore this 
 biography is brief, for the same reason that the quotations which follow 
 it are few, and do not contain a single passage from any of his plays ! 
 It is assumed that the student or class-boy who uses this manual, will 
 
no WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 
 
 take it in hand to study the language and style of those poets wh 
 not familiar to him, and whose works he could not easily pos 
 whereas the plays of Shakespere should be in possession of, and be 
 read by, every such youth, who, owning and prizing the complete w 
 will not care to look here for " gems " and scraps of quotations. 
 
 The Baptismal Register of Stratford contains the following e 
 "April, 26, 1564. Guliehnus, filius Johannes Shakespere." The 1 
 in which the poet was bom stands in a restored condition, in Hi 
 Street ; and the conjectured room of his birth is scribbled over — v 
 ceiling, windows, with thousands of names. Among others on 01 
 the panes of glass is Sir Walter Scott's autograph. 
 
 John Shakespere, the poet's father, was engaged in various occupa 
 in Stratford, though it is difficult, or perhaps impossible now, to 
 precisely what was his calling. He fell into difficulties, and to re 
 his father it seems highly probable that Shakespere first wen 
 London, in order by his exertions to better his parent's means. Al 
 education that Shakespere enjoyed was received at the Grammar Sc 
 of his native place. It seems to have been in the main rudimeni 
 and never scholarly. He knew, as Ben Jonson said, " little Latin, 
 less Greek : " but he was one of those who in after-life was self-educa 
 and must have been a student, in the truest sense of that word, to 
 time of his death. Very early in life, when he was but eighteen 
 married Anne Hathaway, the daughter of a respectable yeoman li 
 in the village of Shottery, a short distance from Stratford, where 
 paternal residence, "Aime Hathawa/s Cottage," still stands, 
 marriage-bond, or licence, still exists, and is preserved in the Dioa 
 Registry, at Worcester. It is dated Nov. 28, 1582 (2Sth Elizabeth) 
 There is a story told which belongs entirely to the tattle of idle goss 
 and for the truth of which there is not a particle of evidence exist 
 that Shakespere stole deer from the park of Sir Thomas Lucj 
 Charlecotte, on account of which he was prosecuted by that 1 
 famous justice, and fled from Stratford to London. That he wen 
 London shortly after his marriage is certain, and the probable motive 
 so doing has already been stated. 
 
 From 1580 to 1585, Shakespere and his "boys" are represented 
 holding horses, during the performances, at the play-house doors, for 
 gallants who had come to see the play. Whether he did so or not 
 matter that will never affisct the poet's fame : but the story is singul; 
 improbable, from the fact that the play-house in question was closf 
 the banks of the Thames : and that in Queen Elizabeth's time it 
 usual to reach the great residences and places of attraction along 
 Strand, or on the opposite shore by means of barges, and wherries, 
 not on Iwrseback. In 1593 Shakespere printed " Venus and Adon 
 which was dedicated to Lord SouthamptoiL The following year he ] 
 duced the Rape of Lucrece. As early as 1589 (when he was 25) he 
 so far advanced by his own exertions as to have become joint-proprii 
 in Blackfriars Theatre. The first play of Shakespere's which 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE 171 
 
 printed was " The First Part of the Contention (Henry 6th, Part 2). 
 It did not appear until 1594. There is little doubt that he had been a 
 dramatic author since 1591-2. 
 
 How rapidly his fame increased and spread may be judged by the 
 fact that, in 1598, Francis Meres, a Master of Arts of Cambridge, in his 
 book called " PaUadis Tamia — Wit's Treasury," which was "a noted 
 school book," observes, " So the English tongue is mightily enriched, 
 and gorgeously invested in rare ornaments, and resplendent habiliments, 
 by Sir PhiBp Sydney, Spenser, Daniel, Drayton, Warner, Skakespete, 
 Marlow, and Chapman." Shakespere was then 34 years of age, and 
 had produced aU his historical plays except Henry 5ih and Henry 8th. 
 By 1597 the poet had so far prospered as to be enabled to purchase 
 New Place, the house built by Sir Hugh Clopton in Stratford, (temp. 
 Henry 7,) and the most important house in the town. His residence 
 in Loudon was in Southwark, near the Bear Garden. He was in 
 1596 a principal shareholder in Blackfriars Theatre, and also in the 
 Globe Theatre. 
 
 In 1 601 his father died. In 1602 the prosperous poet was enabled 
 to make considerable purchases of land (107 acres) from John and 
 William Combe, of Stratford. In 1603 King James ascended the 
 throne : and although for =" time we find Shakespere coimected with 
 the London theatres, and occasionally visiting London, it is clear that 
 from 1604 to his death he made Stratford his chief and regular place of 
 residence. During those years, in his retreat, and enjoying his " curious 
 Knotted Garden," he composed Macbeth, Cymbeline, the Winter's Tale, 
 the Tempest ; and in the later portion of his life, Henry 8th, Coriolanus, 
 Julius Caesar, Anthony and Cleopatra. 
 
 It is remarkable, that towards the end of his life his mind and 
 reading should have been so much turned to classical subjects, and 
 that he should have studied, and reproduced, historical events with 
 such particidar accuracy. 
 
 In 1596 he lost his only son. Of his daughters, Susanna, the eldest, 
 married Dr. Hall, of Stratford, in 1609; February loth, l6l6, the 
 other, Judith, was married to Thomas Quiney. This is the last event 
 we are acquainted with connected with the poet's life. Two months 
 later, April 23rd, Shakespere died of fever, and was buried in Stratford 
 Church, April 25th, 1616, aged 52. 
 
 Any criticism of his writings is unnecessary. But it may not be 
 useless to warn the young reader against receiving, or believing, any of 
 the vulgar and gossiping stories which have been commonly introduced 
 into the 'biographies of this greatest of all great men. It is deeply to be 
 deplored that our knowledge of the facts of Shakespere's life is so 
 slender. Writers seem to have delighted in handing down from generation 
 to generation a parcel of dishonouring fictions, whereby they have 
 padded their pages, in lieu of facts. The day has happily arrived when 
 they who really love the poet feel confident they may also love the man ,: 
 and they are impatient of the fabrications which would be ludicrous, if 
 
172 WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 
 
 they were not wicked and offensive, whereby even the greatness of 
 Shakespere is not sufficiently sacred to preserve it from the taint of 
 those artists of malice who, if they had to paint the Sun himself, would 
 paint him with charcoal 
 
 FROM "TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Who is Silvia ? what is she, 
 That all our swains commend her ? 
 
 Holy, fair, and wise as free, 
 The heaven such grace did lend her. 
 
 That she might admired be. 
 
 Is she kind, as she is fair .'' 
 For beauty lives with kindness : 
 
 Love doth to her eyes repair. 
 To help him of his blindness : 
 
 And, being helped, inhabits there. 
 
 Then to Silvia let us sing, 
 
 That Silvia is excelling ; 
 She excels each mortal thing, 
 
 Upon the dull earth dwelling : 
 To her let us garlands bring. 
 
 FROM "LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST." 
 
 III. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 When icicles hang by the wall, 
 
 And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 
 And Tom bears logs into the hall, 
 
 And milk comes frozen home in pail, 
 When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, 
 Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
 
 To-who ; 
 Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note. 
 While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE 173 
 
 IV. 
 
 When all aloud the wind doth blow, 
 And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
 
 And birds sit brooding in the snow, 
 And Marion's nose looks red and raw, 
 
 When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 
 
 Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
 To-who ; 
 
 To-whit, to-who, a merry note, 
 
 While greasy Joan doth keel the pot 
 
 FROM "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE." 
 
 Whilst BASSANib comtnents on the caskets. 
 SONG. 
 
 1. Tell me where is fancy bred. 
 Or in the heart, or in the head ? 
 How begot, how nourished ? 
 
 Reply, reply. 
 
 2. It is engender'd in the eyes, 
 
 With the gazing fed : and fancy dies 
 In the cradle where it lies. 
 
 Let us all ring fancy's knell ; 
 I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, beU. 
 All. Ding, dong, fcell. 
 
 FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT." 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 
174 WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 
 
 Thy tooth is not so keen, 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 Although thy breath be rude. 
 Heigh, ho ! sing, heigh, ho ! unto the green holly : 
 Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 
 Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 
 This life is most jolly. 
 
 II. 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
 Thou dost not bite so liigh 
 
 As benefits forgot : 
 Though thou the waters warp. 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 
 As friend remembered not. 
 Heigh, ho ! sing, heigh, ho ! &c. 
 
 FROM "CYMBELINE." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Hark ! haik ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
 
 And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 
 On chalic'd flowers that lies ! 
 And winking Mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes ; 
 With everything that pretty is — 
 
 My lady sweet, arise : 
 Arise, arise. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Guiderius. Fear no more the heat o' the sun. 
 Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done. 
 
 Home art gone and ta'en thy wages ; 
 Golden lads and lasses must, 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 175 
 
 Arvtragus. Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
 Care no more to clothe, and eat ; 
 
 To thee the reed is as the oak : 
 The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
 AH follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 Gui. Fear no more the lightning flash : 
 Arv. Nor the aU-dreaded thunder-stone ; 
 Gui. Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
 Arv. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan : 
 Both. AU lovers young, all lovers must 
 Consign to thee, and come to dust. 
 
 Gui. No exorciser harm thee ! 
 Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 
 Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
 Arv. Nothing ill cMne near thee ! 
 Both. Quiet consummation have ; 
 And renowned be thy grave ! 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 When I do cotmt the clock that tells the time, 
 And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ; 
 When I behold the violet passM prime. 
 And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white ; 
 When lofty trees I see barren of leaves. 
 Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, 
 And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, 
 Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ; 
 Then of thy beauty do I question make, 
 That thou among the wastes of time must go. 
 Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, 
 And die as fast as they see others grow ; 
 
 And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence 
 Save breed to brave him when he takes thee hence. 
 
176 WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 
 
 Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, 
 And make the earth devour her own sweet brood ; 
 Huck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, 
 And burn the long-Uved phcEnix in her blood ; 
 Make glad and sorry seasons, as thou fleet'st. 
 And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, 
 To the wide world, and all her fading sweets ; 
 But I forbid thee one most heinous crime : 
 
 carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, 
 Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen ; 
 Him in thy course untainted do allow. 
 
 For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. 
 Yet, do thy worst, old Time : despite thy wrong. 
 My love shall ever in my verse live young. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
 
 1 summon up remembrance of things past, 
 I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 
 
 And with old woes new wail my dear times' waste : 
 Then I can drown an eye, unus'd to flow, 
 For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, 
 And weep afresh love's long-since cancell'd woe. 
 And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight. 
 Then I can grieve at grievances foregone, 
 And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
 The sad account of fore-bemoanfed moan. 
 Which I new pay as if not paid before. 
 
 But if the while I think on thee, dear friend. 
 All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore. 
 
 So do our minutes hasten to their end : 
 
 Each changing place with that which goes before. 
 
 In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 
 
 Nativity, once in the main of light. 
 
 Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd. 
 
 Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, 
 
 And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 177 
 
 Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, 
 
 And delves the parallels in beauty's brow ; 
 
 Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, 
 
 And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. 
 And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, 
 Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 No longer mourn for me when I am dead 
 Than you shall hear the surly sullen beU 
 Give warning to the world that I am fled 
 From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell : 
 Nay, if you read this line, remember not 
 The hand that writ it ; for I Ibve you so, 
 That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, 
 If thinking on me then should make you woe. 
 O, if (I say) you look upon this verse 
 When I perhaps compounded am with clay. 
 Do not so much as my poor nanie rehearse : 
 But let your love even with my life decay ; 
 
 Lest the wise world should look into your moan, 
 
 And mock you with me after I am gone. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Some glory in their birth, some in their skill. 
 Some in their wealth, some in their body's force. 
 Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill. 
 Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse ; 
 And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, 
 Wherein it finds a joy above the rest : 
 But these particulars are not my measure ; 
 All these I better in one general best. 
 Thy love is better than high birth to me. 
 Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, 
 Of more delight than hawks and horses be ; 
 And, having thee, of all men's pride I boast : 
 Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take 
 All this away, and me most wretched make. 
 
178 WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 
 
 FROM "THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. 
 
 Crabbed age and youth 
 
 Cannot live together : 
 Youth is full of pleasance, 
 
 Age is full of care ; 
 Youth like summer morn, 
 
 Age like winter weather ; 
 Youth like summer brave, 
 
 Age like winter bare. 
 Youth is full of sport, 
 Age's breath is short ; 
 
 Youth is nimble, age is lame ; 
 Youth is hot and bold, 
 Age is weak and cold ; 
 
 Youth is wild, and age is tame. 
 Age, I do abhor thee ; 
 Youth, I do adore thee ; 
 
 O, my love, my love is young ! 
 Age, I do defy thee : 
 O sweet shepherd, hie thee, 
 
 For methinks thou stay'st too long. 
 
 Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good ; 
 
 A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly ; 
 
 A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud ; 
 
 A brittle glass that 's broken presently : 
 A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower. 
 Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour. 
 
 And as goods lost are seld^ or never found. 
 As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh. 
 As flowers dead lie wither'd on the ground, 
 As broken glass no cement can redress. 
 So beauty, blemish'd once, for ever 's lost. 
 In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost. 
 
 (i) iVii— seldom. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 179 
 
 My flocks feed not. 
 My ewes breed not, 
 My rams speed not, 
 
 All is amiss : 
 Love's denying. 
 Faith's defying, 
 Heart's renying,^ 
 Causer of this. 
 All my merry jigs are quite forgot. 
 All my lady's love is lost,- God wot : 
 Where her feith was firmly fix'd in love. 
 There a nay is placed without remove. 
 One siHy cross 
 Wrought all my loss ; 
 O frowning fortune, cursed, fickle dame I 
 For now 1 see 
 Inconstancy 
 More in women than in men remain. 
 
 In black mourn I, 
 AD fears scorn I, 
 Love hath forlorn me, 
 
 Living in thraU : 
 Heart is bleeding. 
 All help needing, 
 O cruel speeding ! 
 Fraughted with galL 
 My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal ; * 
 My wether's bell rings doleful knell ; 
 My curtail dog, that wont to have played. 
 Plays not at all, but seems afraid ; 
 My sighs so deep 
 Procure to weep,^ 
 Tn howling-wise, to see my dolefiil plight. 
 How sighs resound 
 Through heartless ground. 
 Like a thousand vanquished men in a bloody fight I 
 
 (i) ^oi^S!^— launmcing (rema'^. (2' Oeal—m no degree 
 
 (3) Proci*re to •aeep—m&axx him, the dog, to weep. 
 
 N 2 
 
,8o SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 Clear wells spring not, 
 Sweet birds sing not, 
 Green plants bring not 
 
 Forth their dye ; 
 Herds stand weeping, 
 Flocks all sleeping, 
 Nymphs back peeping 
 Fearfully. 
 All our pleasure known to us poor swains, 
 All our merry meetings on the plains, 
 All our evening sport from us is fled, 
 All our love is lost, for Love is dead. 
 Farewell, sweet lass ; 
 Thy like ne'er was 
 For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan 
 Poor Coridon 
 Must live alone ; 
 Other help for him I see that there is none. 
 
 -Bi^S- 
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 Born 1568. Died 1639. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton was bom at Bocton Hall, or Boughton 
 in tlie parish of Boughton-Malherbe, Kent, April 3, 1568. Al 
 place his ancestors had been seated for several generations. His < 
 brother by his father's first marriage was raised to the peeraj 
 James I. as Baron Wotton. Sir Henry was educated at Wincl 
 and from thence proceeded as a Gentleman Commoner to New Cc 
 Oxford. While an Undergraduate he wrote a tragedy e: 
 "Tancredo," which Walton says was greatly admired. At C 
 he formed a close intimacy with the Italian, Albericus Ge 
 Professor of Civil Law. Hereby he became thoroughly familial 
 the Italian language. In 1589 his father died. Wotton remaii 
 Ojcford for zibout two years after this event. He then started up 
 travels. At Geneva he became acquainted with Beza and Casa 
 and in France, a,t Rome, Florence, and Venice, he cultivati 
 friendship of the moat famous men of that time. After an absf 
 some years he returned to England. " Indeed he was of a choice 
 
S/H HENRY WOTTON. t8i 
 
 tall of stature, and of a most persuasive behaviour.'' He became 
 Secretary to the Earl of Essex ; but upon the fall of that nobleman 
 he "did very qvdckly and as privately glide through Kent to Dover," 
 and crossed to France. He feared being involved in the ruin of Essex. 
 From France he proceeded to Rome, and thence to Florence; when 
 the reigning Grand Duke, having intercepted certain letters revealing a 
 plot against the life of James, King of Scotland (James I. of England), 
 Wotton was employed by the Grand Duke to travel to Scotland and 
 apprise James of his ds^^er. Wotton passed as an Italian, travelling 
 imder the name of Octavio Baldi. By way of Norway he crossed to 
 Scotland, and successfully accomplished his mission. This proved the 
 foundation of his subsequent good fortune. 
 
 Shortly after his return to Florence, Queen Elizabeth died. Wotton 
 immediately proceeded to England, and in 1604 was sent by James I. 
 as ambassador to Venice. At Augsburg he wrote his celebrated defi- 
 nition of an ambassador : " Legatus est vir bonus peregre missus ad 
 mentiendum reipublicae causa," — "An ambassador is an honest man 
 sent abroad to lie for the good of his country." 
 
 On his return from this missioii, having remained a few years without 
 employment, he was sent on a mission in 1615 to the United Provinces, 
 and in 1616 was once more appointed to the embassy at Venice. 
 
 In 1619 he went on a mission to the Grand Duke of Savoy ; and was 
 similarly employed, until the year before King James's death, in various 
 parts of Germany. In 1623 Thomas Murray, the Provost of Eton, 
 died. The vacant post was given to Wotton shortly before the king's 
 death ; but he was not instituted until some months afterwards, July 26, 
 1625. Conceiving that his office required it, he entered holy orders, 
 and continued Provost until his death, in December, 1639. As his 
 early life had been entirely given up to politics and diplomacy, so his 
 later years were devoted to study and to devotion. 
 
 His principal writings, together with a Life, " Reliquias Wottoniause, '' 
 were published by Isaac Walton in 1651, His literary reputation now 
 chiefly depends upon his poetry, of which the first specimen appended is 
 one of the most popular. During Ms lifetime the pointed wit and the 
 sayings of Wotton were very popular. One of the most famous was 
 that which he directed to be engraved on his tomb : " Disputandi pruritus 
 ecclesiarum scabies," — "The itch of disputation is the scab of the 
 churches. " 
 
 THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 How happy is he bom and taught. 
 That serveth not another's will ; 
 Whose armour is his honest thought, 
 And simple truth his utmost skill ! 
 
1 82 sm HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 Whose passions not his masters are ; 
 Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
 Untied unto the world by care 
 Of public fame or private hreath ! 
 
 Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
 Or vice ; who never understood 
 How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
 Nor rules of state, <but rules of good ! 
 
 Who hath his life from rumours freed ; 
 Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
 Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
 Nor ruin make oppressors great'! 
 
 Who God doth late and early pray 
 More of 'His grace than gifts to lend. 
 And entertains the fharmless day 
 With a religious book or friend! 
 
 This man is freed from servile bainds 
 Of hope to rise T)r fear to fall : 
 Lord oif himsdf, though not of lands ; 
 And having nothing, yet hath all. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Farewell, ye gilded follies ; pleasing troubles ! 
 Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye .glorious bubbles ! 
 Fame's but a hollow edho ;; gold ipure clay ; 
 Honour the darling but ;of one short day ,; 
 Beauty, th' eye''s idol, but a damasked skin ; 
 State but a golden prison to live in, 
 And torture free-born minds ; embroider'd trains 
 Merely but pageants for proud, swelling veins ; 
 And blood, allied to greatness, is alone 
 Inherited, not purchased, nor our own : 
 Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth, 
 Are but the fading 'blossoms of the earth. 
 
 I would be great, but that the sun doth still 
 Level his rays against the rising hill ^ 
 
SIR HENRY WOTTON. 183 
 
 I would be high, but see the proudest oak 
 
 Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke ; 
 
 I would be rich, but see men, too unkind, 
 
 Dig in the bowels of the richest mine; 
 
 I would be wise, but that I often see 
 
 The fox suspected while the ass goes free ; 
 
 I would be fair, but see the fair and proud, 
 
 Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud ; 
 
 I would be poor, but know the humble grass 
 
 Still trampled on by each unworthy ass ; 
 
 Rich, hated ; wise, suspected ; scorned if poor ; 
 
 Great, feared ; fair, tempted ; high, stiU envied more. 
 
 I have wished all, but now I wish for neither 
 
 Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair — poor I'll be rather. 
 
 Would the world now adopt me for her heir ; 
 
 Would beauty's queen entitle me " the fair ; " 
 
 Fame speak me Fortune's minion ; could I vie 
 
 Angels* with India ; with a speaking eye 
 
 Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike justice dumb 
 
 As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue 
 
 To stones by epitaphs ; be called great master 
 
 In the loose rhymes of every poetaster ; 
 
 Could I be more than any man that lives, 
 
 Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives : 
 
 Yet I more freely would these gifts resign 
 
 Than ever fortune would have made them mine, 
 
 And hold one minute of this holy leisure 
 
 Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure. 
 
 Welcome, pure thoughts ! welcome, ye silent groves ! 
 These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves. 
 Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing 
 My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring ; 
 A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass, 
 In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face : 
 Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares ; 
 No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears. 
 Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly. 
 And learn to affect a holy melancholy ; 
 And if Contentment be a stranger then, 
 I'll ne'er look for it but in heaven again. 
 
 (i) Angels. — The goldcoin, value loj., called the "angel" was so named because 
 the figure of an angel was the device upon the die of that particular piece of money. 
 
1 84 Sm HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 THIS HYMN 
 
 WAS MADE BY SIR H. WOTTON WHEN HE WAS AN AMBASSADOR AT 
 VENICE, IN THE TIME OF A GREAT SICKNESS THERE. 
 
 Etemall Mover ! whose diffused glory, 
 To show our grovelling reason what Thou art, 
 
 Unfolds itself in clouds of nature's story, 
 Where man, Thy proudest creature, acts his part ; 
 
 Whom yet, alas ! I know not why, we call 
 
 The world's contracted sum, the little all. 
 
 For what are we but lumps of walking clay ? 
 
 Why should we swel .'' whence should our spirits rise ? 
 Are not bruit beasts as strong, and birds as gay, 
 
 Trees longer lived, and creeping things as wise ? 
 Only our soul was left, an inward light, 
 To feel our weakness, and confess Thy might. 
 
 Thou, then, our strength, Father of life and death, 
 To whom our thanks, our vows, ourselves we ow. 
 
 From me. Thy tenant of this fading breath. 
 Accept those lines which from Thy goodness flow ; 
 
 And Thou that wert Thy regal prophet's muse, 
 
 Do not Thy praise in weaker strains refuse. 
 
 Let these poor notes ascend unto Thy throne, 
 Where majesty doth sit with mercy crowned ; 
 
 Where my Redeemer lives, in whom alone 
 The errours of my wand'ring life are drowned ; 
 
 Where all the quire of heaven resound the same. 
 
 That only Thine — Thine, is the saving name. 
 
 Well, then, my soul, joy in the midst of pain ; 
 
 Thy Christ, that conquered hell, shall from above 
 With greater triumph yet return again, 
 
 And conquer His own justice with His love, 
 Commanding earth and seas to render those 
 Unto His blisse for whom He paid His woes. 
 
 Now have I done, now are my thoughts at peace, 
 And now my joyes are stronger then my griefe ; 
 
 I feel those comforts that shall never cease, 
 Future in hope, but present in beliefe : 
 
 Thy words are true. Thy promises are just, 
 
 And Thou wilt find Thy dearly-bought in duts 
 
SIR HENRY WOTTON. 185 
 
 ON HIS MISTRIS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.1 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night. 
 That poorly satisiie our eies 
 
 More by your number then your light, 
 You common people of the skies, 
 What are you when the moon shall rise ? 
 
 You curious chanters of the wood, 
 
 That warble forth dame Nature's layes, 
 
 Thinking your passions understood 
 By your weake accents, what's your praise 
 When Philomell her voyce shal raise ? 
 
 You violets that first appeare, 
 By your pure purpel mantels knowne. 
 
 Like the proud virgins of the yeare, 
 As if the spring were all your own, 
 What are you when the rose is blowne ? 
 
 So when my mistris shal be scene 
 In form and beauty of her mind. 
 
 By vertue first, then choyce, a queen, 
 Tell me, if she were not design'd 
 Th' eclypse and glory of her kind ? 
 
 TEARS AT THE GRAVE OF SIR ALBERTUS MORTON 
 
 {fliho was buried at Southampton) 
 
 WEPT BY SIR H. WOTTON. 2 
 
 Silence, in truth, would speak my sorrow best, 
 For deepest wounds can least their feelings tel ; 
 
 Yet let me borrow from mine own unrest 
 But time to bid him whom I loved farewel. 
 
 (x) "On that amiable princess, Elizabeth, daughter of James I. and wife of the 
 Elector Palatine, who was chosen King of Bohemia Sept. s, i6ig. The consequences 
 of this fatal election are well known. Sir Henry Wotton, who in that and the following 
 year was employed in several embassies in Germany on behalf of this unfortunate lady, 
 seems to have had an uncommon attachment to her merit and fortunes ; for he gave 
 away a jewel worth a thousand pounds, that was presented to him by die Emperoi;, 
 * because it came from an enemy to his royal mistress the Queen of Bohemia" ("for 
 so," says Walton in Tke Life of Wotton^ " she was pleased he should always call 
 her"). 
 
 (2J Sir Albertus Morton was nephew to Wotton, and had acted as his Secretary at 
 
1 86 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 O my unhappy lines ! you that before 
 Have served my youth to vent some wanton cries, 
 
 And now, congealed with grief, can scarce implore 
 Strength to accent Here my Albertus lies ! 
 
 This is the sable stone, this is the cave 
 And womb of earth that doth his corps imbrace : 
 
 While others sing his praise, let me engrave 
 These bleeding numbers to adorn the place. 
 
 Here will I paint the characters of woe, 
 Here will I pay my tribute to the dead. 
 
 And here my faithfuU tears in showrs shal flow 
 To humanize the flints whereon I tread. 
 
 Where, though I mourn my matchlesse losse alone, 
 And none between my weaknesse judge and me, 
 
 Yet e'en these gentle walles allow my mone. 
 Whose doleful echoes to my plaints agree. 
 
 But is he gon ? and live I rhyming here. 
 As if some Muse would listen to my lay. 
 
 When all, distuned, sit wailing for their dear, 
 And bathe the banks where he was wont to play? 
 
 Dwell thou in endlesse light, dischargM soul, 
 Freed now from Nature's and from Fortune's trust i 
 
 While on this fluent globe my glasse shall role. 
 And run the rest of my remaining dust. 
 
 UPON THE DEATH OF SIR ALBERTUS 
 MORTON'S WIFE. 
 
 He first deceased ; she for a little tried 
 To live without him, liked it not, and died. 
 
 Venice, He was knighted in 1617. At the time of his decea.se he was one of the 
 Secretaries of State. In a letter to Nicholas Pey Sir Henry notices "Sir Albertus 
 Morton his departure out of this world, who was dearer unto me then mine awne 
 being in it' According to Wood, the death of Sir Albertus took place Nov. 1625. 
 
Sm HENRY WOTTON. 187 
 
 A HYMNi TO MY GOD IN A NIGHT OF MY LATE 
 SICKNESS. 
 
 Oh Thou great Power, in wJiom I move, 
 
 For whom I live, to whom I die ! 
 Behold me through Thy beams of love 
 
 Whitest on this couch of tears I lye. 
 And cleanse my sordid soul within 
 By Thy Christ's bloud, the bath of sin. 
 
 No hallowed oyls, mo grains I need, 
 
 No rags of saints, no purging fire ; 
 One rosie drop from David's seed 
 
 Was worlds of seas to quench Thine ire. 
 O pretious ransome ! "which, once paid, 
 That "iConsummatum esf' was said; 
 
 And said by Him that said no more. 
 But seaFd it with His sacred breath. 
 
 Thou, then, that hast dispung'd my score. 
 And dying wast the Death of death. 
 
 Be to me now — on Thee I -call ! — 
 
 My [life, my .strength, any j oy, my all ! 
 
 (i) This was sent to Isaac Walton wrth the following letter : " My worfliy &iend, — 
 .Since 1 'last saw you, I have 'been confin'd to my chan^ber by a quotidian feaver, — I 
 thank .Godj of more contumacie then maligmtie. It had once left me, .as 1 thought ; 
 but it was only to fetch more company, returning' with a surcrew of those splenetick 
 vapors 'that are called hy pocandriacajl : df Which, <most fiay , the cure is good -company ; 
 and I desire no .better ^hysioian .then yourself. -I haire in oneof those hts endeavourd 
 to make it more easie oy composing a short liymn ; and since I have apparelled my 
 ^estt-hougbts so 'Hghtly as in verse, 1 hope I shall be panioo^d a second -vanities if .1 
 communicate it wim such a JHend.as yourself: to whom I wish a. chearfull spirit, and 
 a thankfuU heart to value it as one of the greatest blessings df our good God ; in 
 'wiiose-dearlove Heave you, remaining your poor friraid to ■serwe you, H. Wotton." 
 This illness aftpearsjto ba've been .that which terminated in his death, Bee. 1639. 
 
 -fc^ 
 
DR. JOHN DONNE. 
 
 Born 1573. Died 1631. 
 
 Donne was born in Loudon in 1573. He was well connected, and 
 his mother was a relative of Sir Thomas More. 
 
 As a child he was a prodigy of learning. When eleven years of age 
 he proceeded to Hart Hall, Oxford (afterwards Hertford College, now 
 Magdalen Hall). From thence he removed to Cambridge ; but as he 
 belonged to a Roman Catholic family, and objected to the University 
 oaths, he could take no degree. When seventeen he entered at 
 Lincoln's Inn ; and while a student embraced the Protestant faith. 
 Having accompanied the Earl of Essex, in 1596, in the expedition to 
 Cadiz, he travelled in Spain and Italy ; and on returning to England 
 was received into his house by the Lord Chancellor Ellesmere, to whom 
 he acted as Secretary. There he formed an attachment for a niece of 
 Lady EUesmere's, Anne, daughter of Sir George Moore, of Loxley 
 Farm, Surrey. They were privately married. Lord Ellesnrere dismissed 
 Donne from his service, and Sir George in his indignation succeeded 
 in getting him committed to prison. Being shortly released, rejected 
 by the Chancellor and by the lady's father, Donne and his young wife 
 were indebted for subsistence to Sir Francis Wooley, of Pitford, Surrey 
 (son of Lady Ellesmere by her first marriage). With him he resided 
 for some years, at Pitford, and although pressed by Dr. Morton (after- 
 wards Bishop of Durham) to enter holy orders, Donne stedfastly 
 refused, considering that the errors of his early life might cast dishonour 
 on the sacred office. This occurred when he was thirty-four years of 
 age. On the death of Sir Francis Wooley Donne found an asylum 
 in the home of Sir Robert Drury, of Drury House (which stood at 
 the bottom of what is now known as Drury Lane). He accompanied 
 Sir Robert on an embassy to Paris, much against the wishes of his 
 devoted wife, who conceived the fancy of following him under the 
 disguise of a page. When at Paris, Donne had a singular vision, 
 which is always reproduced among stories of the marvellous or 
 supernatural. He saw (as Isaac Walton narrates) the apparition 
 of his wife enter his room bearing a dead child, and shortly after 
 he heard that his wife had been delivered of a still-bom child at 
 that very moment. On his return to England he was fortunate 
 enough to be introduced to King James, and delighted the king 
 by reading before him a polemical treatise he had composed, 
 entitled "Pseudo- Martyr." It was at James's solicitation that Donne 
 was at last induced to take orders. He was ordained by his friend 
 Dr. King, Bishop of London, and made one of the king's chaplains in 
 
DR. JOHN DONNE. 185 
 
 ordinary. In 1617 he had to encounter the lasting sorrow of his life, 
 in the death of his wife. The University of Cambridge conferred upor 
 him the degree of D.D. He was successively Lecturer of Lincoln's Inn, 
 Vicar of St. Dunstan's, Fleet Street, and in his S4th year was promoted 
 to the Deanery of St. Paul's ; for which promotions he has left it or 
 record that he was chiefly indebted to Richard, third Earl of Dorset, 
 whose town house stood in the neighbourhood of St. Dunstan's, the 
 present Salisbury Square. Being overtaken by the inroads of con- 
 sumption, he was unable to perform his cathedral duties, whereupon 
 some enemy attributed his silence, not to illness, but to idleness. Stung 
 to the quick, Donne returned to the pulpit, and delivered what Walton 
 calls his own funeral sermon, subsequently published under the title 
 "Death's Duel." Having abandoned all hope of life, he gave himseli 
 up to pious meditations and the contemplation of death. He had his 
 own portrait painted, enveloped in a shroud, which was hung up in his 
 room until his death. From this the effigy on his monument in St. Paul's 
 Cathedral was sculptured. He died at the age of fifty-three, and was 
 buried in St. Paul's. 
 
 Donne was a man of most sincere piety and of the truest affection. 
 The deep love which ever existed between him and his wife may be 
 traced in his poetry, as it adorned their lives. Despite the deformities 
 of style, common to the pedantry of the age, which encumber both his 
 verses and also his sermons, Donne was a. man possessed of genuine 
 poetic fire. He has left behind him real gems of poetry ; and although 
 it is a fact that in his earlier works, and long before he was induced to 
 enter holy orders, he gave too loose a rein to his imagination, neverthe- 
 less, as we read them now, the faults of excess can be pardoned and 
 overlooked, whilst we are often startled and delighted by the energy and 
 power which he displays. Dryden styled him " the greatest wit, though 
 not the greatest poet of our nation." Ben Jonson held his genius in the 
 highest estimation. "He esteemeth John Donne," says Drummond, 
 " the first poet in the world in some things : his ' Verses of the Lost Chain ' 
 he hath by heart, and that passage of 'The Calm,' 'That dust and 
 feathers do not stir, all was so quiet. ' " The passage from " The Calm " 
 which Ben Jonson so much admired is given in these selections ; but 
 it will be observed that Drummond does not quote correctly. The 
 lines run : 
 
 " No use of lanthoms ; and in one place lay 
 Feathers and dust to-day and yesterday. " 
 
 The student who desires a genuine intellectual entertainment in seeking 
 knowledge regarding the poets of his country cannot have a greater 
 treat than in reading the lives of Sir Henry Wotton and Dr. Donne, 
 as written by Isaac Walton. 
 
igo DR. JOHN DONNE. 
 
 ON THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY. 
 
 In that, O Queen of queens ! thy birth was free 
 From that which others doth of grace bereave, 
 When in their mother's womb they life receive, 
 God as His sole born daughter lov^d thee. 
 
 To match thee like thy birth's nobility 
 
 He thee His Spirit for his spouse did leave, 
 
 By whom thou didst His only Son conceive. 
 
 And so wast link'd to all the Trinity. 
 
 Ceace then, O queens that earthly crowns do wear ! 
 
 To glory in the pomp of earthly things ; 
 
 If men such high respects unto you bear. 
 
 Which daughters, wives, and mothers are of kings, 
 
 What honour can unto that Queen be done 
 
 Who had your God for father, spouse, and son .? 
 
 THE CROSS. 
 
 Since Christ embrac'd the Cross itself, dare I, 
 
 His image, th' image of His Cross deny ? 
 
 Would I have profit by the sacrifice. 
 
 And dare the chosen altar to despise ? 
 
 It bore all other sins ; but is it fit 
 
 That it should bear the sin of scorning it ? 
 
 Who from the picture would avert his eye. 
 
 How would he fly His pains who there did die ? 
 
 From me no pulpit, nor misgrounded law. 
 
 Nor scandal taken, shall this Cross withdraw. 
 
 It shall not, for it cannot ; for the loss 
 
 Of this Cross were to me another cross : 
 
 Better were worse ; for no affliction, 
 
 No cross, is so extreme as to have none. 
 
 Who can blot out the Cross, which th' instrument 
 
 Of God dew'd on me in the sacrament ? 
 
 Who can deny me power and liberty 
 
 To stretch mine arms, and mine own Cross to be ? 
 
 Swim, and at every stroke thou art thy Cross : 
 
 The mast and yard make one where seas do toss. 
 
 Look down, thou spy'st our crosses in small things ; 
 
 Look up, thou see'st birds raised on crossed wings. 
 
DR. JOHN DONNE. 191 
 
 All the globe's frame spheres is nothing else 
 
 But the meridian's crossing parallels. 
 
 Material crosses then good physic be, 
 
 But yet spiritual have chief dignity. 
 
 These for extracted chemic med'cine serve, 
 
 And cure much better, and as well preserve. 
 
 Then are you your own physic, or need none. 
 
 When still'd or purg'd by tribulation ; 
 
 For when that cross ungrudg'd unto you sticks, 
 
 Then you are to yourself a crucifix. 
 
 As perchance carvers do not faces make, 
 
 But that away which hid them there do take ; 
 
 Let Crosses so take what hid Christ in thee. 
 
 And be His image, or not His, but He. 
 
 But as oft alchymists do coiners prove. 
 
 So many a self-despising get self-love : 
 
 And then, as worst surfeits of best meats be. 
 
 So is pride issued from humility ; 
 
 For 'tis no child but monster : therefore cross 
 
 Your joy in Crosses, else 'tis double loss ; 
 
 And cross thy senses, else both they and thou 
 
 Must perish soon, and to destruction bow : 
 
 For if th' eye see good objects, and will take 
 
 No cross from bad, we cannot 'scape a snake. 
 
 So with harsh, hard, sour, stinking cross the rest, 
 
 Make them indifferent all ; nothing best. 
 
 But most the eye needs crossing, that can roam 
 
 And move : to th' others objects must come home. 
 
 And cross thy heart ; for that in man alone 
 
 Pants downwards, and hath palpitation. 
 
 Cross those detorsions^ when it downward tends. 
 
 And when it to forbidden heights pretends. 
 
 And as the brain though bony walls doth vent 
 
 By sutures,^ which a cross's form present ; 
 
 So when thy brain works, e'er thou utter it, 
 
 Cross and correct concupiscence of wit. 
 
 Be covetous of Crosses ; let none fall. 
 
 Cross no man else, but cross thyself in all. 
 
 Then doth the Cross of Christ work faithfully 
 
 Within ovur hearts, when we love harmlessly 
 
 The Cross's pictures much, and with more care 
 
 That Cross's children, which our crosses are. 
 
 I Detorsions, perversions of vision. 
 
 J Sutures (L. suo^ to sew), literally, things joined together by sewing ; the uniting 
 of parts of a wound by sewing ; hence the seam-like joints of the human skull. 
 
 S: 
 
192 DR. JOHN DONNE. 
 
 ON THE SACRAMENT. 
 
 He was the Word that spake it ; 
 He took the bread and brake it ; 
 And what that Word did make it 
 I do believe and take it. 
 
 TRANSLATED OUT OF GAZ^US. 
 
 "Vota amico facta." 
 
 God grant thee thine own wish, and grant thee mine, 
 Thou who dost, best friend, in best things outshine. 
 May thy soul, ever cheerful, ne'er know cares ; 
 Nor thy life, ever lively, know gray hairs ; 
 Nor thy hand, ever open, know base holds ; 
 Nor thy purse, ever plump, know plaits or folds ; 
 Nor thy tongue, ever true, know a false thing ; 
 Nor thy words, ever mild, know quarrelling ; 
 Nor thy works, ever equal, know disguise ; 
 Nor thy fame, ever pure, know contumelies ; 
 Nor thy prayes know low objects, stiU divine : 
 God grant thee thine own wish, and grant thee mine. 
 
 THE CALM. 
 
 FROM "the island VOYAGE WITH THE EARL OF ESSEX." 
 
 TO MR. CHRISTOPHER BROOK.^ 
 
 Our storm is past, and that storm's tyrannous rage 
 
 A stupid calm ; but nothing it doth 'swage. 
 
 The fable is inverted, and far more 
 
 A block afflicts now than a stork before. 
 
 Storms chafe, and soon wear out themselves or us : 
 
 In calms Heaven laughs to see us languish thus. 
 
 As steady as I could wish my thoughts were, 
 
 Smooth as thy mistress' glass, or what shines there. 
 
 The sea is now ; and as the iles which we 
 
 Seek, when we can move, our ships rooted be. 
 
 (i) Christopher Brook and his brother, Samuel Brook (afterwards Master of Trinity 
 College), were present at Donnes marriage : the one acted as the lady's father, the 
 other as witness. They were both imprisoned thereupon with Donne. 
 
DR. JOHN DONNE. 193 
 
 As water did in storms, now pitch runs out ; 
 
 As lead, when a fir'd church becomes one spout ; 
 
 And all our beauty and our trim decays, 
 
 Like courts removing, or like ending plays. 
 
 The fighting place now seamen's rage supply, 
 
 And aH the tackling is a frippery. 
 
 No use of lanthoms ; and in one place lay 
 
 Feathers and dust to-day and yesterday. 
 
 Earth's hoUownesses, which the world's lungs are, 
 
 Have no more wind than th' upper vault of air. 
 
 We can nor lost friends nor sought foes recover. 
 
 But, meteor-like, save that we move not, hover : 
 
 Only the calenture^ together draws 
 
 Dear friends, which meet dead in great fishes' maws ; 
 
 And on the hatches, as on altars, lies 
 
 Each one, his own priest and own sacrifice. 
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 AU kings and all their favourites, 
 
 All glory of honours, beauties, wits, 
 
 The sun itself (which makes times as they pass) 
 
 Is elder by a year now than it was 
 
 When thou and I first one another saw. 
 
 All oflier things to their destruction draw ; 
 
 Only oiu: love hath no decay : 
 
 This no to-morrow hath, nor yesterday ; 
 
 Running, it never runs from us away, 
 
 But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day. 
 
 Two graves must hide thine and my corse : 
 If one might, death were no divorce. 
 Alas ! as well as other princes, we 
 (Who prince enough in one another be) 
 
 (x) Calenture {calea, to be hot) is a distempered fever to which sailois are liable in 
 hot climates, whereby they imagine the sea to be green fields, and will throw them- 
 selves overboard, as ^ey fancy, into the pleasant grass : 
 
 ** So, by a calenture misled. 
 The manner with rapture sees 
 t)n the smooth ocean's aznre bed 
 Enamelled fields and verdant trees. " 
 
 Dean Swift. 
 
194 DR. JOHN DONNE. 
 
 Must leave at last in death these eyes and ears, 
 
 Oft fed with true oaths and with sweet salt tears ; 
 
 But souls where nothing dwells but love 
 
 (All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove 
 
 This or a love increased there above, 
 
 When bodies to their graves, souls from their graves remove. 
 
 And then we shall be th'roughly blest ; 
 
 But now no more than all the rest. 
 
 Here upon earth we're kings, and none but we 
 
 Can be such kings, nor of such subjects be. 
 
 Who is so safe as we ? where none can do 
 
 Treason to us, except one of us two. 
 
 True and false fears let us refrain ; ^ 
 
 Let us live nobly, and live and add again 
 
 Years and years unto years, till we attain 
 
 To write threescore : this is the second of our reign.^ 
 
 ELEGY ON HIS WIFE.^ 
 
 By our first strange and fatal interview, 
 
 By all desires which thereof did insue, 
 
 By our long-striving hopes, by that remorse 
 
 Which my words masculine, persuasive force 
 
 Begot in thee, and by the memory 
 
 Of hurts which spies and rivals threatened me, 
 
 I calmly beg ; but by thy father's wrath, 
 
 By all pains which want and divorcement hath, 
 
 I conjure thee, and all the oaths which I 
 
 And thou have sworn to seal joint constancy 
 
 I here unswear, and overswear them thus : 
 
 Thou shalt not love by means so dangerous. 
 
 Temper, O fair love ! love's impetuous rage ; 
 
 Be my true mistress, not my feigned page. 
 
 I'll go, and, by thy kind leave, leave behind 
 
 Thee, only worthy to nurse in my mind 
 
 Thirst to come back. O ! if thou die before 
 
 My soul from other lands to thee shall soar ! 
 
 (1) This tender utterance of a husband's love, with its superb conclusion, "Let us 
 live nobly, and live and add again years and years unto years," is one of the purest 
 and grandest expressions of conjugal aflfection that adorn our English literature. 
 
 (2) The second year after liis marriage. 
 
 (3) Written at the period of Donne's accompanying Sir Robert Drury to Paris, 
 in 1612. 
 
DR. JOHN DONNE. 195 
 
 Thy (else almighty) beauty cannot move 
 Rage from the seas, nor thy love teach them love, 
 Nor tame wild Boreas' harshness : thou hast read 
 How roughly he in pieces shivered 
 Fair Orithea, whom he swore he loved. 
 Fall ill or good, 'tis madness to have proved 
 Dangers unurged. Feed on this flattery, 
 That absent lovers one in th' other be. 
 Dissemble nothing, not a boy ; nor change 
 Thy body's habit nor mind : be not strange 
 To thyself only : all wiU spy in thy face 
 A blushing, womanly discovering grace. 
 Richly clothed apes are called apes ; and as soon 
 Eclipsed as bright we call the moon the moon. 
 Men of France, changeable cameleons. 
 Spittles of diseases, shops of fashions. 
 Love's fueUers, and th' rightest company 
 Of players which upon the world's stage be, 
 Win too, too quickly know thee : and, alas ! 
 Th' indifferent Italian, as we pass 
 His warm land, well content to think thee page,' 
 Will meet thee with such lust aad hideous rage 
 As Lot's fair guests were vext : but none of these. 
 Nor spongy hydroptic Dutch, shall thee displease 
 If thou stay here. Oh, stay here ! for for thee 
 England is only a worthy gallery, 
 To walk in expectation, till from thence 
 Our greatest King caU thee to His presence. 
 When I am gone dream me some happiness ; 
 Nor let thy looks our long-hid love confess ; 
 Nor praise nor dispraise me ; nor bless nor curse 
 Openly Love's force ; nor in bed fright thy nurse 
 With midnight startings, crying out, " Oh ! Oh ! 
 Nurse, oh ! my love is slain ! I saw him go 
 O'er the white Alps alone ; I saw him, I, 
 Assail'd, taken, fight, stabb'd, bleed, fall, and die." 
 Augur me better chance, except dread Jove 
 Think it enough for me t' have had thy love. 
 
 [A AUuding to his wife's fancy of following him in disguise as a page. 
 
 O 2 
 
196 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Born 1573. Died 1637. 
 
 Ben Jonson was bom in Westminster. His family appear to have 
 come from Annandale, and to have removed thence to CarUsIe. 
 Joiison's father suffered imprisonment and loss of estate in the reign of 
 Queen Mary. He died a month before his son was bom. The widow 
 married a second time. Her husband is described as a " bricklayer," 
 living in Hartshome Lane, Charing Cross. Jonson was sent to the 
 Parish School of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, and afterwards, through the 
 friendship of the famous Camden (then Second Master) was admitted 
 into Westminster School, where he received a thoroughly classical 
 education. Jonson never forgot his debt of obligation to Camden. On 
 leaving school, he was put to the business of his step-father. Fuller 
 says that he helped in the structure of Lincoln's Inn, having a trmuel 
 in his hand, and a book in his pocket. Entertaining an aversion to the 
 occupation of a bricklayer, he escaped from it, and entered the army, 
 joining the troops then in Flanders, where he distinguished himself by 
 killing an enemy in single combat. He was always proud of his early 
 connexion with the army. Military life, however, was not suited to his 
 taste. He returned to England to seek his fortune, according to his taste, 
 in literature. Having determined to write for the stage, he obtained his 
 first engagement at the Curtain, in Shoreditch, in the double capacity of 
 player and dramatist. About 1592 he married; but, as it appears, his 
 marriage was not happy, for his partner proved a shrew. About 1597 
 we begin to find authentic notices of payments and receipts for literary 
 ■work. Henslowe lent to " Bengemen Johnsone twenty shillings upon a 
 book he was to write before Christmas for the Rose Theatre, Bankside." 
 He next became engaged at the Globe, and associated with Shakespere. 
 It is said that Shakespere having seen the MS. of the play, " Every 
 Man in his Humour," was so much streck with it that he recommended 
 it for acceptance at the Globe. In 1598 an unfortunate circumstance 
 occured, which, for a time, jeopardized Jonson's life. He fought a duel 
 in Hoxton Fields with one Gabriel Fletcher, a member of Henslowe's 
 company at the Rose. Fletcher fought dishonourably vdth a sword ten 
 inches longer than Jonson's. Nevertheless Jonson was the victor ; but 
 unfortunately killed his adversary. For this he was thrown into prison, 
 and remained for a length of time in extreme peril. During his incar- 
 ceration, being visited by a priest, and his mind being directed to 
 reHgious subjects, he entered the Roman communion, in which he con- 
 tinued for twelve years. It is to be feared that Jonson was in earnest 
 
BEN JONS ON. 197 
 
 while his life was in danger ; but when restored to his liberty and the 
 indulgences of life, which he loved, the discipline and restraints self- 
 imposed in prison became irksome ! 
 
 In 1600 he produced "Cynthia's Revels," which was acted before 
 the Court by the children of the Chapel Royal. His successes as a 
 writer of course aroused the jealousy of his fellow-craftsmen, especially 
 that of Marston and Dekker. Jonson openly satirized his envious 
 opponents in his plays. In 1602 he wrote his first tragedy, entitled 
 "Richard Crook-back:" but as he had been anticipated by Shake- 
 spere's Richard III., the play was soon forgotten, and is now lost. 
 Despite his overbearing temper, which continually betrayed him into 
 quarrels with his brethren of the pen, Jonson had established a reputa- 
 tion, in which he was unrivalled, as a scholar and a writer of solid, 
 nervous language. He enjoyed the intimacy of Bacon, and Raleigh, 
 and Selden. Early in the reign of James I. he was engaged to write 
 masques for the Court The first he composed was for the reception of 
 the King by the City of London. Another was performed at Althorpe 
 before the Queen and Prince Henry, on their way from Scotland to 
 London. In 1605 Jonson once again found himself in prison. A 
 comedy of which he was part author, entitled "Eastward Hoe," was 
 supposed to contain some reflections upon the Scotch, which gave the 
 King great offence. Chapman and Marston were committed, and as 
 they were his fellow-authors, Jonson determined upon sharing their 
 captivity. Despite the danger of having their ears and noses slit, as was 
 threatened, they eventually made their peace, by correcting and expur- 
 gating the comedy. On leaving prison, Jonson celebrated the occasion 
 with a banquet, at which Selden, Camden, and others were present, as 
 also Jonson's mother, who, on drinking to her son's health, exhibited 
 a packet of poison, which she had procured, and had intended, as she 
 proclaimed, therewith, by mixing it in a wine-cup, to have poisoned 
 her son first and herself afterwards, had he not been liberated. 
 
 From 1605 to 1612 the poet's plays and masques were produced 
 in rapid succession. He was at the height of his fame and prosperity, 
 and chose that moment to profess himself once more a member of the 
 Church of England. An estimate of the quality of Ben Jonson's religious 
 feeling may be formed fiova the fact, that on partaking 'of the Holy 
 Corrmiuniou for the first time after this event he quaffed off the entire 
 contents of the chalice ! " He did everything lustily," said the late 
 Robert Bell in his biography, as a comment on this incident ! Lustily ! 
 with a vengeance ; but the word is unhappily suggestive of Jonson's 
 true character. Mr. Bell proceeds with a passage so graphic and full 
 of historic interest, that it is fitting to quote it in its integrity : "At 
 this time flourished the Mermaid Tavern, in Bread Street (Cheapside), 
 where that famous dub was held which is said, we know not upon what 
 authority, to have been founded by Raleigh, and which is immortalized 
 in the well-known lines of Beaumont and in the poems of Jonson. 
 Here Shakespere, before he retired to Stratford, and o&ea. afterwards on 
 
198 BEN JON SON. 
 
 his visits to town, Donne, Selden, Chapman, Fletcher, Beaumont, and the 
 rest, nightly assembled ; and here took place those wit-combats between 
 Jonson and Shakespere in which old Fuller compares the former to a 
 great Spanish galleon, 'built far higher in learning' than his opponent, 
 and ' solid but slow in performance ; ' and the latter to an English man- 
 of-war, 'lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, turning with all tides, 
 tacking about, and taking advantage of all winds by the quickness of his 
 wit and invention. ' The comparison conveys an accurate reflection of 
 the contrast presented in the persons and genius of the two poets. Op- 
 posed to ' gentle Shakespere, ' as Jonson designated him, ' a handsome, 
 well-shaped man,' says Aubrey, graceful and light of limb, and display- 
 ing in his dress some degree of refinement harmonizing with the expres- 
 sion of his pale, tranquil face, his intellectual forehead, and thoughtful 
 eyes, we have ' rare Ben ' over his ' beloved liquor, ' canary, a man of 
 enormous girth and colossal height, weighing close upon twenty stone, 
 his stormy head looking as solid and wild as a. sea rock, his rugged 
 face knotted and seamed by jovial excesses acting on a scorbutic habit, 
 and his brawny person enveloped in a great, slovenly wrapper, ' like a 
 coachman's great-coat, with slits under the arm-pits,' which Lacy, the 
 player, told Aubrey was his usual costume. While the robust man lays 
 down the law, and thunders out despotic canons enforced by classical 
 authority, his nimble antagonist undermines his positions with a rapid 
 fire of wit, which, if it do not convince the judgment of the spectators, 
 is at least sure to carry off the applause. " 
 
 Jonson accompanied Raleigh's son to France in 1613, as his tutor. 
 In 1618 he made a journey on foot to Scotland, and stayed for some 
 weeks on a visit to Dnimmond at Hawthomden. In 1619 the Univer- 
 sity of Oxford conferred upon him the degree of M.A. The same year 
 he was appointed Poet Laureate. For some years he resided at a comb- 
 maker's, outside Temple-Bar ; and, while there, instituted the Apollo 
 Club, which was held at the Devil Tavern, Fleet Street. ^ The laws of 
 the club, written in Latin, still exist. The members admitted were 
 ^'■sealed of the tribe 0/ Ben;" among them were Sir John Suckling, 
 Kenelm Digby, Hyde (Earl of Clarendon), Herrick, Carew, and, in 
 short, all the choicest literary spirits of the day. Jonson was associated 
 with Inigo Jones in producing masques to be performed before the Court. 
 They disagreed, and Jonson lampooned Jones so fiercely, that he brought 
 himself into disgrace with the King. His fortunes and his health both 
 began to decline. He was struck with palsy, and was compelled once 
 more, about the years 1632-1633, by necessity, to write for the theatres. 
 In the Earl of Newcastle he found a kind friend, who gave him an 
 engagement to vnrite a masque, and for a time revived his fortunes. His 
 salary from the City, which had been stopped, was renewed at the express 
 request of the King. In his decline he composed the "Sad Shepherd," 
 
 (i) This tavern derived its name from the sign-board, which was a representation of 
 the traditional encounter between St. Dunstan and the Devil. The tavern stood on 
 tlie spot now occupied by Child's bank. 
 
BEN JONS ON. 199 
 
 which in freshness and vigour might have been a composition of his 
 youth rather than of his deathbed. It was his last production. He 
 died August 6, 1637 ; and three days later was buried in AYestminster 
 Abbey, in an upright position. Sir John Young, an Oxfordshire gentle- 
 man, gave a mason eighteen-pence to cut upon the stone above his 
 grave the words, which now are world-wide in fame — "O rare Ben 
 Jonson ! " 
 
 Whalley has drawn his character in the following passage : "He was 
 laborious and indefatigable in his studies ; his reading was copious and 
 extensive ; his memory so tenacious and strong, that when tmned of 
 forty he could have repeated all that he had ever wrote j his judgment 
 accurate and solid, and often consulted by those who knew him well in 
 branches of very curious learning, and far remote from the flowery paths 
 loved and frequented by the Muses. 
 
 "The Lord Falkland celebrates him as an admirable scholar; and 
 saith, that the extracts he took and the observations which he made on 
 the books he read were themselves a treasure of learning, though the 
 originals should happen to be lost." 
 
 Jonson is not to be judged of by his plays. They are, no index or 
 reflection of his mind and character. We must seek the man in his minor 
 poems, and there study what he felt and thought " Here (says Robert 
 Bell) his express qualities are fiiUy brought out ; his close study of the 
 classics; his piety, (!) sound principles, and profound knowledge of 
 mankind ; his accurate observation of social modes and habits 5 and 
 that strong common-sense, taking the most nervous and direct forms of 
 expression, in which we may trace the germs of Drydeu more clearly 
 than in any other writer. Here too, and here alone, we find him 
 surrounded by the accomplished society in the midst of which he 
 lived, and of whose principal celebrities he has transmitted to us a 
 gallery of imperishable portraits. 
 
 " The predominant merit of his poems lies in their practical Avisdom. 
 He is everywhere the inflexible advocate of truth and virtue, the scomer 
 of false pretensions, and the scourger of vice and meanness. His lines 
 are pregnant with thought applicable to the conduct of life ; and vrithout 
 any of the affectation of aphorisms, multitudes of his couplets might be 
 separated from the context, and preserved apart for their axiomatic 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 MY BELOVED MR. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US. 
 
 To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name. 
 Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; 
 While I confess thy viiitings to be such, 
 As neither man nor muse can praise too much. 
 
200 BEN JONSON. 
 
 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways 
 
 Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise : 
 
 For silliest ignorance on these may light, 
 
 Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right ; 
 
 Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance 
 
 The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ; 
 
 Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, 
 
 And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise. 
 
 These are, as some infkmous bawd or whore 
 
 Should praise a matron : what would hurt her more ? 
 
 But thou art proof against them, and indeed 
 
 Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need. 
 
 I therefore will begin : Soul of the age ! 
 
 Th' applause, delight, the wonder of our stage ! 
 
 My Shakspeare rise ! I will not lodge thee by 
 
 Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 
 
 A little further off, to make thee room : 
 
 Thou krt a monument vsdthout a tomb. 
 
 And art alive still, while thy book doth live, 
 
 And we have wits to read and praise to give. 
 
 That I not mix thee so my brain excuses, — 
 
 I mean with great but disproportion'd muses ; 
 
 For if I thought my judgment were of years, 
 
 I should commit thee surely with thy peers. 
 
 And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine,^ 
 
 Or sporting Kid,^ or Marlowe's mighty line.^ 
 
 And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, 
 
 From thence to honour thee I wiU not seek 
 
 For names ; but call forth thund'ring .lEschylus, 
 
 Euripides, and Sophocles to us, 
 
 Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 
 
 To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,^ 
 
 And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on, 
 
 Leave thee alone for the comparison 
 
 Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome 
 
 Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. 
 
 (i) Lily's plays, which were written for the Court, are moie masques than plavs 
 He was the originator of tliat affected style called euphuinn. 
 
 (2) Joason is merry at the expense of Kid, who was the reverse of being either 
 sportive or Uvely. Rewrote the "Spanish Tragedy," which deals Welv m staee 
 horrors. ^ ^^ 
 
 (3) Kit Marlowe's poetry has ab-eady keen given ; but it is supposed Jonson had a 
 double meanmg m the phrase "mighty line," and referred to the use of blank verse 
 which Marlowe first introduced upon the stage. 
 
 (4) The words buskm and sock became terms representative of tragedy and comedy 
 because upon the ancient stage the buskin was a half-boot worn in tragedy and the 
 sock was the shoe worn in comedy. ' 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 Triumph, my Britain ! thou hast one to show 
 
 To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
 
 He was not of an age, but for all time ! 
 
 And all the muses still were in their prime 
 
 When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 
 
 Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm ! 
 
 Nature herself was proud of his designs, 
 
 And jo/d to wear the dressing of his lines ! 
 
 Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit. 
 
 As since she will vouchsafe no other wiL 
 
 The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 
 
 Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; 
 
 But antiquated and deserted he. 
 
 As they were not of natiure's family. 
 
 Yet must I not give nature all ; thy art, 
 
 My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part : 
 
 For though the poet's matter natiure be, 
 
 His art doth give the fashion : and that he 
 
 Who casts to write a living line must sweat 
 
 (Such as thine are), and strike the second heat 
 
 Upon the muse's anvil ; turn the same. 
 
 And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ; 
 
 Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn ; 
 
 For a good poet's made as well as born. 
 
 And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face 
 
 Lives in his issue : even so the race 
 
 Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines 
 
 In his weU-tum^d and true-filSd lines; 
 
 In each of which he seems to shake a lance, 
 
 As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. 
 
 Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were 
 
 To see thee in our water yet appear, 
 
 And make those flights upon the banks of Thames 
 
 That so did take Eliza and our James ! 
 
 But, stay ! I see thee in the hemisphere 
 
 Advanced, and made a constellation there. 
 
 Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage. 
 
 Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stagfe, 
 
 Which since thy flight from hence hath moum'd like 
 
 night. 
 And despairs day, but for thy volume's Ught. 
 
BEN JONSON. 
 
 - TO- CELIA. 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes, , 
 
 And I will pledge with mine ; 
 Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 
 
 And I'll not look for wine. 
 The thirst that from the soul doth rise 
 
 Doth ask a drink divine ; 
 But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 
 
 I would not change for thine. 
 
 I sent thee late a rosy wreath ; 
 
 Not so much honouring thee. 
 As giving it a hope, that there 
 
 It could not withered be : 
 But thou thereon didst only breathe, 
 
 And sent'st it back to me ; 
 Since when it grows, and smeUs, I swear, 
 
 Not of itself, but thee. 
 
 EPITAPH ON S.P.,1 A CHILD OF QUEEN 
 ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL. 
 
 Weep with me all you that read 
 
 This little story ; 
 And know for whom a tear you shed 
 
 Death's self is sorry. 
 'Twas a child, that so did thrive 
 
 In grace and feature, 
 As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive 
 
 Which owned the creature. 
 Years he numbered scarce thirteen 
 
 When fates turned cruel ; 
 yet three filled zodiacs had he been 
 
 The stage's jewel ; 
 And did act, what now we moan, 
 Old men so duly, 
 
 (i) Salathiel Payy. " The subject of this beautiful epitaph," says Mr. GifFord, 
 ' acted in ' Cynthia's Revels,' and in the * Poetaster,' 1600 and i6ot, in which 
 latter year he probably died. The poet speaks of him with interest and affection, 
 and it cannot be doubted that he was a boy of extraordinary talents." 
 
BEN yONSON. 203 
 
 As, sooth, the Parca thought him one, 
 
 He played so truly. 
 So,' by error, to his fate 
 
 They aU consented : 
 But viewing him since — alas, too late ! 
 
 They have repented ; 
 And have sought, to give new birth. 
 
 In baths to steep him : 
 But being so much too good for earth. 
 
 Heaven vows to keep him. 
 
 EPIGRAM ON DONNE. 
 
 Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse, 
 Who, to thy one, aU other brains refuse ; 
 V/hose every work of thy most early wit 
 Came forth example, and remains so yet ; 
 Longer a-knowing than most wits do live, 
 And which no affection praise enough can give ! 
 To it thy language, letters, arts, best life. 
 Which might with half mankind maintain a strife. 
 All which I meant to praise, and yet I would ; 
 But leave, because I cannot as I should. 
 
 TO HEAVEN. 
 
 Good and great God ! can I not think of Thee, 
 
 But it must straight my melancholy be ? 
 
 Is it interpreted in me disease. 
 
 That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease ? 
 
 O be Thou witness, that the reins dost know 
 
 And hearts of all, if I be sad for show ; 
 
 And judge me after, if I dare pretend 
 
 To aught but grace, or aim at other end. 
 
 As Thou art all, so be Thou all to me, 
 
 First, midst, and last, converted One and Three, 
 
 My faith, my hope, my love ; and in this state 
 
 My judge, my witness, and my advocate. 
 
 Where have I been this while exiled from Thee ? 
 
 And whither rapt, now Thou but stoop'st to me ? 
 
204 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Dwell, dwell here still ! O, being everywhere, 
 How can I doubt to find Thee ever here ? 
 I know my state, both full of shame and scorn, 
 Conceiv'd in sin, and unto labour bom, 
 Standing with fear, and must with horror fall, 
 And destin'd unto judgment after aU. 
 I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground 
 Upon my flesh to inflict another wound. 
 Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death 
 With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath 
 Of discontent ; or that these prayers be 
 For weariness of life, not love of Thee. 
 
 A HYMN ON THE NATIVITY OF MY SAVIOUR. 
 
 I sing the birth was bom to-night. 
 The Author both of life and hght : 
 
 The angels so did sound it, 
 And hke the ravish'd shepherds said, 
 Who saw the light, and were afraid. 
 
 Yet searched, and true they found it. 
 
 The Son of God, th' Eternal King, 
 That did us all salvation bring, 
 
 And freed the soul from danger ; 
 He whom the whole world could not take,* 
 The Word, which heaven and earth did make ; 
 
 Was now laid in a manger. 
 
 The Father's wisdom will'd it so, 
 The Son's obedience knew no No, 
 
 Both wills were in one stature ; 
 And as that Wisdom had decreed. 
 The Word was now made flesh indeed, 
 
 And took on Him our nature. 
 
 What comfort by Him do we win, 
 Who made Himself the price of sin. 
 
 To make us heirs of glory ! 
 See this Babe, aU innocence ; 
 A martyr bom in our defence : 
 
 Can man forget the story ? 
 
 (i) Take — coutain; quod non capit. 
 
BEN JONSOlSi. 205 
 
 TRUTH.i 
 
 Truth is the trial of itself, 
 And needs no other touch ; 
 
 And purer than the purest gold, 
 Refine it ne'er so much. 
 
 It is the life and light of love, 
 The sun that ever shineth. 
 
 And spirit of that special grace 
 That faith and love defineth. 
 
 It is the warrant of the word. 
 That yields a scent so sweet 
 
 As gives a power to faith to tread 
 All falsehood under feet 
 
 It is the sword that doth divide 
 The marrow from the bone, 
 
 And in eflfect of heavenly love 
 Doth show the Holy One. 
 
 TO THE WORLD. 
 
 A FAREWELL FOR A GENTLEWOMAN, VIRTUOUS AND NOBLE. 
 
 False world, good night ! since thou hast brought 
 
 That hour upon my mom of age, 
 Henceforth I quit thee from my thought ; 
 
 My part is ended on thy st^e. 
 Do not once hope that thou canst tempt 
 
 A spirit so resolved to tread 
 Upon thy throat, and live exempt 
 
 From all the nets that thou canst spread. 
 I know thy forms are studied arts. 
 
 Thy subtle ways be narrow straits. 
 Thy coiutesy but sudden starts. 
 
 And what thou call'st thy gifts are baits. 
 I know, too, though thou strut and paint, 
 
 Yet art thou both shrunk up and old, 
 
 (i) Prefixed to "The Touchstone of Truth," by J. Warre, 163a 
 
2o6 • BEN JONSON. 
 
 That only fools make thee a saint, 
 
 And all thy good is to be sold. 
 I know thou whole art but a shop 
 
 Of toys and trifles, traps and snare?, 
 To take the weak or make them stop : 
 
 Yet thou art falser than thy wares. 
 And, knowing this, should I yet stay. 
 Like such as blow away their lives. 
 And never will redeem a day. 
 
 Enamoured of their golden gyves t 
 Or, having 'scaped, shall I return. 
 
 And thrust my neck into the noose 
 From whence so lately I did bum. 
 
 With all ray powers, myself to loose ? 
 What bird or beast is known so dull, 
 
 That fled his cage or broke his chain. 
 And tasting air and freedom, wuU 
 Render his head in there again ? 
 If these, who have but sense, can shun 
 The engines that have them annoyed, 
 Little for me had reason done. 
 
 If I could not thy gins avoid. 
 Yes ; threaten, do ! Alas, I fear 
 As little as I hope from thee ! 
 I know thou canst nor show nor bear 
 More hatred than thou hast to me. 
 My tender, first, and simple years ' 
 
 Thou didst abuse, and then betray ; 
 Since stirr'dst up jealousies and fears. 
 
 When all the causes were away. 
 Then in a soil hast planted me. 
 
 Where breathe the basest of thy fools • 
 Where envious arts professed be. 
 
 And pride and ignorance the schools ; 
 Where nothing is examined, weighed. 
 
 But as 'tis rumoured, so beUeved ; 
 Where every freedom is betrayed. 
 
 And every goodness taxed or grieved. 
 But what we're bom for we must bear : 
 
 Our frail condition, it is such 
 That what to all may happen here, 
 
 If 't chance to me, I must not grutch. 
 Else I my state should much mistake, 
 To harbour a divided thought 
 
BEN JONSON. 207 
 
 From all my kind ; that for my sake 
 
 There should a miracle be wrought. 
 No ; I do know that I was born 
 
 To age, misfortune, sickness, grief : 
 But I will bear these with that scorn 
 
 As shall not need thy false relief. 
 Nor for my peace will I go far. 
 
 As wanderers do that still do roam, 
 But make my strengths, such as they are. 
 
 Here in my bosom, and at home.^ 
 
 AN EPISTLE, 
 
 ANSWERING TO ONE THAT ASKED TO BE SEALED OF THE TRIISE 
 OF BEN.^ 
 
 Men that are safe and sure in all they do 
 
 Care not what trials they 're put unto ; 
 
 They meet the fire, the test, as martyrs would. 
 
 And though opinion stamp them not, are gold. 
 
 I could say more of such, but that I fly 
 
 To speak myself out too ambitiously, 
 
 And showing so weak an act to vulgar eyes, 
 
 Put conscience and my rights to compromise. 
 
 Let those that merely talk and never think. 
 
 That live in the wild anarchy of drink, 
 
 Subject to quarrel only • or else such 
 
 As make it their proficiency how much 
 
 They've glutted in and lechered out that week ; 
 
 That never yet did friend or friendship seek 
 
 But for a sealing : ' let these men protest ; 
 
 Or th' other on their borders, that will jest 
 
 On all souls that are absent, — even the dead. 
 
 Like flies, or worms, which man's corrupt parts fed ; 
 
 (1) There is a stiiking resemblance between these lines and that passage in Beau- 
 mont's Elegy on the Countess of Rutland beginning, 
 
 "Mankind is sent to sorrow." 
 
 (2) Jonson had many "adopted sons," young men in whose success he felt an 
 interest, and whose talents he encouraged. The following list is probably complfcte : 
 Bishop Morley, Lord Falkland, Ridiard Erome, WiUiam Cartwright, Robert Herrick, 
 Joseph Bader, Thomas Randolph, Sir Henry Morrison, Shakerly Marmion, James 
 Howell, Sir Kenelm Digby, and Sir John Suckling. These persons constituted dlat 
 band of youthful associates which Jonson here pleasantly designates "the Tribe -of 
 Ben," The epistle is addressed to some new candidate for filiation. 
 
 (3) That is, becoming sureties for them, joining them in their bonds. 
 
2o8 BEN JONSON. 
 
 That to speak well think it above all sin 
 Of any company but that they are in ; 
 Called every night to supper in these fits, 
 And are received for the covey of wits ; 
 That censure all the town, and all the affairs, 
 And know whose ignorance is more than theirs : 
 Let these men have their ways, and take their times 
 To write their libels and to issue rhymes : 
 I have no portion in them, nor their deal 
 Of news they get, to strew out the long meal ; 
 I study other friendships, and more one 
 Than these can ever be ; or else wish none. 
 
 What is't to me whether the French design 
 Be, or be not, to get the Valteline ? 
 Or the State's ships sent forth belike to meet 
 Some hopes of Spain in their West-Indian fleet ? 
 Whether the dispensation yet be sent, 
 Or that the match from Spain was ever meant ? * 
 I wish all well, a.nd pray high Heaven conspire 
 My prince's safety and my king's desire. 
 But if for honour we must draw the sword, 
 And force back that which will not be restored, 
 I have a body yet that spirit draws 
 To live or faU a carcass in the cause. 
 So far without inquiring what the States, 
 Brunsfield, and Mansfield, do this year, my fates 
 Shall carry me at caU ; and I'll be well, 
 Though I do neither hear these news, nor tell 
 Of Spain or France, or were not pricked down one 
 Of the late mystery of reception ; 
 Although my fame to his not under-hears 
 That guides the motions and directs the bears. 
 But that's a blow by which in time I may 
 Lose all my credit with my Christmas clay 
 And animated porcelain of the court ; 
 Ay, and for this neglect the coarser sort 
 Of earthem jars there may molest me too : 
 Well, with mine own frail pitcher what to do 
 I have decreed ; keep it from waves and press. 
 Lest it be justled, cracked, made nought, or less. 
 Live to that point I will, for which I am man. 
 And dwell as in my centre, as I can, 
 
 (i) These -allusions to the breaking off the match between Prince Charles and the 
 Infanta of Spain indicate the date of die Episfle. 
 
BEN yONSON. 209 
 
 Still looking to, and ever loving Heaven, 
 
 With reverence using all the gifts thence given ; 
 
 'Mongst which, if I have any friendships sent. 
 
 Such as are square, well-tagged, and permanent 
 
 Not built with canvas, paper, and false lights. 
 
 As are the glorious scenes at the great sights ; 
 
 And that there be no fevery heats nor colds. 
 
 Oily expansions, or shrunk dirty folds, 
 
 But all so clear, and led by Reason's flame. 
 
 As but to stumble in her sight were shame ; 
 
 These I will honour, love, ernbrace, and serve, 
 
 And free it from all question to preserve. 
 
 So short you read my character, and theirs 
 
 I would call mine, to which not many stairs 
 
 Are asked to climb. First give me faith, who know 
 
 Myself a little. I will take you so. 
 
 As you have writ yourself. Now stand, and then, 
 
 Sir, you are sealM of the Tribe of Ben. 
 
 EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.^ 
 
 Underneath this sable hearse 
 Lies the subject of all verse, 
 Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother. 
 Death ! ere thou hast slain another 
 Learned, and fair, and good as she. 
 Time shall throw a dart at thee. 
 
 (i) TheaccompIishedsisterofSir Philip Sydney, whodedicated to herhis "Arcadia." 
 The Countess of Pembroke wrote some graceful poems, translated tlie tragedy of 
 "Antony" from the French, and joined her brother in a Translation of the Psalms. 
 Spenser speaks of her as — 
 
 " Most resembling, both in shape and spirit, 
 Her brother dear." 
 
 She died in i62r. The above epitaph was first introduced into the collected work of 
 Ben Jonson by Whalley, on the ground that it was "universally assigned to him." 
 Jonson's claim to it, however, is by no means certain. 
 
BISHOP HALL. 
 
 Born 1574. Died 1656. 
 
 The name of Bishop Hall, who has been denominated the Christiai 
 Seneca, is so well known as that of a prelate and divine, and " Hall' 
 Meditations " are so familiar to the English mind, that few remembe 
 the fact of his being likewise a poet, whose Satires, after the pattern 
 Juvenal and Persius, occupy an honourable position in literature, am 
 give him a place among our poets. 
 
 Joseph Hall was born July i, 1574, in Bristow Park, in the parish 
 Ashby-de-Ia-Zouch, Leicester. His father was an officer under Henry 
 Eari of Huntingdon, and in that capacity was entrusted with th( 
 Governorship of Huntingdon. At the age of 15 Hall entered a 
 Emanuel College, Cambridge. He gained a scholarship, and in dui 
 course took his degree of B.A. In 1595 he was elected Fellow of hi: 
 College, and in 1596 took his M. A. degree. During the next year hi: 
 " Satires" were published. They would be remarkable had they beei 
 the production of a man mature in years and experience of the world 
 but as the work of one who had only just completed his academi( 
 career and got his Fellowship they are marvellous, in power, opulenc( 
 of language, and keenness of wit. 
 
 Having taken holy orders, Joseph Hall was appointed Master o 
 Tiverton School, from whence he shortly afterwards was promoted t( 
 the living of Halsted, near Bury St. Edmunds. In 1605 he accom 
 panied Sir Edmund Bacon to the Continent. On his return, beinj 
 appointed to preach before Prince Henry at Richmond Palace, he gavi 
 so much satisfaction that the Prince appointed him one of his chaplains 
 About 1612 he took his degree of D. D., and was presented by th( 
 Earl of Norwich to Waltham Holy Cross, Essex. Subsequently hi 
 was made Prebendary of the Collegiate Church of Wolverhampton 
 He accompanied James I. to Scotland as his chaplain ; and als( 
 attended the Synod of Dort (summoned by the States-General in 1618 
 as one of the Protestant divines, in order to decide the controversiei 
 between the Calvinists and Arminians. He preached a Latin sermoi 
 before the Synod ; and on his departure for England v/as presentee 
 with a gold medal. King James preferred him to the deanery o 
 Worcester. In 1627 he was appointed Bishop of Exeter (the secom 
 year of the reign of Charles L). 
 
 In his episcopal office he seems to have fallen under suspicion, a 
 being too favourable to the Puritans. He wrote in his own defence 
 " The billows went so high, that I was three several times on my knee 
 
BISHOP HALL. 2H 
 
 to his Majesty, to answer these great criminations ; and what contest I 
 had with some great lords concerning these particulars it would be too 
 long to report ; only this, under how dark a cloud I was hereupon, I 
 was so sensible, that I plainly told the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury 
 (Laud), that rather than I would be obnoxious to these slanderous 
 tongues of his viisinfonners I would cast off my rochet. I knew I went 
 right ways, and would not indure to live under undeserved suspicion." 
 
 In 1641, Nov. 15, he was translated by Charles I. to the Bishopric 
 of Norwich ; but within two months found himself a prisoner in the 
 Tower. He had joined with the Archbishop of York and others of 
 the prelates in protesting against the vjdidity of laws passed during 
 their forced absence from Parliament. For this he and they were 
 at once impeached by the House of Commons. The impeachment 
 was ultimately abandoned ; but it was not until June, 1642, that Hall 
 recovered his liberty, after six months' imprisonment. He returned 
 at once to Norwich and resumed his episcopal duties. In April, 
 1643, the ordinances of sequestration were passed. The sequestrators 
 entered his palace, and appraised his goods " with all diligent severity." 
 It was entirely owing to the friendship of private friends and admirers 
 that Bishop Hall and his family were left with wearing apparel or a 
 trencher for their food. In short, despite the respect in which he was 
 universally held, not being a Laudian, and suspected by Laud of too 
 great friendliness for the Puritans, he was treated by the Puritans as 
 Puritans then and ever have treated every one, or any one, who happened 
 not to square his opinions entirely with their bigotry of sentiment and 
 overbearing disposition. 
 
 The remainder of Bishop Hall'^ life was passed in poverty, suffering 
 under harsh and brutal treatment. Upon the " poor pittance allowed 
 me for my maintenance," after seeing his palace plundered, and his 
 cathedral subjected to sacrilege, with broken windows and disfigured 
 monuments, he was at last compelled to retreat before the insolence 
 and foulness of the Parliamentarians. He retired to Higham, near 
 Norwich, in 1647, and as occasion allowed he continued to preach and 
 exercise himself in the discharge of religious duties. Impoverished, 
 but unmolested, he terminated his days at Higham, and died Sept. 8, 
 1656, aged 81. In the churchyard of Higham, "without any funeral 
 pomp " (as he directed), he was buried. 
 
 Wharton says of his poetry : " These Satires are marked with a 
 classical precision to which English poetry has yet rarely obtained. 
 The indignation of the satirist is always the result of good sense. Nor 
 are the thorns of severe invective unmixed with the flowers of pure 
 poetry. The characters are delineated in strong and lively colouring, 
 and their discriminations are touched with the masterly traces of genuine 
 humour." Bishop Hall was not only our first satirist, but was the first 
 who brought epistolary writing to the view of the public ; which was 
 common in that age to other parts of Europe, but not practised in 
 England till he publLshed his own epistles. 
 
 P 2 
 
BISHOP HALL. 
 
 ANTHEM FOR THE CATHEDRAL OF EXCETER. 
 
 Lord, what am I ? A worm, dust, vapour, nothing ! 
 What is my life ? A dream, a daily dying ! 
 What is my flesh ? My soul's uneasie clothing ! 
 What is my time ? A minute ever flying : 
 
 My time, my flesh, my life, and I ; 
 
 What are we, Lord, but vanity ? 
 
 Where am I, Lord ? Downe in a vale of death : 
 What is my trade ? Sin, my dear God offending ; 
 My sport sin too, my stay a puflfe of breath : 
 What end of sin ? Hell's horrour never ending : 
 
 My way, my trade, sport, stay, and place 
 
 Help to make up my doleful case. 
 
 Lord, what art Thou ? Pure life, power, beauty, bliss : 
 Where dwell'st Thou ? Up above in perfect light : 
 What is Thy time ? Eternity it is : 
 What state ? attendance of each glorious sp'rit : 
 Thyself, Thy place, Thy dayes. Thy state 
 Pass all the thoughts of powers create. 
 
 How shall I reach Thee, Lord "i Oh, soar above. 
 Ambitious soul : but which way should I flie ? 
 Thou, Lord, art way and end : What wings have 1 ? 
 Aspiring thoughts, of faith, of hope, of love : 
 
 Oh, let these wings that way alone 
 
 Present me to Thy blissful throne. 
 
 ON LOVE. 
 
 SATIRE VII. BOOK II. 
 
 Great is the folly of a feeble brain 
 
 O'er-ruled with love and tyrannous disdain : 
 
 For love, however in the basest breast 
 
 It breeds high thoughts that feed the fancy best. 
 
 Yet is he blind, and leads poor fools awry, 
 
 While they hang gazing on their mistress' eye. 
 
BISHOP HALL. 213 
 
 The love-sick poet, whose importime prayer 
 
 Repulsed is with resolute despair, 
 
 Hopeth to conquer his disdainful dame 
 
 With public plaints of his conceived flame. 
 
 Then pours he forth in patchfed sonnetings 
 
 His love, his lust, and loathsome flatterings ; 
 
 As though the staring world hanged on his sleeve. 
 
 When once he smiles to laugh : and when he sighs to grieve. 
 
 Careth the world, thou love, thou live, or die ? 
 
 Careth the world how fair thy fair one be .■' 
 
 Fond wit-wal, that wouldst load thy witless head 
 
 With timely horns before thy bridal bed. 
 
 Then can he term his dirty ill-faced bride 
 
 Lady and queen, and virgin deifyd : 
 
 Be she all sooty-black or berry brown, 
 
 She's white as morrow's milk or flakes new blown : 
 
 And though she be some dunghill drudge at home, 
 
 Yet can he her resign some refuse room 
 
 Amidst the well-known stars : or if not there. 
 
 Sure will he saint her in his Kalendere. 
 
 ON THE SALE OF BENEFICES. 
 SATIRE V. BOOK II. 
 
 SaVst thou ever Si Quis patched on Paul's church doore. 
 
 To seeke some vacant vicarage before ? 
 
 Who wants a churchman that can service say. 
 
 Read fast and faire his monthly homiley ? 
 
 And wed and bury, and make Christen-soules ? 
 
 Come to the left-side alley of Saint Poules. 
 
 Thou servile foole, why couldst thou not repaire 
 
 To buy a benefice at steeple-faire ? 
 
 There moughtest thou for but a slender price 
 
 Advowson thee with some fat benefice : 
 
 Or if thee list not waite for dead men's shoon, 
 
 Nor pray each mom th' incumbent's dales were done : 
 
 A thousand patrons thither ready bring 
 
 Their new-fain churches to the chaffering : 
 
 Stake three yeares' stipend ; no mian asketh more : 
 
 Go take possession of the church-porch doore. 
 
214 BISHOP HALL. 
 
 And ring thy bells ; lucke stroken in thy fist : 
 The parsonage is thine, or ere thou wist. 
 Saint Fooles of Gotam mought thy parish be 
 For this tKy base and servile symonie. 
 
 ON MEN DISCONTENTED WITH THEIR LOT. 
 SATIRE VI. BOOK IV. 
 
 I wot not how the world's degenerate, 
 
 That men or know or like not their estate : 
 
 Out from the Gades up to th' eastern morne 
 
 Not one but holds his native state forlorne. 
 
 When comely striplings wish it were their chance 
 
 For Csenis' distaffe to enchange their lance. 
 
 And weare curl'd perriwigs, and chalk their face, 
 
 And still are poring on their pocket-glasse. 
 
 Tyr'd with pinned ruffs and fans and partlet strips. 
 
 And busks and verdingales about their hips, 
 
 And tread on corkfed stilts a prisoner's pace, 
 
 And make their napkin for their spitting place, 
 
 And gripe their waist within a narrow span. 
 
 Fond Csenis, that wouldst wish to be a man ! 
 
 Whose manish housewives like their refuse state. 
 
 And make a drudge of their uxorious mate, 
 
 Who like a cot-queene freezeth at the rock. 
 
 Whiles his breech't dame doth man the forren stock. 
 
 Is't not a shame to see each homely groome 
 
 Sit perched in an idle chariot roome, 
 
 That were not meete some pannel to bestride, 
 
 Sursingled to a gallfed hackney's hide .'' 
 
 Each muck-worme will be rich with lawlesse gaine. 
 
 Although he smother up mowes of seven years' graine, 
 
 And hanged himself when come grows cheap again ; 
 
 Although he buy whole harvests in the spring, 
 
 And foyst in false strikes to the measuring : 
 
 Although his shop be muffled from the light 
 
 Like a day dungeon or Cimmerian night : 
 
 Nor full nor fasting can the carle take rest, 
 
 While his George-Nobles rusten in his chest. 
 
 He sleeps but once and dreams of burglary, 
 
 And wakes and casts about his frighted eye, 
 
BISHOP HALL. 3IS 
 
 And gropes for th'eves in every darker shade ; 
 
 And if a mouse but stirre he calls for ayde. 
 
 The sturdy ploughman doth the soldier see 
 
 All scarfed with p/d colours to the knee, 
 
 AVhom Indian pillage hath made fortunate. 
 
 And now he gins to loathe his former state : 
 
 Now doth he inly scome his Kendall-greene, 
 
 And his patch'd cockers^ now despised beene. 
 
 Nor Ust he now go whistling to the carre, 
 
 But sells his teeme and setleth to the warre. 
 
 O Warre ! to them that never tryed thee sweete ! 
 
 \\Tien his dead mate falls groveling at his feete, 
 
 And angry buUets whistlen at his eare, 
 
 And his dim eyes see nought but death and drere — 
 
 Oh, happy ploughman ! were thy weale well knowne : 
 
 Oh, happy all estates except his owne ! 
 
 Some drunken rhymer thinks his time well spent 
 
 If he can Uve to see his name in print ; 
 
 Who when he is once fleshfed to the presse, 
 
 And sees his handsell have such fair successe, 
 
 Sung to the wheele, and sung unto the payle, 
 
 He sends forth thraves^ of ballads to the sale. 
 
 Nor then can rest, but volumes up bodg'd rhymes. 
 
 To have his name talked of in future times. 
 
 The brain-sick youth, that feeds his tickled eare 
 
 With sweet-sauc'd lies of some false traveller, 
 
 Which hath the Spanish decades read awhile, 
 
 Or whetstone leasings of old Mandeville,^ 
 
 Now with discourses breakes his midnight sleepe. 
 
 Of his adventures through the Indian deepe, 
 
 Of all their massy heapes of golden mine, 
 
 Or of the antique toombes of Palestine ; 
 
 Or of Damascus' magick wall of glasse,"* 
 
 Of Solomon his sweating piles of brasse, 
 
 (i) Patched cockers — his spotted sporting dogs. 
 
 fz) Tkraves. — ^A thrave is two dozen sheaves. The expression here means heaps, 
 bundles of btllads. 
 
 (3) Wltetstoue leasings of old Mande7iille — the marvellous stories, or falsehoods, 
 told by Sir John Maundeville, which by their wonders act as whetstones, sharpeners 
 to the edge of the appetite of those who love the wonderful. Sir John Maundeville 
 was a native of St. Albans, who travelled in the East and the Holy Land between 
 the ycais 132c and 1342. His "Travels" was the most popular work of the sixteenth 
 century : and with aU their credulity they still preserve a great interest to every one 
 who studies the history of the Holy Land. Sir John died at Liege, a d. 1372. 
 
 (4) It was not Maundeville who described Damascus with a wall of glass. This 
 statement is made by Benjamin of Tudela {a.d, 1173). He says, "Damascus contains 
 a Mohammedan mosque, called the Synagogue of Damascus— a building of unequalled 
 magnificence. They say it was the palace of Ben Hadad, and that one wall of it is 
 framed of glass by enchantment " 
 
2i6 GILES AND P MINE AS FLETCHER. 
 
 Of the bird Rue, that bears an elephant, 
 
 Of mermaids that the southerne seas do haunt ; 
 
 Of headlesse men, of savage cannibals, 
 
 The fashion of their lives, and governals ; 
 
 What monstrous cities there erected be, 
 
 Cayro, or the city of the Trinity. 
 
 Now are they dung-hill cocks that have not seene 
 
 The bordering Alpes, or else the neighbour Rhine : 
 
 And now he plies the newes-full grashopper. 
 
 Of voyages and ventures to enquire. 
 
 His land mortgaged he, sea-beat in the way, 
 
 Wishes for home a thousand sighs a day. 
 
 And now he deems his home-bred fare as leefe 
 
 As his parcht bisket or his barrel'd beefe. 
 
 'Mongst all these stirs of discontented strife, 
 
 Oh, let me lead an academick life ; 
 
 To know much, and to think we nothing know j 
 
 Nothing to have, yet think we have enowe ; 
 
 In skill to want, and wanting seek for more ; 
 
 In weale nor want, nor wish for greater store : 
 
 Envy, ye monarchs, with your proud excesse, 
 
 At our low sayle, and our high happiness. 
 
 -«>=?; 
 
 GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 Giles Fletcher. — Born 1580. Died 1623. 
 Phineas Fletcher. — Bom 1584. Died 1660. 
 
 Giles and Phineas Fletcher were brothers, the sons of Dr. Giles 
 Fletcher, of King's College, Cambridge — a man who is spoken of by 
 Anthony Wood as himself a poet. He is better known as a political 
 agent of Queen Elizabeth's and as an economist He was employed 
 at various periods as the Queen's Commissioner in Scotland, Germany, 
 and the Low Countries. In the memorable Armada year he was sent 
 to Russia, where by negotiations very ably conducted he was enabled 
 to conclude a commercial treaty most advantageous to the interests a\ 
 England. Dr. Fletcher subsequently published a very curious worlt 
 on " The Russe Commonwealth," containing an account of the 
 
GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER. 217 
 
 Muscovite country and people, as he saw them. Camden calls it 
 " Libellmn in quo pluiima observanda." He was afterwards made 
 Master of Requests, Secretary to the City of London, and also Treasurer 
 to SL Paul's. He died in 1610, leaving his two sons inheritors of his 
 literary tastes, and especially of his love for poetry. 
 
 Giles Fletcher was educated at Trinity Collie, Cambridge, and 
 Utfgdy indebted to the kindness of the Master of Trinity, Dr. Neveyle. 
 He sa)'s in the dedication of his poem to the Master, "In which 
 (Trinity) being placed by your favour ordy, most freely, without either 
 any means from other or any desert in myself, being not able to do 
 more, I could do no less, than acknowledge that debt which I shall 
 never be able to pay." Giles Fletcher proceeded in due course to his 
 degree of B.D. and became Vicar of Alderton in Suffolk, where he 
 died in 1623. 
 
 The only poem by Giles Fletcher which has been published and 
 preserved to us is entitled, "Christ's Victory in Heaven, Chiisfs 
 Triumph on Earth, Christ's Triumph over Death, Christ's Triumph 
 after Death." Southey has said of it, that " it will preserve his name 
 while there is any praise." Mr. Headley, who gave much dme to a 
 critical examination of the Fletchers' works, says it is a rich and 
 picturesque poem ; and he points out several passages to prove that 
 Milton was under considerable obligation to Giles Fletcher; but 
 he also shows how much the Fletchers owed to Spenser. 
 
 Phineas Fletcher, the younger brother of Giles, was bom about 1584. 
 He was educated at Eton, and admitted a Scholar of King's College, 
 Cambridge, in 1600, where he took his degrees^ B.A. 1604, and M.A, 
 1608. Having entered holy orders, he was presented by Sir Hemy 
 WiUonghby to the living of Hilgay, in Norfolk, 1621, which appoint- 
 ment, we learn from Blomefield's " Norfolk," he held for twenty-nine 
 years. It is supposed that he died and was buried at Hilgay. 
 
 Qnarles has called Phineas Fletcher the "Spenser of this age." 
 There is no doubt that Spenser's works gave a bias to the mind of 
 Phineas. From the " Faery Queen" he received his taste for allegory 
 and personification. In speaking of " Corydon and Colin " he says, 
 
 *' To lackey one of these is all my pride's aspiring." 
 
 Phineas Fletcher left a few minor pieces; his "Sicelides," — a piscatory 
 drama, intended to have been performed before James I. at Cambridge — 
 his " Eclogues," and " Miscellanies : " but he is only known in the 
 present day as the author of "The Purple Island." Campbell in his 
 "Lives of the Poets" gives such a humorous, but just, criticism of this 
 poem, that it may be well to quote it : — 
 
 "Giles's ' Christ's Victory and Triumph' has a tone of enthusiasm 
 peculiarly solemn. Phineas, with a liveUer &ncy, had a worse taste. 
 He lavished on a bad subject the graces and ingenuity that would have 
 made a fine poem on a good design. Through five cantos of his 
 ' Purple Island ' he tries to sweeten the language of anatomy by the 
 
2i8 GILES AND PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 flowers of poetry, and to support the wings of allegory by bodil 
 instead of spiritual phenomena. Unfortunately in the remaining canto 
 he only quits the dissecting table to launch into the subtlety of tin 
 schools, and describes Intellect, the Prince of the Isle of Man, witl 
 his eight counsellors — Fancy, Memory, Common Sense, and the fiv( 
 external senses — as holding out in the human fortress against the evi 
 powers that besiege it. Here he strongly resembles the old Scottisl 
 poet, Gawain Douglas, in his poem of King Hart. But he outstrip! 
 all allegorists in conceit when he exhibits Voletta, or the Will, th< 
 wife of Intellect, propped in her fainting fits by Repentance, whc 
 administers restorative waters to the queen, made with lips' confessior 
 and with 'pickled sighs' stilled in the alembic of a broken spirit. Eul 
 the conclusion of the ' Purple Island ' sinks into such absurdity and 
 adulation, that we could gladly wish the poet back again to allegorizing 
 the bladder and kidneys. In a contest about the eternal salvation oi 
 the human soul the event is decided by King James I. (at that time 
 a sinner upon earth) descending from heaven with his treatise on the 
 Revelation under his arm, in the form of an angel, and preceding 
 tile Omnipotent, who puts the forces of the Dragon to the rout. These 
 incongruous conceptions are clothed in harmony, and interspersed with 
 beautiful thoughts." 
 
 Such is Campbell's just opinion. But the student will do well to give 
 attention to the "Purple Island." It marks a period in English litera- 
 ture — a turning, point, at which the outrageous absurdities of over- 
 strained allegory and the inflated language of adulation had attained 
 their climacteric. Ludicrous as the impersonation of King Jamie 
 descending from heaven with his treatise under his arm may be, we 
 cannot forget the fulsome language in the 5th Act of Shakespere's 
 Heniy VIII., nor the equally overstrained adulation of Elizabeth to be 
 traced in Spenser, Raleigh, and most of the poets of her day. Just as 
 the monkish school of poetry ran its course from Chaucer to Stephen 
 Hawes and Alexander Barklay, so from Wyat to Phineas Fletcher did 
 the allegorical and the laudatory gradually develop, until the arrow 
 of adulation was drawn to a head, and reached that point beyond 
 which absurdity could be no further strained, even though strung with 
 beauty 6i thought and harmony of utterance. Another school arose, in 
 which we find Milton the bright particular star. The Fletchers serve 
 as the link between the former and the latter style. They connect us 
 with Spenser on the one hand, and with Milton on the other : and as 
 we read the poet of the Elizabethan reign and the poet of the Com- 
 monwealth we are startled to find what a change had been worked in 
 so short a period in the English school of poetry ; whilst between the 
 two, and partaking in certain respects of the characteristics of each, 
 stand "Christ's Victory" and "The Purple Island." 
 
GILES ELETCHER. 219 
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 CHRIST'S VICTORY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 The birth of Him that no beginning knew, 
 Yet gives beginning to all that are bom ; 
 -And how the Infinite far greater grew. 
 By growing less ; and how the rising mom, 
 That shot from heaVn, and back to heav'n return, 
 The obsequies of Him that could not die. 
 And death of life, end of eternity. 
 How worthily He died that died unworthily ; 
 
 How God and man did both embrace each other — 
 Met in one person, heaven and earth did kiss ; 
 And how a Virgin did become a mother, 
 And bare that Son, who the world's Father is, 
 And Mafcer of his mother ; and how bliss 
 Descended from the bosom oi the High, 
 To clothe Himself in naked misery. 
 Sailing at length to heaven, in earth, triimiphantly ; 
 
 Is the first flame, wherewith my whiter Muse 
 
 Doth bum in heavenly love, such love to tell. 
 
 O Thou that didst this holy fire infuse. 
 
 And taught'st this breast, but late the grave of hell. 
 
 Wherein a blind and dead heart lived, to swell 
 
 With better thoughts, send down those lights that lend 
 
 Knowledge, how to begin, and how to end, 
 
 The love that never was, nor ever can be, penn'd. 
 * * * * 
 
 What hath man done that man shall not undo, 
 Since God to him is grown so near akin? 
 Did his foe slay him ? he shall slay his foe : 
 Hath he lost all ? he all again shall win : 
 Is sin his master ? he shall master sin : 
 Too hardy soul, with sin the field to try : 
 The only way to conquer was to fly ; 
 
 But thus long death hath lived, and now death's self shall die 
 
220 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 He is a path, if any be misled ; 
 
 He is a robe, if any naked be ; 
 
 If any chance to hunger. He is bread ; 
 
 If any be a bondman, He is free ; 
 
 If any be but weak, how strong is He ? 
 
 To dead men life He is, to sick men health ; 
 
 To blind men sight, and to the needy wealth ; 
 A pleasure without loss, a treasure without stealth. 
 * * * * 
 
 When I remember Christ our burden bears, 
 I look for glory, but find misery ; 
 I look for joy, but find a sea of tears ; 
 I look that we should live, and find Him die ; 
 I look for angels' songs, and hear Him cry : 
 Thus what I look, I cannot find so well ; 
 Or rather, what I find I cannot teU, 
 These banks so narrow are, those streams so highly swell. 
 
 Christ suffers, and in this his tears begin ; 
 Suffers for us, and our joy springs in this ; 
 Suffers to death, here is His Manhood seen ; 
 Suffers to rise, and here His Godhead is : 
 For man, that could not by himself have rise, • 
 Out of the grave doth by the Godhead rise, 
 And God, that could not die, in manhood dies. 
 
 That we in both might live by that sweet sacrifice. 
 * * * * 
 
 A tree was first the instrument of strife. 
 Where Eve to sin her soul did prostitute ; 
 A tree is now the instrument of life, 
 Though all that trunk and this fair body suit : 
 Ah, cursM tree, and yet O blessed fruit ! 
 That death to Him, this life to us doth give : 
 Strange is the cure, when things past cure revive, 
 
 And the Physician dies to make his patient live. 
 
 Sweet Eden was the arbour of delight. 
 Yet in his honey ilow'rs our poison blew ; 
 Sad Gethseman the bower of baleful night, 
 Where Christ a health of poison for us drew. 
 Yet aU our honey in that poison grew : 
 So we from sweetest flowers could suck our bane, 
 And Christ fiom bitter venom could again 
 Extract life out of death, and pleasure out of pain. 
 
GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 A man was first the author of our fall, 
 A man is now the author of our rise : 
 A garden was the place we perished all, 
 A garden is the place He pays our price : 
 And the old serpent with a new device 
 Hath found a way himself for to beguile : 
 So he that all men tangled in his wile 
 
 Is now by one man caught, beguiled with his own guile. 
 * * * * 
 
 His radious head with shameful thorns they tear, 
 His tender back with bloody whips they rent. 
 His side and heart they furrow with a spear. 
 His hands and feet with riving nails they tent. 
 And, as to disentrail his soul they meant, 
 They jolly at his grief, and make their game 
 His naked body to expose to shame, 
 
 That all might come to see, and all might see that came. 
 
 Whereat the heav'n put out his guilty eye. 
 That durst behold so execrable sight, 
 And sabled all in black the shady sky, 
 And the pale stars, struck with unwonted fright. 
 Quenched their everlasting lamps in night : 
 And at His birth, as all the stars heav'n had 
 Were not enow, but a new star was made ; 
 So now both new, and old, and aU away did fade. 
 
 The wise philosopher cried, aU aghast. 
 The God of Nature surely languished ; 
 The sad Centurion cried out as fast, 
 " The Son of God, the Son of God was dead ! " 
 The headlong Jew hung down his pensive head. 
 And homewards far'd ; and ever, as he went, 
 He smote his breast, half desperately bent ; 
 The very woods and beasts did seem His death lament. 
 
 THE WOOING SONG. 
 
 Love is the blossom where there blows 
 Every thing that lives or grows ; 
 Love doth make the heav'ns to move. 
 And the sun doth bum in love : 
 
222 GIL ES FLE TCHER. 
 
 Love the strong and weak doth yoke, 
 
 And makes the ivy climb the oak ; 
 
 Under whose shadows lions wild, 
 
 Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild ; 
 
 Love no med'cine can appease, 
 
 He burns the fishes in the seas ; 
 
 Not all the skill his wounds can stench,' 
 
 Not all the sea his fire can quench : 
 
 Love did make the bloody spear 
 
 Once a leavy coat to wear. 
 
 While in his leaves there shrouded lay 
 
 Sweet birds for love that sing and play : 
 
 And of all love's joyful flame 
 
 I the bud and blossom am ; 
 
 Only bend thy knee to me. 
 
 Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 
 
 See, see, the flowers that below 
 Now as fresh as morning blow, 
 And, of all, the virgin rose, 
 That as bright Aurora shows : 
 How they all unleavfed die, 
 Losing their virginity ; 
 Like unto a summer shade. 
 But now born, and now they fade. 
 Every thing doth pass away, 
 There is danger in delay : 
 Come, come gather then the rose, 
 Gather it, or it you lose. 
 All the sand of Tagus' shore 
 Into my bosom casts his ore ; 
 All the valleys' swimming com 
 To my house is yearly borne : 
 Every grape of every vine 
 Is gladly bruis'd to make me wine, 
 WTiile ten thousand kings, as proud, 
 To carry up my train have bow'd. 
 And a world of ladies send me 
 In my chambers to attend me. 
 All the stars in heav'n that shine, 
 And ten thousand more, are mine : 
 Only bend thy knee to me. 
 Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 
 
 (x) stench — staunch. 
 
PHINEAS FLETCHER. 223 
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 AGAINST A RICH MAN DESPISING POVERTY. 
 
 If well thou vieVst us, with no squinted eye, 
 No partial judgment, thou wilt quickly rate 
 Thy wealth no richer than my poverty ; 
 ■Sly want no poorer than thy rich estate : 
 
 Our ends and births ahke ; in this as I ; 
 
 Poor thou wert bom, and poor again shall die. 
 
 My little fills my little-wishing mind ; 
 Thou having more than much, yet seekest more : 
 Who seeks, stiU wishes what he seeks to find ; 
 Who wishes, wants ; and who so wants, is poor : 
 
 Then this must foUow of necessity ; 
 
 Poor are thy riches, rich my poverty. 
 
 Though StiU thou gett'st, yet is thy want not spent. 
 But as thy wealth, so grows thy wealthy itch : 
 But with my little I have much content ; 
 Content hath all ; and who hath aU, is rich : 
 
 Then this in reason thou must needs confess. 
 
 If I have little, yet that thou hast less. 
 
 Whatever man possesses God hath lent. 
 
 And to his audit liable is ever, 
 
 To reckon how, and where, and when, he spent : 
 
 Then thus thou bragg'st, thou art a great receiver : 
 Little my debt, when Uttle is my store : 
 The more thou hast, thy debt still grows the more. 
 
 But seeing God Himself descended down 
 T' enrich the poore by his rich poverty ; 
 His meat, his house, his grave, were not is own. 
 Yet aU is his from all eternity : 
 
 Let me be like my Head, whom I adore ; 
 
 Be thou great, wealthy, I still base and poor. 
 
224 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 THE PURPLE ISLAND. 
 
 CANTO XII. STANZA XXII. 
 FIDO AND KNOWLEDGE CHARGE THE DRAGON'S ARMY. 
 
 [The following passage describes the Dragon in his last refuge, with Sii 
 and Despair and the "deformed crew " that are his offspring.] 
 
 Out of his gorge a hellish smoke he drew 
 
 That all the field with foggy mist enwraps : 
 
 As when Tiphseus from his paunch doth spew 
 
 Black smothering flames, roU'd in loud thunder-claps ; 
 
 The pitchy vapours choke the shining ray, 
 
 And bring dull night upon the smiling day : 
 
 The wavering Etna shakes and fain would run away. 
 
 Yet could his bat-eyed legions eas'ly see 
 In this dark chaos : they the seed of night : 
 But these not so, who night and darkness flee ; 
 For they the sons of day, and joy in light ■_ 
 But Knowledge soon began a way devise 
 To bring again the day, and clear their eyes : 
 So opened Fido's shield, and golden vail unties. 
 
 Of one pure diamond, celestial fair. 
 That heavenly shield by cunning hand was made ; 
 Whose light divine, spread through the misty air, 
 To brightest morn would turn the western shade, 
 And lightsome day beget before his time ; 
 Fram'd in heaven, without all earthly crime. 
 Dipped in the fiery sun, which burnt the baser slime. 
 
 And when from fenny moors the lumpish clouds 
 
 With rising steams damp the bright morning's face ; 
 
 At length the piercing sun his team unshrouds, 
 
 And with his arrows the idle fog doth chase ; 
 
 The broken mist lies melted all in tears : 
 
 So this bright shield the stinking darkness tears. 
 
 And, giving back the day, dissolves their former fears : 
 
 Which when afar the fiery Dragon spies. 
 
 His flights deluded with so little pain ; 
 
 To his last refuge now at length he flies ; 
 
 Long time his pois'nous gorge he seemed to strain ; 
 
PHINEAS FLETCHER. 225 
 
 At length, with loathly sight, he up doth spew 
 From stinking paunch a most deformed crew ; 
 That heaven itself did fly from their most ugly view. 
 
 The first that crept from his detested maw 
 
 Was Hamartia,^ foul deformed wight : 
 
 More soul deformed the sun yet never saw ; 
 
 Therefore she hates the all-betraying light : 
 
 A woman seemed she in her upper part ; 
 
 To which she could such lying gloss impart, 
 
 That thousands she had slain with her deceiving art. 
 
 The rest, though hid, in serpent's form arrayed. 
 With iron scales, like to a plaited mail : 
 Over her back her knotty tail displayed, 
 Along the empty air did lofty sail ; 
 The end was pointed with a double sting, ; 
 
 Which with such dreaded might she wont to fling, 
 Thatnought could help the wound, but blood of heavenly King. 
 « « * * 
 
 Her viprous locks hung loose about her ears. 
 
 Yet with a monstrous snake she them restrains. 
 
 Which like a border on her head she wears : 
 
 About her neck hang down long adder chains 
 
 In thousand knots and wreaths infolded round. 
 
 Which in her anger lightly she unbound. 
 
 And darting far away would sure and deadly wound. 
 
 Yet fair and lovely seems to fools' dim eyes ; 
 But hell more lovely, Pluto's self more fair. 
 Appears, when her true form true light descries : 
 Her loathsome face, blancht skin, and snaky hair ; 
 Her shapeless shape, dead life her carrion smell : 
 The devil's dung, the child and dam of hell. 
 Is chaffer fit for fools, their precious souls to sell. 
 
 The second in this rank was black Despair, 
 
 Bred in the dark womb of eternal Night : 
 
 His looks fast nail'd to Sin ; long sooty hair 
 
 Fill'd up his lank cheeks with wide staring fright ; 
 
 His leaden eyes, retired into his head. 
 
 Light, heaven, and earth, himself, and all things fled : 
 
 A breathing corpse he seemed, wrapt up in living lead. 
 
 (i) HamarHa — Sin, 
 
 Q 
 
226 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 His body all was framed of earthly paste 
 
 And heavy mould ; yet earth could not content him ; 
 
 Heaven fast he flies, and heaven fled him as fast ; 
 
 Though kin to hell, yet hell did much torment him , 
 
 His very soul was nought but ghastly fright. 
 
 With him went many a fiend and ugly sprite. 
 
 Armed with ropes and knives, aU instruments of spite. 
 
 Instead of feathers on his dangling crest 
 A luckless raven spread her blackest wings ; 
 And to her croaking throat gave never rest. 
 But deathful verses and sad dirges sings : 
 His hellish arms were all with fiends embost. 
 Who damned souls with endless torments roast, 
 And thousand ways devise to vex the tortured ghost. 
 
 Two weapons, sharp as death, he ever bore — 
 
 Strict judgment, which from far he deadly darts ; 
 
 Sin at his side, a two-edged sword, he wore, 
 
 With which he soon appals the stoutest hearts : 
 
 Upon his shield Alecto with a wreath 
 
 Of snaky whips the damned souls tortureth ; 
 
 And round about was wrote. Reward of Sin is Death ! 
 
 The last two brethren were far different, 
 
 Only in common name of death agreeing. 
 
 The first armed with a scythe still mowing went, 
 
 Yet whom and' when he murder'd never seeing. 
 
 Born deaf and Mind : nothing might stop his way ; 
 
 No prayers, no vows, his keenest scythe could stay, 
 
 Nor beauty's self his spite, nor virtue's self, allay. 
 
 No state, no age, no sex may hope to move him ; 
 
 Down falls the young and old, the boy and maid : 
 
 Nor beggar can entreat, nor king reprove him ; 
 
 All are his slaves in's cloth of flesh arrayed : 
 
 The bride he snatches from the bridegroom's arms. 
 
 And horror brings in midst of love's alarms : 
 
 Too well we know his power by long experienced harms. 
 
 A dead man's skull supplied his helmet's place ;i 
 A bone his club ; his armour sheets of lead. 
 
 (i) Here we distinctly trace the imitation of Spenser's poetry : 
 " Upon his head he wore an helmet light, 
 Made of a dead man's skull, that seemed a ghastly sight." 
 
 Faery Queen, b. 2, canto 2, stanza 22. 
 
PHINEAS FLETCHER. 227 
 
 Some more, some less, fear his all-frighting face ; 
 But most who sleep in downy pleasure's bed : 
 But who in life have daily leam'd to die, 
 And dead to this, live to a life more high, 
 Sweetly in death they sleep, and slumbering quiet lie. 
 
 The second, far more foul in every part. 
 
 Burnt with blue fire and bubbling sulphur streams. 
 
 Which creeping round about him filled with smart 
 
 His cursed limbs, that dirdy he blasphemes. 
 
 Most strange it seems, that burning thus for ever, 
 
 No rest, no time, no place these flames may sever : 
 
 Yet death in thousand deaths without death dyeth never. 
 
 Soon as these hellish monsters came in sight. 
 
 The sun his eye in jetty vapours drown'd ; 
 
 Scared at such hell-hounds' view, heaven's 'mazfed light 
 
 Sets in an early evening ; earth astound 
 
 Bids dogs with howls give warning, at which sound 
 
 The fearfiil air starts, seas break their bound 
 
 And frighted fled away ; no sands might them impound. 
 
 The palsied troop first like asps shaken sare, 
 Till now their heart congealed in icy blood 
 Candied the ghastly face ; locks stand and stare : 
 Thus charmed, in ranks of stone they marshal'd stood ; 
 Their useless swords fell idly on the plain ; 
 And now the triumph sounds in lofty strain : 
 So conquering Dragon binds the knights with slavish chain. 
 » * * » 
 
 Long while the silent passion, wanting vent, 
 
 Made flowing tears her words, and eyes her tongue. 
 
 Till faith, experience, hope, assistance lent 
 
 To shut both flood-gates up with patience strong : 
 
 The streams well ebb'd, new hopes some comforts borrow 
 
 From firmest truth ; then glimpsed the hopeful morrow. 
 
 So spring some dawns of joy, so sets the night of sorrow. 
 
 Ah, dearest Lord ! my heart's sole Sovereign, 
 Who sitt'st high mounted on Thy burning throne, 
 Hark from Thy heavens, where Thou dost safely reign, 
 Qothed with the golden sun and silver moon ; 
 Cast down a while Thy sweet and gracious eye. 
 And low avail that flaming Majesty, 
 Deigning Thy gentle sight on our sad misery. 
 
 Q2 
 
228 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 To Thee, dear Lord, I lift this watery eye ; 
 This eye which Thou so oft in love hast praised ; 
 This eye with which Thou wounded oft wouldst die : 
 To Thee, dear Lord, these suppliant hands are raised ; 
 These to be lilies Thou hast often told me ; 
 Which if but once again may ever hold Thee, 
 Will never let Thee loose, will never more unfold Thee. 
 * * * * 
 
 Reviving cordial of my dying sprite, 
 
 The best elixir for soul's drooping pain, 
 
 Ah ! now unshade Thy face, uncloud Thy sight ; 
 
 See, every way's a trap, each path a train : 
 
 Hell's troops my sole beleaguer : bow Thine ears. 
 
 And hear my cries pierce through my groans and fears : 
 
 Sweet Spouse ! see not my sins but through my plaints and tears. 
 
 Let frailty favour, sorrow succour move. 
 
 Anchor my life in Thy calm streams of blood ; 
 
 Be Thou my rock, though I poor changeling rove, 
 
 Tost up and down in waves of worldly flood ! 
 
 ^\'hilst I in vale of tears at anchor ride, 
 
 Where winds of earthly thoughts my sails misguide, 
 
 Harbour my fleshly bark safe in Thy wounded side. 
 
 Take, take my contrite heart. Thy sacrifice, 
 Wash'd in her eyes that swims and sinks in woes : 
 See, see, as seas with winds high working rise. 
 So storm, so rage, so gape Thy boasting foes. 
 Dear Spouse ! unless Thy right hand even steers ; 
 Oh ! if Thou anchor not these threat'ning fears ; 
 Thy ark will sail as deep in blood as now in tears. 
 
 With that a thund'ring noise seemed shake the sky ; 
 
 As when with iron wheels through stony plain 
 
 A thousand chariots to the battle fly ; 
 
 Or when with boisterous rage the swelling main, 
 
 Puft up by mighty winds, does hoarsely roar. 
 
 And beating with his waves the trembling shore, 
 
 His sandy girdle scorns, and breaks earth's rampart door. 
 
 And straight an arigel, full of heavenly might,' 
 (Three several crowns circled his royal head)^ 
 
 (i) "Our late most learned sovereign in his Remonstrance and Complaint on the 
 Apocalypse." — Such is the original note appended to this stanza, describing King 
 James, full of heavenly might, blowing his silver trumpet. 
 
 '2) The crowns of England, Scotland, and Ireland. 
 
PHINEAS FLETCHER. 229 
 
 From northern coast heaving his blazing light. 
 Through all the earth his glorious beams dispread, 
 And open lays the Beast's and Dragon's shame ; 
 For to this end th' Almighty did him frame, 
 And therefore from supplanting gave his ominous name. 
 
 A sUver trumpet oft he loudly blew, 
 
 Frighting the guilty earth with thundering knell ; 
 
 And oft proclaimed, as through the world he flew. 
 
 Babel, great Babel, lies as low as hell : 
 
 Let every angd loud his trumpet sound, 
 
 Her heaven-exalted towers in dust are drowned ; 
 
 Babel, proud Babel fallen, and lies as low as ground. 
 
 The broken heavens dispart with fearfid noise, 
 
 And from the breach outshoots a sudden light ; 
 
 Straight shrilling tnmipets with loud sounding voice 
 
 Give echoing summons to new bloody fight : 
 
 Well knew the Dragon that aU-queUing blast. 
 
 And soon perceived that day must be his last ; 
 
 Which strook his frightened heart, and all his troops aghast 
 
 So up he arose upon his stretchfed sails, 
 
 Fearless expecting his approaching death : 
 
 So up he arose, that th' air starts and fails. 
 
 And, over pressed, sinks his load beneath : 
 
 So up he arose, as does a thunder-cloud. 
 
 Which all the earth with shadows black doth shroud : 
 
 So up he arose, and through the weary air rowed. 
 
 Now his Almighty Foe far off he spies ; 
 Whose sun-like arms dazed the ecUpsM day, 
 Confoimding with their beams less gUttering skies, 
 Firing the air with more than heavenly ray ; 
 Like thousand suns in one : — such is their light, 
 A subject only for immortal sprite ; 
 Which never can be seen but by immortal sight. 
 
 His threatening eyes shine like that dreadful flame 
 
 With which the Thunderer arms His angry hand : 
 
 Himself had fairly wrote His wondrous name, 
 
 Which neither earth nor heaven could understand : 
 
 A himdred crowns, like towers, beset around. 
 
 His conquering head : well may they there abound. 
 
 When all his limbs, and troops, with gold are richly crowned. 
 
230 RICHARD CORBET. 
 
 His armour all was dyed in purple blood 
 
 (In purple blood of thousand rebel kings) > 
 
 In vain their stubborn powers His arm withstood : 
 
 Their proud necks chained, He now in triumph brings, 
 
 And breaks their spears, and cracks their traitor swords : 
 
 Upon whose arms and thighs in golden words 
 
 ■Was fairly writ. The King of kings, and Lord of lords. 
 
 -s>«; 
 
 RICHARD CORBET. 
 
 Born 1582. Died 1635. 
 
 The Right Rev. Richard Corbet, Dean of Christ Church, Oxford, 
 and successively Bishop of Oxford and of Norwich, was the son of a 
 gardener living at Ewell, Surrey, where Corbet was bom in 1582. He 
 was educated at Westminster School, and from thence proceeded to 
 Christ Church, of which college he was subsequently made Dean. He 
 obtained great popularity in the pulpit, and is termed by Anthony 
 Wood "a quaint preacher." He was a firm supporter of the High 
 Church party in the reign of James I., and was favoured with the 
 patronage of the Duke of Buckingham, through whom he was brought 
 to the notice of the King, and appointed Chaplain. His preferment to 
 the Deanery and to the Episcopal Bench followed quickly. As Bishop 
 of Norwich he died, in 1635. 
 
 Corbet's poetry is entirely humorous — or ludicrous ! This was the 
 turn of his mind. We should therefore have hardly expected that he 
 would have been the man whom Archbishop Laud would have selected 
 to act against the Puritans. Such, however, was the fact ; and it was 
 a happy circumstance, for Corbet was enabled to mitigate the punish- 
 ments ordered to be inflicted on the Puritans. The gentleness and 
 kindness of his disposition won for him the regard of many to whom he 
 was in principles utterly opposed ; and his eccentricities of character, as 
 also of composition, were forgotten and forgiven in the esteem which 
 was felt for the man. Satire and a keen sense of the ludicrous pervade 
 all the poetry which came from his pen. He is worthy of a kindly 
 recollection, because he made use of his influence and position to miti- 
 gate the sufferings of those whom the cruelties of the Star-Chamber 
 would have tortured or oppressed. 
 
RICHARD CORBET. 
 
 A CERTAIN POEM, 
 
 As it was presented in Latine by Divines and others before his Majesty King James I. 
 in Cambridge, by way of enterlude, styled Liber novus de Adventu Regis ad 
 Cantabrigiam, faithfully done into English, with some liberal additions. Made 
 rather to be simge than read, to the tune of Bonny KelL 
 
 It is not yet a fortnight since 
 Lutetia^ entertain'd our prince, 
 And vented hath a studied toy 
 As long' as was the siege of Troy, 
 And spent herself for fuU five days 
 In speeches, exercise, and plays. 
 
 To trim the town great care before 
 Was tane by th' lord Vice-chancellor; 
 Both mom and even he cleansed the way, 
 The streets he gravelled thrice a day : 
 One strike of March-dust for to see 
 No proverb' would give more than he. 
 
 Their coHedges were new be-painted. 
 Their founders eke were new be-sainted; 
 Nothing escaped, nor post, nor door. 
 Nor gate, nor raile, nor board, nor floor : 
 You could not know (oh, strange mishap !) 
 Whether you saw the town or map. 
 
 But the pure house of Emanuel * 
 Would not be Uke proud Jesabel, 
 Nor shew herself before the king 
 An hypocrite, or painted thing; 
 But that the ways might all prove fair. 
 Conceived a tedious mile of prayer. 
 
 Upon the looked-for seventh^ of March 
 Out went the townsmen all in starch, 
 Both band and beard, into the field, 
 Where one a speech could hardly wield; 
 For needs he would begin his stile. 
 The king being from him half a mUe. 
 
 (il Quia valde Intoso est Cantabrigia. (2) Lndus per spatium 6 horarum ; infra. 
 
 (3) ** A bushel of March dust is worth a king's ransom.'' 
 
 [4} Coll £iiian. abundat Puritanis. 
 
 (5) The king entered Cambridge Marsh 7, 16x4-15. 
 
232 RICHARD CORBET. 
 
 They gave the king a piece of plate, 
 Which they hoped never came too late ; 
 But cryd, " Oh, look not in, great king, 
 For there is in it just nothing :" 
 And so prefer'd with tune and gate 
 A speech as empty as their plate. 
 
 Now, as the king came neer the town. 
 Each one ran crying up and down : 
 " Alas, poor Oxford, thou'rt vmdorie. 
 For now the king's past Trompington, 
 And rides upon his brave gray dapple, 
 Seeing the top of King's-coUedge chappel." 
 
 Next rode his lordship^ on a nag. 
 
 Whose coat was blue,^ whose ruff was shag. 
 
 And then began his reverence 
 
 To speak most eloquent non-sense : 
 
 " See how" (quoth he), " most mighty prince. 
 
 For very joy my horse doth wince." 
 
 "What cryes the town? What we ?" (said he) 
 
 " What cryes the University ? 
 
 What cry the boys ? what every thing .'' 
 
 Behold, behold, yon comes the king :" 
 
 And every period he bedecks 
 
 With " En et ecce venit rex." — 
 
 " Oft have I warned " (quoth he), " our dirt 
 That no silk stocking should be hurt ; 
 But we in vain strive to be fine, 
 Unless your grace's sun doth shine ; 
 And with the beams of your bright eye 
 You will be pleased our streets to dry." 
 
 Now come we to the wonderment 
 
 Of Christendom, and eke of Kent, 
 
 The Trinity ; which, to surpass, 
 
 Doth deck her spokesman^ by a glass : 
 
 Who, clad in gay and silken weeds. 
 
 Thus opes his mouth, — hark how he speeds. 
 
 " I wonder what your grace doth here, 
 Who have expected been twelve year, 
 
 fij Samuel Harsnett, then Bishop of Chichester. (z^ Vestis indicat virum. 
 (3) Nethersoli Cant, orator, qui per speculum se ipsum solet ornari. 
 
RICHARD CORBET. 233 
 
 And this your son, fair Carolus, 
 That is so Jacobissimus •?■ 
 Here's none, of all, your grace refuses ; 
 You are most welcome to our muses. 
 
 " Although we have no bells to jangle, 
 Yet can we shew a faire quadrangle, 
 Which, though it ne're was graced with king, 
 Yet sure it is a goodly thing : 
 My warning's short, no more I'U say, 
 Soon you shall see a gallant play." 
 
 But nothing was so much admired. 
 As were their playes so well attired ; 
 Nothing did win more praise of mine. 
 Then did their actors most divine :* 
 So did they drink their healths divinely ; 
 So did they dance and skip so finely. 
 
 Their plays had sundry grave wise factors, 
 A perfect diocess of actors 
 Upon the stage ; for I am sure that 
 There was both bishop, pastor, curat : 
 Nor was their labour light or small ; 
 The charge of some was pastoral. 
 
 Our playes were certainly much worse. 
 For they had a brave hobby-horse. 
 Which did present unto his grace 
 A wondrous witty ambUng pace : 
 But we were chiefly spoyl'd by that 
 Which was six hours of God knows what? 
 
 His lordship then was in a rage, 
 
 His lordship lay upon the stage. 
 
 His lordship cryed, aU would be marr'd : 
 
 His lordship loved a-life the guard. 
 
 And did invite those mighty men. 
 
 To what, think you ? even to a Hen. 
 
 He knew he was to use their might 
 To help to keep the door at night. 
 
 (1) Orator hoc iisus est vocabulo in oradone ad regem. 
 (s) ActoEes omnes fiiere theologi- 
 3) Ludus dicebatuT Ignoramus, qui durabat per spatium sex horanim. 
 
234 RICHARD CORBET. 
 
 And well bestowed he thought his Hen, 
 That they might Tolebooth' Oxford men :, 
 He thought it did become a lord 
 To threaten mth that bug-bear word. 
 
 Now pass we to the civil law, 
 And eke the doctors of the spaw, 
 Who all performed their parts so -well, 
 Sir Edward Ratcliff ^ bore the bell, 
 Who was, by the king's own appointment, 
 To speak of spells and magick oyntment. 
 
 The doctors of the civil law 
 
 Urged ne're a reason worth a straw ; 
 
 And though they went in silk and satten, 
 
 They, Thomson-like,^ clipped the king's Latine : 
 
 But yet his grace did pardon then 
 
 All treasons against Priscian. 
 
 Here no man speak ought to the point, 
 But all they said was out of joint ; 
 Just like the chappel ominous 
 r the colledge called God with us; 
 Which truly * doth stand much awry, 
 Just north and south, yes, verily. 
 
 Philosophers did well their parts, 
 
 Which proved them masters of their arts ; 
 
 Their moderator was no fool. 
 
 He far from Cambridge kept a school : 
 
 The country did much store afford. 
 
 The proctors might not speak a word. 
 
 But, to conclude, the king was pleased, 
 And of the court the town was eased : 
 Yet, Oxford — though (dear sister) hark yet — 
 The king is gone but to New-market, 
 And comes again ere it be long ; 
 Then you may make another song. 
 
 The king being gone from Trinity, 
 They make a scramble for degree ; 
 
 (i) Idem quod Bocardo apud Oxon. {2) Insignis insignissimus stultus. 
 
 >'3} Paulus-Tompsonus, qui nuper laess majest: reus ob aurum decurtat. 
 '4) Decorum quia Coll: est Puritahorum plenum ; scil. Emanuel. 
 
RICHARD CORBET. 235 
 
 Masters of all sorts and all ages. 
 Keepers, sub-cizers, lackeyes, pages. 
 Who all did throng to come aboard, 
 With " Pray make me now, good my lord."^ 
 
 They prest his lordship wondrous hard ; 
 His lordship then did want the guard : 
 So did they throng him for the nonce. 
 Until he blest them all at once. 
 And cryed, " Hodiissime : 
 Omnes Magistri estote." 
 
 Nor is this all which we do sing. 
 For of your praise the world must ring : 
 Reader, unto your tackling look. 
 For there is coming forth a book 
 Will spoyl Joseph Bamesius 
 The sale of Rex Platonicus. 
 
 JOURNEY INTO FRANCE. 
 
 [The internal evidence of this curious and interesting poem shows that 
 it must have heen written about 1616-17, shortly after the marriage of 
 the boy-king, Louis XIII.] 
 
 I went from England into France, 
 Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance, 
 
 Nor yet to ride or fence j 
 Nor did I go Uke one of those 
 That do retume with half a nose 
 
 They carriM from hence. 
 
 But I to Paris rode along. 
 
 Much like John Dory in the song,* 
 
 Upon a holy tide. 
 I on an ambUng nag did jet, — 
 I trust he is not paid for yet, — 
 
 And spur'd him on each side. 
 
 (i) Of this once popular song [see Ritson's Antlent Songs] die following is the 
 introductory stanza : — 
 
 "As it fell upon a holyday. 
 And upon a holy-tide-a, 
 John Dory bought him an ambling nag 
 To Paris Tor to ride-a." 
 
236 RICHARD CORBET. 
 
 And to St. Dennis fast we came, 
 To see the sights of Nostre Dame — 
 
 The man that shows them snaffles — 
 Where who is apt for to believe 
 May see our Ladie's right-arm sleeve, 
 
 And eke her old pantofles. 
 
 Her breast, her milk, her very gown 
 That she did wear in Bethlehem town 
 
 When in the inn she lay. 
 Yet all the world knows that's a fable, 
 For so good clothes ne're lay in stable 
 
 Upon a lock of hay. 
 
 No carpenter could by his trade 
 Gain so much coyn as to have made 
 
 A gown of so rich stuff ; 
 Yet they, poor fools, think, for their credit, 
 They may believe old Joseph did it, 
 
 'Cause he deserved enough. 
 
 There is one of the crosse's nails. 
 Which who so sees his bonnet vails. 
 
 And, if he will, may kneel. 
 Some say 'twas false, 'twas never so ; 
 Yet, feeling it, thus much I know. 
 
 It is as true as steel. 
 
 There is a lanthorn which the Jews, 
 When Judas led them forth, did use ; 
 
 It weighs my weight downright : 
 But, to believe it, you must think 
 The Jews did put a candle in 't. 
 
 And then 'twas very light. 
 
 The Bastile and Saint Dennis-street ; 
 The Shafflenist, like London Fleet ; 
 
 The Arsenal, no toy. 
 But if you'll see the prettiest thing. 
 Go to the court and see the king, — 
 
 O 'tis a hopeful boy.^ 
 
 (i) Lotus XIII., who, -by the. assassinatioa of- his .father, Henri Quatrc, by 
 Ravaillac, succeeded to the throne, when only nine years of age, A.D. i^io. 
 
RICHARD CORBET. 237 
 
 He is of all his dukes and peers 
 Reverenced for much wit at 's years ; 
 
 Nor mast you think it much ; 
 For he with litde switch doth play, 
 And make fine dirty pyes of clay, — 
 
 O never king made such ! 
 
 A bird that can but kill a fly,^ 
 Or prate, doth please his Majesty, 
 
 'Tis known to every one. 
 The Duke of Guise gave him a parret, 
 And he had twenty cannons for it 
 
 For his new galeon. 
 
 O that I ere might have the hap 
 To get the bird which in the map 
 
 Is called the Indian Ruck ! 
 I'de give it him, and hope to be 
 As rich as Guise or Luine,* 
 
 Or else I had ill luck. 
 
 There's one saint there hath lost his nose ; 
 Another 's head, but not his toes, 
 
 His elbow and his thumb. 
 But when that we had seen the rags, 
 We went to th' inn and took our nags. 
 
 And so away did come. 
 
 We came to Paris on the Seine : 
 Tis wondrous fair, 'tis nothing clean, 
 
 'Tis Europe's greatest town. 
 How strong it is I need not tell it. 
 For aU the world may easily smell it. 
 
 That walk it up and down. 
 
 There many strange things are to see ; 
 The palace and great gallery ; 
 
 The Place Royal doth excel ; 
 The new bridge, and the statues there ; 
 At Nostre Dame, Saint Q. Pater, 
 
 The steeple bears the bell ; 
 
 fi) Laais XIII. had a great lore for biids. Luines, his favourite, whom he made 
 Constable of France, n}se to favour by his skill in training birds for the king. 
 ''2; Lititu — Luines. 
 
238 RICHARD CORBET. 
 
 For learning, th' Universitie ; 
 And for old clothes, the frippery — 
 
 The house the queen did build ; 
 Saint Innocents, whose earth devoures 
 Dead corps in four and twenty hours, 
 
 And there the king was killed.^ 
 
 Birds round about his chamber stand, 
 And he them feeds with his own hand ; 
 
 'Tis his humility. 
 And if they do want anything, 
 They need but whistle for their king, 
 
 And he comes presently. 
 
 But now, then, for these parts he must, 
 Be enstiled Lewis the Just, 
 
 Great Henry's lawful heir ; 
 When to his stile to add more words. 
 They'd better call him king of birds, 
 
 Than of the great Navarre. 
 
 He hath besides a pretty quirk, 
 Taught him by nature, how to work 
 
 In iron with much ease. 
 Sometimes to the forge he goes ; 
 There he knocks, and there he blows. 
 
 And makes both locks and keys : 
 
 Which puts a doubt on every one, 
 Whether he be Mars or Vulcan's son ; 
 
 Some few believe his mother : 
 But let them all say what they will, 
 I came resolved, and so think stiil, 
 
 As much the one as th' other. 
 
 The people, too, dislike the youth, 
 Alledging reasons ; for, in truth, 
 
 , Mothers should honoured be : 
 Yet others say, he loves her rather 
 As well as ere she loved his father. 
 And that's notoriously.'' 
 
 (il The locality in which Henri Quatre was killed. 
 
 (a) The allusion is to Marie de Medici, whom Henri Quatre married, on his divori 
 from Marguerite de Valois. She was the mother of Louis XIII. and of Henriet 
 Maria, Queen of Charles I. The profligacy of Henri Quatre was a source of gre 
 jealousy and unhappiness to his Queen, and was the blot upon an otherwise glorioi 
 reign. 
 
239 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Born 1585. Died 1649. 
 
 William Drummond was bora at the seat of his ancestors, Haw- 
 thoraden, in the parish of Lasswade, Midlothian, a few miles from 
 Edinburgh. He was the son of Sir John Drummond (Gentleman 
 Usher to James VI. of Scotland) by his wife Susanna, daughter of Sir 
 William Fowler, Secretary to Anne of Denmark. The family of 
 Drummond was ancient and noble : King Robert III. had married 
 Annabella Drummond, sister of William Drummond of Carnock, the 
 poet's ancestor. 
 
 William Drummond was educated at the High School, Edinburgh. 
 He afterwards graduated at the University of Edinburgh. In 1606, 
 having attained his majority, he proceeded to Bourges, in France, to 
 study civa law. Remaining on the Continent for four years, he returned 
 to Hawthomden, on the death of his father, in 1610 ; when, instead of 
 following the law as a profession, he entirely devoted himself to polite 
 literature, and retired to Hawthomden, a fitting home for a poet. The 
 old castellated mansion is perched upon a rock overhanging a beautiful 
 narrow glen, through which a river foams and frets among the rocks and 
 stones, while the banks on either side are richly clothed with noble trees. 
 "A sweet and solitary seat" it has been called, " and very fit and proper 
 for the Muses." In this retreat he began to write. On the death of 
 Henry, Prince of Wales, 161Z, he published his elegy, " Fears on the 
 Death of Meliades," the name which Prince Henry had adopted in all 
 his challenges for martial sports (in which he delighted), as an anagi-am 
 of Miles a Deo. When King James visited Scotland in 1617, he wrote 
 "The Wandering Muses, on the river Forth, Feasting." In 1619 Ben 
 Jonson paid him the visit which is now so famous in literary history. 
 Jonson walked all the way from London to Hawthomden, in order to 
 visit the man he had so strong a desire to know. Hence arose the 
 celebrated " Conversations," which were taken down by Drummond for 
 his personal satisfaction, and evidently were never intended for publi- 
 cation. Dmmmond had to sustain a terrible grief, which affected 
 his whole life, and gave a plaintive character to his muse. In the 
 sudden death of a Miss Cunningham, whom he was about to marry. 
 His loss so overwhelmed him, that he left Hawthomden, and for 
 eight years wandered about on the Continent, travelling through France, 
 Germany, and Italy, but chiefly residing in Paris and Rome. He 
 made a great collection of books in Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, 
 and Italian, which he presented to the University of Edinburgh. On 
 
240 WILLIAM DKUMMOND. 
 
 his return to Scotland, he found the country distracted with its politics 
 and religious discussions ; and as he was a known and staunch Royalist 
 he was compelled to suffer and to pay for his opinion. Retreating fror 
 Hawthomden, he resided for a length of time with his brother-in-law 
 Sir John Scott, in Fifeshire. At this period he wrote his " History o 
 the Five James's, Kings of Scotland. " 
 
 In 1630, having met with a Miss Elizabeth Logan, who bore a stronj 
 resemblance to his former intended wife, he married the lady, and livec 
 in complete retirement at Hawthomden, which he restored, and put uj 
 the following inscription on the house : — 
 
 " Divino munere Gulielmus Drummondus ab Hawthomden, 
 Joannis equitis aurati Alius, ut honesto otio quiesceret, 
 sibi et successoribus instauravit. 1638. 
 
 June 15, 1633, when Charles I. visited Edinburgh, Drummond wrote 
 the speeches delivered by the allegorical characters in the pageant 
 enacted in honour of the King's visit. When the troubles of the 
 country increased, Drummond wrote various tracts in support of the 
 Royal cause ; among others a " Remonstrance " against the measures of 
 the Covenanters, for which he received a letter of thanks from the 
 gallant James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, who also sent Drum- 
 mond a protection, dated August 1645. Drummond was, of course, 
 reputed a malignant, and was continually harassed by the Covenant- 
 ing party. As his estates lay in different shires, he was compelled to 
 send, according to calculation, halves and quarters of men to serve 
 among the troops to whose cause he was opposed, which tickled the 
 poet's fancy : upon which he wrote the following lines to the King : — 
 
 " Of all these forces raised against the King, 
 'Tis my strange hap not one whole man to bring. 
 From divers parishes ; yet divers men, 
 But all in haffs and quarters. Great King, then, 
 In halfs and quarters if they come gainst thee, 
 In halfs and quarters send them back to me ! " 
 
 Though Drummond was a staunch Royalist, the only weapon he could 
 wield was the pen ! This he used continually in the King's behalf ; 
 but he never appears to have taken up arms. On the execution of 
 Charles I. , and the dovmfall of the Monarchy and the Church, Drum- 
 mond's spirit was broken. His grief was so intense, that it shortened 
 his days ; and not having survived his royal master many months, he 
 expired at Hawthomden, December 4, 1649, aged 64, and was buried 
 in Lasswade Church. 
 
 When James of Scotland became James I. of England, the Scottish 
 language, in which the northern poets had written, yielded inevitably to 
 the kindred' tongue of England. Drummond was the first Scotch poet 
 who wrote in simple English. He was not a man of great genius, or of 
 particular learning; but he was elegant, accomplished, refined, and is 
 always highly esteemed for the tendemess which is the great character- 
 istic of his poetry. He was fond of retirement, and devoted to litera- 
 ture. Thoroughly domestic in his tastes and habits (fond of chess and 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 341 
 
 of performing on the lute), in his principles he was fervent, firm, and 
 devoted, both regarding the King and regarding religion. 
 
 By his " Notes of Ben Jonson's Conversations " he is best known to 
 the general reader ; because, though the Conversations vnll bear no 
 comparison with such a work as "Boswell's Life of Johnson," neverthe- 
 less Drummond's " Conversations of Jonson " is a work curious, and to 
 all literary men attractive, — therefore universally read and known. As 
 a poet he will always be highly esteemed on account of his Sonnets. 
 These were the most perfect of his productions. Petrarch was his 
 model ; and in these compositions he nearly approached the spirit as 
 well as style of his model. After Spenser and Shakespere there is no 
 poet whose Sonnets are held in as high esteem as Drummond's. The 
 most famous of his large collection are quoted. They deserve the 
 close attention of the student ; and among all the Sonnetteers of the 
 English language, it may be doubted if any is more eminently pure 
 and beautifiil in diction. 
 
 ASCENDIT AD CCELOS. 
 
 1 Bright portals of the sky, 
 Emboss'd with sparkling stars, 
 Doors of eternity, 
 
 With diamantine bars, 
 Your arras rich uphold. 
 Loose all your bolts and springs. 
 Ope wide your leaves of gold, 
 That in your roofs may come the King of kings, 
 
 2 Scarfed in a rosy cloud 
 He doth assend the air ; 
 
 Straight doth the moon Him shrowd 
 With her resplendent hair ; 
 The next encrystal'd light 
 Submits to Him its beams. 
 And He doth trace the height 
 Off that fair lamp which flames of beauty streams. 
 
 3 He towers those golden bounds 
 He did to sun bequeath ; 
 
 The higher wandering rounds 
 Are found His feet beneath ; 
 R 
 
242 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 The milky way comes near, 
 Heaven's axle seems to bend 
 Above each turning sphere, 
 That robed in glory Heaven's King may ascend. 
 
 4 What was dismarshall'd late 
 In this Thy noble frame. 
 And lost the prime estate, 
 Hath re-obtain'd the same, 
 Is now most perfect seen ; 
 Streams which diverted were 
 (And troubled strayed unclean) 
 
 From their first source, by Thee honie turned are. 
 
 5 By Thee that blemish old 
 Of Eden's leprous prince, 
 Which on his race took hold, 
 And him exiled from thence, 
 Now put away is far : 
 With sword, in ireful guise, 
 No cherub more shall bar 
 
 Poor man the entries into Paradice. 
 
 6 O well-spring of this all, 
 Thy father's image vive. 
 Word, that from nought did call 
 What is, doth reason, live ; 
 Whose work is but to will, 
 God's coeternal Son, 
 
 Great banisher of ill. 
 By none, but Thee could these great deeds be done. 
 
 7 Now each ethereal gate 
 To Him hath opened been. 
 And glor)''s King in state 
 His palace enters in ; 
 
 Now come is this high priest 
 In the most holy place. 
 Not without blood addrest. 
 With glory heaven, the earth to crown with grace. 
 
 8 Stars, which all eyes were late, 
 And did with wonder burn 
 His name to celebrate, 
 
 In flaming tongues them turn ; 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 343 
 
 Their orby crystals move 
 More active than before, 
 And entheate from above 
 Their sovereign Prince laud, glorify, adore. 
 
 9 The quires of happy souls, 
 Walked with that music sweet, 
 Whose descant care controuls, 
 Their Lord in triiunph meet ; 
 The spotless sp'rits of light 
 His trophies do extol. 
 And arch'd in squadrons bright 
 Greet their great Victor in His capitol. 
 
 HUMAN FRAILTY. 
 
 A good that never satisfies the mind, 
 
 A beauty, fading like the April flowers, 
 
 A sweet, with floods of gaU that runs combined^ 
 
 A pleasure, passing ere in thought made ours, 
 
 A honour that more fickle is than wind, 
 
 A glory, at opinion's frown that lowers, 
 
 A treasiuy, which bankrupt Time devours, 
 
 A knowledge, than grave ignorance more blind, 
 
 A vain deUght our equals to command, 
 
 A style of greatness, in effect a dream, 
 
 A swelling thought of holding sea and land, 
 
 A servile lot, decked with a pompous name. 
 
 Are the strange ends we toil for here below. 
 
 Till wisest Death make us our error know. 
 
 NO TRUST IN TIME. 
 
 Look how the flower which lingeringly doth fade, 
 The morning's darling late, the summer's queen. 
 Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green, 
 As high as it did raise, bows down the head ; 
 Just so, the pleasiures of my life being dead, 
 Or in their contraries but only seen. 
 With swifter speed declines than erst it spread. 
 And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been, 
 R 2 
 
244 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Therefor, as doth the pilgrim whom the night 
 Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, 
 Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright 
 Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day ; 
 Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, 
 And twice it is not given thee to be born. 
 
 THE BOOK OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Of this fair volume which we "World" do name ' 
 
 If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, 
 
 Of Him who it corrects and did it frame 
 
 We clear might read the art and wisdom rare ; 
 
 Find cut His power which wildest powers doth tame. 
 
 His providence extending everywhere. 
 
 His justice, which proud rebels doth not spare. 
 
 In every page — no period of the same. 
 
 But siUy we, like foolish children, rest 
 
 Well pleased with coloured veUum, leaves of gold, 
 
 Fair dangling ribands ; leaving what is best. 
 
 On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold ; 
 
 Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught, 
 
 It is some picture on the margin wrought. 
 
 TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours 
 
 Of winters past or coming, void of care. 
 
 Well pleased with delights which present are. 
 
 Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet smelling flowers ! 
 
 To rocks, to springs, to riUs, from leafy bowers 
 
 Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declair. 
 
 And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare ; 
 
 A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
 
 What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs. 
 
 Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not driven 
 
 Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs. 
 
 And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ? 
 
 Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise 
 
 To airs of spheres — yes, and to angels' lays. 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 245 
 
 I KNOW. 
 
 I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
 And what by mortals in this world is brought 
 In Time's great periods shall return to nought ; 
 That fairest states have fatal nights and days. 
 I know that all the Muses' heavenly lays, 
 With ton of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
 As idle sounds, of few or none are sought ; 
 That there is nothing lighter than vain praise. 
 I know fiail Beauty 's like the purple flower, 
 To which one morn oft birth and death affords ; 
 That Love a jarring is of minds' accords. 
 Where sense and will bring under reason's power : 
 Know what I list, this all can not me niove, 
 But that, alas, I both must write and love. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, 
 Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings, 
 Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings. 
 Sole comforter of minds which are oppressed, . 
 Lo 1 by thy charming rod all breathing things 
 Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possessed ; 
 And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings 
 Thou spar'st, alas ! who cannot be thy guest. 
 Since I am thine, O come, but with that face 
 To inward light which thou are wont to show — 
 With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe ; 
 Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, 
 Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath ; 
 I long to kiss the image of my death. 
 
 BEAUTY FADES. 
 
 Trust not, sweet soul, those curldd waves of gold 
 With gentle tides that on your temples flow, 
 Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow. 
 Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain enroUed. 
 
246 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Trust not those shining lights which wrought my w< 
 
 When first I did their azure rays behold, 
 
 Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do shi 
 
 Than of the Thracian harper have been told. 
 
 Look to this dying lily, fading rose. 
 
 Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams 
 
 Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice, 
 
 And think how little is 'twixt hfe's extremes ; 
 
 The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers 
 
 Shall once, ah me ! not spare that spring of yours. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends, 
 
 Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light, 
 
 Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends, 
 
 Become all ear — stars stay to hear thy plight ! 
 
 If one whose grief e'en reach of thought transcends. 
 
 Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight. 
 
 May thee importune who like case pretends. 
 
 And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite, 
 
 Tell me — so may thou fortune milder try. 
 
 And long, long sing — for what thou thus complains. 
 
 Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky 
 
 Enamour'd smiles on woods and flowery plains? 
 
 The bird, as if my questions did her move, 
 
 With trembling wings, sighed forth, "I love — I love! 
 
 TO ALEXIS. 
 
 Alexis, here she stayed ; among these pines, 
 
 Sweet hermitess, she did alone repair. 
 
 Here did she spread the treasure of her hair. 
 
 More rich than that brought from the Colchian mine 
 
 Here sat she by these musked eglantines, — 
 
 The happy flowers seem yet the print to bear ! 
 
 Her voice did sweeten here thy sugared lines. 
 
 To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear. 
 
 She here me first perceived — and here a morn 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 247 
 
 Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face ; 
 Here did she sigh — ^here first my hopes were bom ; 
 Here first I got a pledge of promised grace : 
 But, ah ! what serves 't t" have been made happy so^ 
 Sith passed pleasures double but new woe? 
 
 TO SPRING. 
 
 Sweet Spring, thou com'st with all thy goodly train ! 
 
 Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers : 
 
 The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain ; 
 
 The clouds, for joy, in pearls weep down their showers. 
 
 Sweet Spring, thou com'st ! — but, ah ! my pleasant hours 
 
 And happy days with thee come not again ; 
 
 The sad memorials only of my pain 
 
 Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours. 
 
 Thou art the same which still thou wert before, 
 
 DeUcious, lusty, amiable, fair ; 
 
 But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air 
 
 Is gone ; nor gold, nor gems, can her restore. 
 
 Neglected Virtue ! seasons go and come, 
 
 When thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb. 
 
 TO HIS LUTE. 
 
 My Lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow 
 
 With thy green mother in some shady grove, 
 
 When immelodious winds made thee move, 
 
 And birds their ramage^ did on thee bestow. 
 
 Since that dear voice which did thy voice approve, 
 
 Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow. 
 
 Is reft from earth to tune those spheres above. 
 
 What art thou but a harbinger of woe ? 
 
 Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more, 
 
 But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear ; 
 
 Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear ; 
 
 For which be silent as in woods before ; 
 
 Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, 
 
 Like widowed turtle still her loss complain. 
 
 (i) Retrtuige — Chirping, singing, or warbling. 
 
248 WILLIAM DRUMMOXD. 
 
 EPIGRAMS. 
 
 The Scottish kirk the English church do name ; 
 The English church the Scots. a kirk do call. 
 Kirk, and not church, church and not kirk, — O shame I 
 Your Kappa turn in Chi, or perish all. 
 
 Assemblies meet, post bishops to the court ; 
 
 If these two nations fight, 'tis strangers' sport. 
 
 Against the king. Sir, now why would ye fight ? 
 Forsooth, because he dubbed me not a knight. 
 And ye, my lords, why arm ye 'gainst King Charles ? 
 Because of lords he would not make us earls. 
 Earls, why do ye lead forth these warlike bands ? 
 Because we wiU not quit the church's lands. 
 Most holy church-men, what is your intent .'' 
 The King our stipends largely did augment. 
 Commons, to tumult thus why are you driven 'i 
 Priests us persuade it is the way to heaven. 
 
 Are these jiist cause of war (good people), grant ? 
 
 Hoe ! plunder ! thou ne'er swore our covenant. 
 
 When lately Pym descended into hell, 
 Ere he the cups of Lethe did carouse. 
 What place that was he called loud to tell, 
 To whom a devil, " This is the Lower House." ' 
 
 THE FIVE SENSES. 
 
 I. SEEING. 
 
 From such a face, whose excellence, 
 May captivate my sovereign's sense, 
 And make him (Phosbus like) his throne 
 Resign to some young Phaeton, 
 Whose skill-less and unstayed hand 
 May prove the ruin of the land, 
 Unless great Jove, down from the sky, 
 
 (i) This piece is illustrative of Drummond's deep aversion to Pym, and to the 
 whole of the associates of Cromwell. 
 
WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 249 
 
 Beholding Earth's calamity, 
 
 Strike with his hand, which cannot err, 
 
 The proud ursurping charioteer, 
 
 And cure (though Phoebus grieve) oiu- woe ; 
 
 From such a face as can work so, 
 
 Wheresoever thou hast a being, 
 
 Bless my sovereign and his seeing. 
 
 11. HEARING. 
 
 From jest profane and flattering tongues, 
 From bawdy tales and beastly songs. 
 From after-supper suits, that fear 
 A parliament or council's ear ; 
 From Spanish treaties, that may wound 
 The country's peace, the Gospel's sound ; 
 From Job's false friends, that would entice 
 My sovereign from heaven's paradise ; 
 From prophets, such as Achab's were, 
 Whose flatterings sooth my sovereign's ear ; 
 His frowns more than his Maker's fearing ; 
 Bless my sovereign and his hearing. 
 
 III. TASTING. 
 
 From all fruit that is forbidden, 
 Such for which old Eve was chidden, 
 From bread of labours, sweat and toil, 
 From the poor widow's meal and oil. 
 From blood bf innocents oft wrangled 
 From their etates, and from that 's strangled ; 
 From the candid poisoned baits 
 Of Jesuits and their deceits ; 
 Italian salads, Romish drugs. 
 The milk of Babel's proud whores' dugs ; 
 From wine that can destroy the brain, 
 And from the dangerous figs of Spain, 
 At all banquets and all feasting, 
 Bless my sovereign and his tasting. 
 
 IV. FEELING. 
 From prick of conscience — such a sting 
 As slays the soul — Heaven bless the king ! 
 From such a bribe as may withdraw 
 His thoughts from equity or law ; 
 From such a smooth and beardless chin 
 As may provoke or tempt to sin ; 
 
250 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 From such a hand whose moist palm may 
 My sovereign lead out of the way ; 
 From things polluted and unclean ; 
 From all things beastly and obscene ; 
 From that may set his soul a reeling, 
 Bless my sovereign and his feeling. 
 
 V. SMELLING. 
 
 Where myrrh and frankincense is thrown, 
 The altar 's built to gods unknown, 
 O let my sovereign never dwell ! — 
 Such damned perfumes are fit for hell. 
 Let no such scent his nostrils stain ; 
 From smells that poison can the brain 
 Heaven still preserve him. Next I crave 
 Thou wilt be pleased, great God, to save 
 My sovereign from a Ganymede, 
 Whose whorish breath hath power to lead 
 His excellence which way it list ; 
 O let such lips be never kist ! 
 From a breath so far excelling, 
 Bless my sovereign and his smelling. 
 
 THE ABSTRACT. 
 
 SEEING. 
 
 And now, just God, I humbly pray, 
 That thou wilt take the slime away 
 That keeps my sovereign's eyes from seeing 
 The things that will be our undoing. 
 HEARING. 
 
 Then let him hear (good God) the sounds. 
 As well of men as of his hounds. 
 
 TASTE. 
 Give him a taste, and truly too. 
 Of what his subjects imdergo. 
 
 FEELING AND SMELLING. 
 
 Give him a feeling of their woes. 
 
 And then no doubt his royal nose 
 
 Will quickly smell the rascals forth. 
 
 Whose black deeds have echpsed his worth : 
 
 They found and scourged for their offences. 
 
 Heavens, bless my sovereign and his senses. 
 
2S1 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 Beaumont. — Born 1586. Died 1616. 
 Fletcher. — Bom 1576. Died 1625. 
 
 Francis Beaumont was the third son of Francis Beaumont, one 
 of the jndges of the Court of Common Pleas. He was bom at Grace 
 Dieu, in Leicestershire, and at the age of ten was admitted a Gentleman 
 Commoner at Broadgate Hall, Oxford (now Pembroke College). On 
 leaving Ojrford he studied at the Inner Temple, where his " Masque of 
 the Inner Temple and Gray's Inn " was performed in i6l2. Beaumont's 
 studies of law could not have been very great, for he seems to have 
 devoted himself to the Muses almost at once, after leaving the Uni- 
 versity. He entered into a literary partnership with John Fletcher, 
 in consequence of which their names are now always associated in 
 literature under the title given to their dramatic firm, " Beaumont and 
 Fletcher." They lived together for a considerable time " on the Bank- 
 side, not far from the play-house," where they had all things in 
 common — the same clothes, cloaks, &c Subsequently Beaumont 
 married Ursula, daughter and co-heiress of Sir Henry Isley, of 
 Sundridge, Kent, by whom he had two daughters ; one of whom lived 
 for a number of years in the family of the Duke of Ormond, and 
 attained a great age, being still alive in the year 1700. Beaumont only 
 lived until 1616, when he was thirty years of age. He was buried in 
 Westminster Abbey, at the entrance of St Benedict's Chapel, close to 
 the Earl of Middlesex's monument. There is no inscription to mark 
 she spot 
 
 John Fletcher was the son of Richard Fletcher, D.D., who was 
 successively Bishop of Bristol, Worcester, and London. The bishop is 
 still unenviably remembered, on account of his being chosen to attend 
 Mary, Queen of Scots, at the time of her execution. His "memory 
 win be execrated as long as the manly and pathetic pages of Dr. Stuart 
 shall endure, for embittering, with officious real, the last moments of the 
 unfortunate Queen of Scots. At which time," says Anthony Wood, 
 " he being the person appointed to pray with and for her, did persuade 
 her to renounce her religion, contrary to all Christianity (as it was by 
 many then present so taken), to her great disturbance!'''' 
 
 John Fletcher, the bishop's son, was "bom at Rye, in Sussex, 
 December 1576. and was admitted a pensioner at Bennet College 
 when he was fifteen. The intimacy between Beaumont and Fletcher 
 
25 2 BE A UMONT A ND FLE TCHER. 
 
 seems to have commenced at Oxford, and from the nature of thei 
 literary partnership they must have continued (despite Beaumont' 
 marriage) daily associates to the time of Beaumont's death. Fletche 
 only survived his friend nine years. In 1625 the Great Plagu 
 ravaged the metropolis. Fletcher received an invitation from a friem 
 to go into the country. Unfortunately he delayed his departure ii 
 order to furnish himself with a nevif suit of clothes ; and while h 
 tarried the fatal infection took him, and he died. He was buried ii 
 the church of St. Saviour's, Southwark. 
 
 It is impossible in the present day to determine which portions of th( 
 plays published under their joint names were written by Beaumont anc 
 which by Fletcher. Dr. Earle, afterwards Bishop of Salisbury — a mar 
 intimately acquainted with Beaumont — asserted during the life-time ol 
 Fletcher, that the three plays, "The Maid's Tragedy," "Philaster," 
 and " King and No King," were exclusively the composition ol 
 Beaumont. Beaumont was the scholar, while Fletcher was the man of 
 the world. Beaumont's strength lay most in the pathetic and solemn, 
 while Fletcher's was in pleasantry and comedy : 
 
 " Fletcher's keen treble, and deep Beaumonl^s base." 
 
 There are, however, in some of the plays mock-heroic scenes of great 
 excellence, which are known to have been written by Beaumont. 
 Eleven of the plays to be found in their " Works " were written by 
 Fletcher after Beaumont's death, and therefore their authorship belongs 
 exclusively to him. As the object of this book is, as far as possible, to 
 avoid quoting dramatic authors, the passages here given are taken 
 chiefly from Beaumont's poetry. They will be found lively and original ; 
 and in the so-called " Sonnet," beginning, " Like a ring without a 
 finger," there is a profuseness of lively imagery that is most charming. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Like a ring without a finger, 
 Or a bell without a ringer ; 
 Like a horse was never ridden, 
 Or a feast and no guest bidden ; 
 Like a well without a bucket, 
 Or a rose if no man pluck it : 
 Just such as these may she be said 
 That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid. 
 
 The ring if worne the finger decks, 
 The bell pulled by the ringer speakes ; 
 The horse doth ease if he be ridden, 
 The feast doth please if ^uest be bidden : 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 253 
 
 The bucket draws the water forth, 
 
 The rose when pluck'd is still most worth : 
 
 Such is the virgin, in my eyes, 
 
 That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies. 
 
 Like to a stock not grafted on. 
 
 Or like a lute not played upon ; 
 
 Like a jack without a weight. 
 
 Or a barque without a freight ; 
 
 Like a lock without a key, 
 
 Or a candle in the day : 
 
 Just such as these may she be said 
 
 That Uves, ne'er loves, but dies a maid. 
 
 The grafted stock doth beare best fruit. 
 
 There's music in the fingered lute ; 
 
 The weight doth make the jack go ready. 
 
 The freight doth make the barque go steady ; 
 
 The key the lock doth open right, 
 
 The candle's useful in the night : 
 
 Such is the virgin, in my eyes. 
 
 That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies. 
 
 Like a call without " Anon, sir," 
 
 Or a question and no answer ; 
 
 Like a ship was never rigged, 
 
 Or a mine was never digged ; 
 
 Like a wound without a tent,^ 
 
 Or civet-boxe without a scent : 
 
 Just such as these may she be said 
 
 That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid. 
 
 The " Anon, sir," doth obey the call. 
 The question answered pleaseth all ; 
 Who rigs a ship sailes with the wind. 
 Who digs a mine doth treasure find ; 
 The wound by wholesome tent hath ease, 
 The boxe perfumed, the senses please : 
 Such is the virgin, in my eyes, 
 That lives, loves, mames, ere she dies. 
 
 Like marrow-bone was never broken. 
 Or commendations and no token ; 
 Like a fort and none to win it. 
 Or like the moon and no man in it ; 
 
 (i) Tent — a roll of lint : i.e. a wound without any medical tent, or treatment. 
 
254 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 Like a schoole without a teacher, 
 Or like a pulpit and no preacher • 
 Just such as these may she be said 
 That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid. 
 
 The broken marrow-bone is sweet, 
 The token doth adorne the greet ; 
 There's triumph in the fort being woon, 
 The man rides glorious in the moon ; 
 The schoole is by the teacher stilled, 
 The pulpit by the preacher filled : 
 Such is the virgin, in my eyes. 
 That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies. 
 
 Like a cage without a bird, 
 
 Or a thing too long deferr'd ; 
 
 Like the gold was never tryed, 
 
 Or the ground unoccupied ; 
 
 Like a house that's not possessed, 
 
 Or the book was never pressed : 
 
 Just such as' these may she be said 
 
 That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid. 
 
 The bird in cage doth sweetly sing, 
 
 Due season prefers every thing ; ' 
 
 The gold that's tryed from drosse is pur'd, 
 
 There's profit in the ground manur'd ; 
 
 The house is by possession graced, 
 
 The book when pressed is then embraced : 
 
 Such is the virgin, in my eyes, 
 
 That lives, loves, marries, ere she dies. 
 
 ETERNITY OF LOVE PROTESTED. 
 
 How ill doth he deserve a lover's name. 
 
 Whose pale weake flame 
 
 Cannot retaine 
 His heat in spight of absence or disdaine ; 
 But doth at once, like paper on fire 
 
 Burne and expire. 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 255 
 
 True love can never change his seat, 
 Nor did he ever love that could retreat. 
 That noble flame which my breast keeps alive 
 
 Shall still survive 
 
 When my soule's fled : 
 Nor shall my love die when my body's dead ; 
 That shall waite on me to the lower shade, 
 
 And never fade. 
 My very ashes in their ume 
 Shall, hke a hallowed lamp, for ever bume. 
 
 IN THE PRAISE OF SACK. 
 
 Listen all, I pray. 
 
 To the words I have to say ; 
 In memory sure insert 'um : 
 
 Rich wines do us raise 
 
 To the honour of bales, — 
 Quern non fecere disertum ? 
 
 Of all the juice 
 
 Which the gods produce, 
 Sack shall be preferr'd before them ; 
 
 Tis sack that shall 
 
 Create us all. 
 Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum. 
 
 We abandon all ale, 
 
 And beer that is stale, 
 Rosa-solis, and damnable hum ; 
 
 But we will crack 
 
 In the praise of sack 
 'Gainst ormne quod exit in um. 
 
 This is the wine 
 
 Which, in former time, 
 Each wise one of the magi 
 
 Was wont to arouse 
 
 In a frohck bouse, 
 Recubans sub tegmine fagi. 
 
256 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 Let the hop be their bane, 
 
 And a rope be their shame, 
 Let the gout and collide pine 'um, 
 
 That offer to shrink 
 
 In taking their drink, 
 Seu Graecum sive Latinum. 
 
 Let the glasse go round, 
 
 Let the quart-pot sound, 
 Let each one do as he's done to : 
 
 Avant, ye that hug 
 
 The abominable jug ; 
 'Mongst us Heteroclita sunto. 
 
 There's no such disease 
 
 As he that doth please 
 His palate with beere for to shame us : 
 
 'Tis sack makes us sing 
 
 Hey down adown ding ; 
 Musa Paulo majora canamus. 
 
 He is either mute. 
 
 Or doth poorly dispute, 
 That drinks aught else but wine, O : 
 
 The more wine a man drinks, 
 
 Like a subtle sphinx, 
 Tantum valet ille loquendo. 
 
 'Tis true, our soules 
 
 By the lowsie bowles 
 Of beere, that doth nought but swill us. 
 
 Do go into swine, 
 
 (Pythagoras, 'tis thine) 
 Nam vos mutastis et illos. 
 
 When I've sack in my braine, 
 
 I'm in a merry veine. 
 And this to me a blisse is : 
 
 Him that is wise 
 
 I can justly despise ; 
 Mecum confertur Ulisses. 
 
 How it cheares the brains, 
 How it warms the vains. 
 How against all crosses it arms us 
 
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 257 
 
 How it makes him that's poore 
 Courageously roare, 
 Et mutatas dicere formas! 
 
 Give me the boy, 
 
 My delight and my joy, 
 To my tantum that drinks his tale : 
 
 By sack that he waxes 
 
 In our syntaxes, 
 Est verbum personale. 
 
 Art thou weake or lame, 
 
 Or thy wits to blame ? 
 Call for sack, and thou shalt have it ; 
 
 'Twill make thee rise 
 
 And be very wise, 
 Cui vim natura negavit. 
 
 We have froUc rounds. 
 
 We have merry go downs. 
 Yet nothing is done at randome ; 
 
 For when we are to pay 
 
 We club and away, 
 Id est commune notandum. 
 
 The blades that want cash 
 
 Have credit for crash, 
 TheyTl have sack, whatever it cost 'um : 
 
 They do not pay 
 
 Till another day, 
 Manet alta mente repostimi. 
 
 Who ne'er failes to drink 
 
 All cleare from the brink. 
 With a smooth and even swallow, 
 
 lie offer at his shrine. 
 
 And call it divine, 
 Et erit mihi magnus Apollo. 
 
 He that drinks still. 
 
 And never hath his fiU, 
 Hath a passage like a conduit ; 
 
 The sack doth inspire 
 
 In rapture and fire. 
 Sic aether sethera fundit. 
 S 
 
2S8 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 When you merrily quaffe, 
 
 If any do off, 
 And then from you needs will passe ye, 
 
 Give their nose a twitch, 
 
 And kick them in the britch, 
 Nam componuntur ab asse. 
 
 I have told you plain, 
 
 And tell you again. 
 Be he furious as Orlando, 
 
 He is an asse 
 
 That from hence doth passe, 
 Nisi bibit ab ostia stando. 
 
 PROM "THE ELDER BROTHER." 
 
 Beauty clear and fair, 
 
 Where the air 
 Rather like a perfume dwells. 
 Where the violet and the rose 
 Their blue veins in blush disclose. 
 And come to honour nothing else ; 
 
 Where to live near, 
 
 And planted there, 
 Is to live, and still live new ; 
 Where to gain a favour is 
 More than light, perpetual bliss. 
 Make me live by serving you. 
 
 Dear, again back recall 
 
 To this light, 
 A stranger to himself and all ; 
 Both the wonder and the story 
 Shall be yours, and eke the glory : 
 I am your servant, and your thrall. 
 
BEAUMONT AA'D FLETCHER. 259 
 
 FROM "THE MAID'S TRAGEDY." 
 
 Asp. Lay a garland on my hearse. 
 
 Of the dismal yew ; 
 Maidens, willow branches bear ; 
 
 Say, I died true : 
 My love was false, but I was firm 
 
 From my hour of birth : 
 Upon my buried body he 
 
 Lightly, gentle earth ! 
 
 Dula. I could never have the pow'r 
 To love one above an hour. 
 But my heart would prompt mine eye 
 On some other man to fly : 
 Venus, fix thou mine eyes fest, 
 Or if not, give me all that I shall see at last. 
 
 FROM "VALENTINIAN." 
 
 Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, 
 Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose 
 On this afflicted prince : fall like a cloud. 
 In gentle showers j give nothing that is loud 
 Or painful to his slumbers ; easy, sweet. 
 And as a purling stream thou son of night. 
 Pass by his troubled senses ; sing his pain, 
 'Like hollow miumuring wind, or silver rain. 
 Into this prince gently, oh, gently sUde, 
 And kiss him into slumbers like a bride ! 
 
 FROM "ROLLO." 
 
 Take, oh, take those hps away. 
 That so sweetly were forsworn, 
 
 And those eyes, the break of day, 
 Lights that do mislead the mom ; 
 
 But my kisses bring again 
 
 Seals of love, though seal'd in vain. 
 ? 2 
 
36o BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 Hide, oh, hide those hills of snow. 
 Which thy frozen bosom bears. 
 
 On whose tops the pinks that grow 
 Are yet of those that April wears ; 
 
 But first set my poor heart free, 
 
 Bound in those icy chains by thee. 
 
 FROM "NICE VALOUR, OR THE PASSIONATI 
 MADMAN." 
 
 Hence, all you vain delights, 
 As short as are the nights 
 
 Wherein you spend your folly ! 
 There's nought in this life sweet, 
 If men were wise to see't. 
 
 But only melancholy : 
 
 Oh, sweetest melancholy ! 
 Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, 
 A sigh that piercing mortifies, 
 A look that's fastened to the ground, 
 A tongue chain'd up, without a sound ! 
 
 Fountain-heads and pathless groves. 
 Places which pale passion loves ! 
 Moonlight walks, when all the fowls 
 Are warmly housed, save bats and owls \ 
 A midnight bell, a parting groan ! 
 These are the sounds we feed upon ; 
 Then stretch our bones in a still, gloomy valley : 
 Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. 
 
 fS't^ 
 
ibi 
 
 PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 Bom 1584. Died 1640. 
 
 Philip Massinger was bom at Salisbury. His father was one of 
 the retainers of the Earl of Pembroke, and acted as courier in carrying 
 comnmnications between Queen Elizabeth and the Earl. Massinger 
 entered at St Alban's Hall, Oxford, in 1602, where he was supported 
 by the Earl of Pembroke. He is said to have spent his time at the 
 Univeisity more in reading poetry and romances than in studying logic 
 and philosophy. He left Oxford without taking a d^ree, and seems 
 to have lost the fevonr of his patron. Having gone to London, he 
 devoted himself at once to dramatic writing, though it is probable he 
 rather aided others than attempted anything original of his own. It 
 was not until he had been sixteen years in London that his first original 
 play, "The Virgin Martyr," was produced (1622). After Beaumont's 
 death he assisted Fletcher in the composition of several of his plays. 
 Altogether there were thirty-seven plays which appeared under Mas- 
 singer's name, of which he had written either the whole or a great 
 part. Eighteen of his plays still exist, and there were ten more which 
 were destroyed in MS. by the carelessness of a servant of Warburton. 
 The last play of Massinger's composition appeared only six weeks 
 before his death. He died March 17, 1640, and was buried in St. 
 Saviour's, South wark, as a "stranger," i.e. a non-parishioner. 
 
 Massinger's plays are distinguished for their abstinence from the 
 coarse oaths which pervade the dramatic writings of his day ; and in 
 general for a purer and better taste than we find in the writers of his 
 time. His works are particularly interesting as expositions of the state 
 of society at the period in which he wrote. " The City Madam," from 
 which a scene is here given, exhibits the vulgar and pretentious opulence 
 of City people, the neediness and dishonesty of courtiers, and is 
 throughout a fearful holding-up of the mirror to nature in the times 
 that immediately preceded the Great Rebellion. 
 
262 PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 THE CITY MADAM. Act IV. Scene 4. 
 A Room in SIR John Frugal's House. 
 . Enter Holdfast, Stargaze, and Milliscent. 
 
 Star. Not wait upon my lady ? 
 
 Hold. Nor come at her; 
 
 You find it not in your almanack. 
 
 Mill. Nor I have licence 
 
 To bring her breakfast .? 
 
 Hold. My new master hath 
 
 Decreed this for a fasting-day. She hath feasted long ; 
 And after a carnival. Lent ever follows. 
 
 Mill. Give me the key of her wardrobe. 
 You'll repent this ; 
 I must know what gown she'll wear. 
 
 Hold. You are mistaken, 
 
 Dame president of the sweetmeats ; she and her daughters 
 Are turn'd philosophers, and must carry all 
 Their wealth about them : they have clothes laid in their chambe 
 If they please to put them on, and without help too. 
 Or they may walk naked. You look. Master Stargaze, 
 As you had seen a strange count, and had now foretold 
 The end of the world, and on what day ; and you. 
 As the wasps had broke into the gallipots. 
 And eaten up your apricots. 
 
 Lady Frug. (within). Stargaze ! MiUiscent ! 
 
 Mill. My lady's voice. 
 
 Hold. ' Stir not, you are confined here. — 
 
 Your ladyship may approach them, if you please ; [Aloud. 
 But they are bound in this circle. 
 
 Lady Frug. (within). Mine own bees 
 
 Rebel against me ! When my kind brother knows this, 
 I wiU be so revenged ! 
 
 Hold. The world's weU alter'd. 
 
 He's yotu" kind brother now ; but yesterday 
 Your slave and jesting-stock. 
 
 Enter Lady Frugal, Anne, and Mary, in coarse habits, 
 
 weeping. 
 Mill. What witch hath transform'd you 1 
 Star. Is this the glorious shape your cheating brother 
 Promised you should appear in ? 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 263 
 
 Mill. My young ladies 
 
 In buffin gowns, and green aprons ! tear them off : 
 Rather shew all than be seen thus. 
 
 Hold. 'Tis more comely, 
 
 I wis, than their other whim-whams. 
 
 Mill A French hood too, 
 
 Now 'tis out of fashion ! a fool's cap would shew better. 
 
 Lady Frug. We are fools indeed ! by whose command are 
 we used thus ? 
 
 Enter LUKE. 
 
 Hold. Here he comes can best resolve you. 
 
 Lady Frug. O, good brother ! 
 
 Do you thus preserve your protestation to me ? 
 Can queens envy this habit ? or did Juno 
 E'er feast in such a shape ? 
 
 Anne. You taUc'd of Hebe, 
 
 Of Iris, and I know not what ; but were they 
 Dress'd as we are ? they were sure some chandler's daughters 
 Bleaching hnen in Moorfields. 
 
 Mary. Or Exchange wenches. 
 
 Coming from eating pudding-pies on a Sunday 
 At Pimlico, or Islington. 
 
 Luke. Save you, sister ! 
 
 I now dare style you so : you were before 
 Too glorious to be looFd on, now you appear 
 Like a city matron ; and my pretty nieces 
 Such things as were bom and bred there. Why should you ape 
 The fashions of court-ladies, whose high titles. 
 And pedigrees of long descent, give warrant 
 For their superfluous bravery .' 'Twas monstrous : 
 Till now you ne'er look'd lovely. 
 
 Lady Frug. Is this spoken 
 
 In scorn ? 
 
 Luke. Fie ! no ; with judgment. I make good 
 My promise, and now shew you like yourselves. 
 In your own natural shapes ; and stand resolved 
 You shall continue so. 
 
 Lady Frug. It is confess'd, sir. 
 
 Luke. Sir ! sirrah : use your old phrase, I can bear- it 
 
 Lady Frug. That, if you please, forgotten, we acknowledge 
 We have deserv'd iU from you ; yet despair not. 
 Though we are at your disposure, you'll maintain us 
 Like your brother's wife and daughters. 
 
 Luke. 'Tis my purpose. 
 
264 PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 Lady Frug. And not make us ridiculous. 
 Luke, Admired rathe 
 
 As fair examples for our proud city dames, 
 And their proud brood, to imitate. Do not frown ; 
 If you do, I laugh, and glory that I have 
 The power, in you, to scourge a general vice, 
 And rise up a new satirist : but hear gently. 
 And in a gentle phrase I'll reprehend 
 Your late disguised deformity, and cry up 
 This decency and neatness, with the advantage 
 You shall receive by't. 
 Lady Frug. We are bound to hear you. 
 
 Luke. With a soul inclined to learn. Your father was 
 An honest country farmer, goodman Humble, 
 By his neighbours ne'er called Master. Did your pride 
 Descend from him .? but let that pass : your fortune, 
 Or rather your husband's industry, advanced you 
 To the rank of a merchant's wife. He made a knight. 
 And your sweet mistress-ship ladyfied, you wore 
 Satin on solemn days, a chain of gold, 
 A velvet hood, rich borders, and sometimes 
 A dainty miniver cap, a silver pin, 
 Headed with a pearl worth three-pence, and thus far 
 You were privileged, and no man envied it ; 
 It being for the city's honour that 
 There should be a distinction between 
 The wife of a patrician and plebeian. 
 
 Mill. Pray you, leave preaching, or choose some other texl 
 Your rhetoric is too moving, for it makes 
 Your auditory weep. 
 
 Luke. Peace, chattering magpie ! 
 
 I'll treat of you anon : — but when the height 
 And dignity of London's blessings grew 
 Contemptible, and the name Lady Mayoress 
 Became a by-word, and you scorn'd the means 
 By which you were raised, my brother's fond indulgence 
 Giving the reins to it ; and no object pleased you 
 But the glittering pomp and bravery of the court ; 
 What a strange, nay monstrous, metamorphosis follow'd ! 
 No English workman then could please your fancy, 
 The French and Tuscan dress your whole discourse : 
 This bawd to prodigality, entertain'd 
 To buzz into your ears what shape this countess 
 Aof ear'd in the last masque, and how it drew 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 265 
 
 The young lord's eyes upon her ; and this usher 
 Succeeded in the eldest prentice' place. 
 To walk before you 
 
 Lady Frug. Pray you, end. 
 
 Hold. Proceed, sir ; 
 
 I could fast almost a prenticeship to hear you. 
 You touch them so to the quick. 
 
 Luke. Then, as I said. 
 
 The reverend hood cast off, your borrow'd hair, 
 Powder'd and curl'd, was by your dresser's art 
 Form'd Uke a coronet, hang'd with diamonds. 
 And the richest orient pearl ; your carcanets ^ 
 That did adorn your neck, of equal value : 
 Your Hungerland bands, and Spanish quellio ruffs ;' 
 Great lords and ladies feasted to survey 
 Embroider'd petticoats ; and sickness feign'd. 
 That your night-rails of forty pounds a-piece 
 Might be seen, with envy, of the visitants ; 
 Rich pantofles* in ostentation shewn. 
 And roses* worth a family ; you were served in plate, 
 Stirr'd not a foot without your coach ; and going 
 To church, not for devotion, but to shew 
 Your pomp, you were tickled when the beggars cried, 
 Heaven save your honour ! this idolatry 
 Paid to a painted room. 
 
 Hold. Nay, you have reason 
 
 To blubber, all of you. 
 
 Luke. And when you lay 
 
 In childbed, at the christening of this minx, 
 I well remember it, as you had been 
 An absolute princess, since they have no more, 
 Three several chambers hung, the first with arras. 
 And that for waiters ; the second crimson satin, 
 For the meaner sort of gjuests ; the third of scarlet 
 Of the rich Tyrian dye ; a canopy 
 To cover the brat's cradle ; you in state. 
 Like Pompe/s Julia. 
 
 Lady Frug. No more, I pray you. 
 
 Luke. Of this, be sure, you shall not 111 cut off 
 Whatever is exorbitant in you, 
 Or in your daughters, and reduce you to 
 Your natural forms and habits : not in revenge 
 
 (i) Carcantl—a. necklace set with stones. 
 
 (2) Rujffs-T-Sma}! ruffs were worn by citizens' wives, the lai:ge Spanish rufifs by 
 courtieis and ladies of lank. {3) /'an/^rf— slippers. (4) i?tfJ«— shoe-rosettes. 
 
266 PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 Of your base usage of me, but to fright 
 Others by your example : 'tis decreed 
 You shall serve one another, for I will 
 Allow no waiter to you. Out of doors 
 With these useless drones ! 
 Hold. Will you pack ? 
 
 Mill. Not till I have 
 
 My trunks along with me. 
 
 Luke. Not a rag ; you came 
 
 Hither without a box. 
 
 Star. You'll shew to me, 
 
 I hope, sir, more compassion. 
 
 Hold. Troth I'll be 
 
 Thus far a suitor for him : he hath printed 
 An almanack, for this year, at his own charge ; 
 Let him have the impression with him, to set up with. 
 
 Luke. For once I'll be entreated ; let it be 
 Thrown to him out of the window. 
 
 Star. O cursed stars 
 
 That reign'd at my nativity ! how have you cheated 
 Your poor observer ! 
 
 Anne. Must we part in tears ? 
 
 Mary. Farewell, good Milliscent ! 
 
 Lady Frug. I am sick, and meet with 
 
 A rough physician. O my pride and scorn ! 
 How justly am I punish'd ! 
 
 Mary. Now we suffer 
 
 For our stubbornness and disobedience 
 To our good father. 
 
 Anne. And the base conditions 
 
 We imposed upon our suitors. 
 
 Luke. Get you in 
 
 And caterwaul in a corner. 
 Lady Frug. There's no contending. 
 
 [Lady Frugal, Anne, and Mary^c off at one door 
 Stargaze and, Milliscent at the other. 
 Luke. How 
 
 Lik'st thou my carriage, Holdfast ? 
 
 Hold. Well, 
 
 But it relishes, I know not how, a little 
 Of too much tyranny. 
 
 Luke. Thou art a fool : 
 
 He's cruel to himself that dares not be 
 Severe to those that used him cruelly. \Exeunt. 
 
 m some parts ; 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 267 
 
 THE DUKE OF MILAN. Act I. Scene 3. 
 
 Sfokza, supposed Duke of Milan. Francisco, the favourite of Sforza. 
 
 Marcelia, the Duchess, wife of Sforza. Isabella, mother of Sforza. 
 
 TiBERio and Stephano, Lords of the Mariana, wife of Francisco. 
 Council. Attendants, &c. 
 
 Sfor. You are the mistress of the feast — sit here, 
 O my soul's comfort ! and when Sforza bows 
 Thus low to do you honour, let none think 
 The meanest service they can pay my love, 
 But as a fair addition to those titles 
 They stand possest of. Let me glory in 
 My happiness, and mighty kings look pale 
 With envy, while I triumph in mine own. 
 O mother, look on her ! sister, admire her ! 
 And since this present age yields not a woman 
 Worthy to be her second, borrow of 
 Times past, and let imagination help, 
 Of those canonized ladies Sparta boasts of, 
 And in her greatness, Rome was proud to owe, 
 To fashion one ; yet still you must confess, 
 The phoenix of perfection ne'er was seen. 
 But in my fair Marcelia. 
 
 Fran. She's indeed. 
 
 The wonder of all times. 
 
 lib. Your excellence. 
 
 Though I confess you give her but her own, 
 Forces her modesty to the defence 
 Of a sweet blush. 
 
 Sfor. It need not, my Marcelia ; 
 
 When most I strive to praise thee, I appear 
 A poor detractor : for thou art indeed 
 So absolute in body and in mind. 
 That but to speak the least part to the height, 
 Would ask an angel's tongue, and yet then end 
 In silent admiration ! 
 
 Isab- You stiU court her. 
 
 As if she were a mistress, not your wife. 
 
 Sfor. A mistress, mother ! she is more to me. 
 And every day deserves more to be sued to. 
 Such as are clpy'd with those they have embraced 
 
268 PHILIP MASSINGER. 
 
 May think their wooing done : no night to me 
 
 But is a bridal one, where Hymen lights 
 
 His torches fresb and new ; and those delights, 
 
 Which are not to be clothed in airy sounds, 
 
 Enjoy'd, beget desires as full of heat 
 
 And jovial fervour as when first I tasted 
 
 Her virgin fruit — Blest night ! and be it number'd 
 
 Amongst those happy ones, in which a blessing 
 
 Was, by the full consent of all the stars, 
 
 Conferr'd upon mankind. 
 
 Marc. My worthiest lord ! 
 
 The only object I behold with pleasure, — 
 My pride, my glory, in a word, my all ! 
 Bear witness. Heaven, that I esteem myself 
 In nothing worthy of the meanest praise 
 You can bestow, unless it be in this, 
 -That in my heart I love and honour you. 
 And, but that it would smell of arrogance, 
 To speak my strong desire and zeal to serve you, 
 I then could say, these eyes yet never saw 
 The rising sun, but that my vows and prayers 
 Were sent to Heaven for the prosperity 
 And safety of my lord : nor have I ever 
 Had other study, but how to appear 
 Worthy your favour ; and that my embraces 
 Might yield a fruitful harvest of content 
 For all your noble travail in the purchase 
 Of her that's still your servant : By these lips. 
 
 Which, pardon me, that I presume to kiss 
 
 Sfor. O swear for ever, swear ! 
 Marc. I ne'er will seek 
 
 Delight but in your pleasure : and desire, 
 When you are sated with all earthly glories, 
 And age and honours make you fit for heaven. 
 That one grave may receive us. 
 
 Sfor. 'Tis believed. 
 
 Believed, my blest one. 
 
 Mari. How she winds herself 
 
 Into his soul ! 
 
 Sfor. Sit all— Let others feed 
 
 On those gross cates, while Sforza banquets with 
 Immortal viands ta'en in at his eyes. 
 I could live ever thus. — Command the eunuch 
 To sing the ditty that I last composed, 
 
PHILIP MASSINGER. 269 
 
 Enter a COURIER. 
 In praise of my Marcelia, — From whence ? 
 
 Cour. From Pavia, my dread lord. 
 
 Sfor. Speak, is all lost ? 
 
 Cour. {^livers a letter). The letter will inform you. 
 
 Fran. How his hand shakes, 
 
 As he receives it ! 
 
 Mart. This is some allay 
 
 To his hot passion. 
 
 S/or. Though it bring death, I'll read it : 
 
 " May it please your excellence to understaiid, that the very 
 hour I write this, I heard a bold defiance delivered by a herald 
 from the Emperor, which was cheerfully received by the King of 
 France. The battailes being ready to join, and the vanguard 
 committed to my charge, enforces me to end abruptly. 
 
 Your Highness's humble servant, 
 
 Gaspero." 
 Ready to join ! — By this then I am nothing, 
 Or my estate secure. [Aside. 
 
 Marc. My lord. 
 
 Sfor. To doubt, 
 
 Is worse than to have lost : and to despair, 
 Is but to antedate those miseries 
 That must faU on us ; all my hopes depending 
 Upon this battle's fortune. In my soul, 
 Methinks, there should be that imperious power. 
 By supernatural, not usual means, 
 T' inform me what I am. The cause considered, 
 Why should I fear ? The French are bold and strong. 
 Their numbers fuU, and in their councils -wise ; 
 But then, the haughty Spaniard is aU fire, 
 Hot in his executions ; fortunate 
 In his attempts ; married to victory : — 
 Ay, there it is that shakes me. 
 
 Fran. Excellent lady, 
 
 This day was dedicated to your honour ; 
 One gale of your sweet breath will easily 
 Disperse these clouds ; and, but yourself, there's none 
 That dare speak to him. 
 
 Marc. I will run the hazard — 
 
 My lord ! 
 
 Sfor. Ha ! — ^pardon me, Marcelia, I am troubled ; 
 And stand uncertain, whether I am master 
 Of aught that's worth the owning. 
 
270 GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 Marc. I am yours, sir : 
 
 And I have heard you swear, I being safe, 
 There was no loss could move you. This day, sir, 
 Is by your gift made mine. Can you revoke 
 A grant made to Marcelia ? your Marcelia ? 
 For whose love, nay, whose honour, gentle sir. 
 All deep designs, and state-aifairs deferr'd, 
 Be, as you purposed, merry. 
 
 Sfor. Out of my sight ! \Thro'ws away 
 
 And all thoughts that may strangle mirth forsake me. \the letter. 
 Fall what can fall, I dare the worst of fate : 
 Though the foundation of the earth should shrink. 
 The glorious eye of heaven lose his splendour, 
 Supported thus, I'll stand upon the ruins. 
 And seek for new life here. Why are you sad ? 
 No other sports ! By Heaven, he's not my friend 
 That wears one furrow in his face. I was told 
 There was a masque. 
 
 Fran. They wait your highness' pleasure, 
 
 And when you please to have it. 
 
 Sfor. Bid them enter : 
 
 Come, make me happy once again. I am rapt — 
 'Tis not to-day, to-morrow, or the next, 
 But all my days, and years, shall be emplo/d 
 To do thee honour. 
 
 GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 Bom 1588. Died id^-j. 
 
 Wither was bom at Bentworth, in Hampshire, June 11, 1588. 
 He was the second son of John Wither, Esq. living on his ancestral 
 property at Manydowne, near Wotton St. Lawrence. After receiving 
 his education at the Grammar School of Colemere he entered at 
 Magdalen College, Oxon, in 1604, having for his tutor Dr. Warner, 
 subsequently Bishop of Rochester. After being about three years at the 
 University, he left it without taking his degree. He says in his Satires 
 he was called home to "hold the plough," which may be satirical, but 
 is certainly not true. He went to London, and entered at Lincoln's 
 Inn. He did no more in the law than he had done in the University. 
 The first mention that we find of him is as the author of various 
 fugitive pieces of poetry which were circulated among his friends. 
 
GEORGE WITHER. 271 
 
 In 1613 he succeeded in making himself famous by the publfcation of 
 his Satires on the manners of the time, entitled, " Abuses Stript and 
 Whipt." The Government took oflence at certain expressions in this 
 work, and committed the author to the Maishalsea, where he remained 
 caged for several months. In confinement he published his Satire 
 to the King, 1614, bitterly complaining of his imprisonment, which 
 procured his release. After his liberation he published his "Songs 
 and Hynms of the Church,'' dedicated to James I. On the King's 
 death he made a pilgrimage to the Queen of Bohemia, and presented 
 her with a copy of his Translation of the Psalms, in which work he 
 had been encouraged by her father, James I. His poetry, and the 
 usage he had endured, made him very popular with the Puritanical 
 party. His denunciation of the abuses of the time made his poetry, 
 and also his prose, most acceptable to the malcontents. He lived in 
 ease upon the estate which he inherited, and at the commencement of 
 the dvil commotions in 1639 served under the Earl of Arundel as 
 a Captain of Horse in the expedition of Charles I. against the Scotch 
 Covenanters. Subsequently, when the war commenced between the 
 King and his English subjects, Wither turned round, and having sold his 
 estate, raised a troop of horse for the Parliament. He was promoted 
 to the rank of Major. On his colours he carried the motto " Pro Rege, 
 L^e, Grege." In 1642 he was appointed Conunander of Famham 
 Castle^ Surrey, which he deserted. He was taken prisoner by the 
 Royalists, and, it is said, owed his life to Sir John Denham, who 
 requested the King not to hang Wither, because, whilst he lived, Denham 
 would not be thought the worst poet in England. 
 
 Having regained his liberty, he was made Justice of the Peace in 
 Quorum, by the Long Parliament, for Hampshire, Surrey, £md Essex. 
 Cromwell made him Major-General of the Horse and Foot in Surrey, in 
 which office " he licked his fingers sufficiently, gaining thereby a great 
 odiiun from the generous Royalists." At the Restoration he was com- 
 pelled to disgorge his gains, and was also committed to Newgate as 
 author of a publication entitled " Vox Vulgi. " On confessing that he was 
 so, he was sent to the Tower, where he continued for some time a pri- 
 soner, being forbidden the use of pen, ink, and paper. He was released 
 from thence July 27, 1663. On the 2d of May 1667 he died in the 
 Savoy, and was buried within the east door of the Church of the Savoy. 
 
 Wither's poetry is very unequal, and ci great deal of it slovenly and 
 unfinished. Anthony Wood said the things he had written "ivere 
 accounted by the generality of scholars mere scribbles." Critics of the 
 present century have detected in him a true poetic genius, and he has 
 received honours from Campbell, Hazlitt, and Sir Egerton Brydges 
 which had not previously been paid him. His early poetry was 
 decidedly his best Charles Lamb says that the praises of poetry have 
 often been sung, and its force over fascinated crowds has been acknow- 
 ledged; but, "before Wither, no one had celebrated its power at home: 
 the wealth and strength which that divine gift confers on the possessor." 
 
272 GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR. 
 
 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 flow'ry meads in May, 
 If she be not so to me. 
 What care I how fair she be ! 
 
 Should my heart be grieved or pined 
 'Cause I see a woman kind ? 
 Or a well disposed nature 
 Joinfed with a lovely feature ? 
 Be she meeker, kinder, than 
 Turtle-dove. or pelican, 
 
 If she be not so to me, 
 What care I how kind she be ! 
 
 Shall a woman's virtues move 
 Me to perish for her love ? 
 Or, her well-deser\'ings known, 
 Make me quite forget my ovni ? 
 Be she with that goodness blest 
 Which may gain her name of best, 
 If she be not such to me. 
 What care I how good she be ! 
 
 '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 ! 
 
 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 : 
 For, if she be not for me. 
 What care I for whom she be ! 
 
GEORGE WITHER. 273 
 
 FROM THE FOURTH ECLOGUE OF THE 
 SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.^ 
 
 Roget. 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, 
 
 TiU I reached eternity. 
 
 But, alas ! my Muse is slow. 
 
 For thy place she flags too low ; 
 
 Yea, the more's her hapless fate. 
 
 Her short wings were dipt of late ; 
 
 And poor I, her fortune ruing, 
 
 Am myself put up a muing. 
 
 But if I my cage can rid, 
 
 m fly where I never did. 
 
 And though for her sake I'm crost. 
 
 Though my best hopes I have lost. 
 
 And knew she would make my trouble 
 
 Ten times more than ten times double, 
 
 I should love and keep her too, 
 
 Spite of aU the world could do. 
 
 For though banished from my flocks. 
 
 And confined within these rocks. 
 
 Here I waste away the Ught, 
 
 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 spring-tide yields ; 
 
 Though I may not see those groves 
 
 Where the shepherds chaunt their loves, 
 
 (i) Wither, under the name of Roget, exhorts his fiiend Willy (William Browne, 
 author of ''Britannia's Pastorals"; not to give up courting the Muse on account of 
 envy or detraction. He then declares the solace which poetry has been to him. 
 The scene is in the Marshalsea, where Wither was imprisoned on account of his Satires, 
 and where Browne is supposed to be visiting him. 
 
2 74 GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 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, 
 
 Wer"! in mortal's 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 
 
 Her divine skill taught me this, 
 
 That from every thing 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, 
 
 Oi: 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, which give light 
 
 More to terror than delight ; 
 
 This my chamber of Neglect, 
 
 Walled about with Direspect : 
 
GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 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, thou best earthly bhss, 
 
 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 
 
 WTiose dull thoughts can not conceive thee ; 
 
 Though thou be to them a scorn 
 
 Who to nought but earth are bom ; 
 
 Let my life no longer be 
 
 Than I am in love with thee. 
 
 273 
 
 SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP ! 
 
 Sleeps baby, sleep ! What ails my dear ? 
 What ails my darling, thus to cry ? 
 Be still, my chUd, and lend thine ear. 
 To hear me sing thy lullaby. 
 My pretty Iamb, forbear to weep ; 
 Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 
 Thou blessM soul, what canst thou fear ? 
 What thing to thee can mischief do ? 
 Thy God is now thy father dear, 
 His holy Spouse thy mother too. 
 Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; 
 Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 
 Though thy conception was in sin, 
 A sacred bathing thou hast had ; 
 And though thy birth unclean hath been, 
 A blameless babe thou now art made. 
 Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; 
 Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 
 While thus thy lullaby I sing. 
 For thee great blessings ripening be ; 
 Thine eldest brother is a King, 
 And hath a kingdom bought for thee. 
 Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; 
 Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 T 2 
 
276 GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear ; 
 For whosoever thee offends 
 By thy Protector threatened are, 
 And God and angels are thy friends. 
 Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; 
 Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 
 When God with us was dwelling here, 
 In little babes He took delight : 
 Such innocents as thou, my dear. 
 Are ever precious in His sight. 
 Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; 
 Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 
 A little infant once was He ; 
 And strength in weakness then was laid 
 Upon His virgin mother's knee. 
 That power to thee might be convey'd. 
 Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; 
 Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 
 In this thy frailty and thy need 
 
 He friends and helpers doth prepare. 
 
 Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed. 
 
 For of thy weal they tender are. 
 
 Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; 
 
 Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 
 The King of kings, when He was born, 
 Had not so much for outward ease ; 
 By Him such dressings were not worn, 
 Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these. 
 Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; 
 Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 
 Within a manger lodged thy Lord, 
 Where oxen lay, and asses fed : 
 Warm rooms we do to thee afford. 
 An easy cradle or a bed. 
 Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; 
 Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 
 The wants that He did then sustain 
 Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee ; 
 And by His torments and His pain 
 Thy rest and ease secured be. 
 
GEORGE WITHER. 277 
 
 My baby, then, forbear to weep ; 
 Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 
 Thou hast yet more, to perfect this, 
 
 A promise and an earnest got 
 
 Of gaining everlasting bliss. 
 
 Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not 
 
 Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; 
 
 Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 
 
 I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE. 
 
 I loved a lass, a fair one, 
 
 As fair as e'er was seen : 
 She was indeed a rare one. 
 
 Another Sheba Queen. 
 But, fool as then I was, 
 
 I thought she loved me too : 
 But now, alas ! she's left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 Her hair like gold did ghster. 
 
 Each eye was like a star ; 
 She did surpass her sister, 
 
 Which pass'd all others far ; 
 She would me " honey " call ; 
 
 She'd, oh ! — she'd kiss me too : 
 But now, alas ! she's left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 Many a merry meeting 
 
 My love and I have had ; 
 She was my only sweeting. 
 
 She made my heart full glad ; 
 The tears stood in her eyes, 
 
 Like to the morning dew : 
 But now, alas ! she's left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 Her cheeks were like the cherry ; 
 
 Her skin was white as snow ; 
 When she was blithe and merry. 
 
 She angel-like did show ; 
 
278 THOMAS CAREW. 
 
 Her waist exceeding small ; 
 
 The fives did fit her shoe : 
 But now, alas ! she's left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 In summer time or winter 
 
 She had her heart's desire ; 
 I still did scorn to stint her 
 
 From sugar, sack, or fire; 
 The world went round about, 
 
 No cares we ever knew : 
 But now, alas ! she's left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 To maidens' vows and swearing 
 
 Henceforth no credit give ; 
 You may give them the hearing. 
 
 But never them believe ; 
 They are as false as fair, 
 
 Unconstant, frail, untrue : 
 For mine, alas ! hath left me, 
 
 Falero, lero, loo. 
 
 ■•^^s 
 
 THOMAS CAREW. 
 
 Born 1589. Died 1639. 
 
 Thomas Carew was the younger brother of Sir Matthew Carew, on 
 of the Carews of Gloucestershire, and descended from the old stock- 
 the Carews of Devonshire. Lord Clarendon says that Thomas Carei 
 was bom in 1589. The date is commonly accepted. He was educate 
 at Corpus Christ! College, Oxon : but never took a degree. Afte 
 traveUing as a young man on the Continent, he returned to England, an 
 was received with special favour at the Court of Charles I. The Kin 
 appointed him a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber. Carew passed hi 
 time in gaiety, affluence, and the sunshine of the Court of Charles, an 
 died before the days of trouble came. He was much regarded in hi 
 day by Ben Jouson, and Davenant, and Sir John Suckling, so that w 
 often find the name of Carew mentioned among the set that associate 
 with Rare Ben ! He died in 1639, and Lord Clarendon says " his glor 
 was, that after fifty years of his life spent with less severity or exactnes 
 
THOMAS CAREIV. 
 
 279 
 
 than it ought to have been, he died with great remorse for that licence, 
 and with the greatest manifestation of Christianity." 
 
 Carew's poetry is all of a light and saij character, and deals with 
 trifles. Bat it is polished and beautifiil of its kind. Hallam hesitates 
 whether to ^e the preference to him or Waller, to whom he holds 
 Carew saperior in femcy and tenderness. Carew was slow and careftil 
 in composition, and cultivated with exceeding care the graces of lyrical 
 composition. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 UASIK WENTWORTH,! THOMiE COMITIS CLEVELAND FILIA 
 
 PRIMOGKNITA, VHtGINLAM ANIMAM EXHALAVIT 
 
 AM. DOM. jET. SVJE. 
 
 And here the precious dust is laid, 
 Whose purely-tempered clay was made 
 So fine, that it the guest betrayed. 
 
 Else the soul grew so fast within. 
 It broke the outward shell of sin. 
 And so was hatch'd a cherubin. 
 
 In height it soared to God above, 
 In depth it did to knowledge move. 
 And spread in breadth to general love. 
 
 Before, a pious duty shin'd 
 To parents ; courtesy, behind ; 
 On either side, an equal mind. 
 
 Good to the poor, to kindred dear, 
 To servants kind, to friendship clear. 
 To nothing but herself severe. 
 
 So, though a virgin, yet a bride 
 To every grace, she justif/d 
 A chaste polygamy, and d/d. 
 
 Learn from hence, reader, what small trust 
 We owe this world, where Virtue must. 
 Frail as our flesh, crumble to dust. 
 
 (1} She was the eldest daughter of SirHiomas Weatworth, fooith Baron and Earl of 
 Cleveland, who was promoted to various dignities through die mterest of Archhishop 
 Laud. ^ He was one of die most z^ous Royalists, and survived to head the triumphal 
 proces^on on the entrance of Charles IL into London. The barony descended to 
 Anne Isabella, Lady Byron (widow of the poet], who in 1856 became Baroness 
 Wentwortb. 
 
28o THOMAS CAREW. 
 
 THE PROTESTATION. 
 
 No more' shall meads be decked with flowers, 
 Nor sweetness dwell in rosy bowers ; 
 Nor greenest buds on branches spring, 
 Nor warbling birds delight to sing ; 
 Nor April violets paint the grove, 
 If I forsake my Celia's love. 
 
 The fish shall in the ocean burn ; 
 The fountains sweet shall bitter turn ; 
 The humble oak no flood shall know 
 When floods shall highest hills o'erflow ; 
 Black Lethe shall oblivion leave, 
 If e'er my Celia I deceive. 
 
 Love shall his bow and shaft lay by, 
 And Venus' doves want wings to fly ; 
 The sun refuse to show his light. 
 And day shall then be turned to night ; 
 And in that night no star appear, 
 If once I leave my Celia dear. 
 
 Love shall no more inhabit earth, 
 Nor lovers more shall love for worth ; 
 Nor joy above in heaven dwell. 
 Nor pain torment poor souls in hell ; 
 Grim death no more shall horrid prove, 
 If e'er I leave bright Celia's love. 
 
 RED AND WHITE ROSES. 
 
 Read in these roses the sad story 
 
 Of my hard fate, and your own glory : 
 
 In the white you may discover 
 
 The paleness of a fainting lover ; 
 
 In the red, the flames still feeding 
 
 On my heart with fresh wounds bleeding. 
 
 The white will tell you how I languish, 
 
 And the red express my anguish : 
 
 The white my innocence displaying ; 
 
 The red my martyrdom betraying. 
 
THOMAS CAREW. 281 
 
 The frowns that on your brow resided 
 Have those roses thus divided. 
 Oh ! let your smiles but clear the weather, 
 And then they both shall grow together. 
 
 ASK ME NO MORE. 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
 When June is past, the fading rose ; 
 For in your beauties' orient deep 
 These flowers as in their causes sleep. 
 
 Ask me no more, whither do stray 
 The golden atoms of the day ; 
 For in pure love Heaven did prepare 
 Those powders to enrich your hair. 
 
 Ask me no more, whither doth haste 
 The nightingale when May is past ; 
 For in your sweet-dividing throat 
 She winters, and keeps warm her note. 
 
 Ask me no more, where those stars light 
 That downwards fall in dead of night ; 
 For in your eyes they sit, and there 
 Fixfed become, as in their sphere. 
 
 Ask me no more, if east or west 
 The phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 
 For unto you at last she flies. 
 And in your fragrant bosom dies. 
 
 HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK. 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek, 
 
 Or a coral lip admires, 
 Or from star-like eyes doth seek 
 
 Fuel to maintain its fires ; 
 As old Time makes these decay, 
 So his flames must waste av/ay. 
 
282 THOMAS CAREW. 
 
 But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
 Gentle thoughts and cahn desires, 
 
 Hearts with equal love combined, 
 Kindle never-dying fires : 
 
 Where these are not, I despise 
 
 Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes. 
 
 UPON MY LORD CHIEF JUSTICE FINCH. 
 
 HIS ELECTION OF MY LADY ANNE WENTWORTH FOR HIS MISTRE 
 
 Hear this and tremble, all 
 
 Usurping beauties that create 
 A government tyrannical 
 In Love's free state : 
 Justice hath to the sword of your edged eyes 
 His equal balance joined ; his sage head lies 
 In Love's soft lap, which must be just and wise. 
 
 Hark how the stern Law breathes 
 
 Forth amorous sighs, and now prepares 
 No fetters but of silken wreaths 
 And braided hairs : 
 His dreadful rods and axes are exiled, 
 Whilst he sits crowned with roses : Love hath fil'd 
 His native roughness ; Justice is grown mild. 
 
 The golden age returns ; 
 
 Love's bow and quiver useless lie, 
 His shaft, his brand, nor wounds nor bums ; 
 And cruelty 
 Is sunk to hell : the fair shall all be kind ; 
 Who loves shall be beloved ; the froward mind 
 To a deformed shape shall be confin'd. 
 
 Astrsea hath possest 
 
 An earthly seat, and now remains 
 In Finch's heart ; but Wentworth's breast 
 That guest contains : 
 With her she dwells, yet hath not left the skies, 
 Nor lost her sphere ; for, new-enthroned, she tries, 
 " I know no heaven but fair Wentworth's eyes." 
 
 (i) She was the sister of the Lady Maria before mentioned ; but the Chief Justic 
 .-Ljdrcsses were not successful The Lady Anne married Lord Lovelace. 
 
THOMAS CAREW. 283 
 
 THE ENQUIRY. 
 
 Amongst the myrtles as I walked 
 Love and my sighs thus inter-talked : 
 " Tell me, (said I in deep distress) 
 Where may I find my shepherdess ?" 
 
 " Thou fool," (said Love) " know'st thou not this, 
 
 In everything that's good she is ? 
 
 In yonder tulip go and seek ; 
 
 There thou may^st find her lip, her cheek. 
 
 "In yon enamelled pansy by, 
 
 There thou shalt have her curious eyes. 
 
 In bloom of peach, in rosy bud. 
 
 There waves the streamers of her blood. 
 
 "In brightest lilies that there stand, 
 The emblems of her whiter hand. 
 In yonder rising hill there smell 
 Such sweets as in her bosom dwell." 
 
 " 'Tis true " (said I) : and thereupon 
 I went to pluck them one by one. 
 To make of parts a imion ; 
 But on a sudden all was gone. 
 
 With that I stopt : said Love, "These be, 
 Fond man, resemblances of thee : 
 And as these flowers thy joys shall die, 
 Even in the twinkling of an eye ; 
 And aU thy hopes of her shall wither. 
 Like these short sweets thus knit together." 
 
 THE HUE AND CRY. 
 
 In Love's name, you are charged hereby. 
 
 To make a speedy hue and cry 
 
 After a face which, t'other day. 
 
 Stole my wandering heart away. 
 
 To direct you, these in brief 
 
 Are ready marks to know the thief : 
 
284 FRANCIS QUARLES. 
 
 Her hair a net of beams would prove 
 
 Strong enough to capture Jove 
 
 In his eagle shape ;' her brow 
 
 Is a comely field of snow ; 
 
 Her eye so rich, so pure a grey, 
 
 Every beam creates a day ; 
 
 And if she but sleep (not when 
 
 The sun sets), 'tis night again; 
 
 In her cheeks are to be seen 
 
 Of flowers both the king and queen, 
 
 Thither by the Graces led, 
 
 And freshly laid in nuptial bed ; 
 
 On whom lips like nymphs do wait. 
 
 Who deplore their virgin state ; 
 
 Oft they blush, and blush for this. 
 
 That they one another kiss. 
 
 But observe, beside the rest 
 
 You shall know this felon best 
 
 By her tongue ; for if your ear 
 
 Once a heavenly music hear. 
 
 Such as neither gods nor men 
 
 But from that voice shall hear again, 
 
 That, that is she. O, straight surprize. 
 
 And bring her unto Love's assize : 
 
 If you let her go, she may 
 
 Antedate the latter-day. 
 
 Fate and Philosophy controul. 
 
 And leave the world without a soul. 
 
 FRANCIS QUARLES. 
 
 Bom 1592. Died 1644. 
 
 QtTARLES came of a respectable family in Essex. After coraplet 
 his education at Christ's College, Catmbridge, he entered as a studen 
 Lincoln's Inn. He was appointed cupbearer to the unfortunate Prin( 
 Elizabeth, afterwards Queen of Bohemia. Having left her service, 
 became Secretary to Archbishop Usher, and resided in Ireland. Wl 
 the Irish Rebellion broke out in 1641, Quarles was obhged to flj 
 England, and was a great sufferer, not only by his losses in Ireland, 
 
FRAiYCIS QUARLES. 285 
 
 nbsequently through losses inflicted by the Parliamentarians in England, 
 le had a pension from Charles I. and was appointed Chronologer to the 
 Zity of London. In the total overthrow of the Royal cause he was not 
 inly stript of his property, but his library and manuscripts were plun- 
 lered. It is said that grief for his losses hastened his death. He expired 
 September 8, 1644. 
 
 Quarles is one of those authors who can hardly take rank among 
 'oets, and yet one whom it is not well to pass over in silence. The 
 (uaint, and oftentimes absurd, conceits of the English divines of the 
 imes of James and Charles find their expression in versification in the 
 Forks of Quarles. 
 
 Quarles' poetry is in a great measure pious whims. It has sincerity, 
 (fling, earnestness ; but it is frequently so grotesque in its imagery, 
 hat we should doubt whether the author was not making fim of holy 
 hings, did we not know that the fashion of his Muse was but to " do 
 nto verse " the prose of the pulpit Quarles' " Emblems " are the 
 inly productions of his pen which can be said to have lived tmtil the 
 )resent time. They have survived, and been reproduced, because there 
 las always been a certain class of mind in England, since 1640, which 
 las liked its religion spiced and flavoured with quaintness of illus- 
 ration. Quarles was a sturdy Royalist, and went down in the ship- 
 rreck of the Royal cause. Probably he would have taken his " Emblems " 
 ind all his other saintly humour along with him, and with Prospero 
 rould have exclaimed, 
 
 " — deeper than did ever plummet sound 
 I'll drovm my book," 
 
 f he could have foreseen that his verses would become favoured strains 
 fith the conventical descendants of the Puritans. 
 
 A FEAST FOR WORMS. 
 
 MEDITATION I. 
 
 What thing is man, that God's regard is such ? 
 
 Or why should Heaven love wretchless man so much ? 
 
 Why ? What are men, but quickned lumps of earth ? 
 
 A Feast for Worms : a bubble full of breath ; 
 
 A looking-glass for grief ; a flash, a minute ; 
 
 A painted tomb, with putrefaction in it ; 
 
 A map of death ; a burthen of a song ; 
 
 A winter's dust ; a worm of five-foot long ; 
 
 Begot in sin ; in darkness nonrisht ; born 
 
 In sorrow ; naked, shiftless, and forlorn. 
 
 His first voice (heard) is crying for relief : 
 
 Alas ! he comes into a world of grief. 
 
286 FRANCIS QUARLES. 
 
 His age is sinful, and his youth is vain ; 
 His life's a punishment, his death's a pain : 
 His life's an hour of joy, a world of sorrow ; 
 His death's a winter's night that finds no morrow : 
 Man's life's an hour-glass, which, being run, 
 Concludes that hour of joy, and so is done. 
 Jonab must go ; nor is this charge confined 
 To Jonab, but to all the world enjoyn'd. 
 You Magistrates, arise, and take delight 
 In dealing justice and maintaining right ; 
 There lies your Niniveh. Merchants, arise, 
 And mingle conscience with your merchandise. 
 Lawyers, arise, make not your righteous laws 
 A trick for gain ; let justice rule the cause. 
 Tradesmen, arise, and ply your thriving shops 
 With truer hands, and eat your meat with drops. 
 Paul, to thy tent, and Peter, to thy net ; 
 And all must go that course which God hath set. 
 Great God, awake us in these drowzy times, 
 Lest vengeance find us sleeping in our crimes ! 
 Encrease succession in Thy Prophets' lieu. 
 For, lo ! Thy harvest's great and workmen few. 
 
 EMBLEMS. 
 
 " Draw me : we will follow after thee by the savour of thy good oyntments. 
 
 Canticles, i 
 
 I. 
 
 Thus like a lump of the corrupted mass 
 
 I lie secure, long lost before 1 was ; 
 
 And like a block, beneath whose burthen lies 
 
 That undiscover'd worm that never dies, 
 
 I have no will to rouze, I have no power to rise. 
 
 II. 
 Can stinking Laz'rus compound or strive 
 With death's entangling fetters, and revive ? 
 Or can the water-buried axe implore 
 A hand to raise it, or its self restore. 
 And from her sandy deeps approach the Jry-foot sho 
 
FRANCIS QUARLES. 287 
 
 III. 
 So hard's the task for sinful flesh and blood 
 To lend the smallest step to what is good. 
 My God, I cannot move the least degree ! 
 Ah ! if but only those that active be, ^ 
 
 None should Thy glory see, none should Thy glory set, 
 
 IV. 
 But if the Potter please f inform the clay, 
 Or some strong hand remove the block away, 
 Their lowly fortunes soon are mounted higher ■ 
 That proves a vessel which before was mire ; 
 And this, being hewn, may serve for better use than fire. 
 
 V. 
 And if that life-restoring voice command 
 Dead Laz'rus forth ; or that great Prophet's hand 
 Should charm the sullen waters, and begin 
 To beckon, or to dart a stick but in ; 
 Dead Laz'rus must revive, and th' axe must float again. 
 
 VI. 
 Lord, as I am, I have no power at all 
 To hear Thy voice, or echo to Thy call ; 
 The gloomy clouds of mine own guilt benight me ; 
 Thy glorious beams, not dainty sweets, invite me : 
 They neither can direct ; nor these at all delight me. 
 
 VII. 
 See how my sin be-mangled body lies. 
 Not having power to will, nor will to rise ! 
 Shine home upon Thy creature, and inspire 
 My lifeless virfll with Thy regenerate fire ; 
 The first degree to do is only to desire. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Give toe the power to will, the will to do ; 
 
 O raise me up, and I will strive to go : 
 
 Draw me, O draw me with Thy treble twist 
 
 That have no power but merely to resist ; 
 
 O lend me strength to do, and then command Thy Jist. 
 
 IX. 
 My soul's a clock, whose wheels (for want of use 
 And winding up, being subject to the abuse 
 
288 FRANCIS QUARLES. 
 
 Of eating rust) wants vigour to fulfil 
 
 Her twelve hours' task, and show her Maker's skill, 
 
 But idly sleeps unmov'd, and standeth vainly still. 
 
 Great God, it is Thy work, and therefore good : 
 
 If Thou be pleased to cleanse it with Thy blood, 
 
 And wind it up with Thy soul-moving keys, 
 
 Her busie wheels shall serve Thee all her days. 
 
 Her hand shall point Thy power, her hammer strike Thy prai 
 
 PENTELOGIA. 
 
 DOLOR INFERNI. 
 
 The trump shall blow, the dead (awak'd) shall rise. 
 
 And to the clouds shall turn their wondring eyes ; 
 
 The heavens shall ope, the Bridegroom forth shall come 
 
 To judge the world, and give the world her doom ; 
 
 Joy to the just, to others endless smart : 
 
 To those the voice bids. Come ; to these. Depart : 
 
 Depart from life, yet (dying) live for ever ; 
 
 For ever dying be, and yet die never : 
 
 Depart like dogs, with devils take your lot ; 
 
 Depart like devils, for / know you not : 
 
 Like dogs, like devils go, Go howl and bark ; 
 
 Depart in darkness, for your deeds were dark ; 
 
 Let roaring be your musick, and your food 
 
 Be flesh of vipers, and your drink their blood ; 
 
 Let fiends afflict you with reproach and shame ; 
 
 Depart, depart, into eternal flame ; 
 
 To hell the guerdion then of sinners be : 
 
 Lord, give me hell on earth, (Lord) give me heaven with The{ 
 
 AN ALPHABET OF ELEGIES 
 On the Death of Dr. Ailnier, late Archdeacon of London. 
 
 ELEGY ON THE LETTER N. 
 
 No, no, he is not dead ; the mouth of Fame, 
 Honour's shrill herald, would preserve his name, 
 And make it live in spight of death and dust. 
 Were there no other heaven, no other trust. 
 
GEORGE HERBERT. 289 
 
 He is not dead : the sacred Nine deny 
 The soul that merits fame should ever die. 
 He lives ; and when the latest breath of fame 
 Shall want her trump to glorifie a name, 
 He shall survive, and these self-closed eyes, 
 That now He slumb'ring in the dust, shall rise, 
 And, fill'd with endless glory, shall enjoy 
 The perfect vision of eternal joy. 
 
 MILDREIADOS. 
 
 Stanza XVI. from an Elegy to the Blessed Memory of that fair 
 
 Manuscript of Virtue and unblemisht honour, 
 
 Mildred, Lady Luckyn. 
 
 Quick-finger'd Death's impartial, and lets flie 
 
 Her shafts at all ; but aims with fouler spite 
 
 At fairer marks : she now and then shoots by 
 
 And hits a fool ; but levels at the white. 
 
 She often pricks the Eagle in the eye. 
 
 And spares the carkass of the flagging Kite ; 
 
 Queens drop away, when bleu-leg'd mankin lives ; 
 
 Drones thrive when bees are burnt within their hives ; 
 
 And courtly Mildred dies when country Madge survives. 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 Born 1593. Died 1632. 
 
 "Holy George Herbert" was the fifth' brother of the noted Lord 
 Herbert of Cherbuiy. He was bom in Montgomery Castle, Shropshire, 
 April 3rd, 1593, and was the son of Richard Herbert of Blakehall, by 
 Ms wife Magdalene Newport, daughter of Sir Richard Newport of High 
 Askall, county of Salop. Herbert's mother was a woman of particular 
 mental power and wit, and was distinguished for her cheerful gravity. 
 Under her eye and governance George Herbert spent his childhood. 
 At tlie age of four he lost his father. When he reached his twelfth year, 
 he was sent to Westminster School, where, as Isaac Walton says in his 
 charming Life of Herbert, " the beaudes of his pretty behaviour and 
 wit shined and became so eminent and lovely in this his innocent age." 
 When fifteen he proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he 
 enjoyed the special regard of Dr. Nevil, Master of Trinity and Dean of 
 
 U 
 
ago GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 Canterbury. At the same period his mother had removed to Oxfoid 
 to educate her eldest son, Edward (the future Lord Herbert). At 
 Oxford she became acquainted with Dr. Donne, and a friendship was 
 formed between the Herberts and Donne, which was lifelong. In 
 1611 George Herbert took his B.A. degree, and in 16 15 was elected 
 Fellow of Trinity. In the same year, aged 21, he took his M. A. degree. 
 As an undergraduate Herbert was shy, reserved, and retreated within 
 himself His great recreation and chief delight was music. Music was 
 his companion, solace, and friend. In 1619 he was elected Public Orator: 
 and in that capacity had to acknowledge in comphmentary Latinity the 
 receipt by the University of King James's presentation copy of his Basilicon 
 Doron. Herbert devoted himself to the study of European languages, 
 and seems to have been so flattered by the attentions of the King, that 
 he indulged in ambitious ideas of being appointed Secretary of State. 
 The King conferred on him a pension of 120/. per annum; and for the 
 time being we must regard Herbert as a courtier, decked out in the 
 braveries of such a life, following the amusements and gaieties of the 
 court. The death of his friends the Duke of Richmond, the Marquis 
 of Hamilton, and of the King himself, cut short Herbert's town-life, and 
 with the monarch's decease his hopes and ambition died. From that 
 moment his thoughts were turned entirely in the direction toward which 
 his natural disposition at all times tended : for we caimot but smile at the 
 incongruity of such a man as Herbert ever having sunned himself in the 
 smiles of a court, and attempted to perform the r81e of a courtier. 
 Having entered into Holy Orders as a Deacon, he was appointed 
 Prebendary of Layton Ecclesia, in the diocese of Lincoln, 1626. In 1630 
 he became Priest, and also married Jane, the daughter of his friend 
 Charles Danvers, of the county of Wilts. Through the influence of 
 the Earl of Pembroke he was appointed to the rectory of Bemerton, a 
 mile from Salisbury. Herbert was then thirty-six years of age. He 
 was destined to enjoy his rectory but for two short years — though they 
 were long enough to establish his fame as one of the saints of God for 
 ever. On the day of his induction he was locked up in his church 
 (according to the ancient^ custom), and left to toE the bell. Some 
 surprise being created at his prolonged visit to the church, a friend 
 looked in, and saw Herbert prostrate before the altar, imploring the 
 Divine blessing upon his newly undertaken duties. Herbert devoted 
 himself to the task of endeavouring to make his people realize the truths 
 of the Gospel. To this end he carried out, in fulness and strictness, the 
 liturgy of his church. Mr. Herbert's "Saint's Bell" ringing to daily 
 prayer became a familiar and welcome sound to his parishioners I 
 Walking in his rectory garden he composed those songs of "The 
 Temple " which now hold so precious a place in the sacred poetry of 
 England. Thrice a week he regularly attended service at Salisbury 
 Cathedral, to find "a nearer way to the celestial gate." In the midst 
 of his devoted ministry he was struck by the hand of Death, and wasted 
 away with rapid consumption. His death-bed was as eloquent as his life 
 
GEORGE HERBERT. 291 
 
 had been. The odour of his sanctity had spread about Bishop and 
 dergy joined in prayers for him. He was reduced, as was said, "to a 
 shadow; " but despite this on the Sunday before his death he took up liis 
 instrument, and sang, and made additions to his lovely hymn "Sunday." 
 It was on his death-bed that he first revealed to a friend the existence of 
 his poems. Giving the book of MSS. he said, " My dear brother Ferrar 
 shall find in it a picture of the many spiritual conflicts that have passed 
 between God and my soul." At the moment of his death he exclaimed, 
 "I am now ready to die : Lord, forsake me not now my strength faileth, 
 but grant me mercy for the merits of my Jesus. And now. Lord, Lord, 
 now receive my soul." So died "holy George Herbert," Eetat 39. 
 
 Herbert's poems, written with a quaintness of language wMch belongs 
 in common to the school of Donne, Quarles, and others, are fuU of 
 profound thoughts, and exhibit everywhere the purity and loveliness of 
 their author's mind. He had two prevailing thoughts — ^love and devotion 
 to an ever-present Saviour, and love and devotion to the Church of 
 England. His life may be said to have been a poenL Music and poetry 
 were the dear companions of his existence ; and devotion was the natural 
 attitude of his mind. To know him as he was, the youthful student 
 must read Isaac Walton's " Life of Herbert" Therein he will learn to 
 love the memory of one who was and is well called "holy;" and 
 thereby he will learn to appreciate a series of poems which have shed 
 an air of sanctity around Herbert's grave. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 I made a posie, while the day ran by : 
 Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie 
 
 My life within this band. 
 But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they 
 By noon most cunningly did steal away, 
 
 And wither'd in my hand. 
 
 My hand was next to them, and then my heart ; 
 I took, without more thinking, in good part 
 
 Time's gentle admonition ; 
 Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, 
 Making my mind to smeU my fatal day. 
 
 Yet sugaring the suspicion. 
 
 Farewell, dear flowers ! sweetly your time ye spent ; 
 Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament. 
 
 And after death for cures. 
 I foUow straight without complaints or grief, 
 Since if my scent be good, I care not if 
 
 It be as short as yours. 
 U 2 
 
292 GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 THE CHURCH WINDOWS. 
 
 Lord, how can man preach Thy eternal word ? 
 He is a brittle, crazy glass : 
 
 Yet in Thy temple thou dost him afford 
 This glorious and transcendent place, 
 To be a window, through Thy grace. 
 
 But when Thou dost anneal in glass Thy story. 
 
 Making Thy life to shine within 
 The Holy Preachers, then the light and glory 
 
 More reverend grows, and more doth win ; 
 
 Which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin. 
 
 Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one 
 When they combine and mingle, bring 
 
 A strong regard and awe ; but speech alone 
 Doth vanish like a flaring thing, 
 And in the ear, not conscience, ring. 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 Prayer, the Church's banquet. Angels' age, 
 God's breath in man returning to his birth. 
 The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage. 
 The Christian plummet sounding heaven and earth ; 
 
 Engine against th' Almighty, sinner's tower. 
 Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear. 
 The six days' world-transposing in an hour, 
 A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear ; 
 
 Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss-. 
 Exalted manna, gladness of the best, 
 Heaven in ordinary, men well drest. 
 The Milky Way, the bird of Paradise, 
 
 Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood, 
 The land of spices, something understood. 
 
GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 CONTENT. 
 
 293 
 
 Peace, muttering thoughts, and do not grudge to keep 
 
 Within the walls of your own breast. 
 \Jho cannot on his own bed sweetly sleep 
 
 Can on another's hardly rest. 
 
 Gad not abroad at every quest and call 
 
 Of an untrained hope or passion. 
 To court each place or fortune that doth fall 
 
 Is wantonness in contemplation. 
 
 Mark how the fire in flints doth quiet lie, 
 
 Content and warm to itself alone : 
 But when it would appear to other's eye, 
 
 Without a knock it never shone. 
 
 Give me the pliant mind, whose gentle measure 
 
 Complies and suits with all estates ; 
 Which can let loose to a crown, and yet with pleasure 
 
 Take up within a cloister's gates. 
 
 This Soul doth span the world, and hang content 
 
 From either pole unto the centre : 
 Where in each room of the weU-fumish'd tent 
 
 He lies warm and without adventure. 
 
 The brags of life are but a nine days' wonder : 
 
 And after death the fumes that spring 
 From private bodies make as big a thunder 
 
 As those which rise from a huge king. 
 
 Only thy Chronicle is lost : and yet 
 
 Better by worms be all once spent. 
 Than to have hellish moths still gnaw and fret 
 
 Thy name in books, which may not vent. 
 
 When all thy deeds, whose brunt thou feel'st alone. 
 Are chaw'd by others' pens and tongue. 
 
 And as their wit is, their digestion, 
 Thy nourish'd fame is weak or strong. 
 
 Then cease discoursing. Soul : tiH thine own ground; 
 
 Do not thyself or friends importune. 
 He that by seeking hath himself once found, 
 
 Hath ever found a happy fortune. 
 
294 SIJi WILLIAM DA VENANT. 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky, 
 The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
 
 For thou must die. 
 
 Sweet Rose, whose hue angry and brave 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
 Thy root is ever in its grave. 
 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
 A box where sweets compacted lie. 
 My music shows ye have your closes. 
 
 And all must die. 
 
 Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 
 Like season'd timber, never gives ; 
 But though the whole world turn to coal, 
 Then chiefly lives. 
 
 -fc^ 
 
 SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 
 
 Born 1605. Died 1668. 
 
 William Davenant was bom at Oxford, where his father kept 
 the Crown Inn, in the Com Market, a place that was frequented by 
 Shakespere when travelling between Stratford and London. Davenant, 
 as a child, was acquainted with the poet ; and the gossips were good 
 enough to circulate a story at the expense of the good fame of his 
 mother, to the effect that the boy was Shakespere's son ! It is per- 
 haps unnecessary to add that there is not the smallest foundation for 
 such an injurious scandal. Having received his early education at All 
 Saints Grammar School, he was entered at Lincoln CoUege, Oxford, in 
 1 62 1, the year of his father's Mayoralty, which he left without taking 
 his degree. At the age of ten he composed an " Ode to Master William 
 Shakespere." He entered the service of the Duchess of Richmond as 
 her page, and was afterwards attached to the household of Fulke 
 
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 295 
 
 Greville, Lord Brooke (the poet). Davenant first attracted attention 
 in 1629 by his tragedy called "Albovine, King of the Lombards." 
 He then wrote Masques to be enacted at the court of Charles L, and 
 was made governor of the King's Company of Actors at the cockpit in 
 Drury Lane. In 1637 he was. appointed Laureate, in succession to Ben 
 Jonson. During the Civil War he laid aside the pen for the sword, 
 and eagerly espousing the royal cause, became a Lieutenant-General 
 of Ordnance, and was the person selected by his Majesty to cany on 
 negotiations with his friends in Paris. In 1641, being accused by the 
 Parliament, Davenant was compelled to withdraw to France, having 
 been twice captured, and having on both occasions escaped. Two 
 years later he was present at the siege of Gloucester, and was knighted 
 by the King for his services on that occasion. In 1646 he was once 
 again living in France, in the service of the Queen Henrietta, having 
 Meanwhile become a Roman Catholic. In exile, and living in the 
 Louvre with Lord Jermyn, he commenced writing his most important 
 work, "Gondibert." Having promoted a scheme for carrying a colony 
 from France to Virginia, and having embarked for his distant settlement, 
 the vessel in which he sailed fell into the hands of one of the Parliament 
 ships. Sir William was taken prisoner, and carried to Cowes Castle. 
 It is said that he escaped trial for his life through the friendly inter- 
 vention of his brother poet, Milton. On gaining his liberation, after 
 being imprisoned for two years, he engaged himself in active endeavours 
 to reopen a theatre, all dramatic entertainments having been put down 
 by the Puritans. He succeeded in his attempt, and established himself, 
 in May 1656, in Rutland House, Charterhouse. At first the enter- 
 tainments given were of a very mixed character, but by degrees Sir 
 Wilham gained approval and support while he gradually revived 
 the regular drama. At the Restoration he received the patent of a 
 playhouse in Portugal Row, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Afterwards his 
 company performed in the theatre in Dorset Gardens. For eight 
 years he continued to receive the royal and public favour. In 1662 he 
 opened the Duke's theatre with " The Siege of Rhodes." Afterwards he 
 produced "The Rivals," in which was introduced the famous ballad, " My 
 lodging is on the cold ground : " — 
 
 My lodging is on the cold ground. 
 
 And very hard is my fare ; 
 But that which troubles me most is 
 
 The unkindness of my dear ; 
 Yet still I cry, O turn, love, 
 
 And I prithee, love, turn to me. 
 For thou art the man that I long for, 
 
 And, alack ! what remedy. 
 
 I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then. 
 
 And I'll many thee with a rush ring; 
 My frozen hopes shall thaw then. 
 
 And merrily we will sing : 
 O turn to me, my dear love. 
 
 And I prithee, love, turn to me. 
 For thou art the man who alone canst 
 
 Procure my liberty. 
 
2q6 SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 
 
 But if thou wilt harden thy heart still, 
 
 And be deaf to my pitiful moan, 
 Then I must endure the smart still, 
 
 And lie in my straw all alone : 
 Yet still I cry, O turn, love. 
 
 And I prithee, love, turn to me. 
 For thou art the man that alone art 
 
 The cause of my misery. 
 
 Davenant died at his house in Little Lincoln's Inn Fields, April 7, 
 1668, in the 64th year of his age; and two days later he was buried with 
 distinction in Westminster Abbey. On his gravestone was inscribed, 
 
 " O tare Sir William Davenant ! '* 
 Davenant is described as a very handsome man, and a regular gallant. 
 He possessed a singularly fertile mind, and a very ready wit. During 
 his chequered career he appears in a variety of contradictory characters ; 
 by turns poet, soldier, projector, envoy, manager, and wit. By him 
 females were first introduced upon the stage ; and to him we are 
 indebted for Betterton's introduction to the public. 
 
 As a poet Davenant's reputation depends upon "Gondibert." Very 
 conflicting opinions have been expressed concerning it. It is a very 
 lengthy and very tedious composition, and like his plays, which served 
 their purpose and had their day, is by the world at large entirely 
 forgotten. Campbell speaks of it thus : " Ingenious and witty images 
 and majestic sentiments are thickly scattered over the poem. Gondibert 
 has certainly more of the cold and abstract air of an historical than of a 
 poetical portrait It wants the charm of free and forcible narration : 
 the life-pulse of interest is incessantly stopped by solemn pauses of 
 reflection ; and the story works its way through an intricacy of super- 
 fluous fancies. " 
 
 THE LONG VACATION IN LONDON. 
 
 Now Town- Wit says to Witty Friend, 
 
 " Transcribe apace all thou hast penn'd ; 
 
 For I in journey hold it fit 
 
 To cry thee up to Countrey-Wit. 
 
 Our mules are come ! dissolve the club, 
 
 The word, till term, is " Rub, O Rub ! " 
 
 Now gamster poor, in cloak of stammel, 
 Mouiited on steed as slow as cammel, 
 Battoone of crab in luckless hand 
 (Which serves for bilboe and for wand). 
 Early in morne does sneak from town. 
 Lest landlord's wife should seize on crown ; 
 On crown which he in pouch does keep, 
 When day is done, to pay for sleep ; 
 For he in journey nought does eat. 
 Host spies him come, cries;." Sir, what meat?" 
 
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT: igr 
 
 He calls for room, and down he lies. 
 Quoth host, " No supper, Sir ?" He cryes, 
 " I eate no supper. Fling on rug ! 
 I'm sick, d'you hear? yet bring a jug ! " 
 
 Now damsel young that dwells in Cheap 
 For very joy begins to leap : 
 Her elbow small she oft does rub, 
 Tickled with hope of syllabub ! 
 For mother (who does gold maintain 
 On thumbe, and keys in silver chaine), 
 In snow-white clout wrapt nook of pye. 
 Fat capon's wing, and rabbit's thigh, 
 And said to hackney coachman, "■ Go, 
 Take shillings six ; say ay, or no." 
 " Whither ? " says he. Quoth she, " Thy teame 
 Shall drive to place where groweth creame." 
 
 But Husband gray now comes to stall ; 
 For prentice notch'd he straight does call : 
 " Where's dame ? " quoth he. Quoth son of shop, 
 " She's gone her cake in milk to sop." 
 " Ho, ho ! to Islington ! Enough ! 
 Fetch Job, my son, and our dog Ruffe ; 
 For there in pond, through mire and muck, 
 ■We'll cry, ' Hey duck, there Ruffe, hey duck ! ' " 
 
 Now Tumbull-dame by starving paunch 
 Bates two stone weight in either haunch ; 
 On branne and liver she must dine ; 
 And sits at dore instead of signe. 
 She softly says to roaring Swash, 
 Who wears long whiskers, " Go, fetch cash ! " 
 " There's gown," quoth she ; " speak broaker fair, 
 Till term brings up weak countrey heir ; 
 Whom kirtle red will much amaze : 
 Whilst clown, his man, on signes does gaze, 
 InliVry short, galloome on cape. 
 With cloak-bag mounting high as nape." 
 
 Now man that trusts with weary thighs 
 Seeks garret where small poet lies : 
 He comes to lane, finds garret shut ; 
 Then, not with knuckle, but with foot. 
 He rudely thrusts, would enter dores,; 
 Though poet sleeps not, yet he snores : 
 Cit chafes like beast of Libia ; then 
 Swears he'll not come or send agen. 
 
298 S/R WILLIAM DAVENANT. 
 
 From little lump triangular 
 
 Poor poet's sighs are heard afar. 
 
 Quoth he, " Do noble numbers choose 
 
 To walk omfeet that have no shoose ? " 
 
 Then he does wish with fervent breath, 
 
 And as his last request ere death, 
 
 Each ode a bond, each madrigal 
 
 A lease from Haberdashers' Hall, 
 
 Or that he had protected bin 
 
 At court, in list of Chamberlain ; 
 
 For wights near thrones care not an ace 
 
 For Wood Street friend that wieldeth mace. 
 
 Courts pay no scores but when they list, 
 
 And treasurer still has cramp in fist. 
 
 Then forth he steals ; to Globe ^ does run ; 
 
 And smiles, and vowes four acts are done : 
 
 Finis to bring he does protest. 
 
 Tells ev'ry player his part is best ; 
 
 And all to get (as poets use) 
 
 Some coin in pouch to solace muse. 
 
 Now wight that acts on stage of Bull 
 In sculler's bark does lie at Hull ; 
 Which he for pennies two does rig, 
 All day on Thames to bob for grig : 
 Whilst fencer poor does by him stand. 
 In old dung-lighter, hook in hand ; 
 Between knees rod, with canvas crib, 
 To girdle tide, close under rib ; 
 Where worms are put, which must small fish 
 Betray at night to earthen dish. 
 
 Now London's Chief, on saddle new, 
 Rides into fair of Bartholomew ; 
 He twirls his chain, and looketh big, 
 As if to fright the head of pig. 
 That gaping lies on greasy stall, 
 Till female with great belly call. 
 
 Now Alderman in field does stand 
 With foot on trig, a quoit in hand ; 
 " I'm seven," quoth he, " the game is up ! 
 Nothing I pay, and yet I sup." 
 To Alderman quoth neighbour then, 
 " I lost but mutton ; play for hen." 
 
 (x) Glehe—i.e. to the Globe Theatre. 
 
SIR WILLIAM DA VENANT. 299 
 
 But wealthy blade cries out, " At rate 
 
 Of kings should'st play ; let's go, 'tis late." 
 
 Now lean attorney, that his cheese 
 Ne'er pared, nor verses took for fees ; 
 And aged proctor, that controules 
 The feats of punck in Court of Paul's ; 
 Do each with solemn oath agree 
 To meet in fields of Finsbury : 
 With loins in canvas bow case tyde ; 
 Where arrows stick with meikle pride ; 
 With hats pirm'd up, and bow in hand, 
 AU day most fiercely there they stand ; 
 Like ghosts of Adam, Bell, and Clymme : 
 Sol sets for fear they'll shoot at him. 
 
 Now Spynie, Ralph, and Gregory small, 
 And short-hair'd Stephen, whey-fac'd Paul 
 (Whose times are out, indentures torn). 
 Who seven long years did never skorne 
 To fetch up coals for maid to use, 
 Wipe mistresses' and children's shoes, 
 Do jump for joy they are made free ; 
 Hire meagre steeds, to ride and see 
 Their parents old, who dwell as near 
 As place call'd Peak in Derby-shire. 
 There they ahght : old crones are milde ; 
 Each weeps on cragg of pretty childe : 
 They portions give, trades up to set, 
 That babes may live, serve God, and cheat. 
 
 Near house of law by Temple Bar, 
 Now man of mace cares not how far 
 In stockings blue he marcheth on. 
 With velvet cape his cloak upon ; 
 In girdle scrowles, where names of some 
 Are written down, whom touch of thumbe 
 On shoulder left must safe convoy, 
 Annoying wights with name of Roy. 
 Poor pris'ners' friend, that sees the touch, 
 Cries out aloud, " I thought as much." 
 
 Now vaulter good, and dancing lass 
 On rope, and man that cryes, " Hey pass ! " 
 And tumbler young that needs but stoop, 
 Lay head to heel to creep through hoope ; 
 And man in chimney hid to dress 
 Puppit that acts our old Queen Bess ; 
 
3cx> .9/;? WILL/AM DA VENANT. 
 
 And man that whilst the puppits play 
 Through nose expoundeth what they say ; 
 And man that does in chest include 
 Old Sodotn and Gomorrah lewd ; 
 And white oat-eater, that does well 
 In stable small, at sign of Bell ; 
 That lift up hoofe to show the prankes 
 Taught by magician, styled Banks ; 
 And ape, led captive still in chaine, 
 Till he renounce the Pope and Spaine. 
 All these on hoof now trudge from town, 
 To cheat poor turnep-eating clown. 
 
 Now man of war, with visage red, 
 Growes cholerick and swears for bread. 
 He sendeth note to man of kin ; 
 But man leaves word, " I'm not within." 
 He meets in street with friend call'd Will, 
 And cries, " Old rogue ! what, living still ? " 
 But ere that street they quite are past. 
 He softly asks, " What money hast .■"' 
 Quoth friend, " A crown." He cries, " Dear heart ! 
 O base, no more ? sweet, lend me part ! " 
 
 But stay, my frighted pen is fled ; 
 Myself through fear crept under bed ; 
 For just as muse would scribble more, 
 Fierce city dunne did rap at door. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The lark now leaves his watj-y nest 
 And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings : 
 
 He takes this window for the east, 
 And to implore your light he sings : 
 
 "Awake, awake ! the Morn will ndver rise. 
 
 Till she can dress her beauty at your eies." 
 
 The merchant bowes unto the seaman's star ; 
 
 The ploughman from the Sun his season takes ; 
 But still the lover wonders what they are. 
 
 Who look for day before his mistriss wakes. 
 " Awake, awake ! break thro' your vailes of lawne ! 
 Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawne." 
 
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. .301 
 
 SONG 
 
 THE SOULDIER GOING TO THE FIELD. 
 
 Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girle ! 
 
 To purifie the ayre ; 
 Thy tears to thrid, instead of pearle, 
 
 On bracelets of thy hair. 
 
 The trumpet makes the eccho hoarse, 
 
 And wakes the louder drum ; 
 Expence of grief gains no remorse, 
 
 When sorrow should be dumb. 
 
 For I must go where la2y Peace 
 
 Will hide her drouzy head ; 
 And, for the sport of kings, encrease 
 
 The number of the dead. 
 
 But first I'le chide thy cruel theft : 
 
 Can I in war delight, 
 Who, being of my heart bereft, 
 
 Can have no heart to fight ? 
 
 Thou know'st the sacred laws of old 
 
 Ordain'd a thief should pay. 
 To quit him of his theft, sevenfold 
 
 What he had stoln away. 
 
 Thy payment shall but double be ; 
 
 O then with speed resign 
 My own seduced heart to me, 
 
 Accompani'd with thine ! 
 
 IN REMEMBRANCE OF MASTER WILLIAM 
 SHAKESPIRE. 
 
 Beware (delighted poets 1) when you sing. 
 To welcome Nature in the early spring. 
 
 Your num'rous feet not tread 
 The banks of Avon ; for each flowre 
 (As it nere knew a sun or showre) 
 
 Hangs there the pensive head. 
 
302 EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 Each tree, whose thick and spreading growth hath made 
 Rather a night beneath the boughs than shade, 
 
 (Unwilling now to grow) 
 Looks like the plume a captain weares, 
 Whose rifled falls are steept i' th' teares 
 
 Which from his last rage flow. 
 
 The piteous river wept itself away 
 Long since (alas !) to such a swift decay, 
 
 That, reach the map, and look 
 If you a river there can spie ; 
 And for a river, your mock'd eye 
 
 Will finde a shallow brooke. 
 
 EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 Born 1605. Died 1687. 
 
 Edmund Waller was bom March 3, 1605, at Coleshill, Hert- 
 fordshire. His father was Robert Waller, Esq. of Amersham, Bucks : 
 his mother, Anne, daughter of Griffith Hampden, Esq. of Hampden, 
 Bucks, and aunt of the celebrated John Hampden, who was both 
 first cousin of Edmund Waller and also of Oliver Cromwell. Waller 
 was educated at Eton, from whence he proceeded to Bang's Collie, 
 Cambridge. It is said that he was returned at the age of sixteen for 
 the borough of Amersham. If so, he must have sat as a silent member 
 until he was of age. His father having died during his childhood, 
 WaUer, being the eldest son, succeeded to an estate of 3,500/. a year. 
 He married, early in life, Ann, the daughter of Edward Banks, a 
 wealthy citizen of London, by which alliance he greatly augmented his 
 property. At the age of five and twenty Waller was left a widower, 
 with a son and a daughter. Within a short period he began to offer 
 his admiration to Lady Dorothea Sydney (eldest daughter of the Earl 
 of Leicester, and cousin to the celebrated Sir PhiKp Sydney), who is 
 celebrated in his poetry under the name of Sacharissa. Lady Dorothea 
 scornfully rejected his advances, and allied herself with Henry, Lord 
 Spencer, who was created Earl of Sunderland, and was killed at the 
 battle of Newbury, September 1643. An anecdote is told of the 
 scomfiil Countess in later life meeting Waller, and asking him when he 
 would again write her such complimentary verses as he once did, to 
 which he replied, " When you are as young. Madam, and as handsome, as 
 you were then." The next object of Waller's admiration was the Lady 
 Sophia Murray, whose charms are rehearsed in Waller's verses under 
 
EDMUND WALLER. 303 
 
 the title of Amoret. Amoret does not appear to have smiled upon the 
 rich and amorous poet. Before long he married a Miss Mary Breaux 
 (or Bresse), who appears to have been a woman with great domestic 
 virtues and a large family. The poet by this marriage had to encounter 
 the prosaic fact of being the father to thirteen children. Walier occu- 
 pied a seat in the House of Commons, as the representative of various 
 boroughs, for a considerable portion of his life. He sat in Parliaments 
 of James I., Charles I., the Commonwealth, Charles II., and James II. 
 In 1640, after an interruption of twelve years, when the Parliament was 
 re-assembled. Waller joined the party in opposition to the Court. He 
 was supposed to be greatly influenced by his connexion with the 
 Hampden family. It was not long before he retreated from his political 
 position ; and on the King setting up his standard at Nottingham, Waller 
 contributed a thousand broad pieces to the royal chest. In the House of 
 Commons he spoke openly on the King's side. After the battle of 
 Edgehill, in 1643, Waller was one of the Commissioners sent by 
 Parliament to confer with the King at Oxford. In the May of the 
 same year the plot known as "Waller's Plot" was discovered. It 
 is diiGcult to determine precisely what this plot was. It was asserted 
 by Waller and his friends that they were only engaged in making lists 
 of the inhabitants of London, to determine the numbers of Royalists and 
 of Parliamentarians, and thereby draw together for a common object 
 all those who were well-disposed towards the King. But at the same 
 moment that this plot was discovered, another was revealed which was 
 regarded as connected with it. This was a project of a city merchant. Sir 
 Nicholas Crispe, to raise an armed force to act against the Parliament. 
 Crispe was found to be possessed of a Commission of Array, signed by 
 the King and granted for this purpose. Waller always denied having 
 anything to do with Crispe's plot. His chief confederate in his own 
 scheme was his sister's husband, a Mr. Tomkeyns, Clerk of the Queen's 
 Council. It is remarkable that the Commission of Array granted to 
 Crispe was in the possession of Tomkeyns, and buried for concealment 
 in his garden. The plots were discovered partly by the eavesdropping 
 of a servant concealed behind the hangings of a room in which Waller 
 and Tomkeyns met, and partly by the theft of certain papers carried 
 oif by Goode, the chaplain of Waller's sister, who was married to a 
 Mrs. Price, a strong Parliamentarian. Tomkeyns was hung before his 
 own door, in Holbom. Alexander Hampden was imprisoned for life. 
 Others in the plot escaped to the King at Oxford. Waller was 
 arraigned at Guildhall, and (it is said in some lives of him) was 
 condemned to death. After being imprisoned for a year, and after 
 having bribed to such an extent that he very largely decreased his 
 estate, he was liberated on paying a fine of io,ooo/. and undertaking 
 to leave the country. He retired to France, and lived first at Rohan, 
 then in Paris. During his exile in 1645 he published the first edition of 
 his poems. In 1653, through the interest of his connexions, Cromwell 
 granted him permission to return to England, when he settled himself 
 
304 EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 at a house he had built near Beaconsfield. He very soon wormed, 
 himself into the favour and liking of the Protector, to whom in 1654 he 
 addressed the most famous of his poems, " A Panegyric to my Lord 
 Protector." 
 
 At the Restoration Waller, as might be expected, was found at Court,, 
 and an enthusiastic supporter of the Royal cause. On two occasions 
 when the provostship of Eton was vacant, Waller sought, that office 
 from the King, but on both occasions his petition failed. It was not 
 to be held by a layman. He sat in all the Parliaments of Charles II., 
 and was the delight of the House : even at eighty years of age he was 
 the liveliest and wittiest man within its walls. He took his seat in the 
 Parliament which assembled on the accession of James II., but did not 
 live to witness the Revolution. He died at his residence at Beaconsfield 
 October 21,1687, aged 8z ; and was buried in the parish church. 
 
 Waller is so completely forgotten in the political world that it is 
 unnecessary to say much aboiit his principles — if he had any ! He was 
 one of those who accommodated himself, with suavity, to circumstances ; 
 but on the whole it must be said of him, that he was at heart a Royalist, 
 and the chief acts of his life were in support of the Royal cause ; though 
 when his plot was discovered, the weakness and terror he displayed 
 showed that he had far more thought for his own life and preservation 
 than for the principles he had espoused. His relationship to the 
 Hampdens and connexion with Cromwell's family probably saved his 
 life when Tomkeyns was executed. 
 
 When Waller returned from France, a familiar friendship sprang up 
 between him and Cromwell. It is told of the Protector that on Waller 
 overhearing him converse, at an interview with some of his political 
 friends, in the nauseous cant phraseology of the period, Cromwell 
 apologized to Waller for it, and said, " Cousin Waller, I must talk to 
 these men in their own way ! " 
 
 The general character of Waller's poetry is elegance and gaiety. 
 He was always smooth, but seldom strong. Previous to Pope, he was 
 the most correct of our poets in diction and versification. His language 
 is famous for its lucidity ; and if he never raised the spirit, he certainly 
 did a good work in refining the manner, of English poetry. 
 
 A PANEGYRIC TO MY LORD PROTECTOR. 
 
 While vifith a strong and yet a gentle hand 
 You bridle faction, and our hearts command, 
 Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe ; 
 Make us unite, and make us conquer too : 
 
 Let partial spirits still aloud complain, 
 Think themselves injured that they cannot reign, 
 And own no liberty, but where they may 
 Without control upon their fellows prey. 
 
EDMUND WALLER. 305 
 
 Above the waves as Neptune shewed his face, 
 To chide the winds and save the Trojan race, 
 So has your Highness, raised above the rest, 
 Storms of ambition, tossing us, represt. 
 
 Your drooping country, torn with civil hate, 
 Restored by you, is made a glorious state ; 
 The seat of empire, where the Irish come, 
 And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom. 
 
 The sea 's our own : and now all nations greet 
 With bending sails each vessel of our fleet : 
 Your power extends as far as winds can blow, 
 Or swelling sails upon the globe may go. 
 
 Heaven (that hath placed this island to give law 
 To balance Europe, and her states to awe,) 
 In this conjunction doth on Britain smile, 
 The greatest leader and the greatest isle ! 
 
 Whether this portion of the world were rent 
 By the rude ocean from the Continent, 
 Or thus created, it was sure designed 
 To be the sacred refuge of mankind. 
 
 Hither th' oppressed shall henceforth resort, 
 Justice to crave, and succour, at your court ; 
 And then your Highness, not for ours alone, 
 But for the world's Protector shall be known. 
 
 Lords of the world's great waste, the ocean, we 
 Whole forests send to reign upon the sea ; 
 And every coast may trouble, or relieve : 
 But none can visit us without your leave. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Our little world, the image of the great. 
 Like that amidst the boundless ocean set. 
 Of her own growth hath all that nature craves, 
 And all that 's rare, as tribute from the waves. 
 ***** 
 
 To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs ; 
 Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims. 
 Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow ; 
 We plough the deep and reap what others sow. 
 
 X 
 
3o6 EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds ; 
 Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds : 
 Rome, though her eagle through the world had flown, 
 Could never make this island all her own. 
 
 Here the third Edward, and the Black Prince too, 
 France-conquering Henry, flourished, and now you ; 
 For whom we stayed, as did the Grecian state 
 Till Alexander came to urge their fate. 
 
 Your never-failing sword made war to cease. 
 And now you heal us with the arts of peace ; 
 Our minds with bounty and with awe engage. 
 Invite affection, and restrain our rage. 
 
 Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won. 
 Than in restoring such as are undone : 
 Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear, 
 But man alone can whom he conquers spare. 
 
 To pardon willing, and to punish loth. 
 You strike with one hand, but you heal with both ; 
 Lifting up all that prostrate lie, you grieve 
 You cannot make the dead again to live. 
 
 When Fate or errour had our age misled. 
 
 And o'er this nation such confusion spread. 
 
 The only cure which could from Heaven come down 
 
 Was so much power and piety in one ! 
 
 One ! whose extraction from an ancient line 
 Gives hope again that well-born men may shine : 
 The meanest in your nature, mild and good ; 
 The noblest rest secured in your blood. 
 
 Oft have we wondered how you hid in peace 
 A mind proportioned to such things as these ; 
 How such a ruhng sp'rit you could restrain. 
 And practise first over yourself to reign. 
 
 Your private life did a just pattern give, 
 How fathers, husbands, pious sons, should live ; 
 Born to command, your princely virtues slept, 
 Like humble David's while the flock he kept. 
 
EDMUND WALLER. 2fJ7 
 
 But when your troubled country called you forth, 
 Your flaming courage and your matchless worth, 
 Dazzling the eyes of all that did pretend. 
 To fierce contention gave a prosperous end. 
 
 You ! that had taught them to subdue their foes, 
 Could order teach, and their high sp'rits Compose ; 
 To every duty could their minds engage, 
 Provoke their courage, and command their rage. 
 
 So, when a lion shakes his dreadful mane, 
 And angry grows, if he that first took pain 
 To tame his youth approach the haughty beast. 
 He bends to him, -but frights away the rest. 
 
 As the vexed world, to find repose, at last 
 Itself into Augustus' arms did cast ; 
 So England now does, with like toil opprest, 
 Her weary head upon your bosom rest. 
 
 Then let the Muses, with such notes as these. 
 Instruct us what belongs unto our peace ! 
 Your battles they hereafter shall indite, 
 And draw the image of our Mars in fight ; 
 
 Tell of towns stormed, of armies over-run, 
 And mighty kingdoms by your conduct won ; 
 How, while you thundered, clouds of dust did choke 
 Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke. 
 
 Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, 
 And every conqueror creates a Muse : 
 Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing ; 
 But there, my Lord ! we'll bays and olive bring 
 
 To crown your head, while you in triumph ride 
 O'er vanquished nations, and the sea beside ; 
 While all your neighbour princes unto you. 
 Like Joseph's sheaves, pay reverence and bow. 
 
 X 2 
 
3oS EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 AT PENSHURST. 
 
 Had Dorothea ' lived when mortals made 
 Choice of their deities, this sacred shade 
 Had held an altar to her power, that gave 
 The peace and glory which these alleys have ; 
 Emhroidered so with flowers where she stood, 
 That it became a garden of a wood. 
 Her presence has such more than human grace 
 That it can civilize the rudest place : 
 And beauty too, and order, can impart 
 Where Nature ne'er intended it, nor art. 
 The plants acknowledge this, and her admire, 
 No less than those of old did Orpheus' lyre : 
 If she sit down, with tops all tow'rds her bow'd. 
 They round about her into arbours crowd ; 
 Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand. 
 Like some well-marshall'd and obsequious band. 
 Amphion so made stones and timber leap 
 Into fair figures, from a confus'd heap : 
 And in the symmetry of her parts is found 
 A power like that of harmony in sound. 
 
 Ye lofty beeches, tell this matchless dame 
 That if together ye fed all one flame, 
 It could not equalize the hundredth part 
 Of what her eyes have kindled in my heart ! 
 Go, boy, and carve this passion on the bark 
 Of yonder tree, which stands the sacred mark 
 Of noble Sidney's birth ; where such benign, 
 Such more than mortal making, stars did shine. 
 That there they cannot but for ever prove 
 The monument and pledge of humble love ; 
 His humble love, whose hope shall ne'er rise higher, 
 Than for a pardon that he dares admire ! 
 
 TO AMORET. 
 
 Fair ! that you may truly know 
 What you unto Thyrsis owe, 
 I will tell you how I do 
 Sacharissa love, and you. 
 
 (l) La4y Dorothea Sydney. 
 
EDMUND WALLER, 309 
 
 Joy salutes me when I set 
 My blest eyes on Amoret : 
 But with wonder 1 am strook 
 While I on the other look. 
 
 If sweet Amoret complains, 
 I have sense of all her pains : 
 But for Sacharissa I 
 Do not only grieve, but die. 
 
 All that of myself is mine. 
 Lovely Amoret ! is thine. 
 Sacharissa's captive fain 
 Would untie his iron chain ; 
 And, those scorching beams to shun. 
 To thy gentle shadow run. 
 
 If the soul had free election 
 To dispose of her affection, 
 I would not thus long have borne 
 Haughty Sacharissa's scorn : 
 But 'tis sure some power above 
 Which controls our wills in love ! 
 
 If not a love, a strong desire 
 To create and spread that fire 
 In my breast, solicits me. 
 Beauteous Amoret ! for thee. 
 
 'Tis amazement more than love 
 Which her radiant eyes do move : 
 If less splendour wait on thine. 
 Yet they so benignly shine, 
 I would turn my dazzled sight 
 To behold their milder light. 
 But as hard 'tis to destroy 
 That high flame as to enjoy : 
 Which how eas'ly I may do, 
 Heaven (as eas'ly scaled) does know ! 
 
 Amoret ! as sweet and good 
 As the most delicious food, 
 Which, but tasted, does impart 
 Life and gladness to the heart. 
 
 Sacharissa's beauty 's wine 
 Which to madness doth incline : 
 Such a liquor, as no brain 
 That is mortal can sustain. 
 
 Scarce can I to Heaven excuse 
 The devotion, which I use 
 
3IO EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 Unto that adorfed dame : 
 
 For 'tis not unlike the same 
 
 Which I thither ought to send ; 
 
 So that if it could take end, 
 
 'T would to Heaven itself be due 
 
 To succeed her, and not you, 
 
 Who already have of me 
 
 All that's not idolatry ; 
 
 Which, though not so fierce a flame. 
 
 Is longer like to be the same. 
 
 Then smile on me, and I wiU prove 
 Wonder is shorter-lived than love. 
 
 ON A GIRDLE. 
 
 That which her slender waist confin'd 
 Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
 No monarch but would give his crown. 
 His arms might do what this has done. 
 
 It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 
 The pale which held that lovely deer : 
 My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. 
 Did all within this circle move ! 
 
 A narrow compass ! and yet there 
 Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair : 
 Give me but what this riband bound, 
 Take all the rest the sun goes round. 
 
 ON T E A.1 
 
 Venus her myrtle, Phcebus has his bays ; 
 Tea both excels, which she vouchsafes to praise. 
 The best of Queens, and best of herbes, we owe 
 To that bold nation, which the way did show 
 To the fair region where the sun does rise. 
 Whose rich productions we so justly prize. 
 The Muse's friend, tea, does our fancy aid. 
 Repress those vapours which the head invade. 
 And keeps that palace of the soul serene. 
 Fit on her birth-day to salute the Queen. 
 
 {l) Tea was first introduced into England in the year 1666. This poem is therefore 
 most probably the first song of praise bestowed upon that popular beverage. 
 
EDMUND WALLER. 311 
 
 UPON THE DEATH OF THE LORD PROTECTOR. 
 
 We must resign ! Heav"!! his great soul does claim 
 In stonns as loud as his immortal fame : 
 His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle ; 
 And trees uncut fall for his fun'ral pile -^ 
 About his palace their broad roots are tost 
 
 Into the air. So Romulus was lost ! 
 
 New Rome in such a tempest miss'd her king, 
 
 And, from obeying, fell to worshipping. 
 
 On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead, 
 
 With ruin'd oaks and pines about him spread. 
 
 The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear 
 
 On his victorious head, lay prostrate there. 
 
 Those his last fury from the mountain rent : 
 
 Our dying hero from the Continent 
 
 Ravish'd whole towns, and forts from Spaniards reft, 
 
 As his last legacy to Britain left. 
 
 The ocean, which so long our hopes confin'd, 
 
 Could give no limits to his vaster mind ; 
 
 Our bounds' enlargement was his latest toil. 
 
 Nor hath he left us pris'ners to our isle : 
 
 Under the tropic is our language spoke, 
 
 And part of Flanders hath received our yoke. 
 
 From civil broils he did us disengage, 
 
 Found nobler objects for our martial rage. 
 
 And, with wise conduct, to his country shew'd 
 
 The ancient way of conquering abroad. 
 
 Ungrateful then ! if we no tears allow 
 To him that gave us peace and empire too. 
 Princes, that fear'd him, grieve, concem'd to see 
 No pitch of glory from the grave is free. 
 Nature herself took notice of his death. 
 And, sighing, sweU'd the sea with such a breath. 
 That to remotest shores her bUIows roll'd 
 Th' approaching fate of their great ruler told. 
 
 (i) Alluding to the stonn which raged during Cromwell's last momenLs. 
 
312 EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 GO, LOVELY ROSE ! 
 
 Go, lovely rose ! 
 Tell her that wastes her time and itie. 
 
 That now she knows, 
 When I resemble her to thee. 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 Tell her that's young 
 And shuns to have her graces spy'd. 
 
 That had'st thou sprung 
 In deserts where no men abide. 
 Thou must have uncommended d/d. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retir'd : 
 
 Bid her come forth, 
 Suffer herself to be desir'd, 
 And not blush so to be admir'd. 
 
 Then die ! that she 
 The common- fate of all things rare 
 
 May read in thee, — 
 How small a part of time they share 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 
 
 [Yet, though thou fade. 
 From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise. 
 
 And teach the maid 
 That goodness Time's rude hand defies ; 
 That virtue lives when beauty dies.] ^ 
 
 (i) This stanza was added by Henry Kirke White ; and it must be allowed that it 
 gives the poem a beautiful completeness, which was previously wanting. 
 
 Of'^^ 
 
313 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 Bom 1608. Died 1674. 
 
 John Milton was bom in Spread -Eagle Court, Bread Street, 
 Cheapside, in the house of his father, John Milton, a scrivener. His 
 mother is said to have been related to Bradshavf, President at the trial 
 of Charles I. Milton's father was a man of severe and Puritanic 
 opinions, in which the future poet was carefully trained. The father 
 indulged himself, however, in one of the " frivolities " of life, and was 
 passionately addicted to music. He possessed that " box of whistles," 
 an organ, on which he exercised his talents in composing psalmody, 
 and was author of the familiar tunes called " Norwich " and " York. " 
 From early childhood the poet was instructed in music, and trained to 
 practise on the organ. That instrument was the solace and recreation 
 of his latest days. Milton's education was carefiilly pursued, although 
 his eyes at a very early period began to exhibit weakness. Having 
 received the rudiments of learning from one Young, a Puritan, (during 
 the Protectorate Master of Jesus College, Cambridge,) Milton was 
 sent to St. Paul's School, London, under the charge of Dr. Gill. " My 
 father destined me, while yet a child, to the study of polite literature," 
 says Milton ; " which I embraced with such avidity, that from the 
 twelfth year of my age I hardly ever retired to rest from my studies 
 till midnight, which was the first source of injury to my eyes." In 
 1624 he proceeded to Christ's College, Cambridge, being entered as a 
 Pensioner. From 1624 to 1632, when he took his degree of M.A., he 
 continued resident at Cambridge, spending his vacations in London. 
 When a freshman at Cambridge, aged seventeen, he composed his first 
 original work, entitled " On the Death of a fair Infant." This poem 
 was called forth by the decease of his sister's child. While an under- 
 graduate he cultivated, vrith severe study, the art of writing gracefully 
 and idiomatically in Latin. He became the most elegant composer 
 of Latin, in his day, in England. Milton's " Elegiarum Liber " — a 
 correspondence with his friend Diodati — ^must be studied, to know his 
 habits of mind when in statu pupillari. It contains much curious 
 and interesting detail. Among other things he particularly mentions the 
 " pomp of the winding theatre," where " the fierce avenger of crime 
 recrosses — ^from the shades, perturbing guilty souls," — an allusion which 
 leaves little doubt that he had been to witness a performance of Hamlet. 
 
 In 1627 Milton had graduated, and the foUovidng Christmas was 
 spent in Bread Street. On the eve of the festival he composed the 
 famous ode " On the Morning of Christ's Nativity," which Mr. Hallam 
 
314 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 pronounced the most beautiful in the English language. In 1630 he 
 composed two sonnets— the one "On Shakspeare," the other "On the 
 University Carrier." On leaving Cambridge in 1632, his father, the 
 scrivener, retired from business and went to reside at Horton, near 
 Windsor. There Milton wrote " L' Allegro " and " II Penseroso, " and the 
 "Masque of Comus, " to be performed in the winter of 1 634 before the Earl 
 of Bridgewater at Ludlow Castle. His mother died at Horton, in 1637 ; 
 and in the chancel of the church her gravestone, inscribed with her name, 
 is still perfect. Immediately after his mother's death Milton, well pro- 
 vided by his father, set out upon his Continental tour, armed with letters 
 of introduction to literary celebrities, given to him by Sir Henry Wotton, 
 Provost of Eton. 
 
 He remained on the Continent until August 1639, visiting France, 
 Italy, Venice. In Paris he saw Cardinal Richelieu, and was introduced 
 to Grotius, then Swedish Ambassador at the Court of France. From 
 France he proceeded to Genoa, Leghorn, Pisa, Florence, and Rome. 
 At Florence he formed a friendship vrith Galileo (see " Paradise Lost," 
 Book V. 1. 261). At Rome he was received with marked kindness 
 by Cardinal Barberini. There he became captivated with the celebrated 
 singer Leonora, to whom he wrote three amatory effusions, which reveal 
 the inflamed condition of his mind at the moment. From Rome he 
 proceeded to Naples, Venice, and by way of Geneva returned to England. 
 He settled in the Barbican, being thirty-one years of age. In the 
 Barbican he kept a school. In 1643 he married Mary Powell, daughter 
 of Richard Powell, J. P., of Shotover, near Oxford. The misery attendant 
 upon this marriage is too well known to need any additional remark 
 here. His wife deserted him, and he was sufficiently magnanimous to 
 forgive her, and take her back to the shelter of his home. In 1644 he 
 produced the first of those prose works which were destined to exercise 
 so much influence upon the pubUc mind in those troublous days, when 
 Cromwell needed all the skill of Milton's pen to defend his acts. The 
 production in question is entitled " Areopagitica, a Speech for the 
 Liberty of Unlicensed Printing. " In the present day it may be considered 
 the finest and most important of all Milton's prose compositions. 
 
 In 1649, after the execution of Charles I., when a Council of State 
 presided over public affairs, Milton was appointed Secretary for Foreign 
 Tongues, on account of his ease and power in writing Latin. As Secretary 
 he wrote the famous despatches which were forwarded by Cromwell 
 to Louis XIV. and the Duke of Savoy regarding the massacre of the 
 Vaudois. At that period Milton had his official residence in what is 
 now called " Scotland Yard." Thence he removed to Petty France, 
 Westminster — the present York Street, Queen's Square. At No. 19 
 he lived during the remainder of the Commonwealth. The same house 
 has since been inhabited by Jeremy Bentham and Mr. Hazlitt. In that 
 house he composed, by order of the Council, his " Defensio pro Populo 
 Anglicano," a work which created an immense sensation at the time 
 throughout Europe. Its temporary fame was so great, that foreigners 
 
yOHN MIL TON. 3 1 5 
 
 visiting England came to London, curious to see the author. The 
 composition of this work cost him liis sight, and hastened his complete 
 blindness. He records the fact in his sonnet to Cyriac Skinner. In 
 1652 his wife, Mary Powell, died. Four years later he married Catherine 
 Woodcock, of Hackney, who died the year after her marriage. 
 
 In 1660, at the Restoration, Milton was aged fifty-two. For a time 
 he had to conceal himself : and his works were burnt by the common 
 hangman, by order of the House of Commons. On Charles II. passing 
 the Act of Indemnity, Milton emerged from his concealment and took 
 up his residence in Jewin Street, Aldersgate. He married his third 
 wife, Elizabeth Minshull, of Nantwich, Cheshire, in -1664; and the 
 following year removed to his last residence, in Artillery Walk, Bunhill 
 Fields. His house stood upon ground now occupied by the Hon. 
 Artillery Company's barracks. At that place he composed " Paradise 
 Lost," and also "Paradise Regained." The copyright of "Paradise 
 Lost" was sold to one Samuel Simmons for;^5 down ; £^ more on the 
 sale of a first edition of 1,300 copies ; ;^S more for a second of a similar 
 amount ; and the same again for a third. In 1671 Milton published 
 his last poetical productions, " Paradise Regained " and " Samson 
 Agonistes." From 1671 to 1674 his life is but the tale of gradual 
 decline. He suffered from gout ; chalk-stones formed at the knuckles 
 of his hands. 
 
 His time was pleasantly spent by being read to in the morning by his 
 wife or daughters. At noon he dined. In the afternoon he enjoyed 
 sitting in the fresh air before his door ; and in the evening he delighted 
 himself with his favourite organ, and with the conversation of a few 
 friends, who used to visit his house, and smoke and chat with him by 
 his fireside. So, in the most absolute retirement and quiet, away from 
 the political world in which he had once played so important a part, 
 the poet's years glided on calmly, until most peacefully he slept away 
 and passed from earth one Sunday morning, November 8, 1674. He 
 lies buried in the nave of Cripplegate Church — the church in which 
 Cromwell was married. 
 
 It is needless to say a word regarding the genius of the greatest Epic 
 Poet Next to Shakespere's stands Milton's name upon the roll of 
 fame. He is the Poet of Sublimity. His muse sings and soars towards 
 Heaven. The student will remember Dryden's often quoted lines : 
 
 "Three poets, in three distant ages horn, 
 Greece, Italy, England,* did adorn: 
 The first in loftiness of thought surpast ; 
 The next in majesty ; in both the last 
 The force of Nature could no further go ; 
 To make a third, she joined the former two." 
 
 * Homer, Dante, Milton. 
 
3i6 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 FROM " PARADISE LOST." 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 " Is this the region, this the soil, the clime," 
 Said then the lost Archangel, " this the seat 
 That we must change for Heaven ? this mournful gloom 
 For that celestial light ? Be it so, since He 
 Who now is sovran, can dispose and bid 
 What shall be right : farthest from Him is best, 
 Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme 
 Above his equals. Farewell happy fields, 
 Where joy for ever dwells ! Hail, horrors 1 hail, 
 Infernal world ! and thou, profoundest Hell, 
 Receive thy new possessor ; one who brings 
 A mind not to be changed by place or time. 
 The mind is its own place, and in itself 
 Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. 
 What matter where, if I be still the same. 
 And what I should be, all but less than He 
 Whom thunder hath made greater ? Here at least 
 We shall be free ; the Almighty hath not built 
 Here for His envy, will not drive us hence : 
 Here we may reign secure ; and in my choice 
 To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell : 
 Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven." 
 
 " Princes, potentates, 
 Warriors, the flower of Heaven, — once yours ; now lost, 
 If such astonishment as this can seize 
 Eternal spirits ! Or have ye chosen this place 
 After the toil of battle to repose 
 Your wearied virtue, for the ease ye find 
 To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven? 
 Or in this abject posture have ye sworn 
 To adore the Conqueror? who now beholds 
 Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood 
 With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon 
 His swift pursuers from Heaven gates discern 
 The advantage, and descending tread us down 
 Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts 
 
JOHN MILTON. 317 
 
 Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf. 
 Awake ! arise ! or be for ever fallen !" 
 
 Say, Muse, their names then known, who first, who last, 
 Roused from the slumber on that fiery couch, 
 At their great emperor's call, as next in worth. 
 Came singly where he stood on the bare strand. 
 While the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof. 
 
 The chief were those who, from the pit of Hell 
 Roaming to seek their prey on Earth, durst fix 
 Their seats long after next the seat of God, 
 Their altars by His altar, gods adored 
 Among the nations round, and durst abide 
 Jehovah thundering out of Sion, throned 
 Between the Cherubim ; yea, often placed 
 Within His sanctuary itself their shrines. 
 Abominations ; and with cursed things 
 His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned. 
 And with their darkness durst affront His light. 
 
 All these and more came flocking ; but with looks 
 Downcast and damp, yet such wherein appeared 
 Obscure some glimpse of joy, to have found their chief 
 Not in despair, to have found themselves not lost 
 In loss itself; which on his countenance cast 
 Like doubtful hue. But he, his wonted pride 
 Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore 
 Semblance of worth, not substance, gently raised 
 Their fainting courage, and dispelled their fears ; 
 Then straight commands that at the warlike sound 
 Of trumpets loud and clarions be upreared 
 His mighty standard. That proud honour claimed 
 Azazel as his right, a Cherub tall. 
 Who forthwith from the glittering staff unfurled 
 The imperial ensign, which, full high advanced, 
 Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind. 
 With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed, 
 Seraphic arms and trophies ; all the while 
 Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds ; 
 At which the universal host up-sent 
 A shout that tore Hell's concave, and beyond 
 Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. 
 
3i8 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 All in a moment through the gloom were seen 
 Ten thousand banners rise into the air, 
 With orient colours waving ; with them rose 
 A forest huge of spears ; and thronging helms 
 Appeared, and serried shields in thick array 
 Of depth immeasurable. 
 
 He through the armfed files 
 Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse 
 The whole battalion views — their order due, 
 Their visages and stature as of gods ; 
 Their number last he sums. And now his heart 
 Distends with pride, and hardening in his strength 
 Glories. 
 
 He, above the rest 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent. 
 Stood like a tower. His form had yet not lost 
 All its original brightness, nor appeared 
 Less than Archangel ruined, and the excess 
 Of glory obscured ; as when the sun new risen 
 Looks through the horizontal misty air 
 Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon, 
 In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 
 On half the nations, and with fear of change 
 Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone 
 Above them all the Archangel ; but his face 
 Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care 
 Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows 
 Of dauntless courage and considerate pride 
 Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast 
 Signs of remorse and passion to behold 
 The fellows of his crime, the followers rather 
 (Far other once beheld in bliss), condemned 
 For ever now to have their lot in pain. 
 Millions of spirits for his fault amerced 
 Of Heaven, and from eternal splendours flung 
 For his revolt ; yet faithful how they stood, 
 Their glory withered : as when Heaven's fire 
 Hath scathed the forest oaks or mountain pines, 
 With singfed top their stately growth, though bare. 
 Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepared 
 To speak ; whereat their doubled ranks they bend 
 
JOHN MIL TON. 3 1 9 
 
 From wing to wing, and half enclose him round 
 With all his peers : attention held them mute. 
 Thrice he assayed, and thrice, in spite of scorn. 
 Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth : at last, 
 Words, interwove with sighs, found out their way 
 
 " O myriads of immortal spirits ! O powers 
 Matchless, but with the Almighty ; and that strife 
 Was not inglorious, though the event was dire, 
 As this place testifies, and this dire change, 
 Hateful to utter. But what power of mind. 
 Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth 
 Of knowledge past or present, could have feared, 
 How such united force of gods, how such 
 As stood like these, could ever know repulse ? 
 For who can yet believe, though after loss, 
 That all these puissant legions, whose exile 
 Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to reascend, 
 Self-raised, and repossess their native seat ? 
 For me be witness all the host of Heaven, 
 If counsels different, or danger shunned 
 By me, have lost our hopes. But He who reigns 
 Monarch in Heaven, till then as one secure 
 Sat on His throne, upheld by old repute, 
 Consent or custom, and His regal state 
 Put forth at full, but still His strength concealed, 
 Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall. 
 Henceforth His might we know, and know our own, 
 So as not either to provoke, or dread 
 New war provoked : our better part remains 
 To work in close design, by fraud or guile. 
 What force effected not ; that He no less 
 At length from us may find, who overcomes 
 By force hath overcome but half his foe. 
 Space may produce new worlds ; whereof so rife 
 There went a fame in Heaven that He ere long 
 Intended to create, and therein plant 
 A generation, whom His choice regard 
 Should favour equal to the sons of Heaven : 
 Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 
 Our first eruption ; thither or elsewhere ; 
 For this infernal pit shall never hold 
 Celestial spirits in bondage, nor the abyss 
 Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts 
 Full counsel must mature. Peace is despaired ; 
 
JOHN MILTON. 
 
 For who can think submission ? War, then, war, 
 Open or understood, must be resolved." 
 
 He spake ; and, to confirm his words, out flew 
 Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
 Of mighty Cherubim ; the sudden blaze 
 Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged 
 Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms 
 Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war, 
 Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven. 
 
 BOOK V. 
 Lowly they bowed adoring, and began 
 Their orisons, each morning duly paid 
 In various style ; for neither various style 
 Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise 
 Their Maker, in fit strains pronounced, or sung 
 Unmeditated ; such prompt eloquence 
 Flowed from their lips, in prose or numerous verse, 
 More tuneable than needed lute or harp 
 To add more sweetness ; and they thus began : 
 
 " These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
 Almighty ! Thine this universal frame, 
 Thus wondrous fair ; Thyself how wondrous then ! 
 Unspeakable ! who sitt'st above these heavens, 
 To us invisible, or dimly seen 
 In these Thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
 Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
 Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light. 
 Angels ; for ye behold Him, and with songs 
 And choral symphonies, day without night. 
 Circle His throne rejoicing — ye in Heaven ; 
 On Earth join, all ye creatures, to extol 
 Him first. Him last. Him midst, and without end. 
 Fairest of stars, last in the train of night. 
 If better thou belong not to the dawn. 
 Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn 
 With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere, 
 While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
 Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul. 
 Acknowledge Him thy greater ; sound His praise 
 In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
 And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st. 
 Moon, that now meet'st the orient Sun, now fly'st. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 321 
 
 With the fixed stars, fixed' in their orb that flies ; 
 
 And ye five other wandering fires, that move 
 
 In mystic dance, not without song, resound 
 
 His praise, who out of darkness called up light. 
 
 Air, and ye Elements, the eldest birth 
 
 Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
 
 Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix 
 
 And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change 
 
 Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
 
 Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise 
 
 From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray. 
 
 Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold. 
 
 In honour to the world's great Author rise ; 
 
 Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky. 
 
 Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 
 
 Rising or falling, stiU advance His praise. 
 
 His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow, 
 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye Pines, 
 
 With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 
 
 Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow 
 
 Melodious murmurs, warbling tune His praise. 
 
 Join voices, all ye living Souls. Ye Birds, 
 
 That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend. 
 
 Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise. 
 
 Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
 
 The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep, 
 
 Witness if I be silent, mom or even, 
 
 To hill or valley, fountain, or fresh shade. 
 
 Made vocal by my song, and taught His praise. 
 
 Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still 
 
 To give us only good ; and if the night 
 
 Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed, 
 
 Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark." 
 
 HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. 
 
 I. 
 
 It was the winter wild. 
 
 While the Heaven-bom child 
 All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies : 
 
 Nature in awe to Him 
 
 Had doffed her gaudy trim, 
 With her great Master so to sympathize : 
 
322 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 It was no season then for her 
 
 To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 
 
 II. 
 Only with speeches fair 
 She woos the gentle air 
 To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, 
 And on her nakfed shame, 
 Pollute with sinful blame. 
 The saintly veil of maiden white to throw, 
 Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 
 Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 
 
 III. 
 But He, her fears to cease. 
 Sent down the meek-eyed Peace : 
 She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding 
 Down through the turning sphere. 
 His ready harbinger. 
 With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; 
 And waving wide her myrtle wand. 
 She strikes an universal peace ^ through sea and land. 
 
 IV. 
 No war, or battle's sound, 
 Was heard the world around : 
 The idle spear and shield were high up hung ; 
 The hookfed chariot stood. 
 Unstained with hostile blood ; 
 The trumpet spake not to the armSd throng ; 
 And kings sat still with awful eye. 
 As if they surely knew their Sovran Lord was by. 
 
 But peaceful was the night 
 Wherein the Prince of Light 
 His reign of peace upon the earth began : 
 The winds with wonder whist^ 
 Smoothly the waters kist. 
 Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, 
 Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
 ■While birds of calm sit brooding on the charm^ wave. 
 
 ' Strikes peace/' like the stroke of a magician. (a) Silent, hushed. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 323 
 
 VI. 
 
 The stars with deep amaac 
 Stand fixed in stedfast gaze, 
 Bending one way their precious influence, 
 And will not take their flight. 
 For all the morning light. 
 Or Lucifer that often warned them thence ; 
 But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 
 Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go. 
 
 VII. 
 And though the shady gloom 
 Had given day her room, 
 The sun himself withheld his wonted speed. 
 And hid his head for shame, 
 As his inferior flame 
 The new enlightened world no more should need ; 
 He saw a greater sun appear 
 Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear. 
 
 VIII. 
 The shepherds on the lawn. 
 Or ere the point of dawn, 
 Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 
 Full little thought they than, 
 That the mighty Pan 
 Was kindly come to live with them below ; 
 Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep. 
 Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 
 
 IX 
 When such music sweet 
 Their hearts and ears did greet, 
 As never was by mortal finger strook ; 
 Divinely-warbled voice 
 Answering the stringed noise. 
 As all their souls in bhssful rapture took : 
 The air, such pleasure loth to lose, 
 With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. 
 
 X. 
 Nature that heard such sound, 
 Beneath the hollow round 
 Y 2 
 
324 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling,' 
 Now was almost won 
 To think her part was done, 
 And that her reign had here its last fulfilling. 
 She knew such harmony alone 
 Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. 
 
 XI 
 
 At last surrounds their sight 
 A globe of circular light. 
 That with long beams the shame-faced Night arrayed ; 
 The helm&d Cherubim, 
 And swordfed Seraphim, 
 Are seen in glittering ranks, with wings displayed, 
 Harping in loud and solemn quire. 
 With unexpressive^ notes to Heaven's new-born Heir, 
 
 XII. 
 Such music (as 'tis said) 
 Before was never made. 
 But when of old the sons of morning sung,' 
 While the Creator great 
 His constellations set, 
 And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, 
 And cast the dark foundations deep, 
 And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep 
 
 XIII. 
 Ring out, ye crystal spheres 1 
 Once bless our human ears 
 (If ye have power to touch our senses so). 
 And let your silver chime 
 Move in melodious time. 
 And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow ; 
 And with your ninefold harmony 
 Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 For if such holy song 
 
 Enwrap our fancy long. 
 Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, 
 
 And speckled Vanity 
 
 Will sicken soon and die. 
 And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould, 
 
 (i) Piercing. (2) Umxpressive — cannot be expressed. (3) Job xxxviit. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 325 
 
 nd Hell itself will pass away, 
 
 nd leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Yea, Truth and Justice then 
 
 Will down return to men, 
 Orbed in a rainbow ; and like glories wearing' 
 
 Mercy will sit between. 
 
 Throned in celestial sheen, 
 With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering ; 
 jid Heaven, as at some festival, 
 rai open wide the gates of her high palace hall. 
 
 XVI. 
 But wisest Fate says No, 
 This must not yet be so, 
 The Babe hes yet in smiling infancy, 
 That on the bitter cross 
 Must redeem our loss ; 
 So both Himself and us to glorify : 
 et first to those ychained in sleep 
 "he wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, 
 
 XVII. 
 
 With such a horrid clang 
 As on Mount Sinai rang. 
 While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake : 
 The agM earth, aghast 
 With terror of that blast, 
 Shall from the surface to the centre shake ; 
 Wien at the world's last session 
 'he dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And then at last our bliss 
 Full and perfect is. 
 But now begins ; for, from this happy day. 
 The Old Dragon underground. 
 In straiter limits bound. 
 Not half so far casts his usurpM sway, 
 nd wroth to see his kingdom fail, 
 winges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 
 
 (i) This is the authot's own correction. He had originally written— 
 "The enamelled arras of the rainbow wearing : 
 And Mercy sit between," &c. , 
 
326 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 XIX. 
 The oracles are dumb,' 
 No voice or hideous hum 
 Runs through the archfed roof in words deceiving. 
 Apollo from his shrine 
 Can no more divine, 
 With hoUow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. 
 No nightly trance or breath&d spell 
 Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 
 
 XX. 
 
 The lonely mountains o'er. 
 And the resounding shore, 
 A voice of weeping heard ^ and loud lament ; 
 P'rom haunted spring, and dale 
 Edged with poplar pale. 
 The parting Genius is with sighing sent ; 
 With flower-inwoven tresses torn 
 The nymphs in twihght shade of tangled thickets mourn. 
 
 XXI. 
 In consecrated earth. 
 And on the holy hearth. 
 The Lars^ and Lemures* moan with midnight plaint : 
 In urns, and altars round, 
 A drear and dying sound 
 Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint ; 
 And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
 While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat. 
 
 xxn. 
 Peor and Baalim 
 Forsake their temples dim, 
 With that twice battered god of Palestine ; ^ 
 And moonfed Ashtaroth, 
 Heaven's queen and mother both. 
 Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ; 
 The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn ; 
 In vain the Tynan maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. 
 
 (i) Alluding to the belief entertained by many of the Fathers, that the orz 
 ceased at the coming of Christ. 
 
 {2) Alluding to an effective story told by Plutarch {de de/ectu oraculorum), tl 
 voice had been heard proclaiming that *'The Great Pan was dead." 
 
 (3) Household gods. (4) Night spirits, ghosts. 
 
 (5) Dagon. See Judges xvi. and i Sam. v. 
 
yOHN MILTON. 327 
 
 XXIII. 
 And sullen Moloch, fled, 
 Hath left in shadows dread 
 His burning idol, all of blackest hue ; 
 In vain with cymbals' ring 
 They call the grisly king. 
 In dismal dance about the fiimace blue : 
 The brutish gods of Nile as fest, 
 Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Nor is Osiris seen 
 In Memphian grove or green. 
 Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud ; 
 Nor can he be at rest 
 Within his sacred chest. 
 Nought but profoundest heU can be his shroud ; 
 In vain with timbrelled anthems dark 
 The sable-stolfed sorcerers bear his worshipped ark, 
 
 XXV. 
 He feels from Juda's land 
 The dreaded Infant's hand ; 
 The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn : 
 Nor all the gods beside 
 Longer dare abide ; 
 Not Typhon,^ huge ending in snaky twine : 
 Our Babe, to show His Godhead true. 
 Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 So when the sun in bed. 
 Curtained with cloudy red, 
 Pfllows his chin upon an orient wave. 
 The flocking shadows pale 
 Troop to the infernal jail, 
 E^h fettered ghost slips to his several grave. 
 And the yellow-skirted fays 
 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But, see ! the Virgin blest 
 Hath laid her Babe to rest, 
 
 (1) The Egyptian Typhon. 
 
328 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 Time is our tedious song should here have ending : 
 Heaven's youngest-teemM star 
 Hath fixed her polished car, 
 Her sleeping Lord with handmaid-lamp attending ; 
 And all about the courtly stable 
 Bright harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. 
 
 FROM " L'ALLEGRO." 
 
 Sometimes with secure Relight 
 The upland hamlets will invite, 
 When the merry bells ring round, 
 And the jocund rebecks sound 
 To many a youth and many a maid, 
 Dancing in the chequered shade ; 
 And young and old come forth to play. 
 On a sunshine holy-day, 
 Till the livelong daylight fail ; 
 Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 
 With stories told of many a feat. 
 How fairy Mab the junkets eat. 
 
 Towered cities please us then, 
 
 And the busy hum of men. 
 
 Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
 
 In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, 
 
 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
 
 Rain influence, and judge the prize 
 
 Of wit, or arms, while both contend 
 
 To win her grace, whom all commend. 
 
 There let Hymen oft appear 
 
 In saffron robe, with taper clear, 
 
 And pomp, and feast, and revelry. 
 
 With mask, and antique pageantry ; 
 
 Such sights as youthful poets dream 
 
 On summer eves by haunted stream. 
 
 Then to the well-trod stage anon, 
 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
 
 Or sweetest Shakspeare, fancy's child, 
 
 Warble his native woodnotes wQd. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 329 
 
 And ever against eating cares 
 
 Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 
 
 Married to immortal verse, 
 
 Such as the meeting soul may pierce 
 
 In notes, with many a winding bout 
 
 Of hnkfed sweetness long drawn out, 
 
 With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, 
 
 The melting voice through mazes running, 
 
 Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 
 The hidden soul of harmony ; 
 
 That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
 
 From golden slumber on a bed 
 
 Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
 
 Such strains as would have won the ear 
 
 Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
 
 His half-regained Eurydice. 
 
 These delights, if thou canst give. 
 
 Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 
 
 FROM " IL PENSEROSO." 
 
 Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure. 
 
 Sober, stedfast, and demure, 
 
 AU in a robe of darkest grain, 
 
 Flowing with majestic train. 
 
 And sable stole of cypres-lawn ^ 
 
 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. 
 
 Come, but keep thy wonted state, 
 
 With even step and musing gait, 
 
 And looks commercing with the skies, 
 
 Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 
 
 There, held in holy passion still. 
 
 Forget thyself to marble, till 
 
 With a sad, leaden, downward cast 
 
 Thou fix them on the earth as fast : 
 
 And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 
 
 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. 
 
 And hear the Muses in a ring 
 
 Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; 
 
 And add to these retirM Leisure, 
 
 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 
 
 (i) Cj^rw-ZaWM— " cipres " (Fr.), crespe-crape. 
 
33° JOHN MILTON. 
 
 But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 
 
 Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
 
 Guiding the fiery-wheelfed throne. 
 
 The Cherub Contemplation ; 
 
 And the mute Silence hist along, 
 
 'Less Philomel will deign a song. 
 
 In her sweetest, saddest plight. 
 
 Smoothing the rugged brow of night. 
 
 While Cynthia checks her dragon-yoke 
 
 Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 
 
 Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly ; 
 
 Most musical, most melancholy ! 
 
 Thee, chantress, oft the woods among 
 
 I woo to hear thy even-song ; 
 
 And, missing thee, I walk unseen 
 
 On the dry smooth-shaven green, 
 
 To behold the wandering moon 
 
 Riding near her highest noon. 
 
 Like one that had been led astray 
 
 Through the Heaven's wide pathless way. 
 
 And oft, as if her head she bowed. 
 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 ON SHAKSPEARE, 163O. 
 
 What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones 
 
 The labour of an age in piled stones ? 
 
 Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 
 
 Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? 
 
 Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 
 
 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? 
 
 Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
 
 Hast built thyself a livelong monument. 
 
 For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavouring art 
 
 Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 
 
 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
 
 Those Delphic lines with deep impression took. 
 
 Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving. 
 
 Dost make us marble with too much conceiving : 
 
 And so sepiilchred in such pomp dost lie, 
 
 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 
 
JOHN MILTON. 331 
 
 ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER, 
 
 WHO SICKENED IK THE TIME OF HIS VACANCY, BEING FORBID TO GO TO LONDON 
 BY REASON OF THE PLAGUE. 
 
 Here lies old Hobson ; Death hath broke his girt, 
 
 And here, alas ! hath laid him in the dirt ; 
 
 Or else the ways being foul, twenty to one. 
 
 He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown. 
 
 Twas such a shifter, that, if truth were known. 
 
 Death was half glad when he had got him down ; 
 
 For he had, any time this ten years full. 
 
 Dodged with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull. 
 
 And surely Death could never have prevailed. 
 
 Had not his weekly course of carriage failed ; 
 
 But lately finding him so long at home. 
 
 And thinking now his journey's end was come, 
 
 And that he had ta'en up his latest inn. 
 
 In the kind office of a chamberlin 
 
 Showed him his room where he must lodge that night, 
 
 Pulled off his boots, and took away the light : 
 
 If any ask for him, it shall be said, 
 
 Hobson has supped, and 's newly gone to bed. 
 
 TO CYRIAC SKINNER. 
 
 Cjrriac, this three years' day these eyes, though clear. 
 
 To outward view, of blemish or of spot. 
 
 Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot j 
 Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
 Of sun, or moon, or star throughout the year, 
 
 Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
 
 Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
 Of heart or hope ; but still bear up, and steer 
 Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask ? 
 
 The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied 
 In liberty's defence, my noble task. 
 
 Of which all Europe talks from side to side. 
 This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask 
 
 Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 
 
332 
 
 SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 
 
 Bom 1609. Died 1641. 
 
 Sir John Suckling was bom at Whitton, Middlesex, February 10, 
 1608-9 ; and baptized at Twickenham Church. He was the son of Sir 
 John Suckling, a native of Norwich, whose father, Robert Suckling, had 
 been Alderman and Mayor of that city. Sir John, the poet's father, 
 settled at Whitton, and became one of the Secretaries of State in 1622, 
 He was likewise Comptroller of the Household to James I. and Charles I. 
 He died in 1627, when his son was nineteen years of age. From his 
 childhood the poet exhibited that talent which has made him known 
 not only as an accomplished courtier, but also as a sound scholar. At 
 five years of age he spoke Latin, and could write it elegantly at nine. 
 He was easily taught, and quick in acquiring knowledge ; but, together 
 with this, he was at all times volatile, thoughtless, and exhibited great 
 vivacity of disposition. In his father's house he associated with the 
 most distinguished men of his day, and thereby acquired an ease and 
 elegance of address and manner which qualified him for his future career 
 as a courtier. Suckling does not appear to have entered either of the 
 Universities. At an early period of his life he commenced his travels on 
 the Continent, where, it has been said, he acquired " a little too much 
 of the French air." He joined the service of the famous Gustavus 
 Adolphus, and was present at various battles and sieges. The period 
 is fixed by a letter still in existence, dated Leyden, November 18, 1629. 
 When Suckling returned to England, he associated with the wits of the 
 period. Into their circle he was received with marked favour and esteem ; 
 for although he exhibited such levity of disposition, it was compounded 
 with great ability in argument and especial conversational power. We 
 are not surprised, therefore, to find among Suckling's intimate friends 
 such a distinguished scholar as "the ever-memorable John Hales" of 
 Eton, and such noted men as Lord Falkland, Ben Jonson, Davenant, 
 Digby, and Carew. Suckling was " sealed of the tribe of Ben," and 
 one of the famous Apollo Club. (See the Life of Jonson.) 
 
 In the midst of his gaiety, the dark clouds of rebellion were gathering 
 around the throne of Charles I. Suckling's loyalty constrained him to 
 oflFer his services to the King. He raised and equipped at his own 
 expense a troop of cavalry, consisting of a hundred men. They were so 
 splendidly mounted and caparisoned, that it is said Sir John expended 
 12,000/. over their equipment. The conduct of this glittering band 
 exposed Suckling to much ridicule. In an engagement (1639) between 
 the Royal army and the Scotch, Sir John's troop was led into the fight 
 and behaved in a cowardly way. There was not the smallest reason for 
 questioning the bravery of Sir John himself: the occasion, however. 
 
Sm JOHN SUCKLING, 333 
 
 was too tempting to the Republican lampooners to be lost, and Suckling 
 had to suffer under the shafts of ridicule fired at him from various 
 directions. The most caustic satire (supposed to have been written by 
 Sir John Mennes, a wit of the day,) runs as follows : 
 
 Sir John he got him an amhling nag 
 
 To Scotland for to ride-a. 
 With a hundred horse or more, all his own he swore. 
 
 To guard him on every side-a. 
 
 No errant knight ever went to fight 
 
 With half so gay a bravado ; 
 Had you seen but his look, youde have sworn on a book 
 
 He'd have conquered a whole armado. 
 
 The ladies ran all to the windows to see 
 
 So gallant and warlike a sight-a ; 
 And as he passed by, they began for to cry, 
 
 "Sir John, why will you go fight-a?" 
 
 But he, like a cruel knight, spurred on ; 
 
 His heart would not relent-a : 
 For till he came there, what had-'he to fear? 
 
 Or why should he repent-a? 
 
 The King (God bless him !) had singular hopes 
 
 Of him and all his troop-a. 
 The borderers they, as they met him on the Way, 
 
 For joy did hoUoo and whoop-a. 
 
 None liked him so well as his own Colonell, 
 
 Who took him for John de Weart-a ; 
 But when there were shows of gunning and blows 
 
 My gallant was nothing so peart-a- 
 
 « * * * • 
 
 The Colonell sent for him back agen. 
 
 To quarter him in the van-a ; 
 But Sir John did swear he would not come there 
 
 To be killed the very first man-a. 
 
 To cure his feare, he was sent to the reare, 
 
 Some ten miles back, and more-a. 
 Where Kr John did play at trip and away, 
 
 And ne'er saw the enemy more-a ! 
 
 But now there is peace, he's returned to increase 
 
 His money, which lately he spent-a ; 
 But his lost honour must lie still in the dust. 
 
 At Barwick away it went-a. 
 
 It has been said that the vexation Suckling felt ^because of the dis- 
 comfiture of his soldiers shortened his days. Indirectly, though not 
 directly, this seems true. This much is certain : Sir John retreated to 
 France, where he met with a sudden death, through the villainy of the 
 valet who attended him. Dr. Wharton says, " Sir John Suckhng was 
 robbed by his valet-de-chambre : the moment he discovered it, he 
 clapped on his boots in a passionate hurry, and perceived not a large 
 rusty nail that was concealed at the bottom, which pierced his heel, and 
 brought on mortification." There are various versions of this story. 
 One says that Sir John was poisoned, and the blade of a pen-knife was 
 stuck in his boot to disable him from pursuing the valet when he 
 discovered that he was robbed of his casket of gold and jewels ; 
 another says the blade of a razor was used for this purpose : but all 
 agree that he was robbed, and that death was caused by a wound 
 inflicted upon the sole of the foot by some instrument pat into Sir 
 
334 SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 
 
 John's boot to prevent his pursuing the valet. There. is a full-length 
 portrait of Suckling at Knole ; on which an inscription appears, attri- 
 buting the death-wound to a razor. He died May 7, 1641, aged 31. 
 
 Suckling was a poet who wrote for his own amusement. He is 
 famous for his songs and ballads, which have the ease and elegance 
 natural to their author. The special object of his poetical admiration 
 was the Countess of Dorset (wife of Richard Sackville, fifth Earl), 
 daughter of Lionel Cranfield, Earl of Middlesex. The "Session of 
 Poets," the ballad on Lord Broghill's Wedding, and other pieces com- 
 posed in the same vein, have always been highly esteemed, and con- 
 sidered of sufficient excellence to entitle him to a place among our poets. 
 Sir John wrote a few plays— "A glaura, " " Brennoralt, " " The Gobblins," 
 " The Sad One." They were brought out at a great expense, and seem 
 to have been approved at the time, though they are now altogether 
 unknown. There are a few letters and fragments in prose by Suckling 
 still in existence, which show that he possessed great power in argument 
 and purity of expression in composition. His accoimt of Religion by 
 Reason, addressed to the Earl of Dorset, shows that as a prose essayist 
 and controversialist he had the ability to have acquired fame. Unfor- 
 tunately, the gallantry and laxity of morals which vitiated his life, also 
 taint and blur a great deal of his composition. 
 
 A WEDDING.i 
 
 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been ; 
 Where I the rarest things have seen ; 
 
 Oh, things without compare ! 
 Such sights again cannot be found 
 In any place on English ground, 
 
 Be it at wake or fair. 
 
 At Charing Cross, hard by the way 
 Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, 
 
 There is a house with stairs ;^ 
 And there did I see coming down 
 Such folks as are not in our town ; 
 
 Vorty at least, in pairs. 
 
 Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine 
 (His beard no bigger though than thine) 
 
 Walked on before the rest ; 
 Our landlord looks like nothing to him j 
 The king (God bless him !) 'twould undo him, 
 
 Should he go still so drest. 
 
 (r) The occasion of this poem is said to have been the marriage of Lord Broghill to 
 Lady Margaret Howard, daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. 
 
 {2) Suffolk House stood close to the foot of the Haymarket. SuiTolk-Street, Pall 
 Mall, takes its name from it. 
 
S/H JOHN SUCKLING. 335 
 
 At course-a-park, without all doubt, 
 He should have first been taken out 
 
 By all the maids i' th' town ; 
 Though lusty Roger there had been, 
 Or little George upon the green, 
 
 Oi Vincent of the Crown. 
 
 But wot you what ? The youth was going 
 To make an end of all his wooing ; 
 
 The parson for him stayed : 
 Yet by his leave, for all his haste, 
 He did not so much wish all past, 
 
 Perchance, as did the maid. 
 
 The maid (and thereby hangs a tale). 
 For such a maid no Whitsun-ale 
 
 Could ever yet produce ; 
 No grape that's kindly ripe could be 
 So round, so plump, so soft, as she. 
 
 Nor half so full of juice. 
 
 Her finger was so small, the ring 
 Would not stay on which they did bring ; 
 
 It was too wide a peck : 
 And, to say truth (for out it must), 
 It look'd like the great collar (just) 
 
 About our young colt's neck. 
 
 Her feet beneath her petticoat, 
 Like little mice, slole in and out, 
 
 As if they feared the light : 
 But, oh ! she dances such a way. 
 No sun upon an Easter-day 
 
 Is half so fine a sight.^ 
 
 Her cheeks, so rare a white was on. 
 No daisy makes comparison 
 
 (Who sees them is undone) ; 
 For streaks of red were mingled there 
 Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, 
 
 The side that's next the sun. 
 
 Her lips were red ; and one was thin, 
 Compared with that was next her chin 
 (Some bee had slung it newly) : 
 
 (0 It was prettily supposed that the sun dances on Easter Day. 
 
336 Sl/i JOHN SUCKLING. 
 
 But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, 
 I durst no more upon them gaze 
 Than on a sun in July. 
 
 Her mouth so small, when she does speak, 
 Thou'd'st swear her teeth her words did break, 
 
 That they might passage get ; 
 But she so handled still the matter. 
 They came as good as ours, or better. 
 
 And are not spent in whit. 
 
 Passion, oh me ! how I run on ! 
 There's that that would be thought upon, 
 
 I trow, besides the bride : 
 The business of the kitchen's great ; 
 For it is fit that men should eat ; 
 
 Nor was it there denied. 
 
 Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice. 
 And all the waiters in a trice 
 
 His summons did obey ; 
 Each serving-man with dish in hand 
 March'd boldly up, like our trained-band, 
 
 Presented, and away. 
 
 When all the meat was on the table, 
 What man of knife, or teeth, was able 
 
 To stay to be entreated ? 
 And this the very reason was, 
 Before the parson could say grace 
 
 The company was seated. 
 
 Now hats fly off, and youths carouse ; 
 Healths first go round, and then the house ; 
 
 The bride's came thick and thick ; 
 And when 'twas nam'd another's health, 
 Perhaps he made it hers by stealth. 
 
 (And who could help it, Dick ?) 
 
 O' th' sudden up they rise and dance ; 
 Then sit again, and sigh, and glance : 
 
 Then dance again, and kiss : 
 Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass. 
 Till every woman wished her place, 
 
 And every man wished his. 
 
Sm JOHN SUCKLING. 337 
 
 By this time all were stol'n aside 
 To counsel and undress the bride ; 
 
 But that he must not know : 
 But yet 'twas thought he guessed her mind, 
 And did not mean to stay behind 
 
 Above an hour or so. 
 
 I PR'YTHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART. 
 
 I pr'ythee send me back my heart, 
 
 Since I cannot have thine ; 
 For if from yours you will not part, 
 
 Why then should'st thou have mine ? 
 
 Yet, now I think on't, let it lie : 
 
 To find it were in vain ; 
 For thou'st a thief in either eye 
 
 Would steal it back again. 
 
 Why should two hearts in one breast lie, 
 
 And yet not lodge together ? 
 Love ! where is thy sympathy. 
 
 If thus our breasts thou sever ? 
 
 But love is such a mystery, 
 
 I cannot find it out ; 
 For, when 1 think I'm best resolved. 
 
 Then I am most in doubt. 
 
 Then farewell care, and farewell woe ; 
 
 I wiU no longer pine ; 
 For I'll believe I have her heart. 
 
 As much as she has mine. 
 
 A SONXJ. 
 
 When, dearest, I but think of thee, 
 Methinks all things that lovely be 
 
 Are present, and my soul delighted ; 
 For beauties that from worth arise 
 Are like the grace of deities, 
 
 Still present with us, tho' unsighted. 
 Z 
 
338 S/R JOHN SUCKLING. 
 
 Thus whilst I sit and sigh the day 
 With all his borrowed lights away, 
 
 Till night's black wings do overtake me, 
 Thinking on thee, thy beauties then. 
 As sudden lights do sleepy men, 
 
 So they by their bright rays awake me. 
 
 Thus absence dies, and dying proves 
 No absence can subsist with loves 
 
 That do partake of fair perfection ; 
 Since in the darkest night they may, 
 By love's quick motion, find a way 
 
 To see each other by reflection. 
 
 The waving sea can with each flood 
 Bathe some high promont that has stood 
 
 Far from the main up in the river. 
 Oh ! think not then but love can do 
 As much, for that's an ocean too 
 
 Which flows not every day, but ever. 
 
 A SESSION OF THE POETS. 
 I 
 A Session was held the other day. 
 And Apollo himself was at it (they say) ; 
 The laurel that had been so long reserved 
 Was now to be given to him best deserved. 
 
 2 
 
 And therefore the wits of the town came thither, 
 ('Twas strange to see how they flocked together) ; 
 Each, strongly confident of his own way. 
 Thought to gain the laurel away that day. 
 
 3 
 There was Selden,i and he sat close by the chair ; 
 Wainman not far off, which was very fair ; 
 Sands ^ with Townsend (for they kept no order) ; 
 Digby ^ and Chillingworth ■■ a little further. 
 
 (i) John Selden — "monarch in letters," as Ben Jonson called him — born 1584, 
 died 1654, {2) Sands— George Sandys, the poet — bom 1577, died 1644. 
 
 (3) Sir Kenelme Dighy, bom 1603, died 1665. 
 
 (4) WiUiam ChilHngworth — whom Tillotson named *' the incomparable Chilling- 
 worth," — Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, Chancellor of Salisbury, bom 1602, died 
 1644- This name has been commonly and incorrectly printed " Shiliingworth." Mr. 
 Chillingworth did not confine his studies to divinity ; he had the reputation of ^'^'r\ 
 as appears from these verses of Sir John Suclding. (See "Chillingworth," Biog. Brit.) 
 
SIX JOHN SUCKLING. 339 
 
 4 
 There was Lucan's translator too/ and he 
 That makes gods speak so big in's poetry ; 
 Selwin and Waller,^ and Bartletts, both the brothers ; 
 Jack Vaughan and Porter, and divers others. 
 
 S 
 The first that broke silence was good old Ben,^ 
 Prepared with Canary wine ; 
 And he told them plainly he deserved the bays. 
 For his were called works, where others were but plays : 
 
 6 
 
 And bid them remember how he had purged the stage 
 Of errours that had lasted many an age ; 
 And he hoped they did not think the Silent Woman, 
 The Fox, and the Alchymist, outdone by no man. 
 
 7 
 Apollo stopt him there, and bid him not go on ; 
 'Twas merit, he said, and not presumption. 
 Must carry 't : at which Ben turned about, 
 And in great choler offer'd to go out ; 
 
 8 
 But those that were there thought it not fit 
 To discontent so ancient a wit, . 
 And therefore Apollo call'd him back again, 
 And made him mine host of his own New Inn. 
 
 9 
 Tom Carew * was next, but he had a fault 
 That would not well stand with a laureat ; 
 His Muse was hard bound, and th' issue of 's brain 
 Was seldom brought forth but with trouble and pain. 
 
 10 
 
 And all that were present there did agree 
 
 A Laureat Muse should be easie and free ; 
 
 Yet sure 'twas not that, but 'twas thought that his Grace 
 
 Consider'd 'twas well he'd a cup-bearer's place. 
 
 (i) " Lucan's translator." — Thomas May, poet and historian, bom' 1595, died 1650 
 He contended for the Laureatship with Davenant on the death of Ben Jonson, and 
 was so irritated on losing it, that he deserted the Royal cause, and went over to the 
 Parliamentarians. He was made Secretary of Parliament, and wrote its History. 
 He translated Lucan's " Pharsalia." 
 
 {2) Edmund Waller, the poet. Works quoted. 
 
 (3) Ben Jonson. Works quoted. 
 
 (4) Thomas Carew, the poeL Works quoted. 
 
 Z 2 
 
340 SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 
 
 II 
 Will Davenant,^ asham'd of a foolish mischance 
 That he had got lately travelling in France, 
 Modestly hoped the handsomeness of 's Muse 
 Might any deformity about him excuse. 
 
 12 
 
 And surely the company would have been content, 
 If they could have found any precedent ; 
 But in all their records, either in verse or prose, 
 There was not one Laureat without a nose. 
 
 13 
 To Will Bartlett sure all the wits meant well, 
 But first they would see how his Snow would sell : 
 Will smiled, and swore in their judgments they went less. 
 That concluded of merit upon success. 
 
 14 
 Suddenly taking his place again, 
 He gave way to Selwin, who straight stept in ; 
 But, alas ! he had been so lately a wit. 
 That Apollo himself scarce knew him yet. 
 
 IS 
 Toby Mathews (jiox on him, how came he there r) 
 Was whispering nothing in somebody's ear, 
 When he had the honour to be named in court ; — 
 But, Sir, you may thank my Lady Carlisle for 't : 
 
 16 
 For had not her care furnisht you out 
 With something of handsome, without all doubt. 
 You and your sorry Lady-Muse had been 
 In the number of those that were not let in. 
 
 17 
 In haste from the court two or three came in, 
 And they brought letters (forsooth) from the Queen: 
 'Twas discreetly done too, for if th' had come 
 Without them, th' had scarce been let into the room. 
 
 18 
 This made a dispute ; for 'twas plain to be seen 
 Each man had a mind to gratify th' Queen : 
 But Apollo himself could not think it fit ; 
 There was difference, he said, betwixt fooling and wit. 
 (j) William Davenant, the poeL Works quoted. 
 
SIR John suckling. 341 
 
 Suckling'^ next was called, but did not appear ; 
 But straight one whispered Apollo i' th' ear, 
 That of all men living he cared not for 't, 
 He loved not the Muses so well as his sport, 
 
 20 
 And prized black eyes or a lucky hit 
 At bowles above all the trophies of wit : 
 But Apollo was angry, and publicly said, 
 'Twere fit that a fine were set upon's head. 
 
 21 
 Wat Montague now stood forth to his trial, 
 And did not so much as suspect a denial ; 
 But witty ApoUo asked him first of-all 
 If he understood his own Pastoral. 
 
 22 
 For if he cou'd do it, 'twould plainly appear 
 He understood more than any man there. 
 And did merit the bays above all the rest ; 
 But the Mounsieur was modest, and silence confest. 
 
 23 
 During these troubles in the court was hid 
 One that Apollo soon miss'd, little Cid ; 
 And having spy'd him, called him out of the throng, 
 And advised him in his ear, not to write so strong. 
 
 24 
 Murray^ was summoned, but 'twas urg'd that he 
 Was chief already of another company.^ 
 Hales,* set by himself, most gravely did smile 
 To see them about nothing keep such a coil ; 
 ApoHo had spy'd him, but, knowing his mind. 
 Past by, and called Falkland,^ that sate just behind. 
 
 (i) Sir John Suckling, the author of the piece. He was famous as a player of 
 bowls, at " Piccadilly Hall," which stood at the top of the present Haymarket, and 
 gave its name to Piccadilly. 
 
 (2) Sir Robert Murray, father of the Royal Society and first President, died 1673. 
 
 (3) I.e. the Royal Society, which had existed previous to the Commonwealth as a 
 debating club. 
 
 (4) John Hales—" the ever-memorable John Hales,"— Fellow of Eton and Canon 
 of VS^indsor; a great sufferer in the Royal cause ; famous as the lover and defender 
 of Shakespere : born ir.84, died 1656. 
 
 (5) Viscount Falkland (Lucius Carey), friend of Charles I. ; killed at the battle 
 of Newbury, 1643 ; the friend of Chilhngworth, and a great student of theological 
 subjects. 
 
342 RICHARD CRASH AW. 
 
 But he was of late so gone with divinity, 
 That he had almost forgot his poetry, 
 Though, to say the truth— and Apollo did know it- 
 He might have been both his priest and his poet. 
 
 26 
 At length who but an Alderman did appear, 
 At which Will Davenant began to swear ; 
 But wiser Apollo bade him draw nigher, 
 And, when he was mounted a little higher, 
 
 27 
 He openly declared, that the best sign 
 Of good store of wits to have good store of coin ,: 
 And without a syllable more or less said. 
 He put the lawrel on the Alderman's head. 
 
 28 
 At this all the wit's were in such amaze. 
 That for a good while they did nothing but gaze 
 One upon another ; not a man in the place 
 But had discontent writ at large in his face. 
 
 29 
 Only the small poets cheer'd up again, 
 Out of hope, as 'twas thought, of borrowing ; 
 But sure they were out, for he forfeits his crown 
 When he lends to any poet about the town. 
 
 'Sjsff 
 
 RICHARD CRASH AW. 
 
 Born (circ. 1610-15). Died 1650. 
 
 Richard Ckashaw was bom in London. The exact date is uncer- 
 tain. He was son of the Rev. William Crashaw, Preacher at the 
 Temple, and a man famous in his day for the animated part he took in 
 the discussion of religious questions controverted between Catholics and 
 Protestants. He seems to have had good friends at the Temple, for the 
 education of his son was undertaken by Sir Henry Yelverton and Sir 
 Randolph Crew, who sent the boy to the Charterhouse, where he 
 
RICHARD CRASH AW. 343 
 
 made extraordinary progress. In March 1632 he proceeded to Pem- 
 broke College, Cambridge, and took his degree, B.A., in 1635. He was 
 admitted a Fellow of Peter-House in 1637. 
 
 CrashaVs mind from his earliest years was of a devotional character. 
 In the same year that he graduated he published a volume of poems in 
 Latin, which were cluefly religious in tone ! They are memorable from 
 the fact that they contain a line which has often been ascribed to far 
 greater men than Crashaw, and which alone would preserve his name 
 in English literature. Speaking of the miracle at Cana of Galilee, he 
 
 wrote : 
 
 '* Nympha pudica Deum vidit, et enibuit," 
 (The modest water saw its Uod, and blushed.) 
 
 It is uncertain when Crashaw was admitted into Holy Orders. Most 
 probably it was soon after his election at Peter-House. He became 
 noted in the University as a preacher, and as a man of enthusiasm of 
 character, and great devotion and austerity of life. His poems, entitled 
 " Steps to the Temple," received that name in allusion to St. Mary's at 
 Cambridge, in which church he passed a great portion of his time in 
 religious exercises.^ In 1644, when the Parliamentary forces expelled 
 those members of the University who would not sign the Covenant, 
 Crashaw was among those who infinitely preferred expulsion and its 
 attendant losses to any such disgrace. He withdrew from Cambridge 
 and the pursuits of a learned life, which had endeared that place to him ; 
 for it is told of him that he was accomplished in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, 
 Italian, and Spanish, and was skilled in poetry, musicj drawing, and 
 engraming. He greatly delighted in poetry and engraving as " recreations 
 for vacant hours, not the grand business of life" 
 
 Crashaw was of a far too sensitive mind to be able to witness with 
 calm endurance the overthrow of the Church of England. The spectacle 
 was intolerable. He therefore left the kingdom, and crossed over to 
 France, where he found himself of no Church at all. His own was in 
 ruins. To the Church in France he was a stranger ; but having taken 
 up his residence there, it was not long before he embraced the faith of 
 that country. In 1646 the poet Cowley found Crashaw in Paris in the 
 utmost need. He represented his case to the exiled Queen, Henrietta 
 Maria, who gave him letters of recommendation to her friends in Italy. 
 Crashaw made his way to Rome, where he became secretary to one of 
 the Cardinals, and was subsequently appointed Canon of the church 
 of Loretto, where he resided the remainder of his days, and died in 
 1650. The austerity of Crashaw's life at Camhridge, his intense 
 abhorrence of the ruthless innovations and sacrilege of Iconoclasts and 
 Puritans, and the spectacle of a Church to which he had dedicated his 
 whole life, and love, swept away, apparently for ever, were the reasons 
 he assigned for being received into the Roman communion. 
 
 (i) "There he lodged under TertuUian's roof of angels," says the author of the 
 Preface to his poems ; " there he made his nest more gladly than David's swallow near 
 the house of God ; where, like a primitive saint, he ofifered more prayers in the 
 night than others usually offer in the day ; there he penned these noems, " Steps for 
 happy Souls to climb to Heaven by," 
 
344 RICHARD CRASH A W. 
 
 Crashaw belongs to the same school which produced George Herbert 
 and Quarles. " I take this poet, " says Pope, " to have writ like a gentle- 
 man ; that is, at leisure hours, and more to keep out of idleness than to 
 establish a reputation : so that nothing regular or just can be expected 
 of him. All that regards design, form, fable (which is the soul of 
 poetry), all that concerns exactness, or consent of parts (which is the 
 body), will probably be wanting ; only pretty conceptions, fine metaphors, 
 glittering expressions, and something of a neat cast of verse (which are 
 properly the dress, gems, or loose ornaments of poetry), may be found 
 in these verses." 
 
 STEPS TO THE TEMPLE. 
 
 SOSPETTO d'hERODE. 
 
 When the Erynnis her black pinions spread, 
 And came to Bethlem, where the cruel king 
 
 Had now retir'd himself, and borrowed 
 His breast a while from Care's unquiet sting, 
 
 Such as at Thebes' dire feast she show'd her head, 
 Her sulphur-breathed torches brandishing, 
 
 Such to the frighted palace now she comes, 
 
 And with soft feet searches the silent rooms. 
 
 By proud usurping Herod now was borne 
 The sceptre which of old great David sway'd. 
 
 Whose right, by David's lineage so long worn, 
 Himself a stranger to, his own had made ; 
 
 And from the head of Judah's house quite torn 
 The crown, for which upon their necks he laid 
 
 A sad yoke, under which they sigh'd in vain. 
 
 And looking on their lost state sigh'd again. 
 
 Up through the spacious palace passed she. 
 To where the king's proudly reposed head 
 
 (If any can be soft to tyranny 
 And self-tormenting sin) had a soft bed. 
 
 She thinks not fit such he her face should see, 
 As it is seen by Hell ; and seen with dread : 
 
 To change her face's style she doth devise. 
 
 And in a pale ghost's shape to spare his eyes. 
 
 Herself a while she lays aside, and makes 
 
 Ready to personate a mortal part : 
 Joseph the king's dead brother's shape she takes ;' 
 
 What he by nature was, is she by art. 
 
RICHARD CRASH AW. 
 
 345 
 
 She comes to th' king, and with her cold hand slakes 
 His spirits, the sparks of life, and chills his heart, 
 Life's forge : feign'd is her voice, and false too be 
 Her words ; " Sleep'st thou, fond man ? sleep'st thou ? " said she. 
 
 " So sleeps a pilot whose poor bark is prest 
 
 With many a mercyless o'er-mast'ring wave ; 
 For whom (as dead) the wrathful winds contest. 
 
 Which of them deep'st shall dig her wat'ry grave. 
 Why dost thou let thy brave soul lie supprest 
 
 In death-like slumbers, while thy dangers crave 
 A waking eye and hand ? Look up, and see 
 The Fates ripe in their great conspiracy. 
 
 " Know'st thou not how of th' Hebrew's royal stem 
 (That old dry stock) a despair'd branch is sprung ? 
 
 A most strange Babe ! who here conceal'd by them 
 In a neglected stable lies among 
 
 Beasts and base straw. Already is the stream 
 Quite tum'd : th' ingrateful rebels this their young 
 
 Master (with voice free as the trump of Fame) 
 
 Their new King and thy successor proclaim. 
 
 " What busy motions, what wild engines, stand 
 
 On tiptoe in their giddy brains ? th' have fire 
 Already in their bosoms ; and their hand 
 
 Already reaches at a sword : they hire 
 Poisons to speed thee ; yet through all the land 
 
 What one comes to reveal what they conspire ? 
 Go now, make much of these ; wage still their wars, 
 And bring home on thy breast more thankless scars. 
 
 " Why did I spend my life, and spill my blood, 
 
 That thy firm hand for ever might sustain 
 A well-pois'd sceptre "i Does it now seem good 
 
 Thy brother's blood be spilt, life spent, in vain ? 
 'Gainst thy own sons and brothers thou hast stood 
 
 In arms, when lesser cause was to complain ; 
 And now cross Fates a watch about thee keep. 
 Canst thou be careless now ? now canst thou sleep ? 
 
 " Where art thou, man ? what cowardly mistake 
 
 Of thy great self hath stol'n king Herod from thee .' 
 
 O call thyself home to thyself ; wake, wake. 
 And fence the hanging sword Heaven throws upon thee : 
 
346 RICHARD CRASH AW. 
 
 Redeem a worthy wrath ; rouse thee, and shake 
 
 Thyself into a shape that may become thee. 
 Be Herod, and thou shalt not miss from me 
 Immortall stings to thy great thoughts, and thee.'' 
 
 So said, her richest snake, which to her wrist 
 For a beseeming bracelet she had ty'd, 
 
 (A special worm it was as ever kiss'd 
 The foaming lips of Cerberus) she apply'd 
 
 To the king's heart ; the snake no sooner hiss'd, 
 But Vertue heard it, and away she hy'd ; 
 
 Dire flames diffuse themselves through every vein. 
 
 This done, home to her Hell she hy'd amain. 
 
 He wakes, and with him (ne'er to sleep) new fears : 
 His sweat -bedewed bed had now betra/d him 
 
 To a vast field of thorns ; ten thousand spears. 
 All pointed in his heart, seem'd to invade him : 
 
 So mighty were th' amazing characters 
 With which his feding dream had thus dismay'd him. 
 
 He his own fancy-framed foes defies ; 
 
 In rage, " My arms ! give me my arms ! " he cries. 
 
 As when a pile of food-preparing fire 
 The breath of artificial lungs embraves. 
 
 The caldron-prison'd waters straight conspire, 
 And beat the hot brass with rebellious waves : 
 
 He murmurs, and rebukes their bold desire : 
 Th' impatient liquor frets, and foams, and raves, 
 
 Till his o'erflowing pride suppress the flame 
 
 Whence all his high spirits and hot courage came. 
 
 So boils the fired Herod's blood-swoln brest. 
 Not to be slak'd but by a sea of blood. 
 
 His faithless crown he feels loose on his crest. 
 Which on false tyrant's head ne'er firmly stood. 
 
 The worm of jealous envy and unrest. 
 
 To which his gnaw'd heart is the growing food, 
 
 Makes him impatient of the ling'ring light 
 
 Hate the sweet peace of all-composing night. 
 
 A thousand prophecies, that talk strange things, 
 Had sown of old these doubts in his deep breast ; 
 
 And now of late came tributary kings, 
 
 Bringing him nothing but new fears from th' East, 
 
RICHARD CRASHAW. 347 
 
 More deep suspicions, and more deadly stings, 
 
 With which his feVrous cares their cold increas'd ; 
 And now his dream (Hell's firebrand) still more bright 
 Show'd him his fears, and kill'd him with the sight. 
 
 No sooner therefore shall he morning see 
 (Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of day). 
 
 But all his counsellors must summon'd be 
 To meet their troubled lord : without delay 
 
 Heralds and messengers immediately 
 Are sent about, who, posting every way. 
 
 To th' head and officers of every band 
 
 Declare who sends, and what is his command. 
 
 ^Vhy art thou troubled, Herod ? What vain fear 
 Thy blood-revolving breast to rage doth move ? 
 
 Heaven's King, who doffs Himself weak ilesh to wear, 
 Comes not to rule in wrath, but serve in love : 
 
 Nor would He this thy fear'd crown from thee tear, 
 But give thee a better with Himself above. 
 
 Poor jealousie ! why should He wish to prey 
 
 Upon thy crown, who gives His own away ! 
 
 Make to thy reason, man ; and mock thy doubts ; 
 
 Look how below thy fears their causes are : 
 Thou art a soldier, Herod ; send thy scouts ; 
 
 See how He's furnish'd for so fear'd a war. 
 What armour does He wear ? a few thin clouts. 
 
 His trumpets ? tender cries. His men to dare 
 So much ? rude shepherds. What his steeds ? alas i 
 Poor beasts ! a slow ox, and a simple ass. 
 II fine del libro primo. 
 
 WISHES. 
 TO HIS (SUPPOSED) MISTRESS. 
 
 Who e'er she be. 
 That not impossible she, 
 That shall command my heart and me ; 
 
 Where e'er she lye, 
 Lock'd up from mortal eye, 
 In shady leaves of destiny ; 
 
348 RICHARD CRASH AW. 
 
 Till that ripe birth 
 Of studied Fate stand forth, 
 And teach her fair steps to our earth ; 
 
 Till that divine 
 Idasa take a shrine 
 Of chrystal flesh, through which to shine 
 
 Meet you her, my wishes, 
 Bespeak her to my blisses, 
 And be ye call'd my absent kisses. 
 
 I wish her beauty, 
 That owes not all its duty 
 To gaudy tire, or glistring shoe-tie. 
 
 Something more than 
 Taffata or tissue can. 
 Or rampant feather, or rich fan. 
 
 More than the spoil 
 Of shop, or silkworm's toil, 
 Or a bought blush, or a set smile. 
 
 A face that's best 
 By its own beauty drest. 
 And can alone command the rest. 
 
 A face made up 
 Out of no other shop 
 Than what Nature's white hand sets ope 
 
 A cheek where youth. 
 And blood, with pen of truth. 
 Write, what the reader sweetly ru'th. 
 
 A cheek where grows 
 More than a morning rose : 
 Which to no box his being owes. 
 
 A well-tam'd heart. 
 For whose more noble smart 
 Love may be long choosing a dart. 
 
RICHARD CRASHAW. 349 
 
 Eyes that bestow- 
 Full quivers on Love's bow ; 
 Yet pay less arrows then they owe. 
 
 Smiles that can warm 
 The blood, yet teach a charm, 
 That chastity shall take no harm. 
 
 Blushes that bin 
 The burnish of no sin, 
 Nor flames of aught too hot within. 
 
 Joys that confess 
 Virtue their mistress, 
 And have no other head to dress. 
 
 Days that need borrow 
 No part of their good morrow 
 From a fore-spent night of sorrow. 
 
 Days that, in spight 
 Of darkness, by the light 
 Of a clear mind are day all night. 
 
 Nights sweet as they 
 Made short by lover's play, 
 Yet long by th' absence of the day. 
 
 Life that dares send 
 A challenge to his end, 
 And, when it comes, say, " Welcome, friend." 
 
 In her whole frame 
 Have Nature all the name, 
 Art and ornament the shame. 
 
 Her flattery. 
 Picture and poesy : 
 Her counsel her own virtue be. 
 
 I wish her store 
 Of worth may leave her poor 
 Of wishes ; and I wish — no more. 
 
350 SAMUEL BUTLER. 
 
 ON THE BLESSED VIRGIN'S BASHFULNESS. 
 
 That on her lap she casts her humble eye, 
 
 'Tis the sweet pride of her humility. 
 
 The fair star is well fix'd ; for where, O where. 
 
 Could she have fix'd it on a fairer sphere ? 
 
 'Tis heaven, 'tis heaven she sees ; heaven's God there lies , 
 
 She can see heaven, and ne'er lift up her eyes : 
 
 This new guest to her eyes new laws hath given ; 
 
 'Twas once look up, 'tis now look down, to heaven. 
 
 •TWO WENT UP INTO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY." 
 
 Two went to pray ? O rather say, 
 One went to brag, the other to pray. 
 
 One stands up close, and treads on high, 
 Where th' other dares not bend his eye. 
 
 One nearer to God's altar trod, 
 The other to the altar's God. 
 
 -«>ff 
 
 SAMUEL BUTLER. 
 
 Born l6i2. Died 1680. 
 
 Butler was bom in February, 1612, in the parish of Strensham, 
 Worcestershire. His father was a farmer of small means. After 
 being educated at the Cathedral School of Worcester, Butler began 
 the world as clerk to Mr. Jeffreys, Justice of Peace, living at Earls- 
 croom, Worcestershire. An attempt has been made to show that he 
 passed some years at Cambridge : but there is no proof that he was 
 ever a member of that University. In the service of Mr. Jeffreys 
 Butler found time for study, and also for the pursuit of the Fine Arts 
 — painting and music. It was most probably through his connexion 
 with Mr. Jeffreys that Butler became acquainted with the famous 
 Selden. 
 
SAMUEL BUTLER. 
 
 351 
 
 Selden directed the household of Elizabeth, Countess of Kent, and 
 it was said by Anthony Wood that " he lived with her in a conjugal 
 way." The Countess resided in the Friary-house, Whitefriars the 
 district well known as Alsatia, on account of its privileges of sanctuary 
 (see Sir Walter Scott's "Quentin Durward"). In the house of the 
 Countess Butler enjoyed the advantage of a noble library, and became 
 so much esteemed by Selden that he frequently employed him upon 
 literary work. When, or why, Butler left the service of the Countess is 
 unknown. We next hear of him in the household of Sir Samuel Luke, 
 a Bedfordshire gentleman, who became one of Cromwell's commanders. 
 In this establishment Butler had the opportunity of studying the 
 characters and habits of the Puritans. It is said that he commenced 
 his poem of " Hudibras " at that period ; and that Sir Samuel Luke is the 
 original of the ever-memorable knight At the Restoration Butler was 
 made Secretary to the Earl of Carbery, Lord President of Wales, who 
 conferred on him the Stewardship of Ludlow Castle. About the same 
 time Butler married a Mrs. Herbert, a gentlewoman of good means. 
 Her property before long was entirely lost by being invested in bad 
 securities. In 1663 the first three cantos of " Hudibras " were published, 
 and introduced at Court by the Earl of Dorset. 
 
 The Royalist party throughout the country eagerly read and studied 
 the poem. Its popularity became immense ; and every one supposed its 
 author would speedily receive some substantial proof of the royal favour. 
 No such result attended it. Butler received unbounded praise ; and 
 nothing more. In 1664 the second part appeared ; and in 1678 the 
 third, which leaves the poem incomplete. 
 
 Butler was then getting into years. Seeing his labour entirely over- 
 looked by the King, it is probable he gave up his work in despair, or 
 disgust At that period he resided in Rose Street, Covent Garden, 
 where he also died, in 1680, in extreme poverty. His remains were 
 interred in the churchyard of St Paul's, Covent Garden, at the expense 
 of his attached friend Mr. Longueville. The precise position of the 
 grave is now unknown. Half a century later Mr. Barber, --^ printer, 
 erected a monument in Westminster Abbey to the poet's memory. 
 
 The original idea of "Hudibras" was derived from Don Quixote. 
 Butler laboured under a great difficulty in striving to combine in one 
 person the character of a knight-errant and a Presbyterian magistrate. 
 The confiision created by such dissimilar ideas is obvious : and as the 
 poem was never completed, it is impossible to decide at what conclusion 
 its author designed to arrive. The swaggering pedant, knight and 
 justice, is led forth to battle, and never approaches within sight of the 
 field. There is a great paucity of action and an immensity of talk in 
 "Hudibras," so that the poem becomes fatiguing. Nevertheless, its 
 humour and its absurdities will always give it place and rank in 
 Engli.sh poetry, although the peculiar cant of the period against which 
 it was aimed has, we will hope, almost expired in the present age. 
 Inexhaustible isrit, and a diligent observation of the weak and ludicrous 
 
352 SAMUEL BUTLER. 
 
 points of character, made " Hudibras " a text-book, from which many 
 familiar sayings of practical wisdom now commonly on the lips of 
 people have been derived ; while, like enough, those who use them 
 are very frequently ignorant whence, and from whom, they borrow their 
 wise saws. 
 
 FROM "HUDIBRAS." 
 
 PART I. CANTO I. 
 
 When civil dudgeon first grew high, 
 
 And men fell out, they knew not why ; 
 
 When hard words, jealousies, and fears, 
 
 Set folks together by the ears, 
 
 And made them fight, like mad or drunk, 
 
 For Dame Rehgion as for punk ; 
 
 Whose honesty they all durst swear for, 
 
 Though not a man of them knew wherefore ; 
 
 MTien Gospel-trumpeter, surrounded 
 
 With long-ear'd rout, to battle soimded ; 
 
 And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 
 
 Was beat with fist instead of a stick ; 
 
 Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, 
 
 And out he rode a colonelling. 
 
 He was in logic a great critic, 
 Profoundly skill'd in analytic : 
 He could distinguish and divide 
 A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; 
 On either which he would dispute, 
 Confute, change hands, and still confute ; 
 He'd imdertake to prove, by force 
 Of argument, a man's no horse ; 
 He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl, 
 And that a lord may be an owl ; 
 A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 
 And rooks committee-men and trustees. 
 He'd run in debt by disputation, 
 And pay with ratiocination : 
 AH this by syllogism true. 
 In mood and figure, he would do. 
 
SAMUEL BUTLER. 353 
 
 For his religion, it was fit 
 To match his learning and his wit : 
 'Twas Presbyterian true-blue ; 
 For he was of that stubborn crew 
 Of errant saints, whom all men grant 
 To be the true Church militant ; 
 Such as do build their faith upon 
 The holy text of pike and gun ; 
 Decide all controversies by 
 Infallible artillery ; 
 And prove their doctrine orthodox 
 By apostolic blows and knocks ; 
 Call fire, and sword, and desolation 
 A godly, thorough Reformation, 
 Which always must be carried on, 
 And still be doing, never done ; 
 As if religion were intended 
 For nothing else but to be mended : 
 A sect whose chief devotion lies 
 In odd perverse antipathies ; 
 In falling out with that or this, 
 And finding somewhat still amiss ; 
 More peevish, cross, and splenetic, 
 Than dog distract, or monkey sick ; 
 That with more care keep holiday 
 The wrong, than others the right, way ; 
 Compound for sins they are inclined to 
 By damning those they have no mind to ; 
 Still so perverse and opposite. 
 As if they worshipp'd God for spite : 
 The selfsame thing they will abhor 
 One way, and long another for : 
 Free-will they one day disavow. 
 Another nothing else allow : 
 All piety consists therein 
 In them, in other men all sin : 
 Rather than fail, they will defy 
 That wliich they love most tenderly ; 
 Quarrel with minc'd pies, and disparage . 
 Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge ; 
 Fat pig and goose itself oppose,. 
 And blaspheme custard through the nose; 
 Th' apostles of this fierce religion. 
 Like Mahomet's, were ass and widgeon, 
 A A 
 
354 SAMUEL BUTLER. 
 
 To whom our knight, by fast instinct 
 Of wit and temper, was so linkt. 
 As if hypocrisy and nonsense 
 Had got th' advowson of his conscience. 
 * * * * 
 
 PART I. CANTO HI. 
 
 Ay me ! what perils do environ 
 The man that meddles with cold iron ! 
 What plaguy mischiefs and mishaps 
 Do dog him still with after-claps ! 
 For though Dame Fortune seem to smile, 
 And leer upon him for a while. 
 She'll after show him, in a nick 
 Of all his glories, a dog-trick. 
 This any man may sing or say 
 r the ditty call'd. What if a Day? 
 For Hudibras, who thought he'd won 
 The field, as certain as a gun, 
 And having routed the whole troop. 
 With victory was cock-a-hoop. 
 Thinking he'd done enough to purchase 
 Thanksgiving-day among the Churches, 
 Wherein his mettle and brave worth 
 Might be explain'd by holder forth. 
 And register'd by fame eternal 
 In deathless pages of diurnal. 
 Found in few minutes, to his cost. 
 He did but count without his host. 
 And that a turnstile is more certain 
 Than, in events of war, Dame Fortune. 
 * * # * 
 
 Quoth she, I should be loth to run 
 Myself all th' hazard, and you none. 
 Which must be done, unless some deed 
 Of yours aforesaid do precede : 
 Give but yourself one gentle swing, 
 For trial, and I'll cut the string ; 
 Or give that rev'rend head a maul, 
 Or two, or three, against a wall. 
 To show you are a man of mettle, 
 And I'll engage myself to settle. 
 
 Quoth he. My head's not made of brass, 
 As Friar Bacon's noddle was, 
 
SAMUEL BUTLER. '355 
 
 Nor (like the Indian's skull) so tough, 
 That, authors sajf, 'twas musket-proof ; 
 As it had need to be, to enter, 
 As yet, on any new adventure : 
 You see what bangs it has endur'd, 
 That would, before new feats, be cur'd : 
 But if thatfs all you stand upon, 
 Here, strike me luck, it shall be done. 
 
 Quoth she, The matter's not so far gone 
 As you suppose ; two words t' a bargain ;, 
 That may be done, and time enough, 
 When you have given downright proof ; 
 And yet 'tis no fantastic pique 
 I have to love, nor cry dislike ; 
 'Tis no implicit, nice aversion 
 T' your conversation, mieu, or person : 
 But a just fear, lest you should prove 
 False and perfidious in love : 
 For if I thought you could be true, 
 I could love twice as much as you.. 
 
 Quoth he,, My faith as adamantin 
 As chain of Destiny ;. I'll maintain 
 True as Apollo ever spoke, 
 Or oracle from heart of oak ;, 
 And if you'll give my flame but vent, 
 Now in close hugger-mugger pent, 
 And shine upon me but benignly 
 With that one and that other pigsney. 
 The sun and day shall sooner part, 
 Than love or you shake off my heart ; 
 The sun, that shall no more dispense 
 His own, but your bright influence. 
 I'll carve your name on barks of trees, 
 With true-love knots and flourishes. 
 That shall infuse eternal spring. 
 And everlasting flourishing : 
 Drink eVry letter oii't in stum, 
 And make it brisk champaign become. 
 Where'er you tread, your foot shall set 
 The primrose and the violet ; 
 All spices, perfumes, and sweet powders, 
 Shall borrow from your breath their odours ; 
 Nature her charter shall renew, 
 And take all lives of things from you ; 
 A A3 
 
3S6 SAMUEL BUTLER. 
 
 The world depend upon your eye, 
 And, when you frown upon it, die. 
 Only our loves shall still survive. 
 New worlds and Nature's to outlive. 
 And like to herald's moons remain. 
 All crescents, without change or wane. 
 
 Hold, hold ! quoth she, no more of this 
 Sir Knight, you take your aim amiss ; 
 For you will find it a hard chapter. 
 To catch me with poetic rapture. 
 In which your mastery of art 
 Doth show itself, and not your heart ; 
 Nor will you raise in mine combustion. 
 By dint of high heroic'fustion. 
 She that with poetry is won 
 Is but a desk to write upon. 
 And what men say of her they mean 
 No more than on the thing they lean. 
 Some with Arabian spices strive 
 T' embalm her cruelly alive ; 
 Or season her as French cooks use 
 Their haut-gousts, boullies, or ragousts ; 
 Use her so barbarously ill. 
 To grind her lips upon a miU, 
 Until the facet doublet doth 
 Fit their rhymes rather than her mouth : 
 Her mouth, compar'd t' an oyster's, with 
 A row of pearl in't 'stead of teeth. 
 Others make posies of her cheeks, 
 Where red and whitest colours mix ; 
 In which the lily and the rose 
 For Indian lake and ceruse goes. 
 The sun, the moon, by her bright eyes 
 Eclips'd and darken'd in the skies, 
 Are but black patches that she wears. 
 Cut into suns, and moons, and stars ; 
 By which astrologers, as well 
 As those in heaVn above, can tell 
 What strange events they do foreshow 
 Unto her under-world below. 
 Her voice the music of the spheres, 
 So loud, it deafens mortal's ears, 
 As wise philosophers have thought, 
 And that's the cause we hear it not. 
 
SAMUEL BUTLER. 357 
 
 This has been done by some, who those 
 
 Th' ador'd in rhyme would kill in prose ; 
 
 And in those ribands would have hung 
 
 Of which melodiously they sung, 
 
 That Rave the hard fate to write best 
 
 Of those still that deserve it least ; 
 
 It matters not how false or forc'd, 
 
 So the best things be said o' th' worst ; 
 
 It goes for nothing when 'tis said, 
 
 Only the arrow's drawn to th' head, 
 
 Whether it be a swan or goose 
 
 They level at : so shepherds use 
 
 To set the same mark on the hip 
 
 Both of their sound and rotten sheep : 
 
 For wits that carry low or wide 
 
 Must be aim'd higher, or beside 
 
 The mark, which else they ne'er come nigh, 
 
 But when they take their aim awry. 
 
 But I do wonder you should choose 
 
 This way t' attack me with your Muse, 
 
 As one cut out to pass your tricks on, 
 
 With fuUiams of poetic fiction : 
 
 I rather hop'd I should no more 
 
 Hear from you o' th' gallanting score ; 
 
 For hard dry bastings us'd to prove 
 
 The readiest remedies of love. 
 
 Next a dry diet ; but if those fail, 
 
 Yet this uneasy loop-hol'd jail, 
 
 In which ye're hamper'd by the fetlock. 
 
 Cannot but put y' in mind of wedlock ; 
 
 Wedlock, that 's worse than any hole here. 
 
 If that may serve you for a cooler 
 
 T' allay your mettle, all a-gog 
 
 Upon a wife, the heavier clog:: 
 
 Noi- rather thank your gentler fate. 
 
 That, for a bruis'd or broken pate. 
 
 Has free'd you from those knobs that grow 
 
 Much harder on the marry'd brow : 
 
 But if no dread can cool your courage, 
 
 From vent'ring on that dragon, marriage ; 
 
 Yet give me quarter, and advance 
 
 To nobler aims your puissance ; 
 
 Level at beauty and at wit ; 
 
 The fairest mark is easiest hit. 
 
3S8 SAMUEL BUTLER. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS. 
 
 All men's intrigues and projects tend, 
 By sev'ral courses, to one end ; 
 To compass, by the prop'rest shows. 
 Whatever their designs propose ; 
 And that which owns the fair'st pretext 
 Is often found the indirect'st. 
 Hence 'tis that hypocrites still paint 
 Much fairer than the real saint, 
 And knaves appear more just and true 
 Than honest men, that make less stew ; 
 The dullest idiots in disguise 
 Appear more knowing than the wise ; 
 Illiterate dunces, undiscerri'd, 
 Pass on the rabble for the leam'd ; 
 And cowards, that can damn and rant. 
 Pass muster for the valiant ; 
 For he that has but impudence 
 To all things has a just pretence, 
 And, put among his wants but sbame. 
 To all the world may lay his claim. 
 
 # * » * 
 
 Those that go up hill used to bow 
 
 Their bodies forward and stoop low, 
 
 To poise themselves, and sometimes creep, 
 
 When the way is difficult and steep ; 
 
 So those at Court, that do address 
 
 By low ignoble offices, 
 
 Can stoop at anything that's base, 
 
 To wriggle into trust and grace, 
 
 Are like to rise to greatness sooner 
 
 Than those that go by worth and honour. 
 
 * * » ♦ 
 
 As gold, that's proof against th' essay, 
 Upon the touchstone wears away. 
 And having stood the greater test, 
 Is overmaster'd by the least ; 
 So men, having stood the hate 
 And spiteful cruelty of Fate, 
 
SAMUEL SUTLER. 359 
 
 Transported with a false caress 
 Of unacquainted happiness, 
 Lost to humanity and sense, 
 Have fall'n as low as insolence. 
 
 Opinion governs all mankind, 
 Like the blind's leading of the blind ; 
 For that he has no eyes in's head 
 Must be by a dog glad to be led; 
 And no beasts have so little in 'em 
 As that inhuman brute. Opinion : 
 'Tis an infectious pestilence 
 The tokens upon wit and sense. 
 That with a venomous contagion 
 Invades the sick imaginadon ; 
 And when it seizes any part. 
 It strikes the poison to the heart 
 This men of one another catch 
 By contact, as the humours match ; 
 And nothing's so perverse in nature 
 As a profound opiniator. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Far greater numbers have been lost by hopes, 
 Than all the magazines of daggers, ropes. 
 And other ammunitions of despair, 
 Were ever able to dispatch by fear. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 As 'tis a greater mystery in the art 
 Of painting to foreshorten any part 
 Than draw it out, so 'tis in books the chief 
 Of all perfections to be plain and brief. 
 
360 
 
 ABRAHAM COWLEY. 
 
 Born 1618. Died 1667. 
 
 Abraham Cowley was a postumous child. His father was a 
 grocer in the city. The mother, in very straitened circumstances, con- 
 trived to secure for her son a good education. At a very early age 
 he was sent to Westminster School ; but even then his future devotion 
 to poetry was a settled matter. By accident he took up a copy of 
 Spenser's "Faery Queen," in his mother's parlour. The delight 
 which he experienced from its study determined him to be a poet ; 
 and from that determination he never swerved. 
 
 At Westminster School Cowley could never be induced to learn the 
 rudiments of grammar ; and yet in after life he was famous for his 
 Latinity. Milton and Cowley lived at the same period, and by the 
 elegance of their Latin compositions raised the fame of England among 
 Continental nations. The distinction, between their respective styles is 
 this : Milton endeavoured to express his thoughts, not only according to 
 the diction of a Roman, but as if they had been the thoughts of a Roman ; 
 Cowley, sacrificing something of purely classical phrase, endeavoured to 
 make the Latin tongue accommodate itself to his thoughts. Manifestly, 
 from the stand-point of scholarship, the idiomatic Latin of Milton will be 
 pronounced the finer. 
 
 Cowley was one of the most precocious poets that England has 
 produced. At the age of thirteen he published a volume of poems, 
 containing his tragical history of "Pyramus and Thisbe," composed 
 when he was ten years of age. In 1636 Cowley proceeded to Cambridge, 
 where, while yet a student, he published a great part of his " Davideis," 
 and " Love's Riddle," dedicated to Sir Kenelme Digby. 
 
 In 1643 (being then M.A.) he was - compelled to retreat from 
 Cambridge to Oxford, to escape from the Parliamentarian influence in 
 the former University. He resided at St. John's College, where he 
 published a famous Satire, entitled "The Puritan and Papist," which 
 was republished with his works in the last century, at the special desire 
 of Dr. Johnson. At Oxford the loyalty and the elegance of Cowley's 
 conversation made him many friends. Among others he was par- 
 ticularly noticed by the intrepid and accomplished Lord Falkland. 
 From Oxford Cowley followed the Queen to Paris, where he acted as 
 Secretary to Lord Jermyn, afterwards Earl of St. Alban's ; and was 
 engaged in ciphering and deciphering the correspondence between the 
 Queen and Charles I. In 1656 he ventured to cross to England, but 
 was made prisoner. After a short time he was liberated upon the security 
 
ABRAHAM COWLEY. 361 
 
 of Dr. Scarborough, for ;f 1,000. Remaining in England, he published 
 a collection of his poems, previous, as he said, to retiring to one of the 
 American plantations and leaving the world for ever. Having changed 
 his mind, and thinking it better to temporize vyith the Commonvifealth, 
 he took his degree at Oxford, in 1657, as Doctorof Medicine, and resided 
 in Kent, for the sake of studying the nature and property of plants and 
 flowers. 
 
 When Cromwell died, Cowley crossed to France, and continued in the 
 service of Charles II. until the Restoration, when, like many others who 
 expected their fidelity and self-sacrifices to be rewarded, Cowley only 
 received neglect. Disappointed and querulous, he retired to the Porch 
 House, Chertsey, where he passed the remainder of his discontented 
 days. 
 
 By the interest of the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of St. 
 Alban's he succeeded in obtaining a lease of Queen's lands, sufficient to 
 supply him with an ample income. 
 
 He did not enjoy his retirement and settled position in life for more 
 than two years. Having taken up his residence at Chertsey in 1665, he 
 was carried off by disease of the lungs, inflamed by a neglected cold, in 
 1667, aged forty-eight. 
 
 Cowley's remains received :the honours of a splendid funeral. They 
 were interred in Westminster Abbey, between those of Chaucer and 
 Spenser; and Charles II. was good enough to say, that "Mr. Cowley 
 had not left a better man behind him in England." 
 
 Cowley was the last great man of the metaphysical school. That 
 . school had been distinguished by men who wrote to show their learning ; 
 " but, unluckily resolving to show it in rhyme, instead of writing poetry 
 they only wrote verses, and very often such verses as stood the trial of 
 the finger better than the ear. " Cowley adopted the metaphysical style, 
 because it had been the fashion. Milton disdained it, and rejected it. 
 In his own age Cowley was considered a man of unrivalled excellence ; 
 but time has not confirmed any such verdict. The present age refuses 
 to consider the conceits of the metaphysical poets as wit. The faidt of 
 Cowley, and of all the writers of his school, is, that they pursue their 
 fancies to their exhaustion. Powerful description is frittered away in petty 
 enumeration : and thus the force of metaphor is lost, when the mind of 
 the reader is perpetually carried away to think upon the minutiae of the 
 objects from which illustrations are borrowed, rather than being left to 
 keep steadily before it the subject to which such illustrations are to be 
 applied. If the student will compare the poetry of Donne, Fletcher, 
 Crashaw, and Cowley with the poetry of Shelley (take, for instance, 
 "Adonais" or "Ginevra"), he will see at a glance what is meant. 
 
362 ABRAHAM COWLEY. 
 
 THE "WISH. 
 
 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. 
 
 I would not be a Puritan, tho' he 
 
 Can preach two hours, and yet his sermon be 
 
 But half a quarter long ; 
 Tho' 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 Consul's fasces seem ; 
 
 Tho' 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, bom since, out of poor Virgil beat. 
 
 I would not be a Justice of the Peace, tho' he 
 Can with equality divide the fee. 
 
 And stakes with his clerk draw ; 
 Nay, tho' 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. 
 
ABRAHAM COWLEY. 363 
 
 V. 
 I would not be a Courtier, the' he 
 Makes his whole life the truest comedy ; 
 
 Altho' he be a man 
 In whom the tailor's forming art, 
 And nimble barber, claim more part, 
 
 Than Nature herself can ; 
 Tho', as he uses man, 'tis his intent, 
 To put off Death too with a compliment. 
 
 VI. 
 From Lawyers' tongues, tho' 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 HeaVn ! and from thy eyes, O Justice ! keep ; 
 For tho' 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 Pow'rs, my breast ; 
 And from astronomy, which in the skies 
 Finds fish and bulls, yet doth but tantalize. 
 
 VIII. 
 From your Court-madam's beauty, which doth carry 
 At morning May, at night a January ; 
 
 From the grave City-brow 
 (For tho' 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 : 
 
364 ABKAHAM COWLEY. 
 
 Th' 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. 
 
 Books should, not bus'ness, entertain the light. 
 And sleep, as undisturb'd 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 liv'd to-day. 
 
 UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE. 
 
 I. 
 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. 
 
 II. 
 
 Fool ! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou 
 
 Of all the time thou'st shot away : 
 
 I'U 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 ? 
 
ABRAHAM COWLEY. 365 
 
 III. 
 Our life is carryd with too strong a tide ; 
 
 A doubtful cloud our substance bears, 
 
 And is the horse of aU our years : 
 Each day doth on a wingfed whirlwind ride. 
 We and our glass run out, and must 
 Both render up our dust. 
 
 IV. 
 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 nat'ral brevity — 
 To outlive Nestor in a day. 
 
 DAVIDEIS. 
 
 I. 
 Awake, awake, my Lyre ! 
 And tell thy silent master's humble tale 
 In sounds that may prevail, 
 Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire. 
 
 Though so exalted she. 
 
 And I so lowly be, 
 TeU her such diff'rent notes make all thy harmony. 
 
 II. 
 Hark ! how the strings awake ! 
 And though the moving hand approach not near, 
 Themselves, with awful fear, 
 A kind of num'rous trembling make. 
 
 Now all thy forces try. 
 
 Now all thy charms apply, 
 Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. 
 
 III. 
 Weak Lyre ! thy virtue, sure. 
 Is useless here, since thou art only found 
 To cure, but not to wound, 
 And she to wound, but not to cure. 
 
 Too weak, too, wilt thou prove 
 
 My passion to remove ; 
 Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. 
 
366 ABRAHAM COWLEY. 
 
 IV. 
 Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre ! 
 For thou C£inst never tell my humble tale 
 In sounds that will prevail. 
 Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire. 
 
 All thy vain mirth lay by. 
 
 Bid thy strings silent lie. 
 Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre ! and let thy master die. 
 
 CLAUDIAN'S OLD MAN OF VERONA. 
 
 Happy the man whose whole time doth bound 
 
 Within th' enclosure of his little ground: 
 
 Happy the man whom the same humble place 
 
 (The hereditary cottage of his race) 
 
 From his first rising infancy has known, 
 
 And by degrees sees gently bending down, 
 
 With natural propension to that earth 
 
 Which both preserv'd his life and gave him birth. 
 
 Him no false distant lights, by Fortune set. 
 
 Could ever into foolish wand'rings get ; 
 
 He never dangers either saw or fear'd ; 
 
 The dreadful storms at sea he never heard ; 
 
 He never heard the shrill alarms of war, 
 
 Or the worse noises of the lawyer's bar ; 
 
 No change of Consuls marks to him the year ; 
 
 The change of seasons is his calendar : 
 
 The cold and heat winter and summer shows ; 
 
 Autumn by fruits, and spring by floVrs, he knows : 
 
 He measures time by landmarks, and has found 
 
 For the whole day the dial of his ground : 
 
 A neighb'ring wood, born with himself, he sees. 
 
 And loves his old contemporary trees : 
 
 He's only heard of near Verona's name. 
 
 And knows it, like the Indies, but by fame : 
 
 Does with a like concernment notice take 
 
 Of the Red Sea and of Benacus' lake : 
 
 Thus health and strength he to a third age enjoys. 
 
 And sees a long posterity of boys. 
 
 About the spacious world let others roam, 
 
 The voyage of life is longest made at home. 
 
36? 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN. 
 
 Bom 1631. Died ijoo. 
 
 John Dryden was bom on the 9tli of August, 1631, at Aldwinkle, in 
 Northamptonshire. His father was the third son of Sir Erasmus 
 Driden, created a Baronet in 1619. The poet became a King^ Scholar 
 at Westminster School, under Dr. Busby. 
 
 While at school he wrote several translations, and his Elegy on 
 the death of Lord Hastings. In 1650 he proceeded as Westminster 
 Scholar to Trinity Coll^p, Cambridge. In 1654, on the death of his 
 father, he succeeded to a moderate property j but he continued to reside 
 at Cambridge until 1657, after he had taken his M.A. degree. Between 
 that date and the Restoration he held some inferior post imder the 
 pYigring GoTermnent. In 1663 he commenced his dramatic career by 
 producing "The Wild Gallant 1" and in the same year married a 
 daughter of the first Earl of Berkshire. He was appointed Poet 
 Laureat in 1670, with a salary of 200I. per annum. Between this time 
 and 1681 he was chiefly engaged in writing plays for the King's Theatre, 
 enjoying an income from that occupation of 300/. to 400/. a year. The 
 struggle between the parties of the Duke of York and Duke of Mon- 
 mouth had brought down i^on the Court an avalanche of epigram, satire, 
 and scurrility. Dryden, to produce a counteraction, published in 1 68 1 
 his famous " Absalom and Achitophel : " Buckingham being Zimri ; 
 Shaftesbury Achitophel ; and Monmouth Absalom. When Shaftesbury 
 was released from the Tower, and the Whig party struck a medal to 
 commemorate the event, Dryden published his stinging lampoon on 
 Shaftesbury, entitled "The Medal." After the death of Charles IL 
 Dryden embraced the Roman Catholic faith. Lord Macaulay designates 
 him an " illustrious ren^ade," and broadly insinuates that it was from a 
 sordid motive, — to regain a pension of 100/. per annum allowed by 
 Charles II., but which had been stopped since his death, — that Dryden 
 became a Roman Catholic. 
 
 His conduct thronghout the remainder of his life contradicts this 
 unworthy party insinuation. When William III. became King, 
 Diyden remained unmoved. Nothing would induce him to "take 
 the oaths, or forsake his religion." He educated his children in 
 his adopted faith, and lived and died in it himself. "The Hind 
 and the Panther," published in 1687, refers to this passage in his 
 life; and it is always r^arded as one of the finest compositions 
 in English poetry. Between 1690 and 1694 Diyden returned to 
 dramatic composition, and produced four plays. At the Revolution 
 he had been deprived of the Laureatship, and necessity compelled 
 
368 JOHN DRY DEN. 
 
 him to resume his pen as a dramatist. He had to contend against 
 poverty and the rapacity of Jacob Tonson, the publisher. At the 
 snrae period he commenced his translation of Virgil, and wrote liis 
 ever-famous "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day." The last composition which 
 came from his pen was a Masque, with prologue and epilogue, written 
 about three weeks before his death. His death was caused by inflamma- 
 tion of the foot. On the 1st of May, 1700, he expired, and was buried 
 in Westminster Abbey, where a monument was erected to his memory 
 by John Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham. 
 
 Dryden is now scarcely remembered as a dramatic writer. His 
 comedies are as coarse as his tragedies are stilted. The French School 
 was in vogue with the Court and the Cavaliers when he wrote his plays; 
 .and his plays are written up to the taste— or, rather, utter want of taste 
 — of the day. As a Poet and as a Satirist Dryden holds a very diife- 
 rent position in our esteem. Here he occupies a place in the foremost 
 rank. As a Satirist he is unsurpassed. In versification he is a most 
 agile master of the English language : and in compositions written in the 
 heroic measure he is distinguished for his fluency and vigour. Johnson 
 said of Dryden, in exaggerated terms, but nevertheless in words that 
 contain a great deal of truth, that he found the English language brick 
 and left it marble. 
 
 THE ART OF POETRY. 
 
 Rash author, 'tis a vain presumptuous crime 
 
 To undertake the sacred art of rhyme : 
 
 If at thy birth the stars that ruled thy sense 
 
 Shone not with a poetic influence, 
 
 In thy strait genius thou wilt still be bound, 
 
 Find Phoebus deaf and Pegasus unsound. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Whate'er you write of pleasant or sublime, 
 Always let sense accompany your rhyme : 
 Falsely they seem each other to oppose; 
 Rhyme must be made with Reason's laws to close; 
 And when to conquer her you bend your force, 
 The mind will triumph in the noble course; 
 To Reason's yoke she quickly will incline, 
 Which, far from hurting, renders her divine : 
 But, if neglected, will as easily stray. 
 And master Reason, which she should obey. 
 Love Reason then, and let whate'er you write 
 Borrow from her its beauty, force, and light. 
 Most writers, mounted on a resty Muse, 
 Extravagant and senseless objects choose ; 
 
JOHN DRYDEN. 369 
 
 They think they err, if in their verse they fall 
 On any thought that's plain or natural : 
 Fly this excess, and let Italians be 
 Vain authors of false glittering poetry. 
 All ought to aim at sense ; but most in vain 
 Strive the hard pass and slippery path to gain : 
 You drown if to the right or left you stray ; 
 Reason to go has often but one way. 
 Sometimes an author, fond of his own thought, 
 Pursues its objects till 'tis over-wrought ; 
 If he describes a house, he shows the face, 
 And after walks you round from place to place j 
 Here is a vista, there the doors unfold, 
 Balconies here are ballustred with gold ; 
 Then counts the rounds and ovals in the halls, 
 " The festoons, freezes, and the astragals :" 
 Tired with his tedious pomp, away I run. 
 And skip o'er twenty pages to be gone. 
 Of such descriptions the vain foUy see. 
 And shun their barren superfluity. 
 AU that is needless carefully avoid ; 
 The mind once satisfied is quickly cloyed : 
 He cannot write who knows not to give o'er ; 
 To mend one fault he makes a hundred more : 
 A verse was weak ; you turn it, much too strong, 
 And grow obscure for fear you should be long. 
 Some are not gaudy, but are flat and dry ; 
 Not to be low, another soars too high. 
 Would you of every one deserve the praise ? 
 In writing vary your discourse and phrase. 
 A frozen style, that neither ebbs nor flows, 
 Instead of pleasing makes us gape and doze ; 
 Those tedious authors are esteemed by none 
 Who tire us, humming the same heavy tone. 
 Happy who in his verse can gently steer 
 From grave to light, from pleasant to severe : 
 His works will be admired wherever found. 
 And oft with buyers wiU be compassed round. 
 In aU you write be neither low nor vile ; 
 The meanest theme may have a proper style. 
 ♦ * * * 
 
 There is a kind of writer pleased with sound, 
 Whose fustian head with clouds is compassed round ; 
 E B 
 
370 JOHN DRYDEN. 
 
 N o reason can disperse them with its light : 
 Learn then to think ere you pretend to write. 
 As your idea's clear, or else obscure, 
 Th' expression follows perfect or impure : 
 What we conceive with ease we can express ; 
 Words to the notions flow with readiness. 
 
 Observe the language well in all you write, 
 And swerve not from it in your loftiest flight. 
 The smoothest verse and the exactest sense 
 Displease us, if ill English give offence ; 
 A barbarous phrase no reader can approve. 
 Nor bombast, noise, or affectation love. 
 In short, without pure language, what you write 
 Can never yield us profit or delight. 
 Take time for thinking ; never work in haste ; 
 And value not yourself for writing fast. 
 A rapid poem, with such fury writ. 
 Shows want of judgment, not abounding wit. 
 More pleased we are to see a river lead 
 His gentle streams along a flowery mead. 
 Than from high banks to hear loud torrents roar, 
 With foamy waters on a muddy shore. 
 Gently make haste, of labour not afraid ; 
 A hundred times consider what you've said ; 
 Polish, repolish, every colour lay. 
 And sometimes add, but oftener take away. 
 'Tis not enough when swarming faults are writ 
 That here and there are scattered sparks of wit ; 
 Each object must be fixed in the due place. 
 And differing parts have corresponding grace, 
 Till, by a curious art disposed, we find 
 One perfect whole of all the pieces join'd. 
 Keep to your subject close in all you say; 
 Nor for a sounding sentence ever stray ; 
 The public censure for your writings fear, 
 And to yourself be critic most severe. 
 
JOHN DRYDEN. 371 
 
 VENI CREATOR. 
 
 Creator Spirit ! by whose aid 
 The world's foundations first were laid, 
 Come, visit every pious mind : 
 Come, pour Thy joys on himian kind : 
 From sin and sorrow set us free. 
 And make Thy temples worthy Thee. 
 
 O Source of uncreated light. 
 The Father's promised Paraclete ! 
 Thrice holy Fount, thrice holy Fire, 
 Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ; 
 Come, and Thy sacred unction bring 
 To sanctify us while we sing. 
 
 Plenteous of grace, descend from high. 
 
 Rich in Thy sevenfold energy ! 
 
 Thou strength of His almighty hand. 
 
 Whose power does heaven and earth command, 
 
 Proceeding Spirit, our defence, 
 
 Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense, 
 
 And crown'st Thy gift with eloquence, 
 
 Refine and purge our earthly parts ; 
 But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! 
 Our frailties help, our vice control. 
 Submit the senses to the soul ; 
 And when rebellious they are grown, 
 Then lay Thy hand and hold them down. 
 
 Chase from our minds the infernal foe. 
 And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 
 And, lest our feet should step astray. 
 Protect and guide us in the way. 
 
 Make us eternal truths receive, 
 And practise all that we believe : 
 Give us Thyself, that we may see 
 The Father and the Son by Thee. 
 B B2 
 
372 JOHN DRY DEN. 
 
 Immortal honour, endless fame, 
 Attend the Almighty Father's name ; 
 The Saviour Son be glorified, 
 Who for lost man's redemption died ; 
 And equal adoration be, 
 Eternal Paraclete, to Thee. 
 
 AN ODE 
 
 TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF THE ACCOMPLISHED YOUNG lAUY 
 
 MRS, ANNE KILLIGREW, EXCELLENT IN THE TWO 
 
 SISTER ARTS OF POESY AND PAINTING. 
 
 Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, 
 
 Made in the last promotion of the blest, 
 Whose palms, new pluck'd from paradise, 
 In spreading branches more sublimely rise. 
 
 Rich with immortal green above the rest ; 
 Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, 
 Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race. 
 
 Or, in procession fixed and regular, 
 
 Movest with the heavens' majestic pace : 
 
 Or, called to more superior bliss. 
 Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss : 
 Whatever happy region is thy place. 
 Cease thy celestial song a little space ; 
 Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine. 
 
 Since Heaven's eternal year is thine. 
 Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse 
 
 In no ignoble verse. 
 But such as thy own voice did practise here. 
 When thy first fruits of poesy were given, 
 To make thyself a welcome inmate there. 
 
 While yet a young probationer 
 And candidate of Heaven. 
 * * * * 
 
 May we presume to say, that at thy birth 
 New joy was sprung in heaven, as well as here on earth ? 
 For sure the milder planets did combine 
 On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, 
 And even the most malicious were in trine. 
 Thy brother-angels at thy birth 
 
 Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high, 
 
 That all the people of the sky 
 
JOHN DRY DEN 373 
 
 Might know a poetess was bom on earth ; 
 
 And then, if ever, mortal ears 
 Had heard the music of the spheres : 
 And if no clustering swarm of bees 
 On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 
 
 Twas that such vulgar miracles 
 
 Heaven had not leisure to renew ; 
 For all thy blest fraternity of love 
 Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holy-day above. 
 
 O gracious God ! how far have we 
 
 Prophaned Thy heavenly gift of poesy ! 
 
 Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, 
 
 Debased to each obscene and impious use. 
 
 Whose harmony was first ordained above 
 
 For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love ! 
 
 O wretched we ! Why were we hurried down 
 This lubrique and adulterate age, 
 
 (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own,) 
 T' increase the streaming ordures of the stage ? 
 
 What can we say f excuse our second fall ? 
 
 Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all : 
 
 Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled. 
 
 Unmixed with foreign filth, and undefiled ; 
 
 Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. 
 * * * * 
 
 ^Vhen in mid-air the golden trump shall sound. 
 
 To raise the nations underground ; 
 
 When in the Valley of Jehoshaphat 
 The judging God shall close the book of fate, 
 
 And there the last assizes keep, 
 
 For those who wake, and those who sleep ; 
 
 When rattling bones together fly 
 
 From the four comers of the sky ; 
 When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread. 
 Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead ; 
 The sacred poets first shall hear the sound 
 And foremost from the tomb shall bound, 
 For they are covered with the lightest ground ; 
 And straight, with in-born vigour, on the wing. 
 Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing. 
 There thou, sweet Saint, before the quire shall go. 
 As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show. 
 The way which thou so well hast leamt below. 
 
374 JOHN DRYDEN. 
 
 UNDER MR. MILTON'S PICTURE, 
 
 BEFORE HIS PARADISE LOST. 
 
 Three Poets, in three distant ages born, • 
 Greece, Italy, and England did adorn : 
 The first in loftiness of thought surpassed ; 
 The next in majesty ; in both the last. 
 The force of Nature could no further go ; 
 To make a third, she joined the former two. 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 INTENDED FOR DBYDEN'S WIFE. 
 
 Here lies my wife : here let her lie ! 
 Now she's at rest, and so am I. 
 
 A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687. 
 
 I 
 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
 This universal firame began ; 
 When Nature underneath a heap 
 
 Of jarring atoms lay, 
 And could not heave her head, 
 The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
 
 " Arise, ye more than dead ! " 
 Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, 
 In order to their stations leap. 
 And Music's power obey. 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
 This universal frame began : 
 From harmony to harmony 
 Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 
 The diapason closing full in Man. 
 
 2 
 What-pjission cannot Music ralise and quell?' 
 When Jubal sti^ck the chorded ^ell. 
 His listening brethren stood around. 
 And, wondering, on fheir faces fell, 
 To worship that celestial sound : 
 
JOHN DRYDEN. 375 
 
 Less than a God they thought there could not dwell 
 
 Within the hollow of that shell. 
 
 That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
 What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? 
 
 3 
 The trumpet's loud clangor 
 
 Excites us to arms, 
 With shriU notes of anger 
 And mortal alarms. 
 The double double double beat 
 Of the thundering drum 
 Cries, hark ! the foes come : 
 Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat ! 
 
 4 
 The soft complaining flute, 
 
 In dying notes, discovers 
 
 The woes of hopeless lovers, 
 Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. 
 
 5 
 
 Sharp violins proclaim 
 Their jealous pangs, and desperation, 
 Fiery, frantic indignation. 
 Depth of pains, and height of passion, 
 
 For the fair, disdainftd dame. 
 
 But, oh ! what art can teach. 
 What human voice can reach. 
 The sacred organ's praise ? 
 
 Notes inspiring holy love. 
 Notes that wing their heavenly ways 
 
 To mend the choirs above. 
 
 Orpheus could lead the savage race ; 
 And trees uprooted left their place. 
 
 Sequacious of the lyre : 
 But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher ; 
 When to her organ vocal breath was given, 
 An angel heard, and straight appeared. 
 
 Mistaking earth for heaven. 
 
,376 JOHN DRY DEN. 
 
 GRAND CHORUS. 
 As from the power of sacred lays 
 
 The spheres began to move, 
 And sung the great Creator's praise 
 
 To all the blest above ; 
 So when the last and dreadful hour 
 This crumbling pageant shall devour, 
 The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
 The dead shall live, the living die, 
 And Music shall untune the sky. 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 
 
 AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 
 
 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won 
 By Philip's warlike son : 
 Aloft, in awful state, 
 The godlike hero sate 
 On his imperial throne ; 
 His valiant peers were placed around ; 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound 
 (So should desert in arms be crowned). 
 The lovely Thais, by his side, 
 Sate like a blooming Eastern bride. 
 In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Happy, happy, happy pair! 
 None but the brave. 
 None but the brave. 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 
 
 2 
 
 Timotheus, placed on high 
 
 Amid the tuneful quire, 
 
 With flying fingers touched the lyre : 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
 
 And heavenly joys inspire. 
 
JOHN DRYDEN. 377 
 
 The song began from Jove, 
 Who left his blissful seats above 
 (Such is the power of mighty love. 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the god : 
 Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 
 When he to fair Olympia pressed, 
 And while he sought her snowy breast : 
 Then round her slender waist he curled, 
 And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 
 The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ; 
 A present deity ! they shout around : 
 A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound : 
 With ravished ears 
 The monarch hears. 
 Assumes the god. 
 Affects to nod, 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 With ravished ears 
 The monarch hears, 
 Assumes the god, 
 Affects to nod, 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 3 
 The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, 
 
 Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young. 
 
 The jolly god in triumph comes ; 
 
 Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums ; 
 
 Flushed with a purple grace 
 
 He shows his honest face : 
 
 Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes. 
 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
 
 Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. 
 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
 
 Rich the treasure, 
 
 Sweet the pleasure ; 
 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 
 Rich the treasure, 
 Sweet the pleasure ; 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
378 JOHN DRYDEN. 
 
 4 
 Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; 
 
 Fought all his battles o'er again ; 
 And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. 
 The master saw the madness rise, 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
 And while he heaven and earth defied. 
 Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 
 He chose a mournful muse. 
 Soft pity to infuse : 
 He sung Darius, great and good, 
 
 By too severe a fate, 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. 
 
 Fallen from his high estate. 
 And weltering in his blood ; 
 Deserted at his utmost need 
 By those his former bounty fed ; 
 On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
 With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
 Revolving in his altered soul 
 
 The various turns of chance below ; 
 And now and then a sigh he stole, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 Revolving in his altered soul 
 
 The various turns of chance belmv ; 
 And now and then a sigh he stole, 
 
 And tears began, to flow. 
 
 S 
 The mighty master smiled, to see 
 That love was in the next degree; 
 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 
 Softly sweet in Lydian measures 
 
 Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
 War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 
 Honour but an empty bubble; 
 
 Never ending, still begiiming, 
 Fighting still, and still destroying : 
 
 If the world be worth thy winning, 
 Think, O think it worth enjoying: 
 
JOHN DRYDEN. 379 
 
 Lovdy Thais sits beside thee, 
 
 Take the good the gods provide thee. 
 The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 
 So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 
 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 Gazed on the fair 
 Who caused his care, 
 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed aCgaiin ; 
 At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon hef breast. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 The prince, unable to conceal his' pain, 
 Gazed on the fair 
 Who caused his care. 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed again ; 
 At length, with love and wine at once Oppressed, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 6 
 Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
 And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thiuider. 
 Hark ! hark ! the horrid sound 
 Has raised up his head ; 
 As awaked from the dead. 
 And amazed, he stares around. 
 Revenge, revenge ! Timotheus cries. 
 See the Furies arise %. 
 See the snakes that they rear. 
 How they hiss in their hair. 
 And the sparkles that flash from their ^es ! 
 Behold a ghastly baild. 
 Each a torch in his hand ! 
 Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain. 
 And unburied remain 
 Inglorious on the plain : 
 Give the vengeance due 
 To the valiant crew. 
 Behold how they toss their torches on high. 
 
 How they point to the Persian abodes. 
 And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 
 
38o JOHN DRY DEN. 
 
 The princes applaud with a furious joy ; 
 
 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 
 
 Thais led the way, 
 
 To light him to his prey, 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 
 
 Thais led the way, 
 
 To light him to his prey. 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 
 
 Thus long ago, 
 Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
 While organs yet were mute, 
 Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
 And sounding lyre. 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventress of the vocal frame : 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize. 
 
 Or both divide the crown : 
 He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
 GRAND CHORUS. 
 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 
 Inventress of the vocal frame : 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 
 Enlarged the former nan-ow bounds. 
 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 Or both divide the crown : 
 
 He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
JOHN DRYDEN. 381 
 
 FROM "ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL." 
 CHARACTER OF THE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.* 
 
 Of these the false Achitophel was first ; 
 A name to all succeeding ages curst ; 
 For close designs and crooked counsels fit ; 
 Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit ; 
 Restless, unfixed in principles and place ; 
 In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace ; 
 A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 
 Fretted the pigmy body to decay. 
 And o'er-informed the tenement of clay. 
 A daring pilot in extremity ; 
 
 Pleased with the danger when the waves went high, 
 He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit. 
 Would steer too nigh the sands, to boast his wit. 
 Great wits are sure to madness near allied. 
 And thin partitions do their bounds divide ; 
 Else why should he, with wealth and honour blest, 
 Refuse his age the needful hours of rest ? 
 Pimish a body which he could not please ; 
 Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease ? 
 And all to leave what with his toil he won 
 To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son ; 
 Got, while his soul did huddled notions try ; 
 And bom a shapeless lump, Uke anarchy. 
 In friendship false, implacable in hate ; 
 Resolved to ruin or to rule the State : 
 To compass this the triple bond he broke ; 
 The piUars of the public safety shook ; 
 And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke ; 
 Then, seized with fear, yet stiU affecting fame, 
 Usurped a patriot's aU-atoning name. 
 So easy still it proves in factious times. 
 With public zeal to cancel private crimes. 
 
 _{i) Anthony Ashley Cooper, fiist Earl of Shaftesbury, bom at Wimbome, 1621, 
 ied at Amsterdam, 1683. He was one of the " Cabal " Ministry, and always a great 
 Dpularity seeker. His political tergiversations were remarkable. He made himself 
 bnoxious to James II. and espoused the causa of Monmouth. Fearing for his safety 
 e fled to the Continent in 1682, and died the following year of gout. 
 
382 EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 
 
 CHARACTER OF BUCKINGHAM.' 
 
 Some of their chiefs were princes of the land 
 In the first rank of these did Zimri stand ; 
 A man so various, that he seemed to be 
 Not one, but all mankind's epitome ; 
 Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong. 
 Was everything by starts, and nothing long ; 
 But in the course of one revolving moon 
 Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon; 
 Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking. 
 Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking 
 Blest madman, who could every hour employ 
 With something new to wish, or to enjoy ! 
 Railing and praising were his usual themes ; 
 And both, to show his judgment, in extremes ; 
 So over violent, or over civil. 
 That every man with him was God or Devil. 
 In squandering wealth was his peculiar art ; 
 Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 
 Beggared by fools, whom still he found too late. 
 He had his jest, and they had his estate. 
 He laughed himself from Court ; then sought relief 
 By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief : 
 For, spite of him, the weight of business fell 
 On Absalom and wise Achitophel. 
 
 (i) George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, bom in London, 1627, died at -Kirkby 
 Mooreide, Yorkshire, 1688, buried in Henry VII.'s Chapel at Westminster. He 
 was the favourite of Cliarles 11. and one of the celebrated " Cabal "Ministry. 
 
 EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 
 
 ^tf?-» (cite.) 1633. Diedld^^ 
 
 Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, was the son of James 
 Dillon, third Earl of that title, by Elizabeth Wentworth, sister of the 
 great Earl of Strafford. The third Earl had been converted to the 
 Protestant reUgion by Archbishop Usher. 
 
 When the rebellion broke out in Ireland, the Earl of Strafford, fearing 
 the fury of the people against the Dillon family, sent over for young 
 Wentworth — his godchild. He was removed to the Earl's seat in 
 
EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 383 
 
 Yorkshire, where he was carefully instructed, especially in Latin. 
 When the political storm broke over the head of the ma^animous 
 Strafford, Usher advised that young Wentworth should be sent to Caen 
 to pursue his studies under Bochart. 
 
 TTie condition of England and Ireland continuing agitated, the nephew 
 of the then beheaded Earl felt no particular inducement to return. While 
 at Caen he had succeeded to the title of Rosconunon. Aubrey tells a 
 story that he had a presentiment of his father's death, and exclaimed, 
 ''■My father is dead ! " while he was one day eiigaged with some boys 
 at play, at least a fortnight before the intelligence arrived from Ireland. 
 On finishing his education, he travelled in Italy, where he amused 
 himself with antiquarian pursuits and collecting medals. At the 
 Restoration he came toiondon, and was made Captain of the Band of 
 Pensioners. 
 
 Like too many of the courtiers of Charles II. 's reign, he indulged in 
 gambling, and so crippled his estate that he was compelled to leave the 
 Court and withdraw to Ireland. The Duke of Ormond, then governing 
 in Ireland, made him Captain of the Guard. Returning to his lodgings 
 one night from a gambling-table, he was attacked by three assassins. 
 One he had already killed with his rapier, when a gentleman passing by 
 joined in the combat and disarmed the other. The third fled. Rosr 
 common was so gratefiil for this timely aid, that he introduced the 
 stranger to the Duke of Ormond, and resigning his office of Captain of 
 the Guard, induced the Duke to prefer his deliverer to that office, which 
 he held until his death, when Roscommon resumed its duties. After he 
 had again returned to the Court of Charles II. he was made Master of 
 the Horse to the Duchess of York (Mary of Modena), and married the 
 Lady Frances, daughter of the Earl of Burlington. On the accession of 
 James 11. Roscommon, foreseeiiig the troubles about to arise, purposed 
 to leave the country, and was about to retire to Rome. -He said " that 
 it was best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smoked ; " by 
 which he possibly meant, that it was better for him to be near the person 
 of the Pope if the King were about to bring iEngland back again to the 
 Papacy. Whatever may iave been his meaning, the intent was never 
 carried into execution. He had an attack of gout, and being impa- 
 tient of confinement, put himself into the hands of a French quack- 
 doctor, who drove the disease inward, and Roscommon died of gout in 
 the stomach. Just before he expired, he uttered two lines of his own 
 poem on the " Day of Judgment : " 
 
 " My God, my Father, and my Friend, 
 Dj> not forsake me in my end." 
 
 The Earl's remains were interred with great pomp in Westminster Abbey. 
 The chief merit of Roscommon's poetry is its correctness of versifica- 
 tion. He had a special esteem for purity of expression and harmony 
 of measure. He was in this respect a benefactor to our language. 
 Vigour he had not : but smoothness of verse, and an ear sensitively alive 
 to a musical exactness in rhyme, he did possess, to a degree unequalled by 
 
384 EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 
 
 any of his contemporaries. Moreover, Pope writes of him — and the 
 
 praise is well deserved — 
 
 " Unhappy Dryden ! in all Charles's days 
 Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays." 
 
 The grossness and foulness of language in which the writers of Ros- 
 common's day indulged was such, that in a work like this the omission of 
 various names familiarly known to men of letters is an absolute necessity. 
 The more honour, therefore, is due to Roscommon, who, living in the 
 midst of such impurity, would not soil his pages with the ribaldry and 
 grossness which was at that time popular. 
 
 AN ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE. 
 
 Happy that author whose correct essay 
 Repairs so well our old Horatian way ; 
 And happy you, who (by propitious fate) 
 On great Apollo's sacred standard wait, 
 And, with strict discipline instructed right, 
 Have learned to use your arms before you fight. 
 But since the press, the pulpit, and the stage 
 Conspire to censure and expose our age, 
 Provok'd too far, we resolutely must 
 To the few virtues that we have be just. 
 
 ***** 
 When France had breath'd after intestine broils, 
 And peace and conquest crowned her foreign toils, 
 There (cultivated by a royal hand) 
 Learning grew fast, and spread, and blest the land. 
 
 ***** 
 Vain are our neighbour's hopes, and vain their cares ; 
 The fault is more their language's than theirs : 
 'Tis courtly, florid, and abounds in words 
 Of softer sound than ours perhaps affords ; 
 But who did ever in French authors see 
 The comprehensive English energy ? 
 The weighty bullion of one sterling line, 
 Drawn to French wire, would through whole pages shine. 
 I speak my private but impartial sense. 
 With freedom and (I hope) without offence ; 
 For I'll recant when France can show me wit 
 As strong as ours, and as succinctly writ. 
 
 ***** 
 With how much ease is a young Muse betra/d I 
 How nice the reputation of the maid ! 
 
EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 385 
 
 Your early, kind, paternal care appears 
 
 By chaste instruction of her tender years. 
 
 The first impression in her infant breast 
 
 Win be the deepest, and should be the best. 
 
 Let not austerity breed servile fear ; 
 
 No wanton sound offend her virgin ear. 
 
 Secure from foolish pride's affected state, 
 
 And specious flatter/s more pernicious bait, 
 
 Habitual innocence adorns her thoughts ; 
 
 But your neglect must answer for her faults. 
 
 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 dien 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 aU 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 fiUs, 
 And all goes down like oxymel of squills. 
 
 ***** 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 TwDl cost you dear before he's understood. 
 GC 
 
386 EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 
 
 How many ages since has Virgil writ ! 
 How few are they who understand him yet 1 
 Approach his ahars 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 suit the poet's mind : 
 Yet be not blindly guided by the throng, 
 The multitude is always in the wrong. 
 ***** 
 
 Words in one language elegantly us'd 
 
 Will hardly in another be excus'd ; 
 
 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 feeling easiness ; 
 
 For Truth shines brightest through the plainest dress. 
 ***** 
 
 I pity, from my soul, unhappy men 
 
 Compelled by want to prostitute their pen ; 
 Who must, hke 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. 
 
EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 387 
 
 No poet any passion can excite, 
 But what they feel in transport when they write. 
 Have you been led through the Cumasan 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 hxunan sound, 
 She makes the obedientghosts 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 possest. 
 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. 
 
 ON THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 I 
 The day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
 Shall the whole world in ashes lay, 
 As David and the Sybils say. 
 
 2 
 What horrour wiU invade the mind, 
 When the strict Judge, who would be kind, 
 Shall have few venial faults to find ! 
 
 3 
 The last trumpet's wondrous sound 
 Shall through the rending tombs rebound, 
 And wake the nations under ground. 
 
 4 
 Nature and Death shall with surprise 
 Behold the pale offender rise, 
 And view the Judge with conscious eyes. 
 C C 2 
 
EARL OF ROSCOMMON. 
 
 S 
 Then shall, with universal dread, 
 The sacred mystic book be read, 
 To try the living and the dead. 
 
 6 
 
 The Judge ascends His awful throne ; 
 He makes each secret sin be known, 
 And all with shame confess their own. 
 
 7 
 Oh ! then what interest shall I make 
 To save my last important stake, 
 When the most just have cause to quake ? 
 
 8 
 Thou mighty, formidable King, 
 Thou Mercy's unexhausted Spring, 
 Some comfortable pity bring ! 
 
 9 
 Forget not what Thy ransom cost, 
 Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost, 
 In storms of guilty terror tost. 
 
 lO 
 
 Thou who for me didst feel such pain. 
 Whose precious blood the cross did stain. 
 Let not those agonies be vain, 
 
 II 
 Thou whom avenging powers obey. 
 Cancel my debt (too great to pay) 
 Before the sad accounting day. 
 
 12 
 
 Surrounded with amazing fears. 
 Whose load my soul with anguish bears, 
 I sigh, I weep : accept my tears. 
 
 13 
 Thou who wert moved with Mary's grief^ 
 And by absolving of the thief 
 Hast given me hope, now give relief. 
 
 14 
 Reject not my unworthy prayer ; 
 Preserve me from that dangerous snare 
 Which Death and gaping Hell prepare. 
 
SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 389 
 
 IS 
 Give my exalted soul a place 
 Among thy chosen right-hand race, 
 The Sons of GOD, and Heirs of grace. 
 
 16 
 From that insatiable abyss, 
 Where flames devour and serpents hiss, 
 Promote me to Thy seat of bliss ! 
 
 17 
 Prostrate my contrite heart I rend : 
 My God, my Father, and my Friend, 
 Do not forsake me in my end. 
 
 18 
 Well may they curse their second breath 
 Who rise to a reviving death. 
 Thou great Creator of mankind, 
 Let guilty men compassion find ! 
 
 CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 Barn i6yj. DiM 1716. 
 
 Charles Sackville was the great-great-grandson of the celebrated 
 Loid Treasurer and poet, Thomas Sackville, first Earl of Dorset 
 
 Charles was the sixth Earl of that title. He was bom in 1637, 
 dnring the lifetime of Edward, the fourth Earl, Chamberlain, fiiend, 
 and staunch supporter of Charles I., who, when "the king was 
 murthered, took it so much to heart, that he never after stirred out of 
 his house, but dyed at Dorset House." (Salisbury Square, Fleet Street, 
 now occupies the spot on which this famous town-house of the Dorsets 
 stood.) 
 
 Charles SackviUe's fether, Richard, fifth Earl, was as devoted to the 
 Royal cause as his predecessor. He was one of the fifty-nine who had 
 courage enough in 1640, in the House of Commons, to vote against the 
 attainder of the Earl of Stiafibrd. His son, bom in the midst of the 
 troubles which overwhelmed the Court, was privately educated at home 
 by a tutor, and during the Conmionwealth sent out of England to travel 
 in Italy. At the Restoration Earl Richard was at the head of all 
 measures taken for the King's return. His son Charles was received 
 at Court with marked favour. In the first Parliament of Charles II. 
 he was returned for East Grinstead, a borough with which the Dorset 
 
390 SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 family has always been intimately connected. In his early life Charles 
 Sackville was associated with the riotous youths of high rank who 
 have given such ill-fame to the period which their licentious conduct 
 disgraced. He, Sir Charles Sedley, Sir Thomas Ogle, and others, 
 committed one excess in Bow Street, Covent Garden, which cost them 
 each a fine of 500/. • 
 
 In 1665, when twenty-eight years of age, Charles Sackville (who had 
 been known as Lord Buckhurst since his grandfather's death in 1652) 
 accompanied the Duke of York in the Dutch war, and was present at 
 the naval engagement off Harwich, when the Duke defeated the Dutch 
 fleet, and Opdam, the Dutch admiral, was blown up with all his crew 
 in his flag-ship, while fourteen others were destroyed and eighteen were 
 taken. It was upon the eve of this engagement that Buckhurst wrote 
 the celebrated song which retains its favour' to the present hour in all 
 collections of naval poetry. Very frequently the composition of this 
 song, under such stirring circumstances, is quoted as evidence of the 
 calmness, self-possession, and courage of Buckhurst Though he wrote 
 several other pieces, this song, " To all ye Ladies now on Land," is 
 the only one which popularly survives to recall the name of Charles 
 Sackville. He became Gentleman of the Bedchamber to the King, and 
 was frequently employed by him on embassies to the King of France : 
 for Sackville was esteemed "one of the best bred" and most accom- 
 plished men at the English Court. His father. Earl Richard, had 
 married Frances, daughter of Lionel Cianfield, Earl of Middlesex. At 
 the death of her brother without children, in 1675, Charles . Sackville 
 inherited the large Cranfield estates and the earldom of Middlesex. In 
 1677 his father died, when he succeeded to his family title as Earl of 
 Dorset, with the Buckhurst property, and the Manor of Knole, at 
 Sevenoaks. As Earl of Dorset and Middlesex, he became one of the 
 most wealthy nobles at Court, and was able to indulge his favourite 
 tastes, and to "patronize" those whom he thought deserving of his 
 favour. Among these, according to Prior, Dryden may be numbered. 
 Certain it is, that Dorset had a great love for literature, and that he 
 cultivated the friendship of the poets and learned men of his time. 
 Prior was entirely indebted to the Earl for his introduction to public life. 
 He returned him to Parliament as member for East Grinstead, and always 
 remained his staunch friend. There still exist several letters written to 
 the Earl by Prior, when he was resident at Paris as Minister-Pleni- 
 potentiary to the Court of France. 
 
 At Knole there is one room, the walls of which are covered with 
 portraits of the poets and celebrated men in letters or art, collected by 
 this Earl of Dorset : among these are likenesses of Ben Jonson, Dryden, 
 Betterton, Garth, Congreve, Waller, Milton, Gay, Sir Philip Sydney, 
 Otway, Rochester, Tom D'Urfey, Sir Charles Sedley, Butler, and, as a 
 matter of course, Matthew Prior. It would be hard to conceive any 
 life more enjoyable, and apparently thoroughly enjoyed, than was 
 Charles Sackville's, until the accession of James II. 
 
SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 391 
 
 Lord Rochester said of him : " I know not how it is, but Lord Buck- 
 hurst may do what he will, yet is never in the wrong." The reason was 
 perhaps as well known to Rochester as to any one. Dorset was a man 
 of el^;ance, of taste, and sound judgment ; a judgment too sound to 
 betray him into valuing himself for what he was not. Added to this, he 
 was the patron and £riend of the learned and the witty. He thoroughly 
 appreciated and loved the poetry, learning, or wit in others, to which he 
 could make no pretension himself The reign of James II. disagreeably 
 interfered with his comfort and enjoyment. He felt himself constrained 
 to oppose the action of the King. At the trial of the seven bishops, in 
 1688, he openly appeared in Westminster Hall among their friends. 
 James IL put him out of his commission as Lord Lieutenant and 
 Custos Rotulomm of Sussex. Dorset espoused the cause of the Prince 
 of Orange, and actively aided in bringing about the Revolution. He 
 was made Privy Councillor and Lord Chamberlain to William and 
 Mary; and in 1691 was created K.G. During the King's absence in 
 Holland he was four times appointed one of the Lords Regent of the 
 Kingdom. It is said that the cause of his death arose from his being 
 tossed about for sixteen hours in an open boat upon a tempestuous sea, 
 upon the coast of Holland, where he on one occasion accompanied the 
 King. He retired to Bath when his health declined ; and on January 29, 
 1716, died there, setat 79. He was buried at Withiam, Sussex, in the 
 same vault with the five previous earls. 
 
 Charles Sackville, sixth Earl of Dorset, scarcely merits to be mentioned 
 as a poet A song of eleven stanzas is the only piece he ever wrote 
 that deserves quotation ; but that it has merit is evidenced by the fact 
 that it continues popular to the present day. 
 
 During his lifetime the Earl was flattered and courted as few men 
 have been. It is narrated of Dryden, that on undertaking to produce 
 authors of the day equal in wit, satire, and dramatic power to the 
 classical writers, he observed, " I would instance your lordship in satire, 
 and Shakspeare in tragedy." If the story be true — which for Dryden's 
 sake we will hope it is not — we can only regard such fiJsome flattery 
 with the derision it deserves ; while we feel an increased esteem for 
 Dorset, whose good sense was never misled by any such praise. 
 Occupying an elevated position, and held in the highest consideration 
 at the courts of Charles II. and of William and Mary, Charles Sack- 
 ville remained, throughout his life, the true, warm iriend of the poets, 
 the men of genius and of wit, that he came in contact with ; and to his 
 honour be it told, that where he discovered merit, his open hand was 
 ever ready to cherish and foster it. Such a true noble — a rare exception 
 to the general run of his order in the profligate age in which he flourished, 
 — deserves to be remembered admiringly by all literary men. Prior 
 wrote an elaborate sketch of the Earl's character in the Dedication of 
 his poems to the Earl's son, Lionel, Earl of Dorset. The sketch is 
 historically interesting, and well worth the student's attention. 
 
392 SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 TO MR. EDWARD HOWARD, 
 
 ON HIS INCOMPARABLE, INCOMPREHENSIBLE POEM, CALLED 
 "the BRITISH PRINCES." 
 
 Come on, ye critics, find one fault who dares ; 
 
 For read it backward, like a witch's prayers, 
 
 'TwiU do as well : throw not away your jests 
 
 On solid nonsense, that abides all tests. 
 
 Wit, like tierce-claret, when 't begins to pall, 
 
 Neglected lies, and 's of no use at all. 
 
 But, in its full perfection of decay, 
 
 Turns vinegar, and comes again in play. 
 
 Thou hast a brain, such as it is indeed : 
 
 On what else should thy worm of fancy feed ? 
 
 Yet in a filbert I have often known 
 
 Maggots survive when all the kernel's gone. 
 
 This simile shall stand in thy defence 
 
 'Gainst those duU rogues who now and then write sense. 
 
 Thy style's the same, whatever be thy theme, 
 
 As some digestions turn all meat to phlegm. 
 
 They lie, dear Ned, who say thy brain is barren, 
 
 Where deep conceits, like maggots, breed in carrion. 
 
 Thy stumbling founder'd jade can trot as high 
 
 As any other Pegasus can fly : 
 
 So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud 
 
 Than all the swift-finn'd racers of the flood. 
 
 As skilful divers to the bottom fall. 
 Sooner than those who cannot swim at all : 
 So, in this way of writing without thinking. 
 Thou hast a strange alacrity in sinking. 
 Thou writ'st below even thy own natural parts. 
 And with acquir'd dulness and new arts 
 Of study'd nonsense tak'st kind readers' hearts. 
 Therefore, dear Ned, at my advice, forbear 
 Such loud complaints 'gainst critics to prefer. 
 Since thou art turn'd an arrant libeller ; 
 Thou sett'st thy name to what thyself dost write ! 
 Did ever libel yet so sharply bite ? 
 
SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 393 
 
 A FRENCH SONG PARAPHRASED. 
 
 In grey-hair'd Celia's withered arms ^ 
 
 As mighty Lewis lay, 
 She erf A., " If I have any charms, 
 
 My dearest, let's away ! 
 
 " For you, my love, is all my fear ! 
 Hark, how the drrans do rattle ! 
 Alas, sir ! what should you do here 
 In dreadful day of battle ? 
 
 " Let little Orange stay and fight. 
 For danger's his diversion ; 
 The wise will think you in the right 
 Not to expose yom- person : 
 
 " Nor vex your thoughts how to repair 
 The ruins of your glory ; 
 You ought to leave so mean a care 
 To those who pen your story. 
 
 " Are not Boileau and ComeiUe paid 
 For panegyric writing ? 
 They know how heroes may be made 
 Without the help of fighting. 
 
 " When foes too saucily approach, 
 'Tis best to leave them fairly : 
 Put six good horses to your coach, 
 And carry me to Marly. 
 
 " Let Bouflers, to secure your fame. 
 Go take some town or buy it ; 
 Whilst you, great sir, at Notre Dame, 
 Te Deiun sing in quiet" 
 
 (x) The allusion is to Louis XIV. and Madame de Maintenon, and to the war between 
 Fiance and Holland combined with England, which ended widi the treaty of Ryswick 
 in 1697, when Louis recognised William III. as King of England. In die poetry of 
 the period Louis XIV. is constandy made an object of jest. 
 
394 SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 
 
 SONG, 
 
 WRITTEN AT SEA -IN THE FIRST DUTCH WAR, l66s, THE 
 NIGHT BEFORE AN ENGAGEMENT. 
 
 To all you ladies now on land, 
 
 We men at sea indite ; 
 But first would have you understand 
 
 How hard it is to write : 
 The Muses now, and Neptune too, 
 We must implore to write to you. 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 For though the Muses should prove kind, 
 
 And fill our empty brain ; 
 Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, 
 
 To wave the azure main, 
 Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, 
 Roll up and down our ships at sea. 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 Then if we write not by each post, 
 
 Think not we are unkind ; 
 Nor yet conclude our ships are lost 
 
 By Dutchmen, or by wind : 
 Our tears we'll send a speedier way. 
 The tide shall bring them twice a day. 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 The King, with wonder and surprise, 
 
 Will swear the seas grow bold ; 
 Because the tides will higher rise. 
 
 Than e'er they us'd of old : 
 But let him know, it is our tears 
 Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs. 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 Should foggy Opdam chance to know 
 
 Our sad and dismal story, 
 The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, 
 
 And quit their fort at Goree ; 
 For what resistance can they find 
 From men who've left their hearts behind ? 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 Let wind and weather do its worst, 
 Be you to us but kind ; 
 
SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET. 395 
 
 For Dutchmen, vapour, Spaniards curse, 
 
 No sorrow we shall find : 
 Tis then no matter how things go, 
 Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 To pass our tedious hours away, 
 
 We throw a merry main ; 
 Or else at serious ombre play : 
 
 But why shotild we in vain 
 Each other's ruin thus pursue ? 
 We were undone when we left you. 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 But now our fears tempestuous grow. 
 
 And cast our hopes away ; 
 Whilst you, regardless of our woe. 
 
 Sit careless at a play ; 
 Perhaps permit some happier man 
 To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 When any mournful tune you hear. 
 
 That dies in every note ; 
 As if it sigh'd with each man's care. 
 
 For being so remote ; 
 Think how often love we've made 
 To you, when all those tunes were play'd. 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 In justice you cannot refuse 
 
 To think of our distress. 
 When we for hopes of honour lose 
 
 Our certain happiness ; 
 All those designs are but to prove 
 Ourselves more worthy of your love. 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
 And now we've told you all our loves, 
 
 And likewise all our fears. 
 In hopes this declaration moves 
 
 Some pity from your tears, 
 Lef s hear of no inconstancy ; 
 We have too much of that at sea. 
 With a fa, la, la, la, la. 
 
396 
 SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 Born 1649. Died 1 720. 
 
 John Sheffield, son of Edmund, Earl of Mulgrave, was bora in 
 1649. When nine years old his father died, and Sheffield's education 
 was confided to a private tutor. At twelve years of age, the youth 
 being greatly dissatisfied with his master, procured his discharge, and 
 resolved to educate himself. The resolution was not only taken, but 
 sedulously and successfiilly carried out. 
 
 At the age of seventeen, war being declared against the Dutch, he 
 sailed in the same ship with Prince Rupert and the Duke of Albemarle. 
 When eighteen, he was returned to Parliament, but was not allowed 
 to sit. In 1672 he was again a volunteer in the war with the Dutch, 
 and served on board the ship commanded by Lord Ossory. At his 
 lordship's recommendation he was advanced to the command of the 
 Catharine. Subsequently he raised a regiment of foot, of which he 
 ivas the Colonel. When twenty-five he was made K, G. and Gentleman 
 of the Bedchamber. After this he entered the French service, and 
 served for a short time under Turenne. Sheffield was strongly opposed 
 to the Duke of Monmouth, and was instrumental in raising the sus- 
 picions of the Duke of York against him. It is said that he did this 
 because Monmouth had opposed Sheffield in his desire to command the 
 first troop of Horse Guards. 
 
 On the fall of Monmouth Sheffield was made Lieutenant of York- 
 shire and Governor of Hull. Throughout the whole of the time that 
 Sheffield was so busily engaged about the Court and in military adven- 
 ture he also pursued his studies, and applied himself to the cultivation 
 of poetry. At the age of twenty his recommendation procured the 
 Laureatship for Dryden. In 1680, at the head of 2,000 men, he was sent 
 against the Moors to the relief of Tangier. On the accession of James the 
 Second he was made Lord Chamberlain and a Privy Councillor. When 
 the Revolution occurred he submitted, but did nothing to aid it Lord 
 Shrewsbury opposed his being invited to join in the plot to invite the 
 landing of William of Orange. William afterwards told Sheffield of 
 the fact, and asked him what he would have done, had he been invited. 
 " Sir," replied Sheffield, "I would have discovered it to the King I then 
 served." William replied, " I cannot blame you." Sheffield was long, 
 or perhaps always, an object of distrust to William III., and William was 
 equally an object of the strongest dislike to Sheffield. Nevertheless he 
 was created Marquis of Normanby in 1684, and afterwards admitted to 
 the Cabinet Council, with a large pension. 
 
 When Queen Anne ascended the throne, Normanby was in great 
 favour. It is said that in earlier years he had made youthful love to the 
 
SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 397 
 
 Queen. VValpole Avrites : " This Duke was immediately rewarded on her 
 accession, for having made love to her before her marriage." She created 
 him Privy Seal Commissioner to treat with the Scots regarding the 
 Union, and raised him from the marquisate to a dukedom, giving him 
 first the title of Duke of Normanby, and then Duke of the County of 
 Buckingham (March 9, 1703). 
 
 Jealousy of the Duke of Marlborough induced Sheffield to resign his 
 office of Privy Seal, and to join the Tory party. Having retiied from 
 official occupation, he commenced building Buckingham House, which 
 stood on the spot now occupied by Buckingham Palace. [Sheffidd's 
 mansion was purchased by George III. and settled on his wife. It was 
 called "The Queen's House." In it most of the children of George III. 
 were bom. The house was a very fine red-brick structure of the 
 Queen Anne period, and existed until 1825, when " the first gentleman 
 in Europe " pulled it down, and commenced erecting the unsightly and 
 unworthy pile which now cumbers the ground where Sheffield lived.] 
 
 In 1 710, when there was a change of ministry, and Sheffield's friends 
 came into office, he was made Lord Chamberlain, and continued about 
 the Court until 1 7 14, when the Queen died and George I. succeeded. 
 From that time Sheffield retired, and lived in opposition to the King. 
 He had known the Court of Charles II. with all its gallantry, gambling, 
 and sin ; but at least that King and his favourites cultivated the manners 
 and polish of gentlemen. . George I. and his Court were in all respects 
 as depraved and debauched ; but the proud and accomplished Sheffield, 
 who maintained **a dignity of honour," could not stoop to the gross 
 habits and boorish manners of the ** baggage " which George imported 
 from Hanover. He retired to his books and his "parlour" painted by 
 Ricci, with itsnitche, or closet for his folios, under the windows of which 
 was his greenhouse, a " little wilderness fiill of blackbirds and nightin- 
 gales." There he died, February 24, 1720, and was buried in Henry 
 the Seventh's Chapel, where a costly monument marks his vault and 
 records his memory. 
 
 Sheffield married three times. He had no children by his two first 
 wives. His third was Catharine, a natural daughter of James II. by the 
 notorious Catharine Sedley, Countess of Dorchester, daughter of Sir 
 Charles Sedley. By her he had three sons and a daughter, who all died 
 in in&ncy, except Edmund, his heir. He orJy survived until 1735, when 
 he died at Rome of consumption, and the ducal house of Sheffield 
 became extinct 
 
 It is extremely amusing to compare criticisms regarding such a man as 
 Sheffield, and to observe the opinions regarding him expressed by critics 
 who were guided by party prejudices. Diydensays, " His thoughts are 
 always just, his numbers harmonious, his words chosen, his expressions 
 strong and manly, and his turns as happy as they are easy." Walpole, 
 on the reverse, says, " It is certain that his Grace's compositions in prose 
 have nothing extraordinary in them ; his poetry is most indifferent ; and 
 the greatest part of both is already fallen into n^lect. It is said that he 
 
398 SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 wrote in hopes of being confounded with his predecessor in the title ; 
 but he would more easily have been mistaken with the other Buckingham 
 if he had never written at all." 
 
 Johnson says he is "a writer that sometimes glimmers, but rarely 
 shines, feebly laborious, and at best but pretty." 
 
 The student will be able to judge for himself by the following 
 extracts, and will perhaps decide that whilst Walpole and Johnson are 
 right in the main, the "Essay on Poetry" contains lines which deserve the 
 opinion expressed by Dryden. 
 
 AN ESSAY ON POETRY. 
 
 Of all those arts in which the wise excel, 
 
 Nature's chief master-piece is writing well : 
 
 No writing lifts exalted man so high 
 
 As sacred and soul-moving Poesy : 
 
 No kind of work requires so nice a touch, 
 
 And, if well finish'd, nothing shines so much. 
 
 But Heaven forbid we should be so profane 
 
 To grace the vulgar with that noble name. 
 
 'Tis not a flash of fancy, which sometimes, 
 
 Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes ; 
 
 Bright as a blaze, and in a moment done. 
 
 True wit is everlasting, like the sun, 
 
 Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retir'd. 
 
 Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd. 
 
 Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound 
 
 Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound. 
 
 Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts ; 
 
 And all in vain these superficial parts 
 
 Contribute to the structure of the whole. 
 
 Without a genius too, — for that's the soul : 
 
 A spirit which inspires the work throughout. 
 
 As that of Nature moves the world about ; 
 
 A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit ; 
 
 Ev'n something of divine, and more than wit ; 
 
 Itself unseen, yet aU things by it shown ; 
 
 Describing all men, but describ'd by none. 
 
 Where dost thou dwell ? what caverns of the brain 
 
 Can such a vast and mighty thing contain ? 
 
 When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy absence mouin. 
 
 Oh! where dost thou retire ? and why dost thou return 
 
 Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me away 
 
 From pleasures of the night and business of the day? 
 
SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 399 
 
 Ev'n now, too far transported, I am fain 
 
 To check thy course, and use the needful rein. 
 
 As all is dulness when the fancy's bad. 
 
 So, without judgment, fancy is but mad ; 
 
 And judgment has a boundless influence 
 
 Not only in the choice of words or sense, 
 
 But on the world, on manners, and on men. 
 
 Fancy is but the feather of the pen ; 
 
 Reason is that substantial useful part 
 
 Which gains the head, while t'other wins the heart. 
 
 ****** 
 Figures of speech, which poets think so fine 
 (Art's needless varnish to make Nature shine)*, 
 All are but paint upon a beauteous face. 
 And in descriptions only claim a place : 
 But to make rage declaim, and grief discourse. 
 From lovers in despair fine things to force. 
 Must needs succeed ; for who can choose but pity 
 A dying hero miserably witty ? 
 But, oh ! the dialogues, where jest and mock 
 Is held up like a rest at shittle-cock ; 
 Or else, like bells, eternally they chime : 
 They sigh in simile, and die in rhyme. 
 What things are these who would be poets thought. 
 By Nature not inspired, nor learning taught ? 
 Some wit they have, and therefore may deserve 
 A better course than this by which they starve : 
 But to write plays ! why, 'tis a bold pretence 
 To judgment, breeding, wit, and eloquence : 
 Nay, more ; for they must look within to find 
 Those secret turns of nature in the mind : 
 Without this part, in vain would be the whole, 
 And but a body all, without a soul. 
 
 ON THE TIMES.! 
 
 Since in vain our parsons teach, 
 
 Hear, for once, a poet preach. 
 
 Vice has lost its very name, 
 
 Skill and cozenage thought the same — 
 
 Only playing weU the game. 
 
 (i) This piece' is worthy of careful study, as being a picture of life in London and 
 about the Court in Sheffield's time. 
 
400 SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, 
 
 Foul contrivances we see 
 Call'd but ingenuity : 
 Ample fortunes often made 
 Out of frauds in every trade, 
 Which an awkward child afford 
 Enough to wed the greatest lord. 
 The miser starves to raise a son ; 
 But if once the fool is gone, 
 Years of thrift scarce serve a day, — 
 Rake-hell squanders aU away. 
 Husbands seeking for a place, 
 
 Or toiling for their pay ; 
 While their wives undo their race 
 
 By petticoats and play ; 
 Breeding boys to drink and dice, 
 Carrying girls to comedies, 
 Where mamma's intrigues are shown, 
 Which ere long will be their own. 
 Having first at sermon slept, 
 Tedious day is weekly kept 
 By worse hypocrites than men, 
 Till Monday comes to cheat again 
 Ev'n among the noblest born 
 Moral virtue is a scorn, 
 Gratitude but rare at best. 
 And fidelity a jest ; 
 All our wit but party mocks ; 
 AU our wisdom raising stocks ; 
 Counted folly to defend 
 Sinking side or falling friend. 
 Long an officer may serve ; 
 Prais'd and wounded, he may starve : 
 No receipt to make him rise 
 Like inventing loyal lies. 
 We, whose ancestors have shin'd 
 In arts of peace and fields of fame. 
 To ill and idleness inclin'd, 
 Now are grown a public shame. 
 Fatal that intestine jar 
 Which produc'd our civil war ! 
 Ever since how sad a race ! 
 Senseless, violent, and base ! 
 
SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 401 
 
 THE RECONCILEMENT. 
 
 Come, let us now resolve at last 
 
 To live and love in quiet : 
 Well tie the knot so very fast, 
 
 That time shall ne'er untie it. 
 
 The truest joys they seldom prove 
 Who free from quarrels live ; 
 
 Tis the most tender part of love, 
 Each other to forgive. 
 
 When least I seem'd concem'd, 1 took 
 
 No pleasure, nor no rest; 
 And when I feign'd an angry look, 
 
 Alas ! I lov'd you best. 
 
 Own but the same to me, youll find 
 How blest will be our fate ; 
 
 Oh, to be happy, to be kind, 
 Sure never is too late ! , 
 
 ON THE DEITY. 
 
 Wretched mankind ! void of both strength and skiU ! 
 
 Dextrous at nothing but at doing ill ! 
 
 In merit humble, in pretensions high ! 
 
 Among them none, alas ! more weak than I, 
 
 And none more blind: though still I worthless thought 
 
 The best I ever spoke, or ever wrote. 
 
 But zealous heat exalts the humblest mind ; 
 Within my soul such strong impulse I iind 
 The heavenly tribute of due praise to pay : 
 Perhaps 'tis sacred, and I must obey. 
 
 ifet such the subjects, various, and so high. 
 Stupendous wonders of the Deity! 
 Miraculous effects of boundless power ! 
 And that as boundless goodness shining more ! 
 All these so numberless my thoughts attend, 
 Or where shall I begin, or ever end ? 
 D D 
 
402 THOMAS OTWAY. 
 
 But on that theme which ev'n the wise abuse, 
 So sacred, so subhme, and so abstruse, 
 Abruptly to break off wants no excuse. 
 
 While others vainly strive to know Thee more, 
 Let me in silent reverence adore ; 
 Wishing that human power were higher rais'd 
 Only that Thine might be more nobly prais'd! 
 Thrice happy angels in their high degree, 
 Created worthy of extolling Thee ! 
 
 THOMAS OTWAY. 
 
 Born\6$i. Died l6?i<,. 
 
 Thomas Otw^y was born at Trotten, in Sussex, March 3, 1651. 
 His father, Humphrey Otway, was rector of Woolbeding, in the same 
 county. Otway was educated at Winchester School, and in 1669 
 entered Christ Church, Oxford, as a Commoner. He never took his 
 degree, but leaving the University proceeded to London, and at once 
 associated himself with the theatres. He made his appearance in 
 1672 as an actor, but failed. This failure led him to devote his 
 time to the writing of plays, the first of which appeared in 1675, 
 entitled " Alcibiades." It was followed by "Don Carlos, Prince of 
 Spain," and in 1677 by the "Cheats of Scapin," translated from 
 Moliere. 
 
 His conversation and wit had attracted the friendship of the Earl of 
 Plymouth, a son of Charles H., who obtained for Otway a cometcyin 
 the army serving in Flanders. Military life not suiting Otway, he 
 retired from the service, and reappeared in London in wretched 
 poverty. Once more he applied himself to writing for the stage. 
 Between 1680 and 1682 he produced a variety of pieces, the last 
 being the only one which has kept its place upon the stage to the 
 present day. This play is entitled "Venice Preserved." JafBerand 
 Pierre, the two principal characters, have been performed by all the 
 most celebrated tragedians from Otway's time to the present 
 
 Otway died in 1685, when he was in his thirty-fourth year. There 
 are various strange stories regarding his death, one of which represents 
 him to have been reduced so nearly to starvation, that on begging a 
 little money wherewith to buy food, and having obtained a roll of 
 bread, he choked himself with the first mouthfuL The story is most 
 
THOMAS OTWA Y. 403 
 
 likdy untrue, and to be regarded only as a figure of speech, to indicate 
 that Otway's end was one of extreme want. 
 
 * ' Child of the Giaces, nursling of the Loves, 
 In houseless beggary poor Otway roves." 
 
 Otway is distinguished for his power in moving the passions. His 
 greatness belongs exclusively to his dramatic writings. His other poetry 
 is altogether nerveless and poor ; but in dramatic composition he 
 possessed peculiar skill in drawing characters from nature, and in 
 being able to move the hearts of the audience with the tragic lives 
 and sorrows of his heroes. The part of Belvidera, in " Venice Pre- 
 served," has always been regarded as one of the most important in 
 the rMe of a tragic actress, and is associated with the triumphs of 
 Mis. Siddons and Miss O'Neill. 
 
 WINDSOR CASTLE. ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL. 
 
 Within a gate of strength, whose ancient frame 
 
 Has outworn Time and the records of Fame, 
 
 A reverend dome there stands, where twice each day 
 
 Assemhhng prophets their devotions pay, 
 
 In prayers and hymns to Heaven's eternal King, 
 
 The comet, flute, and shawme, assisting as they sing. 
 
 Here Israel's mystic statutes they recount 
 
 From the first tables of the holy mount, 
 
 To the blest Gospel of that glorious Lord 
 
 Whose precious death salvation has restor'd. 
 
 Here speak, my Muse, what wonders thou didst find 
 
 Worthy thy song and his celestial mind. 
 
 Within this dome a shining chapel's rais'd. 
 Too noble to be well describ'd or prais'd. 
 Before the door, fix'd in an awe profound, 
 I stood, and gaz'd with pleasing wonder round, 
 When one approach'd, who bore much sober grace, 
 Order and ceremony in his face. 
 A threatening rod did his dread right hand poise, 
 A badge of rule and terrour o'er the boys ; 
 His left a massy bunch of keys did sway, 
 Ready to open all to aU that pay. 
 This courteous squire observing how amaz'd 
 My eyes betrayed me as they wildly gaz'd. 
 Thus gently spoke : " These banners raised on high 
 Betoken noble vows of chivalry, 
 DD 2 
 
404 THOMAS OTWA Y. 
 
 Which here their heroes with rehgion make 
 
 When they t.\ie ensigns of this order take." 
 
 Then in due method made me understand 
 
 What honour famed St. George had done our land ; 
 
 What toils he vanquish'd, with what monsters strove 
 
 Whose champions since for virtue, truth, and love, 
 
 Hang here their trophies, while their generous arms 
 
 Keep wrong supprest, and innocence from harms. 
 
 At this m' amazement yet did greater grow. 
 
 For I'd been told all virtue was but show ; 
 
 That oft bold villainy had best success, 
 
 As if its use were more, nor merit less. 
 
 But here I saw how it rewarded shin'd. 
 
 Tell on, my Muse, what wonders thou didst find. 
 
 Worthy thy song, and Charles's mighty mind. 
 
 I turned around my eyes, and, lo ! a cell. 
 Where melancholy ruin seemed to dwell ! 
 The door unhinged, without or bolt or ward. 
 Seemed as what lodged within found small regard ; 
 Like some old den scarce visited by day, 
 Where dark oblivion lurked and watched for prey. 
 Here, in a heap of confus'd waste, I found 
 Neglected hatchments tumbled on the ground — 
 The spoils of Time, and triumph of that fate 
 Which equally on all mankind does wait : 
 The hero, levell'd in his humble grave, 
 With other men was now nor great nor brave ; 
 While here his trophies like their master lay, 
 To darkness, worms, and rottenness, a prey. 
 Urg'd by such thoughts as guide the truly great. 
 Perhaps his fate he did in- battle meet. 
 Fell in his prince's and his country's cause ! 
 But what his recompense .'' A short applause. 
 Which he ne'er hears, his memory may grace. 
 Till, soon forgot, another takes his place. 
 
 And happy that man's chance, who falls in time. 
 Ere yet his virtue be become his crime ; 
 Ere his abus'd desert be called his pride. 
 Or fools and villains on his ruin ride. 
 But truly blest is he whose soul can bear 
 The wrongs of fate, nor think them worth his care ; 
 Whose mind no disappointment here can shake. 
 Who a true estimate of life does make ; 
 
THOMAS OTWAY. 405 
 
 Knows 'tis unca-tain, frail, and will have end, 
 So to that prospect still his thoughts does bend ; 
 Who, though his right a stronger power invade. 
 Though fate oppress, and no man give him aid. 
 Cheered with the assurance that he there shall find 
 Rest from all toils and no remorse of mind, 
 Can Fortune's smiles despise, her frowns out-brave, 
 For who's a prince or beggar in the grave ? 
 
 THE COMPLAINT. 
 
 I love, I doat, I rave with pain. 
 
 No quiet's in my mind, 
 Though ne'er could be a happier swain 
 
 Were Sylvia less unkind. . 
 For when, as long her chains I've worn, 
 
 I ask relief from smart. 
 She only gives me looks of scorn. 
 
 Alas ! 'twiU break my heart ! 
 
 My rivals, rich in worldly store. 
 
 May offer heaps of gold. 
 But surely I a heaven adore 
 
 Too precious to be sold. 
 Can Sylvia such a coxcomb prize 
 
 For wealth, and not desert ; 
 And my poor sighs and tears despise ? 
 
 Alas ! 'twill break my heart ! 
 
 When, like some panting, hovering do\c 
 
 I for my bliss contend. 
 And plead the cause of eager Love, 
 
 She coldly calls me friend. 
 Ah ! Sylvia ! thus in vain you strive 
 
 To act a healer's part ; 
 'TwUl keep but lingering pain alive, 
 
 Alas ! and break my heart. 
 
 When on my lonely, pensive bed 
 
 I lay me down to rest. 
 In hope to calm my raging head. 
 
 And cool my burning breast. 
 
4o6 THOMAS OTWAY. 
 
 Her cruelty all ease denies : 
 With some sad dream I start ; 
 
 All drown'd in tears I find my eyes, 
 And breaking feel my heart. 
 
 Then rising, through the path I rove 
 
 That leads me where she dwells, 
 Where to the senseless waves my love 
 
 Its mournful story tells : 
 With sighs I dew and kiss the door, 
 
 Till morning bids depart, 
 Then vent ten thousand sighs and more. 
 
 Alas ! 'twill break my heart ! 
 
 But, Sylvia, when this conquest's won, 
 
 And I am dead and cold, 
 Renounce the cruel deed you've done, 
 
 Nor glory when 'tis told ; 
 For every lovely, generous maid 
 
 Will take my injur'd part, 
 And curse thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid, 
 
 For breaking my poor heart ! 
 
 FROM "VENICE PRESERVED." 
 Act I. Part of Scene I. 
 
 Enter Pierre. 
 
 Pierre. My friend, good morrow ! 
 How fares the honest partner of my heart ? 
 What, melancholy ! not a word to spare me ? 
 
 Jaffier. I'm thinking, Pierre, how that damn'd starving quality 
 Call'd honesty got footing in the world. 
 
 Pierre. Why, powerful villainy first set it up, 
 For its own ease and safety : honest men 
 Are the soft easy cushions on which knaves 
 Repose and fatten : were all mankind villains. 
 They'd starve each other ; lawyers would want practice, 
 Cut-throats reward : each man would kill his brother 
 Himself; none would be paid or hang'd for murder. 
 Honesty ! 'twas a cheat, invented first 
 To bind the hands of bold deserving rogues 
 That fools and cowards might sit safe in power, 
 And lord it uncontroll'd above their betters. 
 
THOMAS OTWAY. 407 
 
 Jaffier. Then honesty's but a notion ? 
 Pierre. Nothing else ; 
 
 ike wit, much talk'd of, not to be defin'd : 
 e. that pretends to most, too, has least share in't. 
 'is a ragged virtue. Honesty ! No more on't. 
 Jaffier. Sure thou art honest ? 
 
 Pierre. So, indeed, men think me ; 
 
 ut they are mistaken, JafiSer : I am a rogue 
 s well as they : 
 
 fine, gay, bold-fac'd villain, as thou seest me. 
 'is true I pay my debts when they're contracted ; 
 steal from no man ; would not cut a throat 
 o gain admission to a great man's purse 
 r wanton's bed ; I'd not betray my friend 
 o get his place or fortune ; •! scorn to flatter 
 blown-up fool above, or crush the wretch 
 eneath me ; 
 
 et, Jaffier, for all this I am a villain. 
 jaffier. A villain ! 
 
 Pierre. Yes, a most notorious villain, 
 
 see the sufferings of my fellow-creatures, 
 nd own myself a man ; to see our senators 
 heat the deluded people with a show 
 f liberty, which yet they ne'er must taste of. 
 hey say, by them our hands are free from fetters ; 
 et whom they please they lay in basest bonds ; 
 ring whom they please to infamy and sorrow ; 
 irive us, like wrecks, down the rough tide of power, 
 iTiilst no hold's left to save us from destruction. 
 11 that bear this are villains, and I one, 
 ot to rouse up at the great call of nature, 
 nd check the growth of these domestic spoilers, 
 hat make us slaves, and teU us 'tis our charter. 
 Jaffier. I think no safety can be here for virtue, 
 nd grieve, my friend, as much as thou, to live 
 \ such a wretched State as this of Venice, 
 Tiere all agree to spoil the public good, 
 nd villains fatten with the brave man's labours. 
 Pierre. We've neither safety, unity, nor peace, 
 or the foundation's lost of common good ; 
 istice is lame, as well as blind, amongst us ; 
 he laws (corrupted to their ends that make 'em) 
 ;rve but for instruments of some new tyranny 
 hat eVry day starts up, t' enslave us deeper. 
 
4o8 THOMAS OTWAY. 
 
 Now, could this glorious cause but find out friends 
 
 To do it right, oh, Jaffier ! then mighf st thou 
 
 Not wear those seals of woe upon thy face ; 
 
 The proud Priuli should be taught humanity, 
 
 And learn to value such a son as thou art. 
 
 I dare not speak ! but my heart bleeds this moment. 
 
 Jaffier. Curs'd be the cause, though I, thy friend, be part 
 on't : 
 Let me partake the troubles of thy bosom, 
 For I am used to misery, and perhaps 
 May find a way to sweeten 't to thy spirit. 
 
 Pierre. Too soon 'twiU reach thy knowledge. 
 
 Jaffier. Then from thee 
 
 Let it proceed. There's virtue in thy friendship 
 Would make the saddest tale of sorrow pleasing, 
 Strengthen my constancy, and welcome ruin. 
 
 Pierre. Then thou art ruined ! 
 
 Jaffier. That I long since knew ; 
 
 I and ill-fortune have been long acquainted. 
 
 Pierre. I pass'd this very moment by thy doors, 
 And found them guarded by a troop of villains ; 
 The sons of public rapine were destroying. 
 They told me by the sentence of the law 
 They had commission to seize aU thy fortune : 
 Nay, more, Priuli's cruel hand had sign'd it. 
 Here stood a ruffian, with a horrid face, 
 Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate, 
 Tumbled into a heap for public sale. 
 There was another making villanous jests 
 At thy undoing : he had ta'en possession 
 Of all thy ancient, most domestic ornaments ; 
 Rich hangings, intermix'd and wrought with gold : 
 The very bed which, on thy wedding night, 
 ReceiVd thee to the arms of Belvidera, 
 The scene of all thy joys, was violated 
 By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon-villains, 
 An4 thrown amongst the common lumber. 
 
 Jaffier. Now, thank Heaven ! 
 
 Pierre. Thank Heaven ! for what ': 
 
 Jaffier. That I'm not worth a ducat. 
 
 Pierre. Curse thy dull stars, and the worse fate of Venice, 
 Where brothers, friends, and fathers, all are false ; 
 Where there's no truth, no trust ; where innocence 
 Stoops under vile oppression, and vice lords it ; 
 
THOMAS OTIVAV. 409 
 
 Where ev'ry slave that heaps up wealth enough 
 
 To do much wrong, becomes a lord of right. 
 
 Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how, at last. 
 
 Thy beauteous Belvidera, like a wretch 
 
 That's doom'd to banishment, came weeping forth, 
 
 Shining thro' tears, like April suns in showers, 
 
 That labour to o'ercome the cloud that loads 'em, 
 
 Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she lean'd. 
 
 Kindly look'd up, and at her grief grew sad. 
 
 As if they catch'd the sorrows that fell from her : 
 
 E'en the lewd rabble, that were gather'd round 
 
 To see the sight, stood mute when they beheld her ; 
 
 Govem'd their roaring throats, and grumbled pity ; 
 
 I could have hugg'd the greasy rogues — they pleas'd 
 me. 
 Jaffier. I thank thee for this story, from my soul ; 
 
 Since now I know the worst that can befall me. 
 
 Ah, Pierre ! I have a heart that could have borne 
 
 The roughest wrong my fortune Could have done me ; 
 
 But when I think what Belvidera feels. 
 
 The bitterness her tender spirit tastes of, 
 
 I own myself a coward. Bear my weakness. 
 
 If throwing thus my arms about thy neck, 
 
 I play the boy and blubber in thy bosom. 
 
 Oh, I shall drown thee with my sorrows. 
 Pierre. Bum, 
 
 First biun, and level Venice to thy ruin. 
 
 What ! starve like beggars' brats in frosty weather, 
 
 Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to death ! 
 
 Thou, or thy cause, shall never want assistance 
 Whilst I have blood or fortune fit to serve thee : 
 
 Command my heart ; thou'rt every way its master. 
 Jaffier. No ; there's a secret pride in bravely dying. 
 Pierre. Rats die in holes and comers ; dogs run mad ; 
 Man knows a braver remedy for sorrow — 
 Revenge, the attribute of gods : they stamp'd it. 
 With their great image, on our natures. Die ! 
 Consider well the cause that calls upon thee ; 
 And, if thou'rt base enough, die then. Remember 
 Thy Belvidera suffers ; Belvidera ! 
 Die !— damn first ! — What ! be decently interr'd 
 In a church-yard, and mingle thy brave dust 
 With stinking rogues that rot in winding-sheets. 
 Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung o' th' soil ! 
 
4IO THOMAS OTWAY. 
 
 Jaffier. Oh! 
 
 Pierre. Well said ! — out with 't — swear a little. 
 
 Jaffier. Swear ? 
 
 By sea and air ; by earth, by heav'n and hell, 
 I will revenge my Belvidera's tears ! 
 Hark thee, my friend — Priuli — is; — a senator ! 
 
 Pierre. A dog ! 
 
 Jaffier. Agreed. 
 
 Pierre. Shoot him ! 
 
 Jaffier (shaking his hand). With all my heart ! 
 
 No more. Where shall we meet at night ? 
 
 Pierre. I'll tell thee : 
 
 On the Rialto, every night at twelve, 
 I take my evening's walk of meditation : 
 There we two will meet, and talk of precious mischief. 
 
 Jaffier. Farewell ! {they shake hands) 
 
 Pierre. At twelve. 
 
 Jaffier. At any hour ; — my plagues 
 
 Will keep me waking. [Exit Pierre. 
 
 Tell me why, good heaven, 
 Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the spirit, 
 Aspiring thoughts, and elegant desires. 
 That fill the happiest man ? Ah, rather why. 
 Didst thou not form me sordid as my fate. 
 Base-minded, dull, and fit to carry burdens ? 
 Why have I sense to know the curse that's on me ? 
 Is this just dealing, nature ? Belvidera ! 
 Poor Belvidera ! 
 
 Belvidera {without). Lead me, lead me, my virgins. 
 To that kind voice. 
 
 Enter Belvidera. 
 
 Belvi. My lord, my love, my refuge ! 
 
 Happy my eyes when they behold thy face ! 
 My heavy heart wiU leave its doleful beating 
 At sight of thee, and bound with sprightful joys. 
 Oh, smile ! as when our loves were in their spring. 
 And cheer my fainting soul ! 
 
 Jaffier. As when our loves 
 
 Were in their spring ! Has, then, my fortune chang'd thee ? 
 Art thou not, Belvidera, still the same — ■ 
 Kind, good, and tender, as my arms first found thee ? 
 If thou art alter'd, where shall I have harbour ? 
 Where ease my loaded heart ? Oh, where complain ? 
 
THOMAS OTWAY. 411 
 
 Belvi. Does this appear like change, or love decaying, 
 When thus I throw myself into thy bosom. 
 With all the resolution of strong truth ? 
 I joy more into thee {embracing kim) 
 Than did thy mother, when she hugg'd thee first, 
 And bless'd the gods for all her travail past. 
 
 Jaffier. Can there in woman be such glorious faith ? 
 Sure all ill stories of thy sex are false ! 
 Oh, woman ! lovely woman ! Nature made thee 
 To temper man : we had been brutes without you I 
 Angels are painted fair, to look like you : 
 There's in you all that we believe of heaVn ; 
 Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, 
 Eternal joy, and everlasting love ! 
 
 Belvi. If love be treasure, well be wondrous rich ; 
 1 have so much, my heart wUl surely break with 't. 
 Oh ! lead me to some desert, wide and wild. 
 Barren as our misfortunes, where my soul 
 May have its vent, where I may tell aloud 
 To the high heavens and eVry lisf ning planet 
 With what a boundless stock my bosom's fraught. 
 
 Jaffler. Oh, Belvidera ! doubly I'm a beggar ; 
 Undone by fortune, and in debt to thee. 
 Want ! worldly want ! that hungry meagre fiend. 
 Is at my heels, and chases me in view. 
 Canst thou bear cold and hunger ? Can these limbs, 
 Fram'd for the tender offices of love. 
 Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty ? 
 When banished by our miseries abroad 
 (As suddenly we shall be), to seek out 
 (In some far climate where our names are strangers) 
 For charitable succour, wilt thou then, 
 AVhen in a bed of straw we shrink together, 
 And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads, 
 Wilt thou then talk thus to me ? Wilt thou then 
 Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with love ? 
 
 Belvi. Oh ! I will love thee ! ev'n in madness love thee 1 
 Tho' my distracted senses should forsake me, 
 I'd find some intervals, when my poor heart 
 Should 'suage itself, and be let loose to thine. 
 Tho' the bare earth shall be our resting-place, 
 Its roots our food, some cliff our habitation, 
 111 make this arm a pillow for thine head ; 
 And as thou sighing liest, and sweU'd with sorrow, 
 
412 CHARLES MONTAGUE, 
 
 Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love 
 
 Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest ; 
 
 Then breathe a prayer, and watch thee till the morning. 
 
 Jaffler. Hear this, you heav'ns, and wonder how you made her ! 
 Reign, reign, ye monarchs that divide the world ! 
 Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know 
 Tranquillity and happiness like mine. 
 Like gaudy ships, the obsequious billows fall, 
 And rise again, to lift you in your pride ; 
 They wait but for a storm, and then devour you. 
 I, in my private bark, already wreck'd. 
 Like a poor merchant driven to unknown land. 
 That had, by chance, pack'd up his choicest treasure 
 In one dear casket, and saved only that ; 
 Since I must wander farther on the shore. 
 Thus hug my little but my precious store, 
 Resolv'd to scorn, and trust my fate no more. 
 
 :S<S» 
 
 CHARLES MONTAGUE, EARL OF HALIFAX. 
 
 Born 1661. Died 1715. 
 
 Montague was bom at Hooton, Northamptonshire, on the l6th of 
 April, 1661. He was the son of George Montague, Esq., fifth son of 
 Henry, first Earl of Manchester. Educated privately in the first instance, 
 he was sent, while yet young, to Westminster School, and committed to 
 the care of the celebrated Busby. In 1677 he was elected King's 
 Scholar, and in 1682 proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge. As a 
 youth, Montague attracted the attention of Dr. Busby by his talent for 
 extemporaneous epigrams. At the death of Charles II. in 1685 he 
 produced a poem which was greatly applauded at the time, and won the 
 special admiration of Charles, Earl of Dorset. The poem is remarkable 
 as a specimen of the preposterous laudation which in that day was con- 
 sidered an appropriate offering to a King. We laugh when we read such 
 lines dedicated to Charles II. as the following : — 
 
 ** Farewell, great Charles, monarch of blest renown, 
 The best good man that ever filled a throne. 
 
 * * « * 
 
 The god-like image on our clay imprest. 
 The darling attribute which Heaven loves best ; 
 In Charles, so great a man and king, we see 
 A double image of the Deity." 
 
EARL OF HALIFAX. 413 
 
 1 yet this was composed in earnest ! The ode is quoted among the 
 ctions ; and will be fonnd, despite its fiilsome and outrageous flattery, 
 lave its merits. The simile drawn from the Thames flowing towards 
 ocean is poetic and striking. It has a promise which unfortunately 
 ntague never fulfilled. The Earl of Dorset was so delighted with this 
 , that he immediately sought the acquaintance of Charles Montague. 
 [Cambridge Montague had formed an intimacy with Sir Isaac Newton, 
 ch ripened into friendship, and continued throughout his life. When 
 UTived in London (at the pressing invitation of the Earl of Dorset), 
 loniship at once introduced him to all the wits and poets of the day, 
 J habitually frequented Dorset House. Among others, Montague was 
 le known to Prior. In 1687 they formed a sort of literary partnership, 
 
 conjointly composed "The City Mouse and the Country Mouse," a 
 lesque upon Drydeu's "Hind and Panther." Montague must have 
 led his attention to politics very speedily after his arrival in London, 
 within two years we find him of sufficient political importance to be 
 
 of those who signed the invitation to William of Orange. 
 Lbout the time of the Revolution he married his connexion, the 
 mtess Dowager of Manchester, widow of the third Earl, and daughter 
 Sir Christopher Yelverton. When William III. was established in 
 rer. Montague purchased the office of Clerk of the Council, for which 
 paid 1500/. After the battle of the Boyne, Montague composed his 
 it important poetical production, entitled " An Epistle to Charles, 
 1 of Dorset, occasioned by his Majesty's victory in Ireland, 1690." 
 t is perhaps uimecessary to say that Montague's muse became as 
 psodical over the phlegmatic William as it had done over " the best 
 id man that ever filled a throne." We need not have double specimens 
 he same material, and therefore the following lines will serve to show 
 quality of this famous ode, which enabled Dorset to present Montague 
 he King, and opened the way to royal favour and political power. 
 
 " Oh, Dorset ! I am raised ! Via. all on fire ! 
 
 And if my strength could answer my desire. 
 
 In speaking ^aini this figure should he seen. 
 
 Like Jove his grandeur, and like Mais his mien ; 
 
 And Gods descending ^ould'adom the scene. " 
 « « « « 
 
 ** Oh ! if in France this hero had been bom. 
 
 What glittering tinsel would bis acts adorn ! 
 
 If courage could, like courts, be kept in pay. 
 
 What sums would Lewis give that France might say 
 
 That victory followed where he led the way ? i 
 
 He all his conquests would for this refund 
 
 And take th' equivalent, a glorious wound. 
 
 Then, what advice, to spread his real fame. 
 
 Would pass between Versailles and Notre-dame ! 
 
 Their plays, their songs, would dwell upon his wound, 
 
 And operas repeat no other sound ; 
 
 Boyne would for ages be the painter's theme. 
 
 The Gobelin's labour, and the poef s dream ! " 
 
 md so forth ! " Oh, Dorset ! I am raised ! " &c. is only to be paralleled 
 ' Bottom, thou art fi-anslated." Hereafter, among the quotations 
 n Swiff s poems, will be found a biting satire upon this style of com- 
 ition, entitled " Directions for making a Birth-day Song. " 
 
414 CHARLES MONTAGUE, 
 
 Montague's ode procured the royal favour, and fully answered its 
 purpose. From that period he troubled himself little about poetry. 
 His life became entirely political. Next to Lord Somers, Montague was 
 the most consistent, and perhaps the most influential, member of the 
 Whig party, which brought about the Revolution, secured the Hanove- 
 rian succession, and effected the union between England and Scotland. 
 Montague rose, in 1691, to the office of Lord of the Treasury. 
 
 In 1695 he became Chancellor of the Exchequer. As Chancellor he 
 was the founder and master of the modem system of finance. The 
 " National Debt," as it is now called, was created by him. Bolingbroke 
 and the Tory party of the day considered it would lead to national ruin ; 
 instead of which that debt is now regarded as the safest security for the 
 investment of property. Montague also invented what are called " Ex- 
 chequer Bills " — a circulating medium which has continued in use to the 
 present day. He likewise carried into effect a very difficult task, the re- 
 coinage of the money of the realm. King William made him, in 1698, 
 First Lord of the Treasury, and one of the Lords Justices during his 
 Majesty's absence. At that date he had attained the highest position he 
 was destined to occupy. On the accession of the Tories, under Harley 
 (Lord Oxford), Montague's presence in the Commonsbeing objectionable, 
 he was created Baron Halifax, and sent to the Upper House. The 
 accession of Queen Anne completed the downfall of his influence. He 
 was dismissed from the Council, and twice impeached by the House of 
 Commons. In both instances the impeachments came to nothing, by 
 their rejection in the House of Lords. During the Queen's reign Lord 
 Halifax kept up constant communications with the Elector of Hanover, 
 and when her Majesty died, Halifax was found to be one of those named 
 in George I.'s private instructions to conduct the Government imtil 
 his arrival in England. He was created Earl of Halifax, Knight 
 of the Garter, and First Commissioner of the Treasury, by the King. 
 Having attained to these, the highest honours he could reach, Halifax 
 only lived one year in their enjoyment. He was seized with inflammation 
 of the lungs, and died May 19, 1 7 15. He was buried in the north 
 aisle of Henry VII. 's Chapel, in the Albemarle vault. An elaborate 
 mass of marble, with inscription to match, records his memory. It stands 
 above the vault. 
 
 Montague, at best, can only be named among the minor poets of 
 England. Had he not been an eminent politician and statesman, it may 
 be questioned whether such verses as he produced would have been 
 remembered in poetry. " From a poet he became a patron of poets," 
 says Johnson. He desired to be esteemed the Maecenas of his day. 
 Pope says he was " fed with dedications." But although Pope and Swift, 
 from political bias, satirized or censured him, it is no small matter to say 
 that he was the intimate friend of Newton and of Addison. Moreover, 
 this country is indebted to Montague for being the first to propose the 
 purchase of the Cotton MSS. and the formation of a national library, 
 out of which has been developed the British Museum. 
 
EARL OF HALIFAX. 415 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOST SACRED MAJESTY 
 KING CHARLES II. 
 
 Farewell, great Charles, monarch of blest renown, 
 
 The best good man that ever fill'd a throne ; 
 
 From Nature as her highest pattern wrought, 
 
 And mix'd both sexes' virtues in a draught : 
 
 Wisdom for councils, bravery in war. 
 
 With all the mild good-nature of the fair; 
 
 The woman's sweetness temper'd manly wit, 
 
 And loving pow'r did crown'd with meekness sit ; 
 
 His awfiil person reverence engag'd, 
 
 With mild address and tenderness assuag'd : 
 
 Thus the almighty gracious King above 
 
 Does both command our fear and win our love. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Such is thy glory, Charles, thy lasting name, 
 Brighter than our proud neighbour's guilty fame ; 
 More noble than the spoils that battles yield. 
 Or all the empty triumphs of the field. 
 'Tis less to conquer than to make war cease. 
 And, without fighting, awe the world to peace ; 
 For proudest triumphs from contempt arise ; 
 The vanquish'd first the conqueror's arms despise : 
 Won ensigns are the gaudy marks of scorn ; 
 They brave the victor first and then adorn. 
 But peaceful monarchs reign hke gods : while none 
 Dispute, all love, bless, reverence their throne. 
 Tigers and bears, with all the savage host, 
 May boldness, strength, and daring conquest boast ; 
 But the sweet passions of a generous mind 
 Are the prerogative of human kind ; 
 The god-like image on oiu: clay imprest, 
 The darling attribute which Heaven loves best: 
 In Charles, so great a man and king, we see 
 A double image of the Deity. 
 Oh ! had he more resembled it ! Oh, why 
 Was he not still more like, and could not die ? 
 Now do our thoughts alone enjoy his name. 
 And faint ideas of our blessing frame ! 
 In Thames, the Ocean's darling, England's pride, 
 The pleasing emblem of his reign does gUde ; 
 
4i6 CHARLES MONTAGUE, 
 
 Thames, the support and glory of our isle, 
 Richer than Tagus or Egyptian Nile : 
 Though no rich sand in him, no pearls are found, 
 Yet fields rejoice, his meadows laugh around ; 
 Less wealth his bosom holds, less guilty stores, 
 For he exhausts himself t' enrich the shores. 
 Mild and serene the peaceful current flows, 
 In angry foam no raging surges knows ; 
 No dreadful wrecks upon his banks appear, 
 His crystal stream unstain'd by widows' tear. 
 His channel strong and easy, deep and clear. 
 No arbitrary inundations sweep 
 
 The ploughman's hopes and life into the deep ; 
 
 His even waters the old limits keep. 
 
 But, oh ! he ebbs, the smiling waves decay. 
 
 For ever, lovely stream, for ever stay ! 
 
 To the black sea his silent course does bend. 
 
 Where the best streams, the longest rivers, end. 
 
 His spotless waves there undistinguish'd pass ; 
 
 None see how clear, how beauteous, sweet, he was. 
 
 No difference now, though late so much is seen, 
 
 'Twixt him, fierce Rhine, and the impetuous Seine. 
 
 But, lo ! the joyful tide our hopes restores. 
 
 And dancing waves extend the wid'ning shores. 
 
 James is our Charles in all things but in name ; 
 
 Thus Thames is daily lost, yet still the same. 
 
 THE MAN OF HONOUR. 
 
 Of honour men at first, like women, nice, 
 Praise maiden scruples at unpractis'd vice ; 
 Their modest nature curbs one struggling flame, 
 And stifles what they wish to act with shame : 
 But once this fence thrown down, when they perceive 
 That they may taste forbidden fruit and live, 
 They stop not here their course, but, safely in, 
 Grow strong, luxuriant, and bold in sin ; 
 True to no principles, press forward still, 
 And only bound by appetite their will : 
 
EARL OF HALIFAX. 417 
 
 Now fawn and flatter, whilst this tide prevails, 
 
 But shift with every veering blast their sails. 
 
 Mark those that meanly truckle to your power ; 
 
 They once deserted, and chang'd sides before, 
 
 And would to-morrow Mahomet adore. 
 
 On higher springs true men of honour move : 
 
 Free is their service, and unbought their love ; 
 
 When danger calls and honour leads the way. 
 
 With joy they follow, and with pride obey. 
 
 When the rebellious foe came rolling on. 
 
 And shook with gathering multitudes the throne, 
 
 A^Tiere were the minions then ? What arm, what force. 
 
 Could they oppose to stop the current's course .■' 
 
 " Then Pembroke, then the nobles firmly stood. 
 Free of their lives, and lavish of their blood ; 
 But when your orders to mean ends decline, 
 With the same constancy they all resign." 
 
 Thus spake the youth, who operfd first the way. 
 And was the Phosph'rus to the dawning day ; 
 FoUow'd by a more glorious splendid host 
 Than any age or any realm can boast : 
 So great their fame, so numerous their train. 
 To name were endless, and to praise in vain : 
 But Herbert and great Oxford merit more ; 
 Bold is their flight, and more sublime they soar ; 
 So high their virtue, as yet wants a name, 
 Exceeding wonder, and surpassing fame. 
 Rise, glorious Church ; erect thy radiant head ; 
 The storm is past, th' impending tempest fled ; 
 Had fate decreed thy ruin or disgrace. 
 It had not given such sons so brave a race ; 
 When for destruction Heaven a realm designs, 
 The symptoms first appear in slavish minds. 
 These men will prop a sinking nation's weight ; 
 Stop falling vengeance, and reverse ev'n fate. 
 Let other nations boast their fruitfjl soil. 
 Their fragrant spices, their rich wine and oil ; 
 In breathing colours, and in living paint, 
 Let them excel ; their mastery we g^ant. 
 But to instruct the mind, to arm the soul 
 With virtue which no dangers can control 
 Exalt the thought, a speedy courage lend. 
 That morrow cannot shake, or pleasure end ; 
 
 E E 
 
Ii8 EARL OF HALIFAX. 
 
 These are the Enghsh arts, these we profess ; 
 To be the same in misery and success, 
 To teach oppressors law, assist the good. 
 Relieve the wretched, and subdue the proud. 
 ***** 
 
 ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF 
 
 Courage, dear Moll, and drive away despair : 
 
 Mopsa, who in her youth was scarce thought fair. 
 
 In spite of age, experience, and decays. 
 
 Sets up for charming in her fading days ; 
 
 Snuffs her dim eyes to give one parting blow, — 
 
 Have at the heart of every ogling beau ! 
 
 This goodly goose, all feather'd like a jay. 
 
 So gravely vain, and so demurely gay. 
 
 Last night, t' adorn the court, did overload 
 
 Her bald buff forehead with a high commode ; 
 
 Her steps were manag'd with such tender art. 
 
 As if each board had been a lover's heart. 
 
 In all her air, in every glance, was seen 
 
 A mixture strange, 'twixt fifty and fifteen. 
 
 Admiring fops about her crowding press ; 
 
 Hambden himself delivers their address ; 
 
 While she, accepting with a nice disdain. 
 
 Owns them her subjects, and begins to reign : 
 
 Fair Queen of Fopland is her royal style ; 
 
 Fopland ! the greatest part of this great isle ! 
 
 Nature did ne'er so equally divide 
 
 A female heart 'twixt piety and pride ; 
 
 Her waiting-maids prevent the peep of day, 
 
 And, all in order, on her toilet lay 
 
 Prayer-books, patch-boxes, sermon notes, and paint. 
 
 At once t' improve the sinner and the saint. 
 
 Farewell, friend Moll; expect no more from me ; 
 
 But if you would a full description see. 
 
 You'll find her somewhere in the Litany, 
 
 With Pride, Vain-glory, and Hypocrisy 
 
 CS=<S^ 
 
419 
 
 MATTHEW PRIOR. 
 
 Bom 1664. DUd 1721. 
 
 Matthew Prior was bom at Wimbome, in Dorsetshire, July 21, 
 1664. There is some obscurity regarding his birth and place of birth, 
 possibly arising from the fact that in after-life he did not wish to be 
 known as the son of a joiner. Owing to the death of his father whilst 
 he was yet a little boy, Prior was given over to the care of his uncle, 
 Samuel Prior, landlord of the " Rummer " Tavern, near Charing Cross. 
 He was sent by his unde to Westminster School, and became one of the 
 pupils of Dr. Busby. The " Rummer " was a favourite resort of the 
 nobiUty and gentry in the reign of Charles II. Among other frequenters 
 of the house was Charles, sixth Earl of Dorset — friend of all the poets 
 and wits of the period. Dorset observed the Westminster boy reading 
 his " Horace," and was so much attracted by him, and pleased with his 
 proficiency, that he undertook the expenses of his education, and became 
 from that moment, and throughout life, the fast friend as well as generous 
 patron of Matthew Prior. In 1682, when eighteen years of age. Prior 
 entered at St John's College, Cambridge. He was distinguished as a 
 scholar, and graduated in 1686. (His Master's degree was conferred by 
 mandate in 1700. ) After taMng his d^ree, he stood for and was elected 
 to a Fellowship in his college. The following year he. wrote his poem 
 on " The Deity," which stands first in collections of his works. In 
 1686 Dryden had published "The Hind and the Panther" {lee Life 
 of Dryden). Prior, in conjunction with Charles Montague, afterwards 
 Earl of Halifax, wrote the " City Mouse and Country Mouse," in ridicule 
 of Dryden. It was published in 1687. The publication of this poem 
 was irritating to Dryden, but after the Revolution, and the accession of 
 William and Mary, it proved beneficial both to Montague and Prior. 
 In i6go King William sent Prior as Secretary to the Congress at the 
 Hague, at which was formed the grand alliance agaiast Louis XIV. 
 Prior gave the King so much satisfaction that he was nominated a Gen- 
 tleman of the Bedchamber. Holding this appointment, he passed three 
 or four years in the cultivation of literature and poetry. On the death 
 of Queen Mary, in 1695, Prior wrote an Ode, which was presented to 
 the King. In 1697, at the Treaty of Ryswick, Prior was Secretary to 
 the Embassy, and brought over the Treaty to England, for which he 
 received a present of two hundred guineas from the Lords Justices. The 
 following year he was appointed to the same office in the Embassy at 
 the Court of France, and a year later became Under Secretary of State 
 EE 2 
 
420 MATTHEW PRIOR. 
 
 for a short period to the Eafl of Jersey. In 1700 he publislied his 
 " Carmen Seculare," a poem in wliich he exhausts all his powers to 
 celebrate the praises of William III. The same year, on Lord Jersey 
 leaving office, Prior was appointed a Commissioner of Trade. 
 
 In 1 701 he was returned by the Earl of Dorset as member for the 
 SackvUles' borough of East Grinstead. Soon after this Prior allied 
 himself to the Tory party. In the wars of Queen Anne's reign he 
 exercised his pen in celebrating the battles of Ramillies and Blenheim. 
 When the Toiy government was formed in 1 7 10, Queen Anne and the 
 people being heartily sick of prolonged war, Prior was recalled to his 
 former employments, and sent in 1 7 u to Paris to negotiate peace. He 
 returned to London shortly, bringing with him the Abbe Gaultier and 
 M. Mesnager, to arrange affairs in London. The negotiations were opened 
 secretly in Prior's house, where the Queen's Ministers met the French 
 Envoys. A conference at Utrecht ensued. Bolingbroke was sent to 
 Paris to expedite the peace, and Prior accompanied him. The Duke 
 of Shrewsbury succeeded Bolingbroke ; and on the Duke's retirement 
 Prior was appointed, August, 1713, Ambassador to the Court of France. 
 
 He had then reached the highest point of his career, the dignity and 
 splendour of which he enjoyed for one year only. In August, 1714, the 
 Tory government fell. The Wliigs returned to office. Prior was 
 recalled, and charged with high treason for his part in the transactions 
 with the Abbe Gaultier. He remained in custody for two years, during 
 which he wrote his poem entitled " Alma." On his release from 
 captivity, which had been aggravated by the vindictiveness of his poUtical 
 enemies. Prior was without fortune or means of any sort, except such 
 as arose from his Fellowship, which throughout his brilliant career he 
 had always retained. His friends came to his aid. Four thousand 
 pounds were raised by the sale of a subscribed edition of his poems, 
 and much more was given by Harley, son of the Earl of Oxford, to 
 purchase Down Hall, Essex, which was settled upon Prior for his life. 
 He retired altogether fiom public life, and spent the short remainder of 
 his days amidst his books and his friends. While visiting his friend the 
 Earl of Oxford, at Wimpole, in Cambridgeshire, he was suddenly taken 
 ill, and died there September 18, 1721, setat. 57. 
 
 On 25th September he was buried in Poet's Comer, Westminster 
 Abbey, at the feet of Spenser ; having had the vanity to leave 500/. 
 towards the expense of his own monument. The bust upon it was a 
 gift from Louis XIV., who had shown great appreciation of Prior when 
 Ambassador at his Court. 
 
 Prior as a poet is only to be regarded on account of his correctness 
 and application. His versification is not made brilliant by any poetic 
 fire, but he was one of the first who diligently studied to be correct 
 His lines are never careless ; and his language is always aptly selected ; 
 but his lengthy compositions are unrelieved by the smallest rising above 
 commonplace thought, and his lighter productions are for the most part 
 little better than conceits that cannot even boast of originality. Prior 
 
MA TTHE W PRIOR. 42 1 
 
 was far more valued as a man than as a poet. He miderstood thoroughly 
 the art of pleasing and the value of address. For these qualities he 
 was appreciated by his royal masters and mistresses, and for these he 
 ■was esteemed at the French Court. 
 
 In his writings he never soared too high, nor sunk too low. He was 
 neither vulgar nor coarse ; nor did he approach the sublime. What he 
 wrote was done laboriously ; ocfasionally it became vigorous, without 
 either oflFending the ear or delighting it 
 
 THE GARLAND. 
 
 The pride of every grove I chose, 
 
 The violet sweet and lily fair, 
 The dappled pink and blushing rose, 
 
 To deck my charming Cloe's hair. 
 
 At morn the nymph vouchsaPd to place 
 Upon her brow the various wreath ; 
 
 The flowers less blooming than her face, 
 The scent less fragrant than her breath. 
 
 The flowers she wore along the day : 
 And every nymph and shepherd said, 
 
 That in her hair they look'd more gay 
 Than glowing in their native bed. 
 
 Undrest at evening, when she found 
 Their odours lost, their colours past, 
 
 She chang'd her look, and on the ground 
 Her garland and her eye she cast. 
 
 That eye dropt sense distinct and clear, 
 As any Muse's tongue could speak, 
 
 When from its lid a pearly tear 
 
 Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. 
 
 Dissembling what I knew too well, 
 " My love, my life," said I, " explain 
 
 This change of humour : pr'ythee tell : 
 That falling tear — what does it mean ?" 
 
 She sigh'd ; she smil'd ; and, to the flowers 
 Pointing, the lovely moralist said : 
 
 " See, friend, in some few fleeting hours, 
 See yonder, what a change is made ! 
 
422 MATTHEW PRIOR. 
 
 "Ah, me ! the blooming pride of May 
 And that of Beauty are but one : 
 
 At mom both flourish bright and gay ; 
 Both fade at evening, pale and gone. 
 
 " At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung ; 
 
 The amorous youth around her bov/d : 
 At night the fatal knell was rung ; 
 
 I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud. 
 
 " Such as she is who died to-day, 
 Such I, alas ! may be to morrow : ^ 
 
 Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display 
 The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow." 
 
 THE CAMELEON. 
 
 As the cameleon, who is known 
 
 To have no colours of his own, 
 
 But borrows from his neighbour's hue 
 
 His white or black, his green or blue. 
 
 And struts as much in ready light, 
 
 Which credit gives him upon sight. 
 
 As if the rainbow were in tail 
 
 Settled on him and his heirs male : 
 
 So's the young squire, when first he comes 
 
 From country school to Will's or Tom's, 
 
 And equally in truth is fit 
 
 To be a statesman or a wit ; 
 
 Without one notion of his own. 
 
 He saunters wildly up and down. 
 
 Till some acquaintance, good or bad. 
 
 Takes notice of a staring lad, 
 
 Admits him in among the gang ; 
 
 They jest, reply, dispute, harangue : 
 
 He acts and talks, as they befriend him, 
 
 Smear'd with the colours which they lend him. 
 
 (i) In Taniieid Oiurcli, Yorksliire, which is enriched with the monuments of the 
 Marmions^ there is a gravestone to the memory of John Beckwith, bearing date 1688 
 (about the time when this poem was writteu), inscribed as follows :-r 
 Vide quod sum — ^fui quod es — 
 Eris quod sura — ^Vale. 
 
MATTHEW PRIOR. 423 
 
 Thus, merely as Ms fortune chances, 
 His merit or his vice advances. 
 If haply he the sect pursues 
 That read and comment upon news, 
 He takes up their mysterious face ; 
 He drinks his coffee without lace ; 
 This week his mimic tongue runs o'er 
 What they have said the week before ; 
 His wisdom sets all Europe right. 
 And teaches Marlborough when to fight. 
 
 Or if it be his fate to meet 
 With folks who have more wealth than wit. 
 He loves cheap port and double bub, 
 And settles in the Hum-drum club : 
 He learns how stocks will fall or rise, 
 Holds poverty the greatest vice, 
 Thinks wit the bane of conversation, 
 And says that learning spoils a nation. 
 
 But if at first he minds his hits. 
 And drinks champaign among the wits. 
 Five-deep he toasts the towering lasses. 
 Repeats yon verses wrote on glasses ; , 
 Is in the chair ; prescribes the law ; 
 And lies with those he never saw. 
 
 HER RIGHT NAME. 
 
 As Nancy at her toilet sat, 
 Admiring this and blaming that, 
 "Ten me," she said, "but teU me true. 
 The nymph who could your heart subdue. 
 What sort of charms does she possess ?" 
 " Absolve me, fair one ; I'U confess 
 With pleasure," I reply'd. " Her hair, 
 In ringlets rather dark than fair, 
 Does down her ivory bosom roll. 
 And, hiding half, adorns the whole. 
 In her high forehead's fair half-round 
 Love sits in open triumph crown'd ; 
 He in the dimple of her chin, 
 In private state, by friends is seen. 
 
424 AfA TTHE W PRIOR. 
 
 Her eyes are neither black nor gray, 
 
 Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray ; 
 
 Their dubious lustre seems to show 
 
 Something that speaks nor Yes nor No. 
 
 Her lips no living bard, I weet. 
 
 May say how red, how round, how sweet ; 
 
 Old Homer only could indite 
 
 Their vagrant grace and soft delight : 
 
 They stand recorded in his book, 
 
 When Helen smil'd and Hebe spoke." 
 
 The gipsy, turning to her glass. 
 
 Too plainly show'd she knew the face ; 
 
 " And which am I most like,'' she said, 
 
 " Your Cloe, or your nut-brown maid ?" 
 
 PROTOGENES AND APELLES. 
 
 When poets wrote, and painters drew. 
 As Nature pointed out the view ; 
 Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece 
 To spoil the well-proportion'd piece ; 
 And in our verse ere monkish rhymes 
 Had jangled their fantastic chimes ; 
 Ere on the flowery lands of Rhodes 
 Those knights had fix'd their dull abodes, 
 Who knew not much to paint or write. 
 Nor car'd to pray, nor dar'd to fight ; 
 Protogenes, historians note, 
 Liv'd there, a burgess, scot and lot ; 
 And, as old Pliny's writings show, 
 Apelles did the same at Co. 
 Agreed these points of time and place, 
 Proceed we in the present case. 
 Piqu'd by Protogenes's fame, 
 From Co to Rhodes Apelles came, 
 To see a rival and a friend, 
 Prepar'd to censure or commend ; 
 Here to absolve, and there object, 
 As art with candour might direct. 
 He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings ; 
 His servants follow with the things ; 
 
MATTHEW PRIOR. 425 
 
 Appears the governante of th' house, 
 For such in Greece were much in use : 
 If young or handsome, yea or no, 
 Concerns not me or thee to know. 
 
 " Does squire Protogenes live here ?" — 
 "Yes, sir," says she, with gracious air 
 And court'sey low, " but just call'd out 
 By lords peculiarly devout. 
 Who came on purpose, sir, to borrow 
 Our Venus for the feast to morrow. 
 To grace the church ; 'tis Venus' day : 
 I hope, sir, you intend to stay 
 To see our Venus ; 'tis the piece 
 The most renown'd throughout all Greece : 
 So like th' original, they say ; 
 But I have no great skill that way. 
 But, sir, at six ('tis now past three) 
 Dromo must make my master's tea : 
 At six, sir, if you please to come, 
 Youll find my master, sir, at home.'' 
 
 " Tea," says a critic, big with laughter, 
 " Was found some twenty ages after ; 
 Authors before they write should read." 
 'Tis very true ; but we'll proceed. 
 
 " And, sir, at present, would you please 
 To leave your name?" — " Fair maiden, yes. 
 Reach me that board." No sooner spoke 
 But done. With one judicious stroke 
 On the plain ground Apelles drew 
 A circle regularly true : 
 " And will you please, sweetheart," said he, 
 " To show your master this from me ? 
 By It he presently will know 
 How painters write their names at Co." 
 
 He gave the panel to the maid. 
 Smiling and court'sying, " Sir,'' she said, 
 " I shall not fail to tell my master. 
 And, sir, for fear of all disaster, 
 111 keep it my own self ; safe bind. 
 Says the old proverb, and safe find. 
 So, sir, as sure as key or lock — 
 Your servant, sir, — at six o'clock.'' 
 
 Again at six Apelles came. 
 Found the same prating civil dame. 
 
426 MA TTHE W PRIOR. 
 
 " Sir, that my master has been here 
 Will by the board itself appear. 
 If from the perfect line he found 
 He has presum'd to swell the round, 
 Or colours on the draught to lay, 
 'Tis thus (he order'd me to say), 
 Thus write the painters of this isle : 
 Let those of Co remark the style." 
 
 She said, and to his hand restor'd 
 The rival pledge, the missive board. 
 Upon the happy line were laid 
 That obvious light and easy shade. 
 That Paris' apple stood confest. 
 Or Leda's e.%^,, or Cloe's breast. 
 
 Apelles view'd the finish'd piece : 
 " And live," said he, " the arts of Greece ! 
 Howe'er Protogenes and I 
 May in our rival talents vie ; 
 Howe'er our works may have express'd 
 Who truest drew or colour'd best ; 
 When he beheld my flowing line, 
 He found at least I could design, 
 And from his artful round I grant 
 That he with perfect skill can paint" 
 
 The dullest genius cannot fail 
 To find the moral of my tale ; 
 That the distinguish'd part of men, 
 With compass, pencil, sword, or pen. 
 Should in life's visit leave their name 
 In characters which may proclaim 
 That they with ardour strove to raise 
 At once their arts and country's praise, 
 And in their working took great care 
 That all was full, and round, and fair. 
 
 EPITAPHS. 
 
 FOR MY OWN TOMBSTONE. 
 
 To me 'twas given to die : to thee 'tis given 
 To live : alas ! one moment sets us even. 
 Mark ! how impartial is the will of Heaven ! 
 
MA TTHE W PRIOR. 427 
 
 FOR MY OWN MONUMENT. 
 
 \s doctors give physic by way of prevention, 
 Vlat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care ; 
 For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention 
 Vlay haply be never fulfill'd by his heir. 
 
 rhen take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid ; 
 That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye ; 
 fet credit but Ughtly what more may be said, 
 "or we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. 
 
 if et, counting as far as to fifty his years, 
 
 jlis virtues and vices were as other men's are ; 
 
 High hopes he conceived, and he smother'd great fears, 
 
 ^n a life party coloured, half pleasure, half care. 
 
 ^or to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, 
 He strove to make interest and freedom agree ; 
 n public employments industrious and grave, 
 Ind alone with his friends, lord, how merry was he ! 
 
 >Iow in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, 
 Both fortunes he tr/d, but to neither would trust ; 
 ind whirl'd in the round as the wheel tum'd about, 
 le found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust. 
 
 This verse little polish'd, though mighty sincere, 
 
 jets neither his titles nor merits to view ; 
 
 t says that his relics collected lie here, 
 
 ^d no mortal yet knows too if this may be true. 
 
 'ierce robbers there are that infest the highway ; 
 io Mat may be kiU'd, and his bones never found : 
 "alse witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea ; 
 io Mat may yet chance to be hang'd, or be drown'd. 
 
 f his bones lie in earth, roU in sea, fly in air, 
 'o Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same ; 
 Jid if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, 
 le cares not — yet pr'ythee be kind to his fame. 
 
 'fc^ff 
 
428 
 
 GEORGE GRANVILLE, LORD LANSDOWNE. 
 
 Born (fire.) 1663. Died 1735. 
 
 George Granville, afterwards Lord Laiisdowne, was the son of 
 Bernard Granville, a gentleman held in great trust by General Monk 
 when negotiating the restoration of Charles II. His father, Sir Bevil 
 Granville, had been killed in the cause of Charles I. 
 
 Granville's education was superintended by Sir William Ellis. At 
 the age of twelve he was sent to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he 
 took his Master's degree in 1679. He was a great enthusiast in favour 
 of James II. and a warm admirer of his Queen, the ill-fated Mary of 
 Modena. 
 
 Granville impatiently petitioned his father to be permitted to fight 
 on behalf of James, when the advent of the Prince of Orange was 
 impending. 
 
 When William III. was proclaimed, Granville retired, and throughout 
 the whole of that reign devoted himself to literary occupations. The 
 object of his particular admiration was the Countess of Newburgh, to 
 whom the greater portion of his verses are dedicated. Her praises 
 are sung under the name of Myra. 
 
 Between the years 1696 and 1706 the chief productions of his pen 
 were composed, more especially his dramatic pieces, " Once a Lover 
 and Always a Lover," " The She-Gallants," " The Jew of Venice," 
 "The British Enchantress," and one or two mythological productions 
 and masques. They were worthless in themselves, and are now utterly 
 forgotten. 
 
 When William was dead, and Queen Anne ascended the throne— a 
 veritable Stuart — Granville emerged from his self-imposed retirement. 
 About the same time he inherited considerable property from his uncle, 
 the Earl of Bath, and his eldest brother. Sir Bevil Granville. He 
 entered Parliament, and represented Cornwall. In 1710, on the over- 
 throw of the Whig government, Granville was made Secretary of War 
 in the place of Mr. (afterwards Sir Robert) Walpole. 
 
 The following year, when, from political motives, the Queen created 
 a batch of twelve peers, Granville entered the Upper House as Baron 
 Lansdowne of Bideford. In 1 712 the Queen made him Comptroller of 
 the Household and a Privy Councillor ; and shortly afterwards he became 
 Treasurer of the Household. The Queen's death put an end to all his 
 favour at Court. He had been a Tory, and a friend of Ormond and 
 Bolingbroke. George I. removed him from office, and gave his place to 
 Lord Cholmondeley. When Ormond and Bolingbroke were attainted, 
 
LORD LANSDOWNE. 429 
 
 : was bold ani honest enough, from his place in Parliament, to 
 jainst the attainder. He became at once a suspected man, and 
 sent him for two years to the Tower. In 1732 he published a 
 edition of his works. By that date he had so far improved in 
 ^m as to be received at Court by the Queen, 
 lie had married the Lady Anne Villiets, widow of Mr. Thynne, 
 I he had four daughters, but no heir. Lady Anne died in the 
 J of the year 173S, and within a few days Lord Lansdowne 
 her to the grave. He died, at his house in Hanover Square, 
 
 30, 1735- 
 
 rriter, it was the height of Granville's ambition to be an imitator 
 :r ; and, as it commonly happens with imitators that they 
 faults or the peculiarities of their original, rather than their 
 excellences, so it was with Granville. He wrote in order to be 
 a poet, and as a poet he was recognised. His slender preteu- 
 iny such distinction will be apparent in the following extracts j 
 [St be remembered he was Lord Lansdowne, and had been in 
 Dur with Queen Anne. In his day his name and repute gave an 
 ce to his verses far greater than any merit they possessed, 
 which tries all, has decided that Lansdowne's poetry had 
 my merit at all. 
 
 ODE 
 
 ON THE PRESENT CORRUPTION OF MANKIND. 
 INSCRIBED TO THE LORD FALKLAND. 
 
 • Falkland ! offspring of a generous race, 
 ^enown'd for arms and arts, in war and peace, 
 ly kinsman and my friend ! from whence this curse 
 intail'd on man, still to grow worse and worse? 
 
 lach age, industrious to invent new crimes, 
 trives to outdo in guilt preceding times ; 
 ut now we're so improved in all that's bad, 
 i'^e shall leave nothing for our sons to add. 
 
 hat idol. Gold, possesses every heart; 
 o cheat, defraud, and undermine, is art 
 irtue is folly ; conscience is a jest ; 
 eligion gain, or priestcraft at the best. 
 
 riendship's a cloak to hide some treacherous end ; 
 
 our greatest foe is your professing friend ; 
 
 he soul resign'd, unguarded, and secure, 
 
 he wound is deepest, and the stroke most sure 
 
430 GEORGE GRANVILLE, 
 
 Justice is bought and sold ; the bench, the bar, 
 Plead and decide ; but Gold's th' interpreter. 
 Pernicious metal 1 thrice accurst be he 
 Who found thee first ; all evils spring from thee. 
 
 Sires sell their sons, and sons their sires betray : 
 And senates vote, as armies fight, for pay : ^ 
 The wife no longer is restrain'd by shame, 
 But has the husband's leave to play the game. 
 
 Diseas'd, decrepit, from the mint embrace 
 Succeeds, of spurious mold, a puny race. 
 From such defenders what can Britain hope ? 
 And where, O Liberty ! is now thy prop ? 
 
 Not such the men who bent the stubborn bow. 
 And learnt in rugged sports to dare a foe : 
 Not such the men who fiU'd with heaps of slain 
 Fam'd Agincourt and Cressy's bloody plain. 
 
 Haughty Britannia, then, inur'd to toil. 
 Spread far and near the terrors of her isle ; 
 True to herself, and to the public weal. 
 No Gallic gold could blunt the British steel. 
 
 Not much unlike when thou in arms wert seen. 
 Eager for glory on th' embattled green. 
 When Stanhope led thee through the heats of Spain, 
 To die in purple Almanara's plain. 
 
 The rescu'd empire and the Gaul subdu'd 
 In Anna's reign our ancient fame renew'd : 
 What Britons could, when justly roused to war. 
 Let Blenheim speak, and witness Gibraltar ! 
 
 DEFINITION OF LOVE. 
 
 Love is begot by Fancy, bred 
 By Ignorance, by Expectation fed, 
 Destroy'd by Knowledge, and, at best. 
 Lost in the moment 'tis possess'd. 
 
 (i) This poem is intended to picture the state of affairs, political and social, in the 
 reign of George I., when Sir Robert Walpole was Minister, and considered that every 
 man had his price. 
 
LORD LANSDOWNE 431 
 
 THE WILD BOAR'S DEFENCE. 
 
 A boar, who had enjoy'd a happy reign 
 For many a year, and fed on many a man, 
 Call'd to account, softening his savage eyes. 
 Thus suppliant pleads his cause before he dies : 
 
 " For what am I condemned ? My crime's no more 
 To eat a man than yours to eat a boar. 
 We seek not you, but take what chance provides. 
 Nature and mere necessity our guides : 
 ■ You murder us in sport, then dish us up 
 For drunken feasts, a relish for the cup. 
 We lengthen not our meals : but you much feast ; 
 Gorge tin your beUies burst — ^pray who's the beast .' 
 With your humanity you keep a fuss. 
 But are in truth worse brutes than all of us. 
 We prey not on our kind; but you, dear brother. 
 Most beastly of all beasts, devour each other : 
 Kings worry kings, neighbour with neighbour strives. 
 Fathers and sons, friends, brothers, husbands, wives. 
 By ftaud or force, by poison, sword, or gun. 
 Destroy each other, every mother's son ! " 
 
 TO MYRA. 
 
 When wilt thou break, my stubborn heart ? 
 
 Death ! how slow to take my part ! 
 Whatever I pursue, denies : 
 
 Death, Death itself, like Myra, flies. 
 
 Love and Despair, like twins, possest 
 At the same fatal birth my breast ; 
 No hope could be, her scorn was all 
 That to my destin'd lot could fall. 
 
 1 thought, alas ! that Love could dwell 
 But in warm climes, where no snow fell 
 Like plants that kindly heat require. 
 To be maintained by constant fire: 
 
432 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 That without hope 'twou'd die as soon ; 
 A little hope — but I have none : 
 On air the poor cameleons thrive ; 
 Deny'd e'en that, my love can live. 
 
 As toughest trees in storms are bred, 
 And grow in spite of winds, and spread, 
 The more the tempest tears and shakes 
 My love, the deeper root it takes. 
 
 Despair, that aconite does prove, 
 And certain death, to others' love ; 
 That poison, never yet withstood. 
 
 Does nourish mine, and turns to food. 
 
 ff 
 
 Oh ! for what crime is my torn heart 
 Condemn'd to suffer deathless smart ? 
 Like sad Prometheus thus to lie 
 In endless pain, and never die. 
 
 '^^S> 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 Born 1667. Died 1745. 
 
 Jonathan Swift was bom in Hoey's Court, Dublin, November 30, 
 1667. His father's family were of English descent. Thomas Swift, 
 the grandfather, married Elizabeth Dryden (sister to the father of 
 Dryden the poet), and settled at Goodrich (near Ross, in Hereford- 
 shire), of which place he was also Vicar. He acquired some landed 
 property at Goodrich, which has descended from generation to gene- 
 ration in the Swift family, and still continues in their possession. The 
 Vicar was a staunch Royalist, and upholder of the cause of Charles I., 
 in which cause he suffered great losses. The Vicar died in 1628, and 
 was buried in the chancel of Goodrich Church. The pocket-chalice 
 which he had used during the Civil War was presented to the Church 
 of Goodrich by his grandson, the Dean. It bore this inscription : 
 " Thomas Swift, hujus ecclesise Vicarius, notus in historiis ob ea quae 
 fecit et passus est pro Carolo primo, ex hoc calice segrotis propinavit 
 Eundem calicem Jonathan Swift, S.T.D., Decanus Ecclesise Sancti 
 Patricii Dublin: Thomje ex filio nepos, huic ecclesise in perpetnam 
 dedicat. 1726." His son, Godwin Swift, who had married a relative of 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 433 
 
 the Duchess of Ormond, was made Attorney-General of the Palatinate of 
 Tipperary when the Duke of Ormond was Viceroy in Ireland. This 
 appointment led Godwin's brother Jonathan to seek his fortune in Ireland. 
 In 1665 we find him Under-Treasurer to the Society of the King's Inn, in 
 Dublin. Within two years of that date he died. His son Jonathan 
 was a posthumous child. The widow and her child were befriended 
 and supported by the child's uncle, Godwin. During his earlier years 
 Swift was taken care of in England by his nurse ; but returning to 
 Ireland at the age of six, his uncle sent him to the Foundation School 
 of Kilkenny. When fourteen (April 24, 1682,) he entered Trinity 
 College, Dublin. 
 
 As an undergraduate, he received some timely aid from his second 
 cousin, Dryden, the poet. His collegiate life was unmarked either by 
 study or by wildness. He never applied himself to his books ; neither 
 did he apply himself to dissipation. In February, 1685, he went up for 
 Ms d^ee, which was granted him speciali gratid. This fact proves 
 that, although he deserved to be " plucked " for want of scholarship, his 
 conduct and character In college must have recommended him to the 
 particular favour of the Provost and Fellows, previous to his taking his 
 degree. Afterwards he became a " firequenter of the town," a neglecter 
 of chapel, and a breaker of college rules,, which brought him into dis- 
 grace. He left college at the time when William of Orange and James II. 
 were preparing to contend for the crown of England and Ireland 
 at the battle of the Boyne. Swift crossed to England and joined his 
 mother in Leicestershire — ^her native county. (Mrs. Swift's maiden 
 . name was Abigail Erick. Her family were poor, but boasted of a long 
 line of ancestors settled in Leicestershire sinoe the Conquest. ) 
 
 Mrs. Swift was successful in obtaining the patronage and protection 
 of Sir William Temple for her child ; Sir William being distantly 
 related to the Erick family. Swift was received into his house at Sheen 
 Park, Richmond, as an amanuensis, on a salary of 20/. per annum. 
 It was at Sheen that Swift was made known to William III., when 
 visiting Sir William Temple ; and it was in the garden of Sheen that 
 the Kiug taught Swift how to cut asparagus. The advantages which Swift 
 enjoyed at Sheen, in the library of Sir W'iUiam Temple, were properly 
 valued by him. He applied himself to diligent study, and acquired there 
 the learning which distinguished him in after life. But in those hours 
 of arduous study he first experienced the symptoms of brain affection 
 (that have been called " cerebral congestion ") which, returning at 
 fixed periods, gradually increased the number and acuteness of their 
 attacks, until at last they terminated in insanity. Svnfl: himself noted 
 the fact at the time ; and frequently afterwards his writings and his 
 conversation betrayed the dread he felt of those latent symptoms, the 
 real nature of which, from the first, he had clearly understood. Let 
 this fact be remembered, with reference to the observations upon Swift 
 and Stella at the conclusion of this article. 
 Sir William Temple moved from Sheen to Moor Park, near Famham, 
 F F 
 
434 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 Surrey. Swift accompanied him, having declined a troop cf horse, lo 
 which William III. had offered to appoint him. In 1692 he took his 
 degree of M. A. at Oxford. About this period his first attempts in veisi6- 
 cation were made — translations of some of the Odes of Horace. A 
 composition dedicated to " The Athenian Society " (a literary club to 
 which Swift belonged) drew forth from Dryden the remark, " Cousin 
 Swift, you will never be a poet." Swift resented the affront, and 
 afterwards avenged himself in a rancorous criticism of Dryden. Dryden 
 was right. Swift, in the true sense of the term, cannot be called a 
 poet. He was a satirical versifier, and nothing more ; that versification 
 was pungent, vigorous, telling. It made its mark in his time, and still 
 commands our study and consideration. 
 
 Sir William Temple offered to procure an appointment worth 120/. 
 a year in the office of the Master of the Rolls, in Dublin, which Swift 
 declined. He and Sir William parted angrily. Swift went to Ireland, 
 determined to enter the Church, and was ordained Deacon in October, 
 1694. In January, 1695, he was ordained Priest, and appointed Prebend 
 of Kilroot, with a- stipend of 100/. per annum. 
 
 Swift soon wearied of his isolation and obscure life. Sir William 
 Temple also learnt to feel the value of his Secretary when he had lost 
 him. In a few months a reconcihation was effected, and Swift once more 
 became the inmate of Moor Park, where he continued to reside until 
 Sir William's death in 1699. It was during this last residence at Moor 
 Park that Swift became acquainted with Esther Johnson — the " Stella" of 
 his life. Esther's mother had been introduced at Moor Park as house- 
 keeper. She was the widow of a merchant, who had died in poor 
 circumstances. Esther was the youngest of her three children. Her 
 birth was in 168 1. The mother brought her with her when she entered 
 on her duties at Moor Park ; and the gossips of the day were not slow 
 to assert that Sir William was the young girl's father. The probability 
 is, that the gossips were right. Delicate in her youth, Esther grew up 
 into a beautiful woman, with raven-black hair and regular features. 
 From her childhood she exhibited great quickness and intelligence. 
 Swift took a delight in instructing her. From being her teacher, he 
 became her lover ; and years afterwards was undoubtedly her husband. 
 After Sir William Temple's death, and after Swift had published his 
 works — dedicated to William III. — ^he returned once more to Ireland 
 as Chaplain and Secretary to the Viceroy, Lord Berkeley. By him 
 Swift was appointed Rector of Augher, and Vicar of Laracor, as well 
 as Prebend of Dunlavin (a.d. 1700). As Chaplain to the Earl, he was 
 received on terms of intimacy by his family. With the Earl's daughter, 
 Lady Betty Berkeley, (afterwards so well known as Lady Betty 
 Germaine) Swift cultivated a friendship which continued warm and 
 sincere unto her death. The Vicar of Laracor was obliged to enter 
 into residence on his living. As soon as settled there, he invited Esther 
 Johnson, accompanied by a friend and protectress, — Mrs. Dingley, — 
 to come and reside at Trim, two miles distant from Laracor. Then 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 435 
 
 commenced the doser intimacy between Swift and Esther, the natuie 
 and character of which has been so sore a puzzle to all the critics of 
 Swift's life and conduct, from the days of Pope down to the appearance 
 of Thackeray's " Humourists." Swift never saw Esther except Ih the 
 presence of a third person. Whatever his love or ftiendship for her 
 may have been, he studiously guarded her reputation against the 
 possibility of a breath of scandal. 
 
 At Laiacor he employed his leisure time in preparing himself for 
 the production of those political works which subsequently made him 
 greatly distinguished, and for a time gave him amazing political influence. 
 In 1 701 he published his "Discourse on the Contests and Dissensions 
 between the Nobles and the Commons in Greece and Rome." The 
 pamphlet was designed to show that the political contests and quarrels 
 of the day would ruin the country, as they had done the ancient states 
 of Rome and Greece. In 1704 appeared the " Tale of a Tub," the 
 object of which was to uphold the Church of England against the 
 Roman Catholics and the Presbyterians. No more witty or satirical 
 work has ever appeared. It was written in support of what were then 
 called " High Church " principles, which Swift always upheld ; but 
 nnfortnnately the Tale is so soiled with coarseness and with levity, that 
 it made a multitude of enemies for its author, and proved a lasting obstacle 
 to his preferment in the Church. At this period he visited London, and 
 frequented Boulter's Coffee-house, where he became known to Addison 
 Steele, Arbuthnot, and their friends. 
 
 In 1709 he produced his " Project for the Advancement of Religion,'' 
 which attracted such imiversal attention that it led to the erection of 
 6fty new churches in London. Returning to Laracor, and enjoying there 
 the society of Stella, Swift heard of the celebrated Sermon of Dr. 
 Sacheverell, and of the indications of the downfall of the Whig 
 Government Swift found himself once again in London in September, 
 1710. He was courted by Harley, the Tory leader, and introduced to 
 Henry St John, afterwards created Lord Bolingbroke. In a very short 
 time he was induced to embrace the cause of the Tory Government, 
 and lend his pen and his brains to support the Ministry. He conducted 
 "The Examiner." A variety of treatises also appeared composed by 
 him, which had immense circulation and influence throughout the 
 country. In one week four editions of his pamphlet, " The Conduct of 
 the Allies," were exhausted. For the time being there was no more 
 influential man in England than Swift. He was courted and sought 
 by the greatest and most dignified persons in the State. Place-hunters 
 hesi^ed him, and humbly entreated his interest in support of their 
 petitions. Harley and Bolingbroke were both anxious to reward so 
 invaluable a prop to their administration. The Bishopric of Hereford 
 became vacant Swift was recommended for it, but the Archbishop of 
 York and the Duchess of Somerset so eihcaciously worked upon Queen 
 Anne's mind, and quoted the coarse portions of the " Tale of a Tub " 
 to such good purpose, that the Queen refused to promote Swift. For 
 
 FF 2 
 
43() JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 three years he continued in London, until, disappointed, and convinced 
 that he could hope for no promotion in England, he announced his 
 determination to return to Ireland. Dr. Sterne, Dean of St. Patrick's, 
 was promoted to a Bishopric, and Harley succeeded in appointing Swift, 
 February 23, 1713, to the vacant Deanery. 
 
 He took possession of his stall in St. Patrick's, but was hardly gone 
 from London before the Ministers felt that his presence was an absolute 
 necessity. The growing differences between Harley (then Lord Oxford) 
 and Lord Bolingbroke made them urge Swift to return. He did so, 
 and shortly afterwards, in reply to Steele's " Crisis," published " The 
 Public Spirit of the Whigs." 
 
 The Scotch and the Scottish Lords were so exasperated by the 
 offensive terms in which they were spoken of, that a reward of 300/. 
 was offered for the discovery of the author of this pamphlet. 
 
 About this period Swift, in company with Oxford, Bolingbroke, Pope, 
 Gay, and Arbuthnot, established the " Scriblerus Club," and thus were 
 produced those brilliant and scholarly papers which have ever been the 
 delight of literary men. 
 
 The differences between Oxford and Bolingbroke increased, and 
 Swift, finding it impossible to heal the breach, was obliged to witness 
 the downfall and disgrace of Harley and the triumph of Bolingbroke. 
 Bolingbroke used every means in his power to attach Swift to him, but 
 without effect. Neither the hope of being admitted to the Queen's ■ 
 favour, nor promises of the friendship of his old enemy the Duchess of 
 Somerset, could move him. Swift followed his friend into Hereford- 
 shire, and steadily clung to him in his disgrace. The sudden death of 
 Queen Anne (1714) extinguished his party, and practically ended Swift's 
 political career. Lord Bolingbroke fled ; 1 .ord Oxford was imprisoned ; 
 the Tories were routed. High Church principles and Tory politics 
 were enough to stamp any man as an enemy to the Court and Govern- 
 ment, for the Hanoverian George was King. 
 
 Swift returned once more to Ireland, and there, as Dean of St. Patrick's, 
 established himself permanently. Stella came to reside on Ormond 
 Quay, and (as it has always been received and believed in Swift's family) 
 she was married to him privately at the deanery, in 1716, by Dr. Ashe, 
 Bishop of Clogher. As dean of the cathedral. Swift entered upon his 
 duties with the spirit of an earnest man. Whatever exceptions might 
 be taken to some of his writings, none could be to his sentiments and 
 conduct regarding the practical discharge of the duties of his office. 
 He restored the weekly celebration of the Holy Communion in St. 
 Patrick's ; he regularly attended at prayers ; and he took the most 
 lively interest in the choral services of his cathedraL In 1720 he 
 published " A Proposal for the Universal Use of Irish Manufactures, 
 utterly rejecting every thing that comes from England. " This pamphlet 
 was called forth by the fatal operation of the laws which were ruining 
 the Irish woollen trade. The printer was prosecuted for the publication 
 of a seditious libel, but the jury could not be cajoled into giving a 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 437 
 
 verdict against him, and the Government was compelled to abandon iis 
 proceedings. 
 
 In 1724 Swift published the most influential political work of his 
 life. This was the " Drapier Letters." 
 
 The Duchess of Kendal — a German importation of George I. (by 
 name Meturine de Schulemberg) — had, by corrupt means, obtained from 
 the King, for one William Wood, a patent to coin farthings and half- 
 pence for circulation in Ireland, to the value of 108,000/. The patent 
 was granted without the sanction of the Irish Parliament or knowledge 
 of the Viceroy. The Irish Parliament remonstrated ! Then appeared 
 a letter signed "M.B. (Drapier), Dublin." Others followed. These 
 letters attadced the coin as debased, attacked the King and English 
 Government, and created such a universal uproar in Ireland, that the 
 coinage was repudiated. Swift became the most popular man in Ireland. 
 Every one knew he was the author of the Letters ; but despite the 
 Government ofiering a reward of 300/. to discover their author, no clue 
 to his identification could be obtained. Ultimately the patent was with- 
 drawn. Swift had obtained a signal and complete triumph over George I. , 
 and Wood had to look for, and receive, compensation in England for 
 his losses. Swift was the idol of his country ; he was its liberator and its 
 patron. Medals with the Drapier's head were struck ; portraits of the 
 Dean were exhibited in the shops ; clubs toasted him, the people blessed 
 him, and the streets resounded with ballads in honour of Ireland's patriot. 
 
 Overwhelmed with public applause, the Dean retired to Quilca — the 
 residence of his intimate friend Dr. Delaney- — where he completed the 
 work upon which he had long been engaged, and by which he is most 
 familiarly known to the present generation — ^the " Travels into several 
 Remote Nations of the World, by Lemuel Gulliver." It is a satirical, 
 political romance, upon which his reputation as a prose writer now 
 depends. The " Voyage to Lilliput" is a satire on George I., his Court 
 and associates. The " Voyage to Brobdigiiag" is a satire on the European 
 political world of the period. The " Flying Island," pointed at the 
 speculations of philosophers and mathematicians, is the weakest part of 
 the book, because Swift was not competent to deal with the subject. 
 " The Fourth Voyage to the Honyhnhums and Yahoos" is a satire upon 
 the general vices and failings of society, as Swift observed them. The 
 firet part appeared in 1726. The circulation of " Gulliver's Travels" was 
 immense, for all who could read, read it. High and low, the duke and 
 his valet, my lady and my lady's maid, studied Gulliver. The same year 
 Swift visited London once more. He stayed chiefly with Pope at his 
 Twickenham villa, and made visits to Bolingbroke, then returned from 
 exile. Swift was frequently received at Leicester House by the Prince 
 and Princess of Wales (afterwards George II. and Queen Caroline). 
 While in London he received the news of Stella's declining health, and 
 hastened back to Dublin to watch over her. He returned to London 
 once again, and for the last time, in 1 727. . When George I. died. Swift 
 was visiting his friends at Twickenham. 
 
438 JON A THAN S WIFT. 
 
 The alaniiing condition of Stella recalled him to Ireland in October. 
 On January the 28th, 1728, Stella died at the deanery. Previous to her 
 death, in a conversation with the Dean, the following expressions were 
 overheard by Mrs. Whitaway, the Dean's cousin, who was in attendance : 
 "Well, my dear, if you wish it, it shall be owned," said Swift. "It is 
 too late ! " was the dying wife's reply. 
 
 Between 1728 and 1740 Swift continued engaged with political sub- 
 jects, advocating the cause of Ireland, and bitterly satirizing the Prime 
 Minister Walpole, the King, Queen, and Court. About 1740 his memory 
 began to fail, and his mind to give evidences of being impaired. In 
 1 742, after a few days of intense suffering, he sank into idiotcy. " I shall 
 be like that tree ; / shall die at the top, " had long before been his gloomy 
 forecast of his own fate. 
 
 For three years, with rare and brief intervals of returning reason, he 
 lingered on, until October 19, 1745, when mercifully, without any pain, 
 he quietly slept out of life, in the 78th year of his age. 
 
 When Stella died, she had been buried at the foot of the north-western 
 pillar of the nave in St. Patrick's Cathedral. The Dean's remains were 
 laid to rest at her side. 
 
 The history of Swift is a romance. No man occupying such a station 
 in life as he did has ever exercised such marvellous political influence. 
 At one time or another Swift, by the mere exercise of his pen, upheld or 
 bafided and triumphed over the Government both in England and Ireland. 
 Never perhaps has any man more purely, and solely by force of genius, 
 made his ma.sterly power felt, from the king on his throne to the poorest 
 peasant in the realm. His death was regarded in Ireland as a national 
 loss. The people crowded around the deanery in thousands, and many 
 begged "a hair of him for memory." 
 
 In a brief sketch of his life, such as this, it is impossible to enter into 
 details of the greatest interest, belonging to more extended biographies — 
 such as the story of his friendship and intimacy with Miss Vanhomrigh,' 
 Venessa, commonly represented as the rival of Stella in his affections. 
 Such was not the fact. Miss Vanhomrigh pursued Swift, and when the 
 time he had long striven to avoid, arrived, ^when Venessa thrust herself 
 upon Stella, determined to know who was really mistress of his heart — 
 the Dean's passionate repulse of Venessa, which hastened her death, 
 left no room for doubt upon that point. His conduct vrith regard to 
 Miss Vanhomrigh is indefensible. He played with her affection, and 
 his vanity made him allow her to cherish feelings which, whenever 
 discovered, ought to have been at once and for ever repulsed by him. 
 
 Concerning her. Swift's conduct, and the conflicting motives that 
 influenced him, can be understood ; but there is one part of his life re- 
 garding which biographers and moralists and essayists are, to the present 
 hour, perplexed. What was the meaning of his strange behaviour 
 towards Stella? Was she his wife? If she were, why was not the 
 marriage openly avowed? If she was not, why was she not that which 
 her position and reputation required that she should be? 
 
JON A THAN S WIFT. 439 
 
 All manner of theories upon this subject have been propounded. 
 Mr. Thackeray, in his Lecture on Swift, had his ideas. Others have 
 delicately insinuated a defective virility — virium inopia. Frequently 
 it has been conjectured that there was some mystery regarding Swift's 
 parentage and Stella's. The names of Swift's mother and of Sir William 
 Temple have been freely handled in this wild search after the truth. ^ 
 But no one yet seems to have appreciated, as it deserves, a great and 
 awful fact which pursues us in studying Swift's life, and which com- 
 pletely accounts for his, apparently, unkind conduct. Swift seemed cruel, 
 only to be kind. The fear of madness cast a gloom over his existence. 
 He knew, from the days of his earliest manhood, that the seeds of insanity 
 were in him, and that every returning attack of giddiness and wandering 
 was bringing nearer to him the terrible visitation which he felt to be 
 inevitable. His physical knowledge of himself was correct. He had 
 foreseen the end from the beginning. And yet people wonder why 
 Swift so long shrank from matrimony ; why he avoided, with a noble self- 
 restraint, the risk of propagating offspring to inherit such a disease as his 
 own ! Why, when his position in Ireland demanded that, if occasion of 
 question arose, heshouldbe enabled to protect Stella's name from reproach, 
 and his own from base insinuations, he entered into the married state, 
 but resolutely continued to the last Stella's lover, and nothing more ! 
 As one nearly related to the family of Swift, and to her who now 
 inherits the property at Goodrich, (which has descended from Swift's 
 grandfather in direct line to its present possessor,) the editor of this 
 work seizes a welcome opportunity of suggesting to the world an 
 explanation of Swift's conduct, gathered from family tradition and from 
 the conversation of relatives years ago dead and gone. A fitter and 
 broader field foi; discussing the subject may, perhaps, at a future time 
 present itself. SufSce it, if in this place it is stated, that some, who have 
 a jealous concern for the Dean's memory, and who value the inscription 
 of his name among the collateral branches of their pedigree, considei 
 that the true explanation of his conduct is not to be found in any of the 
 theories and speculations which have hitherto amused the lovers of 
 cunosides in literature ; but may be easily discovered, by those who will 
 study his life as a whole, and carefiilly note the consciousness, repeatedly 
 expressed by him, that he was doomed to madness. Swift's conduct to 
 Stella only admits of one of two reasonable methods of explanation. 
 Either he lived a life haunted by a conviction, or a delttsion, that he was 
 impotent ; or he was pursued by the still more terrible dread of impend- 
 ing insanity. It is enough to say of the former, that there is not a 
 scintilla of evidence in Swift's life, writings, conversations, or letters to 
 support it ; while the latter is more than strengthened, it is confirmed, 
 by his conduct, his observations, and by the event which proved that his 
 repeatedly expressed fears were correct 
 
 (i) The absurdity of this will be evident to any one who consults dates. Temple 
 was at Brussels, the Hague, or at Aix, as Minister, from 1665 to September 1670, 
 negotiatmg the famous Triple Alliance. Swift was bora in 1667, and his mother's 
 life was spent entirely in Leicesteishire and Dublin. 
 
440 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 DESIRE AND POSSESSION. 
 
 'Tis strange what different thoughts inspire 
 In men Possession and Desire : 
 Think what they wish so great a blessing ; 
 So disappointed when possessing ! 
 
 A moralist profoundly sage 
 (I know not in what book or page, 
 Or whether o'er a pot of ale) 
 Related thus the following tale : 
 
 Possession and Desire his brother, 
 But still at variance with each other, 
 Were seen contending in a race. 
 And kept at first an equal pace : 
 'Tis said their course continued long ; 
 For this was active, that was strong : 
 Till Envy, Slander, Sloth, and Doubt 
 Misled them many a league about. 
 Seduced by some deceiving light. 
 They take the wrong way for the right ; 
 Through slippery by-roads, dark and deep, 
 They often climb, and often creep. 
 
 Desire, the swifter of the two. 
 Along the plain like lightning flew ; 
 Till, entering on a broad highway. 
 Where power and titles scattered lay. 
 He strove to pick up all he found. 
 And by excursions lost his ground : 
 No sooner got than with disdain 
 He threw them on the ground again, 
 And hasted forward to pursue 
 Fresh objects fairer to his view. 
 In hope to spring some nobler game ; 
 But all he took was just the same : 
 Too scornful now to stop his pace. 
 He spurned them in his rival's face. 
 
 Possession kept the beaten road. 
 And gathered all his brother strowed ; 
 But overcharged and out of wind. 
 Though strong in limbs, he lagged behind. 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 441- 
 
 Desire had now the goal in sight : 
 It was a tower of monstrous height, 
 Where on the summit Fortune stands, 
 A crown and sceptre in her hands ; ' 
 Beneath, a chasm as deep as hell, 
 Where many a bold adventurer fell. 
 Desire, in rapture, gazed a while. 
 And saw the treacherous goddess smile ; 
 But, as he climbed to grasp the crown, 
 She knocked him with the sceptre down. 
 He tumbled in the gulph profound, 
 There doomed to whirl an endless round. 
 
 Possession's load was grown so great, 
 He sank beneath the cumbrous weight: 
 And, as he now ejcpiring lay, 
 Flocks every ominous bird of prey ; 
 The raven, vulture, owl, and kite 
 At once upon his carcase light. 
 And strip his hide, and pick his bones, 
 Regardless of his dying groans. 
 
 A TRUE AND FAITHFUL INVENTORY OF THE 
 GOODS BELONGING TO DR. SWIFT, 
 
 VICAR OF LARACOR ; 
 
 UPON LENDING HIS HOUSE TO THE BISHOP OF MEATH TILL 
 HIS PALACE WAS REBUILT, 
 
 An oaken, broken, elbow-chair ; 
 
 A cawdle-cup, without an ear ; 
 
 A batter'd, shattered, ash bedstead ; 
 
 A box of deal, without a lid ; 
 
 A pair of tongs, but oiit of joint ; 
 
 A back-sword poker, without point ; 
 
 A pot that's crack'd across, around 
 
 With an old knotted garter bound ; 
 
 An iron lock, without a key ; 
 
 A wig, with hanging quite grown grey ; 
 
 A curtain, worn to half a stripe ; 
 
 A pair of bellows, without pipe ; 
 
 A dish which might good meat afford once ; 
 
 An Ovid and an old Concordance ; 
 
442 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 A bottle-bottom, wooden platter ; 
 One is for meal, and one for water: 
 There likewise is a copper skillet, 
 Which runs as fast out as you fill it ; 
 A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all : 
 And thus his household-goods you have all. 
 These to your lordship as a friend, 
 Tin you have built, I freely lend : 
 They'll serve your lordship for a shift ; 
 Why not as well as Doctor Swift ? 
 
 VERSES BY STELLA. 
 
 If it be true, celestial powers, 
 
 That you have form'd me fair, 
 And yet, in all my vainest hours, 
 
 My mind has been my care ; 
 Then in return I beg this grace. 
 
 As you were ever kind, 
 What envious Time takes from my face 
 
 Bestow upon my mind ! 
 
 DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTHDAY SONG. 
 1729. 
 
 To form a just and finished piece 
 Take twenty gods of Rome or Greece, 
 Whose godships are in chief request, 
 And fit your present subject best : 
 And should it be your hero's case 
 To have both male r^nd female race. 
 Your business must be to provide 
 A score of goddesses beside. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Sweet poet, hir'd for birthday rhymes, 
 To sing of wars choose peaceful times. 
 What though, for fifteen years and more, 
 Janus had lock'd his temple-door ; 
 Though not a coffee-house we read in 
 Hath mentioned arms on this side Sweden, 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 443 
 
 Nor London journals, nor the postmen. 
 Though fond of warlike lies as most men ; 
 Thou still with battles stuff thy head full : 
 For must thy hero not be dreadful ? 
 Dismissing MarSj it next must follow 
 Your conqueror is become Apollo : 
 That he's Apollo is as plain as 
 That Robin Walpole is Maecenas ;^ 
 But that he struts, and that he squints. 
 You'd know him by Apollo's prints. 
 Old Phoebus is but half as bright. 
 For yours can shine both day and night. 
 The first, perhaps, may once an age 
 Inspire you with poetic rage ; 
 Your Phoebus royal every day 
 Not only can inspire, but pay. 
 Then make this new Apollo sit 
 Sole patron, judge, and god of wit. 
 
 " How from his attitude he stoops 
 To raise up Virtue when she droops ; 
 On learning how his bounty flows, 
 And with what justice he bestows : 
 Fair Isis, and ye banks of Cam ! 
 Be witness if I teU. a flam. 
 What prodigies in arts we drain, 
 From both your streams, in Georgie's reign. 
 As from the flowery bed of Nile" — 
 
 But here's enough to show your style. 
 Broad innuendos, such as this, 
 If well appUed, can hardly miss : 
 For, when you bring your song in print, 
 HeTl get it read, and take the hint 
 (It must be read before 'tis warbled, 
 The paper gilt, and cover marbled). 
 And will be so much more your debtor. 
 Because he never knew a letter ; 
 And, as he hears his wit and sense 
 (To which he never made pretence) 
 Set out in hyperbolic strains, 
 A guinea shall reward your pains : 
 
 (1) Sir Robert Walpole was bom 1676, and died 1745. He was bora at Houghton, 
 aiid_ buried in the parish church there. "Walpole was the great Whig opponent oi 
 Boliogbtoke during the reign of Queen Anne, and the favoured Minister of George 1. 
 He was also Minister to George II., who, upon his resignation in 1742, created him 
 Earl of Orford. 
 
44+ JONOTHAN SWIFT. 
 
 For patrons never pay so well 
 
 As when they scarce have learn'd to spell. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 Thus your encomium, to be strong, 
 
 Must be applied directly wrong. 
 
 A tyrant for his mercy praise, 
 
 And crown a royal dunce with bays : 
 
 A squinting monkey load with charms, 
 
 And paint a coward fierce in arms. 
 
 Is he to avarice inclined ? 
 
 Extol him for his generous mind : 
 
 And, when we starve for want of corn, 
 
 Come out with Amalthea's horn. 
 
 For all experience this evinces 
 
 The only art of pleasing princes ; 
 
 For princes love you should descant 
 
 On virtues which they know they want. 
 
 One compliment I had forgot. 
 
 But songsters must omit it not ; 
 
 I freely grant the thought is old : 
 
 Why, then, your hero must be told 
 
 In him such virtues lie inherent. 
 
 To qualify him God's vicegerent, 
 
 That, with no title to inherit, 
 
 He must have been a king by merit. 
 
 Yet, be the fancy old or new, 
 
 'Tis partly false and partly true ; 
 
 And, take it right, it means no more 
 
 Than George and William claim'd before. 
 * * * * 
 
 Now sing his little Highness Freddy,^ 
 
 Who struts like any king already : 
 
 With so much beauty, show me any maid 
 
 That could resist this charming Ganymede ' 
 
 Where majesty with sweetness vies, 
 
 And, like his father, early wise. 
 
 Then cut him out a world of work, 
 
 To conquer Spain,^ and quell the Turk ; 
 
 Foretel his empire crown'd with bays, 
 
 And golden times, and halcyon days ; 
 
 (i) Frederick Lewis, Prince of Wales, son of George II., was born in 1707, and died 
 1751, during the lifetime of the King his father. George III- was his son. 
 
 (2) War with Spain was extremely popular both with the King and country in 
 George the Second's reign. Walpole opposed it, and his opposition was one great 
 cause of his downfall. 
 
JON A THAN SWIFT. 445 
 
 And swear his line shall rule the nation 
 For ever — till the conflagration. 
 But now it comes into my mind, 
 We left a little duke behind ; 
 A Cupid in his face and size, 
 And only wants to want his eyes. 
 Make some provision for the younker : 
 Find him a kingdom out to conquer ; 
 Prepare a fleet to waft him o'er. 
 Make Gulliver his Commodore ; 
 Into his pocket valiant Willy put 
 Will soon subdue the realm of Lilliput. 
 A skilful critic justly blames 
 Hard, tough, crank, guttural, harsh, stiff names. 
 The sense can ne'er be too jejune. 
 But smooth your words to fit the tune. 
 Hanover may do well enough. 
 But George and Brunswick are too rough : 
 Hesse-Darmstadt makes a rugged sound. 
 And Guelph the strongest ear will wound. 
 In V4in are all attempts from Germany 
 To find out proper words for harmony ; 
 And yet I must except the Rhine, 
 Because it chnks to Caroline. 
 Hail ! queen of Britain, queen of rhymes ! 
 Be sung ten hundred thousand times 1 
 Too happy were the poets' crew. 
 If their own happiness they knew : 
 Three syllables did never meet 
 So soft, so sliding, and so sweet : 
 Nine other tuneful words like that 
 Would prove e'en Homer's numbers flat. 
 Behold three beauteous vowels stand, 
 With bridegroom liquids, hand in hand ; 
 In concord here for ever fixt, 
 No jarring consonant betwixt. 
 May Caroline continue long 
 For ever fair and young ! — in song. 
 What though the royal carcase must, 
 Squeez'd in a cofSn, turn to dust ? 
 Those elements her name compose. 
 Like atoms, are exempt from blows. 
 * * # * 
 
446 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 To Walpole you might lend a line, 
 But much I fear he's in decline ; 
 And if you chance to come too late, 
 When he goes out, you share his fate. 
 And bear the new successor's frown ; 
 Or, whom you once sang up, sing down. 
 Reject with scorn that stupid notion 
 To praise your hero for devotion ; 
 Nor entertain a thought so odd 
 That Princes should believe in God ; 
 But follow the securest rule. 
 And turn it all to ridicule. 
 'Tis grown the choicest wit at court. 
 And gives the Maids of Honour sport. 
 * * * * 
 
 Supposing now your song is done, 
 To Mynheer Handel next you run,* 
 Who artfully will pare and prune 
 Your words to some Italian tune : 
 Then print it in the largest letter. 
 With capitals, — the more the better. 
 Present it boldly on your knee, 
 And take a guinea for your fee. 
 
 THE PARSON'S CASE. 
 
 That you, friend Marcus, lilje a stoic, 
 Can wish to die in strains heroic, 
 No real fortitude implies : 
 Yet all must own thy wish is wise. 
 Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife, 
 Thy busy drudging scene of life, 
 Thy insolent, illiterate Vicar, 
 Thy want of all-consoling liquor. 
 Thy thread-bare gown, thy cassock rent, 
 Thy credit sunk, thy money spent, 
 Thy week made up of fasting days. 
 Thy grate unconscious of a blaze, 
 
 (i) Handel was tben resident in London. He came to England in 1710, and died 
 in 1759. He was buried in Poet's Corner. Swift met iiim at Pope's, with whom 
 Handel was on intimate terms of friendsriip. 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 447 
 
 And, to complete thy other curses, 
 
 The quarterly demands of nurses, 
 
 Are ills you wisely wish to leave, 
 
 And fly for refuge to the grave : 
 
 And, oh, what virtue you express, 
 
 In wishing such afflictions less ! 
 
 But, now, sTiould Fortune shift the scene, 
 
 And make thy curateship a dean ; 
 
 Or some rich benefice provide. 
 
 To pamper luxury and pride ; 
 
 With labour small, and income great ; 
 
 With chariot less for use than state ; 
 
 With swelling scarf and glossy gown. 
 
 And licence to reside in town. 
 
 To shine where all the gay resort, 
 
 At concerts, coffee-house, or court. 
 
 And weekly persecute his Grace 
 
 With visits, or to beg a place ; 
 
 With underlings thy flock to teach ; 
 
 With no desire to pray or preach ; 
 
 With haughty spouse in vesture fine ; 
 
 With plenteous meats and generous wine ; 
 
 Wouldst thou not wish, in so much ease, 
 
 Thy years as numerous as thy days ? 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT. 
 
 The time is not remote when I 
 Must by the course of nature die ; 
 When I foresee my special friends 
 Will try to find their private ends ; 
 And, though 'tis hardly understood 
 Which way my death can do them good. 
 Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak : 
 
 " See how the Dean begins to break ! 
 Poor gentleman, he droops apace ! 
 You plainly find it in his face. 
 That old vertigo in his head- 
 Will never leave him till he's dead. 
 Besides, his memory decays : 
 He recollects not what he says ; 
 
448 yONA THAN S IVIFT. 
 
 He cannot call his friends to mind ; 
 Forgets the place where last he dined ; 
 Plies you with stories o'er and o'er ; 
 He told them fifty times before. 
 How does he fancy we can sit 
 To hear his out-of-fashion wit ? 
 But he takes up with younger folks, 
 Who for his wine will bear his jokes. 
 Faith ! he must make his stories shorter, 
 Or change his comrades once a quarter ; 
 In half the time he talks them round 
 There must another set be found. 
 For poetry, he's past his prime : 
 He takes an hour to find a rhyme ; 
 His fire is out, his wit decayed, 
 His fancy sunk, his muse a jade. 
 I'd have him throw away his pen ; — 
 But there's no talking to some men !" 
 
 And then their tenderness appears 
 By adding largely to my years : 
 
 " He's older than he would be reckoned, 
 
 And well remembers Charles the Second. 
 
 He hardly drinks a pint of wine ; 
 
 And that, I doubt, is no good sign. 
 
 His stomach too begins to fail : 
 
 Last year we thought him strong and hale, 
 
 But now he's quite another thing ; 
 
 I wish he may hold out till spring !" 
 
 They hug themselves, and reason thus : 
 "It is not yet so bad with us." 
 
 Behold the fatal day arrive ! 
 "How is the Dean .?"— " He's just alive." 
 Now the departing prayer is read ; 
 He hardly breathes — the Dean is dead. 
 Before the passing bell beg^n. 
 The news through half the town is run. 
 
 "Oh may we all for death prepare! 
 What has he left ? and who's his heir ? " 
 " I know no more than what the news is ; 
 'Tis all bequeathed to public uses." 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 449 
 
 " To public uses ! there's a whim ! 
 What had the pubHc done for him ? 
 Mere envy, avarice, and pride : 
 He gave it all — ^but first he died. 
 And had the Dean, in all the nation, 
 No worthy friend, no poor relation ? 
 So ready to do strangers good, 
 Forgetting his own flesh and blood ! " 
 
 Now Grub-Street wits are all emplo/d ; 
 With elegies the town is cloy'd ; 
 Some paragraph in every paper, 
 To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. 
 The doctors, tender of their fame. 
 Wisely on me lay all the blame. 
 " We must confess his case was nice, 
 But he would never take advice. 
 Had he been rul'd, for aught appears, 
 He might have liv'd these twenty years : 
 For when we open'd him, we found 
 That all his vital parts were sound." 
 
 From Dublin soon to London spread, 
 'Tis told at court, " The Dean is dead ;" 
 And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, 
 Runs laughing up to teU the Queen. 
 The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good. 
 Cries, " Is he gone ! 'tis time he should." 
 
 * * * * 
 Here shift the scene, to represent 
 
 How those I love my death lament. 
 
 Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay 
 
 A week, and Arbuthnot a day. 
 
 St. John himself will scarce forbear 
 
 To bite his pen and drop a tear. 
 
 The rest will give a shrug, and cry, 
 
 " I'm sorry — but we all must die \" 
 
 * * * * 
 
 My female friends, whose tender hearts 
 Have better learn'd to act their parts, 
 Receive the news in doleful dumps : 
 
 " The Dean is dead : (Pray what is trumps ?) 
 Then Lord have mercy on his soul ! 
 (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) 
 G G 
 
4SO JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall. 
 (I wish I knew what king to call.) 
 Madam, your husband will attend 
 The funeral of so good a friend." 
 " No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight ; 
 And he's engaged to-morrow night : 
 My Lady Club will take it ill 
 If he should fail her at quadrille. 
 
 He loved the Dean (I lead a heart.) 
 
 But dearest friends, they say, must part. 
 His time was come : he ran his race ; 
 We hope he's in a better place." 
 
 * * * # 
 
 Some country squire to Lintot goes,^ 
 Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. 
 Says Lintot, " I have heard the name ; 
 
 He dy'd a year ago." " The same." 
 
 He searches all the shop in vain. 
 " Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane : 
 I sent them, with a load of books, 
 Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. 
 To fancy they could live a year ! 
 I find you're but a stranger here. 
 The Dean was famous in his time, 
 And had a kind of knack at rhyme. 
 His way of writing now is past : 
 The town has got a better taste." 
 
 * * * * 
 Suppose me dead, and then suppose 
 
 A club assembled at the Rose ; 
 Where, from discourse of this and that, 
 I grow the subject of their chat. 
 Arid while they toss my name about, 
 With favour some, and some without, 
 One, quite indifferent in the cause, 
 My character impartial draws : 
 
 " The Dean, if we believe report. 
 
 Was never ill receiVd at court ; 
 
 Although ironically grave. 
 
 He sham'd the fool, and lash'd the knave ; 
 
 To steal a hint was never known. 
 
 But what he writ was all his own." 
 
 (i) Lintot was one of the chief publishers of the time. 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 451 
 
 " Sir, I have heard another story ; 
 He was a most confounded Tory, 
 And grew, or he is much bel/d. 
 Extremely dull before he dyd." 
 
 " Can we the Drapier then forget ? 
 Is not our nation in his debt ? 
 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters ! " — 
 
 " He should have left them for his betters : 
 We had a hundred abler men, 
 Nor need depend upon his pen. — 
 Say what you will about his reading, 
 You never can defend his breeding. 
 Who in his satires running riot. 
 Could never leave the world in quiet ; 
 Attacking, when he took the whim. 
 Court, City, Camp, — all one to him. 
 But why would he, except he slobber'd, 
 Offend our patriot great Sir Robert, 
 Whose counsels aid the sovereign power 
 To save the nation every hour ? 
 What scenes of evils he unravels. 
 In satires, libels, lying travels, 
 Not sparing his own clergy cloth. 
 But eats into it, like a moth ! 
 
 He never thought an honour done him, 
 
 Because a peer was proud to own him, 
 
 Would rather slip aside, and choose 
 
 To talk with wits in dirty shoes ; 
 
 And scorn the tools with stars and garters. 
 
 So often seen caressing Chartres. 
 
 He never courted men in station. 
 
 Nor persons held in admiration ; 
 
 Of no man's greatness was afraid. 
 
 Because he sought for no man's aid. 
 
 Tho' trusted long in great affairs. 
 
 He gave himself no haughty airs : 
 
 Without regarding private ends. 
 
 Spent all his credit for his friends ; 
 
 And only chose the wise and good — 
 
 No flatterers, no allies in blood ; 
 
 But succour'd virtue in distress. 
 
 And seldom fail'd of good success ; 
 
 GG 2 
 
452 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 As numbers in their hearts must own, 
 Who, but for him, had been unknown. 
 He kept with princes due decorum ; 
 Yet never stood in awe before 'em. 
 He follow'd David's lesson just — 
 In princes never put his trust : 
 And would you make him really sour, 
 Provoke him with a slave in power ; 
 The Irish senate if you nam'd, 
 With what impatience he declaim'd ! 
 Fair Liberty was aU his cry : 
 For her he stood prepar'd to die ; 
 For her he boldly stood alone ; 
 For her he oft expos'd his own. 
 Two kingdoms, just as faction led. 
 Had set a price upon his head ; 
 But not a traitor could be found 
 To sell him for six hundred pound. 
 
 Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen, 
 He might have rose like other men ; 
 But power was never in his thought, 
 And wealth he valued not a groat : 
 Ingratitude he often found. 
 And pity'd those who meant the wound ; 
 But kept the tenor of his mind 
 To merit well of human kind ; 
 Nor made a sacrifice of those 
 Who still were true, to please his foes. 
 He labour'd, many a fruitless hour. 
 To reconcile his friends in power ; 
 Saw mischief by a faction brewing. 
 While they pursued each other's ruin. 
 But, finding vain was all his care, 
 He left the court in mere despair ; 
 In exile, with a steady heart. 
 He spent his life's declining part ; 
 Where folly, pride, and faction sway. 
 Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay. 
 
 As for his works, in verse or prose, 
 I own myself no judge of those. 
 Nor can I tell what critics thought them ; 
 But this I know, all people bought them, 
 
JON A THAN SWIFT. 45 3 
 
 As with a moral new design'd, 
 
 To please and to reform mankind : 
 
 And if he often miss'd his aim, 
 
 The world must own it to their shame — 
 
 The praise is his, and theirs the blame. 
 
 He gave the little wealth he had 
 
 To build a house for fools and mad,' 
 
 To show by one satiric touch 
 
 No nation wanted it so much. 
 
 That kingdom he hath left his debtor : 
 
 I wish it soon may have a better. 
 
 And since you dread no further lashes, 
 
 Methinks you may forgive his ashes." 
 
 ON POETRY. 
 A RHAPSODY. 1 733. 
 
 All human race would fain be wits. 
 And miUions miss for one that hits. 
 Young's imiversal passion, pride, 
 Was never known to spread so wide. 
 Say, Britain, could you ever boast 
 Three poets in an age at most ? 
 Our chilling climate hardly bears 
 A sprig of bays in fifty years ; 
 While every fool his claim alleges, 
 As if it grew in common hedges. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Not empire to the rising sun. 
 By valour, conduct, fortune won ; 
 Not highest wisdom in debates 
 For framing laws to govern states ; 
 Not skill in sciences profound, 
 So large to grasp the circle round ; 
 Such heavenly influence require. 
 As how to strike the Muse's lyre. 
 Not beggar's brat on bulk begot ; 
 Not bastard of a pedlar Scot ; 
 Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes. 
 The spawn of Bridewell or the stews ; 
 
 (i) It is a well known fact that Dean Swift left a lai^ge part of his property for the 
 /oundation of a Lunatic Asylum in Dublin. 
 
454- JON A THAN S IVIFT. 
 
 Not infants dropt, the spurious pledges 
 Of gipsies littering under hedges ; 
 Are so disqualify'd by fate 
 To rise in Church, or Law, or State, 
 As he whom Phoebus in his ire 
 Hath blasted with poetic fire. 
 * * * * 
 
 Poor starvling bard, how small thy gains ! 
 
 How unproportion'd to thy pains ! 
 
 And here a simile comes pat in : 
 
 Though chickens take a month to fatten, 
 
 The guests in less than half an hour 
 
 Will more than half a score devour. 
 
 So, after toiling twenty days 
 
 To earn a stock of pence and praise, 
 
 Thy labours, grown the critic's prey. 
 
 Are swallow'd o'er a dish of tea ; 
 
 Gone to be never heard of more, 
 
 Gone where chickens went before. 
 
 How shall a new attempter learn 
 
 Of different spirits to discern. 
 
 And how distinguish which is which, 
 
 The poet's vein or scribbling itch ? 
 
 Then hear an old experienc'd sinner 
 
 Instructing thus a young beginner: 
 
 Consult yourself ; and if you find 
 
 A powerful impulse urge your mind, 
 
 Impartial judge within your breast 
 
 What subject you can manage best ; 
 
 Whether your genius most inclines 
 
 To satire, praise, or humorous lines. 
 
 To elegies in mournfid tone. 
 
 Or prologues sent from hand unknown. 
 
 Then, rising with Aurora's light, 
 
 The Muse invok'd, sit down to write ; 
 
 Blot out, correct, insert, refine, 
 
 Enlarge, diminish, interline ; 
 
 Be mindful, when invention fails, 
 
 To scratch your head and bite your nails. 
 
 Your poem finish'd, nejft your care 
 
 Is needful to transcribe it fair. 
 
 In modern wit all printed trash is 
 
 Set off with numerous breaks and dashes. 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 455 
 
 To statesmen would you give a wipe, 
 
 You print it in Italic type. 
 
 When letters are in vulgar shapes, 
 
 'Tis ten to one the wit escapes ; 
 
 But when in capitcds exprest, 
 
 The dullest reader smokes the jest ; 
 
 Or else perhaps he may invent 
 
 A better than the poet meant. 
 
 As learned commentators view 
 
 In Homer more than Homer knew. 
 
 A Prince, the moment he is crown'd, 
 Inherits every virtue round. 
 As emblems of the sovereign power, 
 like other baubles in the Tower ; 
 Is generous, valiant, just, and wise, 
 And so continues till he dies : 
 His humble senate this professes 
 In aU their speeches, notes, addresses. 
 But once you fix him in a tomb. 
 His virtues fade, his vices bloom ; 
 And each perfection, wrong imputed, 
 Is fuUy at his death confuted. 
 The loads of poems in his praise. 
 Ascending, make one funeral blaze : 
 As soon as you can hear his knell. 
 This god on earth turns devil in heU : 
 And lo ! his ministers of state, 
 Transform'd to imps, his levee wait ; 
 Where, in the scenes of endless woe, 
 They ply their former arts below ; 
 And as they sail in Charon's boat. 
 Contrive to bribe the judge's vote ; 
 To Cerebus they give a sop, 
 His triple-barking mouth to stop ; 
 Or in the ivory gate of dreams 
 Project Excise and South Sea schemes ; 
 Or hire their party pamphleteers 
 To set Elysium by the ears. 
 Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, 
 Employ your muse on kings aUve ; 
 With prudence gathering up a cluster 
 Of all the virtues you can muster. 
 
456 JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 Which, form'd into a garland sweet, 
 Lay humbly at your monarch's feet : 
 Who, as the odours reach his throne, 
 Will smile, and think them all his own ; 
 For law and gospel both determine 
 All virtues lodge in royal ermine 
 (I mean the oracles of both. 
 Who shall depose it upon oath). 
 Your garland in the following reign, 
 Change but the names, will do again. 
 
 Two bordering wits contend for glory ; 
 And one is Whig and one is Tory ; 
 And this for epics claims the bays, 
 And that for elegiac lays. 
 Some fam'd for numbers soft and smooth, 
 By lovers spoke in Punch's booth ; 
 And some as justly fame extols 
 For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls. 
 Bavius in Wapping gains renown, 
 And Msevius reigns o'er Kentish-town. 
 Tigellius, plac'd in Phosbus' car ! 
 P"rom Ludgate shines to Temple-bar. 
 Harmonious Gibber entertains 
 The court with annual birthday strains ; 
 Whence Gay was banish'd in disgrace, 
 Where Pope will never show his face, 
 Where Young must torture his invention 
 To flatter knaves, or lose his pension. 
 
 Hobbes clearly proves that every creature 
 Lives in a state of war by nature. 
 The greater for the smallest watch. 
 But meddle seldom with their match. 
 A whale of moderate size will draw 
 A shoal of herrings down his maw ; 
 A fox with geese his belly crams ; 
 A wolf destroys a thousand lambs : 
 But search among the rhyming race. 
 The brave are worry'd by the base. 
 If on Parnassus' top you sit. 
 You rarely bite, are always bit. 
 
. JONATHAN SWIFT. 457 
 
 Each poet of inferior size 
 
 On' you shall rail and criticise, 
 
 And strive to tear you limb from limb, 
 
 While others do as much for him. 
 
 The vermin only tease and pinch 
 
 Their foes superior by an inch. 
 
 So, naturalists observe, a flea 
 
 Hath smaller fleas that on him prey ; 
 
 And these have smaller still to bite 'em, 
 
 And so proceed ad infinitum. 
 
 Thus every poet in his kind 
 
 Is bit by him that comes behind ; 
 
 Who, though too little to be seen. 
 
 Will tease, and gall, and give the spleen. 
 
 Complain, as many an ancient bard did. 
 How genius is no more rewarded ; 
 How wrong a taste prevails among us ; 
 How much our ancestors outsung us ; 
 Can personate an awkward scorn 
 For those who are not poets bom : 
 And all their brother-dunces lash. 
 Who crowd the press with hourly trash. 
 
 Oh, what indignity and shame. 
 To prostitute the Muse's name 
 By flattering kings whom Heaven design'd 
 The plagues and scourges of mankind, 
 Bred up in ignorance and sloth, 
 And every vice that niirses both ! 
 Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest. 
 Whose virtues bear the strictest test ; 
 Whom never faction could bespatter, 
 Nor Minister nor poet flatter ; 
 What justice in rewarding merit ! 
 AVhat magnanimity of spirit ! 
 What lineaments divine we trace 
 Through all his figure, mien, and face ! 
 Though peace with olive bind his hands, 
 Confess'd the conquering hero stands. 
 
458 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 Say, poet, in what other nation 
 Shone ever such a constellation ! 
 Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, 
 And tune your harps, and strow your bays ; 
 Your panegyrics here provide ; 
 You cannot err on flattery's side. 
 Above the stars exalt your style. 
 You still are low ten thousand mile. 
 On Lewis all his bards bestow'd 
 Of incense many a thousand load ; 
 But Europe mortify'd his pride, 
 And swore the fawning rascals l/d. 
 Yet what the world refus'd to Lewis, 
 Apply'd to George, exactly true is. 
 Exactly true ! Invidious poet ! 
 'Tis fifty thousand times below it. 
 
 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 Born i(>']2. Died i']2g. 
 
 William Congreve was descended from a very ancient Staffordshire 
 family, whicli boasted of tracing its descent direct from Saxon forefathers. 
 The date of Congreve's birth is supposed to have been about 1672, 
 though it is not certain. He is said to have been born in the neighbour- 
 hood of Leeds. Such was his own statement. Others assert he was 
 bom in Ireland. It is certain he received his early education in Ireland, 
 at Kilkenny, and at a later period in Dublin. About the period of the 
 Revolution his father sent him to study law in the Middle Temple. 
 His taste for literature exhibited itself early in his life. The first pro- 
 duction of his pen was a novel, called " Incognita." He then wrote a 
 comedy, "The Old Bachelor," which was acted in 1693, when he was 
 twenty-one years of age, and was highly commended by Dryden, who 
 said he had never seen such a first play from a young author's pen. 
 
 The " Old Bachelor" procured for Congreve the favour and patronage 
 of Charles Montague, Earl of Halifax, who gave him a situation in the 
 Pipe Office, and then an appointment in the Customs worth 600/. a year. 
 Next year, he produced "The Double Dealers," and in 1695 "Love for 
 Love." The Afeo Theatre, under the management of Betterton, was 
 opened with one of his plays. In 1697 "The Mourning Bride" was 
 brought out. Congreve showed himself a prolific writer, a man of fertile 
 
WILLIAM CONGREVE. 459 
 
 imagination, and a composer of brilliant, witty dialogue. The last play 
 he produced was called "The Way of the World." It was not well 
 received, and Congreve, in disgust, retired into private life. 
 
 He wrote one paper in the " Tatler," and contented himself after that 
 with Hterary indolence, and the composition occasionally of miscellaneous 
 poetry. In his day he was held in so much esteem that Pope dedicated 
 the Hiad to him, and Steele his Miscellany. Congreve, however, was 
 much more desirous to be thought a gentleman than a poet ; and in later 
 life devoted himself entirely to this idea. On recovering from an attack 
 of gout he resorted to Bath for the benefit of the waters, but was unfor- 
 tunately upset in his coach on the journey. He suffered some internal 
 injury, and, returning to London, died at his residence in Surrey Street, 
 Strand, January 29, 1729. Congreve was buried vrith great pomp. 
 Like Addison's, his body lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber. It was 
 not interred in Poet's Comer, but in the nave ; where a monument was 
 erected to his memory by Henrietta Godolphin, second Duchess of 
 Marlborough, to whom he bequeathed the savings of his life — about 
 10,000/. • 
 
 Congreve as a dramatic writer possessed ability of the highest order. 
 His dialogue bristles with wit. But as soon as he leaves the stage his 
 powers seem to desert him. Dramatic vigour dwindles dovim into impo- 
 tent versification. It was as a dramatic writer that all the fine speeches 
 of the time were made concerning him ; that Dryden placed him next to 
 Shakespere ; that Steele called him " great author ; " that Pope dedicated 
 the Iliad to him, and named him " ultimus Romanorum ; " that Voltaire, 
 when he visited England, sought him out, to pay his respects to him, as 
 the most distinguished English writer of the day. 
 
 As Addison was the purifier of the style and language of the age, so 
 Congreve was the polluter. His plajrs are witty, and to spare ; but they 
 are coarse and sensual. He delights in introducing both subjects and 
 language which to the taste of these times are simply intolerable. The 
 "great Mr. Congreve" could write or say anything he pleased, and the 
 world applauded the ejftremely gentlemanly, captivating, lady-killing 
 Mr. Congreve. His plays are written in prose, with the exception of 
 " The Mourning Bride," which is in blank verse, and dedicated to the 
 Princess of Wales. Mirabile dutui It is " constituted on a moral whose 
 end is to recommend and to encourage virtue." A short extract from 
 it is given. 
 
 AMORET. 
 
 Fair Amoret has gone astray ; 
 
 Pursue and seek her, every lover : 
 ni tell the signs by which you may 
 
 The wandering shepherdess discover. 
 
46o WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 Coquet and coy at once her air : 
 Both study'd, though both seem neglected. 
 
 Careless she is, with artful care, 
 AiTecting to seem unaffected. 
 
 With skill her eyes dart every glance. 
 Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them ; 
 
 For she'd persuade they wound by chance, 
 Though certain aim and art direct them. 
 
 She likes herself, yet others hates 
 For that which in herself she prizes ; 
 
 And, while she laughs at them, forgets 
 She is the thing that she despises. 
 
 TO A CANDLE. 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 Thou watchful taper ! by whose silent light 
 
 I lonely pass the melancholy night ; 
 
 Thou faithful witness of my secret pain ! 
 
 To whom alone I venture to complain ; 
 
 O learn with me my hopeless love to moan ; 
 
 Commiserate a life so like thine own. 
 
 Like thine, my flames to my destruction turn, 
 
 Wasting that heart by which supplied they burn : 
 
 Like thine, my joy and suffering they display ; 
 
 At once are signs of life and symptoms of decay : 
 
 And as thy fearful flames the day decline. 
 
 And only during night presume to shine, 
 
 Their humble rays not daring to aspire 
 
 Before the sun, the fountain of their fire ; 
 
 So mine, with conscious shame and equal awe. 
 
 To shades obscure and solitude withdraw, 
 
 Nor dare their light before her eyes disclose. 
 
 From whose bright beams their being first arose. 
 
WILLIAM CONGREVE. 461 
 
 OF PLEASING. 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO SIR RICHARD TEMPLE. 
 
 'Tis Strange, dear Temple, how it comes to pass, 
 
 That no one man is pleased with what he has ! 
 
 So Horace sings.— And sure as strange is this, 
 
 That no one man's displeased with what he is. 
 
 The foolish, ugly, dull, impertinent, 
 
 Are with their persons and their parts content. 
 
 Nor is that aU : so odd a thing is man. 
 
 He most would be what least he should or can. 
 
 Hence homely faces still are foremost seen. 
 
 And cross-shaped fops affect the nicest mien ; 
 
 Cowards extol true courage to the skies, 
 
 And fools are still most forward to advise ; 
 
 Th' untrusted wretch to secresy pretends. 
 
 Whispering his nothing round to all as friends ; 
 
 DuU rogues affect the politician's part. 
 
 And learn to nod, and smile, and shrug, with art ; 
 
 Who nothing has to lose, the war bewails. 
 
 And he who nothing pays, at taxes rails. 
 
 Thus man perverse against plain nature strives. 
 
 And to be artfully absurd contrives, 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Next to obtaining wealth, or power, or ease. 
 
 Men most affect in general to please : 
 
 Of this affection vanity's the source, 
 
 And vanity alone obstructs its course ; 
 
 That telescope of fools, through which they spy 
 
 Merit remote, and think the object nigh : 
 
 The glass removed, would each himself survey. 
 
 And in just scales his strength and weakness weigh; 
 
 Pursue the path for which he was designed. 
 
 And to his proper force adapt his mind ; 
 
 Scarce one but to some merit might pretend. 
 
 Perhaps might please, at least would not offend. 
 
 Who would reprove us while he makes us laugh 
 
 Must be no Bavius, but a Bickerstaff. 
 
 If Garth or Blackmore friendly potions give, 
 
 We bid the dying patient drink and live : 
 
462 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 When Murus comes, we cry, " Beware the pill !" 
 And wish the tradesman were a tradesman still. 
 If Addison, or Rowe, or Prior write, 
 We study them with profit and delight : 
 But when vile Macer and Mundungus rhyme, 
 We grieve we've learnt to read ; ay, curse the time. 
 All rules of pleasing in this one unite, 
 " Affect not anything in nature's spite." 
 Baboons and apes ridiculous we find ; 
 For what .'' For ill-resembling human kind. 
 " None are, for being what they are, in fault, 
 But for not being what they would be thought." 
 
 THE MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 Act I. Scene I. A Room of State in the Palace. 
 
 Almeria in mourning; LEONORA -waiting, in mourning. After 
 the music, Almeria rises from, her chair and comes forward. 
 
 Aim. Music has charms to soothe a savage breast, 
 To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. 
 I've read that things inanimate have moved, 
 And, as with living souls, have been inform'd 
 By magic numbers and persuasive sound. 
 What then am I ? am I more senseless grown 
 Than trees or flint ? O force of constant woe ! 
 'Tis not in harmony to calm my griefs. 
 Anselmo sleeps, and is at peace : last night 
 The silent tomb received the good old king : 
 He and his sorrows now are safely lodged 
 Within its cold but hospitable bosom. 
 Why am not I at peace ? 
 
 Leon. Dear madam, cease. 
 Or moderate your griefs ; there is no cause 
 
 Aim. No cause ! Peace, peace ! There is eternal cause, 
 And misery eternal will succeed. 
 Thou canst not tell : thou hast indeed no cause. 
 
 Leon. Believe me, madam, I lament Anselmo, 
 And always did compassionate his fortune ; 
 Have often wept to see how cruelly 
 
WILLIAM CONGREVE. 463 
 
 Your father kept in chains his fellow-king; 
 And oft at night, when all have been retired, 
 Have stolen from bed, and to his prison crept, 
 Where, while his jailor slept, I through the grate 
 Have softly whispered and inquired his health ; 
 Sent in my sighs and prayers for his deliverance. 
 For sighs and prayers were aU that I could offer. 
 
 Aim. Indeed thou hast a soft and gentle nature, 
 That thou couldst melt to see a stranger's wrongs. 
 Leonora, hadst thou known Anselmo, 
 How would thy heart have bled to see his sufferings ! 
 Thou hadst no cause but general compassion. 
 
 Leon. Love of my royal mistress gave me cause ; 
 My love of you begat my grief for him : 
 For I had heard that when the chance of war 
 Had bless'd Anselmo's arms with victory. 
 And the rich spoil of all the field, and you. 
 The glory of the whole, were made the prey 
 Of his success ; that then, in spite of hate. 
 Revenge, and that hereditary feud 
 Between Valentia's and Granada's kings, 
 He did endear himself to your affection. 
 By all the worthy and indulgent ways 
 His most industrious goodness could invent ; 
 Proposing by a match between Alphonso 
 His son, the brave Valentia prince, and you, 
 To end the long dissension, and unite 
 The jarring crowns. 
 
 Aim. Alphonso ! O Alphonso ! 
 
 Thou too art quiet — long hast been at peace : 
 Both, both — father and son are now no more. 
 Then why am I ? O when shall I have rest? 
 Why do I live to say you are no more ? 
 Why are all these things thus ?— Is it of force ? 
 Is there necessity I must be miserable ? 
 Is it of moment to the peace of heaven 
 That I should be afflicted thus ? — If not. 
 Why is it thus contrived ? Why are things laid 
 By some unseen hand so as of suie consequence 
 They must to me bring ou-ses, grief of heart, 
 The last distress of life, and sure despair? 
 
 Leon. Alas, you search too far, and think too deeply. 
 
 Aim. Why was I carried to Anselmo's court ? 
 Or, there, why was I used so tenderly? 
 
464 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 Why not ill treated, like an enemy ? 
 
 For so my father would have used his child. 
 
 O Alphonso ! Alphonso ! 
 Devouring seas have washed thee from my sight ; 
 iSTo time shall rase thee from my memory : 
 No, I will live to be thy monument. 
 The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb ; 
 But in my heart thou art interr'd : there, there. 
 Thy dear resemblance is for ever fix'd ; 
 My love, my lord, my husband stUl, though lost. 
 
 Leon. Husband ! O heavens ! 
 
 Aim. Alas ! what have I said .' 
 
 My grief has hurried me beyond all thought : 
 I would have kept that secret ; though I know 
 Thy love and faith to me deserve all confidence. 
 But 'tis the wretch's comfort still to have 
 Some small reserve of near and inward woe, 
 Some unsuspected hoard of darling grief, 
 Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn 
 And, glutton-like, alone devour. 
 
 Leon. Indeed I knew not this. 
 
 Aim. Oh no ! thou know'st not half, 
 
 Know'st nothing of my sorrows. If thou didst — 
 If I should tell thee, wouldst thou pity me ? 
 Tell me : I know thou wouldst, thou art compassionate. 
 
 Leon. Witness these tears ! 
 
 Aim. I thank thee, Leonora, — 
 Indeed I do, — for pitying thy sad mistress ; 
 For 'tis, alas ! the poor prerogative 
 Of greatness to be wretched and unpitied. 
 But I did promise I would tell thee — what ? 
 My miseries ? Thou dost already know 'em : 
 And when I told thee thou didst nothing know. 
 It was because thou didst not know Alphonso ; 
 For to have known my loss, thou must have known 
 His worth, his truth, and tenderness of love. 
 
 Leon. The memory of that brave prince stands fair in all 
 report. 
 And I have heard imperfectly his loss ; 
 But fearful to renew your troubles past, 
 I never did presume to ask the story. 
 
 Aim. If for my swelling heart I can, I'll tell thee. 
 I was a welcome captive in Valentia, 
 Even on the day when Manuel, my father. 
 
WILLIAM COGNREVE. 465 
 
 Led on his conquering troops, high as the gates 
 
 Of King Ansehno's palace ; which in rage, 
 
 And heat of war, and dire revenge, he fired 
 
 The good king, flying to avoid the flames, 
 
 Started amidst his foes, and made captivity 
 
 His fatal refuge. Would that I had fallen 
 
 Amid those flames ! — ^but 'twas not so decreed. 
 
 Alphonso, who foresaw my father's cruelty, 
 
 Had borne the queen and me on board a ship 
 
 Ready to sail : and when this news was brought 
 
 We put to sea ; but being betrayed by some 
 
 Who knew our flight, we closely were pursued. 
 
 And almost taken ; when a sudden storm 
 
 Drove, us, and those that followed, on the coast 
 
 Of Afiic ; there our vessel struck the shore, 
 
 And bulging 'gainst a rock was dash'd in pieces. 
 
 But Heaven spared me for yet much more affliction ; 
 
 Conducting them who followed us to shun 
 
 The shoal, and save me floating on the waves. 
 
 While the good queen and my Alphonso perished. 
 Leon. Alas ! were you then wedded to Alphonso 'i 
 Aim. That day, that fatal day, our hands were joined. 
 
 For when my lord beheld the ship pursuing, 
 
 And saw her rate so far exceeding ours. 
 
 He came to me, and begged me by my love 
 
 I would consent the priest should make us one ; 
 
 That, whether death or victory ensued, 
 
 I might be his beyond the power of fate. 
 
 The queen too did assist his suit. I granted ; 
 
 And, in one day, was wedded and a widow. 
 
 Act III. Scene V. 
 Almeria and Leonora. 
 
 Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb 
 The poor remains of good Ansehno rest, 
 Yet fresh and unconsumed by lime or worms ! 
 
 What do I see.' O Heaven ' either my eyes 
 Are false, or still the marble door remains 
 Unclosed ; the iron gates that lead to death 
 Beneath are still wide-stretched upon their hinge, 
 And staring on us with unfolded leaves. 
 
 H H 
 
466 WILLIAM CONGREVE. 
 
 Aim. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for me, 
 And that dumb mouth, significant in show, 
 Invites me to the bed where I alone 
 Shall rest ; shows me the grave, where nature, weary 
 And long oppress'd with woes and bending cares, 
 May lay the burden down, and sink in slumbers 
 Of peace eternal. Death, grim death, will fold 
 Me in his leaden arms, and press me close 
 To his cold clayey breast : my father then 
 Will cease his tyranny ; and Garcia too 
 Will fly my pale deformity with loathing. 
 My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount, 
 And range the starry orbs and milky ways 
 Of that refulgent world, where I shall swim 
 In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss 
 To my Alphonso's soul. O joy too great ! 
 O ecstasy of thought ! Help me, Anselmo ! 
 Help me, Alphonso ! take me ; reach thy hand ; 
 To thee, to thee I call ; to thee, Alphonso ! O Alphonso ! 
 
 Osmyn {ascending from the tomb).^ Who calls that wretched 
 thing that was Alphonso ? 
 
 Aim. Angels, and all the host of heaven, support me ! 
 
 Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, from the grave, 
 And growing to his father's shroud, roots up Alphonso? 
 
 Aim. Mercy ! Providence ! O speak ! 
 Speak to it quickly, quickly ! speak to me. 
 Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, hide me, 
 Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light. 
 And from my eyes ! 
 
 Osm. Amazement and illusion ! 
 
 Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye powers ; \coming forward. 
 That motionless I may be still deceived. 
 Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve 
 That tender, lovely form of painted air. 
 So like Almeria. Ha ! it sinks, it falls ; 
 I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade. 
 'Tis life ! 'tis warm ! 'tis she ! 'tis she herself ! 
 Nor dead nor shade, but breathing, and alive ! 
 It is Almeria, 'tis, it is my wife ! 
 
 (i) Alphonso had been disguised ; and passed under the name of Osmyn. 
 
467 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 Bom 1672. Died 1719. 
 
 SEPH Addison was bom on May Day, 1672, at Milston, near 
 rosebniy, Wilts, of which village his father, the Rev. Lancelot 
 son, was Rector. Addison received his earlier education from his 
 r; aftenvards he was at school in Salisbury. In 1683 Lancelot 
 son was promoted to tlie Deanery of Lichfield. His son was then 
 to the Grammar School of that city. Thence he proceeded to 
 terhouse, and formed the acquaintance at that place of his future 
 ly niend. Sir Richard Steele. In 1687 Addison entered at 
 n's Collie, Oxford. Some Latin verses of his composition pleased 
 Lancaster, the Provost of Queen's, so highly, that on his recom- 
 lation Addison was elected a Demy of Magdalen. His talent for 
 1 composition made him distinguished in his college, and first 
 ed the way to his future eminence. At the age of twenty-two 
 list effort in English poetry was made. It was a copy of verses 
 ssed to Dryden. Having formed the acquaintance of Congreve, 
 ras by him introduced to Charles Montague, aftenvards Earl of 
 Tax, and at that period Chancellor of the Exchequer, 
 jntague dissuaded him from going into Holy Orders, and directed 
 lind to the Civil Service, and to the business of a courtier. Addison 
 >osed a poem to King William (1695), and in 1697 celebrated the 
 e of Ryswick in Latin verses, which are famous for their vigour and 
 nee. In 1699 he obtained a pension of 300/. per annum, which 
 led him to travel on the Continent He studied in France and 
 . In Italy he wrote the earlier portions of his tragedy, " Cato." 
 receiving his pension regularly, he was compelled tp return home 
 02. The victory of Blenheim, 1704, led to the Treasurer, Lord 
 )lphin, consulting Lord Halifax as to a proper person to celebrate 
 P'eat victory in verse. Halifax recommended Addison, who was 
 nissioned to write. While yet in an incomplete state the poem was 
 itted to the Treasurer for perusal. It had progressed so far as to 
 luce the celebrated simile regarding the angel, who, 
 
 " — pleased the Almighty's orders to perform. 
 Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm." 
 
 Iphin was so much delighted, that he at once appointed Addison 
 missioner of Appeals. 
 
 1705 he accompanied Lord Halifax on his mission to Hanover, 
 following year he was made Under-Secretary of State. On the 
 uis of Wharton being appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, 
 H H 2 
 
468 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 Addison accompanied him as Secretary. In Dublin he cultivated 
 the acquaintance of Swift. While in Ireland, Steele commenced the 
 publication of the "Tatler" (April 22, 1709). The following month 
 Addison contributed his first paper. To the "Tatler" succeeded the 
 " Spectator." The influence which the " Spectator " exercised, and the 
 fame which Addison's papers upon Sir Roger de Coverley gained, 
 are known wherever the English language is knovra. 
 
 In 171 3 the play of " Cato " was produced. That year may be 
 considered the climacteric of Addison's literary fame. " Cato " drew 
 the town, and, in fact, the country. No play had ever before created 
 such a sensation. It continued to be performed night after night, and 
 had a longer run than any play had been known to enjoy. 
 
 On the first night of its performance the Tory faction occupied one 
 side of the house ; the Whigs the other. The Secretary, Lord Boling- 
 broke, was present, and blunted the edge of the Whig triumph by being 
 himself most demonstrative in his applause. When the curtain fell, he 
 sent for Booth, the tragedian, who had enacted the part of Cato, and 
 in sight of the audience presented him with a purse of fifty guineas, 
 for (as Bolingbroke said) " so well defending the cause of liberty against 
 a perpetual dictator." (The remark was aimed at the Duke of Marl- 
 borough. ) But to understand the excitement which " Cato " produced, 
 the reader must study the history of the reign of Queen Anne, when 
 the peace with France was negotiated by Bolingbroke, and the Duke 
 of Marlborough was dismissed from all his offices. (See " Macnight's Life 
 of Bolingbroke. ") The Prologue to " Cato " was written by Pope. The 
 play was translated into Italian, and performed at Florence. It was 
 also translated into Latin by the Jesuits at St. Omer, and performed by 
 the pupils of the College. The " Guardian " was produced by Steele, 
 to which Addison also contributed. The " Spectator " also was revived, 
 and twenty-three of the papers were written by Addison. On the 
 accession of the House of Hanover, Addison was Secretary to the 
 Regency, and it was his business to communicate to George I. that he 
 was King. He could not satisfy himself with his composition on so 
 important an occasion, and the duty was performed in a commonplace 
 and businesslike manner by the Clerk of the House. 
 
 In 1716 Addison married the Countess Dowager of Warwick- 
 mistress of "Holland House." She was the daughter of Sir Thomai 
 Middleton, of Chirk Castle, Denbigh, and widow of Edward, sixth 
 Earl of Warwick and third Earl of Holland. 
 
 It has very commonly been represented that Addison won the 
 Countess through his being tutor to her only son, Edward Henry, the 
 fourth Earl of Holland (who died in 1721). There is no foundation 
 for this story, beyond the fact that Addison corresponded with the youth 
 and endeavoured to direct his tastes. As far back as the year 1708 
 Addison's letters to the young Earl had commenced. These refer to 
 looking after birds' -nests, and to a concert to which the Earl is invited, 
 beginning precisely at six in the evening, consisting of a blackbird, a 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 46^ 
 
 robin redbreast, and a bullfinch. A lark sings the overture, and " the 
 whole is conducted by a nightingale, that has a much better voice than 
 Mrs. Tofts, and something of Italian manners in her divisions." 
 
 It would seem that Addison had sought the Coimtess in marriage for 
 many years ; but when at length gained, the union did not contribute either 
 to his or her happiness. Addison took up his residence at Holland 
 House, where various traditions regarding him still linger about the 
 rooms he occupied, and especially the long gallery, now the library. 
 (For a description of the Countess see Rowe's poems.) In 171 7 
 Addison attained his highest social elevation. He was made Secretary 
 of State. In this office he found the same difficulty which had embar- 
 rassed him at the accession of the King. He could not satisfy his taste 
 in the composition of his despatches ; and in the House of Commons he 
 found himself so timid a speaker, that he was totally unfitted to defend 
 the measures of the Government. In May, 17 18, he resigned his office, 
 and retired on a pension of 1,500/. a year. Added to this, Addison's 
 health was beginning to give way, and the congenial pursuits and asso- 
 ciations of his life were far more attractive to him than the cares of office. 
 He lived only one year and three months. Having been long affected 
 with asthma, dropsy supervened, and terminated his life. When on his 
 death-bed, he sent for the young Earl of Warwick, who, it has been said, 
 had fallen into very irregular habits as he grew up. 
 
 This story, like Addison's tutorship, is altogether devoid of truth. It 
 so happens that the young Earl was an extremely intellectual and 
 studious youth, and deservedly respected by his family and associates, 
 from whom he was so shortly to be removed. Most probably the story 
 of irregular habits was got up by those who love to " adorn a tale," in 
 order that the picture of Addison's death-bed might exhibit strong 
 contrasts— light and shade — and thus "point a moral." 
 
 " I have sent for you, that you may see how a Christian can die," said 
 
 the dying man to the youthful Earl. TickeU in his elegy writes : 
 
 " He taught us how to live ; and, oh ! too high 
 The price for knowledge, taught us how to die." 
 
 The room in which Addison expired at Holland House has a large 
 bay-window overlooking the Park, in the direction of Notting Hiir. 
 There he expired, June 17, 1719, leaving an only child, a daughter, by 
 the Countess. 
 
 The body lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster, and 
 was buried in the north aisle of Henry VII.'s Chapel, in the same vault 
 with his inend Charles Montague, Lord Halifax. The spot remained 
 umnarked until a few years back, when Lord Francis Egerton (Earl of 
 EUesmere) placed a marble lozenge in the pavement,inscribed with his 
 name, and two Imes from TickeU's elegy : 
 
 " Oh ! gone for ever : take this long adieu ; 
 And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montague." 
 
 Addison was at best " an indifferent poet ; " although it was a poem 
 from his pen which first gave him fame, and led to his promotion. It 
 
470 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 was also a tragedy from his pen that created the greatest popular interest 
 which a play on the English stage has ever excited. But as a prose 
 writer Addison occupies n. first position in English literature. He 
 commonly dictated his compositions. They were uttered, and when 
 committed to paper, corrected with scrupulous, even tedious, care. 
 Polished and pure in diction, they are equally pure in moral and motive. 
 Addison's writing was always on the side of virtue and religion. Some 
 of the miserable attacks which have been made upon his memory 
 would probably never have been written but for this fact. 
 
 He was a great frequenter of the coffee-houses of the day ; especially 
 of Button's, in Russell Street — (Button had been an old servant of Lady 
 Warwick's). There he used to meet his best friends — Steele, Carey, 
 Davenant, Gay, and the whole circle of wits, who congregated at Button's 
 chiefly to enjoy the charm of Addison's society. 
 
 He was a man of gentle nature ; and that disposition was exhibited 
 in his literary work. He disliked harshness or severity of language, 
 abruptness or roughness of style. It has always been held that any one 
 who desires to attain polish, fluency, and elegance in composition, must 
 make a study of Addison's works. 
 
 FROM "THE CAMPAIGN." 
 
 A POEM TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH. 
 
 Unbounded courage and compassion join'd, 
 Tempering each other in the victor's mind, 
 Alternately proclaim him good and great, 
 And make the hero and the man complete. 
 Long did he strive th' obdurate foe to gain 
 By proffer'd grace, but long he strove in vain ; 
 Till, fir'd at length, he thinks it vain to spare 
 His rising wrath, and gives a loose to war. 
 In vengeance rous'd, the soldier fills his hand 
 With sword and fire, and ravages the land, 
 A thousand villages to ashes turns, 
 In crackling flames a thousand harvests bums. 
 To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat. 
 And mixt with bellowing herds confus'dly bleat ; 
 Their trembling lords the common shade partake, 
 And cries of infants sound in every brake : 
 The listening soldier fixt in sorrow stands, 
 Loth to obey his leader's just commands ; 
 The leader grieves, by generous pity swa/d, 
 To see his just com-mands so well obey'd. 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 47i 
 
 But now the trumpet terrible from far 
 In shriller clangors animates the war ; 
 Confederate drums in fuller concert beat, 
 And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat : 
 Gallia's proud standards, to Bavaria's join'd. 
 Unfurl Aeir gilded lilies in the wind ; 
 The daring prince his blasted hopes renews. 
 And while the thick embattled host he views 
 Stretcht out in deep array, and dreadful length. 
 His heart dilates, and glories in his strength. 
 
 The fatal day its mighty course began. 
 That the griev'd world had long desir'd in vain : 
 States that their new captivity bemoan'd. 
 Armies of martyrs that in exile groan'd, 
 Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard, 
 And prayers in bitterness of soul preferr'd, 
 Europe's loud cries, that Providence assail'd. 
 And Anna's ardent vows, at length prevail'd ; 
 The day was come when Heaven design'd to show 
 Its care and conduct of the world below. 
 
 Behold in awful march and dread array 
 The long extended squadrons shape their way ! 
 Death, in approaching terrible, imparts 
 An anxious horrour to the bravest hearts ; 
 Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife, 
 And thirst of glory quells the love of life. 
 No vulgar fears can British minds control : 
 Heat of revenge and Jioble pride of soul 
 O'erlook the foe advantag'd by his post. 
 Lessen his numbers, and contract his host ; 
 Though fens and floods possest the middle space. 
 That, unprovok'd, they would have fear'd to pass, 
 Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands. 
 When her proud foe rang'd on their borders stands. 
 
 But O, my Muse^ what numbers wilt thou find 
 To sing the furious troops in battle join'd ! 
 Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound 
 The victors' shouts and dying groans confound. 
 The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, 
 And all the thunder of the battle rise. 
 
 'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was proVd 
 That in the shock of charging hosts unmov'd. 
 
47 2' JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 Amidst confusion, horrour, and despair, 
 Examin'd all the dreadful scenes of war : 
 In peaceful thought the field of death surve/d, 
 To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, 
 Inspir'd repuls'd battalions to engage. 
 And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. 
 So, when an angel by divine command 
 With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 
 Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past. 
 Calm and serene he drives the furious blast, 
 And, pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perform, 
 Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. 
 
 But see, the haughty household troops advance. 
 The dread of Europe, and the pride of France. 
 The war's whole art each private soldier knows, 
 And with a general's love of conquest glows ; 
 Proudly he marches on, and void of fear 
 Laughs at the shaking of the British spear. 
 Vain insolence ! with native freedom brave, 
 The meanest Briton scorns the highest slave : 
 Contempt and fury fire their soul by turns ; 
 Each nation's glory in each warrior burns ; 
 Each fights, as in his arm th' important day 
 And all the fate of his great monarch lay : 
 A thousand glorious actions, that might claim 
 Triumphant laurels and immortal fame, 
 Confus'd in crowds of glorious actions lie, 
 And troops of heroes undistinguish'd die. 
 O Dormer, how can I behold thy fate. 
 And not the wonders of thy youth relate ! 
 How can I see the gay, the brave, the young, 
 Fall in the cloud of war and lie unsung ! 
 In joys of conquest he resigns his breath, 
 And, fiU'd with England's glory, smiles in death. 
 
 The rout begins, the Gallic squadrons run, 
 Compell'd in crowds to meet the fate they shun • 
 Thousands of fiery steeds with wounds transfix'd, 
 Floating in gore, with their dead masters mixt, 
 'Midst heaps of spears, and standards driven around. 
 Lie in the Danube's bloody whirlpools drown'd : 
 Troops of bold youths, born on the distant Soane, 
 Or sounding borders of the rapid Rh6ne, 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 473, 
 
 Or where the Seine her flowery fields divides, 
 
 Or where the Loire through winding vineyards glides, 
 
 In heaps the rolling billows sweep away, 
 
 And into Scythian seas their bloated corps convey. 
 
 From Blenheim's towers the Gaul, with wild affright. 
 
 Beholds the various havoc of the fight ; 
 
 Its waving banners, that so oft had stood 
 
 Planted in fields of death and streams of blood. 
 
 So wont the guarded enemy to reach, 
 
 And rise triumphant in the fatal breach, 
 
 Or pierce the broken foe's remotest lines. 
 
 The hardy veteran with tears resigns. 
 
 Thus would I fain Britannia's wars rehearse 
 In the smooth records of a faithful verse, 
 That, if such numbers can o'er time prevail, 
 May tell posterity the wondrous tale. 
 When actions, unadorned, are faint and weak. 
 Cities and countries must be taught to speak, 
 Gods may descend in factions from the skies. 
 And rivers from their oozy beds arise. 
 Fiction may deck the truth with spurious rays. 
 And round the hero cast a borrow'd blaze : 
 Marlborough's exploits appear divinely bright. 
 And proudly shine in their own native light ; 
 Rais'd of themselves, their genuine charms they boast, 
 And those who paint them truest, praise them most. 
 
 A LETTER FROM ITALY. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HON. CHARLES, LORD HALIFAX 
 
 (in the year MDCCI.). 
 
 Immortal glories in my mind revive, 
 And in my soul a thousand passions strive, 
 When Rome's exalted beauties I descry 
 Magnificent in piles of ruin lie. 
 An Amphitheatre's amazing height 
 Here fills my eyes with terrour and delight, 
 That on its public shows unpeopled Rome, 
 And held, uncrowded, nations in its womb : 
 
474 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies, 
 
 And here the proud triumphal arches rise, 
 
 Where the old Romans' deathless deeds display'd 
 
 Their base degenerate progeny upbraid : 
 
 Whole rivers here forsake the fields below, 
 
 And wondering at their height, through airy channels flow. 
 
 Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires, 
 
 And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires. 
 
 Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown. 
 
 And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone : 
 
 In solemn silence a majestic band. 
 
 Heroes, and Gods, and Roman consuls stand ; 
 
 Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown, 
 
 And emperors in Parian marble frown ; 
 
 While the bright dames, to whom they humbly sued. 
 
 Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdued. 
 
 Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse. 
 And show th' immortal labours in my verse, 
 Where, from the mingled strength of shade and light, 
 A new creation rises to my sight ; 
 Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow, 
 So warm with life his blended colours glow. 
 From theme to theme with secret pleasure tost, 
 Amidst the soft variety I'm lost : 
 Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound 
 With circling notes and labyrinths of sound ; 
 Here domes and temples rise in.distant views. 
 And opening palaces invite my Muse.. 
 
 A-N HYMN'. 
 
 When all thy mercies, O my God, 
 
 My rising soul surveys, 
 Transported with the view, Fm lost 
 
 In wonder, love, and praise. 
 
 O how shall words with equal warmth 
 
 The gratitude declare 
 That glows within my ravished heart ! 
 
 But Thou canst read it there. 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 475 
 
 Thy providence my life sustain'd, 
 
 And all my wants redrest, 
 When in the silent womb I lay, 
 
 And hung upon the breast. 
 
 To all my weak complaints and cries 
 
 Thy mercy lent an ear, 
 Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt 
 
 To form themselves in prayer. 
 
 Unnumber'd comforts to my soul 
 
 Thy tender care bestow'd 
 Before my infant heart conceived 
 
 From whence these comforts fiow'd. 
 
 When in the slippery paths of youth 
 
 With heedless steps I ran, 
 Thine arm unseen conve/d me safe, 
 
 And led me up to man. 
 
 Through hidden dangers, toils, and death. 
 
 It gently clear'd my way ; 
 And through the pleasing snares of vice. 
 
 More to be fear'd than they. 
 
 When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou 
 
 With health renew'd my face ; 
 And when in sins and sorrow sunk, 
 
 Reviv'd my soul with grace. 
 
 Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss 
 
 Has made my cup run o'er, 
 And in a kind and faithful friend 
 
 Has doubled alLmy store. 
 
 Ten thousand, thousand precious gifts 
 
 My daily thanks employ ; 
 Nor is the least a cheerful heart, 
 
 That tastes those gifts with joy. 
 
 Through every period of my life 
 
 Thy goodness I'll pursue. 
 And after death, in distant worlds, 
 
 The glorious theme renew. 
 
 When nature fails, and day and night 
 
 Divide Thy works no more. 
 My ever-grateful heart, O Lord, 
 
 Thy mercy shall adore. 
 
476 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 Through all eternity to Thee 
 A joyful song I'll raise ; 
 
 For, oh ! eternity's too short 
 To utter all Thy praise. 
 
 THE PLAYHOUSE. 
 
 Where gentle Thames through stately channels glides, 
 
 And England's proud metropolis divides, 
 
 A lofty fabric does the sight invade, 
 
 And stretches o'er the waves a pompous shade ; 
 
 Whence sudden shouts the neighbourhood surprise, 
 
 And thundering claps and dreadful hissings rise. 
 
 Here thrifty R hires monarchs by the day, 
 
 And keeps his mercenary kings in pay ; 
 
 * * * * 
 
 And hungry monarchs with a numerous train 
 Of suppliant slaves, like Sancho, starve and reign. 
 
 But enter in, my Muse ; the stage survey, 
 And all its pomp and pageantry display. 
 Trap doors and pitfalls form th' unfaithful ground, 
 And magic walls encompass it around : 
 On either side maim'd temples fill our eyes, 
 And intermixt with brothel-houses rise ; 
 Disjointed palaces in order stand, 
 And groves obedient to the mover's hand 
 O'ershade the stage and flourish at command. 
 A stamp makes broken towns and trees entire : 
 So when Amphion struck the vocal lyre, 
 He saw the spacious circuit all around 
 With crowded woods and rising cities crown'd. 
 
 But next the tiring-room survey, and see 
 False titles and promiscuous quality 
 Confus'dly swarm, from heroes and from queens, 
 To those that swing in clouds and fill machines. 
 Their various characters they chuse with art : 
 The frowning bully fits the tyrant's part ; 
 Swoln cheeks and swaggering belly make an host ; 
 Pale meagre looks and hollow voice a ghost ; 
 From careful brows and heavy downcast eyes 
 Dull cits and thick-skull'd aldermen arise ; 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 477 
 
 The comic tone, inspired by Congreve, draws 
 At every word loud laughter and applause. 
 * * * * 
 
 Above the rest, the Prince, with haughty stalks, 
 Magnificent in purple buckskins walks : 
 The royal robes his awful shoulders grace, 
 Profuse of spangles and of copper-lace : 
 Officious rascals to his mighty thigh, 
 Guiltless of blood, th' unpointed weapon tie ; 
 Then the gay glittering diadem put on. 
 Ponderous with brass, and starr'd with Bristol stone. 
 His royal consort next consults her glass, 
 And out of twenty boxes culls a face. 
 The whitening first her ghastly looks besmears : 
 All pale and wan th' unfinish'd form appears ; 
 Till on her cheek the blushing purple glows, 
 And a false virgin modesty bestows. 
 Her ruddy lips the deep vermilion dyes ; 
 Length to her brows the pencil's art supplies, 
 And with black bending arches shades her eyes. 
 Well pleased at length the picture she beholds. 
 And spots it o'er with artificial molds : 
 Her countenance complete, the beaux she warms 
 "With looks not hers ; and, spite of nature, charms. 
 
 Thus artfully their persons they disguise, 
 Till the last flourish bids the curtain rise. 
 The Prince then enters on the stage in state ; 
 Behind, a guard of candle-snufFers wait : 
 There swoln with empire, terrible and fierce. 
 He shakes the dome, and tears his lungs with verse. 
 His subjects tremble ; the submissive pit, 
 Wrapt up in silence and attention, sit ; 
 Till, freed at length, he lays aside the weight 
 Of public business and affairs of state ; 
 Forgets his pomp, dead to ambitious fires. 
 And to some peaceful brandy-shop retires ; 
 Where in full gills his anxious thoughts he drowns, 
 And quaffs away the care that waits on crowns. 
 
 The Princess next her painted charms displays ; 
 Where every look the pencil's art betrays : 
 The callow squire at distance feeds his eyes, 
 And silently for paint and washes dies : 
 But if the youth behind the scenes retreat, 
 He sees the blended colours melt with heat^ 
 
478 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 And all the trickling beauty run in sweat. 
 The borrow'd visage he admires no more, 
 And nauseates every charm he lov'd before : 
 So the fam'd spear, for double force renown'd, 
 Appl/d the remedy that gave the wound. 
 
 In tedious lists 'twere endless to engage, 
 And draw at length the rabble of the stage, 
 Where one for twenty years has given alarms. 
 And call'd contending monarchs to their arms : 
 Another fills a more important post, 
 And rises every other night a ghost ; 
 Through the cleft stage his mealy face he rears, 
 Then stalks along, groans thrice, and disappears : 
 Others, with swords and shields, the soldier's pride, 
 More than a thousand times have changed their side. 
 And in a thousand fatal battles dy'd. 
 
 Thus several persons several parts perform ; 
 Soft lovers whine, and blustering heroes storm. 
 The stern exasperated tyrants rage 
 Till the kind bowl of poison clears the stage. 
 Then honours vanish, and distinctions cease ; 
 Then, with reluctance, haughty queens undress. 
 Heroes no more their fading laurels boast. 
 And mighty- kings in private men are lost. 
 He whom such titles swell'd, such power made proud, 
 To whom whole realms and vanquished nations bowed. 
 Throws off the gaudy plume, the purple train. 
 And in his own vile tatters stinks again. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 The spacious firmament on high, 
 With all the blue ethereal sky, 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame. 
 Their great Original proclaim. 
 The unweary'd sun from day to day 
 Does his Creator's power display. 
 And publishes to every land 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 479 
 
 Soon as the evening shades prevail 
 The moon takes up the wondrous tale. 
 And nightly, to the hstening earth, 
 Repeats the story of her birth : 
 Whilst aU the stars that round her burn, 
 And all the planets, in their turn. 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 3 
 What though, in solemn silence, all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball ; 
 What though no real voice nor sound, 
 Amidst their radiant orbs be found : 
 In reason's ear they aU rejoice. 
 And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
 For ever singing as they shine, 
 The hand that made us is divine. 
 
 ROSAMOND. Scene II. 
 
 Tke Entry of the Bower. 
 
 Sir Trusty, Knight of the Bower {solus). 
 
 How unhappy is he 
 That is tyd to a she, 
 And famed for his wit and his beauty ; 
 For of. us pretty fellows 
 Our wives are so jealous. 
 They ne'er have enough of our duty. 
 
 But hah ! my Umbs begin to quiver, 
 I glow, I bum, I freeze, I shiver : 
 Whence rises this convidsive strife ? 
 I smell a shrew ; 
 My fears are true, 
 I see my wife. 
 
4So JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 CATO. ActV. Scene I. 
 
 Cato {solus), sitting in ii. thoughtful ■posture: in his hand 
 Plato's book on the immortality of the soul. A drawn 
 sword on the table beside him. 
 
 It must be so ; Plato, thou reason'st well ! — 
 
 Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
 
 This longing after immortality ? 
 
 Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror. 
 
 Of falling into nought ? why shrinks the soul 
 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
 
 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us ; 
 
 'Tis Heaven itself, that points out an hereafter 
 
 And intimates eternity to man. 
 
 Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 
 
 Through what variety of untry'd being, 
 
 Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ? 
 
 The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me ; 
 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it. 
 
 Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us 
 
 (And that there is all nature cries aloud 
 
 Through all her works). He must delight in virtue, 
 
 And that which He delights in must be happy. 
 
 But when ? or where ? — This world was made for Caesar. 
 
 I'm weary of conjectures — this must end them. 
 
 {Laying his hand iipoii- his swcrif. 
 
 Thus am I doubly arm'd : my death and life, 
 My bane and antidote, are both before me : 
 This in a moment brings me to an end. 
 But this informs me I shall never die. 
 The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
 The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
 Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 
 But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
 Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
 The wrecks of matter, and the crush of worlds. 
 
 What means this heaviness that hangs upon me ? 
 This lethargy that creeps through all mv senses ? 
 Nature oppress'd, and harass'd out with care. 
 Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her, 
 That my awakened soul may take her flight 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 481 
 
 Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life, 
 An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear 
 Disturb man's rest ; Cato knows neither of them, 
 Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. 
 
 Enter Fortius. 
 
 But ha ! how's this, my son ? v/hy this intrusion .■■ 
 Were not my orders that I would be private ? 
 Why am I disobeyed ? 
 
 Porfius. Alas ! my father ! 
 
 What means this sword ? this instrument of death ? 
 Let me convey it hence. 
 
 Cato. Rash youth, forbear ! 
 
 Portius. O let the prayers, th' entreaties of your friends, 
 Their tears, their common danger, wrest it from you. 
 
 Cato. Wouldst thou betray me ? wouldst thou give me up 
 A slave, a captive, into Caesar's hands ? 
 Retire, and learn obedience to a father. 
 Or know, young man ! — 
 
 Portius. Look not thus sternly on me ; 
 
 You know I'd rather die than disobey you. 
 
 Cato. Tis well ! again I'm master of myself. 
 Now, Qesar, let thy troops beset our gates. 
 And bar each avenue ; thy gathering fleets 
 O'erspread the sea, and stop up every port : 
 Cato shall open to himself a passage. 
 And mock thy hopes. 
 
 Portius. O, Sir, forgive your son. 
 
 Whose grief hangs heavy on him. O my father ! 
 How am I sure it is not the last time 
 I e'er shall call you so ? Be not displeas'd, 
 he not angry with me whilst I weep. 
 And, in the anguish of my heart, beseech you 
 To quit the dreadfiH purpose of your soul. 
 
 Cato. Thou hast been ever good and dutiful. \Eml)racinghiin^ 
 Weep not, my son. All will be well again. 
 The righteous gods, whom I have sought to please. 
 Will succour Cato, and preserve his children. 
 Portius. Your words give comfort to my drooping heart. 
 
 Cato. Portius, thou may'st rely upon my conduct 
 Thy father will not act what misbecomes him. 
 But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting 
 Among thy father's friends : see them embarFd ; 
 And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them. 
 
 1 1 
 
482 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 My soul is quite weighed down with care, and asks 
 The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep. \Exit. 
 
 Fortius. My thoughts are more at ease my heart revives. 
 
 Enter Marcia. 
 
 O Marcia, O my sister, still there's hope ! 
 
 Our father wiU not cast away a life 
 
 So needful to us all, and to his country. 
 
 He is retired to rest, and seems to cherish 
 
 Thoughts full of peace. He has despatched me hence 
 
 With orders that bespeak a mind composed. 
 
 And studious for the safety of his friends. 
 
 Marcia, take care that none disturb his slumbers. [Exit. 
 
 Marcia. O ye immortal powers, that guard the just. 
 Watch round his couch, and soften his repose ; 
 Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul 
 With easy dreams ; remember all his virtues ; 
 And show mankind that goodness is your care. 
 
 Enter LuciA. 
 
 Lucia Where is your father, Marcia ? Where is Cato ? 
 
 Marcia. Lucia, speak low ; he is retired to rest. 
 Lucia, I feel a gently-dawning hope 
 Rise in my soul.. We shall be happy still. 
 
 Lucia. Alas, I tremble when I think on Cato. 
 In every view, in every thought, I tremble. 
 Cato is stem, and awful as a god ; 
 He knows not how to wink at human frailty, 
 Or pardon weakness that he never felt. 
 
 Marcia. Though stern and awful to the foes of Rome, 
 He is all goodness, Lucia, always mild. 
 Compassionate, and gentle to his friends. 
 Filled with domestic tenderness, the best. 
 The kindest father ! I have ever found him 
 Easy and good, and bounteous to my wishes. 
 
 Lucia. 'Tis his consent alone can make us blessed. 
 Marcia, we both are equally involved 
 In the same intricate, perplexed distress. 
 The cruel hand of fate, that has destroy'd 
 Thy brother Marcus, whom we both lament — • 
 
 Marcia. And ever shall lament, unhappy youth ! 
 
 Lucia. Has set my soul at large, and now I stand 
 Loose of my vow. But who knows Cato's thought ? 
 
JOSEPH ADDISON. 483 
 
 3 knows but yet he may dispose of Fortius, 
 
 low he has determined of thyself? 
 
 Tarcia. Let him but live ! commit the rest to Heaven. 
 
 Enter Lucius. 
 
 ■ttcius. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man ! 
 
 larcia, I have seen thy godlike father : 
 
 le power invisible supports his soul, 
 
 1 bears it up in all its wonted greatness. 
 
 ind refreshing sleep is fallen upon him : 
 
 ,w him stretched at ease, his fancy lost 
 
 jleasing dreams ; as I drew near his couch, 
 
 smiled, and cried, Caesar, thou canst not hurt me ! 
 
 tarda. His mind still labours with some dreadful thought, 
 
 Mcius. Lucia, why all this grief, these floods of sorrow ? 
 
 1 up thy tfars, my child ; we all are safe 
 
 ile Cato lives : his presence will protect us. 
 
 Enter Juba. 
 
 'nba. Lucius, the horsemen are returned from viewing 
 
 ; number, strength, and posture of our foes, 
 
 10 now encamp within a short hour's march. 
 
 the high point of yon bright western tower 
 
 : ken them from afar ; the setting sun 
 
 ys on their shining arms and burnished helmiets, 
 
 i covers all the field with gleams of fire. 
 
 Aldus. Marcia, 'tis time we should awake thy father. 
 
 sar is stiU disposed to give us terms, 
 
 S waits at distance till he hears from Cato. 
 
 Enter Fortius. 
 tius, thy looks speak somewhat of importance, 
 lat tidings dost thou bring? Methinks I see 
 usual gladness sparkling in thy eyes. 
 ^ortius. As I was hasting to the port, where now 
 father's friends, impatient for a passage, i^ 
 
 nise the lingering winds, a sail arrived 
 im Fompe/s son, who through the realms of Spain 
 Is out for vengeance on his father's death, 
 i rouses the whole nation up to arms, 
 re Cato at their head, once more might Rome 
 iert her rights, and claim her liberty. 
 :liark ! what means that groan ? O give me way, 
 i let me fly into my father's presence. {Exit. 
 
 I I 2 
 
484 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 Lucius. Cato, amidst his slumbers, thinks on Rome, 
 And in the wild disorder of his soul 
 Mourns o'er his country. Ha ! a second groan ! 
 Heaven guard us all ! — 
 
 Marcia. Alas ! 'tis not the voice 
 
 Of one who sleeps ! 'tis agonizing pain ; 
 'Tis death is in that sound — 
 
 Re-enter Fortius. 
 
 Fortius. O sight of woe ! 
 
 O Marcia ! what we feared is come to pass. 
 Cato is fallen upon his sword — 
 
 Lucius. O Fortius ! 
 
 Hide all the horrors of thy mournful tale, 
 And let us guess the rest. 
 
 Fortius. I've raised him up, 
 
 And placed him in his chair, where, pale and faint, 
 He gasps for breath, and, as his life flows from him. 
 Demands to see his friends. His weeping servants, 
 Obsequious to his orders, bear him hither. 
 
 \The back Scene opens, and discovers CATO. 
 
 Marcia. O Heaven, assist me in this dreadful hour 
 To pay the last sad duties to my father ! 
 
 Juha. These are thy triumphs, thy exploits, O Csesar ! 
 
 Lucius. Now is Rome fall'n indeed ! 
 
 [Cato brought forward in his chair. 
 
 Cato. Here set me down. 
 
 Fortius, come near me. Are my friends embarked 'i 
 Can anything be thought of for their service ? 
 Whilst I yet live, let me not live in vain. — 
 O Lucius, art thou here ? Thou art too good ! 
 Let this our friendship live between our children ; 
 Make Fortius happy in thy daughter Lucia. 
 Alas poor man ! he weeps — Marcia, my daughter — 
 — O bend me forward ! — Juba loves thee, Marcia 
 A senator of Rome, while Rome surviv'd, 
 Would not have match'd his daughter with a king; 
 But Caesar's arms have thrown down aU distinction. 
 Whoe'er is brave and virtuous is a Roman — 
 I'm sick to death — O when shall I get loose 
 From this vain world, th' abode of guilt and sorrow ? 
 — ^And yet methinks a beam of light breaks in 
 On my departing soul. Alas, I fear 
 I've been too hasty. O ye Powers, that search 
 
NICHOLAS ROWE. 485 
 
 The heart of man, and weigh his inmost thoughts, 
 
 ff I have done amiss, impute it not ! 
 
 He best may err, but you are good, and — oh ! \JDies. 
 
 Lucius. There fled the greatest soul that ever warmed 
 A Roman breast. O Cato ! O my friend ! 
 Thy will shall be religiously observed. 
 But let us bear this awful corpse to Csesar, 
 And lay it in Ms sight, that he may stand 
 A fence betwixt us and the victor's wrath : 
 Cato, though dead, shall still protect his friends. 
 
 From hence let fierce contending nations know 
 What dire effects from civil discord flow. 
 'Tis this that shakes our country with alarms. 
 And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms, 
 Produces fraud, and cruelty, and strife. 
 And robs the guilty world of Cato's life. \Excunt omnes. 
 
 ■s<^ 
 
 NICHOLAS ROWE. 
 
 Born 16^3. Died 1718. 
 
 Nicholas Rowe was bom at Beckford, in Bedfordshire, in 1673. 
 He was descended from a good Devonshire family, possessing an estate 
 at Lambertoun. His father was a serjeant-at-law, and was honoured 
 with burial in the Temple Church. 
 
 Rowe was educated first of all in a private school at Highgate ; 
 afterwards at Westminster, under Dr. Busby, and was elected as one of 
 the King's scholars. At the age of sixteen he was entered as a student 
 in the Middle Temple ; but at the age of nineteen being left fatherless, 
 he began to neglect the law, and turn his attention to poetry. When 
 twenty-five he produced a tragedy entitled " The Ambitious Step- 
 mother," which was received with so much favour, that he devoted 
 himself fi-om that time entirely to literature. In 1703 he produced 
 "Tamerlane," Louis XTV. and William III. being respectively pour- 
 trayed as Bajazet and Tamerlane. Its pohtical character gave this play 
 great popularity. Between 1702 and 1715 he gfave to the town a 
 succession of plays: "The Fair Penitent," "Ulysses," "The Royal 
 
486 NICHOLAS ROWE. 
 
 Convert," "Jane Shore," and " Lady Jane Grey. " "Jane Shore" is 
 the only one of the number which is now remembered on the stage. 
 
 On the accession of George I. Rowe was made Poet-Laureat, though 
 he did not continue entirely devoted to the Muses. He was appointed 
 Under-Secretary to the Duke of Queensberry, Secretary of State. He 
 was then made Land Surveyor of Customs of the Port of London. 
 The Prince of Wales appointed him Clerk of his Council ; and the 
 Lord Chancellor Parker made him Secretary of Pre.sentations. When 
 Rowe had acquired a comfortable independence, and might have made 
 a fortune, he was suddenly cut off. He died December 6, 1718, in the 
 forty-fifth year of his age, and was buried on the 14th in Poet's Comer, 
 the service being read by Atterbury. 
 
 Rowe was familiar with Pope, Addison, Lady Warwick, and most of 
 the literary circle of that time. He was a man of great good-nature, 
 equanimity of temper, and of a merry heart. Addison thought him a 
 man of "levity of heart." He is known as a dramatic poet, and as a 
 translator of Lucan. Probably his translation was the best production- 
 of his pen, on account of its fidelity to the spirit and meaning of the 
 author. 
 
 COLIN'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Despairing beside a clear stream, 
 
 A shepherd forsaken was laid ; 
 And while a false nymph was his theme, 
 
 A willow supported his head. 
 The wind that blew over the plain 
 
 To his sighs with a sigh did reply ; 
 And the brook, in return to his pain. 
 
 Ran mournfully murmuring by. 
 
 " Alas, silly swain that I was ! " 
 
 Thus, sadly complaining, he cr/d : 
 " When first 1 beheld that fair face, 
 
 'Twere better by far I had dy'd. 
 She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue ; 
 
 When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great ; 
 I listen'd, and cry'd, when she sung : 
 
 Was nightingale ever so sweet ? 
 
 " How foolish was 1 to believe 
 
 She could doat on so lowly a clown. 
 
 Or that her fond heart would not grieve, 
 To forsake the fine folk of the town ! 
 
NICHOLAS ROWS. 487 
 
 I'o think that a beauty so gay 
 
 So kind and so constant would prove. 
 Or go clad, like our maidens, in gray, 
 
 Or live in a cottage on love ! 
 
 " What though I have stiU to complain, 
 
 Though the Muses my temples haye crown'd ; 
 What though, when they hear my soft strain, 
 
 The virgins sit weeping around : 
 Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain, 
 
 Thy pipe and thy laurel resign ; 
 Thy false one inclines to a swain 
 
 Whose music is sweeter than thine. 
 
 " And you, my companions so dear, 
 
 Who sorrow to see me betray'd, 
 Whatever I suffer, forbear, 
 
 Forbear to accuse the false maid. 
 Though through the wide world I should range, 
 
 Tis in vain from my fortune to fly : 
 Twas hers to be false and to change ; 
 
 Tis mine to be constant and die. 
 
 " If while my hard fate I sustain, 
 
 In her breast any pity is found, 
 Let her come witb the nymphs of the plain, 
 
 And see me laid low in the ground. 
 The last humble boon that I crave 
 
 Is to shade me with cypress and yew ; 
 And when she looks down on my grave,. 
 
 Let her own that her shepherd was true. 
 
 " Then to her new love let her go, 
 
 And deck her in golden array. 
 Be finest at every fine show, 
 
 And frolic it all the long day ; 
 While Colin, forgotten and gone, 
 
 No more shall be talk'd of, or seen, 
 Unless when beneath the pale moon 
 
 His ghost shall glide over the green." 
 
488 NICHOLAS ROWE. 
 
 OCCASIONED BY HIS FIRST VISIT TO LADY WARWICK AT 
 HOLLAND HOUSE. 
 
 Hearing that Chloe's bower crown'd 
 
 The summit of a neighbouring hill, 
 Where every rural joy was found, 
 Where health and wealth were plac'd around, 
 
 To wait like servants on her will, 
 
 I went, and found 'twas as they said, 
 That every thing look'd fresh and fair ; 
 
 Her herds in flowery pastures stray'd. 
 
 Delightful was the green-wood shade, 
 And gently breath'd the balmy air. 
 
 But when I found my troubled heart 
 
 Uneasy grown within my breast. 
 My breath come short, and in each part 
 Some new disorder seem to start, 
 
 Which pain'd me sore and broke my rest, 
 
 " Some noxious vapour sure," I said, 
 
 " From this unwholesome soil must rise ; 
 Some secret venom is convey'd 
 Or from this field, or from that shade, 
 That does the power of life surprise." 
 
 Soon as the skilful leach beheld 
 The change that in my health was grown, 
 
 " Blarrie not," he cry'd, " nor wood nor field ; 
 
 Diseases which such symptoms yield 
 Proceed from Chloe's eyes alone. 
 
 " Alike she kills in every air ; 
 
 The coldest breast her beauties warm ; 
 And though the fever took you there. 
 If Chloe had not been so fair, 
 
 The place had never done you harm." 
 
 S<&^ 
 
489 
 
 DR. WATTS. 
 
 Bom 1674. Died 1748. 
 
 Isaac Watts was bom at Southampton, July 17, 1674. His father 
 kept a boarding-school in that town, and was a rigid Nonconformist 
 The son imbibed the ojHnions of his parent, and was educated to become 
 a dissenting minister. 
 
 From his early youth he showed great intellectual power, though 
 throughout life his physical strength was unequal to the efforts he 
 endeavoured to make. He received the chief part of his education 
 under Mr. Thomas Rowe, minister of the meeting-house in Haber- 
 dashers' Hall. In 1694 he retired from London, and lived with his 
 father for two years, when the greater part of his early compositions 
 were produced. In 1696 he entered the family of Sir John Hartopp, 
 at Stoke Newington, as tutor to his son, in which capacity he remained 
 untU 1702. His most famous work, " Logic, or the right Use of Reason 
 in the Inquiry after Truth," was prepared at this period for the use of 
 his pupil. On his birthday in 1698, when he was twenty-four, he 
 preached his first sermon in the Independent meeting-house, Mark 
 Lane, of which place shortly afterwards he was chosen pastor. His duties 
 were continued there for several years, being inteiTupted at various 
 times by ill health, until in 1712 a violent fever compelled his retirement. 
 Sir Thomas Abney invited him on a visit to his house at Theobalds, 
 adjoining Enfield Chase. He went there to spend a week, and remained 
 for six-and- thirty years, until his death. In 1728 he received his diplomas 
 of divinity firom Edinburgh and Aberdeen. Sir Thomas Abney's 
 house and grounds adjoined the famous Theobalds, the favoured resi- 
 dence of James I., which that King purchased from CecU, and in which 
 he died. The King's house was destroyed by order of the Parliament 
 in 165 1 ; but in Watts' time an elm-tree walk belonging to the 
 palace remained, and in a summer-house at the end of the avenue it is 
 said that many of Watts' later poems were composed. " Waiting God's 
 leave to die," sheltered and shielded firom trouble by the Abneys, 
 Watts continued tn live at Theobalds until, on the 25 th of November, 
 1748, aged 74, he peacefully passed away. He was buried in Bunhill- 
 fields burial-ground, where a momument marks his tomb. 
 
 Watts' " Logic " was a work in very popular use at one time. He 
 produced several essays and dissertations, but the book by which he is 
 universally knovm is his " Divine Songs, attempted in easy Language for 
 the Use of Children." These hymns are familiar, and exercise an 
 influence wherever the English language is spoken. 
 
49° DR. WATTS. 
 
 FALSE GREATNESS. 
 
 Mylo, forbear to call him blest 
 That only boasts a large estate, 
 Should all the treasures of the west 
 Meet, and conspire to make him great. 
 I know thy better thoughts, I know 
 Thy reason can't descend so low. 
 Let a broad stream with golden sands 
 
 Through all his meadows roll, 
 He's but a wretch, with all his lands, 
 
 That wears a narrow soul. 
 He swells amidst his wealthy store. 
 And proudly poizing what he weighs. 
 In his own scale he fondly lays 
 Huge heaps of shining ore : 
 He spreads the balance wide to hold 
 
 His manors and his farms. 
 And cheats the beam with loads of gold 
 
 He hugs between his arms. 
 So might the ploughboy climb a tree, 
 When Croesus mounts his throne. 
 And both stand up, and smile to see 
 
 How long their shadow's grown. 
 Alas ! how vain their fancies be 
 
 To think that shape their own ! 
 Thus mingled still with wealth and state, 
 Croesus himself can never know ; 
 His true dimensions and his weight 
 Are far inferiour to their show. 
 Were I so tall to reach the pole, 
 Or grasp the ocean with my span, 
 I must be measur'd by my soul : 
 The mind's the standard of the man. 
 
 TRUE RICHES. 
 
 I am not concern'd to know 
 What to-morrow Fate will do j 
 'Tis enough that I can say, 
 I've possess'd myself to-day : 
 
DR. WATTS. 491 
 
 Then, if haply midnight death 
 Seize my flesh and stop my breath, 
 Yet to-morrow I shall be 
 Heir to the best part of me. 
 
 Glittering stones and golden things, 
 Wealth and honours, that have wings, 
 Ever fluttering to be gone, 
 I could never call my own : 
 Riches that the world bestows. 
 She can take, and I can lose ; 
 But the treasures that are mine 
 Lie afar beyond her line. 
 When I view my spacious soul. 
 And survey myself a whole. 
 And enjoy myself alone, 
 I'm a kingdom of my own. 
 
 I've a mighty part within 
 That the world hath never seen. 
 Rich as Eden's happy ground. 
 And with choicer plenty crpwn'd. 
 Here on all the shining boughs 
 Knowledge fair and useless grows. 
 On the same young flowery tree 
 All the seasons you may see : 
 Notions in the bloom of light 
 Just disclosing to the sight ; 
 Here are thoughts of larger growth 
 Ripening into solid truth ; 
 Fruits refin'd, of noble taste, — 
 Seraphs feed on such repast. 
 Here, in a green and shady grove. 
 Streams of pleasure mix with love : 
 There beneath the smUing skies 
 HiUs of contemplation rise. 
 Now upon some shining top 
 Angels light, and call me up : 
 I rejoice to raise my feet ; 
 Both rejoice when there we meet. 
 
 There are endless beauties more 
 Earth hath no resemblance for. 
 Nothing like them round the pole: 
 Nothing can describe the soul. 
 
492 DR. WATTS. 
 
 'Tis a region half unknown, 
 That has treasures of its own 
 More remote from public view 
 Than the bowels of Peru ; 
 Broader 'tis, and brighter far, 
 Than the golden Indies are ; 
 Ships that trace the watery stage 
 Cannot coast it in an age ; 
 Harts, or horses, strong and fleet, 
 Had they wings to help their feet, 
 Could not run it half way o'er 
 In ten thousand days and more. 
 
 Yet the silly wandering mind, 
 Loth to be too much confin'd, 
 Roves and takes her daily tours. 
 Coasting round the narrow shores. 
 Narrow shores of flesh and sense, 
 Picking shells and pebbles thence : 
 Or she sits at Fancy's door, 
 Calling shapes and shadows to her, 
 Foreign visits still receiving. 
 And t' herself a stranger living. 
 Never, never would she buy 
 Indian dust or Tyrian dye. 
 Never trade abroad for more, 
 If she saw her native shore ; 
 If her inward worth were known, 
 She might ever live alone. 
 
 STANZAS TO LADY SUNDERLAND AT TUNBRIDGE 
 WELLS. 
 
 Fair nymph, ascend to Beauty's throne, 
 And rule that radiant world alone : 
 Let favourites take thy lower sphere, 
 Not monarchs are thy rivals here. 
 
 The Court of Beauty, built sublime, 
 Defies all powers but thine and time ; 
 Envy, that clouds the hero's sky, 
 Aims but in vain her flight so high. 
 
DR. IVATTS. 493 
 
 Not Blenheim's field, nor Ister's flood, 
 Nor standards dyed in Gallic blood, 
 Tom from the foe, add nobler grace 
 To Qiurchill's house than Spencer's face. 
 
 The warlike thunder of his arms 
 Is less commanding than her charms ; 
 His lightning strikes with less surprise 
 Than sudden glances from her eyes. 
 
 His captives feel their hmbs confin'd 
 In iron ; she enslaves the mind : 
 We foUow with a pleasing pain. 
 And bless the conqueror and the chain. 
 
 The Muse, that dares in numbers do 
 AWliat paint and pencil never knew. 
 Faints at her presence in despair, 
 And owns the inimitable fair. 
 
 PRAISE FOR MERCIES SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL. 
 
 Whene'er I take my walks abroad, 
 
 How many poor I see ! 
 What shall I render to my God 
 
 For aU His gifts to me .' 
 
 Not more than others I deserve, 
 
 Yet God has given me more ; 
 For I have food, while others starve, 
 
 Or beg from door to door. 
 
 How many children in the street 
 
 Half naked I behold ! 
 While I am cloth'd from head to feet, 
 
 And cover'd from the cold. 
 
 While some poor wretches scarce can tell 
 
 Where they may lay their head, 
 I have a home wherein to dwell. 
 
 And rest upon my bed. 
 
494 DR. WATTS. 
 
 While others early learn to swear, 
 And curse, and lie, and steal, 
 
 Lord, I am taught Thy name to fear, 
 And do Thy holy will. 
 
 Are these Thy favours day by day 
 
 To me above the rest ? 
 Then let me love Thee more than they 
 
 And try to serve Thee best. 
 
 AN EVENING SONG. 
 
 And now another day is gone, 
 I'll sing my Maker's praise ; 
 
 My comforts every hour make known 
 His providence and grace. 
 
 But how my childhood runs to waste \ 
 My sins, how great their sum ! 
 
 Lord, give me pardon for the past. 
 And strength for days to come. 
 
 I lay my body down to sleep ; 
 
 Let angels guard my head. 
 And through the hours of darkness keep 
 
 Their watch around my bed. 
 
 With cheerful heart I close my eyes, 
 Since Thou wilt not remove ; 
 
 And in the morning let me rise 
 Rejoicing in Thy love. 
 
 FOR THE LORD'S DAY EVENING. 
 
 Lord, how delightful 'tis to see 
 A whole assembly worship Thee ! 
 At once they sing, at once they pray ; 
 They hear of heaven, and learn the wa' 
 
 I have been there, and still would go ; 
 'Tis like a little heaven below : 
 Not all my pleasure and my play 
 Shall tempt me to forget this day. 
 
DR. WATTS. 
 
 write upon my memory, Lord, 
 The texts and doctrines of Thy word, 
 That I may break Thy laws no more, 
 But love Thee better than before. 
 
 With thoughts of Christ and things divine 
 FiU up this foolish heart of mine ; 
 That, hoping pardon through His blood, 
 
 1 may lie down and wake with God. 
 
 495 
 
 THE SLUGGARD. 
 
 Tis the voice of the sluggard ; I hear him complain, 
 " You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again." 
 As the door on its hinges, so he, on his bed, 
 Tums his sides and his shoulders and his heavy head. 
 
 "A Ktde more sleep, and a little more slumber;" 
 
 Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number : 
 
 And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands. 
 
 Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands. 
 
 I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier. 
 The thorn, and the thistle grow broader and higher ; 
 The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags ; 
 And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs. 
 
 I made him a visit, still hoping to find 
 
 He had took better care for improving his mind : 
 
 He told me his dreams, talk'd of eating and drinking : 
 
 But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking. 
 
 Said 1 then to my heart, " Here's a lesson for me : 
 That man's but a pictxire of what I might be, 
 But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding. 
 Who taught me betimes to love working and reading." 
 
 -«?« 
 
496 
 
 JOHN PHILIPS. 
 
 Born 1676. Died 1708. 
 
 John Philips was born at Bampton, in Oxfordshire, December 30, 
 1676. The living of Bampton was at that date held by his father, 
 Stephen Philips, D.D., Archdeacon of Salop. Philips was sent to 
 Winchester College, where he distinguished himself by his elegance of 
 composition in Latin, and where he was very popular among his school- 
 fellows on account of his good-nature and courteous disposition. A 
 tradition exists that his greatest delight at school was to get some of 
 the boys to comb his hair. He would sit for hours enjoying the pleasant 
 sensation caused by that operation, and acquainting himself with the 
 poetry of ancient and modem authors. 
 
 In 1694 he entered at Christ Church, Oxford, and was an under- 
 graduate during the decanal rule of the famous Aldrich. In the 
 University he was held in esteem for his scholarship. He had early 
 studied, and attempted to imitate, the style of Milton. This led to the 
 production in 1703 of the poem by which he is now remembered — "The 
 Splendid Shilling ; " which is a parody upon Milton, borrowing the 
 stately and sounding manner of the poet, to apply it to commonplace 
 and trivial subjects. " The Splendid Shilling" created a sensation, and 
 led to Phihps becoming acquainted with Bohngbroke. 
 
 When Addison wrote his poem on "Blenheim," Philips was directed 
 to produce an opposition poem upon the same subject. It is needless 
 to say it will not bear comparison with Addison's. The most important 
 work of his pen was entitled " Cider." It is an imitation of Virgil's 
 Georgic, and is in point of style an honourable production. The art 
 of engrafting and the merits of apples are not topics likely to give a 
 any lasting celebrity. Philips' "Cider" has turned sour upon the 
 public palate, except to those who quaif poetry, like tasters of old wine, 
 because it is " curious." He was meditating a poem on the Last Day 
 when consumption terminated his life, at the age of thirty-two, on 
 February 15, 1708. His remains were interred in Hereford Cathedral, 
 and a monument was erected in Westminster Abbey to his memory by 
 Sir Simon Harcourt, afterwards Lord Chancellor. The inscription 
 was written by Atterbury. 
 
 'Philips was an adherent of the Tory party, and patronized by Bohng- 
 broke. He led a blameless, modest life, and was a man personally 
 esteemed by all who knew him. His " Splendid Shilling " holds its 
 place in English poetry, and therefore it is here quoted, although it is a 
 warning against the dangerous habit of parody writing. 
 
JOHN PHILIPS. if^T 
 
 THE SPLENDID SHILLING. 
 
 Happy the man who, void of cares and strife, 
 In silken or in leathern purse retains 
 A splendid shilling : he nor hears with pain 
 New oysters cr/d, nor sighs for cheerful ale, 
 But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, 
 To Juniper's Magpie or Town-hall repairs ; 
 Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye 
 Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames — 
 Chloe, or Phillis — ^he each circling glass 
 Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. 
 Meanwhile he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, 
 Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. 
 But I, whom griping Penury surrounds. 
 And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, 
 With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, 
 (Wretched repast ! ) my meagre corpse sustain : 
 Then solitary walk, or doze at home 
 In garret vile, and with a warming puff 
 Regale chill'd fingers ; or from tube as black 
 As winter-chimney, or well-polish'd jet, 
 Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent. 
 * * * * 
 
 Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow. 
 With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, 
 — Horrible monster ! hated by gods and men — 
 To my aerial citadel ascends. 
 With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate. 
 With hideous accent thrice he calls ; I know 
 The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. 
 What should I do ? or whither turn ? Amaz'd, 
 Confounded, to the dark recess I fly 
 Of wood-hole ; straight my bristling hairs erect 
 Through sudden fear ; a chilly sweat bedews 
 My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell !) 
 My tongue forgets her faculty of speech ; 
 So horrible he seems ! His faded brow, 
 Entrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard, 
 And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, 
 Disastrous acts forebode : in his right hand 
 Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, 
 K K 
 
498 JOHN PHILIPS. 
 
 With characters and figures dire describ'd, 
 
 Grievous to mortal eyes — (ye gods, avert 
 
 Such plagues from righteous men !) Behind him stalks 
 
 Another monster, not unlike himself, 
 
 Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar call'd 
 
 A catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods 
 
 With force incredible, and magic charms, 
 
 First have endued : if he his ample palm 
 
 Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay 
 
 Of debtor, straight his body to the touch 
 
 Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont) 
 
 To some enchanted castle is convey'd. 
 
 Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains. 
 
 In durance strict detain him till, in form 
 
 Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. 
 
 So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades 
 This world envelope, and th' inclement air 
 Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts 
 With pleasant wines and crackling blaze of wood, 
 Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light 
 Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk 
 Of loving friend, delights ; distress'd, forlorn, 
 Amidst the horrours of the tedious night 
 Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts 
 My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse 
 Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, 
 Or desperate lady near a purling stream, 
 Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. 
 Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought. 
 And restless wish, and rave ; my parched throat 
 Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose : 
 But if a slumber haply does invade 
 My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, 
 Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream. 
 Tipples imaginary pots of ale 
 In vain ; awake I find the settled thirst 
 Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. 
 
 Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarrd, 
 Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays 
 Mature, John-apple, nor the downy peach. 
 Nor walnut in rough-furrow'd coat secure. 
 Nor medlar, frurt delicious in decay ; 
 
THOMAS PARNELL. 499 
 
 Afflictions great ! yet greater still remain : 
 My galligaskins, that have long withstood 
 The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, 
 By time subdued, (what will not time subdue ?) 
 An horrid chasm disclos'd, with orifice 
 Wide, discontinuous ; at which the winds 
 Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force 
 Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves. 
 Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, 
 Portending agues. 
 
 -«s«; 
 
 THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 Born 1679. Died 1717. 
 
 Thomas Parnell was bom at Dublin in 1679. He was entered at 
 Trinity College, Dublin, in 1692, and graduated as Master of Arts in 
 1700. In that year, by a dispensation from the Bishop of Derry, he was 
 ordained deacon, and three years after received priest's orders. In 170S 
 he was made Archdeacon of Clogher, and married a lady by whom he 
 had three children. On the Whigs' dismissal from office at the latter end 
 of Queen Anne's reign, Parnell changed his politics, aifd was eagerly 
 welcomed by the Tories. When Lord Oxford was told Parnell waited 
 in the antechamber, he was persuaded by Swift to go, with his Treasurer's 
 staff in his hand, and bid him welcome. Pamell's hopes of preferment, 
 however, were blasted by the death of the queen ; and he seems to have 
 fallen into intemperate habits, partly the result of mortified ambition, 
 and partly by the death of a much-loved son, and of his wife, in 1 712. 
 His personal friends were numerous, and Swift obtained for him from 
 Archbishop King the Vicarage of Finglass in the diocese of Dublin, worth 
 400/. per annum. Unhappily, his prosperity was short-lived. He had 
 scarcely entered on his preferment a year, when death carried him off in 
 his 38tli year. He died at Chester in 171 7, on his way to Ireland. 
 Pope published a selected edition of his works soon after his death, and 
 dedicated them to the Earl of Oxford. He contributed largely to the 
 periodicals and papers of the day, though much that has since been 
 attributed to him is doubtful. His poetry is remarkable for smoothness 
 of diction and propriety of feeling. The " Fairy Tale" was praised by 
 Goldsmith, and, as Johnson says, "it is seldom safe to contradict his 
 ciidcism." 
 
Soo THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 LOVE AND INNOCENCE. 
 
 My days have been so wondrous free, 
 
 The httle birds, that fly 
 With careless ease from tree to tree, 
 
 Were, but as blest as I. 
 
 Ask gliding waters, if a tear 
 Of mine increas'd their stream ; 
 
 Or ask the flying gales, if e'er 
 I lent one sigh to them. 
 
 But now my former days retire. 
 And I'm by beauty caught ; 
 
 The tender chains of sweet desire 
 Are fix'd upon my thought. 
 
 Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines, 
 Ye swains that haunt the grove. 
 
 Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds, 
 Ye close retreats of love. 
 
 With all of nature, all of art. 
 
 Assist the dear design ; 
 O teach a young unpractis'd heart 
 
 To make fair Nancy mine ! 
 
 The very thought of change I hate, 
 
 As much as of despair ; 
 Nor ever covet to be great. 
 
 Unless it be for her. 
 
 'Tis true the passion in my mind 
 
 Is mix'd with soft distress ; 
 Yet, while the fair I love is kind, 
 
 I cannot wish it less. 
 
 AN ELEGY TO AN OLD BEAUTY. 
 
 In vain, poor nymph, to please our youthful sight, 
 You sleep in cream and frontlets all the night. 
 Your face with patches soil, with paint repair, 
 Dress with gay gowns, and shade with foreign hair. 
 
THOMAS PARNELL. 501 
 
 If truth, in spite of manners, must be told, 
 Why really fifty-five is something old. 
 
 Once you were young ; or one whose life's so long, 
 She might have borne my mother, tells me wrong. 
 And once, since Envy's dead before you die. 
 The women own you play'd a sparkling eye. 
 Taught the light foot a modish little trip. 
 And pouted with the prettiest purple lip. 
 
 To some new charmer are the roses fled. 
 Which blew, to damask all thy cheeks with red ; 
 Youth calls the graces there to fix their reign, 
 And airs, by thousands, fill their easy train. 
 So parting summer bids her flowery prime 
 Attend the Sun to dress some foreign clime. 
 While withering seasons in succession here 
 Strip the gay gardens, and deform the year. 
 
 But thou, since Nature bids, the world resign ; 
 'Tis now thy daughter's daughter's time to shine. 
 With more address, or such as pleases more. 
 She runs her female exercises o'er. 
 Unfurls or closes, raps or turns the fan, 
 And smiles or blushes at the creature man. 
 With quicker life, as gilded coaches pass, 
 In sideling courtesy she drops the glass. 
 With better strength on visit-days she bears 
 To mount her fifty flights of ample stairs. 
 Her mien, her shape, her temper, eyes and tongue, 
 Are sure to conquer, — for the rogue is young : 
 And all thaf s madly wild, or oddly gay. 
 We call it only pretty Fanny's way. 
 
 Let lime, that makes you homely, make you sage ; 
 The sphere of wisdom is the sphere of age. 
 'Tis true, when beauty dawns with early fire, 
 And hears the flattering tongues of soft desire. 
 If not from virtue, from its gravest ways 
 The soul with pleasing avocation strays. 
 But beauty gone, 'tis easier to be wise : 
 As harpers better by the loss of eyes. 
 
 Henceforth retire, reduce your roving airs. 
 Haunt less the plays, and more the public prayers, 
 Reject the Mechlin head, and gold brocade, 
 Go pray, in sober Norwich crape arra/d. 
 Thy pendent diamonds let thy Fanny take 
 (Their trembling lustre shows how much you shake) : 
 
503 THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 Or bid her wear thy necklace row'd with pearl ; 
 
 You'll find your Fanny an obedient girl. 
 
 So for the rest, with less encumbrance hung,- 
 
 You walk through life unmingled with the young, 
 
 And view the shade and substance, as you pass, 
 
 With joint endeavour trifling at the glass, 
 
 Or Folly drest, and rambling all her days, 
 
 To meet her counterpart, and grow by praise : 
 
 Yet still sedate yourself, and gravely plain. 
 
 You neither fret, nor envy at the vain. 
 
 'Twas thus, if man with woman we compare, 
 
 The wise Athenian crost a glittering fair : 
 
 Unmov'd by tongue ar1«d sights, he walk'd the place, 
 
 Through tape, toys, tinsel, gimp, perfume, and lace ; 
 
 Then bends from Mars's hill his awful eyes, 
 
 And "What a world I never want ! " he cries : 
 
 But cries unheard ; for Folly will be free. 
 
 So parts the buzzing gawdy crowd and he : 
 
 As careless he for them, as they for him ; 
 
 He wrapt in wisdom, and they whirl'd by whim. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY ON MAN. 
 
 A thoughtful being, long and spare, 
 Our race of mortals call him Care, 
 (Were Homer living, well he knew 
 What name the gods have call'd him too,) 
 With fine mechanic genius wrought. 
 And lov'd to work, though no one bought. 
 
 This being, by a model bred 
 In Jove's eternal sable head, 
 Contriv'd a shape impower'd to breathe, 
 And be the worldling here beneath. 
 
 The man rose staring, like a stake, 
 Wondering to see himself awake ! 
 Then look'd so wise, before he knew 
 The business he was made to do ; 
 That, pleased to see with what a grace 
 He gravely show'd his forward face, 
 Jove talk'd of breeding him on high. 
 An under-something of the sky. 
 
THOMAS PARNELL. 503 
 
 But ere he gave the mighty nod 
 Which ever binds a poet's god, 
 (For which his curls ambrosial shake, 
 And mother Earth's obliged to quake,) 
 He saw oM mother Earth arise, 
 She stood confess'd before his eyes ; 
 But not with what we read she wore, 
 A castle for a crown before. 
 Not with long streets and longer roads 
 Dangling behind her, like commodes : 
 As yet with wreaths alone she drest, 
 And ti-ail'd a landskip-painted vest. 
 Then thrice she rais'd, as Ovid said, 
 And thrice she bow'd her weighty head. 
 
 Her honours made, " Great Jove," she cry'd, 
 " This thing was fashion'd from my side ; 
 His hands, his heart, his head, are mine. 
 Then what hast thou to call him thine ? " 
 
 " Nay rather ask," the monarch said, 
 "What boots his hand, his heart, his head, 
 Were what I gave remov'd away ? 
 Thy part's an idle shape of clay." 
 
 " Halves, more than halves ! " cry'd honest Care : 
 " Your pleas would make your titles fair ; 
 You claim the body, you the soul. 
 But I who join'd them, claim the whole.'' 
 
 Thus with the gods debate began 
 On such a trivial cause as Man. 
 "And can celestial tempers rage ?" 
 Quoth Virgil, in a later age. 
 
 As thus they wrangled, Time came by, 
 (There's none that paint him such as I, 
 For what the fabling ancients sung 
 Makes Saturn old, when Time was young,) 
 As yet his winters had not shed 
 Their silver honours on his head ; 
 He just had got his pinions free 
 From his old sire. Eternity. 
 A serpent girdled round he wore, 
 The tail within the mouth before ; 
 By which our almanacs are clear 
 That learned Egypt meant the year. 
 A staff he carry'd, where on high 
 A glass was fix'd to measure by, 
 
S04 THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 As amber boxes made a show 
 
 For heads of canes an age ago. 
 
 His vest, for day and night, was p/d ; 
 
 A bending sickle arm'd his side ; 
 
 And Spring's new months his train adorn : 
 
 The other seasons were unborn. 
 
 Known by the gods, as near he draws, 
 They make him umpire of the cause. 
 O'er a low trunk his arm he laid, 
 Where since his hours a dial made ; 
 Then leaning heard the nice debate, 
 And thus pronounced the words of Fate : 
 
 " Since body from the parent Earth, 
 And soul from Jove, receiv'd a birth, 
 Return they where they first began ; 
 But since their union makes the man, 
 Till Jove and Earth shall part these two. 
 To Care, who join'd them, man is due." 
 
 He said, and sprung with swift career 
 To trace a circle for the year ; 
 Where ever since the seasons wheel. 
 And tread on one another's heel. 
 
 '"Tis well," said Jove, and for consent 
 Thundering he shook the firmament ; 
 " Our umpire Time shall have his way. 
 With Care I let the creature stay : 
 Let business vex him, avarice blind, 
 Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, 
 Let errour act, opinion speak, 
 And want afflict, and sickness break. 
 And anger burn, dejection chill, 
 And joy distract, and sorrow kill. 
 Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, 
 Time draws the long destructive bow ; 
 And wasted man, whose quick decay 
 Comes hurrying on before his day, 
 Shall only find by this decree, 
 The soul flies sooner back to me.'' 
 
 -*>=«! 
 
SOS 
 
 EDWARD YOUNG. 
 
 Born 1681. Died 1765. 
 
 DWARD Young was bom in June, i68i, atUpham, near Winchester, 
 father was Rector of Upham, and Fellow of Winchester College. 
 702 he was made Chaplain to William and Mary, and then preferred 
 ie Deanery of Salisbury. Queen Mary is said to have been god- 
 ier to this poet. Young was entered upon the foundation of Win- 
 ter College, but did not proceed to New College, Oxford, as a 
 cehamite. He entered as an ordinary undergraduate, and lived 
 1 the warden, who was a near friend of his father's. On the 
 ien's death he migrated to Corpus Christi College, and in 1708 
 elected by Archbishop Tenison to a Law Fellowship at All Saints 
 ege. In 1714 he took his degree of B.C.L., and his Doctor's in 
 ). Two years after Young had taken his B. A. he was selected to 
 k the Latin Oration before the University, on the founding of the 
 rmgton Library. 
 
 oimg's first poetical effort was made when Queen Anne, at the 
 mce of Harley and Bolingbroke, created ten peers in one day to 
 re a vote in the House of Lords. He also published " An Epistle to 
 rge Granville," created Lord Lansdowne, in which he exhausted 
 self with panegyric. 
 
 fhen Addison published " Cato," in 1713, Young was honoured by 
 ng some of his verses prefixed. His poem " The Last Day " 
 ;ared in 1713, and was published at Oxford under the imprimatur 
 lie Vice-Chancellor. The Marquis of Wharton, who had been a. 
 id of Young's father, extended his favour to his son. In 1 716, after 
 Marquis's death, Young appears to have accompanied his young 
 essor to Ireland. It was during the visit that Young took a walk 
 Dean Swift, when 'the Dean, contemplating the withered upper 
 iches of an elm, uttered the naemorable words, " I shall be like that 
 ; I shall die at the top." 
 
 1 1719 the tragedy of " Busiris," by Young, was produced at Drury 
 5. In 1721 it was followed by "The Revenge." For some time 
 ng lived in the Exeter family, and acted as tutor to Lord Burleigh. 
 :ontested an election at Cirencester unsuccessfiiUy. Between 1721 
 1726 he wrote his Satires on the Love of Fame. When he was 
 ly fifty years of age. Young entered into Holy Orders, and in 1728 
 appointed Chaplain to George II. In 1730 he was presented by 
 College to the living of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire; and the 
 wing year he married Lady Elizabeth Lee, a daughter of the Earl of 
 
So6 ED WARD YOUNG. 
 
 Lichfield, widow of Colonel Lee. This lady lived for ten years after 
 her marriage with Young, and died in 1741. Before her death she had 
 lost, in 1 736, a daughter by her former husband, married to Mr. Temple, 
 son of Lord Palmerston. Mr. Temple did not long survive. He died 
 in 1740. Temple and his wife have generally been conjectured to be 
 the originals of Philander and Narcissa in Young's " Night Thoughts." 
 To the sorrow Young experienced in these three deaths the origin of 
 that remarkable poem ha.<! always been ascribed, which was commenced 
 in 1741. 
 
 In 1753 the play of "The Brothers,'' which Young had written 
 thirty years before, was performed. He intended to devote the profits 
 arising from its performance to the Society for the Propagation of the 
 Gospel ; but as the play did not produce the amount he expected, he 
 paid out of his own purse 1000/. to that Society. In 1761 he was 
 appointed Clerk of the Closet to the Princess Dowager. Young 
 produced a few minor poems after the " Night Thoughts," and died in 
 April, 1765, aged eighty-four, at Welwyn, where he was buried beneath 
 the altar. 
 
 In Young's poetry there is no uniformity of character. He does not 
 seem to have adopted any model. His compositions are more remark- 
 able as abounding in thought than in elegance of construction. The 
 deep reflection and striking similes in his " Night Thoughts " have 
 always secured for this gloomy composition favour and popularity. 
 
 FROM "THE COMPLAINT; OR, NIGHT THOUGHTS.' 
 
 Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud, 
 To damp our brainless ardours, and abate 
 That glare of life which often blinds the wise. 
 Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth 
 Our rugged pass to death ,: to break those bars 
 Of terror, and abhorrence, nature throws 
 Cross our obstructed way ; and thus to make 
 Welcome, as safe, our port from every storm. 
 Each friend by fate snatched from us is a plume 
 Plucked from the wing of human vanity. 
 Which makes us stoop from our aerial heights, 
 And, dampt with omen of our own decease, 
 On drooping pinions of ambition lowered. 
 Just skim earth's surface, ere we break it up, 
 O'er putrid earth to scratch a little dust, 
 And save the world a nuisance. Smitten friends 
 Are angels sent on errands full of love ; 
 For us they languish, and for us they die : 
 And shall they languish, shall they die in vain ? 
 
EDWARD YOUNG. 507 
 
 Ungrateful, shall we grieve their hovering shades, 
 Which wait the revolution in our hearts ? 
 Shall we disdain their silent, soft address, 
 Their posthumous advice and pious prayer ? 
 Senseless, as herds that graze their hallowed graves. 
 Tread under foot their agonies and groans ; 
 Frustrate their anguish, and destroy their deaths ? 
 * * * * 
 
 O my coevals ! remnants of yourselves ! 
 Poor human ruins, tottering o'er the grave ! 
 Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees. 
 Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling, 
 Still more enamoured of this wretched soil ? 
 Shall our pale, withered hands be still stretched out, 
 Trembling at once with eagerness and age ? 
 With avarice and convulsions grasping hard? 
 Grasping at air ! for what has earth beside ? 
 Man wants but little ; nor that little long : 
 How soon must he resign his very dust, 
 Which frugal nature lent him for an hour ! 
 Years unexperienced rush on numerous ills ; 
 And soon as man, expert from time, has found 
 The key of life, it opes the gates of death. 
 
 When in this vale of years I backward look, 
 And miss such numbers, numbers too of such, 
 Firmer in health, and greener in their age, 
 And stricter on their guard, and fitter far 
 To play life's subtle game, I scarce believe 
 I still survive : and am I fond of life. 
 Who scarce can think it possible I live, 
 Alive by miracle ? or, what is next, 
 Alive by mead ? if I am still alive, 
 Who long have bury'd what gives life to live, 
 Firmness of nerve, and energy of thought. 
 Life's lee is not more shallow than impure 
 And vapid; sense and reason show the door, 
 Call for my bier, and point me to the dust. 
 
 thou great Arbiter of life and death ! 
 Nature's immortal, immaterial Sun ! 
 Whose all-prolific beam late called me forth 
 From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay 
 The worm's inferior, and in rank beneath 
 The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow, 
 To drink the spirit of the golden day, 
 
So8 EDWARD YOUNG. 
 
 And triumph in existence ; and could know 
 No motive, but my bliss ; and hast ordained 
 A rise in blessing; with tht patriarcKs )oy 
 Thy call I follow to the land unknown : 
 I trust in Thee, and know in whom I trust. 
 Or life, or death, is equal ; neither weighs : 
 All weight in this — O let me live to Thee ! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Can it be ? 
 Matter immortal ! and shall spirit die ? 
 Above the nobler shall less noble rise ? 
 Shall man alone, for whom all else revives, 
 No resurrection know ? Shall man alone, 
 Imperial man, be sown in barren ground. 
 Less privileged than grain on which he feeds ? 
 Is man, in whom alone is power to prize 
 The bliss of being, or with previous pain 
 Deplore its period by the spleen of fate, 
 Severely doomed deatKs single unredeemed ? 
 
 * # * * 
 To lift us from this abject, to sublime ; 
 
 This flux, to permanent ; this dark, to day ; 
 
 This foul, to pure ; this turbid, to serene ; 
 
 This mean, to mighty ; — for this glorious end 
 
 Th' Almighty, rising. His long sabbath broke ! 
 
 The world was made ; was ruined ; was restored ; 
 
 Laws from the skies were published ; were repealed : 
 
 On earth kings, kingdoms, rose ; kings, kingdoms, fell : 
 
 Famed sages lighted up the pagan world ; 
 
 Prophets from Sion darted a keen glance 
 
 Through distant age ; saints travelled ; martyrs bled ; 
 
 By wonders sacred nature stood controlled ; 
 
 The living were translated ; dead were raised ; 
 
 Angels, and more than angels, came from heaven : 
 
 And, oh ! for this descended lower still : 
 
 Guilt was hell's gloom ; astonished at his guest, 
 
 For one short moment Lucifer adored. 
 
 * * * * 
 On piety humanity is built ; 
 
 And on humanity much happiness ; 
 
 And yet still more on piety itself. 
 
 A soul in commerce with her God is heaven ; 
 
 Feels not the tumults and the shocks of life. 
 
 The whirls of passion, and the strokes of heart. 
 
AARON HILL. 509 
 
 A Deity believed is joy begun ; 
 
 A Deity adored is joy advanced ; 
 
 A Deity beloved is joy matured. 
 
 Each branch oi piety delight inspires : 
 
 Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next 
 
 O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horror hides ; 
 
 Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy, 
 
 That joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still ; 
 
 Prayer ardent opens heaven, lets down a stream 
 
 Of glory on the consecrated hour 
 
 Of man in audience with the Deity. 
 
 Who worships the great God, that instant joins 
 
 The first in heaven, and sets his foot on hell. 
 
 -«?=«; 
 
 AARON HILL. 
 
 Born 1684. Died 1749. 
 
 IRON Hill was the son of George HUI, Esq. of Malmesbury Abbey, 
 s. He was bom in Beaufort Buildings, Strand, in 1684. His 
 it's extravagance had wasted the family property, and Aaron was 
 pelled to make his own way in the world. He was educated at 
 tminster. When fourteen he left Westminster, and having formed 
 in for visiting his relative Lord Paget, then Ambassador at Constan- 
 >le, he carried it into execution, and made his way to the city of 
 Sultan. Lord Paget received him with great cordiality. From 
 itantinople Hill set out on his travels, and visited Egypt and 
 stine. In 1703 he returned to England with Lord Paget, visiting 
 le road several of the European Courts. His experience and good 
 icter recommended him to Sir William Wentworth, who took him 
 is companion in his travels. In 1 709 Hill published a History 
 e Ottoman Empire, which contained valuable information gathered 
 e Turkish Court. He also published a poetical piece, entitled 
 miUers," in defence of the famous and eccentric Earl of Peter- 
 ugh. This poem gave the Earl so much satisfaction that he 
 duced HiU to Harley, Bolingbroke, and the leaders of the Tory 
 '. Hm became Secretary to the Earl. In 17 10 he married, 
 was appointed manager of Drury Lane Theatre. At the desire of 
 h, the tragedian, he wrote his tragedy " Elfrida ; or, the Fair Incon- 
 ." The next year he produced an opera, " Rinaldo," which was 
 
S'o AARON HILL. 
 
 performed at the Haymarket, and is memorable a? being the firet work 
 for which Handel composed music after his arrival in England. Hill 
 appears to have been a man of enterprise, and to have exhibited great 
 commercial ability. He started a variety of conipanies and schemes. 
 He continued to write for the stage, and translated Voltaire's tragedy 
 of " Merope." His tragedy of "Zara" was also taken from Voltaire. 
 Some years before his death he withdrew from the London world, and 
 settled at Plaistow, in Essex. Voltaire's tragedy was the last work 
 upon which he was engaged : it was produced at Drury Lane ; but Hill 
 did not live to witness the great success of his work. He died the very 
 day before that fixed for its first representation, February 3, 1 749, aged 
 sixty-seven, and was buried in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey. He 
 was regarded as a meritorious writer by Bolingbroke, Pope, Voltaire, 
 Savage, Fielding, and others his contemporaries. In the present day his 
 name is almost unknown. 
 
 THE MESSENGER. 
 
 Go, happy paper, gently steal, 
 
 And soft beneath her pillow lie ; 
 There in a dream my love reveal, 
 A love that awe must else conceal, 
 In silent doubt to die. 
 
 Should she to flames thy hope consign. 
 Thy suffering moment soon ejjpires; 
 A longer pain, alas ! is mine. 
 Condemned in endless woe to pine, 
 And feel unslack'ning fires. 
 
 But if inclined to hear and bless, 
 While in her heart soft pity stirs. 
 
 Tell her her beauties might compel 
 
 A hermit to forsake his cell, 
 
 And change his heaven for hers. 
 
 Oh, tell her, vi^ere her treasures mine. 
 Nature and art would court my aid : 
 
 The painter's colours want her shine; 
 
 The rainbow's brOw not half so fine 
 As her sweet eyelids' shade. 
 
THOMAS TICK ELL. t,\i 
 
 By day the sun might spare his rays ; 
 
 No star make evening bright; 
 Her opening eyes with sweeter blaze 
 Should measure all my smiling days, 
 
 And if she slept, 'twere night. 
 
 THOMAS TICKELL. 
 
 Born 1686. Died 1740. 
 
 Thomas Tickell was born in 1686, at Bridekirk, in Cumberland. 
 In 1701 he entered at Queen's College, Oxford, and took his degree of 
 M.A. in 1708. In 1 7 10 he was elected a Fellow of his College. 
 Declining to go into Holy Orders, he obtained a dispensation from 
 the Crown to hold his Fellowship, which he continued to do until his 
 riiarriage, in 1726. Tickell was introduced into London and political 
 life by Addison. When Queen Anne's Ministers were negotiating the 
 peace with France, Tickell published " The Prospect of Peace," which 
 being praised by Addison in the "Spectator," ran through several 
 editions. Wlien George I. arrived, he wrote " The Royal Progress," 
 which appeared in the " Spectator. " Tickell published a translation 
 of the Iliad in opposition to Pope's translation. This was the most 
 important work of his hfe. Pope considered that it was written in 
 great part by Addison himself When Addison went to Ireland as 
 Secretary to Lord Sunderland, he took Tickell with him ; and in 
 1717, when Addison became Secretary of State, he appointed Tickell 
 Under-Secretary. The friendship between him and Addison continued 
 unabated to the last. When Addison lay dying at Holland House, he 
 left to Tickell the charge of all his works, and specially commended 
 him to the favour of Craggs, the -Secretary of State. Tickell was 
 appointed Secretary to the Lords Justices of Ireland in 1725. This 
 post of emolument and honour he retained until 1740, when, on the 
 23d of April in that year, he died at Bath. 
 
 Any distinction that belongs to Tickell is reflected from Addison. 
 Through his favour he became known, and through him his composi- 
 tions of "unblemished mediocrity" got noticed in the "Spectator." 
 Tickell is also to be remembered as a contributor to the " Spectator," 
 but owing entirely to the same favour. Like Lord Byron, holding his 
 pen, lest he should be criticising the genuine Macphei-son, so we must 
 be careful in speaking of Tickell's translation of Homer, lest we should 
 
512 THOMAS TICK ELL. 
 
 be criticising some genuine Addison. The judgment of the world is 
 that Tickell's Iliad is very inferior to Pope's. The best production of 
 his pen, and one which will live in poetry, is his " Elegy on the death 
 of Addison" (quoted below). Johnson said of it, "Nor is a more 
 sublime or more elegant funeral-poem to be found in the whole compass 
 of English literature. " 
 
 ON QUEEN CAROLINE'S 
 
 REBUILDING THE LODGINGS OF THE BLACK PRINCE AND 
 HENRY V. AT QUEEN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD. 
 
 Where bold and graceful soars, secure of fame. 
 The pile now worthy great Philippa's name, 
 Mark that old ruin, Gothic and uncouth, 
 Where the Black Edward pass'd his beardless youth, 
 And the fifth Henry, for his first renown, 
 Out-stripp'd each rival in a student's gown. 
 
 In that coarse age were princes fond to dwell 
 With meagre monks, and haunt the silent cell : 
 Sent from the monarch's to the Muse's court, 
 Their meals were frugal, and their sleeps were short ; 
 To couch at curfew-time they thought no scorn, 
 And froze at matins every winter morn ; 
 They read, an early book, the starry frame, 
 And lisp'd each constellation by its name ; 
 Art after art still dawning to their view, 
 And their mind opening as their stature grew. 
 Yet whose ripe manhood spread our fame so far. 
 Sages in peace, and demi-gods in war? 
 Who, stern. in fight, made echoing Cressy ring, 
 And, mild in conquest, serv'd his captive king? 
 Who gain'd, at Agincourt, the victor's bays; 
 Nor took himself, but gave good Heaven, the praise ? 
 Thy nurslings, ancient dome ! to virtue form'd ; 
 To mercy list'ning, whilst in fields they storm'd ; 
 Fierce to the fierce, and warm tli' opprest to save ; 
 Through life rever'd, and worshipp'd in the grave. 
 
 In tenfold pride the mouldering roofs shall shine, 
 The stately work of bounteous Caroline ; 
 And blest Philippa, with unenvious eyes. 
 From heaven behold her rival's fabric rise. 
 If still, bright Saint, this spot deserves thy care, 
 Incline thee to th' ambitious Muse's prayer : 
 
THOMAS TICKELL. 
 
 couldst thou win young William's bloom to grace 
 His mother's walls, and fill thy Edward's place, 
 How would that genius, whose propitious wings 
 Have here twice hover'd o'er the sons of kings. 
 Descend triumphant to his ancient seat. 
 And take in charge a third Plantagenet ! 
 
 513 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF WARWICK. 
 
 If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, 
 And left her debt to Addison unpaid. 
 Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, 
 And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. 
 What mourner ever felt poetic fires ! 
 Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires : 
 Grief unaffected suits but ill with art. 
 Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 
 Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
 My soul's best part for ever to the grave ? 
 How silent did his old companions tread, 
 By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, 
 Through breathing statues — then unheeded things — 
 Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings ' 
 What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire. 
 The pealing organ, and the pausing choir, 
 The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd, 
 And the last words that dust to dust conve/d ! 
 While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend. 
 Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. 
 Oh, gone for ever ! take this long adieu ; 
 And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montague. 
 To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, 
 A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine ; 
 Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan. 
 And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. 
 If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part. 
 May shame afflict this alienated heart ! 
 Of thee forgetful if I form a song, 
 My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue ! 
 My grief be doubled, from thy image free, 
 And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee 1 
 
 L L 
 
SI4 THOMAS TICK ELL. 
 
 Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone — 
 Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown — 
 Along the walls where speaking marbles show 
 What worthies form the hallow'd mould below : 
 Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ; 
 In arms who triumph'd ; or in arts excell'd ; 
 Chiefs, grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood ; 
 Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; 
 Just men, by whom impartial laws were given ; 
 And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven. 
 Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest. 
 Since their foundation, came a nobler guest; 
 Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd 
 A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. 
 
 In what new region, to the just assign'd, 
 What new employments please th' unbod/d mind ? 
 A winged virtue, through th' ethereal sky. 
 From world to world, unwearyd, does he fly ? 
 Or curious trace the long laborious maze 
 Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? 
 Does he deUght to hear bold seraphs tell 
 How Michael battled, and the dragon fell ; 
 Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glaw 
 In hymns of love, not ill-essay'd below? 
 Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind? — 
 A task well suited to thy gentle mind. 
 Oh ! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, 
 To me, thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend ! 
 When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms. 
 When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms. 
 In silent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart, 
 And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart : 
 Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 
 Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.' 
 
 That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree, 
 Must still be lov'd and still deplor'd by me. 
 In nightly visions seldom fails to rise. 
 Or, rous'd by Fancy, meets my waking eyes. 
 If business calls, or crowded courts invite, 
 Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight : 
 If in the stage I seek to sooth my care, 
 I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there ; 
 If pensive to the rural shades I rove. 
 His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove. 
 
THOMAS TICKELL. 515 
 
 'Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong, 
 Clear'd some great truth, or rais'd some serious song : 
 There patient shoVd us the wise course to steer, 
 A candid censor, and a friend severe : 
 There taught us how to live, and (oh ! too high 
 The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. 
 
 Thou hUl, whose brow the antique structures grace 
 Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, 
 Why, once so loVd, whene'er thy bower appears, 
 O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears ? 
 How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair. 
 Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air ! 
 How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees. 
 Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze .! 
 His image thy forsaken bowers restore : 
 Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; 
 No more the summer in thy glooms allayed. 
 Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. 
 
 From other hills, however fortune frown'd, 
 Some refuge in the Muse's art I found ; 
 Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, 
 Bereft of him who taught me how to sing ; 
 And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn, 
 Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 
 * * * * 
 
 COLIN AND LUCY. 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 Of Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair. 
 
 Bright Lucy was the grace ; 
 Nor e'er did Liff/s limpid stream 
 
 Reflect so sweet a face, 
 Till luckless love and pining care 
 
 Impair'd her rosy hue. 
 Her coral lips, and damask cheeks. 
 
 And eyes of glossy blue. 
 
 Oh ! have you seen a lily pale, 
 When beating rains descend ? 
 
 So droop'd the slow-consuming maid, 
 Her life now near its end. 
 L L2 
 
tie THOMAS TICKELL. 
 
 By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains 
 
 Take heed, ye easy fair : 
 Of vengeance due to broken vows, 
 
 Ye perjur'd swains, beware. 
 
 Three times, all in the dead of night, 
 
 A bell was heard to ring ; 
 And, shrieking at her window thrice, 
 
 The raven flapp'd his wing. 
 Too well the love-lorn maiden knew 
 
 The solemn boding sound : 
 And thus, in dying words, bespoke 
 
 The virgins weeping round : 
 
 " I hear a voice you cannot hear, 
 
 Which says I must not stay ; 
 I see a hand you cannot see. 
 
 Which beckons me away. 
 By a false heart and broken vows 
 
 In early youth I die : 
 Was I to blame, because his bride 
 
 Was thrice as rich as I ? 
 
 " Ah, Colin ! give not her thy vows, 
 
 Vows due to me alone : 
 Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, 
 
 Nor think him all thy own. 
 To-morrow, in the church to wed, 
 
 Impatient both prepare ! 
 But know, fond maid, and know, false man, 
 
 That Lucy will be there ! 
 
 " Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear, 
 
 This bridegroom blithe to meet, 
 He in his wedding-trim so gay, 
 
 I in my winding-sheet." 
 She spoke, she d/d : her corse was borne, 
 
 The bridegroom blithe to meet. 
 He in his wedding-trim so gay, 
 
 She in her winding-sheet. 
 
 Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts? 
 
 How were these nuptials kept ? 
 The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead. 
 
 And all the village wept. 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 517 
 
 Confusion, shame, remorse, despair, 
 
 At once his bosom swell. 
 The damps of death bedeVd his brow, 
 
 He shook, he groan'd, he fell. 
 
 From the vain bride — ah, bride no more ! — 
 
 The varying crimson fled. 
 When, stretch'd before her rival's corse, 
 
 She saw her husband dead. 
 Then to his Lucy's new-made grave 
 
 Conveyd by trembling swains. 
 One mould with her, beneath one sod. 
 
 For ever he remains. 
 
 Oft at this grave the constant hind 
 
 And plighted maid- are seen : 
 With garlands gay and true-love knots 
 
 They deck the sacred green. 
 But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art. 
 
 This hallow'd spot forbear ; 
 Remember Colin's dreadful fate, 
 
 And fear to meet him there. 
 
 '%>S^ 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 Born 1688. Died 1744. 
 
 Alexander Pope was bom in London, May 22, 1688. His father 
 was a linendraper in the Strand, and a Roman Catholic in religion. In 
 that faith Pope was brought up. While he was yet young, his father 
 retired to Binfield, in Windsor Forest. It seems probable that the 
 influence of the forest scenery determined the tastes of the youth, and 
 confirmed him in his desire to be a poet. 
 
 When he was sixteen, he had composed his " Pastorals," which 
 appeared five years later in Tonson's "Miscellany." The "Essay on 
 Criticism " followed, and then " The Rape of the Lock. " In 1 7 1 3 Pope 
 published his "Windsor Forest." Five years were then devoted to 
 completing his translation of Homer. In 1728 he published the 
 "Dunciad," and in 1733 the "Essay on Man." It was the mode of 
 
Si8 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 the time to be philosophic ; and therefore Pope considered his reputa- 
 tion required tliat he should produce a philosophic poem. The phi- 
 losophy of the poem is supposed to have been largely supplied by 
 Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke. The Essay was followed by the 
 "Imitations of Horace," and in 1742 another book was added to the 
 "Dunciad." 
 
 Although Pope is not admitted to the first rank of poets, perhaps 
 there has been no poet who has exercised a greater influence, or whose 
 name has been more familiar to all lovers of literature. A life of Pope, 
 properly written, would involve short biographies of all the great men 
 of his time. A brief sketch, such as this, cannot do justice to the 
 subject ; nor would any student rest satisfied therewith, because, to 
 understand aright the age of Queen Anne, and the lives of such men as 
 Bolingbroke, Harley, Addison, Steele, Swift, Montague, Atterbury, and 
 a host of others, a familiarity with Pope's poetry and with Pope's life 
 is inevitable. 
 
 From an infant he was a weak, ailing child. His body was obliged 
 to be supported by irons. His education was maiijly entrusted to the 
 priests of his religion. One Tavemer, a priest in Hampshire, taught 
 him Latin and Greek, and gave him that love for Homer and Virgil 
 which exhibited itself in later years. It is impossible to say when he 
 commenced to write poetry. From his earliest years he " lisped in 
 numbers," in the composition of which he seems to have been encouraged 
 by his father, who, when pleased with his versification, would say, 
 " These are good rhymes." So great was the boy's admiration for his 
 co-religionist Dryden, that in 1701, when Pope was twelve years of age, 
 he induced some friends to take him to the coffee-house frequented by 
 Dryden, in order that he might see him. The earliest production of 
 his pen now known is the " Ode on Solitude," composed before he was 
 twelve years of age. 
 
 With the composition of the " Pastorals " Pope's life as a poet 
 commenced. At seventeen he frequented Will's Coffee-house, in 
 Russell Street, Covent Garden, where he met the wits and literary men 
 of the day. On the appearance of the " Essay on Criticism," the young 
 poet was enchanted to see it praised by Mr. Addison in the Spectator. 
 In the Spectator first appeared the famous poem, "The Messiah," 
 which was submitted to Steele, and corrected according to his suggestions. 
 " The Rape of the Lock " was occasioned by a frolic of Lord Petre, 
 who, taking a great liberty, cut off a lock of Lady Arabella Fermor's 
 hair. The poem was composed in a fortnight; and was intended to 
 bring about a reconciliation between Lady Arabella's and Lord Petre's 
 family, in which it was successful. This work has always been regarded 
 as a masterpiece of poetry in the ludicrous style. The publication of 
 the "Iliad," which was extensively subscribed for, brought in so large a 
 sum of money, that Pope was relieved from the pecuniary diificulties 
 with which he had long struggled, and purchased for himself a valuable 
 annuity. He also purchased for his lifetime the villa at Twickenham, 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 519 
 
 the site of which still retains the name of "Pope's Villa." In 1720, 
 when the South Sea Scheme had created a universal infatuation, Pope 
 ventured some of the large receipts he had obtained from the " Iliad," 
 and, as a matter of course, lost his money. The jealousies created by 
 the " Iliad " led to the irritation of mind which called forth the most 
 caustic satires of the poet's pen against editors and critics. In 1723 
 Pope appeared before the Lords at the trial of Bishop Atterbury, for 
 whom he professed the warmest friendship. When Voltaire was in 
 England, he dined at Twickenham ; but Pope beUeving him to be a 
 French spy, did not further cultivate his acquaintance. 
 
 In 1728 the greatest display of the poet's satirical power was made in 
 the publication of the " Dimciad. " About the same period, he was 
 engaged, conjointly with Dean Swift, on the " Miscellanies," and wrote 
 the "Memoirs of a Parish Clerk," in ridicule of Bishop Burnet's 
 "History of his own Time." Swift, when visiting London, stayed very 
 frequendy at the Villa as Pope's guest. The " Dunciad " was addressed 
 to him. Its favour with the people was so great, that Sir Robert 
 Walpole presented it to the King and Queen. Throughout his life Pope 
 had a great fondness for the acquaintance of men in high position. It 
 is a remarkable fact, that he continued to live on the most friendly terms 
 with Bolingbroke, and yet to preserve an acquaintanceship with Walpole. 
 With Warburton he was on terms of. the closest intimacy, and greatly 
 aided him in his promotion. To him he bequeathed as a legacy the 
 property in all his works. 
 
 Pope Uved until-.May 30, 1 744. At that date he died, of asthma, and 
 a gradual decay of his always feeble frame. On his death-bed he was 
 visited by Bolingbroke, who declared "that, after an intimacy of 
 thirty years, he never knew a man who had so tender a heart for his 
 particular friends, or a more general friendship for mankind." The last 
 sacraments of the ChUiich were administered to him previous to his 
 death, by a priest of his own religion. One of the last expressions he 
 uttered was, " There is nothing that is meritorious but virtue and friend- 
 ship, and indeed friendship itself is only a part of virtue. " His death 
 was so placid,' that the moment of his expiring could not be marked. 
 He was buried near his father and mother in the body of Twickenham 
 Church, where a monument was erected to him by Warburton. 
 
 The tenderness of Pope's nature, of which Bolingbroke spoke, would 
 never be conjectured from a perusal of his works. Nevertheless it was 
 true. His love and devotion to his parents, and especially to his aged 
 mother, was a pattern to all sons. His affection for Miss Martha 
 Blount, of Maple Durham, near Reading, was deep and sincere. The 
 friends he trusted, and believed in, would all approve Bolingbroke's 
 estimate of his genuine character. 
 
 Unforhmately, the jealousy his marvellous success as a poet created 
 among his contemporaries involved him in a literary warfare, the 
 evidences of which are abundantly exhibited in his later writings, and 
 display a bitterness and wrath which, expressed in the keenest satire. 
 
S20 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 would naturally betray an ordinary reader into imagining that Pope was 
 sent into the world with a splenetic and acrimonious disposition. 
 
 A criticism on Pope's poetry is in this place unneeded. He possessed 
 all the necessary qualifications for a poet. He had invention, imagination, 
 judgment, and melody. Succeeding Dryden in the public admiration, 
 he has ever since retained his place in literature. Not to be placed on 
 the highest step in the Temple of the Muses, along with Shakespere, 
 Milton, Dante, he occupies the most honoured position below them, in 
 company with Dryden ; and the best evidence of his greatness may be 
 gathered from the fact, that, next to Shakespere, there is no other author 
 in our language whose brilliant epigrammatic lines are so familiar to 
 English ears as are many of the lines, perpetually quoted in ordinary 
 conversation, from the works of Pope. 
 
 iVlESSIAH. 
 
 A SACRED ECLOGUE. 
 
 IN IMITATION OF VIRGII.'S POLLIO. 
 
 Ye nymphs of Solyma, begin the song : 
 To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 
 The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, 
 The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids, 
 Delight no more : O Thou my voice inspire 
 Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire ! 
 
 Rapt into future times, the bard begun : 
 A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son ! 
 From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, 
 Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies ! 
 The ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
 And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
 Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour. 
 And in soft silence shed the kindly shower. 
 The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid. 
 From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
 All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail ; 
 Returning Justice lift aloft her scale : 
 Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
 And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. 
 Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn ! 
 Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born ! 
 See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring. 
 With all the incense of the breathing spring : 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 521 
 
 See lofty Lebanon his head advance ; 
 See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; 
 See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 
 And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies ! 
 Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers ; 
 Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! 
 A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply; 
 The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. 
 Lo, earth receives Him from the bending skies ! 
 Sink down, ye mountains, and ye valleys rise ; 
 With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ; 
 Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way ; 
 The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold. 
 Hear Him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, behold ! 
 He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
 And on the sightless eyeball pour the day : 
 'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear. 
 And bid new music charm the unfolding ear : 
 The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 
 And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 
 No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall hear ; 
 From every face He wipes off every tear. 
 In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, 
 And Hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound. 
 As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care. 
 Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air, 
 Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, 
 By day o'ersees them, and by night protects, 
 The tender lambs he raises in his arms. 
 Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms ; 
 Thus shall mankind His guardian care engage. 
 The promised Father of the future age. 
 No more shall nation against natign rise. 
 Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes. 
 Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, 
 The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; 
 But useless lances into scythes shall bend. 
 And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. 
 Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son 
 Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; 
 Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield. 
 And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field. 
 The swain in barren deserts, with surprise, 
 Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise, 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 And starts amidst the thirsty wilds to hear 
 
 New falls of water murmuring in his ear. 
 
 On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, 
 
 The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 
 
 Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn, 
 
 The spiry fir and shapely box adorn. 
 
 To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed, 
 
 And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. 
 
 The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, 
 
 And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead ; 
 
 The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 
 
 And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. 
 
 The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
 
 The crested basilisk and speckled snake. 
 
 Pleased tha green lustre of the scale survey. 
 
 And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. 
 
 Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise ! 
 
 Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes ! 
 
 See a long race thy spacious courts adorn : 
 
 See future sons, and daughters yet unborn. 
 
 In crowding ranks on every side arise, 
 
 Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 
 
 See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 
 
 Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend : 
 
 See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings. 
 
 And heap'd with products of Sabaean springs ! 
 
 For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, 
 
 And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
 
 See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, 
 
 And break upon thee in a flood of day. 
 
 No more the rising sun shall gild the morn. 
 
 Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
 
 But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. 
 
 One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, 
 
 O'erflow thy courts : the Light himself shall shine 
 
 Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
 
 The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
 
 Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
 
 But fixed His word. His saving power, remains : 
 
 Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns ! 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 523 
 
 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Vital spark of heavenly flame, 
 Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame ! 
 Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
 Oh the pain, the bliss, of dying ! 
 Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
 And let me languish into life. 
 
 Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 
 Sister spirit, come away ! 
 What is this absorbs me quite ? 
 Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
 Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
 Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 
 
 The world recedes ; it disappears : 
 Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring. 
 Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 
 O Grave ! where is thy victory ? 
 
 O Death ! where is thy sting ? 
 
 FROM "AN ESSAY ON MAN." 
 
 When the proud steed shall know why man restrains 
 His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains ; 
 When the dull ox why now he breaks the clod. 
 Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god : 
 Then shall man's pride and dulness comprehend 
 His actions', passions', being's, use and end ; 
 Why doing, suffering ; checkd, impelled ; and why 
 This hour a slave, the next a deity. 
 
 Then say not man's imperfect. Heaven in fault ; 
 Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought : 
 His knowledge measured to his. state and place ; 
 His time a moment, and a point his space. 
 If to be perfect in a certain, sphere. 
 What matter, soon or late, or here or there ? 
 The blest to-day is as completely so 
 As who began a thousand years ago. 
 
524 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, 
 All but the page prescribed, their present state : 
 From brutes what men, from men what spirits know : 
 Or who could suffer being here below ? 
 The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
 Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? 
 Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, 
 And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 
 Oh blindness to the future ! kindly given, 
 That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heaven : 
 Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
 A hero perish or a sparrow fall, 
 Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd. 
 And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 
 
 Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar ; 
 Wait the great teacher, Death ; and God adore. 
 What future bliss, He gives not thee to know. 
 But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
 Man never is, but always to be, blest. 
 The soul, uneasy and confined, from home 
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
 
 Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind 
 Sees God in clouds, or hears Him in the wind : 
 His soul proud science never taught to stray 
 Far as the Solar Walk, or Milky Way ; 
 Yet simple nature to his hope has given, 
 Behind the cloud-topp'd hill, an humbler heaven ; 
 Some safer world, in depth of woods embraced, 
 Some happier island in the watery waste, 
 Where slaves once more their native land behold. 
 No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
 To be contents his natural desire : 
 He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
 His faithful dog shall bear him company. 
 
 Go, wiser thou ! and, in thy scale of sense, 
 Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
 Call imperfection what thou fanciest such ; 
 Say, Here He gives too little, there too much ; 
 Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, 
 Yet cry. If man's unhappy, God's unjust ; 
 If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, 
 Alone made perfect here, immortal there : 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 525 
 
 Snatch from His hand the balance and the rod, 
 Re-judge His justice, be the god of God. 
 In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies : 
 All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 
 Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes ; 
 Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 
 Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell. 
 Aspiring to be angels, men rebel : 
 And who but wishes to invert the laws 
 Of order, sins against the Eternal Cause. 
 
 What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, 
 Or hand to toil, aspired to be the head .' 
 What if the head, the eye, or ear repined 
 To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? 
 Just as absurd for any part to claim 
 To be another, in this general frame : 
 Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains 
 The great directing Mind of all ordains. 
 
 All are but parts of one stupendous whole. 
 Whose body nature is, and God the soul : 
 That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, 
 Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame, 
 Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, 
 Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
 Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
 Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
 Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, 
 As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
 As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
 As the rapt seraph, that adores and burns : 
 To Him no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
 He fiUs, He bounds, connects, and equals all. 
 
 Cease then, nor order imperfection name : 
 Our proper bUss depends on what we blame. 
 Know thy own point : this kind, this due degree, 
 Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thcc. 
 Submit ; in this, or any other sphere. 
 Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : 
 Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 
 Or in the natal or the mortal hour. 
 All natuse is but art, unknown to thee ; 
 All chance, direction which thou canst not see ; 
 
526 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 All discord, harmony not understood ; 
 All partial evil, universal good : 
 And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, 
 One truth is clear, — Whatever is, is right. 
 
 Know then thyself ; presume not God to scan ; 
 The proper study of mankind is man. 
 Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, 
 A being darkly wise and rudely great, 
 With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, 
 With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, 
 He hangs between ; in doubt to act, or rest ; 
 In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast ; 
 In doubt his miftd or body to prefer ; 
 Born but to die, and reasoning but to err ; 
 Alike in ignorance, his reason such. 
 Whether he thinks too little, or too much ; 
 Chaos of thought and passion, all confused ; 
 Still by himself abused or disabused ; 
 Created half to rise, and half to fall ; 
 Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all ; 
 Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd ; 
 The glory, jest, and riddle of the world ! 
 
 Remember, man, " the Universal Cause 
 Acts not by partial, but by general, laws ;" 
 And makes what happiness we justly call 
 Subsist not in the. good of one, but all. 
 There's nota blessing individuals find. 
 But some way leans and hearkens to the kind : 
 No bandit fierce, no tyrant mad with pride. 
 No cavern'd hermit, rests self-satisfied : 
 Who most to shun or hate mankind pretend 
 Seek an admirer, or would fix a friend. 
 Abstract what others feel, what others think, 
 All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink. 
 Each has his share ; and who would more obtain 
 Shall find the pleasure pays not half the pain. 
 
 Order is Heaven's first law ; and this confest, 
 Some are, and must be, greater than the rest. 
 More rich, more wise ; but who infers from hence 
 That such are happier, shocks all common sense. 
 Heaven to mankind impartial we confess, 
 If all are equal in their happiness : 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 527 
 
 But mutual wants this happiness increase ; 
 All nature's difference keeps all nature's peace. 
 Condition, circumstance, is not the thing ; 
 Bliss is the same in subject or in king, 
 In who obtain defence or who defend, 
 In him who is or him who finds a friend : 
 Heaven breathes thro' every member of the whole 
 One conunon blessing, as one common soul. 
 
 THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 
 
 Father of all ! in every age. 
 
 In every clime, adored, 
 By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
 
 Jehovah, Jove, or Lord! 
 
 Thou great First Cause, least understood. 
 
 Who aU my sense confined 
 To know, but this, that Thou art good, 
 
 A^d that myself am blind ; 
 
 Yet gave me, in this dark estate. 
 
 To see the, good from ill ; 
 And binding nature fast in fate, 
 
 Left free the human will. 
 
 What conscience dictates to be done, 
 
 Or warns me not to do, 
 This, teach me more than hell to shun, 
 
 That, more than heaven pursue. 
 
 What blessings Thy free bounty gives 
 
 Let me not cast away ; 
 For God is paid when man receives : 
 
 To enjoy is to obey. 
 
 Yet not to earth's contracted span 
 
 Thy goodness let me bound, 
 Or think Thee Lord alone of man, 
 
 When thousand worlds are round : 
 
 Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
 
 Presume Thy bolts to throw, 
 And deal damnation round the land 
 
 On each t judge Thy foe. 
 
528 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 If I am right, Thy grace impart, 
 Still in the right to stay : 
 
 If I am wrong, oh teach my heari 
 To find that better way ! 
 
 Save me alike from foolish pride 
 
 Or impious discontent, 
 At aught Thy wisdom has denied 
 
 Or aught Thy goodness lent. 
 
 Teach me to feel another's woe 
 To hide the fault I see ; 
 
 That mercy I to others show, 
 That mercy show to me. 
 
 Mean though I am, — not wholly so, 
 Since quicken'd by Thy breath, — 
 
 Oh lead me wheresoe'er I go. 
 Through this day's life or death ! 
 
 This day be bread and peace my lut : 
 All else beneath the sun 
 
 Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not. 
 And let Thy will be done. 
 
 To Thee, whose temple is all space, 
 Whose altar, earth, sea, skies ! 
 
 One chorus let all being raise ! 
 All Nature's incense rise ! 
 
 ON THE USE OF RICHES. 
 
 P. The sense to value riches, with the art 
 To enjoy them, and the virtue to impart ; 
 Not meanly nor ambitiously pursued ; 
 Not sunk by sloth, nor raised by servitude ; 
 To balance fortune by a just expense, 
 Join with economy magnificence. 
 With splendour charity, with plenty health : 
 Oh teach us, Bathurst ! yet unspoil'd by wealth. 
 That secret rare, between the extremes to move 
 Of mad good-nature and of m.ean self-love. 
 
 B. To worth or want well-weigh'd be bounty given, 
 And ease or emulate the care of Heaven 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 529 
 
 /hose measure full o'erflows on human race); 
 end fortune's fault, and justify her grace, 
 ealth in the gross is death, but life diffused ; 
 i poison heals, in just proportion used : 
 , heaps, like ambergrise, a stink it lies .; 
 jt, well dispersed, is incense to the skies. 
 P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats ? 
 ie wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats, 
 there a lord who knows a cheerful noon 
 'ithout a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon ? 
 'hose table wit or modest merit share, 
 nelbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player ; 
 Tio copies yours or Oxford's better part, 
 ease the oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart ? 
 ^here'er he shines, O Fortune ! gild the scene, 
 nd angels guard him in the golden mean ! 
 here English bounty yet a while may stand, 
 nd honour linger ere it leaves the land. 
 But all our praises why should lords engross ? 
 ise, honest Muse ! and sing the Man of Ross ; 
 leased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, 
 nd rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds, 
 fho hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow i 
 rom the dry rock who bade the waters flow ? 
 ot to the skies in useless columns toss'd, 
 r in proud falls magnifi^cently lost, 
 ut clear and artless, pouring through the plain, 
 ealth to the sick, and solace to the swain, 
 ^hose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ? 
 fhose seats the wear)' traveller repose ? 
 '^ho taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? 
 The Man of Ross ! " each lisping babe replies. 
 shold the market-place with poor o'erspread ! 
 he Man of Ross divides the weekly bread, 
 e feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, 
 Tiere age and want sit smiling at the gate : 
 im portion'd maids, apprenticed orphans, blest, 
 lie young who labour, and the old who rest, 
 any sick ? the Man of Ross relieves, 
 •escribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives, 
 there a variance ? enter but his door, 
 dk'd are the courts, and contest is no more, 
 espairing quacks with curses fled the place, 
 id vile attorneys, now a useless race. 
 
 M M 
 
530 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 B. Thrice happy man ! enabled to pursue 
 What all so wish, but want the power to do ! 
 Oh say what sums that generous hand supply ? 
 What mines, to swell that boundless charity ? 
 
 P. Of debts, and taxes, wife and children, clear, 
 This man possess'd — five hundred pounds a year. 
 Blush, grandeur, blush ; proud courts, withdraw your blaze ; 
 Ye little stars, hide your diminish'd rays. 
 
 B. And what .' no monument, inscription, stone ? 
 His race, his form, his name, almost unknown ? 
 
 P. Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, 
 Will never mark the marble with his name : 
 Go, search it there, where to be bom and die, 
 Of rich and poor, makes all the history ; 
 Enough, that virtue fiU'd the space between ; 
 Proved, by the ends of being, to have been. 
 When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend 
 The wretch, who living saved a candle's end : 
 Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands. 
 Belies his features, nay, extends his hands ; 
 That live-long wig which Gorgon's self might own 
 Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone. 
 Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend ! 
 And see, what comfort it affords our end. 
 
 In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, 
 The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, 
 On once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw, 
 With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw. 
 The George and Garter dangling from that bed 
 Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red. 
 Great Villiers lies; — alas ! how changed from him, 
 That hfe of pleasure, and that soul of whim ! 
 Gallant and gay, in Cliefden's proud alcove, 
 The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love ; 
 Or just as gay, at council, in a ring 
 Of mimic statesmen, and their merry king. 
 No wit to flatter left of all his store ; 
 No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. 
 There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, 
 And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 531 
 
 ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Descend, ye Nine ! descend, and sing ; 
 
 The breathing instruments inspire ; 
 Wake into voice each silent string. 
 And sweep the sounding lyre ! 
 In a sadly-pleasing strain 
 Let the warbling lute complain : 
 Let the loud trumpet sound, 
 Till the roofs aU around 
 The shrill echoes rebound : 
 While, in more lengthen'd notes and slow, 
 The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. 
 Hark ! the numbers- soft and clear 
 Gently steal upon the ear ; 
 Now louder, and yet louder, rise. 
 And fill with spreading sounds the skies : 
 Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, 
 In broken air trembling, the wild music floats ; 
 Till, by degrees, remote and small, 
 The strains decay, 
 And melt away. 
 In a dying, dying fall. 
 
 II. 
 By Music minds an equal temper know. 
 Nor swell too high, nor sink too low : 
 If in the breast tumultuous joys arise. 
 Music her soft assuasive voice applies ; 
 Or, when the soul is press'd with cares. 
 Exalts her in enliv'ning airs. 
 Warriors she fires with animated sounds. 
 Pours bahn into the bleeding lover's wounds ; 
 Melancholy lifts her head, 
 Morpheus rouses from his bed, 
 Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes, 
 List'ning Envy drops her snakes; 
 Intestine war no more our passions wage. 
 And giddy factions hear away their rage. 
 
 III. 
 But when our country's cause provokes to arms, 
 How martial music every bosom warms ! 
 M M 2 
 
532 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas, 
 High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain, 
 While Argo saw her kindred trees 
 Descend from Pelion to the main : 
 Transported demigods stood round, 
 And men grew heroes at the sound, 
 Inflam'd with Glory's charms : 
 Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd. 
 And half unsheath'd the shining blade ; 
 And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound, 
 To arms, to arms, to arms ! 
 
 IV. 
 But when through all th' infernal bounds 
 Which flaming Phlegeton surrounds 
 
 Love, strong as Death, the Poet led 
 To the pale nations of the dead. 
 What sounds were heard. 
 What scenes appear'd 
 
 O'er all the dreary coasts ! 
 Dreadful gleams. 
 Dismal screams, 
 Fires that glow. 
 Shrieks of woe. 
 Sullen moans, 
 Hollow groans. 
 And cries of tortur'd ghosts ! 
 But, hark ! he strikes the golden lyre ; 
 And, see ! the tortur'd ghosts respire ! 
 See I shady forms advance ! 
 Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still, 
 Ixion rests upon his wheel. 
 And the pale spectres dance ! 
 The Furies sink upon their iron beds. 
 And snakes uncurl'd hang list'ning round their heads. 
 
 V. 
 By the streams that ever flow. 
 By the fragrant winds that blow 
 
 O'er the Elysian flowers ; 
 By those happy souls who dwell 
 In yellow meads of asphodel. 
 
 Or amaranthine bowers ; 
 By the heroes' armfed shades, 
 Glitt'ring through the gloomy glades : 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 533 
 
 By the youths that dy'd for love, 
 Wand'ring in the myrtle grove ; — 
 Restore, restore Eurydice to life : 
 Oh, take the husband, or return the wife ! 
 He sung, and Hell consented 
 To hear the Poet's prayer ; 
 Stern Proserpine relented. 
 And gave him back the fair. 
 Thus song could prevail 
 O'er death and o'er heU, — 
 A conquest how hard and how glorious ! 
 Though Fate had fast bound her, 
 With Styx nine times round her, 
 Yet Music and Love were victorious. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes : 
 Again she falls, again she dies, she dies ! 
 How wilt thou now the Fatal Sisters move ? 
 No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love. 
 Now under hanging mountains. 
 Beside the falls of fountains. 
 Or where Hebrus> wanders. 
 Rolling in meanders, 
 All alone, 
 
 Unheard, unknown. 
 He makes his mosn ; 
 And calls her ghost, 
 For ever, ever, ever lost ! 
 Now with Furies surrounded, 
 Despairing, confounded, 
 He trembles, he glows, 
 Amidst Ehodope's snows : 
 See ! wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies ; 
 Hark ! Hasmus resounds with the Bacchanal's cries : 
 
 Ah see, he dies ! 
 Yet e'en in death Eurydice he sung ; 
 Eurydice still trembled on his tongue ; 
 Eurydice the woods, 
 Eurydice the floods, 
 Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung. 
 
 VII. 
 Music the fiercest grief can charm, 
 And Fate's severest rage disarm : 
 
534 JOHN GA Y. 
 
 Music can soften pain to ease, 
 And make despair and madness please ; 
 Our joys below it can improve, 
 And antedate the bliss above. 
 This the divine Cecilia found, 
 And to her Maker's praise confin'd the sound. 
 When the full organ joins the tuneful quire, 
 
 Th' immortal powers incline their ear ; 
 Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire, 
 While solemn airs improve the sacred fire ; 
 
 And angels lean from heaven to hear. 
 
 Of Orpheus now no more let poets teU ; 
 
 To bright Cecilia greater power is giv'n : 
 
 His numbers rais'd a shade from hell. 
 
 Hers lift the soul to heaven. 
 
 -Sj* 
 
 JOHN GAY. 
 
 ' Born \(>?&. Died \'jyi^\ 
 
 John Gay, descended from an old and respectable Devonshire 
 family, was bom in or near Barnstaple, in 1688. He was educated 
 at the Grammar School of that town ; and while yet a youth was sent 
 to London as apprentice to a silk mercer. Wearying of the restraint 
 of his position, he forsook the mercer's counter, and in 171 1 published 
 his "Rural Sports" dedicated to Mr. Pope, who was then becoming 
 popular. Pope and Gay became acquainted, and the friendship so 
 begun continued until Gay's death. The following year he published 
 his Pastorals, " The Shepherd's Week. " In 1 7 1 2 he was taken into the 
 service of the Duchess of Monmouth as Secretary; and in 1714 was 
 transferred to the staff of the Earl of Clarendon, whom he accompanied 
 as Secretary on his embassy to Hanover. In this manner he was 
 introduced to Court life, and flattered himself that he had won the 
 favour of the Prince, afterwards George I. of England- On Queen 
 Anne's death he dedicated his " Shepherd's Week " to Lord Bolingbroke. 
 This act, according to Dean Swift, was an obstruction to any notice from 
 the House of Hanover. About the time that the Prince and Princess 
 of Wales arrived, Gay produced a mock heroic play, entitled " What 
 d'ye call it ? " the text of which was entirely tragic and solemn, while 
 the action was comic. This absurd combination of the sublime and 
 
JOHN GA v. 535 
 
 ridiculous gave the piece for a time considerable celebrity. By this, 
 and a comedy called "Three Hours after Marriage," Gay trusted that 
 a foundation of iiiture fortune might be laid, but failing in winning that 
 favour which he expected, he sunk into great dejection. The Earl of 
 Burlington, Mr. Pulteney, and Lord Harcourt, showed him special 
 Itindness, entertained him at their houses, and took him on the 
 Continent. In 1720 a subscribed edition of his poems was published, 
 from which he obtained 1,000/., and therewith, as advised by Pope and 
 Swift, he purchased an annuity. He was presented by Craggs with 
 some stoclc in "The South Sea" bubble, from which he hoped to 
 realize a large fortune. But, having resisted advice given him to sell 
 while he could have realized upon his stock, he was siUy enough to hold 
 on until the notorious bubble burst, and he lost everything. Under this 
 calamity he became so low-spirited, that his life was despaired of. 
 Being restored by the tenderness and care of his friends, he wrote his 
 tragedy, "The Captives," which was produced at Drury Lane, 1723-24. 
 
 In 1726 he produced his "Fables," the work by which he is now 
 best known, the latter part of which was specially composed for the use 
 of the young Duke of Cumberland, the future "biutcher of CuUoden." 
 On the accession of George II. Gay was appointed Gentleman Usher 
 to the Princess Louisa ; but he declined the ofSce, informing the Queen 
 that he was too old for it. 
 
 In 1727 he achieved the great success of his life. Swift had 
 su^ested to Gay the idea of a Newgate pastoral. This gave rise to the 
 "B^gar's Opera." It was offered to Cibber at Drury Lane, and 
 refiised. It was then offered to Rich, at Covent Garden, and accepted. 
 Its great success gave rise to the saying that " It made Rich gay, and 
 Gay rich." The "Beggar's Opera" was performed for sixty-three 
 nights without interruption through that season, and was revived 
 the following one. At many provincial theatres, such as Bath and 
 Bristol, it ran for forty and fifty nights ; and in all the great towns 
 of the kingdom the " Beggar's Opera " became the rage. It was com- 
 posed in ridicule of the Italian Opera, and was so successful, that it 
 drove the Italians away for that season. Ladies carried the favourite 
 songs of the opera in their fans ; and Polly Peacham was the most 
 popular woman in London. But the coldness and neglect of the Court 
 was a canker at Gay's heart. He could not bear up against it. The 
 Duke and Duchess of Queensbeny took him to live with them. His 
 friends strove to cheer and encourage him ; but all was vain. The 
 naturally desponding character of disposition completely overpowered 
 him, and he sank rapidly, until he was one day seized with a fit which 
 killed him, December 4, 1732. He was buried in Poet's Comer, with 
 as much state as if he had been a noble, and his monument was erected 
 by the Duke of Queensbeny. . Lord Chesterfield and Pope were present 
 at the funeral. He had himself requested Pope to inscribe on his grave- 
 stone the lines — 
 
 "Life is a jest, and all things show it_: 
 I thought it once ; but now 1 know it." 
 
536 JOHN GA Y, 
 
 Pope says that Gay " was a natural man, without design, who spoke 
 what he thought, and just as he thought it." 
 
 Gay's "Fables," and his "Black-eyed Susan," are the works by 
 which he is now most familiarly known. As a poet he has no claim 
 to greatness ; but he will always be famous as the original producer of 
 what is called a ballad opera, although the original idea was Swift's, 
 and not Gay's. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 FROM THE " WHAT D'YE CALL IT ? " 
 
 'Twas when the seas were roaring 
 
 With hollow blasts of wind, 
 A damsel lay deploring, 
 
 All on a rock reclined. 
 Wide o'er the foaming billows 
 
 She cast a wistful look ; 
 Her head was crowned with willows 
 
 That trembled o'er the brook. 
 
 " Twelve months are gone and over, 
 
 And nine long tedious days. 
 Why didst thou, venturous lover, 
 
 Why didst thou trust the seas ? 
 Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean, 
 
 And let my lover rest : 
 Ah, what's thy troubled motion 
 
 To that within my breast ! 
 
 " The merchant, robbed of pleasure, 
 
 Sees tempests in despair ; 
 But what's the loss of treasure 
 
 To losing of my dear ? 
 Should you some coast be laid on, 
 
 Where gold and diamonds grow. 
 You'd find a richer maiden, 
 
 But none that loves you so. 
 
 " How can they say that Nature 
 
 Has nothing made in vain ? 
 Why then beneath the water 
 
 Should hideous rocks remain ? 
 No eyes the rocks discover 
 
 That lurk beneath the deep. 
 To wreck the wandering lover. 
 
 And leave the maid to weep." 
 
JOHN GA Y. 537 
 
 All melancholy lying, 
 
 Thus wailed she for her dear ; 
 Repay^d each blast with sighing, 
 
 Each billow with a tear ; 
 When, o'er the white wave stooping. 
 
 His floating corpse she spied ; 
 Then, like a lily drooping, 
 
 She bow'd her head, and died. 
 
 MY OWN EPITAPH. 
 
 Life is a jest, and all things show it : 
 I thought so once ; but now I know it. 
 
 A TRUE STORY OF AN APPARITION. 
 
 * # * * 
 
 It was an ancient lonely house, that stood 
 Upon the borders of the spacious wood ; 
 Here towers and antique battlements arise. 
 And there in heaps the mouldered ruin lies. 
 Some lord this mansion held in days of yore, 
 To chase the wolf, and pierce the foaming boar 
 How chang'd, alas ! from what it once had been ! 
 'Tis now degraded to a public inn. 
 Straight he dismounts, repeats his loud commands : 
 Swift at the gate the ready landlord stands ; 
 With frequent cringe he bows, and begs excuse, 
 His house was full, and every bed in use. 
 
 " What, not a garret, and no straw, to spare ? 
 Why, then, the kitchen-fire and elbow-chair 
 Shall serve for once to nod away the night." 
 
 " The kitchen ever is the servants' right," 
 Replies the host ; " there, all the fire around. 
 The count's tir'd footmen snore upon the ground." 
 
 The maid, who listen'd to this whole debate, 
 With pity learnt the weary stranger's fate. 
 " Be brave," she cries, " you still may be our guest 
 Our haunted room was ever held the best : 
 If then your valour can the fright sustain. 
 Of rattling curtains and the clinking chain ; 
 
538 JOHN GA Y. 
 
 If your courageous tongue have power to talk, 
 When round your bed the horrid ghost shall walk ; 
 If you dare ask it why it leaves its tomb ; 
 I'll see your sheets well air'd, and show the room.'' 
 
 Soon as the frighted maid her tale had told, 
 The stranger enter'd, for his heart was bold. 
 
 The damsel led him through a spacious hall, 
 Where ivy hung the half-demolish'd wall ; 
 She frequent look'd behind, and changed her hue, 
 While fancy tipt the candle's flame with blue ; 
 And now they gain'd the winding stairs' ascent, 
 And to the lonesome room of terrours went. 
 When all was ready, swift retir'd the maid, 
 The watch-lights burn, tuck'd warm in bed was laid 
 The hardy stranger, and attends the sprite 
 Till his accustom'd walk at dead of night. 
 
 At first he hears the wind with hollow roar 
 Shake the loose lock, and swing the creaking door ; 
 Nearer and nearer draws the dreadful sound 
 Of rattling chains that dragg'd upon the ground ; 
 When, lo ! the spectre came with horrid stride, 
 Approach'd the bed, and drew the curtains wide ! 
 In human form the ghastful phantom stood, » 
 Expos'd his mangled bosom dy'd with blood. 
 Then, silent pointing to his wounded breast, 
 Thrice waVd his hand. Beneath the frighted guest 
 The bed-cords trembled, and with shuddering fear 
 Sweat chill'd his limbs, high rose his bristled hair ; 
 Then muttering hasty prayers, he mann'd hjs heart, 
 And cr/d aloud, " Say whence and who thou art ? 
 
 The stalking ghost with hollow voice replies, 
 " Three years are counted since with mortal eyes 
 I saw the sun, and vital air respir'd. 
 Like thee benighted, and with travel tir'd. 
 Within th?se walls I slept. O thirst of gain ! 
 See, still the planks the bloody mark retain ! 
 Stretch'd on this very bed, from sleep I start. 
 And see the steel impending o'er my heart ; 
 The barbarous hostess held the hfted knife. 
 The floor ran purple with my gushing life. 
 My treasure now they seize, the golden spoil 
 They bury deep beneath the grass-grown soil. 
 Far in the common field. Be bold, arise. 
 My steps shall lead thee to the secret prize ; 
 
JOHN GA Y. 539 
 
 There dig and find ; let that thy care reward : 
 
 Call loud on Justice, bid her not retard 
 
 To punish murder ; lay my ghost at rest — 
 
 So shall with peace secure thy nights be blest ; 
 
 And when beneath these boards my bones are found, 
 
 Decent inter them in some sacred ground." 
 
 Here ceas'd the ghost. The stranger springs from bed, 
 And boldly follows where the phantom led : 
 The half-worn stony stairs they now descend. 
 Where passages obscure their arches bend. 
 Silent they walk ; and now thro' groves they pass. 
 Now thro' wet meads their steps imprint the grass. 
 At length amidst a spacious field they came : 
 There stops the spectre, and ascends in flame. 
 Amaz'd he stood ; no bush or brier was found 
 To teach his morning search to find the ground. 
 What could he do ? the night was hideous dark, 
 Fear shook his joints, and nature dropt the mark : 
 With that he starting wak'd, and rais'd his head. 
 But found the golden mark was left in bed. 
 
 What is the Statesman's vast ambitious scheme. 
 But a short vision and a golden dream ? 
 Power, wealth, and title elevate his hope : 
 He wakes ; but for a Garter finds a rope. 
 
 VEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED 
 SUSAN. 
 
 All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd. 
 
 The streamers waving in the wind, 
 When black-eyed Susan came aboard. 
 
 " Oh ! where shall I my true love find ? 
 Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. 
 If my sweet William sails among the crew." 
 
 William, who high upon the yard 
 
 Rock'd with the billows to and fro. 
 Soon as her well-known voice he heard. 
 
 He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below ; 
 The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, 
 And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands. 
 
S40 JOHN GA V. 
 
 So the sweet lark, high poised in air, 
 Shuts close his pinions to his breast 
 
 (If chance his mate's shrill call he hear), 
 And drops at once into her nest. 
 
 The noblest captain in the British fleet 
 
 Might envy WiUiam's lips those kisses sweet. 
 
 " Oh, Susan, Susan, lovely dear, 
 
 My vows shall ever true remain ; 
 Let me' kiss off that falling tear ; 
 
 We only part to meet again : * 
 
 Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be 
 The faithful compass that still points to thee. 
 
 " Believe not what the landsmen say. 
 Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind ; 
 
 They'll tell thee sailors, when away, 
 In every port a mistress find : 
 
 Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 
 
 For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 
 
 " If to fair India's coast we sail. 
 Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright ; 
 
 Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale ; 
 Thy skin is ivory so white : 
 
 Thus every beauteous object that I view 
 
 Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 
 
 " Though battle call me from thy arms, 
 
 Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; 
 Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, 
 
 William shall to his dear return. 
 Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. 
 Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye," 
 
 The boatswain gave the dreadful word. 
 The sails their swelling bosom spread ; 
 
 No longer must she stay aboard : 
 They kiss ; she sighed, he hung his head. 
 
 Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : 
 
 " Adieu ! " she cries, and waved her lily hand. 
 
JOHN GA Y. S4I 
 
 THE QUIDNUNKIS : 
 
 A TALE, OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF THE DUKE REGENT 
 OF FRANCE. 
 
 " How vain are mortal man's endeavours ! " 
 
 (Said, at Dame Elliot's, Master Travers.) 
 
 " Good Orleans dead ! in truth, 'tis hard : 
 
 Oh, may all statesmen die prepar'd ! 
 
 I do foresee " (and for foreseeing 
 
 He equals any man in being) 
 
 " The army ne'er can be disbanded. 
 
 I wish the king were safely landed. 
 
 Ah, friends ! great changes threat the land ; 
 
 All France and England at a stand ! 
 
 There's Meroweis — mark ! strange work ! 
 
 And there's the Czar, and there's the Turk ; 
 
 The Pope" An India merchant by 
 
 Cut short the speech with this reply: 
 
 " All at a stand ? you see great changes ? 
 Ah, sir ! you never saw the Ganges : 
 There dwell the nations of Quidnunkis 
 (So Monomotapa calls monkeys). 
 On their bank, from bough to bough, 
 They meet and chat (as we may now). 
 Whispers go round, they grin, they shrug, 
 They bow, they snarl, they scratch, they hug ; 
 And just as chance or whim provoke them, 
 They either bite their friends, or stroke them. 
 
 " There have 1 seen some active prig, 
 To show his parts, bestride a twig : 
 Lord ! how the chattering tribe admire ; 
 Not that he's wiser, but he's higher. 
 All long to try the vent'rous thing 
 (For power is but to have one's swing). 
 From side to side he springs, he spurns, 
 And bangs his foes and friends by turns. 
 Thus, as in giddy freaks he bounces, 
 Crack goes the twig, and in he flounces ! 
 Down the swift stream the wretch is borne ; 
 Never, ah ! never, to return ! 
 
 " ' Zounds ! what a fall had our dear brother ! ' 
 'Morbleu!' cries one; and 'Damme!' t'other. 
 
542 JOHN GAY. 
 
 The nations give a general screech ; 
 None cocks his tail, none claws his breech ; 
 Each trembles for the public weal, 
 And for a while forgets to steal. 
 
 " A while all eyes, intent and steady, 
 Pursue him whirling down the eddy, 
 But, out of mind when out of view, 
 Some other mounts the twig anew. 
 And business on each monkey-shore 
 Runs the same track it went before." 
 
 FABLE XVI IT. 
 
 THE PAINTER WHO PLEASED NOBODY AND EVERYBODY. 
 
 Lest men suspect your tale untrue. 
 Keep probability in view. 
 The traveller, leaping o'er those bounds, 
 The credit of his book confounds. 
 Who with his tongue hath armies routed 
 Makes even his real courage doubted. 
 But flattery never seems absurd ; . 
 The flatter'd always take your word : 
 Impossibilities seem just ; 
 They take the strongest praise on trust. 
 Hyperboles, though ne'er so great, 
 Will still come short of self-conceit. 
 
 So very like a Painter drew. 
 That every eye the picture knew ; 
 He hit complexion, feature, air. 
 So just, the life itself was there. 
 No flattery, with his colours laid, 
 To bloom restor'd the faded maid : 
 He gave each muscle all its strength ; 
 The mouth, the chin, the nose's length, 
 His honest pencil touch'd with truth. 
 And mark'd the date of age and youth. 
 
 He lost his friends, his practice fail'd : 
 Truth should not always be reveal'd : 
 In dusty piles his pictures lay. 
 For no one sent the second pay. 
 Two busts fraught with every grace, 
 A Venus' and Apollo's face. 
 
JOHN GA y. 543 
 
 He plac'd in view ; resolv'd to please, 
 Whoever sat he drew from these ; 
 From these corrected every feature, 
 And spirited each awkward creature. 
 
 All things were set ; the hour was come, 
 His palette ready o'er his thumb. 
 My lord appear'd ; and seated right, 
 In proper attitude and light. 
 The Painter look'd, he stretch'd the piece. 
 Then dipt his pencil, talk'd of Greece, 
 Of Titian's tints, of Guide's air : 
 " Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there 
 Might well a Raphael's hand require. 
 To give them all the native fire ; 
 The features, fraught with sense and wit. 
 You'll grant, are very hard to hit ; 
 But yet with patience you shall view 
 As much as paint and art ,can do." 
 
 " Observe the work !" My lord replied, 
 " Till now I thought my mouth was wide ; 
 Besides, my nose is somewhat long : 
 Dear sir, for me, 'tis far too young." 
 
 " Oh ! pardon me," the artist cry'd ; 
 " In this the Painters must decide. 
 The piece ev'n common eyes must strike : 
 I warrant it extremely like." 
 
 My lord examin'd it anew ; 
 No looking-glass seem'd half so true. 
 
 A lady came with borrow'd grace : 
 He from his Venus form'd her face. 
 Her lover prais'd the Painter's art ; 
 So like the picture in his heart ! 
 To every age some charm he lent ; 
 Ev'n beauties were almost content. 
 
 Through all the town his art they prais'd, 
 His custom grew, his price was rais'd. 
 Had he the real likeness shown, 
 Would any man the picture own ? 
 But when thus happily he wrought. 
 Each found the likeness in his thought. 
 
 *«>« 
 
S44 
 
 RICHARD SAVAGE. 
 
 Bom 1697. Died 1743. 
 
 The life of Richard Savage is probably the most melancholy to nar- 
 rate in the biographies of English poets. His mother was the Countess of 
 Macclesfield ; but before his birth her infidelity was proclaimed, and her 
 intrigue with Lord Rivers was made known, not only to the world, but 
 to Parliament. The Earl of Macclesfield applied to Parliament for a 
 divorce, which he obtained ; and when Richard Savage was born, January 
 10, 1697, he came into the world branded with the bar of bastardy ! 
 Lord Rivers never concerned himself about the infant further than giving 
 him his own name at his baptism, at St. Andrew's, Holbora. The 
 Countess disowned him. He was put under the charge of strangers, 
 and might have lived and died unknown but for the interference of 
 Lady Mason, the mother of the Countess. By her kindness he was pot 
 to school near St. Alban's. Earl Rivers died in 171Z. On his death- 
 bed he made anxious inquiries after his son. The infamous mother, in 
 order to cut off her own child from- any inheritance under the Earl's will, 
 represented him as dead : 6,000/. intended by Rivers to provide for his 
 illegitimate offspring was thus lost to him. Savage's mother — or, rather, 
 the savage mother — next endeavoured to get rid of her child by shipping 
 him off to the American plantations. Failing in this scheme, she put 
 him to learn cobbling, with a shoemaker in Holbom. While at this 
 trade his nurse died. Savage went to her house to take possession of 
 her effects, and in turning over letters and papers discovered the truth 
 regarding his parentage and birth. He used every means to approach his 
 mother, but without effect. She repulsed him, and calmly contemplated 
 his being reduced to the utmost want. The celebrated Bangorian 
 controversy first tempted him to try his hand at composition. He 
 wrote a poem on the subject, entitled " The Battle of the Pamphlets." 
 At the age of eighteen he attempted a comedy, " Woman's a Riddle," 
 which was performed. Two years later he wrote another, " Love in a 
 Veil," which on its production procured him the acquaintance and the 
 sympathy of Sir Richard Steele and some of his friends. Steele said, 
 " the inhumanity of his mother had given him a right to find every good 
 man his father." 
 
 Mr. Wilks, the actor, also befriended him, and once succeeded in 
 extracting 50/. from Savage's mother for his benefit. Savage became a 
 regular frequenter of the theatre through Mr. Wilks' kindness, and there 
 became known to the celebrated actress Mrs. Old field, who was so 
 touched with his misfortunes, that she allowed him 50/. per annum 
 
RICHARD SAVAGE. 545 
 
 her life. His next literai-y effort wns a play founded upon the 
 I story of Sir Thomas Overbury. The profits of the play gave 
 100/. A miscellany of poems, for Savage's benefit, was published 
 cription. The sums forwarded to Button's Coffee-house amounted 
 nty guineas. 
 
 death of the King furnished the poets of the day with a subject 
 ode. Savage wrote, and his composition was regarded by the 
 nd the critics as the best produced on the occasion. By this time 
 I begun to establish a reputation. In November, 1727, having 
 '0 acquaintances. Merchant and Gregory, in London, he repaired 
 iiem to a coffee-house, where they passed a jovial evening, and 
 ; out into the streets at a late hour, on being attracted by a light 
 her coffee-house near Charing Cross, they entered it. Merchant, 
 rse for wine, rushed into a room occupied by guests. A quarrel 
 ; swords were drawn, and by accident a Mr. James Sinclair 
 lied. Savage and his companions were committed to Newgate. 
 ir on his death-bed swore that he received his death-wound from 
 I. Possibly such was the case ; but if so, it was inflicted by acci- 
 md Savage had only acted in self-defence. At the trial, he and 
 ry were found guilty of murder. It would hardly be credited, 
 lot the fact upon record, that the person who most strove to 
 it any exercise of the royal prerogative was Savage's own mother. 
 >ed all her influence to induce the King to sign the death-warrant 
 5 execution. The Countess of Hertford, learning the circum- 
 i, and Savage's melancholy history, interposed, and, demanding an 
 ice of the Queen, so successfully urged her entreaties, that his life 
 lared, and he was admitted to bail in March, 1 728. 
 ig once more free, and having found all forms of entreaty fruitless 
 'e his mother's pity and consideration. Savage threatened to expose 
 print, by publishing lampoons. The threat was effectual. The 
 r promised to allow him a pension, and Lord Tyrconnel, on con- 
 of his silence, admitted him into his family. Then began the 
 unny period of Savage's ill-starred life. He lived like a gentle- 
 he dressed splendidly ; and he was received with delight among 
 sses that professed to value genius. Persons who would before 
 lighted him, now thought it their duty to caress him. 
 ong a throng of acquaintances, he established one true friendship, 
 [at was with Pope. In this gay, tinsel period of his life he pub- 
 "The Wanderer," a moral poem, which he considered as his 
 piece. 
 
 halcyon days were not destined to last long. Savage quarrelled 
 L.ord Tyrconnel, was banished from his hospitable roof, and 
 lore sank into poverty and comparative obscurity. Under these 
 stances he considered himself justified in exposing his unnatural, 
 Mother. He therefore wrote and published one of the most re- 
 ble poems m our language, entitled " The Bastard," which narrates 
 ry, and gives the world a picture of his mother. It is nervously 
 N N 
 
546 RICHARD SAVAGE. 
 
 powerful, and eloquent with the goaded feelings of a man suffering under 
 undeserved wrongs. His mother was at Bath when the poem came out. 
 Its popularity was immense, and this female fiend was literally hooted 
 out of society with it. Wherever she appeared, lines from it were audibly 
 quoted m her presence. The woman, who was insensible to shame as an 
 adulteress, and had used all her influence to compass the death of her unfor- 
 tunate son, was at last punished by the child she had so brutally wronged. 
 She fled from Bath, and hid herself away from the scorn of society. 
 
 The Laureateship having become vacant. Savage used all the influence 
 he could command to obtain the office, but failed; CoUey Gibber be- 
 came Laureate. Nothing daunted, Savage constituted himself volunteer 
 Laureate, and wrote birthday odes to the Queen, which gained him 
 during his life a pension of 50/. per annum. Whenever he received his 
 pension, he became for the time lost to his friends, and only emerged 
 from his retirement when the money was spent, and actual want com- 
 pelled him to seek help. On the death of the Queen he lost his pen- 
 sion, and was in most abject poverty. His friends promoted a subscrip- 
 tion, and recommended his retirement into the country. In 1739 he 
 left London, and proceeded first to Bristol, then to Swansea, Uving upon 
 the small sums forwarded to him from London. In 1742 he returned 
 to Bristol, where he had been most hospitably received and entertained 
 on his first visit. The gentry of that city had been wearied of applica- 
 tions for money and his thoughtless expenditure. On his return, they 
 did not give him the welcome he expected, which greatly mortified him. 
 The last poem he wrote, " London and Bristol Delineated," was a 
 lampoon upon his foimer friends. After a supper party at Bristol, in 
 January, 1742-3, he was arrested for a coffee-house debt, amountmg to 
 8/., and committed to prison. In prison he was treated with great con- 
 sideration by the keeper ; but after an incarceration of six months' dura- 
 tion his health failed, and he was seized with fever, of which he died on 
 the 1st of August, 1743. The humane keeper buried his remains at his 
 own expense in the churchyard of St. Peter's, Bristol. 
 
 Such is an outline of a life only to be equalled in sadness by that of 
 the famous Bristol boy, Chatterton. Savage's life was one of careless- 
 ness, and disregard of his own interests. He was his own worst enemy; 
 for, had he conducted himself with common prudence, the^e^wasa period 
 when, living with Lord Tyrconnel, he might have secured a sufficient 
 fortune, and have lived respected among his friends. He was affable, 
 kindly, and great in conversational power. The singularity of his 
 history, and the inhuman treatment he received from his mother, secured 
 for him in his life great sympathy and tender consideration. The same 
 tenderness is extended to his memory. He is remembered far more with 
 pity than with blame. As a poet, he was as uneven and as uncertain as 
 his life had been ; but even in his writings he is remarkable, when we 
 remember how his education was neglected. His poem " The Bastard " 
 shows what strength there was in him, and that he was capable of an 
 exalted tone of thought, such as his other writings rarely display. 
 
RICHARD SAVAGE. 547 
 
 THE BASTARD. 
 
 gayer hours, when high my fancy ran, 
 le Muse, exulting, thus her lay began : — 
 " Blest be the Bastard's birth ! through wondrous ways 
 e shines eccentric, like a comef s blaze ! 
 sickly fruit of faint compliance he ! 
 e ! stampt in Nature's mint of ecstacy ! 
 e lives to build, not boast, a generous race : 
 
 tenth transmitter of a foolish face : 
 
 is daring hope no sire's example bounds ; 
 is first-bom lights no prejudice confounds, 
 e, kindling from within, requires no flame ; 
 e glories in a Bastard's glowing name. 
 " Bom to himself, by no possession led, 
 
 1 freedom foster'd, and by fortune fed ; 
 
 or guides, nor rules, his sovereign choice control, 
 'is body independent as his soul ; 
 .oos'd to the world's wide range — enjoy'd no aim, 
 rescrib'd no duty, and assign'd no name : 
 ature's unbounded son, he stands alone, 
 [is heart unbiass'd, and his mind his own. 
 "0 mother, yet no mother ! 'tis to you 
 [y thanks for such distinguish'd claims are due : 
 ou, unenslav'd to Nature's narrow laws, 
 /arm championess for freedom's sacred cause, 
 rem all the dry devoirs of blood and line, 
 rem ties maternal, moral and divine, 
 )ischarg'd my grasping soul ; push'd me from shore, 
 Jid launch'd me into life without an oar. 
 " What had I lost, if, conjugally kind, 
 «y nature hating, yet by vows confin'd, 
 Jntaught the matrimonial bounds to slight, 
 ind coldly conscious of a husband's right, 
 'ou had faint-drawn me with a form alone, 
 L lawful lump of life by force your own ! 
 "hen, while your backward will retrench'd desire, 
 Lnd unconcurring spirits lent no fire, 
 had been bom your duU, domestic heir, 
 .oad of your Ufe, and motive of your care ; 
 'erhaps been poorly rich and meanly great, 
 'he slave of pomp, a cypher in tlie State, 
 
 N N 2 
 
548 RICHARD SAVAGE. 
 
 Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown, 
 
 And slumbering in a seat by chance my own. 
 " Far nobler blessings wait the Bastard's lot : 
 
 Conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot ! 
 
 Strong as necessity, he starts away, 
 
 Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day." 
 Thus unprophetic, lately misinspir'd, 
 
 I sung : gay fluttering hope my fancy fir'd ; 
 
 Truly secure, through conscious scorn of ill. 
 
 Nor taught by wisdom how to balance will .: 
 Rashly deceiv'd, I saw no pits to shun. 
 
 But thought to purpose and to act were one ; 
 
 Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way 
 Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray : 
 But now, expos'd, and shrinking from distress, 
 I fly to shelter while the tempests press ; 
 My Muse to grief resigns the varying tone. 
 The raptures languish, and the numbers groan. 
 
 O Memory ! thou soul of joy and pain ! 
 Thou actor of our passions o'er again ! 
 Why dost thou aggravate the wretch's woe ? 
 Why add continuous smart to every blow ? 
 Few are my joys ; alas ! how soon forgot ! 
 On that hind quarter thou invad'st me not : 
 While sharp and numberless my sorrows fall ; 
 Yet thou repeat'st and multiply'st them all ! 
 
 Is chance a guilt ? that my disastrous heart 
 For mischief never meant must ever smart ? 
 Can self-defence be sin ? — Ah, plead no more ! 
 What though no purpos'd malice stain'd thee o'er ? 
 Had Heaven befriended thy unhappy side. 
 Thou hadst not been provok'd — or thou hadst died. 
 
 Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all 
 On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall ! 
 Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me ; 
 To me ! through Pity's eye condemn'd to see. 
 Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate ; 
 Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late. 
 Young, and unthoughtful then ; who knows, one day, 
 What ripening virtues might have made their way ? 
 He might have liv'd till folly died in shame. 
 Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. 
 He might perhaps his country's friend have prov'd ; 
 Both happy, generous, candid, and belov'd, 
 
RICHARD SAVAGE. 549 
 
 He might have sav'd some worth, now doom'd to fall ; 
 And I, perchance, in him have murder'd all. 
 
 O fate of late repentance ! always vain : 
 Thy remedies but lull undying pain. 
 Where shall my hope find rest ? — No mothei-'s care 
 Shielded my infant innocence with prayer : 
 No father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd, 
 Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd. 
 Is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm. 
 First to advance, then screen from future harm .' 
 Am I returned from death to live in pain ? 
 Or would imperial pity save in vain ? 
 Distrust it not : what blame can mercy find. 
 Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind ? 
 
 Mother miscall'd, farewell ! — of soul severe, 
 This sad reflection yet may force one tear • 
 All I was wretched by to you I ow'd ; 
 Alone from strangers every comfort ilow'd ! 
 
 Lost to the life you gave, your son no more. 
 And now adopted, who was doom'd before. 
 New-bom, I may a nobler mother claim, 
 But dare not whisper her immortal name ; 
 Supremely lovely, and serenely great ! 
 Majestic mother of a kneeling State ! 
 Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er before 
 Agreed — yet now with one consent adore ! 
 One contest yet remains in this desire. 
 Who most shall give applause, where all admire. 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 Fair truth, in courts where Justice should preside, 
 Alilce the judge and advocate would guide ; 
 And these would vie each dubious point to clear, 
 To stop the widow's and the orphan's tear ; 
 Were all, like Yorke, of delicate address, 
 Strength to discern, and sweetness to express, 
 Learn'd, just, polite, born every heart to gain, 
 Like Cummins mild, like Fortescue humane, 
 Ml eloquent of truth, divinely known, 
 30 deep, so clear, all science is his own. 
 
5 5o RICHARD SA VA GE. 
 
 Of heart impure, and impotent of head, 
 In history, rhetoric, ethics, law, unread ; 
 How far unlike such worthies, once a drudge. 
 From floundering in low cases, rose a judge. 
 Form'd to make pleaders laugh, his nonsense thunders, 
 And on low juries breathes contagious blunders. 
 His brothers blu-sh, because no blush he knows, 
 Nor e'er " one uncorrupted finger shows." 
 See, drunk with power, the circuit-lord exprest ! 
 Full in his eye his betters stand confest ; 
 Whose wealth, birth, virtue, from a tongue so loose, 
 'Scape not provincial, vile, buffoon abuse. 
 Still to what circuit is assign'd his name. 
 There swift before him flies the warner — Fame. 
 Contest stops short, consent yields every cause 
 To Cost ; Delay endures them and withdraws. 
 But how 'scape prisoners ? to their trial chain'd. 
 All, all shall stand condemn'd who stand arraign'd. 
 Dire guilt, which else would detestation cause, 
 Prejudg'd with insult, wondrous pity draws. 
 But 'scapes e'en Innocence his harsh harangue ? 
 Alas ! — e'en Innocence itself must hang ; 
 Must hang to please him, when of spleen possest. 
 Must hang to bring foi-th an obortive jest. 
 
 Why liv'd he not ere Star Chambers had fail'd. 
 When fine, tax, censure, all but law prevail'd ; 
 Or law, subservient to some murderous will. 
 Became a precedent to murder still ? 
 Yet, e'en when patriots did for traitors bleed. 
 Was e'er the job to such a slave decreed. 
 Whose savage mind wants sophist-art to draw, 
 O'er murder'd virtue, specious veils of law ? 
 
 Why, student, when the bench your youth admits ; 
 Where, though the worst, with the best rank'd he sits ; 
 Where sound opinions you attentive write. 
 As once a Raymond, now a Lee to cite. 
 Why pause you scornful when he dins the Court ? 
 Note well his cruel quirks, and well report. 
 Let his own words against himself point clear. 
 Satire more sharp than verse when most severe. 
 
CHRISTOPHER PITT. 551 
 
 VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Polly ! from me, though now a love-sick youth, 
 Nay, though a poet, hear the voice of truth ! 
 Polly ! you're not a beauty, yet you're pretty ; 
 So grave, yet gay ; so silly, yet so witty : 
 A heart of softness, yet a tongue of satire ; 
 You've cruelty, yet, even with that, good nature : 
 Now you are free, and now reserv'd awhile ; 
 Now a forc'd frown betrays a willing smile. 
 Reproach'd for absence, yet your sight den/d ; 
 My tongue you silence, yet my silence chide. 
 How would you praise me, should your sex defame ! 
 Yet, should they praise^ grow jealous, and exclaim. 
 If I despair, with some kind look you bless ; 
 But if I hope, at once all hope suppress. 
 You scorn : yet should my passion change, or fail, 
 Too late you'd whimper out a softer tale. 
 You love, yet from your lover's wish retire ; 
 Douht, yet discern ; deny, and yet desire ! 
 Such, Polly, are your sex — part truth, part fiction, 
 Some thought, much whim, and all a contradiction ! 
 
 -*^» 
 
 CHRISTOPHER PITT. 
 
 Born 1699. Died, !•]/[&. 
 
 HWSTOPHER Pitt was born at Blandford, in Dorsetshire, in 1699. 
 he age of fifteen Pitt was elected a scholar of Winchester. In 17 19 
 roceeded.iii due course to New College, Oxford. On leaving Win- 
 ter for New College, he presented to his electors two volumes of 
 3. poems, one of which contained a complete version of Lucan. After 
 ing through the Univ£rsity, Pitt was presented to the Rectory of 
 pern, near Blandford, by his relative Mr. Pitt of Strathfield-sea. 
 resigning his Fellowship and leaving the University, he retired to 
 pern, where he passed the remainder of his days. In his thirtieth 
 he published a version of the first book of the iEneid;, and com- 
 Mi his translation in 1738. It is a work of considerable merit. 
 
552 CHRISTOPHER PITT. 
 
 composed with elegance and much harmony. Pitt died at Blandford, in 
 his forty-ninth year, and is buried there. His tombstone records that 
 " he lived innocent, and died beloved. April 13, 1748, aged 48." He 
 was a man of amiable character, and "primitive simplicity of manners." 
 His poems were collected and published in 1 779 ; but his chief work was 
 his translation of the yEneid. It was said " that Pitt pleases the critics, 
 and Dryden the people : that Pitt is quoted, and Dryden read." 
 
 ON THE ART OF PREACHING. 
 
 A FRAGMENT, IN IMITATION OF HORACE'S "ART OF POETRY.' 
 Pendent opera interrupta. 
 
 Should some famed hand, in this fantastic age, 
 
 Draw Rich, as Rich appears upon the stage, 
 
 With all his postures in one motley plan, 
 
 The god, the hound, the monkey, and the man, 
 
 Here o'er his head high brandishing a leg. 
 
 And there just hatched and breaking from his egg. 
 
 While monster crowds on monster through the piece, 
 
 Who could help laughing at a sight like this ? 
 
 Or, as a drunkard's dream together brings 
 
 " A court of cobblers, or a mob of kings : " 
 
 Such is a sermon, where, confusedly dark. 
 
 Join Sharp, South, Sherlock, Barrow, Wake, and Clarke. 
 
 So eggs of different parishes will run 
 
 To batter, when you beat six yolks to one ; 
 
 So fix bright chemic liquors when you mix, 
 
 In one dark shadow vanish all the six. 
 
 Full licence priests and painters ever had 
 To run bold lengths, but never to run mad ; 
 For these can't reconcile God's grace to sin, 
 Nor those paint tigers in an ass's skin. 
 No common dauber in once piece would join 
 The fox and goose — unless upon a sign. 
 Some steal a page of sense from Tillotson, 
 And then conclude divinely with their own. 
 With such low arts your audience never bilk ; 
 For who can bear a fustian lined with silk ? 
 Sooner than preach such stuff I'd walk the town. 
 Without my scarf, in Whiston's draggled gown ; 
 Ply at the Chapter, and at Child's, to read 
 For pence ; and bury for a groat a head. 
 
CHRISTOPHER PITT. 553 
 
 Some easy subject choose, within your power. 
 Or you can never hold out half an hour. 
 One rule observe : this Sunday split your text ; 
 Preach one part now, and t'other half the next. 
 Speak, look, and move with dignity and ease, 
 Like mitred Seeker : you'll be sure to please. 
 But if you whine like boys at country schools. 
 Can you be said to study Cambray's rules .■' 
 Begin with care, nor, like that curate vile. 
 Set out in this high prancing stumbling style, 
 " Whoever with a piercing eye can see 
 Through the past records of futurity : " 
 All gape— no meaning— the puffed orator 
 Talks much, and says just nothing for an hour. 
 Truth and the text he labours to display, 
 Till both are quite interpreted away : 
 So frugal dames insipid water pour 
 Till green, bohea, and coffee, are no more. 
 His arguments in silly circles run 
 Still round and round, and end where they begun ; 
 So the poor turnspit, as the wheel runs round. 
 The more he gains the more he loses groimd. 
 Surprised with solitary self-applause, 
 He sees the motley mingled scene he draws : 
 Dutch painters thus at their own figures start. 
 Drawn with their utmost uncreating art. 
 Still to your hearers all your sermons sort ; 
 Who'd preach against corruption at the Court ^ 
 Against Church-power at visitations bawl, 
 Or talk about damnation at Whitehall ? 
 Harangue the horse-guards on a cure of souls. 
 Condemn the quirks of Chancery at the Rolls, 
 Or rail at hoods and organs at St. Paul's ? 
 Or be, like David Jones, so indiscreet 
 To rave at usurers in Lombard Street ? 
 Ye country vickers, when you preach in town 
 A turn at Paul's to pay your journey down. 
 If you would shun the sneer of every prig, 
 Lay by the Uttle band and rusty wig : 
 But yet be sure your proper language know. 
 Nor talk as bom within the sound of Bow ; 
 Speak not the phrase that Drury Lane affords, 
 Nor from 'Change-alley steal a cant of words : 
 
554 ROBERT BLAIR. 
 
 Coachmen will criticise your style ; nay, further, 
 Porters will bring it in for wilful murder ; 
 The dregs of the canaille will look askew, 
 To hear the language of the town from you ; 
 Nay, my Lord Mayor, with merriment possest, 
 Will break his nap and laugh among the rest, 
 And jog the alderman to hear the jest. 
 
 -«>«; 
 
 ROBERT BLAIR. 
 
 Bom 1699. Died 1747. 
 
 Little is 'known of the author of " The Grave." He was the eldest 
 son of the Rev. Robert Blair, one of the ministers of Edinburgh and 
 Chaplain to the King. Being brought up to the same profession as his 
 parent, Blair was appointed minister of Athelstaneford, East Lothian, 
 where he resided until his death. "The Grave" was never a general 
 favourite, and made its way very slowly into public notice. Watts and 
 Doddridge, who were personal friends of the author, did their best to bring 
 it forward, and Dr. Watts offered it to two booksellers, who, however, 
 declined to publish it. It was ultimately published in London in 1743, 
 a few years before the author's death, and attained a certain amount of 
 popularity. Some passages in it are powerful and dramatic. From the 
 nature of the subject, it will continue to be a favourite with minds of 
 a gloomy character. Blair died of a fever, February 4, 1747, in the 
 forty-seventh year of his age. 
 
 FROM " THE GRAVE." 
 
 See yonder hallow'd fane ! — the pious work 
 Of names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot, 
 And bury'd midst the wreck of things that were ; 
 There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. 
 The wind is up : hark ! how it howls ! methinks 
 Till now I never heard a sound so dreary : 
 Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, 
 RooVd in the spire, screams loud : the gloomy aisles. 
 Black plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of scutcheons 
 
ROBERT BLAIR. 555 
 
 And tattei'd coats of arms, send back the sound, 
 Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults. 
 The mansions of the dead. Rous'd from their slumbers, 
 In grim array the grisly spectres rise. 
 Grin horrible, and obstinately sullen 
 Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night. 
 Again the screech-owl shrieks : ungracious sound ! 
 I'U hear no more ; it makes one's blood run chill. 
 # ♦ * * * 
 
 Invidious grave ! how dost thou rend in sunder 
 Whom love has knit and sympathy made one ! 
 A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. 
 Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul, 
 Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society, 
 I owe thee much. Thou hast deserv'd from me 
 Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. 
 Oft have I proVd the labours of thy love, 
 And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, 
 . Anxious to please. — O ! when my friend and I 
 In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on 
 Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank. 
 Where the pure limpid stream has slid along 
 In grateful errors, through the underwood 
 Sweet murmuring ; methought the shrill-ton,gued thrush 
 Mended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird 
 Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note : 
 The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose ' 
 Assum'd a dye more deep, whilst every flower 
 Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury 
 Of dress. — Oh ! then, the longest summer's day 
 Seem'd too, too much in haste : still the full heart 
 Had not imparted half : 'twas happiness 
 Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, 
 Not to return, how painful the remembrance ! 
 
 Dull grave — thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood, 
 Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth. 
 And every smirking feature from the face ; 
 Branding new laughter with the name of madness. 
 Where are the jesters now ? the man of health 
 ComplexionaUy pleasant? where the droll. 
 Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke 
 To clapping theatres and shouting crowds. 
 And made ev'n thick-lipp'd,' musing melancholy 
 To gather up her face into a smile 
 
5,6 ROBERT BLAIR. 
 
 Before she was aware ? Ah ! sullen now, 
 And dumb as the green turf that covers them. 
 
 # * # # # 
 
 Here all the mighty troublers of the earth, 
 Who swam to sov'reign rule through seas of blood ; 
 The oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains 
 Who ravag'd kingdoms, and laid empires waste, 
 And in a cruel wantonness of power 
 Thinn'd states of half their people, and gave up 
 To want the rest ; now, like a storm that's spent, 
 Lie hush'd, and meanly sneak behind thy covert. 
 Vain thought ! to hide them from the general scorn 
 That haunts and dogs them like an injur'd ghost 
 Implacable. Here to the petty tyrant 
 Whose scant domains geographer ne'er noticed. 
 And, well for neighb'ring grounds, of arm as short ; 
 Who fix'd his iron talons on the poor. 
 And grip'd them like some lordly beast of prey. 
 Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing hunger 
 And piteous plaintive voice of misery 
 (As if a slave was not a shred of nature. 
 Of the same common nature with his lord) ; 
 Now tame and humble, like a child that's whipp'd, 
 Shakes hands with dust, and calls the worm his kinsman ; 
 Nor pleads his rank and birthright. Underground 
 Precedency's a jest ; vassal and lord, 
 Grossly familiar, side by side consume. 
 
 When self-esteem, or others' adulation, 
 Would cunningly persuade us we were something 
 Above the common level of our kind, 
 The grave gainsays the smooth-complexion'd flattery. 
 And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are. 
 
 Beauty ! thou pretty plaything ! dear deceit ! 
 That steals so softly o'er the stripling heart, 
 And gives it a new pulse, unknown before ! 
 The grave discredits thee : thy charms expung'd, 
 Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soil'd, 
 What hast thou more to boast of ? Will thy lovers 
 Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee homage ? 
 Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid, 
 Whilst surfeited upon thy damask cheek 
 The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roU'd, 
 Riots unscar'd. — For this was all thy caution ? 
 For this thy painful labours at thy glass ? 
 
ROBERT BLAIR. 557 
 
 r' improve those charms, and keep them in repair? 
 
 For which the spoihr thanks thee not. Foul feeder ! 
 
 Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well, 
 
 And leave as keen a relish on the sense. 
 
 Look how the fair one weeps ! — the conscious tears 
 
 Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flowers. 
 
 Honest effusion ! the swoll'n heart in vain 
 
 Works hard to put a gloss on its distress. 
 ***** 
 How shocking must thy summons be, O Death ! 
 
 To him that is at ease in his possessions ; 
 
 Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, 
 
 Is quite unfumish'd for that world to come ! 
 
 In that dread moment, how the frantic soul 
 
 Roves round the walls of her clay tenement, 
 
 Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, 
 
 But shrieks in vain ! How wishfully she looks 
 
 On all she's leaving, now no longer hers ! 
 
 A little longer, yet a little longer, 
 
 O might she stay, to wash away her stains, 
 
 And fit her for her passage ! Mournful sight ! 
 
 Her very eyes weep blood ; and every groan 
 
 She heaves is big with horror : but the foe, 
 
 Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose. 
 
 Pursues her close through ever)' lane of life, 
 
 Nor misses once the track, but presses on ; 
 
 Till forc'd at last to the tremendous verge. 
 
 At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. 
 ***** 
 But know that thou must render up the dead. 
 
 And with high int'rest too ! — They are not thine. 
 
 But only in thy keeping for a season. 
 
 Till the great promis'd day of restitution ; 
 
 When loud diffusive sound from brazen trump 
 
 Of strong-lung'd cherub shall alarm thy captives, 
 
 And rouse the long, long sleepers into life. 
 
 Daylight, and Uberty. — 
 
 Then must thy gates fly open, and reveal 
 
 The mines that lay long forming under ground 
 
 In their dark cells immur'd ; but now full ripe, 
 
 And pure as silver from the crucible, 
 
 That twice has stood the torture of the fire 
 
 And inquisition of the forge. We know 
 
 Th' illustrious deliverer of mankind, 
 
SS8 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 The Son of God, thee foil'd. — Him in thy power 
 
 Thou couldst not hold : self-vigorous He rose, 
 
 And, shaking off thy fetters, soon retook 
 
 Those spoils His voluntary yielding lent : 
 
 (Sure pledge of our releasement from thy thrall !) 
 
 Twice twenty days He sojourn'd here on earth, 
 
 And show'd Himself alive to chosen witnesses, 
 
 By proofs so strong, that the most slow-assenting 
 
 Had not a scruple left. This having done, 
 
 He mounted up to heav'n. Methinks I see Him 
 
 Climb the asrial heights, and glide along 
 
 Athwart the severing clouds : but the faint eye, 
 
 Flung backward in the chase, soon drops its hold. 
 
 Disabled quite, and faded with pursuing. 
 
 Heaven's portals wide expand to let Him in ; 
 
 Nor are His friends shut out : as some great prince 
 
 Not for himself alone procures admission. 
 
 But for his train ; it was His royal will. 
 
 That where He is, there should His followers be. 
 
 -fc* 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 Bom 1700. Died 1748. 
 
 Thomson was bom at Ednam, in the shire of Roxbutgh, September 
 II, 1700. His father was minister of the parish, and Ms mother the 
 daughter and co-heiress of Mr. Trotter of Fogo. He was educated at 
 the Grammar School at Jedburgh, and from thence proceeded to the 
 University of Edinburgh, where, in 1 719, he was admitted as a student of 
 Divinity. An accident made him renounce the profession he had originally 
 decided to follow, and led him to abandon the Church for literature. Tlie 
 Professor of Divinity at Edinburgh gave him the 104th Psalm to para- 
 phrase, and he fiilfiUed his task in so poetical a way as to astonish the 
 Professor and the audience. Flattering as were the encomiums passed 
 upon the composition, Dr. Hamilton suggested to the youthful student 
 that if he wished to be useful in the ministry he must curb his imagina- 
 tion, and adopt language and ideas intelligible to ordinary minds. This 
 Thomson felt would be a difficulty ; so he determined to abandon Divinity 
 and try his fortune in London. 
 
JAMES THOMSON. 559 
 
 the autumn of 1725 he made his way to the metropolis, and while 
 Jig about had his pocket picked of his handkerchief, which con- 
 l the letters of introduction he had received from his mother's relative, 
 Grizel Baillie, and other friends interested in his prospects. Finding 
 If thus without money and friends, he fell back upon his manuscript 
 Afinter" as his only available property. It was with difficulty he 
 a purchaser; but Mr. Millar eventually consenting to give a trifle 
 it was published in 1726. Mr. Whately and Mr. Spence having 
 !d it favourably, public attention was roused, and one edition soon 
 red another. Its reputation made the author acquainted with 
 il ladies of rank ; but the most valuable friend it brought him was 
 lundle, afterwards Bishop of Derry, who was so pleased with the 
 M:ted character of the poet, that he introduced him to the Lord 
 cellor Talbot, with whose son, some years after, he travelled on the 
 inent. Happy in having thus won public favour, he published 
 amer" in the following year, " Spring" in 1728, and" Autumn" in 
 Besides these efforts of his genius, he published " A Poem, to Sir 
 Newton," in 1727, and the tragedy of "Sophonisba," in which Wilks 
 the part of Massinissa, and Mrs. Oldfield that of Sophonisba. The 
 ss of this tragedy was equivocal : the author's fame had raised 
 :talions which were disappointed ; and though the rehearsals were 
 ded by splendid audiences, nobody was affected, and they rose up 
 r the impression that they had been well lectured. Johnson, who 
 10 admirer of Thomson, ascribes one cause of its failure to a foolish 
 iy of a silly line, omitted in subsequent impressions : — 
 
 " O, Sophonisba ! Sophonisba, O ! " 
 
 "O, Jemmy Thomson ! Jemmy Thomson, O ! " 
 
 i was generally repeated through the town, as " Eh, Lambert ! " was 
 rt time since in Paris. 
 
 1733 Chancellor Talbot appointed Thomson to the sinecure ofSce 
 :cretary of Briefs in the Court of Chancery, which gave him an 
 le, and suited well his indolent turn of mind, its duties requiring 
 attention. This post he held till the Chancellor's death, when, 
 ; too listless or indifferent to apply to Lord Hardwicke, Talbot's 
 :ssor, for a continuance in the office, he lost it, and with it his 
 aiary independence. About this time he was arrested for a debt of 
 md was rescued from a spunging-house by Quin, the well-known 
 . His trouble seems to have spurred him on to renewed literary 
 ion, and in 1738, besides other works, he produced his play of 
 amemnon," with Quin for his hero. This met with little success, 
 ;h it brought him " no inconsiderable sum. " An anecdote is told 
 homson, that, on the first night of its performance, such was his 
 f of mind, his wig was so disordered by perspiration, that he could 
 aeet his friends until he had had an interview with his hairdresser, 
 most valuable friend Thompson ever made was Lord Lyttelton, 
 oncoming into office in 1744, bestowed on the poet the situation of 
 ;yor General of the Leeward Lsles, which, after paying a deputy, left 
 
S6o JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 him an income of 300/. per annum : he was thus placed above want 
 during the few remaining years of his life, and had the happiness of feeling 
 he was indebted for this blessing to the kindness of a friend. " The Custle 
 of Indolence," generally considered his masterpiece, was finished and 
 published in 1748. It had been under his hand for many years, and 
 displays greater originality than any of his other poems, though many 
 prefer the " Seasons" on account pf the exquisite beauty of the pictures he 
 draws of scenery and country life. In 1 748 he walked from London to 
 Hammersmith, and being tired and overheated, imprudently took a boat 
 to Kew, where he resided. He caught a chill, which, in spite of medical 
 care, carried him off on the 27th of August, just as he had completed his 
 forty-eighth year. He was buried in Richmond church, under a plain 
 stone, without an inscription, until Lord Buchan subsequently erected a 
 small brass tablet to his memory in 1 792. 
 
 Thomson was, as a man, what his writings would lead us to imagine, 
 generous, affable, and amiable. His chief fault was indolence, of which he 
 was fully aware. In general society he was silent, but among his intimates 
 he was cheerful and entertaining. Few men had warmer friends, and 
 those who had made his acquaintance early in life loved him to its close. 
 As a poet, he was remarkable for purity of sentiment ; and the highest 
 eulogy that could be pronounced upon a man's writings was Lord 
 Lyttelton's assertion, that they contain 
 
 " No line which, dying, he could wish to blot." 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 When first the soul of love is sent abroad, 
 Warm through the vital air, and on the heart 
 Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin 
 In gallant thought to plume the painted wing. 
 And try again the long-forgotten strain, 
 At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows 
 The soft infusion prevalent and wide, 
 Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows 
 In music unconfin'd. Up springs the lark, 
 Shrill-voic'd and loud, the messenger of mom : 
 Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings 
 Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts 
 Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse 
 Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush 
 Bending with dewy moisture o'er the heads 
 Of the coy quiristers that lodge within, 
 Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush 
 And woodlark, o'er the kind contending throng 
 
JAMES THOMSON. 561 
 
 Superior heard, run through the sweetest length 
 
 3f notes ; when listening Philomela deigns 
 
 To let them joy, and purposes, in thought 
 
 Elate, to make her night excel their day. 
 
 The blackbird whistles from the thorny brake ; 
 
 The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove : 
 
 Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze 
 
 Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these 
 
 Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade 
 
 Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix 
 
 Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, 
 
 And each harsh pipe, discordant hear^ alone. 
 
 Aid the full concert : while the stock-dove breathes 
 
 A melancholy murmur through the whole. 
 
 'Tis love creates their melody, and all 
 This waste of music is the voice of love ; 
 That eVn to birds, and beasts, the tender arts 
 Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind 
 Try every winning way inventive love 
 Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates 
 Pour forth their little souls. First, wide around. 
 With distant awe, in airy rings they rove. 
 Endeavouring by a thousand tricks to catch 
 The cunning, conscious, half-averted glance 
 Of their regardless charmer. Should she seem, 
 Softening, the least approvance to bestow. 
 Their colours burnish, and, by hope inspir'd. 
 They brisk advance ; then, on a sudden struck. 
 Retire disorder'd ; then again approach ; 
 In fond rotation spread the spotted wing, 
 And shiver every feather with desire. 
 
 But happy they ! the happiest of their kind ! 
 Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate 
 Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 
 Tis not the coarser tie of human laws. 
 Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind. 
 That binds their peace, but harmony itself, 
 Attuning all their passions into love ; 
 Where friendship full exerts her softest power, 
 Perfect esteem enliven'd by desire 
 Ineffable, and sympathy of soul ; 
 Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will, 
 o o 
 
562 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 With boundless confidence : for nought but love 
 Can answer love, and render bliss secure. 
 Let him, ungenerous, who, alone intent 
 To bless himself, from sordid parents buys 
 The loathing virgin, in eternal care, 
 Well merited, consume his nights and days : 
 Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love 
 Is wild desire, fierce as the suns they feel ; 
 Let eastern tyrants from the light of heaven 
 Seclude their bosom-slaves, meanly possess'd 
 Of a mere, lifeless, violated form : 
 While those .whom love cements in holy faith 
 And equal transport free as Nature live, 
 Disdaining fear. What is the world to them. 
 Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all ! 
 Who in each other clasp whatever fair 
 High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish ; 
 Something than beauty dearer, should they look 
 Or on the mind, or mind-illumin'd face — 
 Truth, goodness, honour, harmony, and love, 
 The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven. 
 Meantime a smiling offspring rises round, 
 And mingles both their graces. By degrees 
 The human blossom blows : and every day, 
 Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm. 
 The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom. 
 Then infant reason grows apace, and calls 
 For the kind hand of an assiduous care. 
 Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought. 
 To teach the young idea how to shoot. 
 To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind. 
 To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix 
 The generous purpose in the glowing breast. 
 
 Oh, speak of joy ! ye whom the sudden tear 
 Surprises often, while you look around, 
 And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss. 
 All various nature pressing on the heart : 
 An elegant sufficiency, content, 
 Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, 
 Ease and alternate labour, useful life. 
 Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven. 
 These are the matchless joys of virtuous love ; 
 And thus their moments fly. The seasons thus. 
 As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, 
 
JAMES THOMSON. 3^3 
 
 Still find them happy ; and consenting Spring 
 Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads : 
 Till evening comes at last, serene and mild ; 
 When, after the long vernal day of life, 
 Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells 
 With many a proof of recollected love. 
 Together down they sink in social sleep ; 
 Together freed, their gentle spirits fly 
 To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Say, shall we wind 
 Along the streams ? or walk the smiling mead ? 
 Or court the forest glades ? or wander wild 
 Among the waving harvests ? or ascend. 
 While radiant Summer opens all her pride, 
 Thy hill, delightful Shene ? Here let us sweep 
 The boundless landscape : now the raptur'd eye. 
 Exulting swift, to huge Augusta send. 
 Now to the sister-hills that skirt her plain, 
 To lofty Harrow now, and now to where 
 Majestic Windsor lifts his princely brow. 
 In lovely contrast to this glorious view. 
 Calmly magnificent, then will we turn 
 To where the silver Thames first rural grows. 
 There let the feasted eye unwearied stray ; 
 Luxurious, there rove through the pendent woods 
 That nodding hang o'er Harrington's retreat ; 
 And stooping thence to Ham's embowering walks, 
 Beneath whose shades, in spotless peace retir'd, 
 With her, the pleasing partner of his heart, 
 The worthy Queensbury yet laments his Gay, 
 And polish'd Cornbury woos the willing Muse. 
 Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames, 
 Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt 
 In Twickenham's bowers, and for their Pope implore 
 The healing god ; to royal Hampton's pile, 
 To Clermont's terrass'd height, and Esher's groves. 
 Where in the sweetest solitude, embrac'd 
 By the soft windings of the silent Mole, 
 From courts and senates PeUiam finds repose. 
 002 
 
564 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 Enchanting vale ! O softly-swelling hills ! 
 On which the Power of Cultivation lies, 
 And joys to see the wonders of his soil. 
 
 Heavens ! what a goodly prospect spreads around, 
 Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires. 
 And glittering towns, and gilded streams, till all 
 The stretching landscape into smoke decays ! 
 Happy Britannia ! where the queen of arts, 
 Inspiring vigour. Liberty, abroad 
 Walks unconfin'd, ev'n to thy farthest cots, 
 And scatters plenty with unsparing hand. 
 
 Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime ; 
 Thy streams unfailing in the summer's drought ; 
 Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks ; thy valleys float 
 With golden waves, and on thy mountains flocks 
 Bleat numberless ; while, roving round their sides. 
 Bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves. 
 Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unquell'd 
 Against the mower's scythe. On every hand 
 Thy villas shine. Thy country teems with wealth ; 
 And property assures it to the swain, 
 Pleas'd, and unwearied, in his guarded toil. 
 
 Full are thy cities with the sons of art. 
 And trade and joy in every busy street 
 Mingling are heard : ev'n Drudgery himself, 
 As at the car he sweats, or dusty hews 
 The palace-stone, looks gay. Thy crowded poits. 
 Where rising masts an endless prospect yield, 
 With labour burn, and echo to the shouts 
 Of hurried sailor, as he hearty waves 
 His last adieu, and, loosening every sheet. 
 Resigns the spreading vessel to the wind. 
 
 Bold, firm, and graceful are thy generous youth. 
 By hardships sinew'd and by danger fir'd. 
 Scattering the nations where they go ; and first. 
 Or on the listed plain, or stormy seas. 
 Mild are thy glories too, as o'er the plans 
 Of thriving peace thy thoughtful sires preside ; 
 In genius and substantial learning high ; 
 For every virtue, every worth, renown'd ; 
 Sincere, plain-hearted, hospitable, kind. 
 Yet, like the mustering thunder, when provok'd, 
 The dread of tyrants, and the sole resource 
 Of those that under grim oppression groan. 
 
JAMES THOMSON. 565 
 
 FROM "THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE." 
 
 One great amusement of our household was 
 In a huge crystal magic globe to spy, 
 Still as you turn'd it, all things that do pass 
 Upon this ant-hill Earth ; where constantly 
 Of idly-busy men the restless fry 
 Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste. 
 In search of pleasures vain that from them fly. 
 Or which obtain'd the caitiffs dare not taste : 
 When nothing is enjoy'd, can there be greater waste ? 
 
 " Of Vanity the mirror " this was call'd. 
 Here you a muckworm of the town might see 
 At his dull desk, amid his legers staU'd, 
 Eat up with carking care and penurie ; 
 Most like a carcase parch'd on gallow-tree. 
 " A penny saved is a penny got ; " 
 Firm to this scoundrel maxim keepeth he, 
 Ne of its rigour will he bate a jot, 
 Till it has quench'd his fire, and banished his pot. 
 
 Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold ! 
 Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spendthrift heir, 
 All glossy gay, enamell'd all with gold, 
 The silly tenant of the summer air : 
 In folly lost, of nothing takes he care ; 
 Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile, 
 And thieving tradesmen him among them share : 
 His father's ghost, from Limbo-lake, the while 
 Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him pile. 
 
 This globe pourtray'd the race of learned men 
 Still at their books, and turning o'er the page. 
 Backwards and forwards : oft they snatch the pen. 
 As if inspir'd, and in a Thespian rage ; 
 Then write, and blot, as would your ruth engage. 
 Why, Authors, all this scrawl and scribbling sore ? 
 To lose the present, gain the futture age, 
 Praised to be when you can hear no more. 
 And much enrich'd with fame, when uselAs worldly store ? 
 
S66 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 Then would a splendid city rise to view, 
 With carts, and cars, and coaches, roaring all : 
 Wide pour'd abroad behold the giddy crew ; 
 See how they dash along from wall to wall ! 
 At every door hark how they thundering call ! 
 Good Lord ! what can this giddy rout excite ? 
 Why, on each other with fell tooth to fall ; 
 A neighbour's fortune, fame, or peace to blight, 
 And make new tiresome parties for the coming night. 
 
 The puzzling sons of party next appeared, 
 In dark cabals and nightly juntos met : 
 And now they whisper'd close, now shrugging 
 Th' important shoulder ; then, as if to get 
 New light, their twinkling eyes were inward set. 
 No sooner Lucifer recalls affairs. 
 Than forth they various rush in mighty fret ; 
 When, lo ! push'd up to power, and crown'd their cares, 
 In comes another set, and kicketh them down stairs. 
 
 But what most show'd the vanity of life 
 Was to behold the nations all on fire, 
 In cruel broils engag'd, and deadly strife ; 
 Most Christian kings, inflam'd by black desire. 
 With honourable ruffians in their hire, 
 Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour : 
 Of this sad work when each begins to tire, 
 . They sit them down just where they were before. 
 Till for new scenes of woe peace shall their force restore. 
 * * * * 
 
 RULE, BRITANNIA.i 
 
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command, 
 
 Arose from out the azure main. 
 This was the charter of the land. 
 And guardian angels sang the strain : 
 
 Rule, Britannia ! Britannia rules the waves ! 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 (i) This celebrated song was first sung in the "Masque of Alfred," a performancewhich 
 was the joint production of James Thomson and David Mallet The Masque was 
 written by command of the Prince of Wales, father of George III., for his entertainment 
 of the Court, and was first performed at Clifden in 1740, on the birthday of H.R.H. 
 the Princess of Wales. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON. 567 
 
 The nations not so blest as thee 
 
 Must in their turn to tyrants fall ; 
 Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free, 
 
 The dread and envy of them all.- 
 Rule, Britannia, &c. 
 
 Still more majestic shalt thou rise. 
 More dreadful, from each foreign stroke ; 
 
 As the loud blasts that tear thy skies 
 Serve but to root thy native oak. 
 Rule, Britannia, &c. 
 
 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame : 
 
 AU their attempts to hurl thee down 
 Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame. 
 
 And work their woe, but thy renown. 
 Rule, Britannia, &c. 
 
 To thee belongs the rural reign ; 
 
 Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; 
 All thine shall be the subject inain, 
 
 And every shore encircle thine. 
 Rule, Britannia, &c. 
 
 The Muses, still with Freedom found. 
 
 Shall to thy happy coast repair ; 
 Blest Isle ! with matchless beauty crown'd, 
 
 And manly hearts to guard the fair. 
 Rule, Britannia, &c. 
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 
 
 Born 1709. Died 1784. 
 
 Samuel Johnson, "the great Lexicographer," was the son of 
 Michael Johnson, a bookseller at Lichfield, in which city Johnson was 
 born, September i8, 1709. He was afflicted with scrofula, which im- 
 paired his eye-sight from his childhood. His early education was 
 received at Lichfield and at Stourbridge. From Stourbridge he proceeded 
 
568 SAMUEL yOHNSOA. 
 
 to Pembroke College, Oxford, where his acquirements were early 
 appreciated. Poverty compelled him to leave the University without 
 taking his degree. He returned to his father's house, and the following 
 year (1731), on his father's death, became usher in a school at Market 
 Bosworth, Leicestershire. Teaching becoming intolerable to him, he 
 procured employment from a bookseller in Birmingham, where he 
 married the widow of a mercer, named Porter, in 1 736. The lady was 
 more than twenty years his senior, but Johnson was sincerely attached 
 to her. With the 800/. which his marriage brought him he established 
 a school. This enterprise failed, and Johnson with his pupil Garrick 
 set out on foot to walk to London. They both went to seek their for- 
 tunes, possessed of no more than a few halfpence. In London he formed 
 the acquaintance of Savage. Savage's distresses led Johnson to write 
 his " London" (in imitation of Juvenal). Dodsley gave him ten guineas 
 for it. Having again attempted teaching, and again having failed, he 
 surrendered himself to the drudgery of work for Cave, the publisher. 
 In this way Johnson became connected with The Gentleman's Magazine, 
 the parliamentary reports in that work being written by him. His pen 
 was continually in hand, slaving for Cave, producing lives, prefaces, 
 essays, — whatever work Cave required to have done. In 1 744 he wrote 
 his well-known Life of Savage. In 1747 he commenced his English 
 Dictionary, which was to be completed in three years, for the sum of 
 1,575/. The " Vanity of Human Wishes " appeared in 1749, for which 
 Dodsley paid 1^1. i^s. The same year his tragedy, "Irene," was produced 
 at Drury Lane. 
 
 The laborious work necessary for the production of the Dictionary 
 was conducted in Gough Square. Instead of three, it occupied eight 
 years in writing and correcting. In 1752 Johnson's wife died. His 
 grief was so great, that he relinquished the Rambler. (The Rambler 
 and the Idler, in the style of the Spectator, were both conducted by him.) 
 It is told as an anecdote that he composed " Rasselas " in the evenings of 
 one week, in order to meet the expenses of his mother's funeral, in 1745. 
 The same year Johnson took his first holiday after years of intense 
 labour. He visited Oxford, and revived himself among the associations 
 of his early life. In April, 1755, Ws Dictionary was at length published. 
 After thirty years of labour, when he was fifty-three years of age, 
 he reaped the first reward of his devotion to literature. George III. 
 conferred on him a pension of 300/. , and thus rescued him for ever from 
 the pressure of poverty. 
 
 That brighter passage of his life to which the thoughts of the presem 
 age always turn when considering Johnson's career then commenced. 
 His friendship with Garrick had always been warm and sincere. At the 
 ever famous Club he now saw gathered around him Burke, Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, Goldsmith, Topham Beauclerk, and the rest of those friends 
 whose names are familiar to us in the pages of the most wonderfiil 
 biography that ever was written — Eoswell's Life of Johnson. Johnson 
 became acquainted with Boswell in 1763. In 1773 he made his tour 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON. 569 
 
 with Boswellin Scotland, the account of which he {)ublished in his "Tour 
 through the Hebrides." Two years later, the University of Oxford con- 
 ferred on him the degree of D.C.L., of which he was justly proud. From 
 that date he was always spoken of as " Dr. Johnson. " 
 
 The latter portion of his life was greatly enlivened by his friendship 
 with Mr. and Mis. Thrale. In Mr. Thrale's house, at Streatham, John- 
 son had his own rooms, and for many years spent a large portion of his 
 time there. The anecdotes which are told of him in connexion with the 
 Thrales and Streatham are numerous. The last important work of 
 Johnson was his "Lives of the Poets." This charming collection of 
 Biographies continues the best work of reference regarding those authors 
 of whom Johnson wrote. The " Life of Savage" is the most elaborate ; 
 probably because Johnson was so well acquainted with Savage, and 
 because he felt such sincere commiseration for him in his misfortunes. 
 
 Throughout life Johnson had been severely afflicted with the scourge 
 of scrofula. His closing years were marked with great suffering and 
 terrible fits of melancholy. He became a victim to asthma. Dropsy 
 supervened ; and he sank under it, dying at his chambers in Bolt Court, 
 December 13, 1784. On the 20th he was buried in Poet's Corner, close 
 to the grave of Garrick. 
 
 Johnson can hardly be legitimately numbered among English poets, 
 because his name and fame rest upon his prose writings. But he wrote 
 poetry which would have given the name of Poet to any other man. 
 Conspicuous among such compositions is the " Vanity of Human Wishes." 
 No collection of poetry would be tolerably complete which overlooked 
 this work — the admiration alike of Lord Byron and Sir Walter Scott ! 
 Lord Byron called it " a grand poem. " The title was merited. 
 
 Any one who wishes to form a just estimate of the great Doctor's 
 character, manner, and abUity, must study Boswell's Life. It is enough 
 in this place to point to that immortal work, and to say there is but one 
 biography -of Johnson ; and it is a book which every Englishman with 
 a pretension to polite learning must have read. Let it be only added in 
 this place, that Johnson was a sincere Christian, that he scorned hypocrisy 
 and affectation, and that all lovers of letters owe him a debt of gratitude 
 for being the first to break through that intolerable habit, which had 
 reigned supreme, of supposing that books could not succeed with the 
 public unless brought out tmder the patronage and vring of some noble 
 lord's name, Johnson's Letter to Lord Chesterfield on this subject is a 
 monument in the records of literature : " The notice which you have 
 been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind : 
 but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it ; till I 
 am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. 
 I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where 
 no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should 
 consider me as owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled me 
 to do for myself." 
 
570 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES. 
 
 Once more, Democritus, arise on earth, 
 With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth ; 
 See motley life in modem trappings drest, 
 And feed with varied fools th' eternal jest : 
 Thou, who couldst laugh where want enchain'd caprice, 
 Toil crush'd conceit, and man was of a piece ; 
 Where wealth unloVd without a mourner died, 
 And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride ; 
 Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate. 
 Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state ; 
 Where change of favourites made no change of laws. 
 And senates heard before they judged a cause ; 
 How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish tribe. 
 Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe ; 
 Attentive truth and nature to descry. 
 And pierce each scene with philosophic eye. 
 To thee were solemn toys or empty show 
 The robes of pleasure and the veils of woe : 
 All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain. 
 Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain. 
 
 Such was the scorn that fiU'd the sage's mind, 
 ReneVd at every glance on human kind : 
 How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, 
 Search every state, and canvass every prayer. 
 Unnumber'd suppliants crowd preferment's gate, ■ 
 Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great. 
 Delusive fortune hears th' incessant call ; 
 They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. 
 On every stage the foes of peace attend ; 
 Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end. 
 Love ends with hope : the sinking statesman's door 
 Pours in the morning worshipper no more ; 
 For growing names the weekly scribbler lies ; 
 To growing wealth the dedicator flies ; 
 From every room descends the painted face 
 That hung the bright palladium of the place, 
 And, smoked in kitchens, or in auctions sold. 
 To better features yields the frame of gold. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON. 571 
 
 But will not Britain hear the last appeal, 
 Sign her foes' doom, or guard her favourites' zeal ? 
 Through Freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings, 
 Degrading nobles and controlling kings ; 
 Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats, 
 And ask no questions but the price of votes ; 
 With weekly libels and septennial ale, 
 Their wish is fuU to riot and to rail. 
 
 In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand. 
 Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand : 
 To him the church, the realm, their powers consign ; 
 Through him the rays of regal bounty shine ; 
 Turn'd by his nod the stream of honour flows ; 
 His smile alone security bestows : 
 Still to new heights his restless wishes tower : 
 Claim leads to claim, and power advances power ; 
 Till conquest unresisted ceased to please. 
 And rights subverted left him none to seize. 
 At length his sovereign frowns ; — the train of state 
 Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate ; 
 Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye,; 
 His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly. 
 Now drops at once the pride of awful state. 
 The golden canopy, the glittering plate. 
 The regal palace, the luxurious board. 
 The liveried army, and the menial lord. 
 With age, with cares, with maladies opprest. 
 He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. 
 Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings. 
 And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 
 
 Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine ; 
 Shall Wolse/s wealth with Wolse/s end be thine ? 
 Or liVst thou now, with safer pride content. 
 The wisest justice on the banks of Trent.? 
 For why did Wolsey near the steeps of fate 
 On weak foundations raise th' enormous weight ? 
 Why, but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, 
 With louder ruin, to the gulfs below ? 
 
 What gave great Villiers to the assassin's knife. 
 And fixed disease on Harley's closing life ? 
 What murdered Wentworth, and what exiled Hyde, 
 By kings protected, and to kings allied .? 
 What but their wish indulged in Courts to shine, 
 And power too great to keep or to resign ? 
 
572 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 When first the college rolls receive his name, 
 The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame ; 
 Resistless burns the fever of renown, 
 Caught from the strong contagion of the gown : 
 O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread, 
 And Bacon's mansion^ trembles o'er his head. 
 Are these thy views ? proceed, illustrious youth, 
 And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth ! 
 Yet should thy soul indulge the generous heat. 
 Till captive science yields her last retreat ; 
 Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray. 
 And pour on misty doubt resistless day ; 
 Should no false kindness lure to loose delight, 
 Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ; 
 Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain. 
 And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain ; 
 Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart, 
 Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart ; 
 Should no disease thy torpid veins invade. 
 Nor melancholy's phantom haunt thy shade ; 
 Yet hope not life from grief or danger free. 
 Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee : 
 Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes. 
 And pause a while from learning to be wise ; 
 There mark what ills the scholar's life assail, 
 Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail. 
 See nations slowly wise, and meanly just. 
 To buried merit raise the tardy bust. 
 If dreams yet flatter, once again attend ; 
 Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end. 
 Nor deem, when learning her last prize bestows, 
 The glittering eminence exempt from ' " 
 See when the vulgar 'scapes, despis'd ( 
 Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Lj 
 From meaner minds though smaller fi 
 The plunder'd palace or sequester'd re 
 Mark'd out by dangerous parts he met 
 And fatal learning leads him to the block. 
 Around his tomb let art and genius weep : 
 But hear his death, ye blockheads ; hear and sleep ! 
 
 (i) There was a tradition, that the study of Friar Bacon, built on an arch over tlic 
 bridge, would fall when a man greater than Bacon should pass under it. 
 
SAMUEL JOHNSON. 573 
 
 Dn what foundation stands the warrior's pride, 
 iw just his hopes, let Swedish Cliarles decide : 
 tame of adamant, a soul of fire, 
 I dangers fright him, and no labours tire ; 
 ;r love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 
 iconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain. 
 I joys to him pacific sceptres yield ; 
 ir sounds the trump, he rushes to the field : 
 hold surrounding kings their power combine, 
 d one capitulate, and one resign, 
 ice courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain : 
 "hink nothing gain'd," he cries, " till nought remain ; 
 1 Moscow's walls tiU Gothic standards fiy, 
 d all be mine beneath the polar sky." 
 ,e march begins in military state, 
 ,d nations on his eye suspended wait ; 
 :m famine guards the solitary coast, 
 d winter barricades the realms of frost : 
 : comes ; nor want, nor cold, his course delay, 
 de, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day ; 
 le vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands, 
 id shows his miseries in distant lands, 
 ndemn'd a needy supplicant to wait 
 tile ladies interpose, and slaves debate, 
 it did not chance at length his error mend ? 
 d no subverted empire mark his end ? 
 d rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? 
 hostile millions press him to the ground ? 
 s fall was destined to a barren strand, 
 petty fortress, and a dubious hand ; 
 ! left the name at which the world grew pale, 
 I point a moral, or adorn a tale. 
 
 <■%>«■ 
 
574 
 
 WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 
 
 Born ITU. Died l-jb^. 
 
 William Shenstone was bom at the Leasowes, Halesowen, 
 Salop, in November 1 7 14, and received his early education in the 
 Grammar School of that place. In 1732 he was sent to Pembroke 
 College, Oxford, where he remained for some time, but took no degree. 
 On leaving tbe University he seems to have wandered from place to 
 place, amusing himself by studying men and manners, and writing poetry, 
 until he took the management of his patrimony into his own hands in 
 1745. From that time imtil his death, which occurred from putrid fever, 
 on February II, 1763, he led a quiet uneventful life; devoting his 
 leisure moments to rural occupations and the cultivation of his. estates. 
 His poems consist of odes, elegies, and pastorals, and are mostly 
 remarkable for simplicity of style and easiness of diction. Johnson 
 says, " His general defect is want of comprehension and variety " 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 From Lincoln to London rode forth our young squire, 
 To bring down a wife whom the swains might admire ; 
 But in spite of whatever the mortal could say, 
 The goddess objected the length of the way. 
 
 To give up the opera, the park, and the ball. 
 
 For to view the stag's horns in an old country hall ; 
 
 To have neither China nor India to see, 
 
 Nor a laceman to plague in a morning — not she ! 
 
 To forsake the dear playhouse, Quin, Garrick, and Clivc, 
 
 Who by dint of mere humour had kept her alive ; 
 
 To foregb the full box for his lonesome abode — 
 
 O heavens ! she should faint, she should die, on the road ! 
 
 To forget the gay fashions and gestures of France, 
 And to leave dear Auguste in the midst of the dance, 
 And harlequin, too I^'twas in vain to require it, 
 And she wondered how folks had the face to desire it. 
 
 To be sure she could breathe nowhere else than in town ; 
 Thus she talk'd like a wit, and he look'd like a clown : 
 But the while honest Harry despair'd to succeed, 
 A coach with a coronet trailed her to Tweed. 
 
WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 575 
 
 THE EXTENT OF COOKERY. 
 
 When Tom to Cambridge first was sent, 
 
 A plain brown bob he wore, 
 Read much, and looked as though he meant 
 
 To be a fop no more. 
 
 See him to Lincoln's Inn repair, 
 
 His resolution flag ; 
 He cherishes a length of hair, 
 
 And tucks it in a bag. 
 
 Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards, 
 
 But gets into the House ; 
 And soon a Judge's rank rewards 
 
 His pliant votes and bows. 
 
 Adieu, ye bobs ; ye bags, give place ; 
 
 Full-bottoms come instead : 
 Good Lord ! to see the various ways 
 
 Of dressing a calf's head ! 
 
 THE RAPE OF THE TRAP. 
 
 A BALLAD. 1 737. 
 
 'Twas in-the land of learning, 
 The Muses' favourite city. 
 
 Such pranks of late 
 
 Were played by a rat 
 As tempt one to be witty. 
 
 AU in a college study, 
 
 Where books were in great plenty, 
 
 This rat would devour 
 
 More sense in an hour 
 Than I could write in twenty. 
 
 Corporeal food, 'tis granted. 
 Serves vermin less refin'd. Sir ; 
 
 But this, a rat of taste. 
 
 All other rats surpassed ; 
 And he preyed on the food of the mind. Sir. 
 
576 WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 
 
 His breakfast half the morning 
 He constantly attended ; 
 
 And when the bell rung 
 
 For evening song 
 His dinner scarce was ended 1 
 
 He spared not even heroics, 
 On which we poets pride us ; 
 And would make no more 
 Of King Arthurs 1 by the score 
 Than all the world beside does. 
 
 In books of geography 
 He made the maps to flutter : 
 A river or a sea 
 Was to him a dish of tea, 
 And a kingdom bread and butter. 
 
 But if some mawkish potion 
 Might chance to overdose him, 
 
 To check its rage 
 
 He took a page 
 Of logic — to compose him. 
 
 A trap in haste and anger 
 
 Was brought, you need not doubt on't ; 
 And such was the gin. 
 When a lion once got in. 
 
 He could not, I think, get out on't. 
 
 With cheese, not books, 'twas baited ; 
 The fact I'll not belie it ; 
 
 Since none — I'll tell you that — 
 
 Whether scholar or rat. 
 Mind books, when he has other diet. 
 
 But more of trap and bait. Sir, 
 Why should I sing, or either ? 
 
 Since the rat, who knew the sleight, 
 Came in the dead of night 
 And dragged them away together : 
 
 Both trap and bait were vanish'd 
 Through a fracture in the flooring ; 
 
 Which, though so trim 
 
 It now may seem, 
 Had then a dozen or more in ! 
 
 (i) By Blackmore. 
 
THOMAS GRAY. S77 
 
 Then answer this, ye sages ! 
 Nor deem a man to wrong ye : 
 
 Had the rat which thus did seize on 
 
 The trap less claim to reason 
 Than many a skuU among ye ? 
 
 Don Prior's mice, I own it. 
 Were vermin of condition ; 
 
 But this rat, who merely learned 
 
 What rats alone concerned, 
 Was the greater politician. 
 
 That England 's topsy-turvy 
 
 Is clear from these mishaps. Sir ; 
 
 Since traps we may determine 
 
 Will no longer take our vermin, 
 But vermin ' take our traps, Sir. 
 
 Let sophs, by rats infested. 
 Then trust in cats to catch 'em. 
 
 Lest they grow as learned as we, 
 
 In our studies ; where, d'ye see, 
 No mortal sits to watch 'em. 
 
 Good luck betide our captains ; 
 Good luck betide our cats. Sir : 
 
 And grant that the one 
 
 May queU the Spanish Don, 
 And the other destroy our rats. Sir ! 
 
 (z) Written at the time of the Spanish depredations. 
 
 -fc=«; 
 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 Born 1716. Vied 1771. 
 
 HOMAS Gray was bom in ComhiU, November 26, 1716. His 
 ;r was a scrivener, and sent his son to Eton, where his wife's brother, 
 Antrobus, was an assistant master. Here the boy made himself a 
 i classic, and fonned the friendship of Horace Walpole. On leaving 
 1, Gray went up to Cambridge, and entered Peterhouse as a pensioner.' 
 seems to have found a College life irksome, and mathematics particu- 
 P P 
 
578 THOMAS GRA Y. 
 
 larly distasteful, and passed his time principally in the study of languages 
 and history, leaving in 1738 without taking a degree. Horace Walpole, 
 who had continued at Cambridge the boyish friendship commenced at 
 Eton, invited Gray to accompany him on a contmental tour in the spring 
 °f 1739; a-nd they passed the winter of that year at Florence. But 
 Walpole, fresh from the University, with ample means to enjoy himself, 
 found Gray too fond of study and antiquities to be an entertaining 
 companion : so they quarrelled and parted, after spending two years 
 together, and Gray returned home in time to close his father's eyes, 
 in 1 741. 
 
 The law was the profession Gray had selected to follow, but travel 
 appears to have rendered him averse to it, and he decided on another 
 residence at Cambridge, for the purpose of taking the degree of Bachelor 
 of Civil Law. The place was congenial to his tastes, and favourable to 
 the studies he pursued with such ardour, and he accordingly took up his 
 permanent residence, first at Peterhouse and then at Pembroke. In 1742 
 he published his " Ode to Spring," his " Prospect of Eton College," and 
 the " Ode to Adversity ; '' he also commenced a Latin poem " De Prin- 
 cipiis Cogitandi. " The " Elegy in a Country Churchyard," though com- 
 menced many years before, was not given to the world till 1750, and 
 attained an astonishing popularity. Stoke Pogis, near Slough, was the 
 particular spot described. Several other pieces were published in 1753, 
 — a sad year for Gray, as he mourned the death of a mother he had 
 tenderly loved. In 1757 the "Progress of Poetry" and "The Bard" 
 appeared ; but their success was small, though Garrick wrote a few lines 
 in praise of each. On the death of Cibber he was offered the Laureat- 
 ship, which he respectfully declined. For three years he resided in 
 lodgings near the British Museum, to enjoy the advantages of reading and 
 copying. In 1768 the professorship of Modem History at Cambridge, 
 for which, on a former occasion, he had unsuccessfully applied, was 
 offered him unsolicited ; he accepted and retained it till his death. 
 In 1765 he paid a short visit to Scotland, and made the acquaintance of 
 Dr. Beattie. While there he receiyed a proposition from the University 
 of Aberdeen, to confer on him the degree of Doctor of Law, but 
 declined it, out of a feeling of delicacy to Cambridge. In 1769 his 
 health, which had for years been delicate, rendered travelling desirable, 
 and he visited Westmoreland and Cumberland : he also made a tour in 
 Wales in 1770, but it was his last trip. The gout, which had attacked 
 him many times, flew to the stomach, and, in spite of all medical efforts 
 to subdue it, he fell a victim to the disease, and expired July 30, 1771. 
 He was buried in his favourite churchyard at Stoke Pogis, and a 
 monimient to his memory has since been erected in Stoke Park. Boswell 
 says of Gray, " He was perhaps the most learned man in Europe, well 
 acquainted with science, and profoundly versed in history." He wrote 
 little and talked little ; and though his life, apart from literature, was 
 uneventful, he was warmly esteemed by the favoured few who shared 
 his intimacy. 
 
THOMAS GRAY. 579 
 
 ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON 
 COLLEGE. 
 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 
 That crown the wat'ry glade, 
 Where grateful Science still adores 
 
 Her Henry's holy shade ; ^ 
 And ye, that from the stately brow 
 Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below 
 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey. 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
 Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 
 His silver-winding way : 
 
 Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 
 
 Ah, fields beloVd in vain ! 
 Where once my careless childhood stray'd, 
 
 A stranger yet to pain ! 
 I feel the gales that from ye blow 
 A momentary bliss bestow. 
 
 As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
 My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
 And, redolent of joy and youth,* 
 
 To breathe a second spring. 
 
 Say, Father Thames, — for thou hast seen 
 
 FuU many a sprightly race. 
 Disporting on thy margent green, 
 ■ The paths of pleasure trace,— 
 Who foremost now delight to cleave. 
 With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? 
 
 The captive linnet which enthrall ? 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed. 
 
 Or urge the flying ball ? 
 
 While some, on earnest business bent, 
 
 Their murm'ring labours ply 
 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 
 
 To sweeten liberty ; 
 
 Heniy the Sbtth, founder of the College. 
 
 1 bees their honey redolent ofs^ng." Dryden's Fable on the Pythag. 
 
 PP2 
 
58o THOMAS GRA Y. 
 
 Some bold adventurers disdain 
 The limits of their little reign, 
 
 And unknown regions dare descry : 
 Still as they run they look behind, 
 They hear a voice in every wind. 
 
 And snatch a fearful joy. 
 
 Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed. 
 
 Less pleasing when possest ; 
 The tear forgot as soon as shed, 
 
 The sunshine of the breast : 
 Theirs buxom health of rosy hue. 
 Wild wit, invention ever new. 
 
 And lively cheer of vigour born ; 
 The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
 The spirits pure, the slumbers light. 
 
 That fly th' approach of morn. 
 
 Alas ! regardless of their doom, 
 
 The little victims play ! 
 No sense have they of ills to come. 
 
 Nor care beyond to-day : 
 Yet see how all around them wait 
 The ministers of human fate, 
 
 And black Misfortune's baleful train ! 
 Ah, show them where in ambush stand. 
 To seize their prey, the murd'rous band ! 
 
 Ah, tell them they are men ! 
 
 These shall the fury Passions tear. 
 
 The vultures of the mind, 
 Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 
 
 And Shame that skulks behind ; 
 Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 
 Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, 
 
 That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
 And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
 Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, 
 
 And Sorrow's piercing dart. 
 
 Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 
 Then whirl the wretch from high, 
 
 To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, 
 And grinning Infamy. 
 
THOMAS GRAY. 581 
 
 The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 
 And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, 
 
 That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
 And keen Remorse with blood defil'd, 
 And moody Madness laughing wild^ 
 
 Amid severest woe. 
 
 Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 
 
 A grisly troop are seen. 
 The painful family of Death, 
 
 More hideous than their Queen : 
 This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
 That every labouring sinew strains. 
 
 Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
 Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band, 
 That numbs the soul with icy hand, 
 
 And slow-consuming Age. 
 
 To each his sufferings ; all are men, 
 
 Condemn'd alike to groan : 
 The tender for another's pain, 
 
 Th' unfeeling for his own. 
 Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, 
 Since sorrow never comes too late, 
 
 And happiness too swiftly flies? 
 Thought would destroy their paradise. 
 No more ; — where ignorance is bliss, 
 
 'Tis folly to be wise. 
 
 HYMN TO ADVERSITY. 
 
 10V ^povetv fiptnoiis oith- 
 aavra^ tov 'nattet nation 
 9 ttevra Kupiics ^xeiv. 
 
 iEsCH. Agam. 
 
 Daughter of Jove, relentless power, 
 Thou tamer of the human breast, 
 
 Whose iron scourge and torturing hour 
 The bad affright, afflict the best! 
 
 Bound in thy adamantine chain. 
 
 The proud are taught to taste of pain, 
 
 And purple tyrants vainly groan 
 With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. 
 
 (i) " Madness laughing in his ireful mood." — Dkvden. 
 
S82 THOMAS GRA Y. 
 
 When first thy sire to send on earth 
 
 Virtue, his darling child, design'd, 
 To thee he gave the heav'nly birth, 
 
 And bade to form her infant mind. 
 Stem rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 
 With patience many a year she bore : 
 What sorrow was thou bad'st her know. 
 And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe. 
 
 Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly 
 
 Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood. 
 Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, 
 
 And leave us leisure to be good. 
 Light they disperse, and with them go 
 The summer friend, the flatt'ring foe ; 
 By vain Prosperity receiv'd. 
 To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd. 
 
 Wisdom in sable garb array'd, 
 
 Immersed in rapt'rous thought profound, 
 And Melancholy, silent maid, 
 
 With leaden eye that loves the ground, 
 StiU on thy solemn steps attend ; 
 Warm Charity, the gen'ral friend, 
 With Justice, to herself severe. 
 And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. 
 
 Oh ! gently on thy suppliant's head. 
 
 Dread Goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand ! 
 Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad. 
 
 Not circled with the vengeful band 
 (As by the impious thou art seen). 
 With thund'ring voice and threat'ning mien. 
 With screaming Horror's funeral cry,* 
 Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty : 
 
 Thy form benign, O Goddess ! wear. 
 
 Thy milder influence impart. 
 Thy philosophic train be there 
 
 To soften, not to wound, my heart. 
 The gen'rous spark extinct revive, 
 Teach me to love, and to forgive. 
 Exact my own defects to scan. 
 What others are to feel, and know myself a Man. 
 
THOMAS GRA Y. 583 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
 CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,' 
 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 
 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap. 
 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed. 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
 
 How boVd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
 
 Their homely joys, and destinj obscure ; 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 (1} " -^ squilla di lontano 
 
 Che paia '1 giorno pianger, che si muore." 
 Dante, Purgai. 
 
S84 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave. 
 
 Await alike th' inevitable hour : 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
 If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 
 
 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn, or animated bust. 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
 
 Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
 
 Hands that the rod of empire might have swa/d. 
 Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
 Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll ; 
 
 Chill penury repress'd their noble rage. 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 
 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 
 
 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command. 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes. 
 
 Their lot forbad : nor circumscrib'd alone 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd ; 
 
 Forbad to wade thro' slaughter to a throne. 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 
 
THOMAS GRA Y. 585 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
 
 Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
 
 Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 
 Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect 
 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 
 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply : 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd. 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
 
 Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind ? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies ; 
 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires : 
 Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
 
 Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.^ 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 
 
 If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 " Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
 
 " There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 
 
 His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 (i) "Ch' io veggio nel pensier, dolce mio fuoco,_ 
 Fredda una lingua, e due begli occhi chiusi 
 Rimaner doppo noi pien di faville." 
 
 Petr. Son. clxix.- 
 
S86 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
 Mutt'ring his wayward fancies would he rove ; 
 
 Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn. 
 Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 
 
 " One mom I miss'd him from the custom'd hill, 
 Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree ; 
 
 Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : 
 
 " The next, with dirges due in sad array. 
 
 Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. 
 
 Approach and read, for thou canst read, the lay 
 GraVd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
 A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown : 
 
 Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth. 
 And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 
 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
 He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear. 
 
 He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose. 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 Born iy2i. Died I"; (,6. 
 
 William Collins was bom at Chichester, on Christmas Day 1725. 
 His father was in trade, and sent his son to Winchester School, from 
 whence he proceeded to Oxford. Soon after taking his degree at 
 Magdalen College, he quitted the University, and came up to London to 
 try his fortune as a literary adventurer. Here he met with Dr. Johnson, 
 who, in the brief sketch he gives of his life, speaks of him with kindness 
 and affection. He seems to have been a man who planned much, but 
 carried out little ; and his life unfortunately was a struggle with poverty 
 
WILLIAM COLLINS. 587 
 
 and disease. His Odes were published on his own account in 1746, 
 
 but their sale was very slow ; and, irritated by his want of success, 
 
 CoUins destroyed the remaining copies with his own hands. His 
 
 pecuniary embarrassments were relieved by a legacy of 2,000/. left him 
 
 by an unde ; but a darker trouble than even poverty overtook him, and 
 
 he sunk into a state of mental languor, which he vainly tried to shake off 
 
 by travelling in France. For some time after his return he was placed 
 
 under restraint, and finally retired to Chichester, where, under the care 
 
 of his sister, he lingered till 1756, when death released him from his 
 
 suffering. He died in a house adjoining the cloisters, and was buried in 
 
 St. Andrew's Church. Collins may be considered one of our best lyric 
 
 poets. His "Ode to the Passions" and "Dirge" in Cymbeline are perhaps 
 
 the best specimens of his style. His Ode on Thomson contains many 
 
 lines of great beauty. His poetical merits were not appreciated until 
 
 after his death, but posterity has done him justice — and has given him a 
 
 stone, to whom, living, the world denied bread. A monument in the 
 
 north aisle of the nave of Chichester Cathedral is inscribed vnth the 
 
 following lines : — 
 
 " Though Nature gave him and though Science taught 
 The nre of fancy and the reach of thought. 
 Severely doomed to penury extreme 
 He passed in madd'ning pain life's feverish dream. 
 Strangers to him, enamoured of his lays. 
 This fond memorial of his talent raise : 
 For this the athes of a bard require 
 Who touched the tenderest notes of Pity's lyre. 
 Who join'd pure faith to strong poetic powers, 
 Who in reviving reason's lucid hours 
 Sought on one book his troubled mind to rest, 
 And rightly deemed the book of God the best." 
 
 THE PASSIONS. 
 
 When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
 While yet in early Greece she sung, 
 The Passions oft, to hear her shell, 
 Throng'd around her magic cell, 
 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
 Possest beyond the Muse's painting ; 
 By turns they felt the glowing mind 
 Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd. 
 Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, 
 Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, 
 From the supporting myrtles round 
 They snatch'd her instruments of sound, 
 And, as they oft had heard apart 
 Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
 Each, for madness rul'd the hour, 
 Would prove his own expressive power. 
 
588 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 
 
 Amid the chords bewilder'd laid. 
 And back recoil'd, he knew not why, 
 
 E'en at the sound himself had made. 
 
 Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire, 
 
 In lightnings own'd his secret stings, 
 In one rude clash he struck the lyre. 
 
 And swept with hurried hand the strings. 
 
 With woefOl measures wan Despair — 
 
 Low sullen sounds — his grief beguil'd 
 A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 
 
 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 
 
 But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 
 
 What was thy delightful measure ? 
 
 Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure. 
 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong. 
 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 
 Shecall'd on Echo still through all the song : 
 
 And where her sweetest theme she chose, 
 
 A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, 
 And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. 
 And longer had she sung — but, with a frown. 
 
 Revenge impatient rose : 
 He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down 
 
 And, with a withering look. 
 The war-denouncing trumpet took, 
 And blew a blast so loud and dread. 
 Were ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe ; 
 
 And ever and anon he beat 
 
 The doubUng drum with furious heat ; 
 And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, 
 
 Dejected Pity at his side 
 
 Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
 Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, 
 While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. 
 
 Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were fix'd, — 
 
 Sad proof of thy distressful state ! 
 Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, 
 
 And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate. 
 
WILLIAM COLLINS. 589 
 
 With eyes up-rais'd,.as one inspir'd, 
 Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, • 
 And from her wild sequester'd seat, 
 In notes by distance made more sweet, 
 Poui'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul j 
 And dashing soft from rocks around. 
 Bubbling runnels join'd the sound. 
 Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole. 
 Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay ; 
 Round an holy calrri diffusing. 
 Love of peace, and lonely inusing, 
 In hollow murmurs died away. 
 But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone ! 
 When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue. 
 Her bow across her shoulder flung, 
 Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew. 
 Blew an inspiring air,'that dale and thicket rung. 
 The hunter's call to Faun and 'Dryad known : 
 The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd queen. 
 Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, 
 Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
 Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, 
 
 And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. 
 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
 He, with viny crown advancing. 
 
 First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; 
 But soon he saw the brisk-awakening, viol, 
 Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. 
 They would have thought, who heard the strain. 
 They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids. 
 Amidst the festal sounding shades. 
 To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
 
 While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, 
 Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round : 
 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, 
 And he, amidst his frolic play, 
 As if he would the charming air repay. 
 
 Shook thousand odour?, from his dewy wings. 
 
 O, Music, sphere-descended maid, 
 Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid, 
 Why, goddess, why to us denied, 
 La/st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
 
59° WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 As in that lov'd Athenian bower 
 You learn'd an all-commanding power, 
 Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd. 
 Can well recall what then it heard. 
 Where is thy native simple heart, 
 Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? 
 Arise as in that elder time, 
 Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 
 Thy wonders in that godlike age 
 Fill thy recording sister's page. 
 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 
 Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 
 Had more of strength, diviner rage. 
 Than all at once together found 
 Cecilia's mingled world of sound. 
 O, bid our vain endeavours cease, 
 Revive the just designs of Greece, 
 Return in all thy simple state. 
 Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON. 
 
 This poem was written by CoUius at a water-party on the Thames, while passing 
 Richmond. It will be remembered that Thomson was buried in Kichmond church. 
 
 In yonder grave a Druid lies, 
 Where slowly winds the stealing wave : 
 
 The year's best sweets shall duteous rise. 
 To deck its Poet's sylvan grave. 
 
 In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
 
 His airy harp shall now be laid ; 
 That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds 
 
 May love through life the soothing shade. 
 
 Then maids and youths shall linger here ; 
 
 And, while its sounds at distance swell, 
 Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear 
 
 To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. 
 
 Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
 When Thames in summer wreaths is drest ; 
 
 And oft suspend the dashing oar, 
 To bid his gentle spirit rest ! 
 
WILLIAM COLLINS. 591 
 
 And oft as Ease and Health retire 
 
 To breezy lawn, or forest deep, 
 The friend shall view yon whitening spire, 
 
 And 'mid the varied landscape weep. 
 
 But thou who own'st that earthly bed. 
 
 Ah ! what will every dirge avail ! 
 Or tears which Love and Pity shed, 
 
 That mourn beneath the gliding sa.il ! 
 
 Yet lives there one whose heedless eye 
 
 Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near ? 
 
 With him, sweet Bard, may Fancy die, 
 And joy desert the blooming year. 
 
 But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide 
 No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend, 
 
 Now waft me from the green hill's side 
 Whose cold turf hides the buried friend ! 
 
 And see, the fairy valleys fade ; 
 
 Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view ! 
 Yet once again, dear parted shade, 
 
 Meek Nature's child, again adieu ! 
 
 The genial meads, assign'd to bless 
 Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom : 
 
 Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress 
 With simple hands thy rural tomb. 
 
 Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay 
 
 Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes : 
 " Oh, vales, and wild woods," shall he say, 
 
 " In yonder grave your Druid lies ! " 
 
 -^fc^ 
 
592 
 
 MARK AKENSIDE. 
 
 Born i-jil. Died I'j'jo. 
 
 The author of " The Pleasures of Imagination" was the second son of 
 Mark Akenside, a butcher, and was born at Newcastle-on-Tyne, Novem- 
 ber 9, 1721. His father was a rigid Presbyterian. He sent his son to 
 a dissenting school in his native town, and at eighteen entered him at the 
 University of Edinburgh ; but after studying divinity for a short time, 
 young Mark resolved to abandon the idea of the ministry, and applied 
 himself to medicine. In 1742 he proceeded to Leyden to complete his 
 medical studies, and in May, 1744, was admitted to the degree of M.D., 
 on which occasion he published a treatise which was thought highly of 
 as a professional essay. He had, a few months previously, become 
 known as an author, by publishing his great poem " The Pleasures of 
 Imagination," which some of his biographers say was commenced before 
 he entered the University at Edinburgh. Dodsley the bookseller hesi- 
 tated to give the sum of 120/. which he demanded for the copyright, but, 
 referring the matter to Pope, was advised to make no niggardly offer, as 
 the writer had evidently a mind of no common order. The poem was pub- 
 lished anonymously, and a story is told, on the authority of Johnson, that 
 the authorship was claimed in Dublin by a person named Rolt. However 
 that may have been, it is certain that in England it was attributed to the 
 right man. After taking his degree at Leyden, Akenside settled down 
 in Northampton for a short time as a physician, but seems to have paid 
 more attention to literature than to his profession. While at the Uni- 
 versity he had made the acquaintance of Jeremiah Dyson, a man of 
 fortune, who subsequently became Secretary to the Treasury, and ultimately 
 Cofferer to the Household and a Privy Councillor. They had returned 
 from Holland together, and Dyson had defended his friend with his pen 
 against an attack of Warburton. He now gave him another proof of 
 friendship by securing him an income of 300/. per annum until such 
 time as he could gain a living by his profession. Gratefully accepting 
 his friend's generosity, Akenside removed to Hampstead, where he 
 remained for two years and a half, and then came to Loudon and took a 
 house in Bloomsbury Square, in which he resided till his death, by putrid 
 fever, in June, 1 770. As a physician, he never rose to much eminence. 
 His manner in a sick-room was so depressing, that his patients seemed 
 to despair of recovery, and his medicines and advice were equally 
 unpalatable. As a poet, he interests his readers by his ardour, by the 
 warmth of imagination, and his earnestness on behalf of truth. Some 
 of his minor poems possess great beauty. 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 593 
 
 ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY. 
 
 Come then, tell me, sage divine, 
 
 Is it an offence to own 
 That our bosoms e'er incline 
 
 Towards immortal Glory's throne ? 
 For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, 
 Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure, 
 So can Fancy's dream rejoice, 
 So conciliate Reason's choice. 
 As one approving word of her impartial voice. 
 
 If to spurn at noble praise 
 
 Be the passport to thy heaven. 
 Follow thou those gloomy ways ; 
 
 No such law to me was given : 
 Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me 
 Faring like my friends before me ; 
 Nor an holier place desire 
 Than Timoleon's arms acquire. 
 And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyra 
 
 FROM "PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION." 1 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 Call now to mind what high capacious powers 
 Lie folded up in man ; how far beyond 
 The praise of mortals may the eternal growth 
 Of nature to perfection half divine 
 Expand the blooming soul ! What pity, then. 
 Should sloth's unkindly fogs depress to earth 
 Her tender blossom ; choke the streams of life. 
 And blast her spring ! Far otherwise design'd 
 Almighty wisdom ; nature's happy cares 
 The obedient heart far otherwise incline. 
 Witness the sprightly joy when aught unknown 
 Strikes the quick sense, and wakes each active power 
 To brisker measures : witness the neglect 
 
 (1) This poem underwent from time to time so many alterations, that no two 
 editions correspond. In comparing different copies, the alterations and omissions are 
 surprising. 
 
 QQ 
 
594 MARK AKENSIDE. 
 
 Of all familiar prospects, though beheld 
 With transport once ; the fond attentive gaze 
 Of young astonishment ; the sober i^eal 
 Of age, commenting on prodigious things : 
 For such the bounteous providence of Heaven, 
 In every breast implanting this desire 
 Of objects new and strange, to urge us on 
 With unremitted labour to pursue 
 Those sacred stores that wait the ripening soul, 
 In truth's exhaustless bosom. What need words 
 To paint its power ? ' For this the daring youth 
 Breaks from his weeping mother's anxious arms, 
 In foreign climes to rove : the pensive sage, 
 Heedless of sleep, or midnight's harmful damp. 
 Hangs o'er the sickly taper : and untir'd 
 The virgin follows, with enchanted step, 
 The mazes of some wild and wondrous tale. 
 From morn till eve ; unmindful of her form, 
 Unmindful of the happy dress that stole 
 The wishes of the youth, when every maid 
 With envy pin'd. Hence, finally, by night 
 The village matron, round the blazing hearth, 
 Suspends the infant audience with her tales, 
 Breathing antonishment ! of witching rhymes. 
 And evil spirits ; of the death-bed call 
 Of him who robb'd the widow, and devour'd 
 The orphan's portion ; of unquiet souls 
 Risen from the grave to ease the heavy guilt 
 Of deeds in life conceal'd ; of shapes that walk 
 At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave 
 The torch of hell around the murderer's bed. 
 At every solemn pause the crowd recoil, 
 Gazing each other speechless, and congeal'd 
 With shivering sighs : till eager for the event 
 Around the beldame all erect they hang. 
 Each trembling heart with grateftil terrors quell'd. 
 
 But lo ! disclos'd in all her smiling pomp. 
 Where Beauty, onward moving, claims the verse 
 Her charms inspire : the freely-flowing verse 
 In thy immortal praise, O form divine. 
 Smooths her mellifluent stream. Thee, Beauty, thee 
 The regal dome, and thy enlivening ray 
 The mossy roofs adore : thou better sun ! 
 For ever beamest on the enchanted heart 
 
MARK AKENSIDE. 595 
 
 Love, and harmonious wonder, and delight 
 
 Poetic. Brightest progeny of Heaven ! 
 
 How shall I trace thy features ? where select 
 
 The roseate hues to emulate thy bloom ? 
 
 Haste then, my song, through nature's wide expanse. 
 
 Haste then, and gather all her comeliest wealth, 
 
 Whate'er bright spoils the florid earth contains, 
 
 Whate'er the waters, or the liquid air, 
 
 To deck thy lovely labour. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 BOOK 11. 
 
 Hand in hand 
 The immortal pair forsook the enamell'd green. 
 Ascending slowly. Rays of limpid light 
 Gleam'd round their path ; celestial sounds were heard. 
 And through the fragrant air ethereal dews 
 Distill'd around them ; till at once the clouds. 
 Disporting wide in midway sky, withdrew 
 Their airy veil, and left a bright expanse 
 Of empyrean flame, where, spent and drown'd, 
 Afflicted vision plung'd in vain to scan 
 What object it involv'd. My feeble eyes 
 Endur'd not. Bending down to earth I stood, 
 With dumb attention. Soon a female voice. 
 As watery murmurs sweet, or warbling shades. 
 With sacred invocation thus began : 
 
 " Father of gods-and mortals ! whose right arm 
 With reins eternal guides the moving heavens. 
 Bend thy propitious ear. Behold, well pleas'd 
 I seek to finish thy divine decree. 
 With frequent steps I visit yonder seat 
 Of man, thy offspring, from the tender seeds 
 Of justice and of wisdom, to evolve 
 The latent honours of his generous frame. 
 Till thy conducting hand shall raise his lot 
 From earth's dim scene to these ethereal walks, 
 The temple of thy glory. But not me. 
 Not my directing voice, he oft requires. 
 Or hears delighted : this enchanting maid, 
 The associate 'thou hast given me, her alone 
 He loves, O Father ! absent her he craves : 
 And, but for her glad presence ever join'd, 
 QQ2 
 
596 MARK AKENSIDE. 
 
 Rejoices not in mine : that all my hopes 
 This thy benignant purpose to fulfil 
 I deem uncertain, and my daily cares 
 Unfruitful all and vain, unless by thee 
 Still farther aided in the work divine." 
 
 She ceas'd ; a voice more awful thus reply'd : 
 " O thou ! in whom for ever I delight, 
 Fairer than all the inhabitants of heaven, 
 Best image of thy Author ! far from thee 
 Be disappointment, or distaste, or blame : 
 Who soon or late shall every work fulfil. 
 And no resistance find. If man refuse 
 To harken to thy dictates ; or, allur'd 
 By meaner joys, to any other power 
 Transfer the honours due to thee alone ; 
 That joy which he pursues he ne'er shall taste. 
 That power in whom delighteth ne'er behold. 
 Go then once more, and happy be thy toil ; 
 Go then ! but let not this thy smiling friend 
 Partake thy footsteps. In her stead, behold ! 
 With thee the son of Nemesis I send ; 
 The fiend abhorr'd ! whose vengeance takes account 
 Of sacred order's violated laws. 
 See where he calls thee, burning to be gone. 
 Fierce to exhaust the tempest of his wrath 
 On yon devoted head. But thou, my child, 
 Control his cruel phrenzy, and protect 
 Thy tender charge ; that when despair shall grasp 
 His agonizing bosom, he may learn — 
 Then he may learn to love the gracious hand 
 Alone sufficient in the hour of.qll 
 To save his feeble spirit ; then confess 
 Thy genuine honours, O excelling fair ! 
 When all the plagues that wait the deadly will 
 Of this avenging demon, all the storms 
 Of night infernal, serve but to display 
 The energy of thy superior charms. 
 With mildest awe triumphant o'er his rage, 
 And shining clearer in the horrid gloom." 
 
 Here ceas'd that awful voice, and soon I felt 
 The cloudy curtain of refreshing eve 
 Was closed once more, from that immortal fire 
 Sheltering my eyelids. 
 
597 
 
 TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT. 
 
 Born 1721. Died 1771. 
 
 Tobias George Smollett was bora at Cardross, in Scotland,' in 
 1721. His grandfather, Sir James Smollett, was a member of the 
 Scottish Parliament. He was educated at Dumbarton, and from thence 
 proceeded to Glasgow to follow the profession of physic. Medicine 
 was indifferently pursued. Literature and history became his passion. 
 At eighteen he completed a tragedy, entitled "The Regicide." In 
 1741 he sailed as surgeon's-mate in a ship of the line in the expedition 
 to Carthagena, which is described in his " Roderic Random. " Having 
 quitted the service, he resided for some time in Jamaica, where he fell in 
 love with Miss Ann Lascelles. On his return to England in 1746 he 
 wrote " The Tears of Scotland," in indignation at the butcheries prac- 
 tised by the Duke of Cumberland after Culloden. He then commenced 
 his Satires, in which he ridiculed the various managers of theatres with 
 whom he quarrelled. In 1747 he married Miss Lascelles, and the 
 following year, to relieve himself of his pecuniary difficulties, he published 
 "Roderic Random." In 1 75 1 it was followed by " Peregrine Pickle." 
 In 1755 his translation of "Don Quixote" appeared, and in 1758 he 
 brought out his "History of England," which was entirely written in 
 fburteen months. In 1763 and 1764 he passed some time in France and 
 Italy, and published an account of his travels. On his return he visited 
 Scotland, and fixed himself as a resident at Bath, where he set up as a phy- 
 sician — Dr. Smollett. There he wrote a variety of satirical pieces ; among 
 others " The Adventures of an Atom," in ridicule of the King's Ministers. 
 
 In 1770 he left England once again for Italy, and composed upon 
 liis joumey "Humphrey Clinker." He took up his residence near 
 Leghorn ; but the endeavour to recniit his declining health proved vain. 
 He died at Leghorn, October 21, 1771, aged fifty. 
 
 Smollett is known as one of our greatest English humourists and 
 novelists. He stands next in repute to Fielding. As a poet he has no 
 title to fame. " The Tears of Scotland " is the only piece by which his 
 name is now known in poetry ; but " Roderic Random," " Peregrine 
 Pickle," and " Humphrey Clinker," have given him a fame which in 
 English prose is imperishable. 
 
 TO BLUE-EYED ANN. 
 
 When the rough North forgets to howl, 
 And Ocean's billows cease to roll ; 
 When Libyan sands are bound in frost, 
 And cold to Nova Zembla's lost ; 
 
S98 TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT. 
 
 When heavenly bodies cease to move, 
 My blue-eyed Ann I'll cease to love. 
 
 No more shall flowers the meads adorn ; 
 Nor sweetness deck the rosy thorn ; 
 Nor swelling buds proclaim the spring ; 
 Nor parching heats the dogstar bring ; 
 Nor laughing lilies paint the grove, 
 When blue-eyed Ann I cease to love. 
 
 No more shall joy in hope be found ; 
 Nor pleasures dance their frolic round ; 
 Nor Love's light god inhabit earth ; 
 Nor beauty give to passion birth ; 
 Nor heat to summer sunshine cleave, 
 When blue-eyed Nanny I deceive. 
 
 When rolling seasons cease to change, 
 Inconstancy forgets to range ; 
 When lavish May no more shall bloom. 
 Nor gardens yield a rich perfume ; 
 When Nature from her sphere shall start, 
 I'll tear my Nanny from my heart. 
 
 THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1746. 
 
 Mourn, hapless Caledonia ! mourn 
 Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn ! 
 Thy sons, for valour long renown'd. 
 Lie slaughter'd on their native ground : 
 Thy hospitable roofs no more 
 Invite the stranger to the door ; 
 In smoky ruins sunk they lie. 
 The monuments of cruelty. 
 
 The wretched owner sees afar 
 His all become the prey of war ; 
 Bethinks him of his babes and wife, 
 Then smites his breast, and curses life ! 
 Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks 
 Where once they fed their wanton flocks ; 
 Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ; 
 Thy infants perish on the plain. 
 
TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT. 599 
 
 What boots it, then, in every clime, 
 Through the wide-spreading waste of time, 
 Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, 
 Still shone with undiminish'd blazfe ? 
 Thy towering spirit now is broke, 
 Thy neck is bended to the yoke. 
 What foreign arm could never quell 
 By civil rage and rancour fell. 
 
 The rural pipe and merry lay 
 No more shall cheer the happy day; 
 No social scenes of gay delight 
 Beguile the dreary winter night ; 
 No strains but those of sorrow flow, 
 And nought be heard but sounds of woe ; 
 While the pale phantoms of the slain 
 Glide nightly o'er the silent plain. 
 
 Oh, baneful cause ! oh, fatal morn. 
 Accursed to ages yet unborn ! 
 The sons against their fathers stood, 
 The parent shed his children's blood. 
 Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, 
 The victor's soul was not appeased ; 
 The naked and forlorn must feel 
 Devouring flames and murdering steel ! 
 
 The pious mother, doom'd to death, 
 Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath ; 
 The bleak wind whistles round her head, 
 Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; ' 
 
 Bereft of shelter, food, and friend. 
 She views the shades of night descend. 
 And, stretch'd beneath the inclement skies, 
 Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies. 
 
 While the warm blood bedews my veins. 
 And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, 
 Resentment of my country's fate 
 Within my filial breast shall beat ; 
 And, spite of her insulting foe, 
 My sympathizing verse shall flow : — 
 " Mourn, hapless Caledonia ! mourn 
 Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn ! " 
 
6co 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Born 1728. Died 1774. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith was born at Pallasmore, in the count 
 Longford, Ireland, November 10, 1728. His father was the clergj 
 of the parish. As a child Goldsmitli was considered dull. His 1 
 pronounced him a dunce. Ur. Johnson said, " Goldsmith was a ] 
 that flowered late." 
 
 At the ago of eight he was attacked with small-pox, which sadlj 
 figured him. This, added to his heavy, ungainly figure, was a sour 
 pain and annoyance to him throughout his life. He received 
 elements of his education at the village school. Afterwards he was 
 to Athlone and Edgworthstown, by the kindness of his uncle, 
 entered Trinity College, Dublin, in June, 174S, as a sizar. Like S 
 lie was idle as an undergraduate. It is said that he gave a dance ii 
 rooms in College, for which his tutor boxed his ears. He and B 
 were contemporaries. Their friendship remained sincere throng 
 Goldsmith's life. Very early in life Goldsmith exhibited a passioi 
 poetry. He used to write ballads, which he sold for 5j-. apiece tc 
 street-singers in Dublin; and it was his delight in the dusk of eve 
 to steal out of College and listen to his own compositions being 
 in the streets of that city. In February, 1 749, Goldsmith took his 1 
 degree. After graduating he led a very unsteady life for some t 
 His father died, but his iincle Contarine, who had paid for his educa 
 continued to treat him with a liberality that was sorely tried. He ui 
 look a tutorship, and flung it up in disgust. Then he resolved to t 
 America. Uncle Contarine found the money for his pa-ssage, w 
 Goldsmith spent in Dublin, and did not go. Next he determined t 
 to England and study law. Again money was provided, and again S] 
 At last he elecced to go to Edinburgh and study medicine. He v 
 and so bid farewell to his mother, and uncle, and home for ever. 
 
 He arrived in Edinburgh in 1752. At the end of his second ye; 
 proceeded to Leyden, to study chemistry and anatomy. From th 
 he set out for a tour through Europe ; his wardrobe consisting of 
 clean shirt, and his sole means of subsistence, his flute. Upon thi 
 he journeyed along, he used to perform in villages, at convents, in to 
 Everywhere he made friends and collected small donations, upon w 
 he managed to subsist. He travelled through Germany, France, Swi 
 land, and Italy. At Geneva he first conceived the idea of a 
 described in poetry, which was afterwards worked out in his beai 
 poem, " The Traveller." At Padua he resided for six months, and 
 believed that he there received his degree of M.D. In 1756 he retu 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 6oi 
 
 the Continent and arrived in London. He acted as tutor in a 
 si at I'eckham for a short time, and then became assistant to an 
 decary in Monument Yard, Fish Street Hill. 
 
 lortly afterwards he set up as a physician in Southwark, and also 
 me reader in the office of the famous Richardson, author of " Clarissa 
 owe," through attending in his medical capacity a printer in Rich- 
 m's printing-office. From that period GolJsmith!s literary career 
 i. He accepted an engagement with Mr. Griffith, the publisher and 
 rietor of the Monthly Review. In 1 759 he published his " Present 
 J of Literature in Europe." At the time he lodged in Green 
 Diir Court, between the Old Bailey and the Fleet Prison. The same 
 
 he commenced that series of light essays entitled " The Bee. " 
 " Bee " did not make honey for him, but expired in eight weeks, 
 aving parted from Griffith, he entered into an engagement with 
 rberry, the publisher, for 100/. per annum. In his leisure hours he 
 :e " The Citizen of the World," a series of letters supposed to be 
 ten by a Chinese visiting England. At Newberry's Goldsmith 
 me acquainted with Bishop Percy, the compiler of the " Reliques of 
 lent Poetry," and also with Smollett. He moved from Green 
 our Court to Wine Office Court, Fleet Street. In his chambers 
 e, Percy introduced him to Dr. Johnson, May 31, 1761. 
 ewberry having established his office at Canonbury Gate, Islington, 
 dsmith removed to that neighbourhood, and lodged with a Mrs. Fle- 
 j. It was in her lodgings that, being pressed either to pay his bill 
 
 marry his landlady. Goldsmith applied for help to Dr. Johnson, 
 that occasion the MS. of the "Vicar of Wakefield" was produced, 
 ison was so much struck with it, that he negotiated its sale, and 
 .ined 60/. for the work, wheoeby Goldsmith was extricated from his 
 culties, and from Mrs. Fleming. At Islington he composed his 
 istory of England, in a series of Letters from a Nobleman to his Son. " 
 
 a long time the authorship of this work was attributed to Lord 
 :elton. Through Johnson, Goldsmith became known to Reynolds 
 
 Garrick, Boswell and Hogarth, Tom Davies, and the circle of 
 3US men that were associated with the' Doctor. In 1 765 " The 
 reller" was published. Its success was immediate, and its author 
 
 at once recognised as a man of mark in all literary circles. The 
 iwing year the " Vicar of Wakefield " was published. Of that great 
 ument of his fame it is unnecessary to say s word. Wherever the 
 lish language is read or spoken, the " Vicar of Wakefield " is 
 rded as a gem of literature. 
 
 1 1769 Goldsmith made the acquaintance of the Homeck family, 
 larine Homeck was nicknamed " Little Comedy." Mary was desig- 
 d "The Jessamy Bride." She married General Gwynn. The 
 imy Bride was the object of Goldsmith's devoted love, — a love all 
 nore sacred because it was never declared. 
 
 t this period he began to write his comedies. The " Good-Natured 
 ." was brought out at Covent Garden in 1768. In 1773 his great 
 
6o2 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 dramatic success was made in the production of "She Stoops to C 
 quer." The year 1770 saw the publication of the most famous p( 
 from his pen, " The Deserted Village. " On the establishment of the Re 
 Academy in the same year he was appointed Professor of- Ancient I 
 tory, and entered into his engagement to write the histories of Gre< 
 Rome, and England. Goldsmith's " History of Rome " still contin 
 familiar to boys as one of their school-books. In 1774 appeared "' 
 History of Animated Nature." To compose this work, he used to re 
 to a farmhouse at Hyde, down the Edgeware Road. The garret 
 which he shut himself up still remains intact. For this work he recei' 
 850/. It was the last important effort of his pen. Anxiety had long hi 
 wasting away his life. He was in age, as in youth, careless, improvide 
 and unable to keep any of the money he had earned. He would g 
 away to any needy person the last penny he had in his own pocl 
 His chambers, which adjoined the Temple Church, and were 
 pulled down a few years back (the site is now marked by " Goldsmil 
 Buildings " ), were the regular resort of a congregation of poor peoj 
 whom he habitually relieved. Goldsmith became abrupt, odd, i 
 abstracted. The alarm of his friends was excited. At that dab 
 literary as.sociation used to meet at St. James's Coffee-house. Garri 
 Burke, Cumberland, Reynolds, and others, were regular attendants, 
 night of meeting having arrived, and Goldsmith being late, as usual, 
 members amused themselves by writing epitaphs on him, as " the 1 
 Dr. Goldsmith." When he came, these effusions were read to hi 
 On returning home, he commenced his poem entitled " Retaliatio 
 It was never completed, for fever seized him at his work. Mr. Ha\ 
 (grandfather of the late Sir Benjamin Hawes, and founder of the Ro 
 Humane Society, ) was called in to attend him. Goldsmith neglec 
 his advice, and persisted in taking medicine according to his own fan 
 He was taken ill on the 25 th of March ; in ten days he was dead. 
 
 Dr. Turton being called in to see him, observed, " Your pulse is 
 greater disorder than it should be from the degree of fever which ; 
 have; is your mind at ease?" "No, it is not," were the last wo 
 Goldsmith uttered. He was seized with convulsions on the mominj 
 April 4, 1774, and died. 
 
 He was universally beloved and universally lamented. Sir Josl 
 Reynolds shut up his painting-room for the day, and wandered ah 
 the streets, unable to rid himself of his sadness. Johnson exclaim 
 " Poor Goldsmith is gone. Goldy was wild, Sir, very wild ; but h( 
 so no more." 
 
 He was buried in the graveyard of the Temple Church, but a si 
 space away from the room in which he died. The grave was unmarl 
 until a few years back, when a stone was placed to denote the spot. 
 
 The monument to him in Poet's Comer bears an inscription from 
 pen of Dr. Johnson, which says, " He left scarcely any style of wril 
 untouched, and touched nothing that he did not adorn ; of all the passi 
 (whether smiles were to be moved or tears) a powerful yet gentle n 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 603 
 
 ; in genius sublime, vivid, versatile ; in style elevated, clear, elegant. 
 e love of companions, the fidelity of friends, and the veneration of 
 ders, have by this monument honoured the memory." 
 
 FROM "THE DESERTED VILLAGE." 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, 
 Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms dela/d — 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please — 
 How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene. 
 ***** 
 
 In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
 I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close, 
 And keep the flame from wasting, by repose. 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill. 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
 And as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. 
 Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations pass'd, 
 Here to return — and die at home at last. 
 
 O bless'd retirement, friend to life's decline ! 
 Retreats from care, that never must be mine ! 
 How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly. 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
 No surly porter stands, in guilty state, 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
 But on he moves, to meet his latter end. 
 Angels around befriending virtue's friend. 
 Bends to the grave with unperceiVd decay. 
 While resignation gently slopes the way, 
 
6o4 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His heaven commences ere the world be pass'd. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled. 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild, 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
 Nor ere had chang'd, nor wish'd to change, his place ; 
 Unpractis'd he to fawn or seek for power 
 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize — 
 More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His hoiise was known to all the vagrant train ; 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain : 
 The long-remembered beggar was his guest. 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim allowed ; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
 Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away, 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
 But, in his duty prompt, at every call 
 He watch'd and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
 And as a bird each^fond endearment tries 
 To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd. 
 The reverend champion stood : at his control 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
 And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 605 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace 
 His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
 And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray. 
 The service pass'd, around the pious man. 
 With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 Even children foUow'd, with endearing wile, 
 And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile : 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ; 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd. 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : 
 As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
 With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
 The village master taught his little school. 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face : 
 Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round. 
 Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frown'd. 
 Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught. 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
 The village all declared how much he knew ; 
 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too. 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides pressage. 
 And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 
 In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill. 
 For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length and thundering sound 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around : 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 
6o6 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 RETALIATION. 
 
 Of old, when Scarron^ his companions invited, 
 
 Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united : 
 
 If our landlord^ supplies us with beef and with fish, 
 
 Let each guest bring himself — and he brings the best dish. 
 
 Our dean^ shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
 
 Our Burke* shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains ; 
 
 Our Will^ shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour ; 
 
 And Dick' with his pepper shall heighten their savour ; 
 
 Our Cumberland's' sweet-bread its place shall obtain ; 
 
 And Douglas' is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
 
 Our Garrick's' a salad — for in him we see 
 
 Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree ; 
 
 To make out the dinner, full certain I am 
 
 That Ridge'" is anchovy, and Reynolds'' is lamb ; 
 
 That Hickey's'2 a capon, and, by the same rule, 
 
 Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
 
 At a dinner so various, at such a repast. 
 
 Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? 
 
 Here, -waiter, more wine ! let me sit while I'm able, 
 
 Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
 
 Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head. 
 
 Let me ponder — and tell what I think of the dead. 
 
 Here lies the good dean, re-united to earth, 
 Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth ; 
 If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt — 
 At least, in six weeks I could not find them out ; 
 Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied them. 
 That slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide them. 
 
 Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
 We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; 
 
 fij Paul Scarron, a popular French writer. 
 
 (2) The master of St. James's Coffee-house, where the Doctor and the friends he 
 has characterised in this poem occasionally dined. 
 
 (3) Dr. Bernard, dean of Deny, in Ireland. 
 
 (4) Edmund Burke, Esq. 
 
 ts) Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway. 
 [6J Mr Richard Burke, collector of Granada. 
 
 (7) Richard Cumberland, Esq., author of the " West Indian," " Fashionable Lover," 
 "The Brothers," and other dramatic pieces : also the translator of **Terence." 
 
 (5) Dr. Douglas, canon of Windsor, and bishop of Salisbury, an ingenious Scotch 
 gentleman, who has no less distinguished_ himself as a citizen of the world than a 
 sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his country- 
 men ; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's *' History of the Popes." 
 
 ig) David Garrick, Esq. 
 10) Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. 
 11) Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
 {12) An eminent attorney. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 607 
 
 Who, bom for the universe, narrow'd his mind. 
 And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
 Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat 
 To persuade Tommy Townshend^ to lend him a vote ; 
 Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
 And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining. 
 Though equal to all things, for aU things unfit : 
 Too nice for a statesman ; too proud for a wit ; 
 For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge disobedient ; 
 And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
 In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir, 
 To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 
 
 Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint. 
 While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't : 
 The pupU of impulse, it forc'd him along. 
 His conduct still right, with his argument wrong : 
 Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam — 
 The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. 
 Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; 
 What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. 
 
 Here lies honest Richard,^ whose fate I must sigh at : 
 Alas ! that such frolic should now be so quiet ! 
 What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
 Now breaking a jest — and now breaking a limb ; 
 Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the baU ; 
 Now teasing and vexing — yet laughing at aU ! 
 In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
 That we wished him full ten times a day at Old Nick ; 
 But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein. 
 As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 
 
 Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
 The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
 A flattering painter, who made it his care 
 To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
 His gallants are all faultless, his women divine. 
 And comedy wonders at being so fine ! 
 Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out — 
 Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 
 His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
 Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; 
 And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. 
 Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
 
 Thomas Townshend, member for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord Sydney. 
 Bany, the painter, who had recently fractured his leg. 
 
6o8 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? 
 Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
 Say, was it that vainly directing his view 
 To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
 Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. 
 He grew lazy at last — and drew from himself? 
 
 Here Douglas retires, from his toils to relax , 
 The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 
 Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines ; 
 Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines ! 
 When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
 I fear'd for your safety — I fear'd for my own ; 
 But now he is gone and we want a detector. 
 Our Dodds' shall be pious, our Kenricks^ shall lecture, 
 Macpherson^ write bombast and call it a style, 
 Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ; 
 New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over. 
 No countryman living their tricks to discover ; 
 Detection her taper shall quench to a spark. 
 And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. 
 
 Here lies David Garrick — describe me, who can — 
 An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man. 
 As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine ; 
 As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; 
 Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
 The man had his failings — a dupe to his art. 
 Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, 
 And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
 On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 
 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
 With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
 He tum'd and he varied full ten times a day. 
 Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
 If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 
 He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 
 For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back. 
 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, 
 And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame ; 
 Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease. 
 Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
 
 .!r 
 
 I The Rev. Dr. Dodd. 
 Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the "Devil" tavern, under the title of "The 
 School of Shakespere." , 
 
 (3} James Macpherson, who had recently published a wretched translation of 
 Homer. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 609 
 
 ut let us be candid and speak out our mind, 
 
 F dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
 
 e Kenricks, ye Kellys,^ and Woodfalls ^ so grave, 
 
 /hat a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! 
 
 [ow did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd, 
 
 iThile he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-prais'd ! 
 
 lut peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
 
 '0 act as an angel, and mix with the skies : 
 
 'hose poets who owe their best fame to his skill 
 
 hall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
 
 )ld Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, 
 
 ind Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 
 
 Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature, 
 jid slander itself must allow him good-nature ; 
 le cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ; 
 'et one fault he had, and that one was a thumper, 
 'erhaps you may ask if the man was a miser, 
 answer. No, no — for he always was wiser. 
 '00 courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
 lis very worst foes can't accuse him of that, 
 'erhaps he confided in men as they go. 
 Old so was too foolishly honest ? Ah no ! 
 'hen what was his failing .■' come, tell it, and burn ye. 
 le was, — could he help it ? — a special attorney. 
 
 Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
 le has not left a wiser or better behind : 
 lis pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; 
 lis manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; 
 itill born to improve us in every part — 
 lis pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 
 "0 coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering': 
 Vhen they judg'd without skill he was still hard of hearing; 
 Vhen they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff, 
 le shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 lere Whitefoord* reclines, and, deny it who can, 
 'hough he merrily liv'd, he is now a grave man : 
 
 ugh Kelly, author of " False Delicacy," " School for Wives," &c. 
 
 r. W. Woodfall, editor and printer of the " Morning Chronicle." 
 
 r Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of 
 
 1 ear-tnimpet in company. 
 
 r. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. He was so notnriotis 
 
 :r. that Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company without 
 
 fected with the itch of punning. 
 
 RR 
 
6io OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
 Who relish'd a joke, and rejoic'd in a pun ; 
 Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; 
 A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear ; 
 Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will ; 
 Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill ; 
 A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
 A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 
 
 What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind 
 Should so long be to newspaper essays confin'd ; 
 Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
 Yet content " if the table he set in a roar ; " 
 Whose talents to fill any station were fit. 
 Yet happy if WoodfalU confess'd him a wit. 
 
 Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling follcs ! 
 Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes : 
 Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, 
 Stin follow your master, and visit his tomb : 
 To deck it bring with you festoons of the vine, 
 And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 
 Then strew all around it — ^you can do no less — 
 Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press?- 
 
 Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit 
 That a Scot may have humour — I had almost said wit : 
 This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse— 
 " Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd mui 
 
 STANZAS ON WOMAN. 
 
 When lovely woman stoops to folly. 
 
 And finds too late that men betray, 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy ? 
 
 What art can wash her guilt away ? 
 The only art her guilt to cover. 
 
 To hide her shame from every eye. 
 To give repentance to her lover. 
 
 And wring his bosom — is to die. 
 
 [il Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the "Public Advertiser." 
 (2) Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces u 
 those titles in the " Public Advertiser." 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 6ii 
 
 FROM "THE TRAVELLER." 
 
 Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, 
 The sons of Italy were surely bless'd. 
 Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
 That proudly rise or humbly court the ground ; 
 Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear. 
 Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
 Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
 With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
 These here disporting, ovni the kindred soil. 
 Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
 While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
 To winnow fragrance round the smihng land. 
 But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
 And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 
 In florid beauty groves and fields appear ; 
 Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
 Contrasted faults through all his manners reign : 
 Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
 Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
 And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
 All evils here contaminate the mind 
 That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
 For wealth was theirs, — not far removed the date 
 When commerce proudly flonrish'd through the State : 
 At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 
 Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies. 
 The canvas glow'd, beyond e'en nature warm, 
 The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form : 
 Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
 Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
 While nought remain'd of aU that riches gave, 
 But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave : 
 And late the nation found, with fruitless skill. 
 Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 
 Yet stiU the loss of wealth is here supplied 
 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride : 
 From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind 
 An easy compensation seem to find. 
 Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arra/d. 
 The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade : 
 By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd ; 
 The sports of children satisfy the child : 
 R R2 
 
6i2 WILLIAM FALCONER. 
 
 Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, 
 Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
 While low delights, succeeding fast behind, 
 In happier meanness occupy the mind : 
 As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway, 
 Defaced by time, and tottering in decay, 
 Thei'e in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
 The shelter-sesking peasant builds his shed. 
 And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 
 Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 
 
 -Sx*: 
 
 WILLIAM FALCONER. 
 
 Born 1730. Died 1769. 
 
 William Falconer was one of many cliiklren, who were, with 
 the exception of himself, deaf and dumb. When very young, he was 
 apprenticed to the merchant-service, and afterwards went as second mate 
 in a vessel which was wrecked on the coast of Africa; he and two 
 others being the sole survivors. This circumstance occasioned his poem 
 "The Shipwreck," which he published in 1762. The favourable notice 
 it received gave him the means of entering the navy, which he did the 
 following year, as midshipman in the Royal George. He eventually 
 became purser in the frigate Aurora, and was lost in her, on the out- 
 ward voyage to India, in 1769. As a writer of didactic poetry. Falconer 
 won a high place. His descriptions are vivid and li.^elike, and " The 
 Shipwreck " is justly considered a valuable contribution to the nautical^ 
 poetry of England. 
 
 FROM « THE SHIPWRECK." 
 
 But see, in confluence borne before the blast. 
 Clouds roH'd on clouds the dusky noon o'ercast ; 
 The black'ning ocean curls ; the winds arise ; 
 And the dark scud in swift succession flies. 
 While the swoln canvas bends the masts on high, 
 Low in the waves the leeward cannon lie. 
 The sailors now, to give the ship relief, 
 Reduce the topsails by a single reef. 
 
WILLIAM FALCONER. 613 
 
 Each lofty yard with slacken'd cordage reels, 
 Rattle the creaking blocks and ringing wheels. 
 Down the tall masts the topsails sink amain ; 
 And, soon reduc'd, resume their post again. 
 More distant grew receding Candia's shore, 
 And southward of the west Cape Spado bore. 
 
 Four hours the sun his high meridian throne 
 Had left, and o'er Atlantic regions shone ; 
 Still blacker clouds, that all the skies invade. 
 Draw o'er his sullied orb a dismal shade. 
 A squall deep-low'ring blots the southern sky, 
 Before whose boisterous breath the waters fly : 
 Its weight the topsails can no more sustain ; 
 Reef topsails, r^ef ! the boatswain calls again. 
 The halliards and top-bowlines soon are gone ; 
 To cluelines and reef-tackles next they run : 
 The shivering sails descend ; and now they square 
 The yards, while ready sailors mount in air. 
 The weather-earings and the lee they past ; 
 The reefs enroU'd, and every point made fast. 
 Their task above thus finish'd, they descend, 
 And vigilant th' approaching squall attend. 
 It comes resistless, and with foaming sweep 
 Upturns the whitening surface of the deep. 
 In such a tempest, borne to deeds of death, 
 The wayward sisters scour the blasted heath. 
 With ruin pregnant now the clouds impend, 
 And storm and cataract tumultuous blend, 
 Deep on her side the reeling vessel lies : 
 Brail up the mizen, quick ! the master cries ; 
 Man the clue-garnets ! let the mainsheet fly ! 
 The boisterous squall still presses from on high. 
 And swift, and fatal as the lightning's course. 
 Through the torn mainsails bursts with thundering force. 
 While the rent canvas flutter'd in the wind, 
 Still on her flank the stooping bark inclin'd. 
 
 But now the transient squall to leeward past. 
 Again she rallies to the sullen blast. 
 The helm to starboard turns ; with wings inclin'd 
 The sidelong canvas clasps the faithless wind. 
 The mizen draws ; she springs aloof once more, 
 While the fore staysail balances before. 
 The foresail brac'd obliquely to the wind, 
 They near the prow th' extended tack confin'd : 
 
6i4 WILLIAM FALCONER. 
 
 Then on the leeward sheet the seamen bend, 
 And haul the bowhne to the bowsprit end. 
 
 Now borne impetuous o'er the boiling- deeps, 
 Her course to Attic shores the vessel keeps : 
 The pilots, as the waves behind her swell, 
 Still with the wheeling stern their force repel ; 
 For this assault should either quarter feel, 
 Again to flank the tempest she might reel. 
 The steersmen every bidden turn apply : 
 To right and left the spokes alternate fly. 
 Thus when some conquer'd host retreats in fear, 
 The bravest leaders guard the broken rear ; 
 Indignant they retire, and long oppose 
 Superior armies that around them close. 
 Still shield the flanks, the routed squadrons join, 
 And guide the flight in one embodied line : 
 So they direct the flying bark before 
 Th' impelling floods that lash her to the shore. 
 As some benighted traveller through the shade 
 Explores the devious path with heart dismay'd. 
 While prowling savages behind him roar. 
 And yawning pits and quagmires lurk before ; 
 High o'er the poop th' audacious seas aspire, 
 UproU'd in hills of fluctuating fire. 
 As some fell conqueror, frantic with success. 
 Sheds o'er the nations ruin and distress ; 
 So, while the wat'ry wilderness he roams, 
 Incens'd to sevenfold rage the tempest foams, 
 And o'er the trembling pines, above, below. 
 Shrill through the cordage howls, with notes of woe. 
 Now thunders, wafted from the burning zone. 
 Growl from afar a deaf and hollow groan ! 
 The ship's high battlements, to either side 
 For ever rocking, drink the briny tide : 
 Her joints, unhing'd, in palsied languors play, 
 As ice dissolves beneath the noon-tide ray. 
 The skies, asunder torn, a deluge pour ; 
 The impetuous hail descends in whirling shower. 
 High on the masts, with pale and livid rays, 
 Amid the gloom portentous meteors blaze. 
 Th' etherial dome, in mournful pomp arra/d. 
 Now lurks behind impenetrable shade ; 
 
WILLIAM FALCONER. 615 
 
 Now, flashing round intolerable light, 
 Redoubles all the terrors of the night. 
 Such terror Sinai's quaking hill o'erspread, 
 When Heaven's loud trumpet sounded o'er his head. 
 It seem'd the wrathful angel of the wind 
 Had all the horrors of the skies combin'd; 
 And here, to one ill-fated ship oppos'd, 
 At once the dreadful magazine disclos'd. 
 And lo ! tremendous o'er the deep he springs, 
 Th' enflaming sulphur flashing from his wings ! — 
 Hark ! his strong voice the disinal silence breaks ; 
 Mad chaos from the chains of death awakes ! 
 Loud and more loud the rolling peals enlarge. 
 And blue on deck their blazing sides discharge : 
 There all aghast the shivering wretches stood, 
 While chill suspense and fear congeal'd their blood. 
 Now in a deluge bursts the living flame, 
 And dread concussion rends th' etherial frame ; 
 Sick earth convulsive groans from shore to shore; 
 And nature, shuddering, feels the horrid roar. 
 
 With mournful look the seamen ey'd the strand, 
 Where death's inexorable jaws expand : 
 Swift from their minds elaps'd all dangers past. 
 As, dumb with terror, they beheld the last. 
 Now on the trembling shrouds, before, behind. 
 In mute suspense they mount into the wind. — 
 The genius of the deep, on rapid wing. 
 The black eventful moment seem'd to bring ; 
 The fatal sisters, on the surge before, 
 Yok'd their infernal horses to the prore. — 
 The steersmen now receiv'd their last command 
 To wheel the vessel sidelong to the strand. 
 Twelve sailors, on the foremast who depend. 
 High on the platform of the top ascend ; 
 Fatal retreat ! for while the plunging prow 
 Imraerges headlong in the wave below, 
 Down-prest by wat'ry weight the bowsprit bends, 
 And from above the stem deep crashing rends ! 
 Beneath her beak the floating ruins lie ; 
 The foremast totters, unsustain'd on high : 
 And now the ship, fore-lifted by the sea, 
 Hurls the tall fabric backward o'er her lee ; 
 
6i6 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Whil'e, in the general wreck, the faithful stay 
 Drags the main-topmast from its post away. 
 Flung from the mast, the seamen strive in vain 
 Through hostile floods their vessel to regain. 
 The waves they buffet, till, bereft of strength, 
 O'erpower'd tliey yield to cruel fate at length. 
 The hostile waters close around their head ; 
 They sink for ever, number'd with the dead ! 
 
 'S?* 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 JSorn iT^i. Died iSoo.' 
 
 William Cowper was the son of the Rev. John Cowper, rector 
 Great Berkhampstead, in Hertfordshire, and was born on the 15th 
 November, 1731. He received the rudiments of his education at 
 school kept by Dr. Pitman, at Market-Street, Herts; but, during the tv 
 years he was there, was treated with cruehy by one of the elder boj 
 Fears being entertained of his sight, he was next placed with an oculii 
 and then proceeded, at the age of ten, to Westminster, where 1 
 remained until he completed his eighteenth year. On leaving scho 
 he was articled for three years to a solicitor, in whose office the futu 
 Lord Thurlow was a clerk. At the expiration of bis time, Cowper to( 
 chambers in the Middle Temple. In 1754 he was called to the bar, at 
 in 1759 was made a Commissioner of Bankrupts. From a child 1 
 appears to have been delicate and unhealthy, and the early loss of 1 
 mother no doubt contributed not a little to the melancholy whi( 
 shadowed his life. His diffidence rendering him quite unfit to folic 
 his profession with any hope of advancement, his friends exerted thei 
 selves to procure his nomination to the office of Reading Clerk and Cle 
 of the Committees of the House of Lords ; but his nervousness renden 
 it impossible for him to fulfil its duties, and he resigned the offic 
 Another attempt to find him employment was equally unsuccessfi 
 owing to the same unhappy cause ; and the effort he made to respoi 
 to the wishes of his relatives so completely prostrated his health ai 
 faculties, that it was found necessary to remove him to St. Albai 
 in December, 1 763. Religious despondency was the form his malai 
 assiimed, and though in July, 1764, his mind became more cheerful ai 
 he was able to leave St. Alban's, he determined to retire altogetli 
 from the bustle of a world for which he was quite unfitted, and 
 
WILLIAM COWPER. 617 
 
 the advice of his brother removed to private lodgings at Hunthigdon. 
 Here it was he made the acquc-Intance of the family of Unwin, who 
 were so pleased with his interesting appearance, and charmed with his 
 mind, that, on a further acquaintance, Cowper was invited to take up his 
 residence with them, and in Febiiiary, 1766, he became an inmate of 
 then: house. 
 
 On Mr. Unwin's death, in 1 767, the family removed to Olney, attracted 
 by their friendship for Mr. John Newton, then curate of the place. 
 Cowper spent many happy years in close intimacy with Mr. Newton, 
 who was a zealous partisan of what is called the " Evangelical" School, 
 and acquired a great ascendency over the mind of Cowper, predisposed 
 as it was to religious impressions. Here he wrote many liymns, which 
 were afterwards published in a collection made by Mr. Newton, in 1776, 
 called " Olney Hymns." 
 
 There is little doubt the sort of life he led contributed to increase the 
 morbid sensitiveness of his mind. In 1772 he had a second attack 
 of bis dreadful malady, which lasted four years. On his recovery his 
 friends sought to engage him in literary pursuits, and, under the advice 
 of Mrs. Unwin. he wrote "The Progress of Error, and other Poems," 
 which were published in 1 782. " The Task, " published in 1 785, was 
 commenced at the suggestion of his friend Lady Austen, to whom 
 also we are indebted for "John Gilpin." His Translation of Homer 
 occupied six years, and was published in 1 791. Though change of 
 residence and incessant watchfulness procured for him short intervals 
 of comparative tranquillity, the remaining years of his life were passed 
 in deep despondency. The death of Mrs. Unwin, in 1796, was a great 
 shock, and on April 25, 1800, he gently expired, and was buried 
 in Dereham Church, where Lady Hesketh erected a tablet to his 
 memory. 
 
 CowjDer is a poet whose works may be safely put into the hands of 
 youth. The lines on his mother's portrait are exquisitely touching, and 
 as a writer he was distinguished for an ease of style and an absence t)f 
 all that was affected and forced. The religious bias of his mir.d is seen 
 in all his works, and considering the nature of the fearful malady 
 which saddened his life, we may wonder at the vigour and manliness 
 which distinguish much that he wrote. 
 
 ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT 
 OF NORFOLK, 
 
 THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANNIE BODHAM. 
 
 O that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
 Those lips are thine ; thy own svi^eet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
 
6i8 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
 
 " Grieve not, my child : chase all thy fears away ! " 
 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 
 (Blest be the art that can immortalize. 
 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 
 To quench it !) here shines on me still the same. 
 
 My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead. 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
 Perhaps thou gaVst me, though unfelt, a kiss : 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss. — 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! — it answers, Yes. 
 I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 
 And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
 What ardently I wished, I long believed. 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived ; 
 By expectation every day beguiled, 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went. 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
 I learned at last submission to my lot ; 
 But though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more ; 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to school along the public way. 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped. 
 *Tis now become a history little known, 
 That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
 Short-lived possession ! But the record faif 
 That memory keeps of all thy kindness there 
 Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 
WILLIAM COW PER. 619 
 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 
 That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; 
 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 
 The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; 
 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed : 
 
 All this, and, more endearing still than all, 
 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. 
 
 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks 
 
 That humour interposed too often makes ; 
 
 All this still legible in memory's page. 
 
 And still to be so to my latest age, 
 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 
 Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 
 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 
 
 Not scorned in heav^en, though little noticed here. 
 
 Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
 (The storms aU weathered and the ocean cross'd) 
 Shoots into port at some well-havened isle. 
 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
 There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore, 
 " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ; '' 
 And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
 Of hfe long since has anchored by thy side. 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
 Always from port withheld, always distressed, — 
 Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, 
 Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost ; 
 And day by day some current's thwarting force 
 Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
 Yet 0, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
 From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise,— 
 The son of parents passed into the skies. 
 And now, farewell ! — Time unrevoked has run 
 His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. 
 By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again j 
 
620 WILLIAM COW PER. 
 
 To have renewed the joys that once were mine, 
 Without the sin of violating thine. 
 And while the wings of fancy still are free, 
 And I can view this mimic form of thee. 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
 Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS 
 SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ. 
 
 I am monarch of all I survey ; 
 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 From the centre, all round to the sea, 
 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 Oh solitude ! where are the charms 
 
 That sages have seen in thy face ? 
 Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
 
 Than reign in this horrible place. 
 
 I am out of humanity's reach, 
 
 I must finish my journey alone. 
 Never hear the sweet music of speech — 
 
 I start at the sound of my own. 
 The beasts that roam over the plain 
 
 My form with indifference see. 
 They are so unacquainted with man : 
 
 Their tameness is shocking to me. 
 
 Society, friendship, and love. 
 
 Divinely bestow'd upon man — 
 Oh had I the wings of a dove. 
 
 How soon would I taste you again ! 
 My sorrows I then might assuage 
 
 In the ways of religion and truth. 
 Might learn from the wisdom of age, 
 
 And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 
 
 Religion ! what treasure untold 
 
 Resides in that heavenly word ! 
 More precious than silver and gold, 
 
 Or all that this earth can afford. 
 
JAMES BE A TTIE. 62 1 
 
 But the sound of the church-going bell 
 
 These valleys and rocks never heard, 
 Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 
 
 Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd. 
 
 Ye winds that have made me your sport, 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land I shall visit no more. 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 Oh tell me I yet have a friend. 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see. 
 
 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 
 
 Compared with the speed of its flight. 
 The tempest itself lags behind. 
 
 And the swift-wingfed arrows of light 
 When I think of my own native land, 
 
 In a moment I seem to be there ; 
 But, alas ! recollection at hand 
 
 Soon hurries me back to despair. 
 
 But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest. 
 
 The beast is laid down in his lair. 
 Even here is a season of rest. 
 
 And I to my cabin repair. 
 There is mercy in every place. 
 
 And mercy — encouraging thought ! — 
 Gives even affliction a grace, 
 
 And reconciles man to his lot. 
 
 'SfXi 
 
 JAMES BEATTIE. 
 
 Bom 1735. Died 1803. 
 
 lES Beattie was bom at Laurencekirk, in Scotland, on the 2Sth 
 itober, I73S- His -father was a small farmer, and James received 
 rliest education in the school of his native village. In 1749 lie was 
 'ed to the Marischal College, Aberdeen, where he remained till 1 753, 
 at the age of eighteen, he was appomted schoolmaster and parish 
 
622 JAMES BEATTIE. 
 
 clerk to the parish of Fordoun. Such a position was neither suited to his 
 inclination nor to his success in life ; but having been hitherto supported 
 by the generosity of an elder brother, he was naturally anxious to relieve 
 him from the burden. Here it was he made the acquaintance of Lord 
 Monboddo and Lord Gardenstoun, and, inspired no doubt by the beau- 
 tiful and picturesque scenery of the neighbourhood, cultivated his poetic 
 taste, and in his leisure hours composed several poems, which were 
 published in The Scofs Magazine. In 1758 he was elected to a master- 
 ship in the Grammar School, Aberdeen, and in 1760 was appointed 
 Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic at the Marischal College — a 
 proud position for a young man of twenty-five. His diligence and 
 application to study were such, that he was able to deliver a remarkable 
 course of lectures, " Elements of Moral Science," on which his after-fame 
 rested. In 1765 his "Judgment of Paris" appeared, but the public did 
 not receive it favourably. In the autumn of this year he made the 
 acquaintance of Mr. Gray, who was then visiting in Scotland, and 
 commenced a friendship which lasted until Mr. Gray's death, in 1771. 
 His great work, " The Essay on Truth," was published in 1770, and 
 attracted the notice of eminent and literary men,, not only in England, 
 but on the Continent. The University of Oxford conferred the degree of 
 Doctor of Law on the author ; and on his second visit to London, in 1773, 
 George III. received him with especial favour, and conferred on him 
 a pension of 200/. Soon after this he was solicited by Dr. Porteus to 
 enter the Church of England, and more than one living was offered him. 
 But fearing his acceptance might be construed into the belief that his 
 essay was written with a view to promotion, he declined the proposals 
 made him. A few months after " The Essay on Truth " Beattie pub- 
 lished his first canto of " The Minstrel." It appeared anonymously, 
 and was in consequence subjected to a rigorous criticism; but the 
 verdict was favourable, and such was the warm approval of those com- 
 petent to judge, that it went through four editions, and the second canto 
 was published in 1774. As a work, it will not perhaps be reckoned 
 as one of a high order of genius, but it abounds with many passages of 
 beauty and feeling. In 1767 Dr. Beattie married a Miss Mary Dunn, 
 daughter of the head rector of the Grammar School at Aberdeen, and 
 by her had two sons, who died in the flower of their age. These bitter 
 bereavements, following as they did the melancholy termination of his 
 wife's illness in insanity, completely unhinged the mind of Beattie, and 
 the few closing years of his life were passed in retirement and seclusion. 
 His health gradually decayed, and, after two paralytic attacks, he expired 
 on August 18, 1803. 
 
 In every relation of domestic life Dr. Beattie was most exemplary, 
 and in his public capacity as instructor he gained the love and regard 
 of his pupils. As a writer, his style was simple and perspicuous, and 
 his conversational powers made him a favourite with some of the most 
 celebrated men of his day. 
 
JAMES BEATTIE. 623 
 
 FROM "THE MINSTREL." 
 
 But who the melodies of mom can tell ? 
 
 The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ; 
 
 The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; 
 
 The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
 
 In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 
 
 The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 
 
 The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 
 
 The hum of bees ; the linnet's lay of love ; 
 
 And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 
 
 The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
 Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings ; 
 The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and, hark ! 
 Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings ; 
 Through rusthng com the hare astonish'd springs ; 
 Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour ; 
 The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; 
 Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, 
 And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 
 
 Nature, how in every cTiarm supreme ! 
 Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new ! 
 for the voice and fire of seraphim, 
 To sing thy glories with devotion due ! 
 Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew. 
 From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty, 
 And held high converse with fhe godlike few 
 Who to th' enraptur'd heart, and ear, and eye, 
 Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody. 
 
 " The end and the reward of toil is rest : 
 
 Be all my prayer for virtue and for peace. 
 
 Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power possess'd. 
 
 Who ever felt his weight of woe decrease ? 
 
 Ah ! what avails the lore of Rome and Greece, 
 
 The lay heaven-prompted, and harmonious string, 
 
 The dust of Ophir, or the Tyrian fleece. 
 
 All that art, fortune, enterprise can bring, 
 
 If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride the bosom wring ! 
 
624 JAMES BEATTIE. 
 
 " Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb 
 
 With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown, 
 
 In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome, 
 
 Where night and desolation ever frown. 
 
 Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down ; 
 
 Where a green grassy turf is all I crave. 
 
 With here and there a violet bestrewn, 
 
 Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave ; 
 
 And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave. 
 
 " And thither let the village Swain repair ; 
 
 And, light of heart, the village maiden gay, 
 
 To deck with flowers her half-dishevel'd hair. 
 
 And celebrate the merry morn of May. 
 
 There let the shepherd's pipe the live-long day 
 
 Fill all the grove with love's bewitching woe ; 
 
 And when mild Evening comes in mantle gray, 
 
 Let not the blooming band make haste to go ; 
 
 No ghost, nor spell, my long and last abode shall know." 
 
 ON THE REPORT OF A MONUMENT TO BE 
 ERECTED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF A LATE AUTHOR (CHURCHILL).' 
 
 Bufo, begone ! with thee may Faction's fire. 
 That hatch'd thy salamander fame, expire. 
 Fame, dirty idol of the brainless crowd, 
 What half-made moon-calf can mistake for good ! 
 Since shared by knaves of high and low degree ; 
 Cromwell and Catiline, Guidu Faux and thee. 
 
 By nature uninspir'd, untaught by art ; 
 With not one thought that breathes the feeling heart. 
 With not one offering vow'd to virtue's shrine. 
 With not one pure unprostituted line ; 
 Alike debauch'd in body, soul, and lays ; — 
 For pension'd censure, and for pension'd praise. 
 For ribaldi-y, for libels, lewdness, lies. 
 For blasphemy of all the good and wise : 
 Coarse violence in coarser doggrel writ. 
 Which bawling blackguards spell'd and took for wit : 
 For conscience, honour, slighted, spurn'd, o'erthrown, 
 Lo ! Bufo shines the minion of renown. 
 
JAMES BEATTIE. 625 
 
 Is this the land that boasts a Milton's fire, 
 And magic Spenser's wildly warbling lyre ? 
 The land that owns th' omnipotence of song, 
 When Shakespear whirls the throbbing heaj t along ? 
 The land where Pope, with energy divine. 
 In one strong blaze bade wit and fancy shine : 
 Whose verse, by truth in virtue's triumph born. 
 Gives knaves to infamy, and fools to scorn : 
 Yet pure in manners, and in thought refin'd. 
 Whose life and lay adorn'd and bless'd mankind ? 
 Is this the land where Gray's unlabour'd art 
 Soothes, melts, alarms, and ravishes the heart : 
 While the lone wanderer's sweet complainings flow 
 In simple majesty of manly woe ; 
 Or while, subhme, on eagle-pinion driven. 
 He soars Pindaric heights, and sails the waste of heaven ? 
 Is this the land, o'er Shenstone's recent urn, 
 Where all the Loves and gentler Graces mourn ? 
 And where, to crown the hoary bard of night 
 The Muses and the Virtues all unite ? 
 Is this the land where Akenside displays 
 The bold yet temperate flame of ancient days ? 
 Like the rapt sage, in genius as in theme, 
 Whose hallow'd strain renown'd Ilyssus' stream. 
 Or him, the indignant bard, whose patriot ire, 
 Subhme in vengeance, smote the dreadful lyre ? 
 For truth, for liberty, for virtue warm ; 
 Whose mighty song unnerv'd a tyrant's arm, 
 Hush'd the rude roar of discord, rage, and lust, 
 And spum'd licentious demagogues to dust. 
 
 Is this the queen of realms ? the glorious isle, 
 Britannia, blest in Heaven's indulgent smile .' 
 Guardian of truth, and patroness of art, 
 Nurse of th' undaunted soul and generous heart ? 
 Where, from a base unthankful world exil'd, 
 Freedom exults to roam the careless wild : 
 Where taste to science every charm supplies, 
 And genius soars unbounded to the skies ? 
 
 And shall a Birfo's most polluted name 
 Stain her bright tablet of untainted fame ? 
 Shall his disgraceful name with theirs be join'd 
 Who wish'd and wrought the welfare of their kind ? 
 
 S S 
 
626 JAMES BE A TTIE. 
 
 O had thy verse been impotent as dull, 
 Nor spoke the rancorous heart, but lumpish skull ; 
 Had mobs distinguish'd, they who howl'd thy fame, 
 The icicle from the pure diamond's flame. 
 From fancy's soul thy gross imbruted sense, 
 From dauntless truth thy shameless insolence. 
 From elegance confu-sion's monstrous mass. 
 And from the lion's spoils the sculking ass, 
 From rapture's strain the drawling doggrel line, 
 From warbling seraphim the grunting swine ; — 
 With gluttons, dunces, rakes, thy name had slept, 
 Nor o'er her sullied fame Britannia wept : 
 Nor had the Muse, with honest zeal possess'd, 
 T' avenge her country, by thy name disgraced, 
 Rais'd this bold strain for virtue, truth, mankind, 
 And thy fell shade to infamy resign'd. 
 
 When frailty leads astray the soul sincere. 
 Let mercy shed the soft and manly tear. 
 When to the grave descends the sensual sot. 
 Unnamed, unnoticed, let his carrion rot. 
 When paltry rogues, by stealth, deceit, or force. 
 Hazard their necks, ambitious of your purse : 
 For such the hangman wreaths his trusty gin. 
 And let the gallows expiate their sin. 
 But when a ruffian, whose portentous crimes 
 Like plagues and earthquakes terrify the times, 
 Triumphs through life, from legal judgment free, 
 — For Hell may hatch what law could ne'er foresee — 
 Sacred from vengeance shall his memory rest ? 
 Judas, though dead, though damn'd, we still detest. 
 
 SONG. 
 BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND, ETC. 
 
 Blow, blow, thou vernal gale ! 
 Thy balm will not avail 
 To ease my aching breast ; 
 Though thou the billows smooth, 
 Thy murmurs cannot soothe 
 My weary soul to rest. 
 
JAMES BEATTIE. 627 
 
 Flow, flow, thou tuneful stream ! 
 Infuse the easy dream 
 Into the peaceful soul ; 
 But thou canst not compose 
 The tumult of my woes. 
 Though soft thy waters roll. 
 
 Blush, blush, ye fairest flowers ! 
 Beauties surpassing yours 
 My Rosalind adorn ; 
 Nor is the winter's blast, 
 That lays your glories waste, 
 So killing as her 'scorn. 
 
 Breath, breath, ye tender lays, 
 That linger down the maze 
 Of yonder winding grove ; 
 O let your soft control 
 Bend her relenting soul 
 To pity and to love. 
 
 Fade, fade, ye flow'rets fair ! 
 Gales, fan no more the air ! 
 Ye streams, forget to glide ! 
 Be hush'd, each vernal strain ! 
 Since nought can soothe my pain. 
 Nor mitigate her pride. 
 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 When in the crimson cloud of even 
 
 The lingering light decays. 
 And Hesper on the front of heaven 
 
 His glittering gem displays, 
 Deep in the silent vale, unseen, 
 
 Beside a lulling stream, 
 A pensive youth, of placid mien, 
 
 Indulg'd this tender theme. 
 
 " Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd 
 High o'er the glimmering dale ; 
 
 Ye woods, along whose windings wild 
 Murmurs the solemn gale ; 
 
 s s 2 
 
628 JAMES BEATTIE. 
 
 Where Melancholy strays forlorn, 
 
 And Woe retires to weep, 
 What time the wan moon's yellow horn 
 
 Gleams on the western deep : 
 
 " To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms 
 
 Ne'er drew Ambition's eye, 
 Scap'd a tumultuous world's alarms, 
 
 To your retreats I fly. 
 Deep in your most sequester'd bower 
 
 Let me at last recline. 
 Where Solitude, mild, modest power, 
 
 Leans on her ivy'd shrine. 
 
 " How shall I woo thee, matchless fair? 
 
 Thy heavenly smile how win ? 
 Thy smile, — that smooths the brow of Care, 
 
 And stills the storm within. 
 O wilt thou to thy favourite grove 
 
 Thine ardent votary bring. 
 And bless his hours, and bid them move 
 
 Serene, on silent wing ? 
 
 " Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind 
 
 With dreams of former days, 
 When in the lap of Peace reclin'd 
 
 He fram'd his infant lays. 
 When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care 
 
 Nor cold Distrust alarm'd. 
 Nor Envy with malignant glare 
 
 His simple youth had harm'd. 
 
 " Twas then, O Solitude ! to thee 
 
 His early vows were paid. 
 From heart sincere, and warm, and free, 
 
 Devoted to the shade. 
 Ah, why did Fate his steps decoy 
 
 In stormy paths to roam, 
 Remote from all congenial joy ? — 
 
 O take the wanderer home 1 
 
 " Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine ; 
 
 Thy charms my only theme ; 
 My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine 
 
 Waves o'er the gloomy stream. 
 
CHARLES DIBDIN. 629 
 
 Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray 
 
 Breaks from the rustling boughs, 
 And down the lone vale sails away 
 
 To more profound repose. 
 
 " O, while to thee the woodland pours 
 
 Its wildly warbling song, 
 And balmy from the bank of flowers 
 
 The Zephyr breathes along, 
 Let no rude sound invade from far, 
 
 No vagrant foot be nigh. 
 No ray from Grandeur's gilded car 
 
 Flash on the startled eye. 
 
 " But if some pilgrim through the glade 
 
 Thy haUow'd bowers explore, 
 O guard fronl harm his hoary head, 
 
 And listen to his lore ; 
 For he of joys divine shall teU, 
 
 That wean from earthly woe. 
 And triumph o'er the mighty spell 
 
 That chains his heart below. 
 
 " For me, no more the path invites 
 
 Ambition loves to tread ; 
 No more I climb those toilsome heights. 
 
 By guileful Hope misled : 
 Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more 
 
 To Mirth's enlivening strain ; 
 For present pleasure soon is o'er, 
 
 And all the past is vain." 
 
 -«:* 
 
 CHARLES DIBDIN. 
 
 Born 1745. Died 1814. 
 
 lEauthor of "Poor Jack" was bom at Southampton, in 1745. His 
 ler was in her fiftieth year, and he was her eighteenth child. He 
 educated at Winchester and intended for the Church, but his love 
 aetry and music was so marked that, after studying a short time 
 T the well-known Kent, organist of Winchester Cathedral, he was 
 
630 CHARLES DIBDIN. 
 
 sent to Ixjndon, and at ^xteen produced an opera at Covent Garden 
 Theatre, called "The Shepherd's Artifice." In 1778 he became musical 
 manager at Covent Garden, and in 1782 built the Surrey Theatre. In 
 1789 he commenced those entertainments called "The Whim of the 
 Moment," in which he introduced and performed his compositions. 
 "Poor Jack" was one, and immediately established its author as a 
 popular favourite. The charming ballad "Poor Tom Bowling" was 
 written on the death of an elder brother, who was captain of an East 
 Indiaman. In 1796 Dibdin erected a theatre called the Sans-Souci, in 
 Leicester Square, but disposed of it in 1805, and withdrew into private 
 life. He was never a provident man, and consequently had made little 
 or no provision for declining years. His embarrassed circumstances 
 being represented to the Government, a pension of 200/. per annum was 
 granted. In 1813 he was attacked by paralysis, and finally sunk to rest 
 in July, 1814. As a ballad writer, and as a composer of sea songs, Dibdin 
 has made himself a name which will last as long as Enghsh poetry is 
 read : his fluency in composition was so great that he has left us nearly 
 nine hundred. No man knew better how to please the popular taste. 
 
 POOR JACK. 
 
 Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see, 
 
 'Bout danger and fear, and the like ; 
 A tight-water boat and good sea-room give me, 
 
 And it ain't to a little I'll strike. 
 Though the tempest top-gallant mast smack smooth should smite. 
 
 And shiver each splinter of wood, 
 Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse everything tight, 
 
 And under reef d foresail we'll scud : 
 Avast ! nor don't think me a milksop so soft 
 
 To be taken for trifles aback : 
 For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, 
 
 To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 
 
 I heard our good chaplain palaver one day 
 
 About souls, heaven, mercy, and such ; 
 And, my timbers ! what lingo he'd coil and belay ; 
 
 Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch : 
 For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see. 
 
 Without orders that come down below. 
 And a many fine things that proved clearly to me 
 
 That Providence takes us in tow ; 
 For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft 
 
 Take the top-sails of sailors aback. 
 There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, 
 
 To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 
 
CHARLES DIBDIN. 631 
 
 aid to our Poll — ^for, d'ye see, she would cry — 
 
 When last we weigh'd anchor for sea, 
 
 hat argufies sniveling and piping your eye ? 
 
 Why, what a damn'd fool you must be ! 
 
 n't you see, the world's wide, and there's room for us all, 
 
 Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ? 
 
 id if to old Davy I go, my dear Poll, 
 
 you never will hear of me more. 
 
 hat then ? All's a hazard. Come, don't be so soft : 
 
 Perhaps I may laughing come back ; 
 
 ir, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, 
 
 To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 
 
 ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch 
 
 All as one as a piece of the ship, 
 
 id with her brave the world, not offering to flinch 
 
 From the moment the anchor's a-trip. 
 
 I for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends. 
 
 Nought's a trouble from duty that springs ; 
 
 ir my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's. 
 
 And as for my life, 'tis the King's. 
 
 ren when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft 
 
 As for grief to be taken aback ; 
 
 )r the same little cherub that sits up aloft 
 
 WiU look out a good berth for poor Jack ! 
 
 TOM BOWLING. 
 
 Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 
 
 The darling of our, crew ; 
 No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 
 
 For death has broached him to. 
 His form was of the manliest beauty ; 
 
 His heart was kind and soft : 
 Faithful below, he did his duty. 
 
 But now he's gone aloft. 
 
 Tom never from his word departed ; 
 
 His virtues were so rare ; 
 His friends were many and true-hearted ; 
 
 His Poll was kind and fair : 
 
632 CHARLES DIBDIN. 
 
 And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly ; 
 
 Ah, many's the time and oft ! 
 But mirth is turn'd to melancholy, 
 
 For Tom is gone aloft. 
 
 Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, 
 
 When He, who all commands. 
 Shall give, to call life's crew together, 
 
 The word to pipe all hands. 
 Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches, 
 
 In vain Tom's life has doffed ; 
 For though his body's under hatches. 
 
 His soul is gone aloft. 
 
 EVERY BULLET HAS ITS BILLET. 
 
 I'm a tough true-hearted sailor, 
 
 Careless and all that, d'ye see. 
 Never at the times a railer — 
 
 What is time or tide to me ? 
 All must die when fate shall wiU it ; 
 
 Providence ordains it so : 
 Every buUet has its billet. — 
 
 Man the boat, boys — yeo, heave, yeo! 
 
 Life's at best a sea of trouble ; 
 
 He who fears it is a dunce. 
 Death's to me an empty bubble, 
 
 I can never die but once. 
 Blood, if duty bids, I'll spill it : 
 
 Yet I have a tear for woe : 
 Every bullet has its billet. — 
 
 Man the boat, boys-^yeo, heave, yeo ! 
 
 Shrouded in a hammock, glory 
 
 Celebrates the falling brave. 
 Oh ! how many, famed in story. 
 
 Sleep below in ocean's cave. 
 Bring the can, boys ; let us fill it. 
 
 Shall we shun the fight ? O, no ! 
 Every bullet has its billet. — 
 
 Man the boat, boys — ^yeo, heave, yeo I 
 
CHARLES DIBDIN. 
 
 THE TOKEN. 
 
 The breeze was fresh, the ship in stays, 
 Each breaker hush'd, the shore a haze. 
 When Jack, no more on duty call'd. 
 His true-love's tokens overhaul'd : 
 The broken gold, the braided hair. 
 The tender motto, writ so fair, 
 Upon his 'bacco-box he views, — 
 Nancy the poet. Love the muse : 
 
 " If you loves I as I loves you. 
 
 No pair so happy as we two." 
 
 The storm — that hke a shapeless wreck 
 Had strew'd with rigging all the deck. 
 That tars for sharks had given a feast. 
 And aft the ship a hulk — ^had ceased ; 
 When Jack, as with his messmates dear 
 ■He shared the grog, their hearts to cheer, 
 Took from his 'bacco-box a quid. 
 And spelt, for comfort, on the lid, 
 
 " If you loves I as I loves you, 
 
 No pair so happy as we two." 
 
 The battle — that with horror grim 
 Had madly ravaged life and limb, 
 Had scuppers drench'd with human gore. 
 And widow'd many a wife — was o'er ; 
 When Jack to his companions dear 
 First paid the tribute of a tear ; 
 Then as his "bacco-box he held 
 Restored his comfort, as he spell'd, 
 
 " If you loves I as I loves you. 
 
 No pair so happy as we two." 
 
 The voyage — that had been long and hard. 
 But that had jaelded full reward. 
 That brought each sailor to his friend, 
 Happy and rich — was at an end ; 
 When Jack, his toils and perils o'er, 
 Beheld his Nancy on the shore : 
 He then the "bacco-box displa^d, 
 And cried, and seized the willing maid, 
 
 " If you loves I as I loves you, 
 
 No pair so happy as we two." 
 
 633 
 
634 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 Bom 1752. Died 1770. 
 
 Thomas Chatterton was born at Bristol, November 20, 1752. 
 His father was the sexton of St. Mary Redcliffe Church, and was also 
 master of a small school in an adjoining street, called Pyle Street. He 
 died three months before the birth of his son. Chatterton was placed 
 at school when five years of age, under a Mr. Love, his father's successor, 
 who sent him home again as dull and incapable of receiving instructioa 
 At six he taught himself his letters from the illuminated capitals of an 
 old French MS. With these he fell in love ; probably they helped 
 to direct his taste in that direction which it afterwards followed to the 
 marvel of the world. He learned to read from a black-letter Bible. 
 
 In 1760 he was admitted into Colston's School, Bristol, a foundation 
 resembling Christ's Hospital in London. There he continued for seven 
 years. During that period he composed many of his minor poems, 
 and also invented the De Bergham pedigree. His passion for books 
 was the wonder of all who knew him. Before he was twelve years of 
 age he had studied seventy volumes, chiefly on history, or divinity. 
 
 In July, 1767, when fourteen, he left Colston's School, and was appren- 
 ticed to Mr. Lambert, a Bristol scrivener. He lived with the servants, 
 and slept in the same room with the footboy. All his spare moments 
 were devoted to acquiring a knowledge of English antiquities, and to a 
 study of ancient and obsolete modes of writing. 
 
 In 1768 he first attracted public notice. The new bridge of Bristol 
 was completed, and opened. In parley's Journal appeared a letter 
 signed Dunhelmus Bristoliensis, giving an account of the procession of 
 monks, and the ceremonies observed in olden time, when the original 
 bridge had been opened. The account was said to be derived from an 
 ancient MS. This letter was traced to Chatterton. His explanation 
 of it was, that he gathered his information from documents which had 
 anciently been deposited in " Canynge's Cofre," in the muniment-room 
 over the great north porch of St. Mary Redcliffe Church. (Canynge 
 was an eminent Bristol merchant who had rebuilt that magnificent 
 church in the reign of Edward IV.) A number of chests containing 
 deeds and parchments had been preserved in that place. In 1727 they 
 had been opened, the deeds of parochial value had been removed, and 
 other documents regarded as valueless had been lefl in the open chests, 
 which Chatterton's father had used for covering books in his school. 
 Among these papers Chatterton asserted he had found the Canynge MS. , 
 and also the Rowleys MS., written by a priest of that name in the 
 fifteenth century. 
 
THOMAS CHATTERTON. 635 
 
 From time to time Chatterton produced the Rowleys poems, " The 
 Bristow Tragedy," "Canj-nge's Epitaph" by Rowley, and "The Romaunt 
 of the Knyghte," said to have been written by an ancestor of Mr. 
 Burgum, a Bristol pewterer, about 450 years previously. He likewise 
 exhibited, and presented to different gentlemen in Bristol, a variety of 
 parchments bearing upon them heraldic, genealogical, and antiquarian 
 devices, legends, and histories, which were the astonishment of all who 
 saw them. For a time many persons believed them to be genuine. 
 They are now universally condemned as forgeri^. But when that fact 
 is established, it orJy proves Chatterton to have been the most marvellous 
 and precocious boy that has ever been connected with English literature. 
 
 When Horace Walpole was writing his " History of Painters," Chat- 
 terton offered to supply him vfith accounts of a succession of ancient 
 Bristol artists, which he asserted he had discovered. He forwarded 
 specimen MSS. to Walpole, who was at first taken in, and accepted 
 the oifer with warmth. Shortly afterwards he suspected he was being 
 imposed upon, and returned Chatterton's documents vrithout a word. 
 During the time that these Rowley and Canynge Poems and Histories 
 were successively produced Chatterton was busy composing poems of 
 his own, which are wonderful monuments of the genius of the boy. 
 Wearying at last of Bristol, and of his servitude to Mr. Lambert, Chat- 
 terton obtained his release, and determined to try his fortune in London. 
 He arrived in town in April, I77°i aged seventeen. At first he received 
 engagements from various booksellers with whom he had before corre- 
 sponded. His restless brain was full of schemes : he projected a History 
 of England, a History of London ; he wrote poetry for burlettas to be 
 sung at Marylebone Gardens. His letters to his mother and sister were 
 fiill of enthusiasm : " I am settled, and in such a settlement as I can 
 desire. What a glorious prospect ! " He sent small presents home 
 to show them how he was succeeding. From April to June he lived 
 in Shoreditch. His poetry was chiefly of a politico-satirical character. 
 In June he moved his lodgings to a garret in the house of Mrs. Angel, 
 No. 39, Brook Street, Holbom. From thence this lonely, friendless boy 
 indited those letters to his mother and sister which show how deep and 
 true was his love for them. He would live on a crust of bread and a 
 dried sheep's-tongue, in order to buy something with his poor earnings, 
 and send it home to gladden his mother's heart, and make her believe 
 he was succeeding in his bold venture. But that venture was a failure. 
 One paper after another failed him ; and the employment he sought was 
 not to be gained. He then thought he would go abroad as a surgeon; 
 but not being able to secure proper testimonials as to qualifications, he 
 lost an appointment as surgeon's mate on board an African vessel. 
 From that disappointment he never rallied. His poverty became 
 extreme, and his pride was as great as his poverty. Mr. Cross, an, 
 apothecary in Brook Street, observing hLs manner, and suspecting the 
 truth, 'pressed him to dine. Chatterton refused. On the 22nd of August 
 the baker's wife refused to supply him with any more bread until he had 
 
636 THOMAS CHATTERTON 
 
 paid the 3J-. bd. already owing. This drove him to his garret in a storm 
 of passion. Pride and hunger had at length done their worst. On 
 Friday the 24th he sallied forth once more with his MSS. to make one 
 last, desperate, and fruitless attempt to gain employment. Returning 
 home, he purchased some arsenic. That evening he spent bending over 
 the fire in Mrs. Angel's parlour, muttering poetry to himself, until at last, 
 taking his candle, and having kissed Mrs. Angel, he wished her good 
 night, and retired to his garret. The following morning, Saturday, 
 August 25th, 1770, he was discovered lying on his bed, dead ; the floor 
 covered with shreds of papers — the holocaust of his genius — ^which he 
 had torn to pieces before he bid the world a last farewell. " I leave my 
 soul to its Maker," he wrote, " my body to my mother and sister, and 
 my curse to Bristol. " 
 
 After the body had lain in the dead-house of St Andrew's, Holbom, 
 and an inquest had been held, it was buried in a pauper's grave in the 
 workhouse burial-ground. Shoe Lane — the spot now occupied by 
 Farringdon Market. 
 
 So perished in his eighteenth year " the wonderful boy." 
 " This is the most extraordinary boy that has encountered my know- 
 ledge," said Dr. Johnson. Malone wrote that he " beheves him to have 
 been the greatest genius that England has produced since the days 
 of Shakespere ; " and Campbell concludes his life of him by saying, 
 "Tasso alone can be compared to him as a juvenile prodigy. No 
 English poet ever equalled him at the same age." 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 O God ! whose thunder shakes the sky, 
 Whose eye this atom globe surveys, 
 To Thee, my only Rock, I fly ; 
 Thy mercy in Thy justice praise. 
 
 The mystic mazes of Thy will, 
 The shadows of celestial light, 
 Are past the power of human skill ; 
 But what th' Eternal acts — is right. 
 
 O teach me in the trying hour, 
 When anguish swells the dewry tear, 
 To still my sorrows, ovra Thy power, 
 Thy goodness love. Thy justice fear. 
 
 If in this bosom aught but Thee 
 Encroaching sought a boundless sway, 
 Omniscience could the danger see, 
 And Mercy look the cause away. 
 
THOMAS OHATTERTON. 637 
 
 Then why, my soul, dost thou complain ? 
 Why drooping seek the dark recess ? 
 Shake off the melancholy chain, 
 For God created all to bless. 
 
 But, ah ! my breast is human still ! 
 The rising sigh, the falling tear. 
 My languid vitals' feeble will. 
 The sickness of my soul declare. 
 
 But yet, with fortitude resign'd, 
 ni thank the Inflictor of the blow. 
 Forbid the sigh, compose my mind. 
 Nor let the gush of misery flow. 
 
 The gloomy mantle of the night, 
 Which on my sinking spirit steals, 
 WiU vanish at the morning Ught 
 Which God — my East, my Sun — ^reveals. 
 
 A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 Almighty Framer of the skies ! 
 O let our pure devotion rise 
 
 Like incense in Thy sight ! 
 Wrapt in impenetrable shade 
 The texture of our souls was made^ 
 
 Tin Thy command gave light. 
 
 The Sun of glory gleam'd ; the ray 
 Refin'd the darkness into day. 
 
 And bid the vapours fly : 
 Impell'd by His eternal love 
 He left His palaces above. 
 
 To cheer our gloomy sky. 
 
 How shall we celebrate the day 
 When God appeared in mortal clay. 
 
 The mark of worldly scorn ; 
 When the Archangel's heavenly lays 
 Attempted the Redeemer's praise, 
 
 And hail'd Salvation's mom ? 
 
638 THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 A humble form the Godhead wore, 
 The pains of poverty He bore, 
 
 To gaudy pomp unknown : 
 Though in a human walk He trod, 
 Still was the Man Almighty God, 
 
 In glory all His own. 
 
 Despis'd, oppress'd, the Godhead bears 
 The torments of this vale of tears ; 
 
 Nor bid His vengeance rise : 
 He saw the creatures he had made 
 Revile His power. His peace invade ; 
 
 He saw with Mercy's eyes. 
 
 How shall we celebrate His name. 
 Who groan'd beneath a life of shame, 
 
 In all affliction try'd ? 
 The soul is raptur'd to conceive 
 A truth which being must believe. 
 
 The God Eternal dy'd. 
 
 My soul, exert thy powers, adore. 
 Upon Devotion's plumage soar 
 
 To celebrate the day : 
 The God from whom Creation sprung 
 Shall animate my grateful tongue ; 
 
 From Him I'll catch the lay! 
 
 FROM «^LLA." 
 
 THE MYNSTRELLES SONGE. 
 
 O synge untoe mie roundelaie ! 
 
 O droppe the brynie teare wythe mee ! 
 
 Daunce ne moe atte hallie dale, 
 
 Lycke a reynynge^ ryver bee : 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gon to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyllowe tree. 
 
 (i) Reynynge, running. 
 
THOMAS CHATTERTON. 639 
 
 Blacke hys cryne^ as the wyntere nyghte, 
 Whyte hys rode* as the sommer snowe, 
 Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, — 
 Cale' he lyes ynne the grave belowe : 
 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 
 Gon to hys deathe-bedde, 
 
 Al under the wyllowe tree. 
 
 Swote* hys tyngue as the throstle's note, 
 Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, 
 Defte^ hys taboure, codgelle stote, 
 ! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree : 
 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 
 Gon to hys deathe-bedde, 
 
 Al under the wyllowe tree. 
 
 Harke ! the ravenne flappes hys wynge 
 In the briered delle belowe ; 
 Harke ! the deathe-owle loude dothe synge 
 To the nyghte-mares as heie goe : 
 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 
 Gon to hys deathe-bedde, 
 
 Al under the wyllowe tree. 
 
 See ! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie : 
 Whyterre ys mie true love's shroude ; 
 Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, 
 Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude : 
 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 
 Gon to hys deathe-bedde, 
 
 Al under the wyUowe tree. 
 
 Heere, uponne mie true love's grave, 
 Schalle the baren fleurs be layde. 
 Nee one hallie^ Seyncte to save 
 Al the celness' of a mayde : 
 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 
 Gon to hys deathe-bedde, 
 
 Al under the wyUowe tree. 
 
 (i) Cryne, liair, (2) Rode, complexion, 
 
 (3) Cale, cold. (4) Swote, inveei. 
 
 (5) Defte, neat. (6) Haliie, Iwly, 
 (7) Celness, coldness. 
 
640 THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 Wythe mie hondes I'Ue dente"^ the brieres 
 Rounde his hallie corse to gre ;^ 
 Ouphante' fairie, lyghte youre fyres, 
 Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee : 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gon to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyllowe tree. 
 
 Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and theme, 
 Drayne mie harty's bloode awaie ; 
 Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, 
 Daunce bie nete,* or feaste by daie: 
 Mie love ys dedde, 
 Gon to hys deathe-bedde, 
 Al under the wyllowe tree. 
 
 Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,* 
 Bere mee to yer leathalle' tyde. 
 I die ; I comme ; mie true love waytes. — 
 Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. 
 
 FROM "GODDWYN." 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Whan Freedom, dreste yn blodde-steyned veste. 
 To everie knyghte her warre-songe sunge, 
 Uponne her hedde wylde wedes were spredde, 
 A gorie anlace^ bye her honge. 
 
 She daunced onne the heathe ; 
 
 She liearde the voice of death ; 
 Pale-eyned Affryghte, hys harte of sylver hue, 
 In vayne assayled' her bosomme to acale ;° 
 She hearde onflemed'" the shriekynge voice of woe, 
 And sadness ynne the owlette shake the dale. 
 
 She shooke the burled" speere. 
 
 On hie she jeste^^ her sheelde. 
 
 Her foemen all appere 
 
 And flitzze^' alonge the feelde. 
 
 (i) Dente, fasten. {aj Gre, grow. 
 
 (3) Ouphante, elfin. (4) Nete, night. 
 
 (5) Reytes, waterflags. (6) Leathalle, deadly. 
 
 (7) Anlace, sword. (8) Assayled, endeavoured. 
 
 (9) Acale, freeze. (10) Onflemed, undismayed. 
 
 (11) Burled, armed, pointed. {12) Jeste, Iwisted on high, raised. 
 (13) Flitzze.^j/. 
 
GEORGE CRABBE. 641 
 
 Power, wythe hys heafod^ straught* ynto the skyes, 
 Hys speere a sonne-beame, and his sheelde a starre, 
 Alyche' twaie'' brendeynge' gronfyres" rolls hys eyes, 
 Chaftes' wyth hys yronne feete and soundes to war. 
 
 She syttes upon a rocke, 
 
 She bendes before hys speere, 
 
 She ryses from the shocke, 
 
 Wieldynge her owne yn ayre. 
 Harde as the thonder dothe she drive ytte on, 
 Wytte scillye^ wympled' gies*" ytte to hys crowne j 
 Hys longe sharpe speere, hys spreddynge sheelde ys goi 
 He falles, and fallynge roUeth thousandes down. 
 War, goare-faced war, bie envie burld," arist,*^ 
 Hys feerie heaulme" noddynge to the ayre, 
 Tenne bloddie arrowes ynne hys streynynge fyste. 
 * # * 
 
 GEORGE CRABBE. 
 
 Bom 1754. Died 1832. 
 
 George Crabbe was of humble parentage, and was bom at Aid- 
 borough, Suffolk, on December 24, 1754. His father's calling was to 
 collect the salt-duties of that place, and his means were limited. Struck 
 by the love of books and poetry displayed by his son at a very early 
 age, he made great efforts to give him an education. At the grammar 
 school where he was sent He made some progress in classics ; but he 
 leit it at fourteen, and was articled to a surgeon at Wickham Brook, near 
 Bury St. Edmund's. Here it seems he was not well treated, and at the 
 exphation of three years his friends transferred him to another at Wood- 
 bridge, where he completed his time. He returned to Aldborough 
 ™ '775> *nd occupied himself in the warehouse imtil his father was 
 able to send him to London to complete his medical studies. Uirfor- 
 tunatdy the means at his disposal were insufficient for the purpose, and 
 before a year had expired he was compelled to return home, his slender 
 resources being completely exhaiisted. He had never liked the profession 
 chosen for him, and though &om a sense of duty he had done his best to 
 
 (i) Heafod, kead. (2) Straught, stretcktd, 
 
 (3) Alyche, like. (4) Twaie, tiiio. 
 
 (5) Bfendeynge, Jlaming. {6] Gronfyres, tneteors. 
 
 (7) Chaftes, heats, stamps. (8] Scillye, closely. 
 
 (9) Wympled, mantled, covered. (10) Gies, guides. 
 
 (11) Egrld, armed. (12) Arist, anse. 
 
 (13) Heaulme, helmet. 
 T T 
 
642 GEORGE CRAB BE. 
 
 study it, he found, when he set up as a surgeon on his own account, he 
 had not received sufEcient preparation for any prospect of success. This 
 distressed him greatly, conscious as he was of his own abilities, and he 
 determined to abandon medicine for literature, and try his fortune in 
 London. Through the kindness of Mr. Dudley North, who advanced 
 him 5/., he made his way to the metropolis, and in April, 1780, fairly 
 commenced his new career ; but want of means rendered this a difficult 
 task. He began a prose work entitled " A Plan for the Examination 
 of our Moral and Religious Opinions," but thought it better, before 
 completion, to make himself first known through his poems. Two 
 written expressly for this purpose were rejected by the booksellers, and 
 a third, published on his own account, called " The Candidate," brought 
 him no good fortune, owing to the failure of the publisher. Pecuniary 
 trouble now pressed hard upon him, and he vainly endeavoured to obtain 
 assistance and patronage from Lord Thurloe and Lord Shelburne, to 
 whom he sent his poems. At length, when a prison stared him in the 
 face, a happy thought prompted him to write to Edmund Burke, and 
 he told a friend some years afterwards of the agony of mind he expe- 
 rienced the night after he had left his letter. He paced Westminster 
 Bridge all night, feeling he had played his last card, and if that failed, 
 all was over. Burke was deeply touched by the appeal, and made an 
 immediate appointment with Crabbe. All the young man wanted was 
 a kind friend to bring him forward ; he was anxious and vrilling to work, 
 but without money or friends it was no easy matter. Burke treated him 
 with the greatest consideration, solicited his confidence, looked at his 
 poems, and having selected "The Village" and "The Library," and 
 gained Crabbe's consent to several alterations, took them himself to 
 Mr. Dodsley, who published the latter in 1781. Nor was this all : with 
 the true feeling of a gentleman, Burke treated him on terms of perfect 
 equality, gave him a room at Beaconfield, delicately advanced him 
 money, introduced him to Sir Joshua Reynolds, Fox, Lord Thurloe, and 
 others, and suggested his entering the Church. Through Burke's influ- 
 ence Crabbe was ordained deacon, December, 1781, and priest in the 
 following August. His first curacy was Aldborough ; and soon after, 
 through the kind exertions of his generous patron, he was appointed 
 domestic chaplain to the Duke of Rutland and took up his residence 
 in Belvoir Castle. " The Village " was a great success ; Dr. Johnson 
 revised it, and it appeared in 1 783 — a fortunate year for the poet, as Lord 
 Thurloe, no doubt in atonement for the refusal to assist him in time 
 past, presented him with two small livings in Dorsetshire. Crabbe now 
 married the lady to whom he had been attached many years, and after a 
 brief residence in Belvoir Castle with his wife, removed to the parsonage 
 at Strathern, of which parish he was appointed curate. " The News- 
 paper" was published in 1785, and from that time till 1807, when the 
 " Parish Register " was brought out, Crabbe did not come before the 
 world as an author. In 1789 Lord Thurloe, at the solicitation of the 
 Duchess of Rutland, allowed him to exchange his Dorsetshire prefer- 
 
GEORGE CRABBE. 643 
 
 ment for the livings of Muston and Allington, near Belvoir ; and he 
 resided partly at Great Glemhanv (the curacy of which he had taken), and 
 afterwards at his rectory at Muston. His time was fully employed in 
 study and in the education of his sons. He also composed three novels, 
 and a work on botany, which he afterwards consigned to the flames. In 
 1807 he reprinted his earlier poems, and wrote " Sir Eustace Grey " and 
 other pieces, his object being to realize enough to send his son to Cam- 
 bridge. "The Borough" followed in 1810. His wife, to whom he 
 was tenderly attached, died in 1813, and about that time, the living of 
 Trowbridge in Wilts being vacant, he was presented to it by the then 
 Buke of Rutland, and soon afterwards to the incumbency of Croxton. 
 Trowbridge now became the permanent residence of Crabbe, and he 
 won the hearts of his parishioners by his amiability and the assiduity 
 with which he discharged the duties of his calling. In 1819 he pub- 
 lished his "Tales of the Hall," and Mr. Murray gave him 3,000/. for 
 them and the copyright of his other poems. During his occasional 
 visits to Ixindon he made the acquaintance of Southey, Wordsworth, 
 Campbell, Moore, and others, and in 1822 paid a visit to Sir Walter 
 Scott He died on the 3rd of February 1832, and was buried in 
 Trowbridge Church. Crabbe was a man of blameless life, and was 
 beloved and respected by all who enjoyed his friendship. His poetry is 
 distinguished for simplicity and force. A keen observer of character, he 
 painted fiom life, and his descriptions were truthful and graphic. An 
 edition of his poems, in eight volumes, was published by Murray in 1834. 
 
 FROM "THE VILLAGE." 
 
 Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, 
 Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ; 
 There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, 
 And the diUl wheel hums doleful through the day : 
 There the children dweU who know no parents' care ; 
 Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there ; 
 Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed. 
 Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed ; 
 Dejected widows with unheeded tears. 
 And crippled age with more than childhood fears ; 
 The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they ! 
 The moping idiot and the madman gay.^ 
 Here too the sick their final doom receive. 
 Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve, 
 Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow, 
 Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below ; 
 
 (i) This description of the parish poor-house, and that of the village apothecary, 
 were inserted by Burke in the Annual Register, and afterwards by Dr. Vicesimus 
 Mmt m the " Elegant Extracts," along with the lines on the Old Romancers, from 
 
 ine Library." 
 
 T T 2 
 
644 GEORGE CRABBE. 
 
 Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan. 
 
 And the cold charities of man to man : 
 
 Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide, 
 
 And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride ; 
 
 But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, 
 
 And pride embitters what it can't deny. 
 
 Say, ye opprest by some fantastic woes. 
 Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose ; 
 Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance 
 With timid eye to read the distant glance ; 
 Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease, 
 To name the nameless, ever new disease ; 
 Who with mock patience dire complaints endure. 
 Which real pain, and that alone, can cure ; 
 How would ye bear a real pain, to lie 
 Despised, neglected, left alone to die ? 
 How would ye bear to draw your latest breath 
 Where all that's wretched paves the way for death ? 
 
 Such is that room which one rude beam divides, 
 And naked rafters form the sloping sides ; 
 Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are seen. 
 And lath and mud are all that lie between ; 
 Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way 
 To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day : 
 Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread. 
 The drooping wretch reclines his languid head ; 
 For him no hand the cordial cup applies, 
 Or wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes ; 
 No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile. 
 Or promise hope, till sickness wears a smile. 
 
 But soon a loud and hasty summons calls. 
 Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls ; 
 Anon a figure enters, quaintly neat. 
 All pride and business, bustle and conceit ; 
 With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe. 
 With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go, 
 He bids the gazing throng around him fly. 
 And carries fate and physic in his eye : 
 A potent quack, long versed in human ills. 
 Who first insults the victim whom he kills ; 
 Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy Bench protect. 
 And whose most tender mercy is neglect. 
 Paid by the parish for attendance here, 
 He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer. 
 
GEORGE CRABBE. 645 
 
 In haste he seeks the bed where Misery lies, 
 Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes ; 
 And, some habitual queries hurried o'er. 
 Without reply, he rushes on the door : 
 His drooping patient, long inured to pain 
 And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain ; 
 He ceases now the feeble help to crave 
 Of man, and silent sinks into the grave. 
 
 But ere his death some pious doubts arise, 
 Some simple fears, which " bold bad " men despise ; 
 Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove 
 His title certain to the joys above : 
 For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls 
 The holy stranger to these dismal walls : 
 And doth not he, the pious man, appear. 
 He, '' passing rich with forty pounds a year" ? 
 Ah ! no j a shepherd of a different stock, 
 And far unlike him, feeds his little flock : 
 A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task 
 As much as God or man can fairly ask ; 
 The rest he gives to loves and labours Ught, 
 To fields the morning and to feasts the night ; 
 None better skill'd the noisy pack to guide, 
 To urge their chase, to cheer them or to chide ; 
 A sportsman keen, he shoots through half the day, 
 And, skill'd at whist, devotes the night to play : 
 Then, while such honours bloom around his head. 
 Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed. 
 To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal 
 To combat fears that e'en the pious feel ? 
 
 Now once again the gloomy scene explore. 
 Less gloomy now ; the bitter hour is o'er. 
 The man of many sorrows sighs no more. 
 Up yonder hill behold how sadly slow 
 The bier moves winding from the vale below : 
 There lie the happy dead, from trouble free, 
 And the glad parish pays the frugal fee : 
 No more, O Death ! thy victim starts to hear 
 Churchwarden stem, or kingly overseer ; 
 No more the farmer claims his humble bow ; 
 Thou an his lord, the best of tyrants thou ! 
 
 Now to the church behold the mourners come, 
 Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb ; 
 
6*6 GEORGE CRABBE. 
 
 The village children now their games suspend, 
 To see the bier that bears their ancient friend : 
 For he was one in all their idle sport, 
 And like a monarch ruled their little court ; 
 The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball, 
 The bat, the wicket, were his labours all : 
 Him now they follow to his grave, and stand, 
 Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand ; 
 While, bending low, their eager eyes explore 
 The mingled relics of the parish poor. 
 The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round. 
 Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound ; 
 The busy priest, detain'd by weightier care. 
 Defers his duty till the day of prayer ; 
 And, waiting long, the crowd retire distress'd, 
 To think a poor man's bones should lie unbless'd. 
 
 PHCEBE DAWSON. 
 
 FROM "THE PARISH REGISTER." 
 
 Two summers since I saw, at Lammas Fair, 
 The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there, 
 When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the green, 
 In haste to see, and happy to be seen : 
 Her air, her manners, all who saw admired ; 
 Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired ; 
 The joy of youth and health her eyes displa/d, 
 And ease of heart her every look convey'd ; 
 A native skill her simple robes express'd. 
 As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd ; 
 The lads around admired so fair a sight, 
 And Phoebe felt, and felt she gave, delight. 
 Admirers soon of every age she gain'd ; 
 Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd : 
 Envy itself could no contempt display ; 
 They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away. 
 Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place 
 Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace ; 
 But yet on Sunday eve, in freedom's hour. 
 With secret joy she felt that beauty's power. 
 When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal, 
 That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel. 
 
GEORGE CRABBE. 647 
 
 At length the youth ordain'd to move her breast 
 Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd ; 
 With looks less timid made his passion known, 
 And pleased by manners most unlike her own ; 
 Loud though in love, and confident though young ; 
 Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue ; 
 By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade. 
 He served the Squire, and brush'd the coat he made. 
 Yet now, would Phoebe her consent afford. 
 Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board ; 
 With her should years of growing love be spent. 
 And growing wealth : — she sigh'd, and look'd consent. 
 
 Now through the lane, up hUl, and 'cross the green, 
 (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen — 
 Dejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) 
 Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid. 
 Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile, 
 To/d by each bank, and trifled at each stile ; 
 Where, as he painted every bUssful view. 
 And highly colour'd what he strongly drew, 
 The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, 
 Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears. 
 Thus pass'd th' allotted hours, till, lingering late. 
 The lover loiter'd at the master's gate ; 
 There he pronounced adieu ; and yet would stay, 
 Till chidden — soothed — entreated — forced away : 
 He would of coldness, though indulged, complain,- 
 And oft retire, and oft return again ; 
 When, if his teasing vex'd her gentle mind, 
 The grief assumed compeU'd her to be kind ! 
 For he would proof of plighted kindness crave. 
 That she resented first and then forgave. 
 And to his grief and penance yielded more 
 Than his prestmiption had required before. 
 Ah ! fly temptation, youth ! refrain, refrain. 
 Each yielding maiden and presuming swain ! 
 
 Lo ! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, 
 And torn green gown loose hanging at her back. 
 One who an infant in her arms sustains, 
 And seems in patience striving with her pains ; 
 Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread. 
 Whose cares are growing and whose hopes are fled ; 
 
648 GEORGE CRABBE. 
 
 Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, 
 
 And tears unnoticed from their channels flow ; 
 
 Serene her manner, till some sudden pain 
 
 Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again ; — 
 
 Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, 
 
 And every step with cautious terror makes ; 
 
 For not alone that infant in her arms, 
 
 But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms. 
 
 With water burthen'd, then she picks her way. 
 
 Slowly and cautious, in the clinging clay ; 
 
 Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound. 
 
 And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground ; 
 
 Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes, 
 
 While hope the mind as sti-ength the frame forsakes : 
 
 For when so full the cup of sorrow grows, 
 
 Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows. 
 
 And now her path, but not her peace, she gains ; 
 
 Safe from her task, but shivering with her pains ; 
 
 Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, 
 
 And placing first her infant on the floor, 
 
 She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits, 
 
 And sobbing struggles with the rising fits. 
 
 In vain : they come ; she feels the inflating grief. 
 
 That shuts the swelling bosom from relief. 
 
 That speaks in feeble cries a soul distress'd. 
 
 Or the sad laugh that cannot be repress'd. 
 
 The neighbour matron leaves her wheel and flies 
 
 With aU the aid her poverty supplies : 
 
 Unfee'd, the calls of Nature she obeys, 
 
 Not led by profit, not allured by praise ; 
 
 And waiting long, till these contentions cease. 
 
 She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace. 
 
 Friend of distress ! the mourner feels thy aid ; 
 
 She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid. 
 
 But who this child of weakness, want, and care ? 
 'Tis Phoebe Dawson, pride of Lammas Fair ; 
 Who took her lover for his sparkling eyes. 
 Expressions warm, and love-inspiring lies : 
 Compassion first assail'd her gentle heart, 
 For all his suffering, all his bosom's smart. 
 " And then his prayers ! they would a savage move. 
 And win the coldest of the sex to love." 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 649 
 
 But, ah ! too soon his looks success declared, 
 Too late her loss the marriage rite repaired. 
 The faithless flatterer then his vows forgot, 
 A captious tyrant or a noisy sot : 
 If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd ; 
 If absent, spending what their labours gain'd ; 
 Till that fair form in want and sickness pined, 
 And hope and comfort fled that gentle mind. 
 
 Then fly temptation, yo»th ; resist, refrain ! 
 
 Nor let me preach for ever and in vain ! ^ 
 
 '%>S> 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Bom 1759. Died 1791. 
 
 Robert Burns was bom on the 25th of January, 1759, near the 
 ira of Ayr. His father was a hard-working man, whose life was one 
 Kg stru^le to provide the necessaries of life for his family and give 
 > children what little education his slender means permitted. His 
 ath occurred in 1784. The early childhood of Robert was a. verj- 
 X)my one; what Utde amoimt of school instruction he acquired was 
 
 snatches and at intervals. Some years before the father died, Robert 
 d his brother Gilbert took a small farm, and stocked it in the best 
 ly they could, with the savings of the family, and by dint of hard 
 )rk and li^d economy managed to keep a roof over their heads. At 
 leen Robert first showed his talent for poetry, and gained a consider- 
 le share of rustic applause ; but, unhappily for himself, his winning 
 uineis, the company he mixed in, and his fondness for female society, 
 
 d^ees produced an injurious change ia his habits, and caused great 
 happiness to his family. His unfortimate connexion with Jean 
 mour, who eventually became his wife, led to his leaving his birth- 
 ice, with the intention of proceeding to Jamaica to try his fortune, 
 evionsly, however, to leaving Scotland, he determined to publish his 
 ems; and accordingly, in 1786, an impression of 600 copies was 
 inted at Kilmarnock. They were favourably received by the public, 
 d the author cleared 20/. With part of the proceeds he took a 
 
 i) Mr. Lockhart, in the Quarterly Review, No. C. , says, " The last piece of poetry 
 It soothed and occupied the dying ear of Mr. Fox was Crabbe's tale of Phcebe 
 ■^n ; and we are enabled to offer testimony, not more equivocal, of the sincerity 
 Sir Walter Scott^s worship of his genius. Crabbe's poems were at all times more 
 quendy in his hands than any other work whatever, except Shakespeare ; and 
 ring the fewintervals after his return to Abbotsford, in 1832, when he was sufficiently 
 oself to ask his family to read aloud to him, the only books he ever called for were 
 Bible and his Crabbe." 
 
6so ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 steerage passage in the first vessel starting from the Clyde, and his sea- 
 chest was on the road to Greenock, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to 
 a mutual friend spoke so favourably of his chances in Edinburgh among 
 a literary set of which the Doctor was a member, that he resolved to 
 abandon his intention, and set oiiF for Edinburgh with neither money nor 
 friends. The result was successful. Burns speedily made the acquaint- 
 ance of all that were remarkable for literature and fashion, and won 
 upon them by the brilliancy of his conversational powers and his 
 poetical gifts; his antecedents making him an object of wonder to every 
 one. Under the patronage of Dr. Robertson, Mr. Mackenzie, and 
 other literary celebrities, a new edition of his poems was published, 
 and he received 500/. In 1788 he returned to Ayr, and advanced 200/. 
 to his brother Gilbert, who had for many years been the sole support of 
 their aged mother. With the residue of his little fortune he took and 
 stocked a farm in Dumfriesshire for himself, and having previously 
 legalized his marriage with Miss Armour, settled down to reside there. By 
 the interest of a friend, he obtained an appointment as officer of Excise, 
 which brought him in a small income ; but its duties interfered so much 
 with agricultural pursuits that he resigned the farm to his landlord, and 
 in 1791 retired with his family to a small house in Dumfries, where he 
 spent the short remaining portion of his life. On his first introduction 
 to society he had given way to habits of intemperance, and as years 
 advanced they acquired a greater hold upon him. His prospects of pro- 
 motion in the Excise were further off than ever, in consequence of some 
 imprudent expressions which escaped him in an unguarded moment. 
 Illness and pecuniary difficulties produced a depression of spirits, and 
 he broke down under them. He died on July 21, 1 79 1, and was fol- 
 lowed to the grave by a very large concourse of people of all grades. 
 
 Considering his early disadvantages, Bums' career was a most remark- 
 able lOne. His genius was acknowledged by all, and his poetry found its 
 way even during his lifetime into every rank of society. The subjects 
 he chose were those which appealed to every heart, and the way in 
 which he treated them stirred the feelings of his readers. That some 
 of his poems are not free from impropriety no one can deny, but he 
 seldom descended to anything vulgar or gross ; he was essentially one 
 of Nature's poets. 
 
 STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1792. 
 
 Oh ! sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave, 
 
 My dear little angel, for ever ; 
 For ever ! — oh no ! let not man be a slave 
 
 His hopes from existence to sever. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 651 
 
 Tho' cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy head 
 
 In the dark mansions of sorrow, 
 The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed, 
 
 Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow. 
 
 The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form 
 
 Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom, 
 When thou shrunk from the scowl of the loud winter storm, 
 
 And nestled thee close to that bosom. 
 
 Oh, still I behold thee, aU lovely in death. 
 
 Reclined on the lap of thy mother. 
 When the tear trickled bright, when the short, stifled breath 
 
 Told how dear you were aye to each other. 
 
 My chUd, thou art gone to the home of thy rest, 
 
 Where suffering no longer can harm ye. 
 Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest, 
 
 Thro' an endless existence shall charm thee : 
 
 While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn 
 
 Thro' the dire desert regions of sorrow. 
 O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn, 
 
 And sigh for hfe's latest morrow. 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ., OF AYR. 
 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil» 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. 
 The short but simple annals of the poor. — Gray. 
 
 My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! 
 
 No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
 With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, 
 
 My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise : 
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 
 
 The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
 The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
 What Aiken in a cottage would have been : 
 ! though his worth unknown, far happier there I ween. 
 
6S2 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh •} 
 
 The short'ning winter day is near a close ; 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
 
 The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose ; 
 The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes, — 
 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end, — 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
 And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 
 
 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher^ thro' 
 
 To meet their dad, wi' flichterin^ noise an' glee. 
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily. 
 
 His clane hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile. 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
 
 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
 An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 
 
 Belyve * the elder bairns come drapping in, 
 
 At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; ^ 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie' rin 
 
 A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. 
 
 In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e. 
 Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown. 
 
 Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee. 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. 
 
 An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : 
 The social hours, swift wing'd, unnoticed fleet ; 
 
 Each tells the uncos' that he sees or hears. 
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years 
 
 (Anticipation forward points the view) : 
 The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, 
 
 Gars^ auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
 (il Rushing sound. (2) Stagger. (3) Fluttering. (4) By and by. 
 
 {5) Although the " cotter," in the Saturday Night, is an exact copy of my father in 
 his manners, his family devotions, and exhortations, yet the other Jjarts of the descrip- 
 tion do not apply to our family. None of us ever were " at service out, amang the 
 neebors roun'." Instead of our depositing our " sair-won penny-fee" with our parents, 
 my father laboured bard, and lived with the most rigid economy, that he might be able 
 to keep his children at hoine. — Gilbert Burns to Dr. Currie ; Oct. 24, 1800. 
 
 (6) Cautious. (7) News. (8) Makes. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 653 
 
 Their master's an' their mistress's command 
 
 The younkers a' are warned to obey, 
 An' mind their labours wi' an eydent* hand, 
 
 An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
 "An', oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway. 
 
 An' mind your duty, duly, mom an' night ! 
 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
 
 Implore His counsel and assisting might ! 
 ley never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright !" 
 
 But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 
 
 Jemiy, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
 Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 
 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
 Wi' heart-struck anxious care inquires his name. 
 
 While Jenny hafflins ' is afraid to speak : 
 eel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild worthless rake. 
 
 Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
 
 A strappan youth ; he takes the mother's eye ; 
 Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
 
 The father cracks' of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 
 
 But, blate* and laithfu',^ scarce can weel behave ; 
 The woman, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
 
 What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave, 
 eel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.' 
 
 O happy love ! where love like this is found. 
 
 O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
 I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 
 
 And sage experience bids me this declare : 
 " If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 'TIS when a youthful, loving, modest pair 
 
 In other's arms breathe out the tender tale 
 ineath the milk-white thorn that scents the eVning gale." 
 
 Is there, in human form that bears a heart, 
 
 A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth, 
 That can, with studied, sly,' ensnaring art, 
 
 Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
 
 (I) Diligent (2) Half. (3) Talks. (4) Bashful 
 
 (5) Sheepish. (6) The rest 
 
654 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 
 
 Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
 
 Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ; 
 Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ? 
 
 But now the supper crowns their simple board : 
 
 The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; 
 The soupe their only hawkie^ does afford, 
 
 That 'yont the hallan^ snugly chows her cood ; 
 The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 
 
 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd^ kebbuck,* fell ;^ 
 An' aft he's prest,_ an' aft he ca's it guid, 
 
 The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
 How 'twas a towmond^ auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.' 
 
 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face 
 
 They round the ingle form a circle wide : 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 
 
 The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 
 
 His lyart haffets* wearing thin an' bare : 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. 
 
 He wales' a portion with judicious care ; 
 And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 
 They tune their hearts, — by far the noblest aim ! 
 Perhaps " Dundee's " wild warbling measures rise, 
 
 Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name ; 
 Or noble " Elgin" beets the heav'nward flame. 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
 
 The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 
 
 The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 
 How Abram was the friend of God on high, 
 
 Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny, 
 
 (i) Cow. J2j Partition wall. (3) Well-saved. 
 
 (4) Cheese. (5) Tasty. (6) A twelvemonth. 
 
 (7) Since the flax was in flower. (8) Grey locks. (9) Chooses. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 655 
 
 Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire, 
 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry, 
 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire, 
 other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme : 
 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
 How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, 
 
 Had not on earth whereon to lay His head : 
 How His first followers and servants sped ; 
 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 
 d heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's 
 command. 
 
 Then kneeling down, to heaven's eternal King 
 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
 Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise; 
 
 In such society, yet still more dear ; 
 lile circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 
 
 Compayd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 
 
 In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
 When men display to congregations wide 
 
 Devotion's eVry grace, except the heart ! 
 The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert. 
 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
 But haply, in some cottage far apart. 
 
 May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul, 
 d in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their seVral way ; 
 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
 The parent pair their secret homage pay, 
 
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
 That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest. 
 
 And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
 Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best. 
 
 For them and for their little ones provide ; 
 :, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 
 
6s6 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 .From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
 
 That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings ; 
 
 " An honest man's the noblest Tyork of God : " 
 And, certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 
 What is a lordling's pomp ? — a cumbrous load, 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
 Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness reiin'd ! 
 
 O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
 
 Be blest with h^lth, and peace, and sweet content ! 
 And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
 
 From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
 And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 
 
 O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
 
 That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart ; 
 Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
 
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part ; 
 (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, 
 
 His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward) 
 O never, never Scotia's realm desert. 
 
 But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard. 
 In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent. 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent ; ' 
 But now your brow is beld, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw : 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 (x) High and smooth. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 657 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither ; 
 And monie a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had w.i' ane anither : 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go. 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 THE BANKS O' DOON. 
 
 TUNE— "the CALEDONIAN HUNT'S DELIGHT." 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? 
 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 An' I sae weary, fu' o' care ? 
 
 Thoult break my heart, thou warbling bird. 
 That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
 
 Thou minds me o' departed joys. 
 Departed — ^never to return. 
 
 Thoult break my heart, thou bonnie bird. 
 
 That sings beside thy mate ; 
 For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
 
 And wist na o' my fate. 
 
 Aft hae I roVd by boniiie Doon, 
 To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
 
 And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 
 And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
 
 Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
 And my fause luver stole my rose. 
 
 But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 
 
 U U 
 
658 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE. 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And never brought to min' ? 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And days o' lang syne ? 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes, 
 
 And pu'd the gowans fine ; 
 But we've wander'd mony a Weary foot 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 We twa hae paidl't i'the burn, 
 
 From mornin sun till dine ; 
 But seas between us braid hae roar'd 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 And here's a hand, my trusty frere. 
 
 And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
 And we'll tak a right guid willie waught, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 
 
 And surely I'U be be mine ; 
 And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 *«>«: 
 
659 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 Born 1762. Died\%t)0. 
 
 'ILLIAM Lisle Bowies was bom at King's Sutton, on the borders 
 ^oithamptonsbiie, September 24, 1762. His father was vicar of 
 parish. In 1772 Bowles was sent to Winchester School under Dr. 
 ton ; fiom whom he imbibed much of his literary and critical 
 i In 1782 Bowles proceeded to Trinity CoU^e, Oxford. In 
 ! he won the Chancellor's prize for the Latin poenL In 1787, at the 
 of twenty-five, he left the University. He made a tour through the 
 h of England and in Scotland ; and while on his journey entertained 
 ielf with the composition of sonnets. In 1789 were published, 
 (ath, " Fourteen Sonnets on Ficturesqne Spots." The edition was 
 copies. They sold rapidly. Another edition of 500 followed ; 
 quickly afterwards a third of 750 copies, with a few more sonnets 
 d. His sonnets were the delight of the University, and of such 
 ming men " as Southey, Coleridge, Wordsworth, &c In fact, new 
 s of poetry were b^inning to rise. The school of Dryden and 
 e was worn out, and passing away. Bowles was the morning star 
 nother, very different and far more briDiant, schooL Consequently 
 forks were eagerly purchased and enthusiastically received. Having 
 n his degree, Bowles left Oxford in 1792, and settled down upon a 
 cy in Wiltshire. 
 
 I 1797 he married a daughter of Dr. Wake, prebend of West- 
 rter. In 1803 he was himself appointed a prebend of Salisbury ; 
 in 1805 Archbishop More presented him to the living of BremhiU, 
 ^filtshire. He was then forty-three years of age j the remaining 
 '-five years of his life were almost unintemiptedly passed at Brem- 
 in the discharge of parochial duties and in Eterary occupation, 
 re he had the advantage of familiar intercourse with Lord Lans- 
 06*5 &nuly at Bowood, and enjoyed the society and friendship of 
 eminent political and literary men whom Lord Lansdowne delighted 
 [ather around him at his mansion. In 1818 Bowles was made 
 lain to the Prince Regent, and in 1828 canon of Salisbury. In 
 
 he published his largest poem, entitled, "The Spirit of Discovery," 
 X books of blank verse. This was the work which Lord Byron 
 ked m "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." In 1807 he pub- 
 d his editjpn of Pope, which gave rise to a controversy with Byron 
 Campbell on the character of Pope, which raged furiously. Be- 
 
 II 1815 and 1837 Bowles published a variety of poems, — "The 
 ionary of the Andes," "The Grave of the last Saxon," "A 
 
 UU 2 
 
66o WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 Legend of the Battle of Hastings," "St. John at Patmos," "Scenes 
 Shadows of Days departed." 
 
 Bowles' Sonnets, his " Missionary, " and his " Village Verse Book,' 
 the works by which he will be remembered. His life was so protra 
 that he outlived the greater number of the generation — particular! 
 literary men — that were born when he had attained to manhood, 
 the 7th of April, 1850,. he died, at his residentiary house in Salisb 
 aged eighty-eight. 
 
 The greater portion of Bowles' poetry is of the same schoo 
 Wordsworth's, though as a poet Wordsworth was far his supe: 
 But Bowles will be remembered as the father of that school of po 
 which, having its parentage in him, has prevailed to the present daj 
 school which, whatever may be its faults, has discarded the artificii 
 of the Pope and Dryden age, and has striven to approach Nature 
 Truth. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay 
 Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence, 
 Lulling to sad repose the weary sense, 
 
 The faint pang stealest unperceived away ; 
 On thee I rest my only hope at last, 
 And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear 
 That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, 
 
 1 may look back on every sorrow past, 
 
 And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile ; 
 As some love-bird, at day's departing hour, 
 Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower 
 Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while : 
 Yet ah ! how much must that poor heart endure 
 Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure. 
 
 THE RHINE. 
 
 'Twas morn ; and beauteous on the mountain's brow, 
 Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine, 
 Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine 
 We bounded, and the white waves round the prow 
 In murmurs parted. Varying as we go, 
 Lo ! the woods open, and the rocks retire ; 
 Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire, 
 'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. 
 
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 661 
 
 Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like Despair, 
 Frowns the bleak cliif : there, on the woodland's side. 
 The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide ; 
 Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair. 
 Would wish to hnger many a summer's day, 
 Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. 
 
 BAMBOROUGH CASTLE. 
 
 Ye holy towers, that shade the wave-worn steep, 
 Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime, 
 Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time 
 Assail you, and the winter whirlwinds sweep ! 
 For, far from blazing Grandeur's crowded haUs, 
 Here Charity hath fixed her chosen seat, 
 Oft hstening tearfiil when the wild winds beat 
 With hollow bodings round your ancient walls ; 
 And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour 
 Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high. 
 Keeps her eve-watch upon the topmost tower. 
 And turns her ear to each expiring cry. 
 Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save, 
 And snatch him, cold and speechless, from the grave. 
 
 DOVER CLIFFS. 
 
 On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood 
 Uplift their shadowy heads, and at their feet 
 Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, 
 Sinre many a lonely wanderer has stood ; 
 And while the distant murmur met his ear. 
 And o'er the distant billows the still eve 
 Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave 
 To-morrow ; of the friends he loved most dear : 
 Of social scenes from which he wept to part- 
 But if, like me, he knew how fruitless aU 
 The thoughts that would full fain the past recall. 
 Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, 
 And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide. 
 The world his country, and his God his guide. 
 
662 
 
 SAMUEL -ROGERS. 
 
 Born 1763. Died 1855. 
 
 The father of Samuel Rogers was a banker and a Dissenter, residing 
 at Newington Green, where the author of the " Pleasures of Memory " 
 was born, July 30, 1763. He was first sent to a school at Hackney, 
 and afterwards to a private tutor at Islington. In 1776 Rogers lost his 
 mother, and on leaving his tutor his wish was to enter the dissenting 
 college at Warrington, and become a Nonconformist minister. His 
 father had other views, and he was entered as a clerk in the banking- 
 house. Bemg a deKcate youth, he paid frequent visits to the sea-side, 
 and occupied his leisure with reading and poetry, for which he had 
 exhibited a taste at a very early age. His first attempt at authorship 
 appeared in the form of a contribution to the Gentleman's Magazine 
 in 1781, entitled " the Scribbler." They are only to be noticed as being 
 his first essays. His admiration for Dr. Johnson was so great, that he 
 determined to call upon and introduce himself to the venerable genius, 
 and, accompanied by a friend, proceeded to Bolt Court, Fleet Street ; 
 but his courage failed him when he placed his hand on the knocker ; 
 and they never met. 
 
 The first volume of Rogers' poems was published in 1786 without 
 a name. His fears about its reception by the public were groundless, 
 as it was favourably noticed in the Monthly Review; whereupon he 
 owned himself the author. In 1 788 his elder brother, and companion 
 in the banking-house, died. The beautifiil lines in the " Pleasures of 
 Memory" commencing, 
 
 " Oh thou ! with whom my heart was wont to share, 
 From reason's dawn, each pleasure and each care," 
 
 were descriptive of his character. By this brother's death he bf came 
 his father's adviser and friend in all that related to business, while his 
 literary fame kept pace with his worldly circumstances. In 1789 he 
 visited Edinburgh and made the acquaintance of Dr. Robertson, the 
 historian ; Mackenzie, who wrote " The Man of Feeling ; " Dr. Black, 
 Professor Playfair, and Mrs. Piozzi, the friend of Dr. Johnson. When 
 the French Revolution broke out, Mr. Rogers, educated as he had been 
 among Whigs and Dissenters, took a warm interest in the cause of 
 liberty. He paid a visit to Paris in 1791. In 1792 the " Pleasures 
 of Memory," a poem on which he had been engaged for six years, 
 was published. It was principally written during his leisure moments 
 in the banking-house. Its success was astonishing, and when the 
 
SAMUEL ROGERS. 663 
 
 Jior was knowTi, his reputation was assured. In 1793 his father 
 d. Being in possession of a large fortune, he had ample leisure 
 indulge his taste in literary society and the Fine Arts, 
 [n 179S he made the acquaintance of Mrs. Siddons, and wrote an 
 ilogue for her, which she delivered on her benefit-night. Buring 
 1 father's life he had made many poUtical fdends, among whom were 
 iestly, Gilbert Wakefield, and Home Tooke ; he was present when 
 ; last-named individual was committed to the Tower. He considered 
 loke the most able man in conversation he had ever met. With Fox 
 d Grattan he was intimate ; indeed, his social tastes brought him 
 friendly intercourse with most of the literary celebrities of his 
 y, and the journal he kept of their sayings and opinions gives us 
 iny interesting reminiscences. About the year 1800 he formed the 
 jnaintance of Lord and Lady Holland, and, for many years, was a 
 Jcome visitor at Holland House. In 1802 Mr. Rogers again visited 
 iris, when the galleries of the Louvre were crowded by artists from all 
 rts, to see the spoils of Italy, Flanders, Spain, &c., which had been 
 cried off by the French. Here he began to study the Fine Arts, and 
 m his judgment upon the masterpieces of those different countries ; he 
 io wrote his lines called " The Torso." In 1803 he went to Scotland, 
 d became acquainted with Scott, Coleridge, and Wordsworth. On 
 > return to London he took a house in St. James's Place, Westminster, 
 lere he resided till his death. This house he enriched with all that 
 IS heautiM in art The drawing-room mantelpiece was by Flaxman ; 
 sideboard and cabinet were carved by Chantrey, then a journeyman; 
 anall cabinet for^antiquities was designed by Stothard ; and to a most 
 luable collection of pictures he added a rich selection of Greek vases 
 d rare engravings. Here, surrounded by every refinement, he delighted 
 gather round him men that were eminent in letters and art. In l8l2 
 Columbus " was published ; in 1814 " Jacqueline," and in 1819 
 Human Life." This he considered his best work. In 1822 appeared 
 e first part of " Italy," and for some time afterwards the authorship 
 IS not known. In 1828 he published the second part, with his name ; 
 it the poem was not as successful as he hoped : so he made a bonfire of 
 e unsold copies, and set himself the task of improving it. In 1830 he 
 blished a magnificent edition of " Italy," illustrated with engravings 
 er drawings done for him by Stothard, Turner, and other artists. In 
 34 he also published a similarly illustrated edition of his former 
 ems. When Wordsworth died, in 1850, Mr. Rogers was the soUtary 
 rvivor of that long list of poets, with almost all of whom he had 
 ed on terms of intimacy. By Queen Victoria's command, Prince 
 bert wrote and offered him the Laureatship, which he declined, on 
 Munt of his advanced age. The Prince had previously offered him 
 honorary degree at Cambridge, but this also he had refused. He 
 id m St James's Place, December 18, 1855, and it was only during 
 : last two years of his life that he retired from the society with 
 lich, during .his long life, he had delighted to mingle. He was 
 
664 SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 buried in Homsey churchyard, with his brother and sister. Rogers 
 lives in our memory, not only as a poet, but as the centre of a brilliant 
 social circle, and as an encourager of art and genius. His poetry is 
 exquisitely refined, which he spared no pains to make it. Nothing 
 slovenly or careless proceeded from his pen ; and he never, in a single 
 instance, made an unworthy use of the wonderful gift he possessed. 
 
 FROM "PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 
 
 Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green, 
 With magic tints to harmonize the scene. 
 Stilled is the hum that thro' the hamlet broke, 
 When round the ruins of their ancient oak 
 The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, 
 And games and carols closed the busy day. 
 Her wheel at rest, the matron trills no more 
 With treasured tales and legendary lore. 
 All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows 
 To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 
 All, all are fled ; yet still I linger here ! 
 What secret charms this silent spot endear ! 
 
 Mark yon old mansion frowning thro' the trees, 
 Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. 
 That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, 
 First to these eyes the light' of heaven conveyed. 
 The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court, 
 Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
 When all things pleased, for life itself was new, 
 And the heart promised what the fancy drew. 
 
 See, thro' the fractured pediment revealed. 
 Where moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield. 
 The martin's old, hereditary nest. 
 Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest ! 
 
 As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! 
 Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! 
 That-hall, where once, in antiquated state. 
 The chair of justice held the grave debate. 
 
 Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung, 
 Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung ; 
 When round yon ample board, in due degree. 
 We sweetened every meal with social glee. 
 The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest ; 
 And all was sunshine in each little breast. 
 
SAMUEL ROGERS. 665 
 
 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound. 
 And turned the blindfold here round and round. 
 'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring, 
 And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. 
 Giants and genii chained each wandering ear, 
 And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. 
 Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, 
 Or viewed the forest-feats of Robin Hood : 
 Oft, fancy led, at midnight's fearful hour. 
 With startling step we scaled the lonely tower. 
 O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, 
 Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. 
 
 Ye Household Deities ! whose guardian eye 
 Marked each pure thought, ere registered on high, 
 Still, stiU ye walk the consecrated ground. 
 And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. 
 
 As o'er the dusky furniture I bend. 
 Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. 
 The storied arras, source of fond delight, 
 With old achievement charms the wildered sight ; 
 And still, with Heraldry's rich hues imprest, 
 On the dim window glows the pictured crest 
 The screen unfolds its many-coloured chart ; 
 The dock stiU points its morals to the heart. 
 That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear. 
 When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near ; 
 And has its sober hand, its simple chime. 
 Forgot to trace the feathered feet of Time ? 
 That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought. 
 Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought ; 
 Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; 
 Those once-loved forms, stiU breathing thro' their dust, 
 Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast, 
 Starting to Ufe — all whisper of the Past ! 
 
 As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove. 
 What fond illusions swarm in every grove ! 
 How oft, when purple evening tinged the west. 
 We watched the enmiet to her grainy nest ; 
 Welcomed the wild bee home on weary wing. 
 Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring ; 
 How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme. 
 The bark now silvered by the touch of Time ; 
 Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid. 
 Through sister elms that waved their summer shade ; 
 
666 SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 Or strewed with crumbs yon root-enwoven seat, 
 To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat ! 
 
 Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, 
 The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green. 
 Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo they live ! 
 Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give. 
 Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below 
 To sooth and sweeten aU the cares we know ; 
 Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, 
 When nature fades and life forgets to charm ; 
 Thee would the Muse invoke ! — to thee belong 
 The sage's precept and the poet's song. 
 What softened views thy magic glass reveals, 
 When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals ! 
 As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, 
 Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; 
 Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned 
 Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. 
 
 When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round 
 With humble wares and pipe of merry sound, 
 From his green vale and sheltered cabin hies. 
 And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies, 
 Tho' far below the forked lightnings play, 
 And at his feet the thunder dies away, 
 Oft, in the saddle rudely rocked to sleep, 
 While his mule browses on the dizzy steep, 
 With Memory's aid, he sits at home, and sees 
 His children sport beneath their native trees, 
 And bends to hear their cherub-voices caU 
 O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall. 
 * # # * * 
 
 Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined 
 The silent feasts of the reflecting mind. 
 Danger and death a dread delight inspire ; 
 And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire. 
 When, richly bronzed by many a summer-sun, 
 He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were done. 
 
 Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile, 
 And ask the shattered hero, whence his smile .' 
 Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich — go. 
 And own what raptures from Reflection flow. 
 
SAMUEL ROGERS. 667 
 
 Hail, noblest structures imaged on the wave ! 
 A nation's grateful tribute to the brave. 
 Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail ! 
 That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail 
 Long have ye heard the narratives of age, 
 The battle's havoc and the tempest's -rage ; 
 Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray 
 Gild the calm dose of Valour's various day. 
 
 As the stem grandeur of a Gothic tower 
 Awes us less deeply in its morning hour. 
 Than when the shades of time serenely fall 
 On every broken arch and ivied wall ; 
 The tender images we love to trace 
 Steal from each year a melancholy grace ! 
 And as the sparks of social love expand. 
 As the heart opens in a foreign land ; 
 And with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, 
 The stranger greets each native of his isle : 
 So scenes of life, when present and confest, 
 Stamp but their bolder features on the breast ; 
 Yet not an image, when remotely viewed, 
 However trivial, and however rude. 
 But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh. 
 With every claim of close affinity ! 
 
 Oft may the spirits of the dead descend 
 To watch the silent slumbers of a friend ; 
 To hover round his evening walk unseen, 
 And hold sweet converse on the dusky green ; 
 To hail the spot where first their friendship grew, 
 And heaven and nature opened to their view. 
 Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees 
 A smiling circle emulous to please ; 
 There may these gentle guests delight to dwell, 
 And bless the scene they loved in life so well. 
 
 Oh thou ! with whom my heart was wont to share, 
 From reason's dawn, each pleasure and each care ; 
 With whom, alas ! I fondly hoped to know 
 The humble walks of happiness below ; 
 If thy blest nature now unites above 
 An angel's pity with a brother's love. 
 
668 SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 Still o'er my life preserve thy mild controul, 
 Correct my views, and elevate my soul ; 
 Grant me thy peace and purity of mind, 
 Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned ; 
 Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise, 
 Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise. 
 To meet the changes Time and Chance present 
 With modest dignity and calm content. 
 When thy last breath, ere nature sunk to rest, 
 Thy meek submission to thy God exprest ; 
 When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, 
 A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed ; 
 What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, 
 Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave ? 
 The sweet Remembrance of unblemished youth. 
 The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth ! 
 
 THE SAILOR. 
 
 The sailor sighs as sinks his native shore. 
 As all its lessening turrets bluely fade ; 
 He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more. 
 And busy fancy fondly lends her aid. 
 
 Ah ! now each dear domestic scene he knew, 
 Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime, 
 Charms with the magic of a moonlight view ; 
 Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time. 
 
 True as the needle, homeward points his heart, 
 Through all the horrors of the stormy main : 
 This the last wish that would with life depart, 
 To meet the smile of her he loves again. 
 
 When mom first faintly draws her silver line. 
 Or eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave. 
 When sea and sky in midnight darkness join, 
 StUl, still he sees the parting look she gave. 
 
 Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, 
 Attends his little bark from pole to pole ; 
 And, when the beating billows round him roar, 
 Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. 
 
SAMUEL ROGERS. 669 
 
 Carved is her name in many a spicy grove, 
 In rnamy a plantain-forest waving wide, 
 Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove. 
 And giant palms o'erarch the golden tide. 
 
 But lo, at last he comes with crowded, sail ! 
 Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend ' 
 And hark, what mingled murmius swell the gale ! 
 In each he hears the welcome of a fiiend. 
 
 — 'Tis she, 'tis she herself ! she waves her hand ! 
 Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled ; 
 Soon thro' the whitening surge he springs to land, 
 And clasps the maid he singled from the world. 
 
 TO, 
 
 Go — you may call it madness, folly ; 
 
 You shall not chase my gloom away. 
 There's such a charm in melancholy, 
 
 I would not, if I could, be gay. 
 
 Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure 
 That fills my bosom when I sigh. 
 
 You would not rob me of a treasure 
 Monarchs are too poor to buy. 
 
 GINEVRA. 
 
 If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance 
 To MoDENA, where stiU religiously 
 Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
 Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs 
 Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine), 
 Stop at a Palace near the Regio gate. 
 Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 
 Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
 And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses. 
 
670 SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 Will long detain thee ; thro' their arched walks, 
 Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse 
 Of knights and dames, such as in old romance. 
 And lovers, such as in heroic song ; 
 Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight. 
 That in the spring time, as alone they sate, 
 Venturing together on a tale of love, 
 Read only part that day. — A summer sun 
 Sets ere one half is seen ; but, ere thou go, 
 Enter the house— pr'ythee, forget it not — 
 And look awhile upon a picture there. 
 
 'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, 
 The very last of that illustrious race. 
 Done by Zampieri — but by whom I care not. ■ 
 He who observes it, ere he passes on, 
 Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again. 
 That he may call it up when far away. 
 
 She sits, inclining forward as to speak. 
 Her lips half open, and her finger up, 
 As though she said " Beware ! " Her vest of gold 
 Broider'd with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, 
 An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ; 
 And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
 A coronet of pearls. But then her face, 
 So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. 
 The overflowings of an innocent heart — 
 It haunts me still, though many a year has fled. 
 Like some wild melody ! 
 
 Alone it hangs 
 Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, 
 An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm, 
 But richly carved by Anthony of Trent 
 With Scripture stories from the life of Christ ; 
 A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
 The ducal robes of some old ancestor. 
 That by the way — it may be true or false : 
 But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not. 
 When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. 
 
 She was an only child ; from infancy 
 The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire. 
 Her mother dying of the gift she gave. 
 That precious gift, what else remained to him ? 
 The young GiNEVRA was his all in life ; 
 Still as she grew, for ever in his sight j 
 
SAMUEL ROGERS. 671 
 
 And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 
 Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
 Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 
 
 Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
 She was all gentleness, all gaiety. 
 Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. 
 But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; 
 Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time. 
 The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; 
 And in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
 Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 
 
 Great was the joy ; but in the bridal feast. 
 When all sate down, the bride was wanting there. 
 Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, 
 "'Tis but to make a trial of our love ! " 
 And fill'd his glass to all ; but his hand shook. 
 And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, 
 Laughing and looking back and flying still. 
 Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 
 But now, alas, she was not to be found ; 
 Nor from that hour could anything be guessed. 
 But that she was not ! Weary of his hfe 
 Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 
 Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
 Orsini Uved ; and long was to be seen 
 An old man wandering as in quest of something, 
 Something he could not find — he knew not what. 
 When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
 Silent and tenantless ; then went to strangers. 
 
 Full fifty years were past, and all forgot. 
 When on an idle day, a day of search 
 Mid the old lumber in the gallery. 
 That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said 
 By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 
 "Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?" 
 'Twas done as soon as said : but on the way 
 It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton. 
 With here and there a pearl, an emerald- stone, 
 A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
 All else had perished — save a nuptial ring. 
 And a small seal, her mother's legacy. 
 Engraven with a name, the name of both, 
 '■ Ginevra." — There then had she found a grave ! 
 
672 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Within that chest had she concealed herself, 
 Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy, 
 When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, 
 Fastened her down for ever ! 
 
 <M<^ 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Bern lyyo. Died i%^o. 
 
 William Wordsworth was the son of a solicitor, and was born 
 at Cockermouth, April 7, 1770. He received his early education at 
 Hawkshead Grammar School, where he began to write verses, and 
 became a tolerable Latin scholar. His father died in 1783, and his 
 uncles, who were appointed guardians, sent him in 1787 to St. John's 
 College, Cambridge, where he took his Bachelor's degree in 1791. On 
 leaving the University he travelled abroad, and was in France at the 
 time when the King was dethroned. At this period he was a strong 
 Republican, and had at one time nearly determined to throw himself 
 into the arms of the revolutionary party and become a naturalized 
 Frenchman. Happily for himself, circumstances compelled his return 
 to England just before the execution of the monarch ; but for a long time 
 afteiTvards his mind was in an unsettled state. The death of a friend 
 in 1795 having put him in possession of 900/., he gave up the idea of 
 taking orders, and determined to devote himself to literature and poetry. 
 In the autumn of that year Wordsworth and his sister took a place 
 called Racedown Lodge, near Crewkeme, Somerset, where Coleridge, 
 who was then residing in Bristol, paid them a visit ; and here Words- 
 worth wrote his "Salisbury Plain," and began his tragedy of "The 
 Borderers." When Coleridge removed to Nether-Stowey in 1797, the 
 Wordsworths went to Alfoxden, three miles oif ; and the intimacy 
 between the two poets led to the publication, in 1798, of a small volume 
 entitled " Lyrical Ballads," in which appeared " The Ancient Mariner" 
 and twenty-two pieces by Wordsworth. In 1799 they travelled together 
 through Germany; and on their return Wordsworth, disgusted with the 
 inhabitants of the retired part of Somersetshire he had selected as a 
 home, and perhaps anxious to return to the picturesque scenes of his 
 youth, removed to Grassmere, where he resided till 1808, when he 
 retired to Allan Bank, and finally to Rydal Mount, where he spent the 
 closing years of his life. In 1802 he married a lady named Hutchinson, 
 whom he had known from her childhood; and in the following year, 
 accompanied by his wife and sister, he went to Scotland, and made the 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 673 
 
 aintance of Sir Walter Scott. In 1807 he published two volumes 
 jems, and in 1809 brought out his prose essay on " The Convention 
 intra." In 1810 he assisted the Rev. J. Wilkinson with a volume 
 d " Select Views in Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lancashire ;" 
 about this time he commenced his criticisms on poetry in genera], 
 the poets of the eighteenth century in particular. Holding the 
 s he did, that poetry should be true to nature, and represent as 
 ly as possible real and not exa^erated feelings, he purposely 
 ted simple subjects, and treated them with a simplicity which drew 
 n the ridicule of his opponents, and b^an a controversy which lasted 
 nany years. The income he derived from his writings was very 
 1, and it was therefore a great assistance when, through the influence 
 Aid Lonsdale, he was in 1813 appointed distributer of stamps for 
 tmoreland, which brought him in 500/. a year. " The Excursion " 
 published in 1814, and, in spite of the criticism of Jeffi:ey that it was 
 h nothing, it made its way into public favour, and has ever since 
 its place. In 181 5 " The White Doe of Rylstone " appeared; and 
 !i9 " The Wagoner," dedicated to Charles Lamb, and " Peter Bell," 
 ODthey, were published. In 1822 " Memorials of a Tour on the 
 tinent," containing poems and sonnets, was produced, and in 1835 
 ublished " Yarrow Revisited," which was dedicated to Rogers. In 
 I the University of Oxford gave ;liim the d^ree of D.C.L. In 
 : he resigned the office he held as distributer of stamps in favour of 
 of his sons. A pension of 300/. a year was bestowed on him, and 
 he death of his friend Southey, which happened in 1843, he was 
 )inted Poet Laureat. He died at Rydal Mount, April 23, 1850, 
 was boned in the churchyard at Grassmere. 
 
 ^oidsworth was a man whose whole life was devoted to his art : his 
 ry was written amidst mountain scenery, and in quiet comitiy 
 ats : he had few cares to trouble him, his tastes were simple, and 
 '3S able to indulge them. He was essentially a poet of Nature, and 
 forks are a great acquisition to the literature of his country. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 
 DM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight. 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it has been of yore ; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 
 
 XX 
 
674 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH- 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes, 
 And lovely is the rose ; 
 The moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 Waters on a starry night 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 
 
 Now while the birds thus sing a joyous song. 
 And while the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound. 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief ; 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong. 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, — 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong : 
 I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. 
 The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity, 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every breast keep holiday ; — 
 Thou child of joy, 
 Shout round me ; let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
 Shepherd boy ! 
 
 Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee. 
 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 
 Thy head hath its coronal, 
 The fulness of your bliss I feel, — I feel it all. 
 
 Oh, evil day ! if I were sullen 
 
 While the earth herself is adorning, 
 This sweet May morning ; 
 
 And the children are pulling. 
 On every side. 
 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 
 Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
 And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 675 
 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 But there's a tree, of many one, 
 A single field which I have looked upon, 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
 The pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And Cometh from afar ; 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But traiUng clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home. 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy : 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing boy. 
 But he beholds the Ught and whence it flows ; 
 
 He sees it in his joy : 
 The youth, who daily farther from the east 
 Must travel, stiU is Nature's priest. 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended : 
 At length the man perceives to die away. 
 And fade into the light of conmion day. 
 
 Earth fiUs her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. 
 And, even with something of a mother's mind. 
 And no unworthy aim. 
 
 The homely nurse doth all she can 
 To make her foster-child, her inmate man. 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 Behold the child among his new-bom bUsses, 
 A six-years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
 See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
 See, at his feet some little plan or chart. 
 Some fragment of his dream of human life, 
 
 XX2 
 
676 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learnfed art ; 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral ! 
 
 And this hath now his heart, 
 
 And unto this he frames his song : 
 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife : 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside. 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little actor cons another part ; 
 Filling from time to time his " humorous stage " 
 With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
 That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 
 As if his whole vocation 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 Thou whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy soul's immensity ; 
 Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 
 Thy heritage ; thou eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 
 Haunted for ever by the eternal mind ; 
 Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
 On whom those truths do rest, 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find ; 
 Thou, over whom thy immortality 
 Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
 A presence which is not to be put by ; 
 Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height. 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
 Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 Is something that doth live, 
 That Nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benedictions : not indeed 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 677 
 
 For that which is most worthy to be blessed ; 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of childhood whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise, 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things. 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 Black misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized ; 
 High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ! 
 Rut for those first affections. 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 Which, be they what they may. 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 Uphold us ; cherish ; and have power to make 
 
 Our noisy fears seem moments in the being 
 Of the Eternal silence : truths that wake 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither hstlessness, nor mad endeavour, 
 Nor man nor boy. 
 Nor all that is at emnity with joy. 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 Hence, in a season of calm weather. 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither ; 
 Can in a moment travel thither. 
 And see the children sport upon the shore. 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 Then sing, ye birds ! sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 And let the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 We in thought will join your throng. 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 
 Be now for ever taken from my sight, 
 
678 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower, 
 We will grieve not ; rather find 
 Strength in what remains behind, 
 In the primal sympathy 
 Which, having been, must ever be. 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 Out of human suffering. 
 In the faith that looks through death. 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 And ah, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves. 
 Think not of any severing of our loves ! 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
 I only have relinquished one deMght, 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 I love the brooks which down their channel fret 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly as they : 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
 
 Is lovely yet. 
 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
 Tliat hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live ; 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears ; 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the spring of Dove ; 
 A maid, whom there were none to praise, 
 
 And very few to love. 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Half hidden from the eye \ 
 Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 679 
 
 She lived unknown ; and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be : 
 But she is in her grave, and, oh ! 
 
 The difference to me ! 
 
 TO EVENING. 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 
 The holy time is quiet as a nun 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven is on the sea ; 
 Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
 And doth His eternal motion make^ 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkest with me here, 
 If thou appear'st untouch'd by solemn thought. 
 Thy nature is not therefor less divine ; 
 
 Thou Uest in Abraham's bosom all the year. 
 
 And worship'st at the. Temple's inner shrine, 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
 THE SONNET. 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet Critic, you have frowned. 
 Mindless of its just honours. With this key 
 Shakespeare unlocked his heart ; the melody 
 Of this smaU lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
 
 A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
 Camoens soothed with it an exUe's grief ; 
 The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned 
 
 His visionary brow ; a glow-worm lamp, 
 
 It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and when a damp 
 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 
 The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew 
 
 Soul-animating strains — alas, too few I 
 
68o WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 "There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 
 Which only poets know." — 'Twas rightly said. 
 
 Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 
 
 Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains ? 
 
 When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains, 
 How oft the malice of one luckless word 
 Pursues the enthusiast to the social board, 
 Haunts him belated on the silent plains ! 
 
 Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear 
 At last of hindrance and obscurity. 
 Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn ; 
 
 Bright, speckless as a softly-moulded tear 
 The moment it has left the virgin's eye. 
 Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn. 
 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 1803. 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair ! 
 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 
 A sight so touching in its majesty ! 
 
 This city now doth like a garment wear 
 The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare. 
 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 
 Open unto the fields and to the sky — 
 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 
 In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ; 
 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE III. 
 
 Ward of the Law ! dread Shadow of a King ! 
 
 Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room ; 
 Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom, 
 Darkness as thick as life o'er life could fling. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 68l 
 
 Save haply for some feeble glimmering 
 
 Of Faith and Hope ; if thou, by Nature's doom, 
 
 Gentle hast sunk into the quiet tomb. 
 
 Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling, 
 
 When thankfulness were best ? Fresh-flowing tears, 
 Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh. 
 Yield to such after-thought the sole reply 
 
 Which justly it can claim. The nation hears 
 
 In this deep knell — silent for threescore years — 
 An unexampled voice of awfiil memory ! 
 
 THE FORCE OF PRAYER; 
 
 OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. 
 A TRADITION. 
 
 " W.\^ is go0b for a booiless btat ? " 
 With these dark words begins my tale ; 
 
 And their meaning is, " Whence can comfort spring. 
 When prayer is of no avail ? " 
 
 " W.\pi is goob foi a birolltss htra ? " 
 
 The falconer to the lady said ; 
 And she made answer, " Endless sorrow !" 
 
 For she knew that her son was dead. 
 
 She knew it by the falconer's words. 
 And from the look of the falconer's eye, 
 
 And from the love which was in her soul 
 For her youthful Romilly. — 
 
 Young Romilly through Barden Woods 
 
 Is ranging high and low. 
 And holds a greyhound in a leash. 
 
 To let slip upon buck or doe. 
 
 And the pair have reach'd that fearful chasm. 
 
 How tempting to bestride ! 
 For lordly Wharf is there pent in 
 
 With rocks on either side. 
 
682 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 This striding place is call'd " the Strid," 
 
 A name which it took of yore : 
 A thousand years hath it borne that name, 
 
 And shall a thousand more. 
 
 And hither is young Romilly come, 
 
 And what may now forbid 
 That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, 
 
 Shall bound across "the Strid"? 
 
 He sprang in glee, — ^for what cared he 
 
 That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep ; 
 But the greyhound in the leash hung back, 
 
 And check'd him in his leap. 
 
 The boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
 
 And strangled by a merciless force ; 
 For never more was young Romilly seen 
 
 Till he rose a lifeless corse. 
 
 Now there is stillness in the vale. 
 
 And long unspeaking sorrow : 
 Wharf shall be, to pitying hearts, 
 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. 
 
 If for a lover the lady wept, 
 
 A solace she might borrow 
 From death, and from the passion of death ; 
 
 Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 
 
 She weeps not for the wedding day 
 
 Which was to be to-morrow : 
 Her hope was a farther-looking hope, 
 
 And hers is a mother's sorrow. 
 
 He was a tree that stood alone, 
 
 And proudly did its branches wave. 
 And the root of this delightful tree 
 
 Was in her husband's grave ! 
 
 Long, long in darkness did she sit. 
 And her first words were, " Let there be 
 
 In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 
 A stately Priory." 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 683 
 
 The statdy priory was rear'd, 
 
 And Wharf, as he moved along, 
 To matins join'd a mournful voice. 
 
 Nor fail'd at evensong. 
 
 And the lady prayed in heaviness 
 
 That look'd not for relief ; 
 But slowly did her succour come, 
 
 And a patience to her grief. 
 
 Oh ! there is never sorrow of heart 
 
 That shall lack a timely end, 
 If but to God we turn, and ask 
 
 Of Him to be our friend. 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Art thou a statesman, in the van 
 
 Of public business train'd and bred ? — 
 
 First learn to love one Uving man ! 
 Then mayst thou think upon the dead. 
 
 A lawyer art thou ? — Draw not nigh ; 
 
 Go, carry to some other place 
 The hardness of thy coward eye. 
 
 The falsehood of thy sallow face. 
 
 Art thou a man of purple cheer, 
 A rosy man, right plump to see ? 
 
 Approach ; yet, doctor, not too near ; 
 This grave no cushion is for thee. 
 
 Art thou a man of gallant pride, 
 A soldier, and no man of chaff? 
 
 Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 
 And lean upon a peasant's staff. 
 
 Physician art thou ? One all eyes. 
 
 Philosopher ! a fingering slave, 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 
 Upon his mother's grave ? 
 
684 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
 O turn aside, and take, I pray, — 
 
 That he below may rest in peace, — 
 That abject thing, thy soul, away. 
 
 A moralist perchance appears ; 
 
 Led, Heaven knows how, to this poor sod ; 
 And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
 
 Himself his world, and his own God ; 
 
 One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling 
 Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small ; 
 
 A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 
 An intellectual all in all ! 
 
 Shut close the door, press down the latch ; 
 
 Sleep in thy intellectual crust ; 
 Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
 
 Near this unprofitable dust. 
 
 But who is he with modest looks, 
 And clad in homely russet brown ? 
 
 He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A music sweeter than their own. 
 
 He is retired as noontide dew 
 Or fountain in a noonday grove ; 
 
 And you must love him, ere to you 
 He will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shows of sky and earth, 
 Of hill and valley, he has vieVd ; 
 
 And impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude. 
 
 In common things that round us lie 
 Some random truths he can impart — 
 
 The harvest of a quiet eye 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 
 
 But he is weak, both man and boy, 
 Hath been an idler in the land ; 
 
 Contented if he might enjoy 
 The things which others understand. 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 685 
 
 — Come hither in thy hour of strength ; 
 
 Come, weak as is a breaking wave ; 
 Here stretch thy body at full length, 
 
 Or build thy house upon this grave. 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 A simple child 
 That lightly draws its breath, 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage girl; 
 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 
 That cluster'd round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air. 
 
 And she was wildly clad ; 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 
 
 Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little maid. 
 
 How many may you be ? " 
 " How many ? Seven in all," she said. 
 
 And wondering look'd at me. 
 
 " And where are they ? I pray you tell." 
 She answer'd, " Seven are we ; 
 
 And two of us at Conway dwell. 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 And, in the churchyard cottage, I 
 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at Conway dwell. 
 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell. 
 
 Sweet maid, how this may be.' 
 
686 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Then did the httle maid reply, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
 Beneath the churchyard tree." 
 
 "You run about, my little maid; 
 
 Your limbs they are alive : 
 If two are in the churchyard laid, 
 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 " Their graves are green : they may be seen " 
 
 —The little maid replied,— 
 " Twelve steps or more from mother's door ; 
 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 " My stockings there I often knit, 
 
 My kerchief there I hem. 
 And there upon the ground I sit — 
 
 I sit and sing to them. 
 
 " And often after sunset. Sir, 
 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer, 
 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 " The first that died was little Jane ; 
 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 Till God released her of her pain : 
 
 And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
 
 And all the summer dry 
 Together round her grave we pla/d, 
 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 " And when the ground was white with snow, 
 
 And I could run and slide, 
 My brother John was forced to go, 
 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 " How many are you, then," said I, 
 " If they two are in Heaven ?" 
 
 The little maiden did reply, 
 " O master ! we are seven." 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 687 
 
 " But they are dead ; those two are dead ; 
 
 Their spirits are in Heaven." 
 'T was throwing words away : for still 
 The little maid would have her will, 
 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven." 
 
 -«>=*; 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Bam 1771. Dud 1832. 
 
 Salter Scott, a younger son of a Writer to the Signet, was bom 
 ^dinbrngb, August 15, 1 771- Before lie was two years of age he was 
 ck with a malady which made him a deUcate child for many years, 
 caused a lameness in one of his limbs for life. At five he was trusted 
 te care of his grandfather, living at Sandy Knowe, near Smailholm, 
 [burghshire. There he imbibed that taste for Border legends and 
 ies of chivalry which afterwards was the delight of the readers of 
 works. In 1779 he entered the High School of Edinburgh, and in 
 3 the University. In neither was he distinguished ; but before he 
 sixteen years of age he had read through an enormous quantity of 
 ks of fiction, and historical or antiquarian writers, whereby he stored 
 mind with a mass of information of the greatest value to his subse- 
 nt Uterary career. Percy's " ReUques of Ancient Poetry " was his 
 ght, as also Evans' Collection, wherein he found Mickle's Ballad, 
 omnor Hall," which so deeply impressed him, that it led many years 
 rwards to the production of his novel, " Kenil worth." 
 11 1786 he was apprenticed to his father, and in 1792 was called to 
 bar. He made various appearances in the Court of Justiciary, and 
 tng the short period he attempted to follow the law as a pi'ofession 
 was noted for that diligence which characterised him in all his 
 ertakings. 
 
 laving b^un to study the German language, and his attention being 
 cted to the works of Biirger, he commenced his hterary career by 
 nng translations of "Leonora" and the "Wild Huntsman." In 
 7 he married Miss Charlotte Carpenter, a lady of considerable 
 ity, possessed of a .small fortune. In 1799 he was appointed 
 riff of Selkirkshire, and in 1806 one of the principal clerks of 
 Court of Session. Happily married, in the possession of a small 
 certain income^ with light official duties to perform, which left 
 
688 S/Ji WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 hiin ample leisure for other pursuits, Scott 'devoted himself from that 
 period to a literary life. In 1802 appeared his "Minstrelsy of the 
 Scottish Border," and in 1804 the romance of " Sir Tristram." These 
 works won for Scott a high reputation, especially as one skilled in 
 legendary lore. They prepared the way for the composition which 
 established his fame as an original poet. In 1805 he pubhshed the 
 "Lay of the Last Minstrel," a poem which glorifies the family of the 
 bold Buccleuch and the clan of Scott It was received with enthusiastic 
 admiration. In 1808 it was followed by " Marmion; " in 1809 by the 
 "Lady of the Lake;" in 181 1 by "Don Roderick;" in 1813 by 
 "Rokeby;" and in 1S14 by the "Lord of the Isles." By that date 
 Lord Byron's superior powers as a poet had begun to be appreciated, 
 and Scott prudently retired from a field in which he no longer ranged 
 without a rival. 
 
 Abandoning poetry, and undertaking the production of prose fictions, 
 he commenced writing that long series of novels, the " Waverley Novels," 
 whereby his name was immortalized. In poetry he was eclipsed : as a 
 writer of prose fiction he remains without his peer. For a number of 
 years Scott's novels appeared anonymously. There were learned dispu- 
 tations as to their author, but public opinion in the main decided, or 
 suspected, that they were written by Scott. For fifteen years he pre- 
 served his secret. In 1814 " Waverley" appeared. Within four years it 
 was followed by " Guy Mannering," " The Antiquary," " Old Mortality," 
 " Rob Roy," and " The Heart of Mid-Lothian." From 1814 to 1826, 
 during the publication of these novels, Scott was at the summit of his 
 fame and worldly success. When George IV. was received in Edinburgh 
 Scott was one of the chief personages in the festivities. In 1820 he was 
 created a Baronet. Meanwhile he had purchased his estate, and built 
 his house at Abbotsford. The commercial crisis in 1826 precipitated his 
 ruin. For many years he had been a partner vrith his publishers, and 
 involved in the affairs of Constable and Co. and Ballantyne and Co. 
 Scott's liabilities amounted to 147,000/. This frightful catastrophe drew 
 forth the true greatness of Scott's nature. He boldly faced his diffi- 
 culties ; surrendered everything he possessed, and determined by his 
 own exertions to pay his creditors. " Gentlemen,'' he said to them, 
 " Time and I against any two. Let me take this good ally into my 
 company, and I believe I shaU be able to pay you every farthing." By 
 the publication of " Woodstock," which he wrote in three months, his 
 creditors cleared 8,000/. From 1826 to 1832 Scott continued to labour 
 like a galley-slave to overcome his difficulties. He not only wrote his 
 novels, but other works, such as his " Life of Dryden," his " Life of 
 Swift,"and his"Letters on Demonologyand Witchcraft, "and his "Tales 
 of a Grandfather." The busy brain, and the big, manly form, however, 
 were overtasked in the desperate effort to conquer his &te. In 1831 he 
 had a paralytic stroke, and was compelled to seek restoration of health 
 in rest and change. In 1832 he went to Italy, and visited Rome, but, 
 finding that he grew worse, hurriedly returned to Scotland, that he might 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 685 
 
 die at home at last. He reached Abbotsford, and saw once more his 
 loved mountains, and heard the rolling of the waters of the Tweed. 
 After fourteep days fflf prostration and insensibility, Sir Walter Scott 
 expired, without any revived consciousness, September 21^ 1832. His 
 remains were interred in the ruins of Diyijurgh Abbey. 
 
 mOM "MARMION." 
 
 THE BATTLE. 
 
 Next mom Lord Marmion climb'd the tower, 
 To view afar the Scottish power, 
 
 Encamped on Flodden edge : 
 The white pavilions made a show 
 Like remnants of the winter snow 
 
 Along the dusky ridge. 
 Long Marmion looked : — at length his eye 
 Unusual movement might descry 
 
 Amid the shifting lines : 
 The Scottish host drawn out appears, 
 For, flashing on the edge of spears, 
 
 The eastern sunbeam shines. 
 The skilful Marmion well could know 
 They watched the motions of some foe 
 Who traversed on the plain below. 
 
 EVn so it was : from F'lodden ridge 
 The Scots beheld the English host 
 Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post. 
 And heedful watch'd them as they cross'd 
 
 The Till by Twisel Bridge. 
 
 Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, 
 Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, 
 " Hark ! hark ! my lord, an English drum ! 
 And see ascending squadrons come 
 
 Between Tweed's river and the hill. 
 Foot, horse, and cannon : hap what may, 
 My basnet to a prentice cap 
 
 Lord Surrey's on the Till ! 
 With all their banners bravely spread 
 And all theiir armoiir flashing high, 
 Y Y 
 
,6^ S/Ji WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Saint George might waken from the dead 
 To see fair England's standards fly." 
 
 With kindhng brow Lord Marmion said, 
 " This instant be our band arrayed ; 
 The river must be quickly cross'd, 
 That we may join Lord Surrey's host ! 
 If fight King James — as well I trust 
 That fight he will, and fight he must— 
 The Lady Clare behind our lines 
 Shall tarry, while the battle joins." 
 
 Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
 With Lady Clare upon the hill; 
 The cry they heard, its meaning knew. 
 Could plain their distant comrades view. 
 Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 
 " Unworthy office here to stay ! 
 No hope of gilded spurs to-day : — 
 But see ! look up ! on Flodden bent, 
 The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 
 
 And, sudden as he spoke. 
 From the sharp ridges of the bill. 
 All downward to the banks of Till, 
 
 Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
 Volumed and vast, and rolling far, 
 The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, 
 
 As down the hill they broke ; 
 Nor martial shout nor minstrel tone 
 Announced their march ; their tread alone, 
 At times one warning trumpet blown, 
 
 At times a stifled hum. 
 Told England, from his mountain throne 
 
 King James did rushing come. 
 Scarce could they hear or see their foes. 
 Until at weapon-point they close. 
 They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, 
 With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust ; 
 
 And such a yell was there, 
 Of sudden and portentous birth. 
 As if men fought upon the earth 
 
 And fiends in upper air. 
 
S/Ji WALTER SCgTT. 691 
 
 No longer Blount the view could bear ; 
 " By heaven, and all its saints ! I swear 
 
 I will not see yon pennon lost ! 
 Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
 May count your beads and patter prayer ; 
 
 I gallop to the battle's host." 
 
 The fiery youth, with desperate charge, 
 Made, for a space, an opening large — 
 
 The rescued banner rose : 
 But darkly closed the war around, 
 Like pine-tree rooted from the ground 
 
 It sunk among the foes. 
 
 Then, fast as shaft can fly. 
 Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 
 The loose rein dangling from his head. 
 Housing and saddle bloody red, 
 
 Lord Marmion's steed rushed by. 
 With that, straight up the hill there rode 
 
 Two horsemen drenched with gore, 
 And in their arms, a hapless load, 
 
 A wounded knight they bore : 
 His hand still strained the broken brand ; 
 His arms were smeared with blood and sand. 
 Young Blount his armour did unlace. 
 And, gazing on his ghastly face, 
 
 Said, " By Saint George, he's gone ! 
 That spear-wound has our master sped ; 
 And see the deep cut on his head! 
 
 Good-night to Marmion." 
 AVhen doffd his casque, he felt free air 
 Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare. 
 " Where's Harry Blount ? Fitz-Eustace where ? 
 Cry ' Marmion to the rescue.' — Vain ! 
 Last of my race, on battle plain 
 That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! 
 Yet my last thought is England's ! Fly ! 
 To Dacre bear my signet-ring, 
 Tell him his squadrons up to bring. 
 Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, 
 With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
 Full upon Scotland's central host, 
 Or victory and England's lost. 
 Y Y 2 
 
692 sin, WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Must •! bid twice P^^hence, varlets ! fly ! 
 Leave Marmion here alone — to die ! " 
 
 They parted ; and alone he lay : — 
 Clare drew her from the sight away, 
 Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
 And half he murmured : " Is there none 
 
 Of all my halls have nurst, 
 Page, 'squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
 Of blessed water from the spring, 
 
 To slake my dying thirst ?" 
 
 O woman! in bur hours of ease 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
 And variable as the shade 
 By the light quivering aspen made. 
 When pain and anguish wring the brow 
 A ministering angel thou ! — 
 Scarce were the piteous accents said. 
 When, with the Baron's casque, the mai^ 
 
 To the nigh streamlet ran : 
 Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
 The plaintive voice alone she hears. 
 
 Sees but the dying man. 
 She stooped her by the runnel's side. 
 
 But in abhorrence backward drew : 
 For, oozing from the mountain's side. 
 Where raged the war, a dark red tide 
 
 Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
 Where shall she turn ? behold her mark 
 
 A little fountain cell. 
 Where water clear as diamond-spark 
 
 In a stone basin fell. 
 Above, some half-worn letters say, 
 " Drink, weary pilgrim, drink and pray 
 For the kind soul of Sybil Gray, 
 
 Who built this cross and well." 
 
 She fill'd the helm, and back she hied, 
 And with surprise and joy espied 
 
 A monk supporting Marmion's head, 
 A pious man, whom duty brought 
 To dubious verge of battle fought. 
 
 To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. 
 
S/H WALTER SCOTT. 693 
 
 Deep drwk Lord Marmion of the wave, 
 And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave, 
 " Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
 " Or injured Constance, bathes my head ?'4 
 
 Then, as remembrance rose, 
 " Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 
 
 I must redress her woes, 
 Short space, few words, a,re mine to spare ; 
 Forgive, and listen, gentle Cl^re.'' 
 
 "Alas ! " she said, "the while ; 
 Oh, think of your immortal weal ! 
 In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 
 
 She— died at Holy Isle." 
 Lord Marmion started from the ground 
 As Ught as if he felt no wound ; 
 Tho' in the action burst the tide, 
 In torrents, from his wounded side : 
 " Then it was truth," he said ; " I knew 
 That the dark presage must be true. 
 I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
 The vengeance due to all her wrongs. 
 
 Would spare me but a day ! 
 For wasting fire, and dying groan. 
 And priests slain on the altar-stone. 
 
 Might bribe him for delay. 
 It may not be ! This giddy trance — 
 Curse on yon base marauder's lance. 
 And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 
 A sinful heart makes feeble hand."—: 
 Then fainting down on earth he sunk, 
 Supported by the trembling monk. 
 
 With fruitless labour, Clara bound, 
 
 And strove to staunch, the gushing wound : 
 
 The monk, with unavailing cares, 
 
 Exhausted all the Church's prayers ; 
 
 Ever, he said, that close and near 
 
 A lady's voice was in his ear, 
 
 And fliat the priest he could not hear, 
 
 For that she ever sung, 
 " In the lost battle, borpe down by the flying. 
 Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the 
 dying ! " 
 
 So the nqtes rung ; — 
 
694 S/H WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 " Avoid thee, Fiend ! with cruel hand 
 Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! 
 O look, my son, upon yon sign 
 Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; 
 
 O think on faith and bliss i — 
 By many a death-bed I have been, 
 And many a sinner's parting seen. 
 
 But never aught like this." 
 The war, that for a space did fail, 
 Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale. 
 
 And " Stanley 1" was the cry ; — 
 A light on Marmion's visage spread. 
 
 And fired his glazing eye : 
 With dying hand, above his head 
 He shook the fragment of his blade, 
 And-shouted " Victory ! — 
 Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on !" 
 Were the last words of Marmion. 
 
 FROM THE " LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL." 
 
 The way was long, the wind was cold. 
 
 The minstrel was infirm and old ; 
 
 His withered cheek and tresses gray 
 
 Seemed to have known a better day ; 
 
 The harp, his sole remaining joy. 
 
 Was carried by an orphan boy : 
 
 The last of all the bards was he 
 
 Who sung of Border chivalry ; 
 
 For, well-a-day ! their date was fled ; 
 
 Histuneful brethren all were dead, 
 
 Aricrhe, neglected and oppress'd, 
 
 Wished to be with them, and at rest. 
 
 No more, on prancing palfrey borne. 
 
 He carolled light as lark at morn ; 
 
 No longer courted and caress'd. 
 
 High placed in hall, a welcome guest. 
 
 He poured, to lord and lady gay, 
 
 The unpremeditated lay : 
 
 Old times were changed, old manners gone ; 
 
 A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne ; 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. ^5 
 
 The bigots of the iron time 
 Had called his harmless art a crime. 
 A wandering harper, scorned and poor, 
 He begged his bread from door to door ; 
 And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, 
 The harp a King had loved to hear. 
 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 O Caledonia ! stem and wild. 
 
 Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 
 
 Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
 
 Land of the mountain and the flood. 
 
 Land of my sires, what mortal hand 
 
 Can e'er untie the filial band 
 
 That knits me to thy rugged strand ? 
 
 Still, as I view each well-known scene, 
 
 Think what is now, and what hath been. 
 
 Seems as to me, of all bereft. 
 
 Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; 
 
 And thus I love them better still. 
 
 Even in extremity of ill. 
 
 By Yarrow's stream still let me stray. 
 
 Though none should guide my feeble way ; 
 
 Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 
 
 Although it chill my withered cheek ; 
 
 Still lay my head by Teviot stone, 
 
 Though there, forgotten and alone, 
 
 The bard may draw his parting groan. 
 
 MELROSE ABBEY. 
 
 If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 
 
 Go visit it by pale moonlight ; 
 
 For the gay beams of lightsome day 
 
 Gild, but to flout, the ruibs gray. 
 
 When the broken arches are black in night, 
 
 And each shafted oriel glinmiers white, 
 
 When the cold light's uncertain shower 
 
 Streams on the ruined central tower, 
 
696 S/H IVALTER SCOTT, 
 
 When buttress and buttress alternately 
 
 Seem framed of ebon and ivory, 
 
 When silver edges the imagery 
 
 And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die, 
 
 When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 
 
 And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man/s grave. 
 
 Then go — but go alone the while — 
 
 Then view St. David's ruined pile ; 
 
 And home returning, soothly swear. 
 
 Was never scene so sad and fair ! 
 
 LOCH INVAR, 
 LADY heron's SONG. 
 
 O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west : 
 Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; 
 And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none : 
 He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
 So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, 
 There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 
 
 He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone. 
 
 He swam the Eske river where ford there was none : 
 
 But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 
 
 The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; 
 
 For a laggard in love and a dastard in war 
 
 Was to wed the fair EUen of brave Lochinvar. 
 
 So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 
 
 Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all : 
 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword 
 
 (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 
 
 " O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?" 
 
 " I long wooed your daughter ; my suit you denied — 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide — 
 And now am I come, with this lost love of mine. 
 To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
 There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far 
 That would gladly be biide to the young Lochinvar," 
 
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 69.7 
 
 The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up : 
 He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
 She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh. 
 With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 
 He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar : 
 " Now tread we a measure ! " said yoimg Lochinvar. 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
 
 That never a hall such a galliard did grace : 
 
 While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. 
 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, 
 
 And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far 
 
 To have matched our fair cousin with yoimg Lochinvar." 
 
 One touch of her hand, and one word in her ear. 
 
 When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near 
 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 
 
 So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
 
 " She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; 
 
 TheyTl have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. 
 
 There was mounting 'mong Grimes of the Netherby clan ; 
 
 Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; 
 
 There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 
 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
 
 So daring in love and so dauntless in war, 
 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? 
 
 WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST? 
 
 Where shall the lover rest, 
 
 Whom the fates sever 
 From his true maiden's breast, 
 
 Parted for ever ? 
 Where, through groves deep and high, 
 
 Sounds the far billow, 
 Where early violets die. 
 
 Under the willow. 
 
 There through the summer day 
 
 Cool streams are laving ; 
 There, while the tempests sway, 
 
 Scarce are boughs waving ; 
 
698 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 There thy rest shalt thou take, 
 
 Parted for ever, 
 Never again to wake. 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
 Where shall the traitor rest, 
 
 He the deceiver, 
 Who could win the maiden's breast, 
 
 Ruin and leave her ? 
 In the lost battle, 
 
 Borne down by the flying. 
 Where mingles war's rattle 
 
 With groans of the dying. 
 
 Her wings shall the eagle flap 
 
 O'er the false-hearted ; 
 His warm blood the wolf shall lap 
 
 Ere life be parted. 
 Shame and dishonour sit 
 
 By his grave ever ; 
 Blessing shall hallow it 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
 'Sj* 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Born \T1\. Died 1854. 
 
 James Montgomery was the son of a Moravian minister, and was 
 bom November 4, 1771, at Irvine, in Ayrshire. His early years were 
 spent among people remarkable for their religious zeal, and the im- 
 pressions of childhood stamped themselves upon his poetry. His father 
 and mother were ordered out as missionaries to the West Indies when 
 their son was twelve years old ; and as they died there, he began the 
 world a poor orphan. He was intended for the ministry, and was sent 
 to the Moravian settlement at Fulneck, near Leeds, where he resided 
 from 1778 to 1787; but his taste for poetry interfered greatly with his 
 progress in study. On leaving Fulneck, his friends placed him in a 
 retail shop at Mirfield, near Wakefield ; but he was miseirable, and after 
 eighteen months' trial ran away, with only five shillings in his pocket 
 His ambition was to go to London, but, destitute of means, he took 
 another situation, at Wath, near Rotherham. Here he remained a year 
 
JAMES MONTGOMERY. 699 
 
 as assistant in a general shop, but it is feared paid little attention to 
 business, as he continued to write poetry and compose music In 1790 
 he sent a small volume of poems to a London publisher, and followed it 
 himself. The manuscript was declined, but he obtained the situation of 
 shopman. His life in London was retired and lonely ; he entered into 
 none of the amusements generally so attractive to the young, but devoted 
 himself entirely to writing. His first attempt was a prose tale which 
 appeared in The Bee: it was entitled "The Chimera." He also wrote 
 a novel, which was declined by the publisher. His mortification was 
 so great that he left the metropolis, and after a short return to the shop 
 atWath entered the service of Mr. Joseph Gales, of Sheffield, in 1792. 
 Here he employed himself in writing political articles for the Sheffield 
 Register. In July, 1794, he started a new weekly paper, called the 
 Sheffield Iris, which he continued to edit till September 1825. In 1795 
 Montgomery was tried and convicted at Doncaster for having published 
 a libel regarding the war then going on between England and France, 
 and was sentenced to three months' imprisonment and a fine of 20/. His 
 offence consisted in printing off a few quires of a miserable doggrel called 
 the " Fall of the Bastille " for an entire stranger. The following year, 
 having given in his paper the particulars of a riot at Sheffield, where two 
 men were shot by the soldiers, he was again tried for sedition, and 
 sentenced to six months' imprisonment and a fine of 30/. During his 
 confinement, which was in York Castle, he wrote a volume of poems 
 called "Prison Amusements," which he published in 1797. On his 
 release, Montgomery returned to Sheffield, and during the remainder of 
 a long life devoted himself to the cultivation of poetic literature, while 
 his consistent piety and kindly nature won for him the esteem and 
 respect of his fellow-townsmen. In 1806 he published " The Wanderer 
 in Switzerland." In 1809 appeared " The West Indies," a poem con- 
 taining passages of exquisite beauty. In l8lo he wrote " Greenland," 
 descriptive of the missionary labours of the Moravians. In 1812 he 
 pnhUshed "The World before the Flood." In 1827 were pubhshed 
 "The Pelican Island, and other Poems." In addition to these, Mont- 
 gomery published " Songs of Zion " in 1822, " Prose by a Poet " in 
 1824, "A Poet's Portfolio " in 1835, and in 1853 " Original Hymns for 
 Public, Private, and Social Devotion." In 1836 his collected works 
 appeared in three volumes ; another edition in four volumes followed in 
 1849, 2™d a third in one volume in 1851. In 1845 a pension of 150/. 
 per annum was given him by the Queen, on the recommendation of Sir 
 Robert Peel, and on April 30, 1854, he closed a long and useiul life at 
 the Mount, Sheffield. The inhabitants gave him a public fimeral, and 
 he was buried in the Cemetery, in a spot near the west end of the church, 
 one of his own beautiful hymns being sung over the grave. . _ 
 
TOO. JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 FROM "THE WEST INDIES." 
 
 Then first Columbus, with the mighty hand 
 Of grasping genius, weigh'd the sea and land ; 
 The floods o'er balanc'd : — where the tide of light, 
 Day after day, roU'd down the gulf of night. 
 There seem'd one waste of waters : — long in ya-ip 
 His spirit brooded o'er the Atlantic main ; 
 When sudden, as creation burst from nought, 
 Sprang a new world through his stupendous thought- 
 Light, order, beauty ! While his mind explored 
 The unveiling mystery, his heart adored ; 
 Where'er sublime inauguration trod, 
 He heard the voice, he saw the face of Gpd ! 
 
 Far from the western cliffs he cast his ey? 
 O'er the wide ocean, stretching to the sky ; 
 In calm magnificence the sun declined, 
 And left a paradise of clouds behind : 
 Proud at his feet, with pomp of pearl and gold, 
 The billows in a sea of glory roll'd. 
 
 " Ah ! on this sea of glory might I sail, 
 Track the bright sun, and pierce the eternal veil 
 That hides those lands beneath Hesperian skies, 
 Where daylight sojourns till our morrow rise !" 
 
 Thoughtful he wandered on the beach alone ; 
 Mild o'er the deep the vesper planet shone, 
 The eye of evening, brightening through the west 
 Till the sweet moment when it shut to rest : 
 " Whither, O golden Venus ! art thou fled ? 
 Not in the ocean-chambers lies thy bed ; 
 Round the dim world thy glittering chariot drawn. 
 Pursues the twilight, or precedes the dawn ; 
 Tby beauty noon and midnight never see, 
 The mom and eve divide the year with thee." 
 
 Soft fell the shades, till Cynthia's slender bow 
 Crested the farthest wave, then sank below : 
 " Tell me, resplendent guardian of the night. 
 Circling the sphere in thy perennial flight, 
 What secret path of heaven thy smiles adorn. 
 What nameless sea reflects thy gleaming horn." 
 
JAMES MONTGOMERY. 701 
 
 Now, earth and ocean vanish'd, all serene 
 The starry firmament alone was seen ; 
 Through the slow silent hours he watch'd the host 
 Of midnight suns in western darkness lost, 
 TiU Night himself, on shadowy pinions borne. 
 Fled o'er the mighty waters, and the morn 
 Danc'd on the mountains. " Lights of heaven !" he cried, 
 " Lead on : I go to win a glorious bride ; 
 Fearless o'er gulfs unknown I urge my way. 
 Where peril prowls, and shipwreck lurks for prey : 
 Hope swells rriy sail ; in spirit I behold 
 That maiden world, twin-sister of the old, 
 By Nature nursed beyond the jealous sea. 
 Denied to ages, but betroth'd to me." 
 
 The winds were prosperous, and the billows bore 
 The brave adventurer to the promised shore ; 
 Far in the west, array'd in purple light, 
 Dawn'd the New World on his enraptured sight : 
 Not Adam, loosen'd from the encumbering earth. 
 Waked by the breath of God to instant birth. 
 With sweeter, wilder wonder gazed around, 
 When life within and light without he found ; 
 When, all creation rushing o'er his soul. 
 He seem'd to live and breathe throughout the whole. 
 So felt Columbus, when, divinely fair. 
 At the last look of resolute despair 
 The Hesperian isles, from distance dimly blue. 
 With gradual beauty opened on his view. 
 In that proud moment his transported mind 
 The morning and the evening worlds combined, 
 And made the sea, that sunder'd them before, 
 A bond of peace, uniting shore to shore. 
 
 Vain, visionary hope ! rapacious Spain 
 FoUow'd her hero's triumph o'er the main.; 
 Her hardy sons, in fields of battle tried, 
 Where Moor and Christian desperately died, 
 A rabid race, fanatically bold. 
 And steel'd to cruelty by lust of gold, 
 Traversed the waves, the unknown world explored, 
 The cross their standard, but their faith the sword ; 
 Their steps were graves ; o'er prostrate realms they trod j 
 They worshipp'd Mammon while they vow'd to God. 
 
702 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Let nobler bards in loftier numbers tell 
 How Cortez conquer'd, Montezuma fell ; 
 How fierce Pizarro's ruffian arm o'erthrew 
 The sun's resplendent empire in Peru ; 
 How, like a prophet, old Las Casas stood. 
 And raised his voice against a sea of blood, 
 Whose chilling waves recoil'd while he foretold 
 His country's ruin by avenging gold. 
 That gold, for which unpitied Indians fell, 
 That gold, at once the snare and scourge of hell. 
 Thenceforth by righteous Heaven was doom'd to shed 
 Unmingled curses on the spoiler's head : 
 For gold the Spaniard cast his soul away ; 
 His gold and he were every nation's prey. 
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 There is a calm for those who weep, 
 A rest for weary pilgrims found : 
 They softly lie and sweetly sleep 
 
 Low in the ground. 
 
 The storm that wrecks the winter sky 
 No more disturbs their deep repose 
 Than summer's evening's latest sigh 
 
 That shuts the rose. 
 
 I long to lay this painful head 
 And aching heart beneath the soil, 
 To slumber in that dreamless bed 
 
 From all my toil. 
 
 For misery stole me at my birth, 
 And cast me helpless on the wild : 
 I perish ; O my mother earth, 
 
 Take home thy child ! 
 
 On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, 
 Shall gently moulder into thee. 
 Nor leave one wretched trace behind 
 Resembling me. 
 
JAMES MONTGOMERY. 763 
 
 Hark ! a strange sound affrights mine ear , 
 My pulse, — my brain runs wild, — I rave ; 
 — ^Ah ! who art thou whose voice I hear ? 
 — " I am The Grave ! 
 
 " The grave, that never spake before. 
 Hath found at length a tongue to chide : 
 O listen ! — I will speak no more : — 
 Be silent, Pride ! 
 
 "Art thou a WRETCH of hope forlorn. 
 The victim of consuming care ? 
 Is thy distracted concience torn 
 
 By fell despair ? 
 
 " Do foul misdeeds of former times 
 Wring with remorse thy guilty breast ? 
 And ghosts of unforgiven crimes 
 
 Murder thy rest ? 
 
 " Lash'd by furies of the mind, 
 From Wrath and Vengeance wouldst thou flee ? 
 Ah ! think not, hope not, fool, to find 
 A friend in me ! 
 
 " By all the terrors of the tomb, 
 Beyond the power of tongue to tell ; 
 By the dread secrets of my womb ; 
 
 By Death and Hell ; 
 
 " I charge thee, Live ! — repent and pray ; 
 In dust thine infamy deplore ; 
 There yet is mercy ; go thy way. 
 
 And sin no more. 
 
 "Art thou a MOURNER ? Hast thou known 
 The joy of innocent delights, 
 Endeiring days for ever flown, 
 
 And tranquil nights ? 
 
 " O Live !— and deeply cherish still 
 The sweet remembrance of the past : 
 Rely on Heaven's unchanging will 
 
 For peace at last. 
 
704 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 "Art thou a Wanderer ? Hast thou seen 
 O'erwhelming tempests drown thy tark ? 
 A shipwreck'd sufferer hast thou been, 
 Misfortune's mark ? 
 
 " Though long of winds and waves the sport, 
 Condemned in wretchedness to roam. 
 Live ! — thou shalt reach a sheltering port, 
 A quiet home. 
 
 " To Friendship didst thou trust thy feme, 
 And was thy friend a deadly fo^, 
 Who stole into thy breast to aim 
 A surer blow ? 
 
 " Live ! — and repine not o'er his loss, 
 A loss unworthy to be told : 
 Thou hast mistaken sordid dross 
 
 For friendship's gold. 
 
 " Seek the true treasure, seldom found. 
 Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, 
 And soothe the bosom's deepest wound 
 With heavenly balm. 
 
 " Did Woman's charms thy youth beguile; 
 And did the fair one faithless prove ? 
 Hath she betray'd thee with a smile, 
 
 And sold thy love ? 
 
 " Live ! — 'Twas a false bewildering fire : 
 Too often Love's insidious dart 
 Thrills the fond soul with wild desire, 
 But kills the heart. 
 
 " Thou yet shalt know how sweet, how dear. 
 To gaze on listening beauty's eye ; 
 To ask, — and pause in hope and fear 
 Till she reply. 
 
 " A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, 
 A brighter maiden faithful prove ; 
 Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest 
 In woman's love. 
 
JAMES MONTGOMERY. 705^ 
 
 ■ Whate'er thy lot, whoe'er thou be, 
 
 Confess thy folly, kiss the rod, 
 And in thy ohastening sorrows see 
 
 The hand of GOD. 
 
 "A bruised reed He will, not break, 
 Afflictions all His children feel : 
 He wounds them for His mercy'st sake. 
 He wounds to heal. 
 
 " Humbler beneath His mighty hand, 
 Prostrate His providence adore : 
 'Tis done ! Arise ! He bids thee stand, 
 To fall no more. 
 
 " Now, traveller in the vale of tears, 
 To realms of everlasting light. 
 Through Time's dark wilderness of years. 
 Pursue thy fli^t. 
 
 " There is a calm for those who weep, 
 A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 
 And while the mouldering ashes sleep 
 Low in the ground,, 
 
 " The Sbtllj of origin divine; 
 God's glorious image, freed from diy; 
 In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine' 
 A star of' day. 
 
 " The Sun is but a spark of fire; 
 A transient meteor in the sky'; 
 The Soul, immortal as its Sire,. 
 
 Shall never die."' 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 If in the field I meet a smiling flower, 
 Methinks it whispers, " God created me. 
 And I to Him devote my little hour 
 In lonely sweetness and humility." 
 If, where the forest's darkest shadows lower, 
 A serpent quick and venomous I see, 
 z z 
 
706 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 It seems to say, " I too extol the power 
 
 Of Him who caused me at His will to be." 
 
 The fountain purling, and the river strong. 
 
 The rocks, the trees, the mountains, raise one song ; 
 
 " Glory to God !" re-echoes in mine ear : 
 
 Faithless were I, in wilful error blind. 
 
 Did I not Him in all His creatures find. 
 
 His voice through heaven, and earth, and ocean hear. 
 
 SAINTS IN HEAVEN. 
 
 What are these in bright array ? 
 This innumerable throng 
 Round the altar night and day 
 Tuning their triumphant song ? 
 " Worthy is the Lamb once slain 
 Blessing, honour, glory, power, 
 Wisdom, riches, to obtain. 
 New dominion every hour." 
 
 These through fiery trials trod, 
 These from great affliction came ; 
 Now before the throne of God, 
 Seal'd with His eternal name' 
 Clad in raiment pure and white, 
 Victor-palms in every hand. 
 Through their great Redeemer's might 
 More than conquerors they stand. 
 
 Hunger, thirst, disease unknown. 
 On immortal fruits they feed ; 
 Them the Lamb, amidst the throne. 
 Shall to living fountains lead ; 
 Joy and gladness banish sighs. 
 Perfect love dispels their fears. 
 And for ever from their eyes 
 God shall wipe away all tears. 
 
 -«>* 
 
707 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 Bam 1772. Died 1834. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge was bom at Otteiy St. Maiy, Devon- 
 lire, on October 21, 1772. His father was vicar of the parish. Cole- 
 dge was the youngest child in a large family ; and being left an orphan 
 'hen nine years of age, a presentation to Christ's Hospital was obtained 
 )r him. Charles Lamb was his contemporary at that school. Coleridge 
 irly distinguished himself by his classical attainments. Even as 
 . schoolboy he exhibited a taste for metaphysics and for theological 
 ontroversy, which afterwards displayed itself in his writings and table 
 dk. In 1791 he entered at Jesus College, Cambridge. He contended 
 3r the Craven Scholarship with Butler, afterwards head-master of 
 Ihrewsbury, and Bishop of Lichfield. The unsettled state of his mind 
 sd him to desert the University in his second year of residence. He 
 ame to London, and after wandering, about the streets in complete 
 loverty, at last enlisted in the 15 th Dragoons. From this position he 
 fas rescued by his friends, and returned to Cambridge. Eventually 
 le left the University without taking a degree. He proceeded to 
 iristol, where he formed the acquaintance of Southey, and of another 
 'oung poet named LoveL At that period the French Revolution had 
 attsed young and ardent minds to run mad with Utopian schemes, 
 -oleiidge and Southey resolved to form a republic of pure freedom in 
 Vmerica; but this ideal republic evaporated in the more matter-of- 
 act proceeding of love and marriage. The three friends married 
 hree sisters of the name of Pricker. 
 
 At Bristol Coleridge had been introduced to Joseph Cottle, the book- 
 eller. Cottle gave him 30/. for a volume of his poems, which was pub- 
 ished in 1794. After his marriage Coleridge took a cottage at Nether- 
 Jtowey, under the Quantock HUls, in Somersetshire, where he became 
 icquainted with Wordsworth, then resident in the same neighbourhood. 
 [n 1796 he published another volume of poems, interspersed with pieces 
 »y Charles Lamb. Coleridge's principal poetical works were composed 
 It Nether-Stowey ; among them the " Ancient Mariner " and the first 
 )art of "Christabel." In 1798, by the kindness of Mr. Wedgwood, 
 -oleridge was enabled to visit Germany, and to study under some of the 
 nost famous professors. He went through a complete course of German 
 iterature. 
 
 On his return to England Coleridge went to live at the Cumberland 
 -akes, where Southey and Wordsworth were already settled. The 
 hree friends were called the Lake Poets; and the Lake School of 
 Z Z 2 
 
7o8 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 poetry became an object of attack to Byron, and to numberless critics. 
 Coleridge became a contributor to the Mornini; Post and the Courier. 
 In 1808 he delivered his famous Lectures on Poetry before the Royal 
 Institution. In 1810 Coleridge left the Lakes — and also his wife and chil- 
 dren, dependent upon the kindness of Southey — and came to London. 
 He settled at the house of Mr. Gillman at Highgate, where he lived the 
 remainder of his life. He had become addicted to opium-eating, and a 
 painful estrangement ensued between himself and his family. Mr. Gillman 
 was a surgeon who undertook the cure of this unfortunate habit At 
 Highgate Coleridge wrote his " Lay Sermons," his " Aids to Reflection," 
 and the " Biographia Literaria. " There likewise he studied the German 
 metaphysicians, and became the representative of their thought among 
 US. On the incorporation of the Royal Society of Literature in 1825 
 Coleridge was elected st, Royal Associate, and received as such 100/. per 
 annum from the King. At Higligate Coleridge held convereation, 
 which became so famous, that they assumed an important place in the 
 litefaiture of the peripd. His conversational powers were extraordinary. 
 Coleridge's "Table Talk" conveys a very poor idea of his learning and 
 volubility. His last appearance in public was at the meeting of the 
 British Association in Cambridge, in 1833. In 1834 he died, and was 
 buried at Highgate. 
 
 Despite the unhappiness of his domestic relations and the dreadful 
 habit of opium-eating, which broke up his home, Coleridge was a mau 
 of great amiability and singular social affection. As a dritic in poetry 
 and art he is justly famous. His Lectures are in their way masterpieces 
 of philosophical criticism. As a poet he is better appreciated now than 
 in Ids own time. The long-continued outcry against die " Lake School " 
 h^ died out, and the world has come to understand the value of Words- 
 worth, and his ^sociate Coleridge. It is to be regretted that Coleridge 
 \m left no great work complete. The " Ancient Mariner " is cut short 
 with a disappointing, abrupt conclusion. " Christabel " is unfinished. 
 So it was with his works in general : they exhibit grand outlines, 
 spjgpfjid proportions, but incomplete structure. 
 
 FROM "THE ANCIENT MARINER," 
 
 Oh, sleep ! it is a gentle thing. 
 
 Beloved from pole to pole. 
 To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
 She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven 
 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 The silly buckets on the deck, 
 That had so long remained, 
 
 I dreamt that they were filled with dew, 
 And when I awoke, it rained. 
 
: SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 705 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
 
 My garments all were dank ; 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
 
 I was so light — almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep, 
 
 And was a blessfed ghost. 
 
 And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
 
 It did not come anear ; 
 But with its sound it shook the sails, 
 
 That were so thin and sere. 
 
 The upper air burst into life ! 
 
 And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
 To and fro they were hurried about ! 
 And to and fro, and in and out. 
 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
 And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
 
 And the sails did sigh like sedge. 
 And the rain poured down from one black cloud : 
 
 The moon was at its edge. 
 
 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
 
 The moon was at its side : 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 The lightning feD with never a jag, 
 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 The loud wind never reached the ship, 
 
 Yet now the ship moved on ! 
 Beneath the lightning and the moon 
 
 The dead men gave a groan. 
 
 They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
 
 Nor spake, nor moved their eyes : 
 It had been strange, even in a dream,. 
 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 
 
 Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
 
 Where they were wont to do ; 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 
 
 We were a ghastly crew. 
 
710 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 The body of my brother's son 
 
 Stocd by me, knee to knee : 
 The body and I pulled at one rope, 
 
 But he said nought to me. 
 
 " I fear thee, ancient Mariner !" 
 
 Be calm, thou wedding-guest ! 
 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain 
 Which to their corses came again, 
 
 But a troop of spirits blest : 
 
 For when it dawned — they dropped their arms. 
 
 And clustered round the mast ; 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths 
 
 And from their bodies pass'd. 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
 
 Then darted to the sun ; 
 Slowly the sounds came back again, 
 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 
 I heard the sky-lark sing; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are. 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 
 With their sweet jargoning. 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 And now it is an angel's song. 
 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
 From the land of mist' and snow, 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 71 
 
 The spirit slid : and it was he 
 
 That made the ship to go. 
 The sails at noon left off their tune, 
 
 And the ship stood still also. 
 
 The sun right up above the mast 
 
 Had fixed her to the ocean : 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir, 
 
 With a short uneasy motion — 
 Backwards and forwards half her length, 
 
 With a short imeasy motion. 
 
 Then, like a pawing horse let go, 
 
 She made a sudden bound : 
 It flung the blood into my head. 
 
 And I fell down in a swound. 
 
 How long in that same fit I lay 
 
 I have not to declare ; 
 But ere my living life returned 
 I heard, and in my soul discerned, 
 
 Two voices in the air. 
 
 " Is it he ?" quoth one. "Is this the man ? 
 
 By Him who died on cross. 
 With his cruel bow he laid full low 
 
 The harmless Albatross. 
 
 " The spirit who bideth by himself 
 
 In the land of mist and snow, 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 
 Who shot him with his bow." 
 
 The other was a softer voice. 
 
 As soft as honey-dew : 
 Quoth he, " The man hath penance done, 
 
 And penance more will do." 
 
SAMUEL TA YLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 FROM « CHRISTABEI,." 
 
 The lovely maid and the lady tall 
 Are pacing both into the hall, 
 And pacing on through page and groom 
 Enter the Baron's presence-room. 
 
 The Baron rose ; and while he prest 
 His gentle daughter to his breast, 
 With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
 The lady Geraldine espieSj 
 And gave such welcome to the same 
 As might beseem so bright a dame. 
 
 But when he heard the lady's tale. 
 And when she told her father's name, 
 Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale. 
 Murmuring o'er the name, again, 
 Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 
 
 Alas ! they had been friends in youth : 
 But whispering tongues can poison .truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
 And to be wroth with one we love 
 Doth work like madness in thelarain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
 With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 
 And insult to his heart's best brother : 
 
 They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
 
 But never either found another 
 
 To free the hollow heart from paining : 
 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder : 
 
 A dreary sea now flows between : 
 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween. 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been. 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. ti^ 
 
 ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE 
 
 ,FTER LONG ABSENCE, UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMEN- 
 DATION NOT TO BATHE. 
 
 God be with thee, gladsome Ocean ! 
 
 How gladly greet I thee once more ! 
 Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion. 
 
 And men rejoicing on thy shore. 
 
 Dissuading spake the rmld physician, 
 "Those briny waves for thee are death." 
 
 But my soul fulfilled her mission, 
 And lo ! I breathe untroubled breath. 
 
 Fashion's pining sons and daughters. 
 That seek the crowd they seem to fly. 
 
 Trembling they approach thy waters ; 
 And what cares Nature, if they die .'' 
 
 Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, 
 
 A thousand recollections bland. 
 Thoughts sublime, and stately measures, 
 
 Revisit on thy echoing strand ; 
 
 Dreams (the soul herself forsaking). 
 
 Fearful raptures, boyish mirth ; 
 Silent adorations, making, 
 
 A blessed shadow of this Earth. 
 
 O ye hopes that stir within me. 
 
 Health comes with you from above ! 
 God is with me, God is in me J 
 
 I cannot die, if Life be Love. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARMS, ROSS, 
 
 FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF "THE MAN OF ROSS." 
 
 Richer than miser o'a: his countless hoards. 
 Nobler than kings or king-polluted lords, 
 Here dwelt the Man of Ross ! O traveller, hear 1 
 D^KUted merit claims a reverent tear. 
 
714 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health, 
 
 With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth. 
 
 He heard the widow's heaven-breathed prayer of praise, 
 
 He marked the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze, 
 
 Or where the sorrow-shrivelled captive lay, 
 
 Poured the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ray. 
 
 Beneath this roof if thy cheered moments pass, 
 
 Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass : 
 
 To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul. 
 
 And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl. 
 
 But if, like me, through life's distressful scene 
 
 Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been ; 
 
 And if, thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught, 
 
 Thou journeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought ; 
 
 Here cheat thy cares ! in generous visions melt. 
 
 And dream of goodness thou hast never felt ! 
 
 -«>«; 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 Bom 1774. Died 1843. 
 
 Robert Southey was the son of a linendraper in Lime Street, 
 Bristol, where he was bom on the 12th of August, 1774' Moved about 
 from one indifferent school to another while a little lad, and very badly 
 treated by his masters, he was at length sent to Westminster School, 
 through the kindness of his uncle, the Rev. Herbert Hill, chaplain to 
 the British factory at Lisbon. At Westminster he and some of his 
 companions started a periodical called The Flagellant, in which 
 appeared a sarcastic paper written by Southey upon flogging. The 
 article gave such deadly offence to Dr. Vincent, the head-master, 
 much addicted to a copious use of the rod, that Southey was dismissed 
 from Westminster. Cyril Jackson, Dean of Christ Church, Oxford, 
 declined to admit him into his College, on account of his dismissal 
 from school. 
 
 At length Southey entered at Balliol College. There he adopted 
 the most extreme opinions of the Free-thinkers, both in religion and 
 politics, who borrowed their notions from the French revolutionists. In 
 1794 Southey left the University, saying, " Two things only have I learned 
 at Oxford, to row and to swim." Previous to this Southey had com- 
 menced the composition of poetry, which he produced by thousands 
 of lines, although nothing,had as yet been submitted to public criticism. 
 
ROBERT SOUTHEY. 715 
 
 ?rom Oxford he returned to Bristol, where he and his fellbw-towns- 
 nan Lovell published a small volume of poems under the title " Bion 
 ind Moschus." Southey formed the acquaintance at this period of 
 ;;oleridge ; and they conceived the " Pantisocracy," as narrated in the 
 ife of Coleridge. Lovell had already married a Miss Fricker. In 
 November, I79S> upon the same day, Southey and Coleridge married 
 the other two sisters. 
 
 Southey delivered lectures in Bristol, and sold to Joseph Cottle for 
 fifty guineas the MS. of his poem, "Joan of Arc. " His uncle Hill, being 
 on a visit to England, induced Southey to return with him to Lisbon, 
 where he became acquainted with the language and literature of Spain 
 and Portugal. Having returned to Bristol in 1796, he thence proceeded 
 to London, and entered as a student at Gray's Inn. After a year's trial 
 of legal study he gave it up as useless, and began to turn to hterature as 
 a permanent means of support. Another visit to Lisbon enabled him 
 to extend his knowledge of the literature of Southern Europe. In 1801 
 he was appointed Private Secretary to Mr. Corry, Chancellor of the 
 Exchequer for Ireland, with a salary of 350/. per annum. Southey pro- 
 ceeded to Dublin ; but on Mr. Corry proposing that he should undertake 
 the education of his son, he threw up the appointment, in offence. 
 About that time he edited his valuable edition of Chatterton's works, 
 to render assistance to Mrs. Newton, Chatterton's sister. This edition 
 was published by Cottle in 1802, and by Southey's labours Mrs. Newton 
 was benefited to the amount of 300/. In 1804 he proceeded to Greta 
 Hall, Keswick, where he settled himself, and lived for the remainder of 
 his Ufe. He had before this abandoned the freethinking and revolu- 
 tionary ideas of his earlier years. His mind became impelled in an 
 opposite direction. From the date of his settling at Keswick, Southey 
 became a staunch adherent of the Tory party, a thorough Monarchist 
 and uncompromising Churchman. His life for nearly forty years was 
 one unceasing, unvarying round of labour upon literary work. A mere 
 list of the works he produced would fill a long page. 
 
 In i8oi he published "Thalaba, the Destroyer;" in 1805, "Madoc," 
 and " The Remains of Henry Kirke White ; " 1808, " The Chronicle of 
 the Cid ;" 1810, the "Curse of Kehama ; " 1813, the " Life of Nelson ; " 
 1819, " History of Brazil ; " 1820, " Life of John Wesley ;" 1824, " The 
 Book of the Church ; " 1825, " Tale of Paraguay." Besides these he 
 wrote the "History of the Peninsula War," "The Doctor," the "Naval 
 History of England," and a multitude of Songs, Ballads, and Odes. In 
 all, above one hundred volumes of various sizes proceeded from his pen, 
 besides a long catalogue of papers on history, biography, poetry, poUtics, 
 and literature generally, many of which appeared in the Quarterly Review, 
 wherein he regiUarly wrote. In 1807 a pension of 160/. per annum 
 was conferred upon him. In November, 1813, he was appointed Poet- 
 Laureat, and in 182 1 the University of Oxford conferred upon him the 
 degree of LL.D. In 1835 Sir Robert Peel, on the part of the Govern- 
 ment, bestowed upon him a pension of 300/. per annum, and offered him 
 
7i6 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 a Baronetcy. That, however, Southey most properly declined, feelini 
 had not means to support its dignity. 
 
 In 1S37 his first wife died. In 1839 he married Miss Caro 
 Bowles, daughter of Captain Bowles of Buckland, near Lymingto: 
 lady whose name is well known in the literary world. The marri 
 was a disaster for the wife, but a great blessing to Southey. Sho 
 after it, his overtasked mind began to show symptoms of decay, 
 lived for four years more, but those years were passed by the i 
 in tenderly watching the gradual but certain sinking of his mei 
 energies into a complete unconsciousness. His end was second child 
 ness and mere oblivion. Death kindly removed him, March 21, iS 
 He was buried in Grassmere churchyard, where the remains of Woi 
 worth now repose in an adjoining grave. 
 
 Southey, the associate of Wordsworth and Coleridge, the contempoi 
 of Byron, Scott, Moore, and Campbell, can hardly take rank as tl 
 equal. There is great splendour of imagination displayed in " Thalal 
 and "Kehama ;" there is evidence in all his important poems of dilig 
 research and great reading ; but the mind becomes fatigued, and tu 
 with a feeling of relief to the "Battle of Blenheim," and "Mary, 
 Maid of the Inn," and to his ballads. As a prose writer Southej 
 the precise opposite of himself as a poet. Here he is simple, flue 
 perspicuous, and engages our attention, and charms us by his effect 
 style. " The Doctor," the " Life of Nelson," and " The Book of ( 
 Church, " are standard works that deserve their high reputation. 
 
 THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 
 
 " She hath escaped my will," Kehama cried ; 
 " She hath escaped, . . . but thou art here : 
 I have thee still;" 
 And on Ladurlad, while he spake, severe 
 He fix'd his dreadfill frown. 
 The strong reflection of the pile 
 Lit his dark lineaments, 
 Lit the protruded brow, the gathered front, 
 The steady eye of wrath. 
 
 But while the fearful silence yet endured, 
 Ladurlad roused himself ; 
 Ere yet the voice of destiny 
 Which trembled on the Rajah's lips was loosed, 
 Eager he interposed, 
 As if despair had waken'd him to hope: 
 
ROBERT SOUTHEY. Jii 
 
 " Mercy ! oh mercy ! only in defence . . . 
 Only instinctively ... 
 Only to save my child, I smote the Prince. 
 King- of the world, be merciful ! 
 Crush me, . . . but torture not ! "' 
 
 The Man-Almighty deign'd him no reply : 
 
 Still he stood silent ; in no human mood 
 
 Of mercy, in no hesitating thought 
 
 Of right and justice. At the length he raised 
 
 His brow yet unrelax'd, ... his lips unclosed, 
 
 And uttered from the heart, 
 With the whole feeling of his soul enforced, 
 The gathered vengeance came. 
 
 " I charm thy life 
 From the weapons of strife. 
 
 From stohe and from wood. 
 
 From fire and from flood. 
 
 From the serpent's tooth. 
 
 And the beasts of blood : 
 From s.ickness I charm thee. 
 And Time shall not harm thee : 
 
 But Earth, which is mine, 
 Its fruits shall deny thee ; 
 And Water shall hear me. 
 And know thee and fly thee ; 
 And the Winds shall not touch thee, 
 
 When they pass by thee ; 
 And the Dews shall not wet thee- 
 
 When they fall nigh thee : 
 
 And thou shalt seek Death 
 
 To release thee in vain ; 
 
 Thou shalt live in thy pain 
 
 While Kehama shall reign. 
 With a fire in thy heart, 
 And a fire in thy brain ; 
 
 And Sleep shall obey me, 
 And visit thee never. 
 And the Curse shall be on thee 
 For ever and ever." 
 
71,8 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 THALABA, THE DESTROYER. 
 
 It was the wisdom and the will of Heaven 
 That in a lonely tent had cast 
 The lot of Thalaba : 
 TheTe might his soul develope best 
 Its strengthening energies ; 
 There might he from the world 
 Keep his heart pure and uncontaminate, 
 Till at the written hour he should be found 
 Fit servant of the Lord, without a spot. 
 
 Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled 
 In that beloved solitude ! 
 Is the morn fair, and doth the freshening breeze 
 Flow with cool current o'er his cheek ? 
 Lo ! underneath the broad-leaved sycamore 
 With lids half-closed he lies. 
 Dreaming of days to come. 
 His dog beside him, in mute blandishment, 
 Now licks his listless hand, 
 Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye, 
 Courting the wonted caress. 
 
 * * * * 
 Domestic peace and comfort are within : 
 Under the common shelter, on dry sand, 
 The quiet camels ruminate their food ; 
 The lengthening cord from Moath falls, 
 
 As patiently the old man 
 Entwines the strong palm-fibres ; by the hearth 
 The damsel shakes the coffee grains, 
 That with warm fragrance fill the tent ; 
 And while, with dexterous fingers, Thalaba 
 Shapes the green basket, haply at his feet 
 Her favourite kidling gnaws the twig, — 
 Forgiven plunderer, for Oneiza's sake. 
 
 * * ♦ * 
 'Tis the cool evening hour : 
 
 The tamarind from the dew 
 
 Sheathes its young fruit, yet green. 
 
 Before their tent the mat is spread ; 
 The old man's solemn voice 
 Intones the holy book. 
 
ROBERT SOUTHEY. . 719 
 
 What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome, 
 Its marble walls bedeck'd with flourish'd truth, 
 Azure and gold adornment ? Sinks the word 
 With deeper influence from the Imam's voice. 
 Where, on the day of congregation, crowds. 
 
 Perform the duty task ? 
 
 Their father is their priest, 
 The stars of heaven their point of prayer, 
 
 And the blue firmament 
 The glorious temple, where they feel 
 
 The present deity. 
 
 * * ♦ * 
 
 ■ Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow, 
 The dark-eyed damsel sits ; 
 
 * * * * 
 So listen they the reed of Thalaba, 
 While his skilled fingers modulate 
 
 The low, sweet, soothing, melancholy tones. 
 
 Or if he strung the pearls of poesy. 
 
 Singing with agitated face 
 And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach the heart, 
 
 A tale of love and woe ; 
 Then if the brightening moon, that lit his face; 
 
 In darkness favour'd hers. 
 Oh ! even with such a look, as fables say. 
 The mother ostrich fixes on her egg. 
 Till that intense affection 
 
 Kindle its light of life. 
 Even in such deep and breathless tenderness 
 Oneiza's soul is centred on the youth, 
 So motionless, with such an ardent gaze, . . . 
 
 Save when from her full eyes 
 She wipes away the swelling tears 
 
 That dim his image there. 
 
 She call'd him Brother. Was it sister-love 
 
 For which the silver rings 
 Round her smooth ankles and her tawny arms 
 Shone daily brighten'd ? for a brother's eye 
 
 Were her long fingers tinged. 
 
 As when she trimm'd the lamp. 
 And through the veins and delicate skin 
 The light shone rosy ? that the darken'd lids 
 
no ^ ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 Gave yet a softer lustre to her eye ? 
 That with such, pride she trick'd 
 Her glossy tresses,, and on holy-day 
 
 Wreathed the red flower-crown round 
 Their waves of glossy- jet? — 
 How happily the days. 
 Of Thalaba went by ! 
 Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled! 
 ***** 
 And now before their path 
 The opening cave dilates ; 
 They reach a spacious vault, 
 Where the black river-fountains burst their way. 
 Now, as a whirlwind's, force 
 Had center'd on the spring. 
 The gushing flood roU'd up ; 
 
 And now the deaden'd roar 
 Echoed beneath, collapsing as it sunk 
 Within a dark abyss, 
 Adown whose fathomless gulphs the.eye was lost 
 
 Blue flames that hover'd o'er the springs 
 Flung through the cavern their uncertain .light ; 
 Now waving on the waves they, lay,^ 
 And now their fiery curls, 
 Flow'd in long tresses up, 
 And now contracting, glow'd with whiter heat 
 Then up they shot again. 
 Darting pale flashes through the tremulous air; 
 The flames, the red and. yellow sulphur-smoke,, 
 And the black darkness of the vault. 
 Commingling indivisibly. 
 
 " Here," quoth Mohareb, " do the angels dwell. 
 The teachers of enchantment." Thalaba 
 Then raised his voice, and cried, 
 "Haruth and Maruth, hear me ! not with rites 
 Accursed, to disturb your penitence, 
 
 And learn forbidden lore. 
 Repentant angels, seek I your abode ; 
 But sent by Allah and the Prophet here. 
 Obediently I come. 
 Their chosen servant I ; 
 Tell me the Talisman." 
 
ROBERT SOUTHEY. 721 
 
 "And dost thou think," 
 Mohareb cried, as with a smile of scorn 
 He glanced upon his comrade, " dost thou think 
 To trick them of their secret ? For the dupes 
 Of human kind keep this hp-righteousness ! 
 'Twill serve thee in the mosque 
 
 And in the market-place : 
 But spirits view the heart. 
 Only by strong and torturing spells enforced 
 Those stubborn angels teach the charm 
 By which we must descend." 
 
 " Descend ?" said Thalaba. 
 But when the wrinkling smile 
 Forsook Mohareb's cheek, 
 And darker feelings settled on his brow, 
 " Now, by my soul," quoth he, '' and I believe, 
 Idiot ! that I have led 
 Some camel-knee'd prayermonger through the cave. 
 What brings thee hither ? Thou should'st have a hut 
 By some saint's grave beside the public way. 
 There to less knowing fools 
 Retail thy Koran scraps. 
 And in thy turn die civet-like at last 
 In the dung purfume of thy scanctity. . . . 
 Ye whom I seek ! that, led by mt, 
 Fe'et uninitiated tread 
 Your threshold, this atones ! 
 
 Fit sacrifice he falls." 
 And forth he flash'd his scymetar 
 And raised the murderous blow. 
 
 There ceased his power ; his lifted arm. 
 Suspended by the spell. 
 Hung impotent to strike. 
 " Poor hypocrite !" cried he ; 
 " And this then is thy faith 
 In Allah and the Prophet ? They had fail'd 
 
 To save thee, but for Magic's stolen aid ; 
 Yea, they had left thee yonder serpent's meal. 
 But that, in prudent cowardice. 
 The chosen servant of the Lord came in, 
 Safe follower of my path." 
 3 A 
 
722 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 " Blasphemer ! dost thou boast of guiding me ?" 
 Quoth Thalaba, with virtuous pride inflamed. 
 " Blindly the wicked work 
 The righteous will of Heaven ! 
 Sayest thou that diffident of God 
 In magic spells I trust ? 
 Liar ! let witness this." 
 And he drew oif Abdaldar's ring, 
 And cast it in the gulph. 
 A skinny hand came up 
 And caught it as it fell, 
 And peals of devilish laughter shook the cave. 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY. 
 
 The raven croak'd as she sate at her meal. 
 
 And the old woman knew what he said, 
 And she grew pale at the raven's tale. 
 
 And sicken'd and went to bed. 
 
 " Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed," 
 
 The old woman of Berkeley said : 
 " The monk my son, and my daughter the nun. 
 
 Bid them hasten or I shall be dead. 
 
 " All kind of sin I have rioted in, 
 
 And the judgment now must be ; 
 But 1 secured my children's souls : 
 
 Oh ! pray, my children, for me. 
 
 " I have 'nointed myself with infants' fat. 
 
 The fiends have been my slaves, 
 From sleeping babes I have suck'd the breath. 
 And breaking by charms the sleep of death 
 
 I have call'd the dead from their graves. 
 
 " And the devil will fetch me now in fire, 
 
 My witchcraft to atone ; 
 And I who have troubled the dead man's grave 
 
 Shall never have rest in my own. 
 
ROBERT SOUTHS Y. 723 
 
 " Bless, I entreat, my winding sheet, 
 
 My children, I beg of you ; 
 And with holy water sprinkle my shroud, 
 
 And sprinkle my coffin too. 
 
 " And let me be chained in my coffin of stone, 
 
 And fasten it strong, I implore. 
 With iron bars ; and with three chains 
 
 Chain it to the church floor. 
 
 " And bless the chains and sprinkle them, 
 
 And let fifty priests stand round. 
 Who night and day the mass may say 
 
 Where I lie on the ground. 
 
 "And ever have the church door barr'd 
 
 After the even-song ; 
 And I beseech you, children dear, 
 
 Let the bars and bolts be strong. 
 
 " And let this be three days and nights 
 
 My wretched corpse to save ; 
 Till the fourth morning keep me safe. 
 
 And then I may rest in my grave." 
 
 The old woman of Berkeley laid her down. 
 
 And her eyes grew deadly dim ; 
 Short came her breath, and the struggle of death 
 
 Did loosen every hmb. 
 
 They blest the old woman's winding sheet 
 
 With rites and prayers due, 
 With holy water they sprinkled her shroud. 
 
 And they sprinkled her coffin too. 
 
 And they chain'd her in her coffiin of stone. 
 
 And with iron barr'd it down, 
 And in the church with three strong chains 
 
 They chain'd it to the ground. 
 
 And the church beUs all, both great and small, 
 
 Did toll so loud and long ; 
 And they have barr'd the church door hard 
 
 After the even-song. 
 
 3 A 2 
 
724 ROBERT SOUTH EY. 
 
 And the first night the tapers' h'ght 
 
 Burnt steadily and clear ; 
 But they without a hideous rout 
 
 Of angry fiends could hear. 
 
 A hideous roar at the church door, 
 
 Like a long thunder peal ; 
 And the priests they pray'd, and the choristers sung, 
 
 Louder in fearful zeaL 
 
 Loud toU'd the bell, the priests pray'd well, 
 
 The tapers they burnt bright, 
 The monk her son, and her daughter the nun, 
 
 They told their beads all night. 
 
 The cock he crew, the fiends they flew 
 From the voice of the morning away : 
 
 Then undisturb'd the choristers sing, 
 And the fifty priests they pray ; 
 
 As they had sung and pray'd all night 
 They pray'd and sung all day. 
 
 The second night the tapers' light 
 
 Burnt dismally and blue. 
 And every one saw his neighbour's face 
 
 Like a dead man's face to view. 
 
 And yells and cries without arise, 
 That the stoutest heart might shock ; 
 
 And a deafening roaring, like a cataract pouring 
 Over a mountain rock. 
 
 The monk and nun they told their beads 
 
 As fast as they could tell ; 
 And aye as louder grew the noise. 
 
 The faster went the bell. 
 
 Louder and louder the choristers sung 
 
 As they trembled more and more. 
 And the priests as they pray'd to heaven for aid 
 
 They smote their breasts full sore. 
 
 The cock he crew, the fiends they flew, 
 From the voice of the morning away : 
 
 Then undisturb'd the choristers sing, 
 And the fifty priests they pray ; 
 
 As they had sung and pray'd all night 
 They pray'd and sung all day. 
 
ROBERT SOUTHEY. 735 
 
 The third night came, and the tapers' flame 
 
 A frightfiil stench did make ; 
 And they burnt as though they had been dipt 
 
 In the burning brimstone lake : 
 And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean, 
 
 Grew momentary more and more ; 
 And strokes as of a battering ram 
 
 Did shake the strong church door. 
 
 The bellmen they for very fear 
 
 Could toll the bell no longer ; 
 And still as louder gp-ew the strokes, 
 
 Their fear it grew the stronger. 
 
 And the choristers' song, which late was so strong, 
 
 Falter'd with consternation. 
 For the church did rock as an earthquake shock 
 
 Uplifted its foimdation. 
 
 And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast 
 
 That shall one day wake the dead ; 
 The strong church door could bear no more, 
 
 And the bolts and the bars they fled ; 
 
 And the tapers' light was extingjuish'd quite, 
 
 And the choristers faintly sung. 
 And the priests, disma/d, panted and pra/d, 
 And on all saints in heaven for aid 
 
 They call'd with trembling tongue. 
 
 And in he came with eyes of flame, 
 
 The devil, to fetch the dead ; 
 And aU the church with his presence glow'd 
 
 Like a fiery firmace red. 
 
 He laid his hand on the iron chains, 
 And like flax they moulder'd asunder. 
 
 And the coffin lid, which was barr'd so firm, 
 He burst with his voice of thunder. 
 
 And he bade the old woman of Berkeley rise 
 
 And come with her master away : 
 A cold sweat started on that cold corpse 
 
 At the voice she was forced to obey. 
 
726 ROBERT SOUTH EY. 
 
 She rose on her feet in her winding sheet, 
 Her dead flesh quiver'd with fear, 
 
 And a groan like that which the old woman gave 
 Never did mortal hear. 
 
 She followed her master to the church door ; 
 
 There stood a black horse there ; 
 His breath was red like furnace smoke, 
 
 His eyes like a meteor's glare. 
 
 The devil he flung her on the horse, 
 
 And he lept up before. 
 And away like the lightning's speed they went, 
 
 And she was seen no more. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 
 
 It was a summer evening. 
 
 Old Kaspar's work was done. 
 And he before his cottage door 
 
 Was sitting in the sun. 
 And by him sported on the green 
 His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 
 
 She saw her brother Peterkin 
 RoU something large and round. 
 
 Which he beside the rivulet 
 In playing there had found : 
 
 He came to ask what he had found, 
 
 That was so large, and smooth, and round. 
 
 Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 
 
 Who stood expectant by ; 
 And then the old man shook his head. 
 
 And with a natural sigh, 
 " 'Tis some poor fellow's skuU," said he, 
 " Who fell in the great victory. 
 
 " I find them in the garden. 
 For there's many here about ; 
 
ROBERT SOUTHEY. 727 
 
 And often when I go to plough, 
 
 The ploughshare turns them out : 
 For many thousand men," said he, 
 " Were slain in that great victory." 
 
 " Now tell us what 'twas all about," 
 
 Young Peterkin he cries ; 
 And little WiUielmine looks up 
 
 With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
 " Now tell us all about the war, 
 And what they fought each other for." 
 
 " It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
 
 " Who put the French to rout ; 
 But what they fought each other for 
 
 I could not well make out : 
 But every body said," quoth he, 
 " That 'twas a famous victory." 
 
 " My father lived at Blenheim then. 
 
 Yon little stream hard by ; 
 They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 
 
 And he was forced to fly ; 
 So with his wife and child he fled, 
 Nor had he where to rest his head. 
 
 "With fire and sword the country round 
 
 Was wasted far and wide, 
 And many a childing mother then 
 
 And new-bom baby died ; 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 At every famous victory. 
 
 " They say it was a shocking sight 
 
 After the field was won, 
 For many thousand bodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the sun ; 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 After a famous victory. 
 
 " Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won. 
 
 And our good Prince Eugene." 
 " Why 'twas a very wicked thing ! " 
 
 Said little Wilhelmine. 
 " Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, 
 " It was a famous victory. 
 
728 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 " And everybody praised the Duke 
 Who this great fight did win." 
 
 " But what good came of it at last ? " 
 Quoth little Peterkin. 
 
 " Why that I cannot tell," said he, 
 
 " But 'twas a famous victory." 
 
 -«>=»; 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Born 1777. Died 1844. 
 
 Thomas Campbell was the youngest son of a retired Glasgow mer- 
 chant, and was bom July 27, 1777. He was educated at the Glasgow 
 University, and during the four years of his residence there distinguished 
 himself by his extraordinary classical attainments, and by his proficiency 
 in Greek and Latin translations, as well as by his compositions in prose 
 and verse. On leaving the University, Campbell went to Edinburgh, 
 and in 1799 brought out his " Pleasures of Hope," which at once placed 
 him in a high position as a poet and introduced him to the society of a 
 brilliant literary circle. The copyright of the poem was sold for 60/. ; 
 but the publisher honourably determined the author should share with 
 him the success it achieved, and not only allowed him 50/. on each new 
 edition, but also permitted him to publish a large quarto by subscription 
 entirely for his own benefit. His means now permitting him to travel, 
 Campbell left Scotland for Germany in June, 1800. War was then 
 raging in Bavaria, and from the walls of Ratisbon he caught a glimpse 
 of the actual horrors of battle. His intended tour through Italy was 
 abandoned, owing to the unsettled state of the Continent, and he retired 
 to Hamburg, and then to Altona, where he passed the winter. At the 
 former place he wrote " Ye Mariners of England," and his " Exiles of 
 Erin " was also composed during this tour. War with Denmark ren- 
 dering Hamburg and its neighbourhood an imsafe residence, Campbell 
 embarked in a Leith trader with the intention of returning to Scotland; 
 but being chased by a Danish privateer, they put into Yarmouth, from 
 whence he proceeded to London, and was welcomed as a friend by some 
 of the greatest literary celebrities of the day. After remaining some 
 time in London, the news of his father's death compelled Campbell to 
 return to Edinburgh, where he resided about a year, during which period 
 he wrote his " Lochiel's Warning," " Hohenlinden," and other pieces. 
 In 1803 he returned to the metropolis, and in the autumn of that year 
 married his cousin, Miss Sinclair, and settled down at Sydenham, where 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 72^ 
 
 he resided for seventeen years. His means of supporting the expenses 
 of a family being almost entirely dependent upon his literary efforts, 
 he set to work in real earnest, and soon after his arrival at Sydenham 
 published a work in three volumes, entitled " Annals of Great Britain, 
 from the Accession of George III. to the Peace of Amiens." He also 
 occupied himself with compiling for booksellers, and writing articles for 
 the daily papers. In 1805, through the exertions of the Fox ministry, 
 he obtained a pension of 200/. per annum, which he enjoyed until his 
 death. In 1809 he published another volume of poems, which contained 
 " Gertrude of Wyoming," a composition which the author always pre- 
 ferred to the " Pleasures of Hope." The ballad of "O'Connor's Child " 
 was added in a later edition. His little house at Sydenham was con- 
 stantly enlivened by the society of Crabbe, Rogers, Sydney Smith, 
 Thomas Moore, and other men well known in letters. In 1820 
 Campbell edited the New Monthly Magazine, and some of his most 
 pleasing poems appeared in that periodical ; he continued to conduct it 
 until, the death of his wife in 1828, and the insanity of one son, and the 
 death of the other, made him relinquish the task. Mr. Campbell, in 
 coimexion with Lord Brougham, was actively engaged in originating 
 the London University. In November, 1826, the University of Glasgow 
 elected him as Lord Rector, amidst the greatest enthusiasm of those who 
 remembered his early triumphs, and who had followed him in his 
 brilliant career. 
 
 After the death of his wife, he removed first to Middle Scotland 
 Yard, and afterwards to chambers at 61, Lincoln's Inn Fields, where 
 he lived in great retirement, saddened by the fearful bereavements 
 which had desolated his home, but nevertheless active in charity, and 
 always ready to lend a helping hand to those who needed it Foreign 
 travel had always been one of Campbell's greatest pleasures, and his 
 frequent visits to the Continent, at a time when war was raging and 
 politics ran high, contributed largely to the spirit of freedom which 
 breathes through many of his poems. In 1832 he visited Algiers, and 
 on his way thither the Poles gave him a dinner in Paris, Prince Czar- 
 toryski taking the chair. This expedition furnished him with materials 
 for a work he afterwards published under the title of " Letters from the 
 South." He founded a society called the " Literary Association of the 
 Friends of Poland," and had rooms at the office in Duke Street, St. 
 James's, where a tablet in the wall may still be seen, inscribing his con- 
 nexion with the Association. In 1837 he published an edition of his 
 poems, which was beautifully illustrated by Timms. Our present Queen 
 soon after her coronation presented Campbell with her portrait, and 
 honoured him by accepting a copy of his works. In 1842 appeared his 
 "Pilgrim of Glencoe," dedicated to Dr. William Beattie. The "Life 
 of Petrarch " followed, and a year before his death he edited the " Life 
 of Frederick the Great." 
 
 His health had been on the decline for some considerable period, 
 though he conscientiously endeavoured to fulfil the task he had imposed 
 
730 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 upon himself of educating his niece, Miss Mary Campbell, who had 
 been residing with him for some time. In 1843 ^^ retired to Boulogne, 
 hoping to derive benefit from change of air and scene; but in spite 
 of an occasional rally, he gradually grew weaker, until, on June 15, 
 1844, he gently expired, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. Campbell 
 was buried with every mark of public respect, in Poet's Corner, West- 
 minster Abbey, on July 3, 1844, and an interesting incident is told of his 
 interment. A deputation from the Polish Association attended the 
 ceremony, and when the officiating priest pronounced the words " dust 
 to dust " Colonel Szyrma took a handful of dust brought from the tomb 
 of the patriot Kosciuski, and scattered it upon the coffin ; a simple and 
 affecting tribute to the memory of one who had in life been so warm a 
 friend to, and sympathiser with, their cause. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 
 Sing the glorious day's renown, 
 When to battle fierce came forth 
 All the might of Denmark's crown, 
 And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 
 By each gun the lighted brand, 
 In a bold determined hand, 
 And the Prince of all the land 
 Led them on. 
 
 Like leviathans afloat, 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 
 While the sign of battle flew 
 O'er the lofty British line : 
 It was ten of April morn by the chime : 
 As they drifted on their path 
 There was silence deep as death, 
 And the boldest held his breath 
 For a time. 
 
 But the might of England flush'd 
 To anticipate the scene, 
 And her van the fleeter rush'd 
 O'er the deadly space between. 
 " Hearts of oak !" our captains cried ; when each gun 
 From its adamantine lips 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 Of the sun. 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 731 
 
 Again ! again ! again ! 
 And the havoc did not slack, 
 Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
 To our cheering sent us back : 
 Their shots along the deep slowly boom j 
 Then ceased ; — and aU is wail 
 As they strike the shatter'd sail, 
 Or, in conflagration pale, 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 Out spoke the victor then. 
 As he hail'd them o'er the wave : 
 " Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
 And we conquer but to save ; 
 So peace instead of death let us bring ; 
 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 
 With the crews, at England's feet, 
 And make submission meet 
 To our King." 
 
 Then Denmark bless'd our chief, 
 That he gave her wounds repose ; 
 And the sorunds of joy and grief 
 From her people wildly rose. 
 As Death withdrew his shades from the day. 
 While the sun look'd smiling bright 
 O'er a wide and woeful sight, 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 Died away. 
 
 Now joy. Old England, raise ! 
 For the tidings of thy might, 
 By the festal cities' blaze. 
 Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 
 And yet amidst that joy and uproar 
 Let us think of them that sleep, 
 Full many a fathom deep. 
 By the wild and stormy steep, 
 Elsinore ! 
 
 Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 
 Once so faithful and so true, 
 On the deck of fame that died 
 With the gallant good Riou ; 
 
732 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave, 
 While the billow mournful rolls 
 And the mermaid's song condoles, 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 Of the brave ! 
 
 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND ! 
 
 Ye mariners of England ! 
 
 That guard our native seas. 
 Whose flag has braved a thousand years 
 
 The battle and the breeze. 
 Your glorious standard launch again 
 To match another foe, 
 And sweep through the deep. 
 While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 While the battle rages loud and long. 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave : 
 For the deck it was their field of fame, 
 
 And ocean was their grave. 
 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. 
 Your manly hearts shall glow. 
 As ye sweep through the deep. 
 While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 While the battle rages loud and long, 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwarks. 
 
 No towers along the steep ; 
 Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 With thunders from her native oak 
 She quells the floods below. 
 As they roar on the shore. 
 When the stormy winds do blow ; 
 When the battle rages loud and long, 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 733 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 
 Shall yet terrific burn, 
 Till danger's troubled night depart, 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 Then, then, ye ocean warriors. 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 To the fame of your name. 
 When the storm has ceased to blow ; 
 When the fiery fight is heard no more. 
 And the storm -has ceased to blow. 
 
 HOHENLINDEN. 
 
 On Linden, when the sun was low. 
 All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow. 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly : 
 
 But Linden saw another sight 
 When the drum beat at dead of night, 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast airay'd, 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade- 
 And furious every charger neigh'd. 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills, with thunder riven, 
 Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven, 
 And louder than the bolts of heaven 
 Far flash'd the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet that light shall glow 
 On Linden's hiUs of stained snow, 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
 Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 
 
734 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 The combat deepens. On, ye brave ! 
 Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
 Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
 And charge with all thy chivalry 1 
 
 Few, few, shall part where many meet ; 
 The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 
 
 Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, 
 
 And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 
 And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpower'd. 
 
 The weary to sleep and the wounded to die. 
 When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
 
 By the wolf-scaring fagot, that guarded the slain. 
 In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
 
 And thr-'-ie ere the morning I dreamt it again. 
 
 Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 
 
 Far, fg-r I had roamed on a desolate track : 
 'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way 
 
 To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 
 I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 
 
 In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; 
 I heard my oWn mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
 
 And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 
 
 Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
 
 From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 
 My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er. 
 
 And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart, 
 " Stay, stay with us ! rest ! — thou art weary and worn." 
 
 And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay ; 
 But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn. 
 
 And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 THE CRICKETER. 
 
 To live a life free from gout, pain, or phthisic. 
 Athletic employment is found the best physic ; 
 The nerves are by exercise hardened and strengthened, 
 And vigour attends it, by which life is lengthened. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 What conduces to health deserves recommendation ; 
 'Twill entail a strong race on the next generation : 
 And of all the field-games ever practised or known 
 That cricket stands foremost each Briton must own. 
 
 Derry down, &c, 
 
 Let dull pensive souls boast the pleasure of angling. 
 And o'er ponds and brooks be eternally dangling : 
 Such drowsy worm-kiUers are fraught with delight, 
 If but once in a week they obtain a fair bite. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 The cricketer, noble in mind as in merit, 
 A taste foi" oppression can never inherit ; 
 A stranger to swindling, he never would wish 
 To seduce by false baits and betray a poor fish. 
 
 Derry down, &c 
 
 No stings of remorse hurt the cricketer's mind, 
 To innocent animals never unkind ; 
 The guiltless his doctrine is ever to spare. 
 Averse to the hunting or killing the hare. 
 
 Derry down, &c 
 
 To every great duke, and to each noble lord, 
 Let each fill his glass with most hearty accord ; 
 And to all brother knights, whether absent or present, 
 Drink health and success, from the peer to the peasant. 
 
 Derry down, &c 
 
 '«>=«; 
 
736 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Bom 1779. Died 1852. 
 
 Thomas Mooee was the son of humble though respectable pareni 
 and was born May 28, 1779, in Aungier Street, Dublin, where his fath 
 kept a grocery and spirit store. In 1795 he entered the University, ai 
 though from being bom a Roman Catholic he was ineligible for tl 
 honours to which he aspired, he pursued his studies with a fair amou 
 of credit and success, and took his degree of B.A. in 1799. He hi 
 displayed his talent for poetry at an early age, and at fourteen two 
 his poems were published in the " Anthologia Hibernica." On leavii 
 the University he proceeded to London, and having adopted the law 
 his profession, was entered at the Middle Temple ; but his poetic 
 tastes were stronger than his legal proclivities, and before he was twen 
 he published the " Odes of Anacreon," which he had commenced 
 Dublin. His pleasing manners and conversational powers made him i 
 agreeable addition to fashionable coteries, and through the introductic 
 of Lord Moira he was a frequent guest at Carlton House. In l8c 
 he published " The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little," whic 
 were much censured on account of their immorality, but had a large sal 
 owing to the poetical ability they displayed. Lord Moira procured hi 
 an appointment in Bermuda, and he arrived there in January, 1804; b 
 finding the duties of his office distasteful, he threw up the situation, leavir 
 a deputy in charge, and after a short tour in America returned to Englai 
 and settled down to literary work. 
 
 In 1806 a severe criticism in the Edinburgh Review on a volume 
 his " Odes and Epistles " so roused his anger, that he challenged Jeffre 
 and they met at Chalk Farm. The duel, however, was prevented by tl 
 police, and the combatants subsequently became friends. In 181 
 Moore married a Miss Dyke, and though his life was passed in a roui 
 of social excitement, his affection for her continued unchanged un 
 death divided them. It was a touching trait in Moore's character tha 
 in the midst of so much that was worldly and artificial, h^reserved 
 all their freshness his home affections. As a son he was tender ai 
 devoted, and as soon as his income permitted, he settled on his paren 
 a sum of 100/. a year, which he continued as long as they lived. 
 
 Soon after his marriage Moore agreed with Power to write his Iri: 
 Melodies, for which he was to receive 500/. a year for seven years. I 
 also entered into an engagement with Longmans for " Lalla Rookh 
 for 3,000/. : this latter poem was published in 181 7. The "Melodies 
 were not completed until 1834. In 1818, just after the poet had settli 
 
THOMAS MOORE, 737 
 
 down at Sloperton Cottage, near Devizes, pecuniary difficulties overtook 
 him, owing to the embezzlements of the deputy he had left in Bermuda, 
 who had absconded, leaving Moore responsible for t,oooL Pending 
 the settlement of the claim Moore travelled on the Continent with the 
 present Earl Russell, and after leaving him at Milan, went on to Fusina 
 to see Lord Byron. In 1822 he returned to England, and the Bermuda 
 business being arranged, he again occupied Sloperton. During the time 
 of his residence abroad he was engaged on the " Life of Sheridan," the 
 " Loves of the Angels," and " The Epicurean." The destruction of the 
 Autobiography which Lord Byron had entrusted to him for publication 
 after his death caused a considerable stir. These memoirs Moore, being 
 hard pressed for money, had sold to Mr. Murray for 2,100/., and the 
 manuscript wa$ assigned to that gentleman in 1824. In the April 
 of that year Lord Byron died, and his relatives, anxious to avoid the 
 publication of private details, entreated Mr. Moore to destroy it, which 
 he consented to do, actuated no doubt by a delicate feeling of honour ; 
 and after an unpleasant correspondence, repaid Mr, Murray the 2,100/. 
 he had advanced, by borrowing that amount from Messrs. Longmans. 
 The public considered itself defrauded, and though Moore subsequently 
 edited a " Life of Lord Byron," he has always been condemned for what 
 was considered a breach of trust In 1831 he wrote the " Life of Lord 
 Edward Fitzgerald," and " The History of Ireland " followed in the 
 volumes of Lardnei's Cyclopcedia. 
 
 In 183s Lord Melbourne settled upon him a pension of 300/. a year, 
 which enabled him to lay aside his pen. In 1841 he began an edition 
 of his poetical works which included the scattered pieces he had 
 contributed during many years to various periodicals, and they were pub- 
 lished in ten monthly volumes. The latter years of Moore's Ufe were 
 embittered by domestic bereavements. He died at Sloperton Cottage, 
 on February 26, 1852, and was buried in the churchyard of Bromham, 
 by the side of two of his children. As a poet, Moore was perhaps better 
 known by his " Melodies " than by any other of his varied productions, 
 though his " Lalla Rookh " contains many passages of exquisite beauty. 
 As a man, he was beloved for kindness of heart and strength of domestic 
 affection, and admired for his social accomplishments and unaffected 
 mamiers. 
 
 THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 " They made her a grave too cold and damp 
 
 For a soul so warm and true, 
 And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, 
 Where all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, 
 
 She paddles her white canoe. 
 3 B 
 
738 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 '' And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, 
 
 And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 
 Long and loving our life shall be, 
 And I'U hide the maid in a cypress tree 
 When the footstep of Death is near." 
 
 Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds : 
 
 His path was rugged and sore ; 
 Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds. 
 Through many a fen where the serpent feeds. 
 And man never trod before. 
 
 And when on the earth he sunk to sleep. 
 
 If slumber his eyelids knew, 
 He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
 Its venomous tear and nightly steep 
 
 The flesh with blistering dew. 
 
 And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake. 
 And the copper-snake breathed in his ear. 
 Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 
 " Oh ! when shall I see the dusky Lake, 
 And the white canoe of my dear ? " 
 
 He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright 
 
 Quick over its surface played : 
 " Welcome,'' he said, " my dear one's light ! " 
 And the dim shore echoed, for many a night. 
 
 The name of the death-cold maid. 
 
 Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, 
 Which carried him off from shore: 
 
 Far he foUow'd the meteor spark ; 
 
 The wind was high and the clouds were dark. 
 And the boat returned no more. 
 
 But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, 
 
 This lover and maid so true 
 Are seen, in the hour of midnight damp. 
 To cross the Lake by a fire-light lamp. 
 
 And paddle their white canoe. 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 739 
 
 A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.. 
 
 Faintly as tolls the evening chime, 
 Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. 
 Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 
 We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
 Row, brothers, row ! the stream runs fast, 
 The rapids are near, and the daylights past ! 
 
 Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? 
 There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. 
 But when the wind blows off the shore. 
 Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 
 Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast. 
 The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! 
 
 Utawa's tide ! this trembling moon 
 Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
 Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers ; 
 Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs ! 
 Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast. 
 The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! 
 
 SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. 
 
 MIRIAM'S SONG. 
 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's 'dark sea ! 
 Jehovah has triumph'd ; His people are free. 
 Sing ; for the pride of the tyrant is broken. 
 
 His chariots, his horsemen, aU splendid and brave. 
 How vain was their boasting ! — ^the Lord hath but spoken, 
 And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
 Jehovah has triumph'd ; His people are free. 
 
 Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord ! 
 His word was our arrow. His breath was our sword. 
 Who shall return to tell Egypt the story 
 Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? 
 3 n 2 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 For the Lord hath look'd out from His pillar of glory, 
 And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide. 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
 Jehova.h has triumph'd ; His people are free. 
 
 LETTER 
 
 OM THE Pr — NC — SS CH E OF W S TO THE LaDY 
 
 B— RB— A A— SHL— Y. 
 
 r dear lady Bab, you'll be shock'd, I'm afraid, 
 len you hear the sad rumpus your Ponies have made : 
 ice the time of the Horse-consuls (now long out of date) 
 I nags ever made such a stir in the State ! 
 
 rd Eld — n first heard (and as instantly pray'd he 
 God and the King) that a Popish young lady 
 yc though you've bright eyes and twelve thousand a year, 
 is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear,) 
 id insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom, 
 10 priest-ridden Ponies just landed from Rome, 
 d so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks, 
 at the dome of St. Paul's was scarce safe from their kicks. 
 
 f at once to Papa, in a flurry, he flies ; 
 r Papa always does what these statesmen advise, 
 L condition that they'll be, in turn, so polite 
 in no case whate'er to advise him too right: 
 'rettj doings are here, sir," he angrily cries, 
 bile by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise ; 
 ris a scheme of the Romanists — so help me God !— 
 1 ride over your most Royal Highness rough-shod 
 xcuse, sir, my tears j they're from loyalty's source), 
 .d enough ^twas for Troy to be sack'd by a Horse, 
 It for us to be ruin'd by Ponies still worse ! " 
 
 lick a Council is call'd — ithe whole Cabinet sits : 
 le Archbishops declare, frighten'd out of their wits, 
 lat if vile Popish Ponies should eat at my manger, 
 om that awful moment the Church is in danger ; 
 , give them but stabling, and shortly no stalls 
 ill suit their proud stomachs ,but those of St. Paul's. 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 741 
 
 The Doctor and he, the devout Man of Leather, 
 V— ns-tt— t, now laying their Saint heads together, 
 Declare that these skittish young rt-bominations 
 Are clearly foretold in Chap. VI. Revelations ; 
 Nay, they verily think they could point out the one 
 Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon. 
 
 Lord H — rr — by, hoping that no one imputes 
 To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes. 
 Protests, on the word of himself and his cronies, 
 That had these said creatures been Asses, not Ponies, 
 The Court would have started no sort of objection. 
 As Asses were there always sure of protection. 
 
 "If the Pr — ^nc — ss will keep' them," says Lord C — stl — r — gh, 
 
 " To make them quite harmless the only true way 
 
 Is (as certain Chief Justices do with their wives) 
 
 To flog them within half an inch of their lives ; 
 
 If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about. 
 
 This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out." 
 
 Or, if this be thought cruel, his lordship proposes 
 
 " The new Veto snaffle to bind down their noses — 
 
 A pretty contrivance, made out of old chains. 
 
 Which appears to indulge while it doubly restrains ; 
 
 Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks." 
 
 Adds his Lordship, humanely, " or else break their necks." 
 
 This proposal received pretty general applause 
 
 From the statesmen around ; and the neck-breaking clause 
 
 Had a vigour about it which soon reconciled 
 
 Even Eld — n himself to a measure so mild. 
 
 So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to nem. con. ; 
 
 And my Lord C — stl — e — gh, having so often shone 
 
 In the fettering line, is to buckle them on. 
 
 I shall drive to your door in these Vetos some day. 
 But, at present, adieu ! — I must hurry away 
 To go see my mamma, as I'm suffered to meet her 
 For just half an hour by the Qu — n's best repeater. 
 
 C E. 
 
742 THOJkAS MOORE. 
 
 FROM "THE FIRE WORSHIPPERS." 
 
 " Up, daughter, up ! the Kerna's breath 
 
 Has blown a blast would waken death, 
 
 And yet thou sleep'st : up, child, and see 
 
 This blessfed day for Heaven and me ! 
 
 A day more rich in Pagan blood 
 
 Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood. 
 
 Before another dawn shall shine 
 
 His head, heart, Umbs, will all be mine ; 
 
 This very night his blood shall steep 
 
 These hands all over ere I sleep." — 
 
 " His blood !" she faintly scream'd, her mind 
 
 Still singling one from aU inankind. — 
 
 "Yes, spite of his ravines and towers, 
 
 Hafed, my child, this night is ours ! 
 
 Thanks to all-conquering treachery, 
 
 Without whose aid the links accurst, 
 That bind these impious slaves, would be 
 
 Too strong for Alla'S self to burst. 
 That rebel fiend, whose blade hath spread 
 My path with piles of Moslem dead. 
 Whose baffling spells had almost driven 
 Back from their course the swords of Heaven, 
 This night, with all his band, shall know 
 How deep an Arab's steel can go, 
 When God and vengeance speed the blow. 
 And, Prophet ! by that holy wreath 
 Thou wor'st on O hod's field of death, 
 I swear, for every sob that parts 
 In anguish from these heathen hearts, 
 A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines 
 Shall glitter on thy shrine of shrines. 
 . But, ha I'^^she sinks — that look so wild — , 
 Those livid lips — my child, my child ! 
 This life of blood'befits not thee, 
 And thou must back to Araby. 
 Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex 
 In scenes that man himself might dread, 
 Had I not hoped our every tread 
 Would be on prostrate Persian necks — 
 Curst race, they offer swords instead ! 
 But, cheer thee, maid ! — the wind that now 
 Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 74 
 
 To-day shall waft thee from the shore ; 
 And, ere a drop of this night's gore 
 Have time to chill in yonder towers, 
 Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers ! " 
 
 His bloody boast was all too true ; 
 
 There lurk'd one wretch among the few 
 
 Whom Hafed'S eagle eye conld count 
 
 Aromid him on that Fiery Mount, — 
 
 One miscreant, who for gold betrayd 
 
 The pathway through the valley's shade 
 
 To those high towers, where Freedom stood 
 
 In her last hold of flame and blood. 
 
 Left on the field last dreadful night, 
 
 When, sallying from their -sacred height, 
 
 The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight. 
 
 He lay — but died not with the brave ; 
 
 That sun which should have gHt his grave 
 
 Saw him a traitor and a slave ; — 
 
 And while the few who thence retum'd 
 
 To their high rocky fortress moum'd 
 
 For him among the matchless dead 
 
 They left behind on glory's bed, 
 
 He hved, and, in the face of morn, 
 
 Laugh'd them and Faith and Heaven to scorn. 
 
 O for a tongue to curse the slave. 
 Whose treason, hke a deadly blight. 
 
 Comes o'er the councils of the brave, 
 And blasts them in their hour of might ! 
 
 May life's unbless&d cup for him 
 
 Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim, — 
 
 With hopes that but allure to fly. 
 With joys that vanish while he sips. 
 
 Like Dead Sea fruits, that tempt the eye. 
 But turn to ashes on the lips ! 
 His country's curse, his children's shame, 
 Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame, 
 May he, at last, with lips of flame 
 On the parch'd desert thirsting die, — 
 While lakes, that shone in mockery nigh, 
 Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted, 
 Like he once glorious hopes he blasted ! 
 
744 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 And, when from earth his spirit flies, 
 Just Prophet, let the damn'd one dwell 
 Full in the sight of Paradise, 
 Beholding heaven, and feeling hell ! 
 
 SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps. 
 
 And lovers are round her sighing ; 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 
 
 For her heart in his grave is lying. 
 
 She sings the wild song of her dear native plains. 
 Every note which he loved awaking ; — 
 
 Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains 
 How the heart of the minstrel is breaking. 
 
 He had lived for his love, for his country he died ; 
 
 They were all that to life had entwin'd him : 
 Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
 
 Nor long will his love stay behind him. 
 
 Oh make her a grave where the sunbeams rest 
 When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
 
 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 
 From her own loved island of sorrow. 
 
 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 
 
 'Tis the last rose of summer 
 
 Left blooming alone ; 
 All her lovely companions 
 
 Are faded and gone ; 
 No flower of her kindred, 
 
 No rosebud, is nigh. 
 To reflect back her blushes 
 
 Or give sigh for sigh. 
 
 rU not leave thee, thou lone one. 
 
 To pine on the stem ; 
 Since the lovely are sleeping, 
 
 Go sleep thou with them. 
 
THOMAS MOORE. 745 
 
 Thus kindly I scatter 
 
 Thy leaves o'er the bed, 
 Where thy mates of the garden 
 
 Lie scentless and dead. 
 
 So soon may I follow, 
 
 When friendships decay, 
 And from Love's shining circle 
 
 The gems drop away ! 
 When true hearts he wither'd, 
 
 And fond ones are flown, 
 Oh ! who would inhabit 
 
 This bleak world alone ? 
 
 O THE SHAMROCK I 
 
 Through Erin's Isle, 
 
 To sport awhile, 
 As Love and Valour v/ander'd, 
 
 With Wit, the sprite, 
 
 Whose quiver bright 
 A thousand arrows squander'd, 
 
 Where'er they pass 
 
 A triple grass ' 
 Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, 
 
 As softly green 
 
 As emerald seen 
 Thro' purest crystal gleaming. 
 O the Shamrock ! the green, immortal Shamrock ! 
 Chosen leaf 
 
 Of bard and chief, 
 Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 
 
 Says Valour, "See, 
 
 They spring for me, 
 Those leafy gems of morning ! " — 
 
 Says Love, " No, no ; 
 
 For me they grow, 
 My fragrant path adorning." — 
 
 (i) St Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil to which in 
 Ireland we give the name of Shamrock in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the 
 Pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant 
 as a national emblem. Hope, among the Ancients, was sometimes represented as a 
 beautiful child standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil, or three-coloured grass in her hand. 
 
746 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 But Wit perceives 
 
 The triple leaves, 
 And cries, " Oh do not sever 
 
 A type that blends 
 
 Three godlike friends. 
 Love, Valour, Wit, for ever ! " 
 O the Shamrock ! the green, immortal Shamrock ! 
 Chosen leaf 
 
 Of bard and chief, 
 Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 
 
 So firmly fond 
 
 May last the bond 
 They wove that morn together ; 
 
 And ne'er may fall 
 
 One drop of gall 
 On Wit's celestial feather ! 
 
 May Love, as twine 
 
 His flowers divine, 
 Of thorny falsehood weed 'em ! 
 
 May Valour ne'er 
 
 His standard rear 
 Against the cause of Freedom ! 
 O the Shamrock ! the green, immortal Shamrock ! 
 Chosen leaf 
 
 Of bard and chief, 
 Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 
 
 OH, DOUBT ME NOT ! 
 
 Oh, doubt me not ! — the season 
 Is o'er when Folly made me rove ; 
 
 And now the vestal, Reason, 
 Shall watch the fire awak'd by Love. 
 Altho' this heart was early blown, 
 
 And fairest hands disturb'd the tree, 
 They only shook some blossoms down ; 
 
 Its fruit has all been kept for thee. 
 
 Then doubt me not ! — the season 
 Is o'er when Folly made me rove ; 
 
 And now the vestal, Reason, 
 Shall watch the fire awak'd by Love. 
 
REGINALD HEBER. 747 
 
 And tho' my lute no longer 
 May sing of Passion's ardent spell, 
 
 Yet, trust me, all the stronger 
 I feel the bliss I dare not tell. 
 The bee through many a garden roves, 
 
 And hums his lay of courtship o'er, 
 But when he finds the flower he loves. 
 
 He settles there and hums no more. 
 
 Then doubt me not ! — ^the season 
 Is o'er when Folly kept me free ; 
 
 And now the vestal, Reason, 
 Shall guard the flame awaVd by thee. 
 
 -s^s- 
 
 REGINALD HEBER. 
 
 Born 1783. Died 1826. 
 
 Reginald Heber, afterwards Bishop of Calcutta, was the son of the 
 co-rector of Malpas, Cheshire, in which place he was born, April 2i, 
 1783. Heber, as a child, was noted for a love of knowledge and an 
 excellent memory. At seven years of age he had translated Phsedrus 
 into verse. In 1800 he entered Brasenose College, Oxford, and in his 
 first year gained the prize for Latin verse. In 1803 he wrote his poem 
 " Palestine," which established his reputation as a poet. He was elected 
 to a fellowship at AH Souls in 1804, and in 1807 took orders, and was 
 instituted to the family living at Hodnet. Two years later he married 
 a daughter of the Dean of St. Asaph. Always conscientious in the dis- 
 charge of every parochial duty, he found time to follow the pursuits of 
 literature. He contributed to the Quarterly, and commenced a Dic- 
 tionary of the Bible. In i8i2 he published a volume of Hymns and 
 Poems. In 1815 he was appointed Bampton Lecturer, and subsequently 
 became Canon of St. Asaph and preacher at Lincoln's Inn. The 
 bishopric of Calcutta was offered him in 1822, and though twice dechned, 
 was finally accepted in the January of the following year. He faithfully 
 fulfilled the arduous duties of his office, but his usefiil Ufe was cut short 
 before he had completed his forty-third year. He was found dead in his 
 bath, on the 3d of April, 1826, at Trichinopoli, and a monument to his 
 memory, executed by Chantrey, was placed in the cathedral, Calcutta. 
 
748 REGINALD HEBER. 
 
 FROM "PALESTINE." 
 
 Thou palsied earth, with noonday night o'erspread 1 
 
 Thou sick'ning sun, so dark, so deep, so red ! 
 
 Ye hov'ring ghosts, that throng the starless air ! 
 
 Why shakes the earth .' why fades the light ? declare ! 
 
 Are those His limbs, with ruthless scourges torn ? 
 
 His brows, all bleeding with the twisted thorn ? 
 
 His the pale form, the weak'forgiving eye 
 
 Raised from the cross in patient agony ? 
 
 — Be dark, thou sun : thou noonday night, arise. 
 
 And hide, oh hide, the dreadful sacrifice ! 
 Ye faithful few, by blood affection led. 
 
 Who round the Saviour's cross your sorrows shed. 
 
 Not for His sake your tearful vigils keep ; — 
 
 Weep for your country, for your children weep ! 
 
 — Vengeance ! thy fiery wing their race pursu'd ; 
 
 Thy thirsty poniard blush'd with infant blood. 
 
 Rous'd at thy call, and panting still for game. 
 
 The bird of war, the Latian eagle came. 
 
 Then Judah raged, by ruffian discord led. 
 
 Drunk with the steamy carnage of the dead : 
 
 He saw his sons by dubious slaughter fall, 
 And war without and death within the wall. 
 Wide-wasting Plague, gaunt Famine, mad Despair, 
 And dire Debate, and clamorous Strife were there : 
 Love, strong as death, retain'd his might no more. 
 And the pale parent drank her children's gore. 
 Yet they who wont to roam th' ensanguin'd plain. 
 And spurn with fell delight their kindred slain ; 
 E'en they, when, high above the dusty fight. 
 Their burning temple rose in lurid light. 
 To their loVd altars paid a parting groan. 
 And in their country's woes forgot their own. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 And who is He ? the vast, the awful form, 
 Girt with the whirlwind, sandal'd with the storm ? 
 A western cloud around His limbs is spread. 
 His crown a rainbow, and a sun His head. 
 To highest heaven He lifts His kingly hand. 
 And treads at once the ocean and the land ; 
 And hark ! His voice amid the thunders roar, — 
 His dreadful voice, that time shall be no more ! 
 
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. f49 
 
 ) ! cherub hands the golden courts prepare ; 
 
 thrones arise, and every saint is there ; 
 h's utmost bounds confess their awful sway, 
 mountains worship, and the isles obey : 
 
 sun nor moon they need, nor day nor night ; 
 
 is their temple, and the Lamb their light : 
 
 shall not Israel's sons exulting come, 
 1 the glad beam, and claim their ancient home ? 
 David's throne shall David's offspring reign, 
 . the dry bones be warm with life again ? 
 k ! white-rob'd crowds their deep hosannas raise, 
 [ the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise ; 
 
 thousand harps attune the mystic song, 
 
 thousand thousand saints the strain prolong : 
 
 orthy the Lamb, omnipotent to save, 
 
 ho died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave ! " 
 
 -^N*; 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 ^orn 1784. Died 1842. 
 
 LLAN Cunningham was bom in Dumfriesshire, the child of humble 
 •Mis. After receiving a small amount of schooling, the boy was put 
 fork as a stonemason. His poetical ability showed itself at an early 
 od. After the fashion of Chatterton, he produced a number of songs, 
 nsibly ancient Scotch ballads, which were printed in the "Remains 
 Vithsdale and Galloway Song." These were supposed to be col- 
 2d by him, but (as was afterwards discovered) they were entirely 
 own composition. 
 
 a 1810 Cuimingham came to London to follow the trade to which 
 had been apprenticed. He was fortunate in obtaining admittance 
 
 the studio of Sir Francis Chantrey, by whom he was treated with 
 It kindness. Having earned and deserved the confidence of Chantrey, 
 iningham settled himself for life as his assistant. In this position, 
 
 surrounded by art and its associations, Cunningham employed his 
 are time in the use of his pen. In Chantrey's studio he made 
 
 acquaintance of many of the men of his day famous in literature 
 
 art. 
 
 lis most important works are " The Maid of Elvar " and " Sir 
 rmaduke Maxwell ; ". but his name is best known in connexion with 
 
750 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Scottish songs and ballads, which are often touching and pathetic. 
 Cunningham was a man of warm-hearted, blunt, plain-spoken honesty, 
 and was highly regarded by all who knew him. He was the father of 
 Peter Cunningham, the well-known author of "The Handbook of 
 London." Allan Cunningham died in 184Z. 
 
 The song "A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea" has had a great 
 popularity. It was regarded with especial favour by Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND! 
 
 When mighty roast beef was the Englishman's food, 
 It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood ; 
 Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good: 
 Oh ! the roast beef of old England, 
 And oh ! the old English roast beef. 
 
 But since we have learned from effeminate France 
 To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance, 
 We are fed up with nothing but vain complaisance : 
 Oh ! the roast beef of old England, 
 And oh ! the old English roast beef. 
 
 Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong. 
 And kept open house with good cheer all day long. 
 Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song : 
 Oh ! the roast beef of old England, 
 And oh ! the old English roast beef. 
 
 When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne, 
 Ere coffee and tea and such slip-slops were known, 
 The world was in terror if e'en she did frown : 
 Oh ! the roast beef of old England, 
 And oh ! the old English roast beef. 
 
 In those days, if fleets did presume on the main, 
 They seldom or never return'd back again ; 
 As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain : 
 Oh ! the roast beef of old England, 
 And oh ! the old English roast beef. 
 
 And then we had stomachs to eat and to fight. 
 And, when wrongs were cooking, to set ourselves right ; 
 But now we're a — hum ! — I could, b.ut, — good night ! 
 Oh ! the roast beef of old England, 
 And oh ! the old English roast beef. 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 751 
 
 A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 
 
 A wind that follows fast, 
 And fills the white and rustling sail, 
 
 And bends the gallant mast : 
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 
 ■ While, like the eagle free, 
 Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
 
 Old England on the lee. 
 
 " O for a soft and gentle wind ! " 
 
 I heard a fair one cry j 
 But give to me the swelling breeze, 
 
 And white waves heaving high : 
 The white waves heaving high, my lads, 
 
 The good ship tight and free, — 
 The world of waters is our home. 
 
 And merry men are we ! 
 
 There's tempest in yon homfed moon. 
 
 And lightning in yon cloud j 
 And hark the music, mariners ! 
 
 The wind is wakening loud : 
 The wind is wakening loud, my boys. 
 
 The lightning flashes free, — 
 The hollow oak our palace is. 
 
 Our heritage the sea ! 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 Born 1785. Died 1806. 
 
 ENRY KiRKE WHITE was a butcher's son, and was bom at Notting- 
 on the 2ist March 1785. His passion for reading showed itself at 
 ry early age ; but as his father's intention was to bring him up to his 
 trade, very little attention was paid to his education. One day in 
 1 week he carried the butcher's basket ; but the occupation was so 
 gnto his tastes that his father was persuaded to abandon his purpose, 
 at fourteen he was placed in a hosiery business to learn stocking 
 'ing. This, however, was equally objectionable ; and after trying it 
 
752 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 for a year, his mother succeeded in placing him in the office of Messrs. 
 Coldham, attorneys in Nottingham. He worked at his profession with 
 great assiduity, and found time and means to study modern languages, 
 drawing, music, and mechanics. At fifteen he was known as a speaker 
 at a literary society in Nottingham, also as a contributor to many 
 periodicals. At seventeen he published a volume of poems, which 
 attracted the attention of Southey, who continued a warm friend during 
 the rest of White's brief life. His mind at this time became deeply 
 impressed by religion, and through the kindness of Mr. Simeon he 
 entered St. John's College, Cambridge, as a sizar, in 1804. The exertions 
 he made to obtain a vacant scholarship were too much for his delicate 
 frame, and on the day of examination he was obliged to retire, from the 
 competition ; but a fortnight afterwards he passed the general examination 
 at his college, and was declared the first man of his year. In 1805 he 
 was again first in the examination ; but his strength was unequal to the 
 efforts he had made, and after a brief visit to London he returned to 
 Cambridge, and died, October 19, 1806, in the twenty-second year of his 
 age. Southey published a selection of his poems and prose in 1807. 
 In his Satire on " English Bards;" Byron thus speaks of Kirke White: — 
 
 ** Unhappy White, when life was in its spring, 
 And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 
 The spoiler swept that soaring muse away. 
 Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
 Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
 When science self destroyed her favourite son." 
 
 This gifted youth was buried in the church of All Saints, Cambridge, 
 and a tablet to his memory, adorned with a medallion by Chantrey, was 
 subsequently erected by a wealthy American, named Boot, who visited 
 his grave. 
 
 MY STUDY. 
 A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE. 
 
 You bid me, Ned, describe the place 
 
 Where I, one of the rhyming race, 
 
 Pursue my studies con amore, 
 
 And wanton with the Muse in glory. 
 
 Well, figure to your senses straight, 
 
 Upon the house's topmost height, 
 
 A closet just six feet by four, 
 
 With whitewash'd walls and plaster floor ; 
 
 So nobly large, 'tis scarcely able 
 
 To admit a single chair and table : 
 
 And (lest the Muse should die with cold) 
 
 A smoky grate my fire to hold ; 
 
 So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose 
 
 To melt the icedrop on one's nose ; 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 753 
 
 And yet so big, it covers o'er 
 Full half the spacious room and more : 
 A window vainly stuflPd about, 
 To keep November's breezes out ; 
 So crazy, that the pjines proclaim 
 That soon they mean to leave the frame. 
 My furniture I sure may crack : 
 A broken chair without a back ; 
 A table wanting just two legs, 
 One end sustain'd by wooden pegs ; 
 A desk — of that I am not fervent, 
 The work of. Sir, your humble servant 
 (Who, though I say 't, am no such fumbler) ; 
 A glass decanter and a tumbler. 
 From which my night-parch'd throat I lave. 
 Luxurious, with the hmpid wave ; 
 A chest of drawers, in antique sections. 
 And saVd by me in all directions — 
 So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em 
 Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em. 
 To these if you will add a store 
 Of oddities upon the floor — 
 A pair of globes, electric balls, 
 Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls — 
 And crowds of books on rotten shelves. 
 Octavos, foUos, quartos, twelves ; 
 1 think, dear Ned, you curious dog. 
 You'll have my earthly catalogue. 
 But stay — I nearly had left out 
 My bellows, destitute of snout ; 
 And on the walls — Good heavens ! why there 
 I've such a load of precious ware. 
 Of heads, and coins, and silver medals. 
 And organ works, and broken pedals 
 (For I was once a-building music, 
 Though soon of that employ I grew sick). 
 And skeletons of laws which shoot 
 All out of one primordial root. 
 That you, at such a sight, would swear 
 Confusion's self had settled there. 
 There stands, just by a broken sphere, 
 A Cicero without an ear ; 
 A neck on which, by logic good, 
 1 know for sure a head once stood ; 
 3 C 
 
754 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 But who it was the able master 
 
 Had moulded in the mimic plaster, 
 
 Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn, 
 
 I never yet could justly learn : 
 
 But knowing well that any head 
 
 Is made to answer for the dead — 
 
 (And sculptors first their faces frame, 
 
 And after pitch upon a name, 
 
 Nor think it aught of a misnomer 
 
 To christen Chaucer's bust a Homer, 
 
 Because they both have beards, which, you know, 
 
 Will mark them well from Joan and Juno,) 
 
 For some great man, I could not tell 
 
 But Neck might answer just as well, 
 
 So perch'd it up, all in a row 
 
 With Chatham and with Cicero. 
 
 Then all around, in just degree, 
 
 A range of portraits you may see, 
 
 Of mighty men, and eke of women. 
 
 Who are no whit inferior to men. 
 
 With these fair dames and heroes round, 
 I call my garret classic ground, 
 For, though confined, 'twill well contain 
 The ideal flights of Madam Brain. 
 No dungeon's walls, no cell confined. 
 Can cramp the energies of mind ! 
 Thus, though my heart may seem so small, 
 I've friends, and 'twill contain them all ; 
 And should it e'er become so cold 
 That these it will no longer hold. 
 No more may Heaven her blessings give — 
 I shall not then be fit to live. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 
 
 Softly, softly blow, ye breezes ; 
 
 Gently o'er my Edwy fly ! 
 Lo ! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly ; 
 Softly, zephyrs, pass him by ! 
 My love is asleep ; 
 He lies by the deep. 
 All along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 755 
 
 I have cover'd him with rushes, 
 
 Water-flags, and branches dry. 
 Edwy, long have been thy slumbers ; 
 Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye ! 
 My love is asleep ; 
 He lies by the deep, 
 All along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
 Still he sleeps ; he will not waken : 
 
 Fasdy closed is his eye ; 
 Paler is his cheek, and chiller. 
 Than the icy moon on high. 
 Alas ! he is dead ! 
 He has chose his death-bed 
 AH along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
 Is it, is it so, my Edwy? 
 
 Will thy slumbers never fly ? 
 Could'st thou think I would survive thee? 
 No, my love, thou bid'st me die. 
 Thou bid'st me seek 
 Thy death-bed bleak 
 All along where the salt waves sigh. 
 
 I will gently kiss thy cold lips, 
 
 On thy breast 111 lay my head, 
 And the winds shall sing our death dirge, 
 And our shroud the waters spread ; 
 The moon will smile sweet, 
 And the wild wave will beat, 
 Oh ! so softly o'er our lonely bed. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls 
 In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls. 
 The village matron kept her little school. 
 Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule : 
 Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; 
 Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean ; 
 Her neatly bordered cap, as lily fair. 
 Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care ; 
 And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn, 
 Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 
 3 C2 
 
756 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 Faint with old age and dim were grown her eyes, — 
 A pair of spectacles their want supplies ; 
 These does she guard secure, in leathern case. 
 From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place. 
 
 Here first I entered, though with toil and pain. 
 The lowly vestibule of learning's fane ; 
 Entered with pain, yet soon I found the way, 
 Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. 
 Much did I grieve on that ill-fated morn 
 When I was first to school reluctant borne : 
 Severe I thought the dame, though oft she tried 
 To soothe my swelling spirits when I sighed ; 
 And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept. 
 To my lone corner broken-hearted crept. 
 
 And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. 
 But soon inured to alphabetic toils. 
 
 Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles ; 
 
 First at the form, my task for ever true, 
 
 A little favourite rapidly I grew : 
 
 And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, 
 
 Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight. 
 
 And as she gave my diligence its praise, 
 
 Talk'd of the honours of my future days. 
 Oh ! had the venerable matron thought 
 
 Of all the ills by talent often brought ; 
 
 Could she have seen me when revolving years 
 
 Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears ; 
 
 Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate 
 
 Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state ; 
 
 Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, 
 
 Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life. 
 
 Where in the busy scene, by peace unbless'd, 
 Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest ? 
 A lonely mariner on the stormy main. 
 Without a hope the calms of peace to gain, 
 Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore, 
 When shall his spirit rest to toil no more ? 
 Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave 
 The sandy surface of his unwept grave. 
 
 Childhood, to thee I turn from life's alarms, 
 Serenest season of perpetual calms,- — 
 Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease. 
 And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. 
 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 757 
 
 Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles, 
 But each new object brings attendant smiles ; 
 When future evils never haunt the sight, 
 But all is pregnant with immix'd delight ; 
 To thee I turn from riot and from noise — 
 Turn to partake of more congenial joys. 
 
 THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Come all ye true hearts, who, old England to save. 
 Now- shoulder the miusket, or plough the rough wave, 
 I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow 
 Who has ruined Jack Pudding and broke Punchinello. 
 Deny down, down, high derry down. 
 
 This juggler is little, and ugly, and black, 
 But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back. 
 'Tis certain all fear of the devil he scorns : 
 Some say they are cousins ; we know he wears horns. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 At hop, skip, and jump who so famous as he.' 
 He hopp'd o'er an army, he skipp'd o'er the sea, 
 And he jump'd from the desk of a village attorney 
 To the throne of the Bourbons — a pretty long journey. 
 Deny down, &c. 
 
 He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball. 
 And his cup is so fashion'd, it catches them all ; 
 The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declare 
 His skill at the long-bow have made them both stare. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 He has shown ofif his tricks in France, Italy, Spain ; 
 And Germany too knows his legerdemain ; 
 So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights. 
 He's coming to London to put us to rights. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 To encourage his puppets to venture this trip 
 He has built them such boats as can conquer a ship ; 
 With a gun of good metal, that shoots out so far, 
 It can silence the broadsides of three men-of-war. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
758 LORD BYRON. 
 
 This new Katterfelto, his show to complete, 
 Means his boats should all sink as they pass by our fleet ; 
 Then, as under the ocean their course they steer right on. 
 They can pepper their foes from the bed of old Triton. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 If this project should fail, he has others in store : 
 Wooden horses, for instance, may bring them safe o'er ; 
 Or the genius of France (as the Moniteur tells) 
 May order balloons, or provide diving-bells. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 When Philip of Spain fitted out his Armada, 
 Britain saw his designs, and could meet her invader ; 
 But how to greet Bony she never will know. 
 If he comes in the style of a fish or a crow. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 Now if our rude tars will so crowd up the seas 
 That his boats have not room to go down when they please. 
 Can't he wait till the Channel is quite frozen over. 
 And a stout pair of skates will transport him to Dover. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 How welcome he'll be it were needless to say ; 
 Neither he nor his puppets shall e'er go away : 
 I am sure at his heels we shall constantly stick. 
 Till we know he has played off his very last trick. 
 Derry down, down, high derry down. 
 
 'S^* 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 Born\-i%%. Died l%2ef. 
 
 George Gordon, Lord Byron, unquestionably the greatest poetical 
 genius of the present century, was bora in Holies Street, Cavendisl 
 Square, London, January 22, 1788. His father, Captain Byron, nephew 
 to the possessor of the family title, was a man remarkable only for hii 
 improvidence and vice ; and it was owing to these circumstances that th( 
 future poet's earliest years were passed in poverty and seclusion in Aber 
 deen, whither his mother, who had separated from her husband, retiree 
 
LORD BYRON. 759 
 
 in 1790. Here, at the age of five, Byron was a pupil at a day-school, to 
 which his mother paid five shillings a quarter. After two other scholastic 
 changes he was placed at the Free Grammar School, Aberdeen, whence 
 the death of the owner of the title (his father having died 1791) recalled 
 him to England, and at ten years of age he became a peer of the realm 
 and possessor of Newstead Abbey. His mother appears to have been a 
 woman of great violence and impetuosity, and though she considered 
 she was doing the best for her son by endeavouring to cure his bodily 
 infirmity and placing him under the care of Dr. Glennie, her constant 
 interference and irritability had a disastrous influence on his temper and 
 disposition. After two years' residence with that amiable man, he was 
 sent to Harrow, and from thence to Cambridge. Both at Harrow and 
 at the University he was a torment to his tutors, though his affectionate 
 disposition and frank open-heartedness made him a favourite with his 
 companions. He was averse to all discipline, but read deeply, and 
 managed to amass a large store of miscellaneous information. About 
 this time he formed the attachment to his cousin, Mary Chaworth, which 
 had so sad an influence on his life. It was unrequited, and the unhappy 
 youth firom that moment plunged deeply into dissipation. His first work, 
 " Hours of Idleness," was published in 1807, and severely criticised in 
 the Edinburgh Review of January, 1808. It stirred up the spirit and 
 temper of Byron, and he produced his withering satire, " English Bards 
 and Scotch Reviewei's." In 1809, accompanied by the present Lord 
 Broughton, Byron went abroad, and travelled for two years in Spain, 
 Greece, Turkey, &c. enriching his mind, and returned in 181 1 to close his 
 mother's eyes. In 1812 the first two cantos of " Childe Harold" appeared, 
 and his reputation was made. " The Giaour," the " Bride of Abydos," 
 and "The Corsair," followed, and it is said 14,000 copies of the latter 
 were sold in one day. In May, 1814, he published his ode on the first 
 fall of Napoleon, and in the August of the same year " Lara," In 
 October, 1814, Byron, being in great pecuniary difficulties, married Miss 
 Milbank, an heiress, daughter of a Northumberland baronet ; but the 
 union was most unhappy, and after the birth of their only child, Ada 
 (afterwards Countess of Lovelace), Lady Byron left her husband, and 
 retired to her fether's house in Leicestershire. B3rron never saw his child 
 orwife again. In February, 1815, the "Siege of Corinth" and "Parisina" 
 were published, and in the spring of the following year Byron left 
 England. Bearing a seared and blighted heart under an indifferent ex- 
 terior, he travelled in Belgium and Switzerland, and spent some time in 
 Geneva with Shelley. During his stay at the Villa Diodati, near Geneva, 
 he wrote the third canto' of "Childe Harold," the " Prisoner of Chillon, " 
 and "The Dream." In i8i6 he went to Italy, and remained for three 
 years at Venice, dividing his time between literary labour and dissipation. 
 In 1820 he was involved in some Italian plot to overthrow the Pope, 
 and retired to Pisa in 1821. Shelley's untimely death in 1822 greatly 
 affected Byron, and he went to Genoa. Before leaving Italy to espouse 
 the cause of Greek independence he wrote the fourth canto of " Childe 
 
76o LORD BYRON. 
 
 Harold," "Beppo," "Manfred," "Mazeppa," "Cain," "Don Juan," 
 and many other poems. A violent cold caught at Missolonghi termi- 
 nated his life, and he died on the igth of April, 1824, in the thirty-seventh 
 year of his age. His remains were brought to England for interment 
 Being refused burial in Westminster Abbey, they were deposited beside 
 those of his mother in the family vault in Hucknall church, Notting- 
 hamshire, on Friday, July 16, 1824. 
 
 " So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage." 
 
 FROM "THE PRISONER OF CHILLON." 
 
 My hair is gray, but not with years, 
 Nor grew it white 
 In a single night, 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
 My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 
 
 But rusted with a vile repose, 
 For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 
 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann'd and barr'd — forbidden fare. 
 But this was for my father's faith 
 I suffered chains and courted death : 
 That father perish'd at the stake 
 For tenets he would not forsake, 
 And for the same his lineal race 
 In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
 We were seven, who now are one ; 
 
 Six in youth, and one in age ; 
 Finish'd as they had begun. 
 
 Proud of Persecution's rage. 
 One in fire, and two in field, 
 Their belief with blood have seal'd, 
 Dying as their father died, 
 For the God their foes denied ; 
 Three were in a dungeon cast, 
 Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
 
 There are seven pillars of Gothic mould 
 In Chillon's dungeons deep and old ; 
 There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
 Dim with a dull imprison'd ray — 
 A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 
 
LORD BYRON. 761 
 
 And through the crevice and the cleft 
 Of the thick wall is fallen and left, 
 Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
 Like a marsh's meteor lamp ; 
 And in each pillar there is a ring, 
 
 And in each ring there is a chain : 
 That iron is a cankering thing. 
 
 For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
 With marks that will not wear away 
 Till I have done with this new day. 
 Which now is painful to these eyes. 
 Which have not seen the sun so rise 
 For years ; — I cannot count them o'er ; 
 I lost their long and heavy score 
 When my last brother droop'd and died, 
 And I lay living by his side. 
 
 They chain'd us each to a column stone. 
 And we were three — ^yet each alone : 
 We could not move a single pace, 
 We could not see each other's face. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three. 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 I ought to do — and did — my best ; 
 And each did well in his degree. 
 
 The youngest, whom my father loved, 
 Because our mother's brow was given 
 To him, with eyes as blue as heaven — 
 For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
 And truly might it be distress'd 
 To see such bird in such a nest. 
 
 The other was as pure of mind, 
 But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
 Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
 Which 'gainst the world in war had stood. 
 And perish'd in the foremost rank 
 
 With joy ; — ^but not in chains to pine : 
 His spirit wither'd with their clank : 
 
 I saw it silently decline. 
 
762 LORD BYRON. 
 
 He was a hunter of the hills, 
 Had follow'd there the deer and wolf ; 
 To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
 
 And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls ; 
 A thousand feet in depth below 
 Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
 Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 
 
 Which round about the wave enthralls : 
 A double dungeon wall and wave 
 Have made : and like a living grave 
 Below the surface of the lake 
 The dark vault lies wherein we lay ; — 
 We heard it ripple night and day ; 
 
 Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
 And I have felt the winter's spray 
 Wash through the bars when winds were high, 
 And wanton in the happy sky ; 
 
 And then the very rock hath rock'd, 
 
 And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
 Because I could have smiled to see 
 The death that would have set me free. 
 
 I said my nearer brother pined, 
 I said his mighty heart declined. 
 
 My brother's soul was of that mould 
 Which in a palace had grown cold, 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's side : 
 But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
 I saw, and could not hold his head, 
 Nor reach his dying hand, nor dead. 
 Though hardl strove — but strove in vain- 
 To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
 He died : and they unlock'd his chain 
 And scoop'd for him a shallow grave, 
 Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
 
 But he, the favourite and the flower, 
 Most cherish'd since his natal hour. 
 
LORD BYRON. 763 
 
 His mother's image in fair face, 
 The infant love of all his race ; 
 
 He too was struck, and day by day 
 Was withered on the stalk away. 
 Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 In any shape, in any mood : — 
 I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion ; 
 I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
 But these were horrors ; this was woe 
 Uimiix'd with such — but sure and slow. 
 He faded, and so calm and meek. 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak ; 
 
 With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb. 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 As a departing rainbow's ray. 
 
 # * * * 
 
 A little talk of better days, 
 
 A little hope my own to raise. 
 
 For I was sunk in silence — ^lost 
 
 In this last loss, of all the most ; 
 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 
 Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
 
 More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
 
 I listen'd, but I could not hear ; 
 
 I call'd, for I was wild with fear : 
 
 I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
 
 Would not be thus admonished : 
 
 I call'd, and thought I heard a sound ; 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong bound 
 
 And nish'd to him : — I found him not, 
 
 I only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 
 / only lived, / only drew 
 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
 
 The last, the sole, the dearest hnk 
 
 Between me and the eternal brink 
 
764 LORD BYRON. 
 
 Which bound me to my failing race, 
 Was broken in this fatal place. 
 
 What next befell me then and there 
 I know not well : I never knew. — 
 
 First came the loss of light, and air. 
 And then of darkness too : 
 
 I had no thought, no feeling — none ; 
 
 Among the stones I stood a stone. 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain, — 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 
 It ceased, and then it came again. 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 
 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 
 Creeping as it before had done. 
 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 
 That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame. 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings. 
 And song that said a thousand things. 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
 I never saw its like before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 It seem'd, like me, to want a mate, 
 But was not half so desolate ; 
 And it was come to love me when 
 None Uved to love me so again, 
 And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 I know not if it late were free. 
 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine ; 
 But knowing well captivity, 
 
 Sweet bird, I could not wish for thine ! 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
 Which made me both to weep and smile — 
 
LORD BYRON. 
 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 My brother's soul come down to me. 
 
 * * * * 
 A kind of change came in my fate, 
 My keepers grew compassionate, 
 
 — I know not what had made them so. 
 They were inured to sights of woe, — 
 But so it was : my broken chain 
 With links unfasten'd did remain, 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 Along my cell from side to side, 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Avoiding only, as I trod. 
 
 My brothers' graves without a sod. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 It might be months, or years, or days,— 
 
 I kept no count, I took no note ; 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise. 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote, — 
 At last men came to set me free : 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where ; 
 It was at length the same to me 
 Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
 
 I leam'd to love despair. 
 And thus when they appear'd at last. 
 And aU my bonds aside were cast. 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 A hermitage — and all my own ! 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a second home : 
 With spiders I had friendship made, 
 And watch'd them in their sullen trade ; 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight play, — 
 And why should I feel less than they .■' 
 We were all inmates of one place. 
 And I, the monarch of each race. 
 Had power to kiU — ^yet, strange to tell ! 
 In quiet we had leam'd to dwell : 
 My very chains and I grew friends, 
 So much a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are : — even I 
 Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 765 
 
766 LORD BYRON. 
 
 "CHILDE HAROLD." 
 
 Canto III. Stanza xvi. 
 
 Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
 With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 
 The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
 That all was over on this side the tomb, 
 Had made Despair a smilingness assume, 
 Which, though 'twere wild— as on the plunder'd wreck 
 When mariners would madly meet their doom 
 With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck — 
 Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 
 
 Stop ! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust ! 
 An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
 Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust. 
 Nor column trophied for triumphal show ? 
 None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so : 
 As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
 How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
 And is this all the world has gain'd by thee. 
 Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory ? 
 
 And Harold stands upon this place of skulls. 
 The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ; 
 How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
 Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
 In " pride of place " here last the eagle flew. 
 Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
 Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through : 
 Ambition's life and labours all were vain ; 
 He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain. 
 
 Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit. 
 And foam in fetters ; — but is earth more free? 
 Did nations combat to make one submit. 
 Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? 
 What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
 The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days ? 
 Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
 Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 
 And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove before ye praise ! 
 
LORD BYRON. 767 
 
 If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
 In vain fair cheeks were furroVd with hot tears 
 For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
 The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
 Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears. 
 Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
 Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
 Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
 Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 
 
 There was a sound of revehy by night. 
 And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
 Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
 And all went merry as a marriage bell ; — 
 But, hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising kneU ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind. 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street : 
 On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ! 
 No sleep till mom, when youth and pleasure meet 
 To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. 
 But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more. 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat j 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 Arm ! arm ! — ^it is — ^it is — the cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
 Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain : he did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival. 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
 And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too weU 
 Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
 He rush'd into the field, and foremost fighting fell. 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 
768 LORD BYRON. 
 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs, 
 Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war : 
 And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar. 
 And, near, the beat of the alarming drum. 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
 While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb. 
 Or whispering, with white lips, " The foe ! — they come ! they 
 
 And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" rose ! 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
 Have heard — and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : — 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
 Savage and shriU ! But with the breath which fiUs 
 Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears ! 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valour, rolling oh the foe 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life ; 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife ; 
 The morn the marshalling in arms ; the day 
 Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
 The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
 Rider and horse — friend, foe — in one red burial blent ! 
 
LORD BYRON. 769 
 
 Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine : 
 Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
 Partly because they blend me with his line, 
 And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
 And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
 And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
 The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
 Even where the thickest of wai-'s tempest lower'd, 
 They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard 1 
 
 There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
 And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
 But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree. 
 Which Uving waves where thou didst cease to live. 
 And saw around me the wide field revive 
 With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
 Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
 I tum'd from all she brought to those she could not bring. 
 * * * * 
 
 Canto III. Stanza cxiii. 
 I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
 I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
 To its idolatries a patient knee, 
 Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud 
 In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
 They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
 Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
 Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could. 
 Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. 
 
 I have not loved the world, nor the world me. 
 But let us part fair foes ; I do believe. 
 Though I have found them not, that there may be 
 Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive, 
 And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
 Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
 O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ; 
 That two, or one, are almost what they seem, 
 That goodness is no name and happiness no dream. 
 
 My daughter ! with thy name this song begun— 
 My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall end — 
 I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none 
 Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
 3 D 
 
no LORD BYRON. 
 
 To whom the shadows of far years extend : 
 Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behpld, 
 My voice shall with thy future visions blend, 
 And reach into thy heart — when mine is cold — 
 A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 
 
 To aid thy mind's development, to watch 
 Thy dawn of little joys, to sit and see 
 Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch 
 Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee ! 
 To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee. 
 And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
 This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
 Yet this was in my nature : as it is, 
 1 know not what is there, yet something like to this. 
 
 Yet, though dull Hate as duty should bfe taught, 
 I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
 Should be shut from thee as a spell still fraught 
 With desolation, and a broken claim : 
 Though the grave closed between us, 'twere the same, 
 I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
 My blood from out thy being were an aim 
 And an attainment, all would be in vain. 
 Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain. 
 
 The child of love, though born in bitterness 
 And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
 These were the elements, and thine no less. 
 As yet such are around thee, but thy fire 
 Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
 Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea. 
 And from the mountains where I now respire, 
 Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
 As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 The world is a bundle of hay, 
 Mankind are the asses who puU ; 
 
 Each tugs it a different way, 
 And the greatest of all is John Bull. 
 
LORD BYRON, 771 
 
 FROM " MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF 
 
 VENICE." 
 
 Act V. PART OF Scene, hi. 
 
 Doge. May I speak ? 
 
 Benintende. Thou may'st; 
 
 But recollect the people are without, 
 Beyond the compass of the human voice. 
 
 Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
 Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
 Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 
 I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
 Upon you ! — Ye blue waves, which bore my banner ; 
 Ye winds, which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it. 
 And fiU'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 
 To many a triumph ; thou, my native earth, 
 Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth 
 Which drank this willing blood from many a wound ; 
 Ye stones, in which my gore wiU not sink, but 
 Reek up to heaven ; ye skies, which will receive it ; 
 Thou sun, which shinest on these things ; and Thou 
 Who kindlest and who quenchest suns, — attest ! 
 I am not innocent ; — but are these guiltless .'' 
 I perish'd, but not unavenged ; far ages 
 Float up from the abyss of time to be. 
 And show these eyes before they close the doom 
 Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 
 
 On her and hers for ever ! ^Yes, the hours 
 
 Are silently engendering of the day 
 When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 
 Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield. 
 Unto a bastard AttUa, without 
 Shedding so much blood in her last defence 
 As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her. 
 Shall pour in sacrifice. She shall be bought 
 And sold, and be an appanage to those 
 Who shall despise her ! She shall stoop to be 
 A province for an empire, petty town 
 In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates. 
 Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! 
 Then, when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, 
 3 D 2 
 
772 LORD BYRON. 
 
 The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 
 Walks o'er thy mart and smiles on it for his ! 
 When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 
 In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 
 Make their nobility a plea for pity ! 
 Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 
 Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 
 Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-gerent, 
 Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns, 
 Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign ; 
 
 When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee. 
 Vice without splendour, sin without relief, 
 Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er ; 
 
 When these and more are heavy on thee, when 
 Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure. 
 Youth without honour, age without respect. 
 Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe 
 'Gainst which thou wilt not strive and dars't not murmui 
 Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts. 
 Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, 
 Amidst thy many murders, think of mine I 
 Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 
 Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 
 Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods — 
 Thee and thy serpent seed ! 
 
 \Here the Doge turns and addresses the Executions 
 Slave, do thine office ! 
 Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
 Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
 Strike — and but once ! 
 
 \The Doge throws himself upon his knees, and as th 
 Executioner raises his sword the scene closes. 
 
LORD BYRON. 773 
 
 FROM "THE GIAOUR." 
 
 The cold in clime axe cold in blood, 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
 But mine was like the lava flood 
 That boils in Etna's breast of flame. 
 I cannot prate in puling strain 
 Of ladye love and beauty's chain : 
 If changing cheek and scorching vein, 
 Lips taught to writhe but not complain, 
 If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 
 And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 
 And all that I have felt and feel. 
 Betoken love — that love was mine. 
 And shown by many a bitter sign. 
 'Tis true I could not whine or sigh, 
 I knew but to obtain or die. 
 I die ; but first I have possess'd, 
 And, come what may, I have been blest. 
 Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 
 No ! — reft of all, yet undismay'd 
 But for the thought of Leila slain. 
 Give me the pleasure with the pain. 
 So would I live and love again. 
 I grieve, but not, my holy guide. 
 For him who dies, but her who died. 
 She sleeps beneath the wandering wave. 
 Ah ! had she but an earthly grave. 
 This breaking heart and throbbing head 
 Should seek and share her narrow bed. 
 She was a form of life and light, 
 That, seen, became a part of sight. 
 And rose, where'er I turned mine eye. 
 The morning star of memory ! 
 Yes, love indeed is light from heaven, 
 
 A spark of that immortal fire 
 With angels shared, by Alia given. 
 
 To lift from earth our low desire. 
 Devotion wafts the mind above. 
 But Heaven itself descends in love ; 
 A feeling from the Godhead caught. 
 To wean from self each sordid thought, 
 
774 LORD BYRON. 
 
 A ray of Him who form'd the whole, 
 
 A glory circling round the soul ! 
 
 I grant my love imperfect, all 
 
 That mortals by the name miscall ; 
 
 Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
 
 But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 
 
 She was my life's unerring light : 
 
 That quench'd, what beam shall break my night ? 
 
 Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, 
 
 Although to death or deadliest iU 1 
 
 Why marvel ye, if they who lose 
 
 This present joy, this future hope. 
 
 No more with sorrow meekly cope, 
 In phrensy then their fate accuse. 
 In madness do those fearful deeds 
 
 That seem to add but guilt to woe ? 
 Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 
 
 Hath nought to dread from outward blow : 
 Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
 Cares little into what abyss. 
 Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 
 
 To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
 I read abhorrence on thy brow. 
 
 And this too was I born to bear ! 
 'Tis true that, like that bird of prey, 
 With havoc have I mark'd my way ; 
 But this was taught me by the dove — 
 To die, and know no second love. 
 This lesson yet hath man to learn. 
 Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
 The bird that sings within the brake. 
 The swan that swims upon the lake. 
 One mate, and one alone will take. 
 And let the fool still prone to range, 
 And sneer on aU who cannot change. 
 Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
 I envy not his varied joys, 
 But deem such feeble, heartless man 
 Less than yon solitary swan ; 
 Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
 He left believing and betray'd. 
 Such shame at least was never mine ; - 
 Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
 
LORD BYRON. 775 
 
 My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 
 My hope on high, my all below : 
 Earth holds no other like to thee. 
 Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
 For worlds I dare not view the dame 
 Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
 The very crimes that mar my youth, 
 This bed of death, attest my truth ! 
 Tis all too late : thou wert, thou art, 
 The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold. 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
 Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
 And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill. 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still , 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal, 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 
 
 -ss* 
 
776 
 
 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 
 
 Born 1790. Living. 
 
 Bryak Waller Procter, familiarly known in literature by the 
 pseudonym of " Barry Cornwall/' was the contemporary of Lord Byron 
 and Sir Robert Peel at Harrow. He was born at Finchley, where he 
 spent his earlier years. On leaving Harrow he proceeded to Calne, in 
 Wiltshire, to study for the law with a resident solicitor named Atherton. 
 Returning from thence to London, his poetical tastes began to exhibit 
 themselves, despite the dry studies to which he had devoted himself. 
 In 1815 he made his first appearance as an author, and In 1819 published 
 " Dramatic Scenes, and other Poems." In 1820 " Marcian Colonna, an 
 Italian Story." In 1821 a tragedy from his pen, entitled " Mirandola," 
 was brought out at Covent Garden Theatre, in which Mr. Macready 
 appeared. It met with considerable success at the time. The " Flood 
 of Thessaly," " Effigies Poeticae, or Portraits of British Poets," "English 
 Songs," Essays, and Tales in prose, have followed at various dates. 
 
 In 1831 Mr. Procter was called to the bar as a member of Gray's Inn. 
 He was appointed by the Court of Chancery one of the Commissiouers 
 in Lunacy — a lucrative office, which he held until l86i. The most 
 popular of Barry Cornwall's works is his " Dramatic Sketches," the 
 style of which is modelled upon that of the old EngUsh dramatists, for 
 which he exhibits a peculiar admiration. 
 
 Mr. Procter married in 1824 a step-daughter of the late Basil Mon- 
 tague, Q. C, by whom he had a daughter, Adelaide Anne Procter, whose 
 untimely death in 1864 has deprived us of an authoress who only lived 
 long enough to publish one " Book of Verses " entitled " Legends and 
 Lyrics," containing gems (such as "One by One") which are now 
 highly valued, and gave promise, when published, of a poetess who 
 would achieve fame. Her early decease was a great loss. 
 
 In the poetry of Barry Cornwall there is one characteristic which is 
 worthy of attention. High in sentiment, solemn oftentimes in theme, 
 fall of sympathy for the. struggles of humanity, there is never any 
 mawkish, false, material in his " English Songs." They are manly, 
 genuine, and sincere; and sacred feelings or sacred subjects are intro- 
 duced with that delicacy of treatment which gives evidence of sacred 
 thought. To combine a healthy vigorous tone of mind with the 
 treatment of such themes is refreshing and grateful to readers who 
 have suffered too commonly under the ill-conditioned union of pious 
 sentiments and poetic twaddle. 
 
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 777 
 
 THE BLOOD HORSE. 
 
 Gamarra is a dainty steed, 
 
 Strong, black, and of a noble breed. 
 
 Full of fire, and full of bone. 
 
 With all his line of fathers known ; 
 
 Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, 
 
 But blown abroad by the pride within ! 
 
 His mane is like a riyer flowing, 
 
 And his eyes like embers glowing 
 
 In the darkness of the night. 
 
 And his pace as swift as light. 
 
 Look, how 'round his straining throat 
 
 Grace and shifting beauty float ; 
 
 Sinewy strength is in his reins, 
 
 And the red blood gallops through his veins : 
 
 Richer, redder, never ran 
 
 Through the boasting heart of man. 
 
 He can trace his lineage higher 
 
 Than the Bourbon dare aspire, 
 
 Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 
 
 Or O'Brien's blood itself! 
 
 He, who hath no peer, was born, 
 
 Here, upon a red March morn ; 
 
 But his famous fathers dead 
 
 Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, 
 
 And the last of that great line 
 
 Trod like one of a race divine ! 
 
 And yet he was but friend to one. 
 
 Who fed him at the set of sun, 
 
 By some lone mountain fringed with green ; 
 
 With him, a roving Bedouin, 
 
 He lived (none else would he obey 
 
 Through all the hot Arabian day) — 
 
 And died untamed upon the sands 
 
 Where Balkh amidst the desert stands. 
 
778 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 
 
 THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 A thousand miles from land are we, 
 
 Tossing about on the roaring sea, 
 
 From billow to bounding billow cast, 
 
 Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast. 
 
 The sails are scattered abroad like weeds ; 
 
 The strong masts shake like quivering reeds ; 
 
 The mighty cables and iron chains, 
 
 The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,— 
 
 They strain and they crack ; and hearts like stone 
 
 Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. 
 
 Up and down ! up and down ! 
 
 From the base of the wave to the billow's crown. 
 
 And amidst the flashing and feathery foam 
 
 The stormy petrel finds a home — 
 
 A home, if such a place may be 
 
 For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, 
 
 On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, 
 
 And only seeketh her rocky lair 
 
 To warm her young, and to toach them to spring 
 
 At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing. 
 
 O'er the deep ! o'er the deep ! 
 
 Where the whale, and the shark, and the swordfish sleep, 
 
 Outflying the blast and the driving rain. 
 
 The petrel telleth her tale — in vain ; 
 
 For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
 
 Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard ! 
 
 Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill 
 
 Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still ; 
 
 Yet he ne'er falters : so, petrel, spring 
 
 Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing ! 
 
 SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. 
 
 Softly woo away her breath. 
 
 Gentle Death ! 
 Let her leave thee with no strife, 
 Tender, mournful, murmuring Life ! 
 
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 779 
 
 She hath seen her happy day, 
 She hath had her bud and blossom ; 
 
 Now she pales and shrinks away, 
 Earth, info thy gentle bosom ! 
 
 She hath done her bidding here, 
 
 Angels dear ! 
 Bear her perfect soul above, 
 Seraph of the skies, sweet Love ! 
 
 Good she was, and fair in youth : 
 And her mind was seen to soar, 
 
 And her heart was wed to truth : 
 Take her, then, for evermore — 
 For ever — evermore ! 
 
 SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL. 
 
 Sit down, sad soul, and count 
 
 The moments flying : 
 Come, tell the sweet amount 
 
 That's lost by sighing. 
 How many smiles ? — a score ? 
 Then laugh, and count no more ; 
 
 For day is dying ! 
 
 Lie down, sad soul, and sleep. 
 
 And no more measure 
 The flight of Time, nor weep 
 
 The loss of leisure ; 
 But here, by this lone stream, 
 Lie down with us, and dream 
 
 Of starry treasure. 
 
 We dream ; do thou the same : 
 
 We love — ^for ever : 
 We laugh, yet few we shame ; 
 
 The gentle never. 
 Stay, then, till Sorrow dies ; 
 Then hope and happy skies 
 
 Are thine for ever ! 
 
78o PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 We are bom ; we laugh ; we weep ; 
 
 We love ; we droop ; we die ! 
 Ah ! wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 
 
 Why do we live or die ? 
 Who knows that secret deep ? 
 Alas, not I ! 
 
 Why doth the violet spring 
 
 Unseen by human eye ? 
 Why do the radiant seasons bring 
 
 Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
 Why do our fond hearts cling 
 To things that die ? 
 
 We toil — through pain and wrong ; 
 
 We fight — and fly ; 
 We love ; we lose ; and then ere long 
 
 Stone-dead we lie. 
 O Life ! is all thy song 
 
 " Endure, and — die " ? 
 
 -S:^ 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 Born \1()2. Died \%22. 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley, the eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, was 
 bom at Field Place, Horsham, Sussex, on August 4, 1 792. As a child 
 he was remarkably shy and diffident, and his early years were passed 
 entirely with his sisters. At the age of ten he was sent to Sion House, 
 Brentford, and at thirteen went to Eton, where he suifered much fi-om 
 the oppression of the masters and the anger of the boys. A burning 
 sense of injustice seems to have taken possession of his mind, and in latei 
 life produced that hatred of all laws, human and divine, which marked 
 his poetry and his character. In 1810 he entered University College, 
 Oxford, and studied diligently ; but in his second year he published 
 anonymously » pamphlet called " A Defence of Atheism," which be^ 
 coming known to the heads of colleges, led to an investigation whid 
 ended in his expulsion. On leaving the University he finished " Queer 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 781 
 
 Mab," which however was not printed until 1812. His father, who had 
 been deeply displeased at his Oxford disgrace, was now offended past 
 forgiveness by his marriage with Miss Westbrooke, the daughter of a 
 retired innkeeper, at Gretna Green, in August, 181 1. The union was 
 unfortunate, and after the birth of two children they separated by mutual 
 consent, and Mis. Shelley returned to her family. She committed 
 suicide in 1816, and the public were not sparing in their condemnation 
 of the poet. He was defeated in his attempt to obtain the custody of his 
 children, Lord Eldou deciding that his atheistical doctrines rendered 
 him an unfit guardian. In 1814 he travelled abroad with the lady who 
 subsequently became his wife : she was the daughter of Mary WoUstone- 
 ciaft and Mr. Godwin the novelist. In 1 81 5 his father so far relented 
 as to make him an allowance of 800/. a year, and on this he retired, first 
 to Devonshire and then to Bishopsgate, near Windsor, where he em- 
 ployed himself in writing " Alastor. " After his second marriage he went 
 to Switzerland, where he met Lord Byron. On his return to England in 
 1817 he lived at Marlow, where heviTOte the "Revolt of the Islam" and 
 part of " Rosalind and Helen ; " but bad health and a mind iU at ease 
 drove him again from England, and his "Prometheus Unbound " was 
 written in Italy. The remaining four years of his life were passed in 
 hard study and literary labour, and he published a number of minor 
 poems and prose pieces, besides his great productions. In July, 1822, 
 he was accidentally drowned near Leghorn, and though his body was 
 washed ashore, all the efforts of his friends were unsuccessful in obtaining 
 more than the ashes, which were given up to his family, and were 
 deposited in the Protestant cemetery at Rome, near the remains of Keats. 
 Notwithstanding the recklessness and licentiousness which marked the 
 writings of this gifted man, he was gentle and affectionate in domestic 
 life, and tenderly beloved by those who shared his friendship. His 
 poetry is marked by the highest evidences of genius ; and although he 
 never enjoyed the popularity of Byron, nevertheless he wrote many 
 things which are unsurpassed in beauty and poetic fire by Byron, or any 
 other modem poet. 
 
 THE CLOUD. 
 
 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 
 
 From the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear light shades for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their noon-day dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 
 
 The sweet buds every one, 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 
 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 I wield the flail of the lashing hail 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 
 
782 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
 
 And their great pines groan aghast, 
 And all the night 'tis my pillow white. 
 
 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
 Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers 
 
 Lightning my pilot sits : 
 In a cavern under is fettered the thunder ; 
 
 It struggles and howls at fits. 
 Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. 
 
 This pilot is guiding me. 
 Lured by the love of the genii that move 
 
 In the depths of the purple sea ; 
 Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 
 
 Over the lakes and the plains, 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 
 
 The spirit he loves remains ; 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 
 
 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread. 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
 
 When the morning star shines dead ; 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag. 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath. 
 
 Its ardours of rest and of love. 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of heaven above, 
 With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden, white fine laden, 
 
 Whom mortals call the moon, 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 
 
 Which only the angels hear, 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof. 
 
 The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 783 
 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees, 
 When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 
 
 Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and these. 
 
 I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone. 
 
 And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 
 
 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 
 
 Over a torrent sea. 
 Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof ; 
 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 The triumphal arch through which I march. 
 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
 When the powers of the air are chained to my chair. 
 
 Is the million-coloured bow ; 
 The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove. 
 
 While the moist earth was laughing below. 
 
 I am the daughter of earth and water. 
 
 And the nursling of the sky ; 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 
 
 1 change, but 1 cannot die. 
 For after the rain, when with never a stain 
 
 The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
 And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams 
 
 Build up the blue dome of the air, 
 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain. 
 Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 
 
 I arise and unbuild it again. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe spirit — 
 Bird thou never wert — 
 
 That from heaven, or near it, 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art ! 
 
784 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 Higher still and higher, 
 
 From the earth thou springest 
 Like a ciuud of fire ; 
 The blue deep thou wingest, 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 
 
 * * * 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight ; 
 Like a star of heaven. 
 In the broad daylight 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 
 
 * * * 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud. 
 As, when night is bare, 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 
 
 What thou art we know not. 
 
 What is most like thee ? 
 From rainbow clouds there flow not 
 Drops so bright to see, 
 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 
 
 * * * 
 Teach us, sprite or bird, 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine : 
 I have never heard 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain ? 
 What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
 What shapes of sky or plain .' 
 What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain ? 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be : 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 
 Never came near thee : 
 Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 
 
 Waking or asleep, 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep 
 
 Than we mortals dream. 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 785 
 
 We look before and after, 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught ; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 
 
 Yet if we could scorn 
 
 Hate, and pride, and fear. 
 If we were things born 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 1 know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound. 
 Better than all treasures 
 
 That in books are found. 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know. 
 Such harmonious madness 
 
 From my lips would flow, 
 The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 
 
 ADONAIS. 
 
 Oh, weep for Adonais : he is dead ! 
 
 Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep ! 
 
 Yet wherefore ? Quench within their burning bed 
 
 Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep, 
 
 Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep ; 
 
 For he is gone where all things wise and fair 
 
 Descend : — oh, dream not that the amorous deep 
 
 Will yet restore him to the vital air ; 
 
 Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. 
 
 ***** 
 To that high capital, where kingjy Death 
 Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay. 
 He came ; and bought, with price of purest breath, 
 \ grave among the eternal. — Come away ! 
 Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 
 Is yet his fitting chamel roof ! while still 
 He lies as if in dewy sleep he lay. 
 Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill 
 Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 
 3 E 
 
786 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 He will awake no more ; oh, never more ! 
 
 Within the twilight chamber spreads apace 
 
 The shadow of white Death, and at the door 
 
 Invisible Corruption waits to trace 
 
 His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place ; 
 
 The eternal hunger sits, but pity and awe 
 
 Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface 
 
 So fair a prey, till darkness and the law 
 
 Of change shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. 
 
 ***** 
 Ah, woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, 
 But grief returns with the revolving year ; 
 The air and stream renew their joyous tone ; 
 The ants, the bees, the swallows, reappear ; 
 Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead season's bier ; 
 The amorous birds now pair in every brake, 
 And build their mossy homes in field and brere ; 
 And the green lizard, and the golden snake. 
 Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake. 
 
 Through wood and stream, and field and hill, and ocean, 
 A quickening life from the earth's heart has burst, 
 As it has ever done, with change and motion, 
 From the great morning of the world when first 
 God dawned on chaos : in its stream immersed. 
 The lamps of heaven flash with a softer light ; 
 All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst. 
 Diffuse themselves, and spend in love's delight 
 The beauty and the joy of their renewed night. 
 
 ***** 
 Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, 
 But for our grief, as if it had not been, 
 And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! 
 Whence are we, and why are we ? of what scene 
 The actors or spectators ? Great and mean 
 Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow. 
 As long as skies are blue, and fields are green. 
 Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, 
 Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorro 
 
 ***** 
 'Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, 
 A phantom among men, companionless 
 As the last cloud of an expiring storm. 
 Whose thunder is its knell : he, as I guess. 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 787 
 
 Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 
 
 Actason-like, and now he fled astray 
 
 With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, 
 
 And his own thoughts, along that rugged way. 
 
 Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey. 
 
 A pard-like Spirit, beautiful and swift — 
 
 A love in desolation masked ; — a power 
 
 Girt round with weakness ; — it can scarce uplift 
 
 The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 
 
 It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 
 
 A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speak 
 
 Is it not broken ? On the withering flower 
 
 The killing sun smiles brightly : on a cheek 
 
 The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. 
 
 His head was bound with pansies over-blown. 
 
 And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; 
 
 And a light spear topped with a cypress cone, 
 
 Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew. 
 
 Yet dripping with the forest's noon-day dew, 
 
 Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
 
 Shook the weak hand that grasped it ; of that crew 
 
 He came the last, neglected and apart ; 
 
 A herd-abandoned deer, struck by the hunter's dart. 
 
 ♦ ♦ * # # 
 Peace, peace ! he is not dead — ^he doth not sleep — 
 He hath awakened from the dream of life ; 
 
 'Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep 
 
 With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 
 
 And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife 
 
 Invulnerable nothings. — We decay 
 
 Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief 
 
 Convulse us and consume us day by d?y, 
 
 And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay. 
 
 He has out-soared the shadow of our night ; 
 Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, 
 And that unrest which men miscall delight. 
 Can touch him not and torture not again ; 
 From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
 He is secure, and now can never mourn 
 A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain ; 
 Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to bum. 
 With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 
 
 # * * * * 
 
 3 E 2 
 
788 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 He is made one with Nature : there is heard 
 His voice in all her music, from the moan 
 Of thunder to the song of night's sweet bird ; 
 He is a presence to be felt and known 
 In darkness and in light, from herb and stone. 
 Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 
 Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; 
 Which wields the world with never-wearied love. 
 Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 
 
 He is a portion of the loveliness 
 
 Which once he made more lovely : he doth bear 
 
 His part, while the one spirit's plastic stress 
 
 Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there 
 
 All new successions to the forms they wear ; 
 
 Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight 
 
 To its own likeness, as each mass may bear. 
 
 And bursting in its beauty and its might 
 
 From trees, and beasts, and men, into the heaven's hght. 
 
 ♦ * * # # 
 
 The inheritors of unfulfiU'd renown 
 Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought, 
 Far in the unapparent. Chatterton 
 Rose pale ; his solemn agony had not 
 Yet faded from him : Sidney, as he fought 
 And as he fell, and as he lived and loved, 
 Sublimely mild, a spirit without spot. 
 Arose : and Lucan, by his death approved : 
 Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. 
 
 And many more, whose names on Earth are dark, 
 
 But whose transmitted effluence cannot die 
 
 So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
 
 Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
 
 " Thou art become as one of us," they cry ; 
 
 " It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long 
 
 Swung blind in unascended majesty. 
 
 Silent alone amid a heaven of song. 
 
 Assume thy wingfed throne, thou Vesper of our throng ! " 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Go thou to Rome, — at once the Paradise, 
 The grave, the city, and the wilderness : 
 And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, 
 And flowering weeds and fragrant copses dress 
 The bones of desolation's nakedness. 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 789 
 
 Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead 
 
 Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, 
 
 Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead 
 
 A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread ; 
 
 And grey walls moulder round, on which dull Time 
 
 Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
 
 And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, 
 
 Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 
 
 This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
 
 Like flame transformed to marble ; and beneath 
 
 A field is spread, on which a newer band 
 
 Have pitched in heaven's smile their camp of death. 
 
 Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath. 
 
 Here pause : these graves are all too young as yet 
 To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned 
 Its charge to each : and if the seal is set. 
 Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, 
 Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou find 
 Thine own well full, if thou returnest home. 
 Of tears of gall. From the world's bitter wind 
 Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
 What Adonais is why fear we to become ? 
 
 The One remains, the many change and pass ; 
 Heaven's light for ever shines. Earth's shadows fly ; 
 Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass. 
 Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
 Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die ! 
 If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek, 
 Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure sky. 
 Flowers, ruins, statues, music, — words are weak 
 The glory they transfuse with filling truth to speak. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The breath whose might I have invoked in song 
 Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven 
 Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 
 Whose sails were never to the tempest given. 
 The massy earth and sphered skies are riven I 
 I am borne darkly, fearfully afar ; 
 Whilst burning through the inmost veil of heaven 
 The soul of Adonais, like a star, 
 Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 
 
790 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 GINEVRA. 
 
 Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one 
 Who staggers forth into the air and sun 
 From the dark chamber of a mortal fever, 
 Bewildered, and incapable, and ever 
 Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain 
 Of usual shapes, till the familiar train 
 Of objects and of persons passed like things 
 Strange as a dreamer's mad imaginings, 
 Ginevra from the nuptial altar went ; 
 The vows to which her lips had sworn assent 
 Rung in her brain still with a jarring din, 
 Deafening the lost intelligence within. 
 
 And so she moved under the bridal veil. 
 Which made the paleness of her cheek more pale, 
 And deepened the faint crimson of her moiith, 
 And darkened her dark locks, as moonlight doth ; 
 And of the gold and jewels glittering there 
 She scarce felt conscious, but the weary glare 
 Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light, 
 Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight : 
 A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud 
 Was less heavenly fair. Her face was bowed, 
 And, as she passed, the diamonds in her hair 
 Were mirror'd in the polished marble stair 
 Which led from the cathedral to the street ; 
 And even as she went her light fair feet 
 Erased these images. 
 
 The bride-maidens, who round her thronging came. 
 Some with a sense of self-rebuke and shame. 
 Envying the unenviable, and others 
 Making the joy which should have been another's 
 Their own by gentle sympathy ; and some 
 Sighing to think of an unhappy home ; 
 Some few admiring what can ever lure 
 Maidens to leave the heaven serene and pure 
 Of parents' smiles for life's great cheat — a thing 
 Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining. 
 
 But they are all dispersed ; and lo ! she stands 
 Looking in idle grief on her white hands. 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 791 
 
 Alone, within the garden now her own ; 
 
 And through the sunny air, with janghng tone, 
 
 The music of the merry marriage-bells, 
 
 Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells ;— 
 
 Absorbed like one within a dream who dreams 
 
 That he is dreaming, until slumber seems 
 
 A mockery of itself, when suddenly 
 
 Antonio stood before her, pale as she. 
 
 With agony, with sorrow, and with pride. 
 
 He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride. 
 
 And said, " Is this thy faith ?" and then as one 
 
 Whose sleeping face is stricken by the sun 
 
 With light like a harsh voice, which bids him rise 
 
 And look upon his day of life with eyes 
 
 Which weep in vain that they can dream no more, 
 
 Ginevra saw her lover, and forbore 
 
 To shriek or faint, and check'd the stifling blood 
 
 Rushing upon her heart, and unsubdued 
 
 Said, " Friend, if earthly violence or ill. 
 
 Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannic will 
 
 Of parents, chance or custom, time or change, 
 
 Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge. 
 
 Or withered looks, or words, or evil speech. 
 
 With all their stings and venom, can impeach 
 
 Our love, we love not : if the grave, which hides 
 
 The victim from the tyrant, and divides 
 
 The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dart 
 
 Imperious inquisition to the heart 
 
 That is another's, could dissever ours. 
 
 We love not." — " What ! do not the sUent hours 
 
 Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal bed .■" 
 
 Is not that ring" — a pledge, he would have said. 
 
 Of broken vows ? but she with patient look 
 
 The golden circle from her finger took. 
 
 And said, " Accept this token of my faith. 
 
 The pledge of vows to be absolved by death ; 
 
 And I am dead, or shall be soon ; my knell 
 
 Will mix its music with that merry bell : 
 
 Does it not sound as if they sweetly said 
 
 ' We toll a corpse out of the marriage-bed '? 
 
 The flowers upon my bridal chamber strewn 
 
 Will serve unfaded for my bier — so soon 
 
 That even the dying violet will not die 
 
 Before Ginevra." The strong fantasy 
 
792 PERC Y B YSSHE SHELLS Y. 
 
 Had made her accents weaker and more weak, 
 And quenched the crimson life upon her cheek, 
 And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmosphere 
 Round her which chilled the burning noon with 
 
 fear, 
 Making her but an image of the thought. 
 Which, like a prophet or a shadow, brought 
 News of the terrors of the coming time. 
 Like an accuser branded with the crime 
 He would have cast on a beloved friend. 
 Whose dying eyes reproach not to the end 
 The pale betrayer — he then with vain repentance 
 Would share, he cannot now avert, the sentence — 
 Antonio stood, and would have spoken, when 
 The compound voice of women and of men 
 Was heard approaching : he retired, while she 
 Was led amid the admiring company 
 Back to the palace ; and her maidens soon 
 Changed her attire for the afternoon. 
 And left her at her own request to keep 
 An hour of quiet and rest : — like one asleep 
 With open eyes and folded hands she lay, 
 Pale in the light of the declining day. 
 
 Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set. 
 And in the lighted hall the guests are met ; 
 The beautiful looked lovelier in the light 
 Of love, and admiration, and delight, 
 Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes. 
 Kindling a momentary Paradise. 
 This crowd is safer than the silent wood. 
 Where love's own doubts disturb the solitude 
 On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine 
 Falls, and the dew of music more divine 
 Tempers the deep emotions of the time 
 To spirits cradled in a sunny clime : — 
 How many meet, who never yet have met, 
 To part too soon, but never to forget .■' 
 How many saw the beauty, power, and wit 
 Of looks and words which ne'er enchanted yet ! 
 But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn. 
 As the world leaps before an earthquake's dawn, 
 And, unprophetic of the coming hours. 
 The matin winds from the expanded flowers 
 
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 793 
 
 Scatter their hoarded incense, and awaken 
 
 The earth, until the dewy sleep is shaken 
 
 From every living heart which it possesses, 
 
 Through seas and winds, cities and wildernesses, 
 
 As if the future and the past were all 
 
 Treasured i' the instant ; — so Gherardi's hall 
 
 Laughed in the mirth of its lord's festival. 
 
 Till some one asked, " Where is the bride ?" and then 
 
 A bride's-maid went, and ere she came again 
 
 A silence fell upon the guests — a pause 
 
 Of expectation, as when beauty awes 
 
 All hearts with its approach, though unbeheld ; 
 
 Then wonder, and then fear that wonder quelled. 
 
 For whispers passed from mouth to ear which drew 
 
 The colours from the hearers' cheeks, and flew 
 
 Louder and swifter round the company ; 
 
 And then Gherardi entered with an eye 
 
 Of ostentatious trouble, and a crowd 
 
 Surrounded him, and some were weeping loud. 
 
 They found Ginevra dead ! if it be death 
 
 To lie without motion, or pulse, or breath. 
 
 With waxen cheeks, and limbs cold, stiff, and white, 
 
 And open eyes, whose fixed and glassy light 
 
 Mocked at the speculation they had owned ; 
 
 If it be death, when there is felt around 
 
 A smell of clay, a pale and icy glare. 
 
 And silence, and a sense that lifts the hair 
 
 From the scalp to the ankles, as it were 
 
 Corruption from the spirit passing forth, 
 
 And giving aU it shrouded to the earth. 
 
 And leaving as swift lightning in its flight 
 
 Ashes, and smoke, and darkness : in our night 
 
 Of thought we know this much of death no more 
 
 Than the unborn dream of our life before — 
 
 Their barks are wrecked on its inhospitable shore. 
 
 The marriage feast and its solemnity 
 
 Was turned to funeral pomp ; the company, 
 
 With heavy hearts and looks, broke up : nor they 
 
 Who loved the dead went weeping on their way 
 
 Alone, but sorrow mixed with sad surprise 
 
 Loosened the springs of pity in all eyes, 
 
 On which that form, whose fate they weep in vain. 
 
 Will never, thought they, kindle smiles again. 
 
794 ^JiS. HEMANS. 
 
 The lamps which, half-extinguished in their haste, 
 Gleamed few and faint o'er the abandoned feast, 
 Showed as it were within the vaulted room 
 A cloud of sorrow hanging, as if gloom 
 Had passed out of men's minds into the air. 
 Some few yet stood around Gherardi there. 
 Friends and relations of the dead ; and he, 
 A loveless man, accepted torpidly 
 The consolation that he wanted not : 
 Awe in the place of grief within him wrought 
 Their whispers made the solemn silence seem 
 More still : some wept, .... 
 Some melted into tears without a sob. 
 And some with hearts that might be heard to throb 
 Leant on the table, and at intervals 
 Shuddered through the deserted halls 
 And corridors the thrilling shrieks which came 
 Upon the breeze of night, that shook the flame 
 Of every torch and taper as it swept 
 From out the chamber where the women kept ; — 
 Their tears fell on the dear companion cold 
 Of pleasures now departed. Then was knoUed 
 The bell of death ; and soon the priests arrived, 
 And finding death their penitent had shrived. 
 Returned like ravens from a corpse whereon 
 A vulture has just feasted to the bone. 
 And then the mourning women came. . . . 
 * * * # 
 
 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Born 1794. Died 1835. 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Browne was the daughter of a Liverpool mer- 
 chant, and was born September 25, 1794. Her father being unsuccessful 
 in business, retired from it soon after his daughter's birth, and removed 
 his family to a lonely spot called Grwych, in Denbighshire. The 
 solitude and seclusion in which she lived naturally fostered in the mind 
 of Felicia Browne the poetic element implanted in her. In 1808 her fiist 
 volume of poems was published, and contained some pieces she had 
 written in 1804. "Domestic Affections" was published in 1812. In 
 
MRS. HEMANS. 795 
 
 1809 the family removed to Bronwylfa, near St. Asaph ; and it was there, 
 in 1812, shecontiacted her ill-fated marriage with Captain Hemans : they 
 lived together six years, when they finally separated, and she devoted 
 herself to a life of literary toil to provide means to educate the five sons 
 left dependent on her exertions. In 1819 she competed for a prize poem 
 on Sir William Wallace, and won it. In 1821 she won a prize for a 
 poem on Dartmoor, from the Royal Society of Literature, and in 1820 
 she published "The Sceptic." When twenty-five years of age Mis. Hemans 
 made the acquaintance of Reginald Heber, afterwards Bishop of Calcutta, 
 and at his suggestion wrote " The Vespers of Palermo," a tragedy, which 
 was unsuccessfully produced at Covent Garden in 1823. In 1827 "The 
 Lays ofMany Lands" appeared; and "The Forest Sanctuary" and "The 
 Records of Women " followed in 1828. In 1829 Mrs. Hemans visited 
 Scotland, and was warmly received by Sir Walter Scott, with whom she 
 spent a few days at Abbotsford. In 1830 she published " Songs of the 
 A£Fections," and in the following year left England for Dublin, where she 
 occupied herself in preparing for the press three collections of her poems, 
 which appeared in 1834. Her health had long been ailing, and the 
 exertions she had made to bring up her famUy had proved too much for 
 her strength. In 1834 she was prostrated by an attack of scarlet fever, 
 from which she never thoroughly recovered, and in spite of the kind 
 attentions of friends and relatives, by whom she was tenderly loved and 
 respected, she gradually sank, and died, without a sigh or struggle, on 
 May 12, 1835. She was buried in St Anne's Church, Dawson Street, 
 Dublin. A deep religions tone pervades the poetry of Mrs. Hemans, and 
 many of her pieces are very beautiful. 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN 
 NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high 
 
 On a stem and rock-bound coast, 
 And the woods against a stormy sky 
 
 Their giant branches tossed. 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark 
 
 The hiUs and waters o'er, 
 When a band of exiles moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes, 
 
 They the true-hearted came, 
 Not with the roll of the stirring drums 
 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 
 
796 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Not as the flying come, 
 
 In silence and in fear ; — 
 They shook the depths of the desert gloom 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang, 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
 To the anthem of the free ! 
 
 The ocean eagle soared 
 
 From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
 And the rocking pines of the forest roared ; — 
 
 This was their welcome home ! 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 
 Amidst that pilgrim band : 
 Why had they come to wither there. 
 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine ? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war .'' — 
 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground. 
 
 The soil where first they trod : 
 They have left unstained what there they found - 
 
 Freedom to worship God. 
 
 CASABIANCA. 
 
 The boy stood on the burning deck, 
 Whence all but he had fled ; 
 
 The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
 Shone round him o'er the dead. 
 
 Yet beautiful and bright he stood. 
 As bom to rule the storm ; 
 
 A creature of heroic blood, 
 
 A proud though child-like form. 
 
MRS. REMANS. 797 
 
 The flames rolled on — ^he would not go 
 
 Without his father's word : 
 That father, faint in death below, 
 
 His voice no longer heard. 
 
 He called aloud, " Say, father, say. 
 
 If yet my task is done." 
 He knew not that the chieftain lay 
 
 Unconscious of his son. 
 
 " Speak, father ! " once again he cried, 
 
 " If I may yet be gone." 
 And but the booming shots replied. 
 
 And fast the flames roUed on. 
 
 Upon his brow he felt their breath. 
 
 And in his waving hair. 
 And looked from that lone post of death 
 
 In still yet brave despair. 
 
 And shouted but once more aloud, 
 
 " My father ! must I stay? " 
 While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud. 
 
 The wreathing fires made way. 
 
 They wrapt the ship in splendour wild. 
 
 They caught the flag on high, 
 And streamed above the gallant child 
 
 Like banners in the sky. 
 
 There came a biurst of thunder sound ; 
 
 The boy — O ! where was he ? 
 Ask of the winds that far around 
 
 With fi-agments strewed the sea! 
 
 With mast, and hehn, and pennon fair. 
 
 That weU had borne their part : 
 But the noblest thing which perished there 
 
 Was that young, faithful heart ! 
 
 WAR SONG OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS. 
 
 Ye who bum with glory's flame. 
 Ye who love the patriot's fame, 
 Ye who scorn oppressive might. 
 Rise, in freedom's cause unite; 
 Castilians, rise ! 
 
798 MRS. HEMANS. 
 
 Hark! Iberia calls, ye brave ; 
 Haste ! your bleeding country save : 
 Be the palm of bright renown, 
 Be th' unfading laurel-crown. 
 The hero's prize. 
 
 High the crimson banner wave, 
 Ours be conquest or the grave. 
 Spirits of our noble sires, 
 Lo ! your sons with kindred fires 
 
 Unconquer'd glow. 
 See them once again advance, 
 Crush the pride of hostile France ; 
 See their hearts, with ardour warm ; 
 See them, with triumphant arm, 
 
 Repel the foe. 
 
 By the Cid's immortal name, 
 By Gonsalvo's deathless fame. 
 By the chiefs of former time, 
 By the valiant deeds sublime 
 
 Of ancient days. 
 Brave Castilians, grasp the spear, 
 Gallant Andalusians, hear; 
 Glory calls you to the plain : 
 Future bards, in lofty strain. 
 
 Shall sing your praise. 
 
 Shades of mighty warriors- dead! 
 Ye who nobly fought and bled. 
 Ye whose valour could withstand 
 The savage Moor's invading band. 
 
 Untaught to yield ; 
 Bade victorious Charlemagne 
 Own the patriot arms of Spain ; 
 Ye, in later times renown'd, 
 Ye who fell, with laurels crown'd. 
 
 On Pavia's field: 
 
 Teach our hearts like yours to bum ; 
 Lawless power like you to spurn ; 
 Teach us but like you to wield 
 Freedom's l?,nce and Freedom's shield. 
 With daring might : 
 
MRS. HEMANS. 799 
 
 Tyrant ! soon thy reign is o'er, 
 Thou Shalt waste mankind no more ; 
 Boast no more thy thousands slain, 
 Jena's or Marengo's plain ; 
 Lo ! the sun that gilds thy day 
 Soon win veil its parting ray 
 In endless night. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Where shall we make her grave? 
 O, where the wild flowers wave 
 
 In the free air ! 
 Where shower and singing bird 
 'Midst the young leaves are heard ; 
 
 There — lay her there ! 
 
 Harsh was the world to her : 
 Now may sleep minister 
 
 Balm for each ill ; 
 Low on sweet Nature's breast 
 Let the meek heart find rest. 
 
 Deep, deep and still ! 
 
 Murmur, glad waters, by ! 
 Faint gales, with happy sigh, 
 
 Come wandering o'er 
 That green and mossy bed. 
 Where, on a gentle head. 
 
 Storms beat no more ! 
 
 What though for her in vain 
 Falls now the bright spring-rain, 
 
 Plays the soft wind.' 
 Yet, still, from where she lies 
 Should blessed breathings rise, 
 
 Gracious and kind. 
 
 Therefore let song and dew. 
 Thence, in the heart renew 
 
 Life's vernal glow! 
 And o'er that holy earth 
 Scents of the violet's birth 
 
 Still come and go ! 
 
Soo JOHN KEA TS. 
 
 O, then, where wild flowers wave, 
 Make ye her mossy grave 
 
 In the free air! 
 Where shower and singing bird 
 'Midst the young leaves are heard ; 
 
 There — lay her there ! 
 
 '«>« 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Bom 1796. Died 1820. 
 
 John Keats was of humble birth ; his father was a livery-stable keeper 
 in Moorfields, and John was bom in the mews, October 29, 1796- 
 He was apprenticed to a surgeon at Edmonton, and on subsequently 
 walking the hospitals made the acquaintance of Leigh Hunt, who, 
 struck with his talent and originality, introduced him to the public In 
 181 7 he published a volume of poems, and soon afterwards " Endymion," 
 which was terribly cut up in the Quarterly Review. In 1820 appeared 
 " Lamia, and other Poems." Of a delicate and sensitive constitution, 
 Keats had seriously impaired his health by the care he had lavished on 
 a dying brother ; and he took a trip into Italy with the hope of recovering 
 strength, but consumption had laid her hand on him, and the only 
 wonder expressed by his physicians was that he had lasted so long. 
 He died at Rome, December 27, 1820, and was interred in the English 
 cemetery, in a spot where, a year later, the heart and ashes of his friend 
 Shelley were deposited. Brief as was the life of Keats, he succeeded in 
 winning for himself a name in poetry. His style is distinguished by 
 brilliance of imagery and redundancy of idea. 
 
 FROM " ENDYMION." 
 
 A thing of beauty is a joy for ever ; 
 
 Its loveliness increases ; it wiU never 
 
 Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 
 
 A bower q;iiet for us, arid a sleep 
 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 
 
 Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 
 
 A flowery band to bind us to the earth. 
 
 Spite of despondence, of the unhuman dearth 
 
JOHN KEATS. 8o! 
 
 Of noble features, of the gloomy days, 
 Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways 
 Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all, 
 Some shape of beauty moves away the paH 
 From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, 
 Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 
 For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils, 
 With the green world they live in ; and clear rills, 
 That for themselves a cooling covert make 
 'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake, 
 Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : 
 And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
 We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 
 All lovely tales that we have heard or read. 
 An endless fountain of immortal drink. 
 Pouring unto us from heaven's brink. 
 
 Nor do we merely feel those essences 
 For one short hour ; no, even as the trees 
 That whisper round a temple become soon 
 Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
 The passion poesy, glories infinite, 
 Haunt us till they become a cheering light 
 Unto our souls, and bound to us as fast. 
 That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast, 
 They alway must be with us, or we die. 
 
 Therefore 'tis full happiness that I 
 Will trace the story of Endymion. 
 The very music of the name has gone 
 Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
 Is growing liresh before me as the green 
 Of our own valleys : so I will begin 
 Now, while I cannot hear the city's din ; 
 Now, while the early budders are just new. 
 And run in mazes of the youngest hue 
 About old forests ; whUe the willow trails 
 Its delicate amber ; and the dairy pails 
 Bring home increase of milk. And as the year 
 Grows lush in juicy stalks, 111 smoothly steer 
 My little boat, for many quiet hours. 
 With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. 
 Many and many a verse 1 hope to write, 
 Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white, 
 3 F 
 
8o2 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees 
 Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, 
 I must be near the middle of my story. 
 O may no wintry season, bare and hoary. 
 See it half finish'd : but let autumn bold. 
 With universal tinge of sober gold, 
 Be all about me when I make an end. 
 And now at once, adventuresome, I send 
 My herald thought into a wilderness : 
 There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress 
 My uncertain path with green, that I may speed 
 Easily onward, through flowers and weed. 
 
 FROM "ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL." 
 
 In anxious secrecy they took it home, 
 And then the prize was all for Isabel : 
 
 She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb. 
 And all around each eye's sepulchral cell 
 
 Pointed each fringed lash ; the smeared loam 
 With tears as chilly as a dripping well 
 
 She drench'd away : and still she comb'd and kept. 
 
 Sighing all day ; and still she kiss'd and wept. 
 
 Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the dews 
 Of precious flowers plucVd in Araby, 
 
 And divine liquids come with odorous ooze 
 Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfuUy, — 
 
 She wrapp'd it up ; and for its tomb did choose 
 A g-arden-pot, wherein she laid it by, 
 
 And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set 
 
 Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. 
 
 And she forgot the stars, the moon, the sun. 
 And she forgot the blue above the trees. 
 
 And she forgot the dells where waters run. 
 And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 
 
 She had no knowledge when the day was done, 
 And the new morn she saw not ; but in peace 
 
 Hung over her sweet Basil ever more, 
 
 And moisten'd it with tears unto the core. 
 
JOHN KEATS. 803 
 
 And so she ever fed it with thin tears, 
 
 Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, 
 
 So that it smeh more balmy than its peers 
 Of Basil-tufts in Florence ; for it drew 
 
 Nurture besides, and life, from human fears, 
 
 From the fast mouldering head there shut from view ; 
 
 So that the jewel, safely casketed. 
 
 Came forth, and in perfumed leaflets spread. 
 
 O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! 
 
 O Music, music breathe despondingly ! 
 O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, 
 
 Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us ! O sigh ! 
 Spirits in grief, lift up your heads and smile ; 
 
 Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily. 
 And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, 
 Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 
 
 Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe. 
 From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! 
 
 Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go, 
 And touch the strings into a mystery ; 
 
 Sound mournfully upon the winds and low ; 
 For simple Isabel is soon to be 
 
 Among the dead : she withers, like a palm 
 
 Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 
 
 O leave the palm to wither by itself ; 
 
 Let not quick winter chill its dying hour ! 
 It may not be : these Baalites of pelf. 
 
 Her brethren, noted the continual shower 
 From her dead eyes ; and many a curious elf 
 
 Among her kindred wonder'd that such dower 
 Of youth and beauty shoidd be thrown aside 
 By one mark'd out to be a noble's bride. 
 
 And furthermore her brethren wonder'd much 
 Why she sat drooping by the Basil green, 
 
 And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch : 
 Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean. 
 
 They could not surely give belief that such 
 A very nothing would have power to wean 
 
 Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay. 
 
 And even remembrance of her love's delay. 
 3 F 2 
 
8o4 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift 
 This hidden whim ; and long they watch'd in vain : 
 
 For seldom did she go to chapel shrift, 
 And seldom felt she any hunger-pain ; 
 
 And when she left, she hurried back, as swift 
 As bird on wing to breast its eggs again, 
 
 And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 
 
 Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. 
 
 Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, 
 
 And to examine it in secret place : 
 The thing was vile with green and livid spot. 
 
 And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face : 
 The guerdon of their murder they had got. 
 
 And so left Florence in a moment's space. 
 Never to turn again. — Away they went, 
 With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 
 
 O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! 
 
 O Music, music breathe despondingly ! 
 O Echo. Echo, on some other day. 
 
 From isles Lethean, sigh to us ! O sigh ! 
 Spirits of grief, sing not your " well-a-way !" 
 
 For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die ; 
 Will die a death too lone and incomplete. 
 Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. 
 
 Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things. 
 
 Asking for her lost Basil amorously ; 
 And with melodious chuckle in the strings 
 
 Of her lone voice, she oftentimes would cry 
 After the pilgrim in his wanderings. 
 
 To ask him where her Basil was, and why 
 'Twas hid from her ; " For cruel 'tis," said she, 
 " To steal my Basil-pot away from me." 
 
 And so she pined, and so she died forlorn. 
 
 Imploring for her Basil to the last. 
 No heart was there in Florence but did mourn 
 
 In pity of her love, so overcast, 
 And a sad ditty of this story borne 
 
 From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd. 
 Still is the burden sung, " O cruelty. 
 To steal my Basil-pot away from me !" 
 
JOHN KEATS. 805 
 
 TO HOPE. 
 
 When by my solitary hearth I sit, 
 
 And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom, 
 When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit, 
 
 And the bare heath of life presents no bloom, 
 Sweet Hope ! ethereal balm upon me shed. 
 And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. 
 
 Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night. 
 
 Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray, 
 Should sad Despondency my musings fright. 
 
 And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away. 
 Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof, 
 
 And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof 
 
 Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, 
 Strive for her son to seize my careless heart, 
 
 When like a cloud he sits upon the air, 
 Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart, 
 
 Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright, 
 And fright him, as the morning frightens night ! 
 
 Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear 
 Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow, 
 
 O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer ; 
 Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow ; 
 
 Thy heaven-bom radiance around me shed, 
 
 And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head I 
 
 Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, 
 
 From cruel parents or relentless fair, 
 O let me think it is not quite in vain 
 
 To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air ! 
 Sweet Hope ! ethereal balm upon me shed, 
 And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. 
 
 In the long vista of the years to roll, 
 Let me not see our country's honour fade ! 
 
 O let me see our land retain her soul ! 
 Her pride, her freedom ; and not freedom's shade. 
 
 From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed ; 
 
 Beneath thy pinions canopy my head ! 
 
8o6 HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
 Let me not see the patriot's high bequest, 
 Great Liberty ! — how great in plain attire ! — 
 
 With the base purple of a court oppress'd, 
 Bowing her head, and ready to expire ; 
 
 But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings 
 
 That fill the skies with silver glitterings ! 
 
 And as, in sparkling majesty, a star 
 
 Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud ; 
 Brightening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar : 
 
 So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, 
 Sweet Hope ! celestial influence round me shed. 
 Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. 
 
 '=S>=C 
 
 HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
 Born 1796. Died 1849. 
 
 Hartley was the eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and was 
 born at Clevedon, near Bristol, September 19, 1 796. Wordsworth's poem, 
 " To H. C, Six Years Old," describes the young poet "whose fancies 
 from afar are brought." When Coleridge removed from the neighbour- 
 hood of Bristol to the Lake district. Hartley was but four years of age : 
 so that his earliest impressions were derived from the lovely Lake scenery. 
 Hartley's education was entrusted to the Rev. John Dawes, of Ambleside. 
 As a necessary consequence of Coleridge's position, young Hartley be- 
 came well known to, and a great favourite vidth, Wordsworth, Southey, 
 Professor Wilson, De Quincy — that charmed circle which a few of us still 
 living can remember, and recall among the pleasantest memories of early 
 life. In 1 815 Hartley Coleridge proceeded to Oxford as a scholar of 
 Merton. He was distinguished for his scholarship, and for the ease 
 with which he could render into English the idiom of Latin. In 181 8 he 
 took his degree, and was shortly elected a Probationer Fellow of Oriel. 
 Unfortunately for him, the conversational powers which he inherited 
 from his father became his greatest enemy. His society was eagerly 
 sought. An Oxford wine-party became brilliant if Hartley Coleridge 
 was present. The terrible temptations which excited conversation and 
 wit and wine have often presented to men, became too powerful for him. 
 He contracted habits of intemperance, which becoming known to the 
 College authorities, prevented his being confirmed in his Fellowship at 
 the close of his probationary year. As a tutor, or as an aspirant to 
 
HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 807 
 
 Univeisity offices, his fortunes were thereby irretrievably ruined. Gifted 
 with abilities to do honour to his college, and with a gentle heart to do 
 honour to human nature, he was compelled to withdraw from Oxford. 
 For two or three years he lived in London, contributing occasionally to 
 the London Magazine. Then he returned to the Lakes, and settled at 
 Ambleside, with the intention of taking pupils to read with him. Unable 
 rightly to control himself, it was foolish to suppose that Hartley Coleridge 
 could control young men preparing for the University. His tutorial 
 life was a complete failure, and did not continue long. He was (unless 
 the writer's memory is at fault) at another period of his life for a short 
 time assistant master at Settle School, where his elegance of scholarship 
 was highly appreciated among those who had the, privilege of being his 
 pupils. Had he been fortunate enough to have held his Fellowship, and 
 to have continued at Oxford, there can be no question that the singular 
 feUcity with which Hartley Coleridge could phrase in English crabbed 
 bits of the Latin poets would have taken some higher flight, and have 
 given him the fame as a scholar \^hich the few who knew him in his 
 secluded life knew that he deserved. 
 
 As far as occupation was concerned, the rest of his life was passed in 
 inactivity. He read diligently, thought deeply, and wrote charmingly ; 
 but the occasional fits of intemperance which overtook him ren- 
 dered him unfit for any trusty employment, and overshadowed his 
 mind at other times with a melancholy which was pitiable. From 
 1820 to 1831 he contributed occasionally to Blackwood' s Magazine. In 
 1832-33 he resided at Leeds, and wrote for Mr. Bingley, a publisher, his 
 "Worthies of Yorkshire and Lancashire." He returned to the Lakes, 
 and the remainder of his days was passed either at Grasmere, or 
 Rydal, in the immediate neighbourhood of Wordsworth. In 1839 he 
 wrote a Life of Massinger, which was prefixed to an edition of that 
 dramatist's works. 
 
 Few men have lived more beloved (especially by the poor who 
 surroanded him) than Hartley Coleridge. At Grasmere and Rydal 
 all knew his one self-destroying infirmity ; but they also knew and 
 loved his many virtues, while they admired his great talents. His name 
 continues a household word among the cottagers, for never did gentler 
 heart beat in human breast than that of Hartley Coleridge. 
 
 He died, January 6, 1849, in the cottage near Rydal Water, where, 
 tended with the affections of the kind folks who had long watched over 
 his childlike nature, he had passed the latter years of his existence. 
 His remains were interred in the peaceful churchyard of Grasmere, 
 alongside those of the great poet to whom he had ever looked up with 
 reverence as a father— his early and constant friend, Wordsworth. 
 
8o^ HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
 POIETES APOIETES. 
 
 No hope have I to live a deathless name, 
 A power immortal in the world of mind, 
 
 A sun to light with intellectual flame 
 The universal soul of human kind. 
 
 Not mine the skill in memorable phrase 
 The hidden truths of passion to reveal, 
 
 To bring to light the intermingling ways 
 
 By which unconscious motives darkling steal, 
 
 To show how forms the sentient heart affect. 
 How thoughts and feelings mutually combine. 
 
 How oft the pure, impassive intellect 
 Shares the mischances of his mortal shrine. 
 
 Nor can I summon from the dark abyss 
 
 Of time the spirit of forgotten things, 
 Bestow unfading life on transient bliss. 
 
 Bid Memory live with " healing on its wings ; " 
 
 Or give a substance to the haunting shades. 
 Whose visitation shames the vulgar earth. 
 
 Before whose light the ray of morning fades, 
 And hollow yearning chills the soul of mirth. 
 
 I have no charm to renovate the youth 
 
 Of old authentic dictates of the heart, 
 To wash the wrinkles from the face of Truth, 
 
 And out of Nature form creative Art. 
 
 Divinest Poesy ! 'tis thine to make 
 Age young, youth old, to baffle tyrant Time, 
 
 From antique strains the hoary dust to shake. 
 And with familiar grace to crown new rhyme. 
 
 Long have I loved thee, long have loved in vain, 
 Yet large the debt my spirit owes to thee ; 
 
 Thou wreath'dst my first hours in a rosy chain, 
 Rocking the cradle of my infancy. 
 
 The lovely images of earth and sky 
 
 From thee I leam'd within my soul to treasure ; 
 And the strong magic of thy minstrelsy 
 
 Charms the world's tempest to a sweet sad measure. 
 
HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 809 
 
 "Kor Fortune's spite, nor hopes that once have been— 
 Hopes which no power of Fate can give again — 
 
 Not the sad sentence, that my life must wean 
 From dear domestic joys, nor all the train 
 
 Of pregnant ills and penitential harms 
 
 That dog the rear of youth unwisely wasted. 
 
 Can dim the lustre of thy stainless charms, 
 Or sour the sweetness that in thee I tasted. 
 
 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 There is a Uttle and a pretty flower, 
 That you may find in many a garden plot ; 
 Yet wild it is, and grows amid the stour 
 Of public roads, as in close-wattled bower : 
 Its name in Enghsh is Forget-me-not 
 
 Sweet was the fancy of those antique ages 
 That put a heart in every stirring leaf. 
 Writing deep morals upon Natin-e's pages. 
 Turning sweet flowers into deathless sages, 
 To calm our joy and sanctify our grief. 
 
 And gladly would I know the man or child ; — 
 
 But no ! it surely was a pensive girl 
 
 That gave so sweet a name to floweret wild, 
 
 A harmless innocent, and unbeguiled, 
 
 To whom a flower is precious as a pearL 
 
 Fain would I know, and yet I can but guess. 
 How the blue floweret won a name so sweet. 
 Did some fond mother, bending down to bless 
 Her sailing son with last and fond caress. 
 Give the small plant to guard him through the fleet ? 
 
 Did a kind maid, that thought her lover all 
 
 By which a maid would fain belovfed be, 
 
 Leaning against a ruin'd abbey wall, 
 
 Make of the flower an am'rous coronal. 
 
 That still should breathe and whisper, " Think of me ' ? 
 
8io HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
 But were I good and holy as a saint, 
 Or hermit dweller in secluded grot, 
 If e'er the soul in hope and love were faint, 
 Then, like an antidote to mortal taint, 
 I'd give the pretty flower Forget-me-not. 
 
 DEATH-BED REFLECTIONS OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 Not that my hand could make of stubborn stone 
 Whate'er of gods the shaping thought conceives ; 
 Not that my skill by pictured lines hath shown 
 All terrors that the guilty soul believes ; 
 Not that my art, by blended light and shade, 
 Express'd the world as it was newly made ; 
 Not that my verse profoundest truth could teach, 
 In the soft accents of the lover's speech ; 
 Not that I rear'd a temple for mankind 
 To meet and pray in, borne by every wind — 
 Affords me peace : I count my gain but loss 
 For that vast love that hangs upon the cross. 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 In an old house, a country dwelling, nigh 
 A river chafed by many a wave-worn stone, 
 A good man kept old hospitality. 
 With a warm purse well filled by industry 
 And prosperous dealings in the torrid zone. 
 
 His spouse was comely, stricken well in years ; 
 His daughters' faces lighted all the house, — 
 And they had tongues as well as eyes and ears. 
 But one there was, the youngest of the dears, 
 A child sedate, as still as any mouse. 
 
 Still as a little timid mouse she sat ; 
 And yet her stillness seemed not to be fear, 
 Like mouse's hiding from the whiskered cat : 
 Oh no ! whate'er the subject of our chat. 
 She seemed to drink it in with eye and ear. 
 
HARTLE Y COLERIDGE. 8 1 1 
 
 I cannot say she had a speaking eye ; 
 
 For when my eye with hers would fain converse, 
 
 She would begin her needle's task to ply, 
 
 Stirring her httle fingers busily ; 
 
 And, wantipg work, the kitten would she nurse. 
 
 Soon as she could, she unobserved withdrew, 
 Determined of my piirpose to defeat me ; 
 And yet I loved her, as I always do 
 All pretty maids that are too yoimg to woo. 
 However scurvily they choose to treat me. 
 
 Years have gone by, her worthy father dead. 
 And she could deem herself a child no longer : 
 Who can conceive what thoughts in her were bred 
 When she beheld her elder sisters wed. 
 And womanhood in her grew daily stronger ? 
 
 Or did she feel a warning in her heart. 
 
 An inward clock, that timely struck eleven. 
 
 And said, " Sweet Agnes, tender as thou art, 
 
 One hour is thine ; be ready to depart ; 
 
 Thy spouse affianced waits for thee in heaven " ? 
 
 I cannot teU, for I was far away. 
 By what slow course of gracious discipline, 
 Through gradual shades of unperceived decay. 
 As moonlight steals on fading summer day. 
 Her spiritual eye was trained to light divine. 
 
 But yet I trust she never knew the woe 
 
 Of body's waste, that brings despair and dearth 
 
 Unto the soul ; that Uving death, so slow. 
 
 That leaves to those that would, yet would not, go, 
 
 No love of heaven, but weary hate of earth. 
 
 Nay, better ! Loving dearly to the last 
 
 All that she ever loved, with fond delay 
 
 The latest hour before her spirit past ; 
 
 Prayed yet, though feeUng that her lot was cast, 
 
 Like Jesus, that the cup might pass away. 
 
8i2 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 FEELINGS OF YOUTH. 
 
 As the dew of the morning bestars every blade, 
 
 But ere noon is no more on the plain, 
 Yet abides in the bell of the flower in the shade 
 
 Till dew comes at evening again ; 
 So the feelings of youth, the fond faith of the heart, 
 
 In manhood dry up like the dew. 
 Oh ! let them survive in the soul's better part, 
 
 Till death shall the morning renew. 
 
 -S^c: 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Born 1798. Died 1845. 
 
 Thomas Hood, the second son of a publisher in the Poultry, was 
 bom in 1798. He received the rudiments of his education at a day 
 school in Tokenhouse Yard, City. At fourteen years of age he was 
 placed in the firm of Messrs. Bell and Co., Russia merchants; but the 
 sedentary nature of his occupation seems to have affected his health, and 
 he was sent for change of air to Dundee, where he remained two years, 
 and on his return to London engaged himself to Mr. Robert Sands, his 
 uncle, to learn the art of engraving. 
 
 In 1821 Hood was offered and accepted the situation of sub-editor to 
 the London Magazine, and as such made the acquaintance of many 
 literary men who were contributors to the periodical in question, among 
 whom we may mention Hartley Coleridge, Horace Smith, Bowring, 
 Hazlitt, Talfourd, Elton, and Lamb. Though Hood had contributed 
 some few trifles to the Dundee papers and magazines, his first work was 
 " Odes and Addresses to Great People," and this he published anony- 
 mously. " Whims and Oddities " came out in 1826, and a second and 
 third series followed. The " Comic Annual " appeared in 1829, and was 
 successfully sustained for nine years. On its termination he commenced 
 Hood's Own, which came out in monthly numbers. The poem of 
 " Epping Hunt " was a great success, and made its author well known 
 as a comic writer. Eugene Aram's " Dream " was written for The 
 Gem, of which, for a short time. Hood was editor, and it has always 
 been greatly appreciated by the public. Though suffering from ill health, 
 and at times from pecuniary difficulties. Hood worked on indefatigably, 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 813 
 
 aad while travelling on the Continent in 1839 published his work " Up 
 the Rhine." " Tilney Hall," a novel, was written in 1835. He edited 
 the New Monthly Magazine until 1843, and on leaving it collected 
 his contributions, and published them as " Whimsicalities." In 1844 he 
 commenced Hood's Magazine, and in spite of great bodily suffering 
 devoted himself to it as a contributor until about a month before his 
 death : in fact, the last chapters of " Our FamUy " were literally written 
 as he lay on his death-bed. A short time before he died, a Government 
 pension of 100/. per annum was conferred upon him, which was at his 
 request transferred to his wife. His death took place on May 3, 1 845, 
 and he Avas interred in the cemetery at Kensal Green. 
 
 Hood was a man of keen observation, with a strong sense of humour ; 
 and he had the happy art of blending wit and pathos in a way which was 
 quite his own. " The Bridge of Sighs " and the " Song of the Shirt," 
 written shortly before his death, prove he could touch the heart as 
 truly by his serious power as, in his comic pieces, he could amuse by 
 his irresistible drollery. In private life he was greatly beloved and 
 respected, as much for the delicacy of feeling which distinguished him 
 as for his social acquirements. 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO 
 
 THE VERY REV. THE DEAN (JOHN IRELAND, D.D.) 
 
 AND CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTER. 
 
 Oh, very reverend Dean and Chapter, 
 
 Exhibitors of giaBt men, 
 Hail to each surplice-back'd adapter 
 
 Of England's dead, in her stone den ! 
 Ye teach us properly to prize 
 
 Two-shilling Grays, and Gays, and Handels, 
 And, to throw hgbt upon our eyes, 
 
 Deal in wax queens like old wax candles. 
 
 Oh, reverend showmen, rank and file, 
 
 Call in your shillings, two and two ; 
 March with them up the middle aisle. 
 
 And cloister them from public view. 
 Yours surely are the dusty dead : 
 
 Gladly ye look from bust to bust, 
 And set a price on each great head, 
 
 And make it come down with the dust 
 
 Oh, as I see you walk along 
 
 In ample sleeves and ample back, 
 A pursy and well-order'd throng, 
 
 Thoroughly fed, thoroughly black, 
 
8i4 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 In vain I strive me to be dumb ; 
 
 You keep each bard like fatted kid, 
 Grind bones for bread like Fee-faw-fum, 
 
 And drink from skulls as Byron did ! 
 
 The profitable Abbey is 
 
 A sacred 'Change for stony stock ; 
 Not that a speculation 'tis — 
 
 The profit's founded on a rock. 
 Death and the Doctors in each nave 
 
 Bony investments have inurn'd, 
 And hard 'twould be to find a grave 
 
 From which "no money is return'd " ! 
 
 Here many a pensive pilgrim, brought 
 
 By reverence for those learned bones, 
 Shall often come and walk your short 
 
 Two-shilling fare upon the stones. 
 Ye have that talisman of wealth 
 
 Which puddling chemists sought of old, 
 Till ruin'd out of hope and health — 
 
 The Tomb's the stone that turns to gold ! 
 
 Oh, licensed cannibals, ye eat 
 
 Your dinners from your own dead race ; 
 Think Gray, preserved, a " funeral meat," 
 
 And Dryden, devil'd, after grace 
 A relish ; and you take your meal 
 
 From Rare Ben Jonson underdone. 
 Or whet your holy knives on Steele, 
 
 To cut away at Addison ! 
 
 Oh say, of all this famous age. 
 
 Whose learnfed bones your hopes expect. 
 Oh have ye number'd Rydal's sage, 
 
 Or Moore, among your ghosts elect ? 
 Lord Byron was not doom'd to make 
 
 You richer by his final sleep ; — 
 Why don't ye warn the Great to take 
 
 Their ashes to no other heap ? 
 
 Southey's reversion have ye got ? 
 
 With Coleridge, for his body, made 
 A bargain 'i Has Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 Like Peter Schlemihl, sold his shade ? 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 815 
 
 Has Rogers haggled hard, or sold 
 
 His features for your marble shows ? 
 Or Campbell barter'd, ere he's cold, 
 
 AU interest in his " bone repose " ? 
 
 Rare is your show, ye righteous men ! 
 
 Priestly Pohtos, rare, I ween ; 
 ■ But should ye not outside the den 
 
 Paint up what in it may be seen ? 
 A long green Shakspeare, with a deer 
 
 Grasp'd in the many folds it died in, 
 A Butler stuff'd from ear to ear. 
 
 Wet White Bears weeping o'er a Dryden ! 
 
 Paint Garrick up Uke Mr. Paap, 
 
 A Giant of some inches high ; 
 Paint Handel up, that organ chap. 
 
 With you, as grinders, in his eye ; 
 Depict some plaintive antique thing, 
 
 And say th' original may be seen ; — 
 Blind Milton, with a dog and string. 
 
 May be the Beggar o' Bethnal Green ! 
 
 Put up in Poets' Comer, near 
 
 The httle door, a platform small ; 
 Get there a monkey — ^never fear, 
 
 Youll catch the gapers, one and all ! 
 Stand each of ye a Body Guard, 
 
 A Trumpet under either fin. 
 And yell away in Palace Yard, 
 
 "All dead ! All dead ! Walk in ! Walk in !' 
 
 (But when the people are inside. 
 
 Their money paid, I pray you, bid 
 The keepers not to mount and ride 
 
 A race around each coffin lid. 
 Poor Mrs. Bodkin thought, last year. 
 
 That it was hard — the woman clacks — 
 To have so httle in her ear. 
 
 And be so hurried through the Wax !) 
 
 " Walk in ! two shillings only ! Come ! 
 
 Be not by country grumblers funk'd ! 
 Walk in, and see th' illustrious dumb. 
 
 The Cheapest House for the defunct ! " 
 
8i6 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Write up, — 'twill breed some just reflection. 
 And every rude surmise 'twill stop — 
 
 Write up, that you have no connection 
 (In large) with any other shop ! 
 
 And still, to catch the clowns the more, 
 
 With samples of your shows in wax 
 Set some old Harry near the door 
 
 To answer queries with his axe. 
 Put up some general begging-trunk — 
 
 Since the last broke by some mishap : 
 You've all a bit of General Monk, 
 
 From the respect you bore his cap ! 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 O Love ! wfhat art thou. Love ? the ace of hearts, 
 Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits ? 
 
 A player, masquerading many parts 
 
 In life's odd carnival ? a boy that shoots. 
 
 From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts ? 
 A gardener, pulling hearts'-ease up by the roots 
 
 The Puck of Passion — partly false, part real ? 
 
 A marriageable maiden's " beau ideal ? " 
 
 O Love ! what art thou. Love ? a wicked thing. 
 Making green misses spoil their work at school ? 
 
 A melancholy man cross gartering ? 
 
 Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool ? 
 
 A youngster tilting at a wedding-ring ? 
 A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool ? 
 
 A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel, 
 
 Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel ? 
 
 O Love ! what art thou, Love ? one that is bad 
 With palpitations of the heart — like mine? 
 
 A poor bewilder'd maid, making so sad 
 A necklace of her garters — fell design ? 
 
 A poet, gone unreasonably mad. 
 
 Ending his sonnets with a hempen line ? 
 
 O Love ! — but whither, now ? — forgive me, pray ; 
 
 I'm not the first that Love hath led astray. 
 
THOMA S HOOD. 8 1 7 
 
 FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. 
 
 AN OLD BALLAD. 
 
 Young Ben he was a nice young man, 
 
 A carpenter by trade ; 
 And he fell in love with Sally Brown, 
 
 That was a lady's maid. 
 
 But as they fetch'd a walk one day. 
 
 They met a press-gang crew ; 
 And Sally she did faint away, 
 
 Whilst Ben he was brought to. 
 
 The boatswain swore with wicked words. 
 
 Enough to shock a saint, 
 That though she did seem in a fit, 
 
 'Twas nothing but a faint. 
 
 " Come, girl," said he, " hold up your head, 
 
 He'U be as good as me ; 
 For when your swain is in our boat, 
 
 A boatswain he will be." 
 
 So when they'd made their game of her. 
 
 And taken off her elf, 
 She roused, and found she only was 
 
 A-coming to herself. 
 
 '• And is he gone ? — and is he gone? " 
 
 She cried, and wept outright : 
 " Then I will to the water side, 
 
 And see him out of sight." 
 
 A waterman came up to her : 
 
 " Now, young woman," said he, 
 " If you weep on so, you will make 
 
 Eye-water in the sea." 
 
 " Alas ! they've taken my beau Ben 
 
 To sail with old Benbow ;" 
 And her woe began to run afresh, 
 
 As if she'd said Gee woe ! , 
 
 3 G 
 
Si8 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Says he, " They've only taken him 
 To the tender ship, you see." 
 
 " The tender ship," cried Sally Brown, 
 " What a hard-ship that must be ! 
 
 " Oh ! would I were a mermaid now, 
 For then I'd follow him ; 
 
 But oh ! I'm not a fish-woman, 
 And so I cannot swim. 
 
 " Alas ! I was not bom beneath 
 The Virgin and the Scales ; 
 
 So I must curse my cruel stars, 
 And walk about in Wales." 
 
 Now Ben had sail'd to many a place 
 That's underneath the world ; 
 
 But in two years the ship came home, 
 And all her sails were furl'd. 
 
 But when he call'd on Sally Brown, 
 
 To see how she got on. 
 He found she'd got another Ben, 
 
 Whose Christian name was John. 
 
 " O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown, 
 How could you serve me so ? 
 
 I've met with many a breeze before. 
 But never such a blow." 
 
 Then reading on his 'bacco-box. 
 
 He heaved a bitter sigh. 
 And then began to eye his pipe. 
 
 And then to pipe his eye. 
 
 And then he tried to sing " All's Well," 
 But could not though he tried : 
 
 His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd 
 His pigtail till he died. 
 
 His death, which happen'd in his berth, 
 
 At fortyodd befell : 
 They went and told the sexton, and 
 
 The sexton toU'd the bell. 
 
LORD MA CA ULA Y. 819 
 
 THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 We watch'd her breathing through the night, 
 
 Her breathing soft and low, 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seem'd to speak. 
 
 So slowly moved about. 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears, 
 
 Our fears our hopes belied ; 
 We thought her dying when she slept, 
 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the morn came dim and sad 
 
 And chiU with early showers, 
 Her quiet eyelids closed : she had 
 
 Another mom than ours. 
 
 "SfS- 
 
 LORD MACAULAY. 
 
 Born 1800. Diea 1859. 
 
 Thomas Babington Macaulay was bom on 25th October in the 
 year 1800, at Rofhley Temple, in Leicestershire. His father, Zachary 
 Macaulay, will long be remembered as an earnest labourer for the 
 abolition of the slave trade. Macaulay's grandfather, the Rev. John 
 Macaulay, was a Presbyterian minister in the Highlands, of whom 
 mention is made by Dr. Johnson in his "Tour to the Hebrides." 
 Educated privately in his youth, Macaulay proceeded in due course 
 to the University, and entered at Trinity College, Cambridge. In 
 1819 he gained the Chancellor's medal for his poem entitled " Pompeii." 
 In 1821 he gained the same prize again for his poem on " Evening. " 
 The same year he was elected Craven Scholar. In 1822 he took nis 
 degree, and was elected Fellow of Trinity. In 1825 he proceeded 
 to his M.A. degree. Having adopted the legal profession, he wa= 
 called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn in 1826. During the whole of his 
 3 G 2 
 
820 LORD MA CA ULA Y. 
 
 University career Macaulay had been a devoted student. In 1825, 
 before he vi'as called to the bar, he had contributed to the Edinburgh 
 Review his much criticized article on " Milton," the first of that long 
 series of brilliant essays from his pen which appeared during more 
 than twenty years in the pages of that well-known Whig periodical. 
 Among those essays it will suffice to point attention to the splendid 
 papers on Lord Clive, Warren Hastings, William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, 
 Lord Bacon, Burleigh and his times, and one on Robert Montgomery's 
 poems, which is, and will remain, remarkable in literature as one of 
 the severest pieces of caustic ridicule that was ever penned. In 1830 
 Macaulay was returned member for Calne, through the Lansdowne 
 interest. His political career from first to last was that of a staunch 
 Whig. He became Secretary to the Board of Control for India, and 
 took a prominent part in the debates upon the Reform Bill. In 1832 
 he was returned to the reformed Parliament as member for Leeds. In 
 1834 he accepted a seat at the board of the Supreme Council in India. 
 He resigned his seat, and proceeded to Calcutta, his particular object 
 being to prepare a new code of law for India. He remained in India 
 two years and a half, and after returning to England his proposed 
 penal code was published, in 1838. It has never become law. The 
 large salary attached to the office of a member of the Supreme Council 
 enabled Lord Macaulay to save sufficient money to secure his indepen- 
 dence for the rest of his life. 
 
 Being once more settled in England, he was appointed Secretary at 
 War in 1839, and was returned member for Edinburgh in 1840. In 
 1 842 he published his metrical ballads entitled " Lays of Ancient 
 Rome." After the resignation of the Peel administration in 1846, on 
 the accession to office of the Russell cabinet, Macaulay was appointed 
 Paymaster-General of the Forces. In 1847, owing to his opinions 
 regarding the Maynooth grant, he was rejected by his constituents at 
 Edinburgh. Macaulay's retirement was a painful reflection upon the 
 "liberality" of the constituency he had honourably represented, but 
 it was a most fortunate circumstance to the public generally. He had 
 settled himself in chambers in the Albany, and there he was enabled 
 to enjoy his repose from political turmoil, and to prepare his " History" 
 from the accession of James II. In 1849 the first volumes of this 
 work appeared. They commanded a larger and more rapid sale 
 than any book which has been published in modern times. The 
 same year was noted in Macaulay's life by his being elected Lord 
 Rector of the University of Glasgow and a Bencher of Lincoln's Inn. 
 In 1852 the constituency of Edinburgh, thoroughly ashamed of the 
 narrow-minded manner in which Macaulay had been treated in 1847, 
 and repentant of it, returned him once more to Parliament, without 
 his, in any way, seeking their suffrages. They honoured him, and 
 they honoured themselves. But 1847 had practically closed Macaulay's 
 political career. The cable had been cut, and though spliced, it no 
 longer held the ship close to its moorings. Macaulay had tasted the 
 
LORD MA CA ULA Y. 821 
 
 delights of retirement and literary pursuit, undisturbed by the cares 
 and conflicts of Parliament. From 1852 to 1856 he nomir^lly re- 
 presented Edinburgh, but in reality he lived in the British Museum, 
 and at his new residence, Holly Lodge, Campden Hill, Kensington. 
 In 185s the third and fourth volumes of his History were published. 
 The enormous sale which they commanded on the day of their 
 pnbUcation testified to the interest of the public, and the avidity with 
 which it desired to enjoy the word-pictures of this great master of 
 composition. Macaulay continued in retirement at Kensington, spend- 
 ing the greater portion of his days at the British Museum, and in the 
 evenings arranging the notes he had made, in his own study. So his 
 days passed swiftly but pleasantly away. He was created by the 
 Queen a Baron of the realm, and known for n brief period as " Lord 
 Macaulay." The letters patent were dated September 10, 1857. The 
 elevation of such a man to the peerage was one of those honours con- 
 ferred upon the peerage which the Crown seldom indulges in. The 
 peerage of England has frequently been recruited by ennobling the 
 blood of successful merchants, bankets, traders, soldiers, sailors, and 
 barristers, but it remained for the present age to see a peer created, for 
 the first and only time in the history of England, solely for his merits 
 as a man of letters. Lord Macaulay, it is true, had been an ardent 
 politician, and had supported with voice and pen the Whig cause ; but 
 it was not his Whiggism that dubbed him " Lord." As a peer, the 
 remainder of his days was passed in collecting the materials for the 
 completion of his History — a History he was destined to leave a brilliant 
 fragment His health gave way, and at the close of the year 1859, 
 on the 28th day of December, Lord Macaulay died, at Holly Lodge. 
 He was buried on the 9th of January, i860, in Poets' Comer. 
 
 In this work Lord Macaulay is quoted as a poeL It is as an essayist 
 and a writer of history that he is generally r^arded by the pubUc. His 
 History, it has been truly said, reads like a romance. The political bias 
 it displays is so strong that its pictures can hardly be viewed with that 
 perfect reliance which we should wish to give to historical portraits. 
 Nevertheless they are so antithetically drawn, and'so brilliantly coloured, 
 that the charm of such painting in words is irresistible. Macaulay's 
 poetry is quite overshadowed by his prose ; but had he been unknown 
 as a prose writer, he would have enjoyed great fame as a poet His 
 "I^ys of Ancient Rome" have been as much read, and as justly 
 admired, as any historical ballads in our language. 
 
 " HORATIUS." 
 
 Lars Porsena of Clusiinn 
 By the Nine Gods he swore 
 
 That the great house of Tarquin 
 Should suffer wrong no more. 
 
822 LORD MA CA ULA Y. 
 
 By the Nine Gods he swore it, 
 
 And named a trysting day, 
 And bade his messengers -ride forth, 
 East and west, and south and north, 
 To summon his array. 
 
 East and west, and south and north, 
 
 The messengers ride fast. 
 And tower, and town, and cottage 
 
 Have heard the trumpet's blast. 
 Shame on the false Etruscan 
 
 Who lingers in his home 
 When Porsena of Clusium 
 
 Is on the march for Rome. 
 
 There be Thirty chosen prophets. 
 
 The wisest of the land, 
 Who always by Lars Porsena 
 
 Both mom and evening stand : 
 Evening and morn the Thirty 
 
 Have turned the verses o'er, 
 Traced from the right on linen white 
 
 By mighty seers of yore. 
 
 And with one voice the Thirty 
 
 Have their glad answer given : 
 " Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena ; 
 
 Go forth, beloved of Heaven ; 
 Go, and return in glory 
 
 To Clusium's royal dome, 
 And hang round Nurscia's altars 
 
 The golden shields of Rome." 
 
 But by the yellow Tiber 
 
 Was tumult and affright ; 
 From all the spacious champaign 
 
 To Rome men took their flight. 
 A mile around the city, 
 
 The throng stopped up the ways : 
 A fearful sight it was to see 
 
 Through two long nights and days. 
 
 For agfed folks on crutches, 
 And women great with child, 
 
LORD MA CA ULA Y. 823 
 
 And mothers sobbing over babes 
 
 That looked to them and smiled. 
 And sick men borne in litters 
 
 High on the necks of slaves, 
 And troops of sim-bumed husbandmen 
 
 With reaping-hooks and staves, 
 
 And droves of mules and asses 
 
 Laden with skins of wine, 
 And endless flocks of goats and sheep, 
 
 And endless herds of kine, 
 And endless trains of waggons. 
 
 That creaked beneath the weight 
 Of corn-sacks and of household goods. 
 
 Choked every roaring gate. 
 
 I wis, in all the Senate, 
 
 There was no heart so bold, 
 But sore it ached, and fast it beat. 
 
 When that ill news was told. 
 Forthwith uprose the Consul, 
 
 Up rose the Fathers all : 
 In haste they girded up their gowns, 
 
 And hied them to the wall. 
 
 They held a council standing 
 
 Before the River-gate ; 
 Short time was there, ye well may guess, 
 
 For musing or debate. 
 Out spake the Consul roundly : 
 
 " The bridge must straight go down ; 
 For since Janicvdum is lost. 
 
 Nought else can save the town." 
 
 Just then a scout came flying, 
 
 AH wild with haste and fear : 
 " To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul, 
 
 Lars Porsena is here." 
 On the low hiUs to westward 
 
 The Consul fixed his eye, 
 And saw the swarthy storm of dust 
 
 Rise fast along the sky. 
 
824 LORD MA CA ULA Y. 
 
 And nearer fast and nearer 
 
 Doth the red whirlwind come ; 
 And louder still, and still more loud, 
 From underneath that rolling cloud 
 Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, 
 
 The trampling, and the hum. 
 And plainly and more plainly 
 
 Now through the gloom appears. 
 Far to left and far to right. 
 In broken gleams of dark blue light. 
 The long array of helmets bright, 
 
 The long array of spears : 
 
 And plainly and more plainly, 
 
 Above the glimmering line, 
 Now might ye see the banners 
 
 Of twelve fair cities shine ; 
 But the banner of .proud Clusium 
 
 Was highest of them all. 
 The terror of the Umbrian, 
 
 The terror of the GauL 
 
 Then out spake brave Horatius, 
 
 The captain of the gate : 
 " To every man upon this earth 
 
 Death cometh soon or late ; 
 And how can man die better 
 
 Than facing fearful odds, 
 For the ashes of his fathers 
 
 And the temples of his Gods, 
 
 " And for the tender mother 
 
 Who dandled him to rest. 
 And for the wife who nurses 
 
 His baby at her breast. 
 And for the holy maidens 
 
 Who feed the eternal flame, 
 To save them from false Sextus 
 
 That wrought the deed of shame ? 
 
 " Hew down the bridge. Sir Consul, 
 With all the speed ye may ; 
 
 I, with two more to help me. 
 Will hold the foe in play : 
 
LORD MACAULAY. 825 
 
 In yoR straight path a thousand 
 
 May well be stopped by three. 
 Now who will stand on either hand 
 
 And keep the bridge with me ?" 
 
 Then out spake Spurius Lartiusj 
 
 A Ramnian proud was he ; 
 " Lo, I will stand at thy right hand 
 
 And keep the bridge with thee." 
 And out spake strong Herminius ; 
 
 Of Titian blood was he ; 
 " I will abide on thy left side 
 
 And keep the bridge with thee." 
 
 " Horatius," quoth the Consul, 
 
 As thou sa/st, so let it be." 
 And straight against that great array 
 
 Forth went the dauntless Three : 
 For Romans in Rome's qimrrel 
 
 Spared neither land nor gold, 
 Nor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life, 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 Now while the Three were tightening 
 
 Their harness on their backs. 
 The Consul was the foremost man 
 
 To take in hand an axe ; 
 And Fathers mixed with Commons 
 
 Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. 
 And smote upon the planks above. 
 
 And loosed the props below. 
 
 Meanwhile the Tuscan army. 
 
 Right glorious to behold. 
 Came flashing back the noonday light, 
 Rank behind rank, like surges bright 
 
 Of a broad sea of gold. 
 Four hundred trumpets sounded 
 
 A peal of warlike glee, 
 As that great host with measured tread. 
 And spears advanced, and ensigns spread. 
 Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head. 
 
 Where stood the dauntless Three. 
 
826 LORD MA CA ULA V. 
 
 The Three stood calm and silent, 
 
 And looked upon the foes, 
 And a great shout of laughter 
 
 From all the vanguard rose ; 
 And forth three chiefs came spurring 
 
 Before that deep array : 
 To earth they sprung, their swords they drew, 
 And lifted high their shields, and flew 
 
 To win the narrow way. 
 
 Stout Lartius hurled down Annus 
 
 Into the stream beneath : 
 Herrainius struck at Seius, 
 
 And clove him to the teeth : 
 At Picus brave Horatius 
 
 Darted one fiery thrust ; 
 And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 
 
 Clashed in the bloody dust. 
 
 But now no sound of laughter 
 
 Was heard among the foes ; 
 A wild and wrathful clamour 
 
 From all the vanguard rose. 
 Six spears' length from the entrance 
 
 Halted that deep array. 
 And for a space no man came forth 
 
 To win the narrow way. 
 
 But, hark ! the cry is " Astur ! " 
 
 And, lo ! the ranks divide ; 
 And the great Lord of Luna 
 
 Comes with his stately stride. 
 Upon his ample shoulders 
 
 Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 
 And in his hand he shakes the brand 
 
 Which none but he can wield. 
 
 He smiled on these bold Romans 
 A smile serene and high ; 
 
 He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 
 And scorn was in his eye. 
 
LORD MA CA ULA Y. 827 
 
 Quoth he, " The she-wolf's Utter 
 
 Stand savagely at bay : 
 But will ye dare to follow, 
 
 If Astur leads the way ? " 
 
 Then whirling up his broadsword 
 
 With both hands to the height, 
 He rushed against Horatius, 
 
 And smote with all his might. 
 With shield and blade Horatius 
 
 Right deftly turned the blow : 
 The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh ; 
 It missed the helm, but gashed the thigh : 
 The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 
 
 To see the red blood flow. 
 
 He reeled, and on Herminius 
 
 He leaned one breathing-space ; 
 Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds. 
 
 Sprang right at Astur's face : 
 Through teeth and skull and helmet 
 
 So fierce a thrust he sped, 
 The good sword stood a hand-breadth out 
 
 Behind the Tuscan's head. 
 
 On Astur's throat Horatius 
 
 Right firmly pressed his heel. 
 And twice and four times tugged amain. 
 
 Ere he wrenched out the steel. 
 " And see," he cried, " the welcome, 
 
 Fair guests, that waits you here ! 
 What noble Lucumo comes next 
 
 To taste our Roman cheer ? " 
 
 * * * 
 
 Was none who would be foremost 
 
 To lead such dire attack ; 
 But those behind cried " Forward ! " 
 
 And those before cried " Back! " 
 And backward now and forward 
 
 Wavers the deep array; 
 And on the tossing sea of steel. 
 To and fro the standards reel; 
 And the victorious trumpet-peal 
 
 Dies fitfuUy away. 
 
828 LORD MA CA ULA Y. 
 
 Yet one man for one moment 
 
 Strode out before the crowd; 
 Well known was he to all the Three, 
 
 And they gave him greeting loud : 
 " Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! 
 
 Now welcome to thy home! 
 Why dost thou stay and turn away? 
 
 Here lies the road to Rome." 
 
 Thrice looked he at the city ; 
 
 Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
 And thrice came on in fury, 
 
 And thrice turned back in dread, 
 And white with fear and hatred 
 
 Scowled at the narrow way 
 Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, 
 
 The bravest Tuscans lay. 
 
 But meanwhile axe and lever 
 Have manfully been plied ; 
 
 And now the bridge hangs tottering 
 
 . Above the boiling tide. 
 
 " Come back, come back, Horatius ! " 
 Loud cried the Fathers all. 
 
 " Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! 
 Back, ere the ruin fall 1 " 
 
 Back darted Spurius Lartius ;, 
 
 Herminius darted back ; 
 And as they passed, beneath their feet 
 
 They felt the timbers crack. 
 But when they turned their faces,, 
 
 And on the farther shore 
 Saw brave Horatius stand alone. 
 
 They would have crossed once more. 
 
 But with a crash like thunder 
 
 Fell every loosened beam, 
 And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 
 
 Lay right athwart the stream ; 
 And a long shout of triumph 
 
 Rose from the walls of Rome 
 As to the highest turret-tops 
 
 Was splashed the yellow foain. 
 * * * 
 
LORD MAC AULA Y. 
 
 Alone stood brave Horatius, 
 
 But constant still in mind ; 
 Thrice thirty thousand foes before 
 
 And the broad flood behind. 
 " Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, 
 
 With a smile on his pale face. 
 " Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena ; 
 
 Now yield thee to our grace ! " 
 
 Round turned he, as not deigning 
 
 Those craven ranks to see ; 
 Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, 
 
 To Sextus r ought spake he ; 
 But he saw on Palatinus 
 
 The white porch of his home. 
 And he spake to the noble river 
 
 That rolls by the towers of Rome : 
 
 " Oh Tiber ! Father Tiber ! 
 
 To whom the Romans pray, 
 A Roman's life, a Roman's arms. 
 
 Take thou in charge this day ! " 
 So he spake, and speaking sheathed 
 
 The good sword by his side, 
 And with his harness on his back 
 
 Plunged headlong in the tide. 
 
 No sound of joy or sorrow 
 
 Was heard from either bank; 
 But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 
 With parted lips and straining eyes. 
 
 Stood gazing where he sank : 
 And when above the surges 
 
 They saw his crest appear, 
 All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry ; 
 And even the ranks of Tuscany 
 
 Could scarce forbear to cheer. 
 
 Never I ween did swimmer. 
 
 In such an evil case. 
 Struggle through such a raging flood 
 
 Safe to the landing-place : 
 
^30 LORD MA CA ULA Y. 
 
 But his limbs were borne up bravely 
 By the brave heart within, 
 
 And our good Father Tiber 
 Bare bravely up his chin. 
 
 And now he feels the bottom ; 
 
 Now on dry earth he stands ; 
 Now round him throng the Fathers 
 • To press his gory hands ; 
 And now with shouts and clapping, 
 
 And noise of weeping loud. 
 He enters through the River-gate, 
 
 Borne by the joyous crowd. 
 
 They gave him of the corn-land. 
 
 That was of public right. 
 As much as two strong oxen 
 
 Could plough from morn till night : 
 And they made a molten image. 
 
 And set it up on high ; 
 And there it stands unto this day 
 
 To witness if I lie. 
 
 It stands in the Comitium, 
 
 Plain for all folks to see, 
 Horatius in his harness. 
 
 Halting upon one knee : 
 And underneath is written, 
 
 In letters all of gold, 
 How valiantly he kept the bridge 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 And still his name sounds stirring 
 
 Unto the men of Rome, 
 As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 
 
 To charge the Volscian home : 
 And wives still pray to Juno 
 
 For boys with hearts as bold 
 As he who kept the bridge so well 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 And in the nights of winter. 
 
 When the cold north winds blow, 
 
 And the howling of the wolves 
 Is heard amidst the snow ; 
 
LORD MACAULAY. 831 
 
 When round the lonely cottage 
 
 Roars loud the tempest's din, 
 And the good logs of Algidus 
 
 Roar louder yet \*ithin ; 
 
 When the oldest cask is opened, 
 
 And the largest lamp is Ut; 
 When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 
 
 And the kid turns on the spit; 
 When yovmg and old in circle 
 
 Around the firebrands close ; 
 When the girls are weaving baskets. 
 
 And the lads are shaping bows ; 
 
 Whjn the good man mends his armour, 
 
 And trims his helmet's plume ; 
 When the good wife's shuttle merrily 
 
 Goes flashing through the loom ; 
 With weeping and with laughter 
 
 Still is the story told, 
 How well Horatius kept the bridge 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 VALENTINE TO THE HON. MARY C. STANHOPE. 
 
 Hail, day of music, day of love. 
 
 On earth below, in air above ! 
 
 In air the turtle fondly moans, 
 
 The liimet pipes in joyous tones : 
 
 On earth the postman toils along, 
 
 Bent double by huge bales of song. 
 
 Where, rich with many a gorgeous dye. 
 
 Blazes all Cupid's heraldry ; 
 
 Myrtles and roses, doves and sparrows. 
 
 Love-knots and altars, lamps and arrows. 
 
 What nymph without wild hopes and fears 
 
 The double rap this morning hears .? 
 
 Unnumbered lasses, young and fair, 
 
 From Bethnal Green to Belgrave Square, 
 
 With cheeks high flushed and hearts loud beating. 
 
 Await the tender annual greeting. 
 
832 LORD MA CA ULA Y. 
 
 The loveliest lass of all is mine : 
 Good morrow to my Valentine ! 
 
 Good morrow, gentle child ! and then 
 
 Again good morrow and again, 
 
 Good morrow following still good morrow, 
 
 Without one cloud of strife or sorrow. 
 
 And when the god to whom we pay 
 
 In jest our homages to-day 
 
 Shall come to claim, no more in jest, 
 
 His rightful empire o'er thy breast, 
 
 Benignant may his aspect be ; 
 
 His yoke the truest liberty ; 
 
 And if a tear his power confess. 
 
 Be it a tear of happiness. 
 
 It shall be so. The Muse displays * 
 
 The future to her votary's gaze : 
 
 Prophetic rage my bosom swells j 
 
 I taste the cake, I hear the bells ! 
 
 From Conduit Street the close array 
 
 Of chariots barricades the way 
 
 To where I see, with outstretched hand. 
 
 Majestic, thy great kinsman stand. 
 
 And half unbend his brow of pride, 
 
 As welcoming so fair a bride. 
 
 Gay favours, thick as flakes of snow. 
 
 Brighten St. George's portico.'- 
 
 Within I see the chancel's pale. 
 
 The orange flowers, the Brussels veil. 
 
 The page on which those fingers white, 
 
 Still trembling from the awful rite, 
 
 For the last time shall faintly trace 
 
 The name of Stanhope's noble race ; 
 
 I see kind faces round thee pressing, 
 
 I hear kind voices whisper blessing ; 
 
 And with those voices mingles mine : 
 
 All good attend my Valentine ! 
 
 T. B. Macaulav. 
 
 Si. ValentiTi^s Day, 1851. 
 
 (i) The Lady Mary, daughter of the Earl and Countess Stanhope, was married. 
 February, 1868, at St George's, Hanover Square, to Earl Beauchanjp. 
 
833 
 
 MISS LANDON. 
 
 Born 1802. Died 1839. 
 
 Letitia Elizabeth Landon was bom in Hans Place, Chelsea, on 
 the 14th of August, 1802. Her fether, who was brother to the then 
 Dean of Exeter, was a partner in the firm of Adair and Co., army 
 agents, in Pall Mall. The childhood of " L.E.L." was passed princi- 
 pally at Trevor Park, East Bamet, under the care of a relative ; and 
 during her early years she seems to have devoured with avidity all that 
 came in her way in the shape of romance, poetry, and travels. Naturally 
 of a very imaginative turn of mind, there is little doubt the. retired life 
 she led, and the course of reading she indulged in, lai^ely contributed to 
 the development of the sentimental. Her first poetical compositions 
 appeared in the Literary Gazette in 1820, and, her father dying shortly 
 afterwards in reduced circumstances, she steadily set to work to support 
 herself and family by her literary exertions. Mr. Jerdan, the editor of 
 the Literary Gazette, was an old friend of her father's ; and her poems 
 having attracted great attention, he gave her employment in reviewing 
 works of fiction, and criticizing other books. Miss I.andon was a 
 laborious and painstaking writer, and her life up to the date of her 
 unfortunate marriage was one of literary exertion. The " Improvisa- 
 tore" was brought out in 1824; the "Troubadour" in the following 
 year. Then followed the "Golden Violet," the "Venetian Bracelet," 
 and the "Lay of the Peacock." In 1830 she published her first novel, 
 " Romance and Reality," and subsequently " Francesca Carrara " and 
 " Ethel ChurchiU." She edited Fisher's Drawing Scrap Book for eight 
 years, and was an extensive contributor to periodicals. On the 7th of 
 June, 1838, Miss Landon married Mr. Maclean, Governor of Cape Coast 
 Castle, the principal fortress on the Gold Coast, West Africa, and soon 
 afterwards left England for that colony. Her melancholy death by 
 poison in October, 1839, must for ever remain a mystery. She was 
 found lying on the floor with a bottle of prussic acid in her hand ; but 
 whether taken by accident or designedly administered there was no 
 evidence to show. She was buried where she died, and her husband 
 erected a tablet to her memory with a Latin inscription. The miserable 
 end of "L.E.L.," as well as the vein of intense sadness which runs 
 through all she wrote, impress the reader with the idea that she was a 
 woman of a morbid and melancholy nature, whereas, in private life, she 
 was remarkable for cheerfiil playfulness and ready wit. Disappointed 
 love was the principal burden of her theme, and her poetry, though 
 ahoonding in passages of beauty and feeling, will continue to be more 
 popular with the young than with the more advanced in years. 
 
 3 H 
 
8^4 MISS LANDON. 
 
 YEARNINGS FOR IMMORTALITY. 
 
 I am myself but a vile link 
 Amid life's weary chain ; 
 
 But I have spoken hallowed words, — 
 Oh, do not say in vain ! 
 
 My first, my last, my only wish ; 
 
 Say, will my charmed chords 
 Wake to the morning light of fame. 
 
 And breathe again my words ? 
 
 Will the young maiden, when her tears 
 Alone in moonlight shine — 
 
 Tears for the absent and the loved — 
 Murmur some song of mine ? 
 
 Will the pale youth by his dim lamp. 
 
 Himself a dying flame. 
 From many an antique scroll beside 
 
 Choose that which bears my name ? 
 
 Let music make less terrible 
 The silence of the dead ; 
 
 I care not, so my spirit last 
 Long after life has fled. 
 
 THE TROUBADOUR. 
 
 He raised the golden cup from the board ; 
 
 It sparkled with purple wealth ; 
 He kissed the brim her lip had prest. 
 
 And drank to his ladye's health. 
 
 Ladye, to-night I pledge thy name ; 
 
 To-morrow thou shalt pledge mine ; 
 Ever the smile of beauty should light 
 
 The victor's blood-red wine. 
 
 There are some flowers of brightest bloom 
 
 Amid thy beautiful hair : 
 Give me those roses ; they shall be 
 
 The favour I will wear 
 
MISS LANDON. 835 
 
 For ere their qolour is whtJly gone, 
 
 Or the breath of their sweetness fled, 
 They shall be placed in thy curls again. 
 
 But d/d of a deejier red. 
 
 The warrior rode forth in the morning light, 
 
 And beside his snow-white plume 
 Were the roses wet with the sparkling de*, 
 
 Like pearls on their crimson bloom. 
 
 The maiden stood on her highest tower. 
 
 And watch'd her knight depart : 
 She dash'd her tears aside, but her hand 
 
 Might not still her beating heart. 
 
 AH day she watch'd the distant clouds 
 
 Float on the distant air, 
 A crucifix upon her neck, 
 
 And on her lips a prayer. 
 
 The sun went down, and twilight came 
 
 With her banner of pearly grey, 
 And then afar she saw a band 
 
 Wind down the vale their way. 
 
 They came like victors, for high o'er their ranks 
 
 Were their crimson colours borne ; 
 And a stranger pennon droop'd beneath, — 
 
 But that was bow'd and torn. 
 
 But she saw no white steed first in the ranks. 
 
 No rider that spurr'd before ; 
 But the evening shadows w^re closing fast. 
 
 And she could see no more. 
 
 She tum'd from her Watch on the lonely tower, 
 
 In haste to reach the hall. 
 And as she sprang down the winding stair, 
 
 She heard the drawbridge fall. 
 
 A hundred harps their welcome rung. 
 
 Then paused, as if in fear; 
 The ladye entered the hall, and saw 
 
 Her true knight stretch'd on his bier. 
 
 3H2 
 
83* MISS LANDON. 
 
 HANNIBAL'S OATH. 
 
 And the night was dark and calm, 
 There was not a breath of air; 
 
 The leaves of the grove were still, 
 As the presence of death was there : 
 
 Only a moaning sound 
 Came from the distant sea; 
 
 It was as if, like life, 
 It had no tranquillity. 
 
 A warrior and a child 
 
 Pass'd through the sacred wood, 
 Which, like a mystery. 
 
 Around the temple stood. 
 
 The warrior's brow was worn 
 With the weight of casque and plume. 
 
 And sun-burnt was his cheek. 
 
 And his eye and brow were gloom. 
 
 The child was young and fair, 
 But the forehead large and high. 
 
 And the dark eye's flashing light 
 Seem'd to feel their destiny. 
 
 The ground rock'd beneath their feet, 
 The thunder shook the dome ; 
 
 But the boy stood firm, and swore 
 Eternal hate to Rome. 
 
 There's a page in history 
 
 O'er which tears of blood were wept, 
 And that page is the record 
 
 How that oath of hate was kept. 
 
 CRESCENTIUS." 
 
 I looked upon his brow ; no sign 
 
 Of guilt or fear was there : 
 He stood as proud by that death-shrine 
 
 As even o'er Despair 
 
 (i) Consul of the Romans in the reign of the Emperor Otho HI. He attempted -to 
 shake off the Saxon yoke, and was besieged by Otho in the Mole of Hadrian (long 
 called the Tower of Crescentius.) He was betrayed and beheaded. 
 
MISS LANDON. 837 
 
 He had a power. In his eye 
 There was a quenchless energy, 
 
 A spirit that could dare 
 The deadliest form that Death could take, 
 And dare it for the daring's sake. 
 
 He stood, the fetters on his hand ; 
 
 He raised them haughtily : 
 And had that grasp been on the brand. 
 
 It could not wave on high 
 With freer pride than it waved now. 
 Around he looked with changeless brow 
 
 On many a torture nigh j 
 The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel. 
 And, worst of all, his own red steel. 
 
 I saw him once before ; he rode 
 
 Upon a coal-black steed. 
 And tens of thousands thronged the road. 
 
 And bade their warrior speed. 
 His helm, his breastplate, were of gold. 
 And graved with many a dent, that told 
 
 Of many a soldier's deed ; 
 The sun shone on his sparkling mail. 
 And danced his snow-plume on the gale. 
 
 But now he stood chained and alone, 
 
 The headsman by his side. 
 The plume, the hehn, the charger gone : 
 
 The sword which had defied 
 The mightiest lay broken near ; 
 And yet no sign or soimd of fear 
 
 Came from that lip of pride ; 
 And never king or conqueror's brow 
 Wore higher look than his did now. 
 
 He bent beneath the headsman's stroke 
 
 With an uncovered eye ; 
 A wild shout from the numbers broke 
 
 Who thronged to see him die. 
 It was a people's loud acclaim, 
 The voice of anger and of shame, 
 
 A nation's fimeral cry, 
 Rome's wail above her only son. 
 Her patriot, and her latest one. 
 
838 
 
 CHARLES SWAIN. 
 
 Born 1803. Living. 
 
 Charles Swain was bom in Manchester in 1803. He was educated 
 in his native place, and has continued a resident there ever since. His 
 father, a native of Knutsford, in Cheshire, had married a French lady 
 of the name of Tavare. She was left a widow when her only child 
 was but six years of age. On leaving school Swain was taken into the 
 business of his uncle, M. Tavare, who was proprietor of dye-works 
 near Manchester. Having abandoned this occupation, Swain joined 
 the firm of Lockett and Co., engravers. He has continued to follow 
 the business of an engraver in Manchester from that time to the 
 present. Swain first became known to the public by his contributions 
 to the Literary Gazette, in its palmy days, when edited by Mr. Jerdan. 
 From time to time a variety of poetical productions written by him 
 appeared in periodicals, and the "Annuals," then specially popular. 
 In 1827 he published a volume entitled "Metrical Essays;" in 1831 
 "The Mind, and other Poems." "The Mind" is the most important 
 work from Mr. Swain's pen, and has gone through several editions. In 
 1832 a poem entitled " Dryburgh Abbey," on the death of Sir Walter 
 Scott, was received by the public with marked favour. In 1847 appeared 
 "Dramatic Chapters;" in 1849, "English Melodies;" in 1853, "The 
 Letters of Laura d'Auvergne;" and in 1863, "Art and Fashion," 
 a work which contains spirited dramatic pictures of Gainsborough, 
 Reynolds, Leonardo da Vinci, and other celebrated artists. When 
 the poem on Dryburgh Abbey appeared in 1832, Southey was so 
 delighted with it, that he exclaimed, "If Manchester is not proud of 
 her poet, the time will come when she will be so. His poetry is made 
 of the right materials. If ever man was bom to be a poet, he certainly 
 is." The prediction has long since been fulfilled. The people of 
 Manchester have on various occasions, and in various ways, testified 
 their admiration for Iheir poet, and their affection for a man who is 
 universally beloved. 
 
 Charles Swain is best known as the author of Ballads and Melodies 
 which have had immense popularity and circulation, not only in England, 
 but also throughout America ; and, by means of translations, in France 
 and Germany. In America his poems and songs have been sold in 
 thousands of copies in successive editions. 
 
CHARLES SWAIN. 839 
 
 THE MIND. 
 
 There's beauty in the soft, warm, summer morn, 
 When leaves are sparkling with the early dew ; 
 When birds awake, and buds and flowers are born. 
 And the rich sun appears, half trembling, through 
 The crimson haze and dim luxurious blue 
 Of the far eastern heaVns. There's beauty deep 
 From mountain-tops to catch the distant view 
 Of quiet glen, wood-path, wild craggy steep, 
 Or cool sequester'd coast where lonely waters sleep. 
 
 There's beauty in the noontide atmosphere, 
 When willows bend their graceful boughs to meet 
 The fountain waters — deUcately clear — 
 When midway heaven the wild lark carols sweet 
 There's beauty in the tender traits which fleet 
 Along the skiey shores and isles of gold, — 
 That seem just formed for holy angels' feet, — 
 Gleaming with gifts of an immortal mould. 
 God ! could Thy name be lost, while men such scenes behold ? 
 
 There's beauty in the still, blue hour of night. 
 When streams sing softly through the moonlit vale, 
 When, one by one, shoot forth the stars to light, 
 Dreamy and cold, and spiritually pale. 
 There's beauty on the ocean, when the gale 
 Dashes the merry billows to the strand ; 
 When like a phantom flits some wand'ring sail, 
 White as the moonbeam on the glittering sand, 
 And distant flute-notes rise, touched by some skilful hand. 
 
 There's beauty on the quiet lake afar, 
 When wild-birds sleep upon its voiceless breast ; — 
 The lonely mirror of a single star. 
 Pale shining in the solitary west. 
 There's harmony and beauty in that rest. 
 So placid, stirless, lonely — and so deep — 
 We scarcely move, or dare to whisper, lest 
 A word should break the magic of that sleep, 
 And start the spirit nymphs who watch around it keep. 
 
 There's beauty on the mountains, when the snow 
 Of thousand ages on their forehead lies, 
 
840 CHARLES SWAIN. 
 
 Purple and glittering in the sunset glow, 
 The gala light of the Italian skies ; 
 When gorgeously the clear prismatic dyes 
 Illumine ice-built arches, crystal walls, 
 That like the mirrors of the spheres arise. 
 Or proud magician's visionary halls, 
 Arrayed for merry masques, for pomps and carnivals. 
 
 There's beauty in the old monastic pile, 
 When purple twilight, hke a nun, appears 
 Bending o'er ruin'd arch and wasted aisle, 
 Majestic glories of departed years ; 
 Whilst dark above the victor ivy rears 
 Its sacrilegious baimer o'er the shrine, 
 Once holy with a dying martyr's tears : 
 Yet amidst dust, and darkness, and decline, 
 A beauty mantles still the edifice divine ! 
 
 All beauty is the Mind's ! The dews of earth. 
 Her loveliest breathings, her serenest skies. 
 Ne'er warm'd such noble feelings into birth 
 As from our own imaginations rise ; 
 The bright, illuminated memories 
 Which are the rays of the soul's world, the gay 
 And fond creations of our youthful eyes ; 
 Beauties which set not with the setting day, 
 But hold a life within — a charm against decay ! 
 
 Sculpture. 
 
 Approach the tomb of Julius, and behold 
 The might of human intellect : view grace 
 And saintly majesty in marble mould. 
 There stands the Prophet,"^ as before the face 
 Of his Eternal Master : there we trace 
 The source and strength of inspiration ; there 
 Our feelings grow too mighty for the space 
 That earth may yield them, and far onward bear 
 The soul to loftier spheres, to which that form seems heir. 
 
 Sculpture is Mind enchanted into stone ; 
 A voiceless record, a mute harmony, 
 
 (i) The figure of Moses by Michael Angelo upon the tomb of Pope Julius II. 
 
CHARLES SWAIN. 841 
 
 Omnipotent in grandeur all its own ; 
 Majestic shrine of a world's memory ; 
 Whose shadow rises from antiquity- 
 Girt by the genius of proud empires dead, 
 All forms heroic, eminent, and free, 
 Spirits whose good or evil names have shed 
 Dishonour or renown upon the earth we tread. 
 * * * * 
 
 Can it be marble upon which we gaze ? — 
 That brow is burning with intelligence ; 
 Language alone its melody delays, 
 As loth to leave a hp whose excellence 
 Surpasseth mortal beauty ! Stir not hence — 
 'TwiU breathe — ^'twill move — the spell will be unbound 
 That chains the magic of its eloquence — 
 Thy heart be ravished with the gifts of sound ; 
 For, oh ! if truth's on earth, here is ApoUo found ! 
 
 Wander of Art, immortal statue, thou, 
 Whom the transcendent genius of man 
 Endow'd with glory : unto thee we bow ; 
 Thou look'st indeed eternal ! Here we can 
 Compress aU loveliness into one span 
 Of inspiration : 'tis the glance, the mould, 
 The impress of divinity ! began 
 And finished ere the glorious thought grew cold 
 That gave the Sun-God birth, — and bade the world behold. 
 
 Music. 
 
 Where lives tie power to touch, to soothe, to charm. 
 To animate, depress, appal, inspire, 
 The human Mind ? its energies to warm 
 With aU a Hampden's patriotic fire ? 
 To stir the bosom with unquench'd desire 
 Of war's triumphant glory and renown .' 
 Hark ! 'tis the sound of clarions and the lyre ; 
 Banners are waving through the festal town ; 
 The Hero comes ! he comes, with his victorious crown ! 
 
 Feel ye it not ? 'Tis music's matchless spell, 
 Thrilling from nerve to nerve, gushing the sight 
 With tears of feeUng indescribable. 
 With sensibility's refined deUght ! 
 
842 CHARLES SWAIN. 
 
 List ! Hear ye, through the still and lonely night, 
 The distant hymn of mournful voices roll, 
 Solemn and low ? It is the burial rite : 
 How deep its sadness sinks into the soul, 
 As slow the passing bell wakes its far, lingering knoll ! 
 
 Yes ; Music is the memory of the heart, 
 And Memory is the melody of love ! 
 How many dear affections round us start, 
 How many social pleasures do we prove. 
 When Music, like a spirit from above. 
 Hallows the hour, until it seems divine ! 
 When voices in melodious feeling move, 
 When Poesy and Harmony combine 
 To soften and subdue, to gladden and refine ! 
 
 THE SHIPS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 The ships, the ships of England ! how gallantly they sweep 
 By town and city, fort and tower, — defenders of the deep ! 
 We build no bastions- 'gainst the foe, no mighty walls of stone ; 
 Our warlike castles breast the tide — ^the boundless sea's their own ! 
 
 The ships, the ships of England ! What British heart is cold 
 To the honour of his native isle, to the deathless deeds of old ? 
 From quenched Armada's vaunted power to glorious Trafalgar, 
 From Philip to Napoleon; when set Britannia's star? 
 
 The ships, the ships of England ! Where'er the surges roar. 
 Along the dark Atlantic, by the wild East- Indian shore. 
 Where icebergs flash destruction down, or sultry breezes play. 
 The flag of England floats alone, and triumphs on her way. 
 
 Where sweeps the wind, or swells the wave, our vessels glad 
 
 the view : 
 The wondering savage marks their decks, and stays his swift 
 
 canoe ; 
 The Greenlander forsakes his sledge to watch each distant sail 
 Pass, like a spirit of the deep, beneath the moonlight pale. 
 
 Oh wives, that love your cottage-homes ! oh maids, that love 
 
 the green ! 
 And youths, in whose firm, fearless limbs a free-bom grace 
 
 is seen ! 
 Give honour to the noble ships, that fame and freedom lend. 
 And bid your songs of gratitude from hill and vale ascend. 
 
CHARLES SWAIN. 843 
 
 What horrors of the midnight storm our reckless seamen know, 
 When thunders rattle overhead, and billows plunge below, 
 When howls the long ferocious blast, like some funereal strain, 
 And fast and far the vessel drives along the dreadful main ! 
 
 How oft the cannon of the foe hath struck their dauntless breast. 
 While ye smiled o'er the social fire, or found the balm of rest ! 
 How oft the shriek of drowning men the startled vulture caught, 
 When ye had closed your doors in peace, and home's sweet 
 pleasures sought ! 
 
 Then wake your songs of gratitude to those who brave the sea, 
 And peril Ufe that ye may live and still prove fair and free ; 
 Amidst your harvest-fields, oh, bid this earnest prayer prevail : 
 " God guard the ships of England, o'er whatever sea they sail ! " 
 
 THE CHAPEL BELL. 
 
 The wintry winds blow wild and shrill. 
 
 Like ghosts they shriek across the moor, 
 Or howl beneath the window sill, 
 
 Or shake with gusty hands the door ; 
 And, hour by hour, from some lone bell 
 
 A wizard sound at night doth steal : 
 Sometimes 'tis like a funeral knell, 
 
 Sometimes 'tis like a marriage peal ! 
 I know it is some fiend that stands 
 
 Within the belfry's ghastly gloom. 
 And with its stark and fleshless hands 
 
 Rings out dead souls from tomb to tomb. 
 
 I long to weep, I pray to sleep. 
 
 But through the haunted house it sounds. 
 And through my flesh the chill veins creep 
 
 Like wintry worms in burial-grounds. 
 A weight is on my heart, my brain, 
 
 A shadow flits across the floor ; 
 And then I know it is in vain 
 
 To pine, or pray, or struggle more ! 
 Well, let the foul fiend ring till mom, 
 
 Till the red sun awakens men. 
 Yet, though thus tortured and forlorn. 
 
 What then I did I'd do again I 
 
844 CHARLES SWAIN. 
 
 He thought it fine to feign a love 
 
 Which woo'd my spirit to his feet ; 
 He raised his false, false eyes above, 
 
 And vow'd, what's useless to repeat. 
 Whate'er he vow'd, there is no name 
 
 So black on earth as his deceit ; 
 Whate'er he vow'd, there is no shame 
 
 So vile as in his heart did beat. 
 Ring out, thou bitter fiend, till mom 
 
 Awakes the prying eyes of men ! 
 Yet prison'd, madden'd, and forlorn, 
 
 What then I did I'd do again ! 
 
 Not slightly was I woo'd or won, 
 
 For years the whisp'ring false one came ; 
 And nought a saint might fear to shun 
 
 Forewarn'd me of the villain's aim. 
 I loved him. Loved .' I would have died. 
 
 If dying aught to him might spare ; 
 I would have every pain defied 
 
 To save him from a single care. 
 Toll, toll, thou fiend, ring out, and tell 
 
 The murd'rous deed from goal to goal 1 
 I know my name is writ in hell, 
 
 I feel there's blood upon my soul ! 
 
 The dawn arose, but not for me 
 
 The bridal train did wait and smile, 
 As slowly, stately, three by three. 
 
 They swept in beauty down the aisle. 
 I crept behind the pillar'd base ; 
 
 The bride's white garments fann'd my cheek; 
 The blood rush'd madly to my face ; 
 
 I dared not breathe, I could not speak ! 
 Laugh out, thou fiend, laugh out and scorn. 
 
 With mocking sounds, my weary ear ! 
 Is there no other, lost, forlorn. 
 No other wretch whose life's a tear ? 
 
 There rose a whisper deep and low — 
 A sound that took away my sight ; 
 
 All things around me seem'd to flow, 
 And wander in a demon light. 
 
 I nerved my hand to grasp the steel ; 
 I stepp'd between him and his bride. 
 
CHARLES SWAIN. .845 
 
 Who'd think so black a heart could feel ? 
 
 Could pouf so warm, so red a tide ?— 
 Is there no sinful soul but mine, 
 
 Thou endless fiend, that thou must make 
 These serpent sounds to hiss and twine 
 
 Around me till my senses ache ? 
 
 I had not stabb'd him, but I saw 
 
 My noble father's thin gray hairs ; 
 And that, perchance, which tears might draw. 
 
 Drew blood upon me unawares. 
 I flung the shrieking bride apart ; 
 
 I sprang before him in his guilt ; 
 The steel went quivering to his heart ; 
 
 Would God my own blood had been spilt ! 
 Laugh out, dark fiend ! beside me then 
 
 A wilder sound than thine was spread, 
 A cry I ne'er shall hear again 
 
 TiU every grave gives up its dead. 
 
 Twelve months — dark months — I groan'd in pain ; 
 
 A curse lay heavy on my head. 
 They tell me I have ne'er been sane 
 
 Since that wild hour the bridegroom bled ; 
 They say no shadow stalks the room, 
 
 No midnight tolling haunts the air. 
 'Tis false ! you hear it through the gloom ; 
 
 And, see, the phantotn passes — there ! 
 Mad — mad ? 'Twere blissful but to lose 
 
 One hour froin self, one moment free 
 From thoughts that every hope refuse. 
 
 From life whose lot is misery ! 
 
 Mad — ^mad ? As if the sense could leave 
 
 The form it tortured ! Never more 
 Shall I do aught but rave and grieve, 
 
 And wish — vain wish .'—this hfe were o'er. 
 Away ! — a thousand lives have gone, 
 
 A thousand phantoms glide in hell ; 
 But not one perish'd — ^no, not one— 
 
 So black in guilt as he who fell ! 
 Night after night, 'mid sounds aghast, 
 
 That fiend, that spectre, haunts my way. 
 What shall I see when life hath past. 
 
 And night is mine that knows no day ? 
 
846 CHARLES SWAIN. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Day after day, the angels say, 
 
 Innumerable souls ascend ; 
 Day after day we mourn and pray 
 
 For some departed friend ; 
 Yet never kinder heart than thine, 
 
 And never truer breast. 
 E'er soar'd unto a world divine, 
 
 Or won immortal rest. 
 
 school-companion, playmate, friend 1 
 I muse the long years o'er. 
 
 And weep to see the shroud descend 
 Which folds thee evermore : 
 
 1 shrink to yield thee to the dust, 
 To mark the funeral pall. 
 
 And strive to teach my heart to trust 
 In Him who feels for all ! 
 
 And can it be that thou art dead, 
 
 And I left to deplore ? 
 I almost seem to list thy tread. 
 
 To hear thee at the door ; 
 The path it was thy wont to cross 
 
 I gaze upon, and wait ; 
 And scarce can realize my loss — 
 
 A loss so deep, so great ! 
 
 Our school-days seem to dawn again ; 
 
 Again the same light beams ; 
 A different light than falls on men, 
 
 A radiance full of dreams. 
 The ia.twxe.—what it was to be ! 
 
 When all our hopes seem'd truth. 
 Alas, the things we live to see 
 
 Are not the dreams of youth ! 
 
 Is there a childhood in that sphere 
 
 To which thy soul hath fled ? 
 Do we begin the spirit-year 
 
 New-bom from out the dead .'' 
 Tread we eternity at first. 
 
 As we trod time of yore .■' 
 Or does immortal glory burst 
 
 At once from God's own shore ? 
 
LORD LYTTON. 847 
 
 O gate of death ! O gate of life ! 
 
 O mystery sublime ! 
 With everlasting wonders rife, 
 
 And marvels of aU time j — 
 Say, shall affections still remain ? 
 
 Shall memories endure ? 
 And links of friendship's endless chain 
 
 Eternity secure ? 
 
 Shall truth find truth, and love find love. 
 
 Within that better world ? 
 Shall all the tears and pains we prove 
 
 Be ever earthward hurl'd ? 
 Shall friend meet Mend in that blest hour, 
 
 Before their Saviour's sight. 
 And feel that Death no more hath power 
 
 To separate or bUght ? 
 
 My heart hath faith, my soul hath hope. 
 
 Once more to see thy face ; 
 A few brief years with time to cope, 
 
 Then newer worlds to trace ! 
 A few brief years on earth to roam, 
 
 And then^ when death is o'er, 
 Angels for friends, and heaven for home, 
 
 And love for evermore [ 
 
 LORD LYTTON. 
 
 Born 1805. Living, 
 
 Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer is the youngest son 
 of the late General Bulwer, of Heydon Hall, Norfolk. His mother, 
 Elizabeth Barbara,' was the only daughter and heiress of Richard War- 
 burton Lytton, of Knebworth, Herts. While an undergraduate at Trinity 
 Hall, Cambridge, he won the Chancellor's prize medal, by his poem 
 "Sculpture." He took his Bachelor's degree in 1826, his Master of 
 Arts in 1835, and both Oxford and Cambridge subsequently conferred 
 on him the honorary degree of D.C.L. He first appeared as an author 
 in 1820 by the publication of " Ismael," an Oriental tale. As a writer 
 of fiction second only in public esteem to Sir Walter Scott, he published 
 
848 LORD LYTTON. 
 
 his first novel, "Pelhara, or the Adventures of a Gentleman," in 1827. 
 Among many others, "Eugene Aram" appeared in 1822, and " Rienzi" 
 in 1835. In 1831 Mr. Bulwer represented St. Ives, and in 1832 was 
 returned as member for Lincoln in the new reformed Parliament. 
 Warmly attached to the Liberal interest, he published in 1835 a pam- 
 phlet called " The Crisis, " which had a great run, and added greatly to his 
 political renown. It was soon after this that Mr. Bulwer made his first 
 .appearance as a dramatic writer, in a play called " The Duchess of La 
 Valli^re." His next work, " Athens : its Rise and Fall," was historical : 
 then followed " Ernest Maltravers," in 1837. On the occasion of her 
 Majesty's coronation in 1838 Mr. Bulwer was made a baronet; a dis- 
 tinction conferred on him in recognition of his claims on literature. In 
 the same year appeared his " Lady of Lyons," which was brilliantly 
 successful ; the part of Claude Melnotte being performed by Mr. 
 Macready : and in 1839 he published " Richelieu." In a brief notice it 
 is impossible to give anything like a list of Lord Lytton's contributions 
 to poetry or prose, or an account of a life of such literary toil. " The 
 New Timon" appeared in 1845 ; and " King Arthur," which he considers 
 his finest, and which is the most elaborate poem written in modem days, 
 was published in 1849. On the death of his mother, in 1843, Sir E. 
 Bulwer succeeded to her ancestral property, and, in compliance with 
 her will, took the name of Lytton in addition to his own. In 1852 he 
 was returned to Parliament as one of the members for Hertfordshire, on 
 the Conservative side; and on Lord Derby's accession to office in 1858 
 was appointed to a seat in the Cabinet, and the post of Secretary of 
 State for the Colonies. He was created Lord Lytton during Lord 
 Derby's administration, in recognition of his political services. As a 
 brilliant writer of fiction, Bulwer Lytton has achieved a world-wide 
 fame, while as a Parliamentary speaker he is perhaps second to none in 
 elegance of diction. 
 
 FROM "KING ARTHUR." 
 
 THE MEETING OF jEGLE AND KING ARTHUR. 
 
 Young ^gle sits within her palace bower ; 
 
 She hears the cymbals clashing from afar : 
 So Ormuzd's music welcomed in the hour 
 
 When the sun hasten'd to his morning-star. 
 Smile, Star of Morn ; he cometh from above ! 
 
 And twilight melts around the steps of Love. 
 
 • 
 
 Save the grey Augur (since the unconscious child 
 Sprang to the last kiss of her dying sire) 
 
 Those eyes by man's rude presence undefil'd 
 Had deepen'd into woman's : as a lyre 
 
I.ORD LYTTON. ^49 
 
 Hung on unwitness'd boughs, amidst the shade, 
 And but to air her soul its music made. 
 
 Fair was her prison, wall'd with woven flowers, 
 
 In a soft isle embraced by softest waters, 
 Linnet and lark the sentries to the towers. 
 
 And for the guard Etruria's infant daughters ; 
 But stronger far than walls the antique law. 
 And more than hosts religion's shadowy awe. 
 
 Thus lone, thus reverenced, the young virgin grew 
 Into the age when on the heart's calm wave 
 
 The light winds tremble, and emotions new 
 Steal to the peace departing childhood gave. 
 
 When for the vague Beyond the captive pines. 
 
 And the soul misses — what it scarce divines. 
 
 Lo where she sits (and blossoms arch the dome) 
 Girt by young handmaids ! — Near and nearer swelling 
 
 The cymbals sound before the steps that come 
 O'er rose and hyacinth to the bridal dwelling, 
 
 And clear and loud the simimer air along 
 
 From virgin voices floats the choral song. 
 
 Lo, on those locks of night the myrtle crown ! 
 
 Lo, where the heart beats quick beneath the veil ! 
 Lo, where the lids, cast tremulously down, 
 
 Cloud stars which Eros as his own might hail ! 
 Oh lovelier than Endymion's loveUest dream, 
 Joy to the heart on which those eyes shall beam ! 
 
 The bark comes bounding to the islet shore ; 
 
 The treUised gates fly back j the footsteps fall 
 Through jasmined galleries on the threshold floor ; 
 
 And, in the Heart-Enchainer's golden thrall, 
 There, spell-bound halt ; — so, first since youth began. 
 Her eyes meet youth in the charm'd eyes of man ! 
 
 And there Art's two opposed Ideals rest ; 
 
 There the twin flowers of the old world bloom forth ; 
 The classic symbol of the gentle West, 
 
 And the bold type of the chivalric North. 
 What trial waits thee, Cymrian, sharper here 
 Than the wolf's death-fang or the Saxon's spear? 
 3 I 
 
85b LORD LVTTON. 
 
 The Parting of ^gle and Arthur. 
 
 With violet buds bright ^gle, in her bower, 
 Knits the dark riches of her lustrous hair ; 
 
 Her heart springs eager to the magic hour 
 When to loved eyes 'tis glorious to be fair : 
 
 Gleams of a neck proud as the swan's escape 
 
 The light-spun tunic rounded to the shape. 
 
 The airy veil, its silver cloud dividing, 
 
 Falls, and floats fragrant, from the violet crown. 
 
 What happy thought is in that breast presiding, 
 Like some serenest bird that settles down 
 
 (Its wanderings over) on calm summer eves 
 
 Into its nest, amid the secret leaves ? 
 
 What happy thought in those large tranquil eyes 
 Speaks of a bliss remote from human fear ? 
 
 Speaks of a sOUl which like a star supplies 
 Its own circumfluent lustrous atmosphere ? 
 
 Weaves beam on beam around its peace, and glows 
 
 Soft thro' the splendour which itself bestows? 
 
 Who ever gazed on perfect happiness. 
 Nor felt it as the shadow cast from God ? 
 
 It seems so stiU in its sublime excess. 
 So brings all heaven around its hush'd abode, 
 
 That in its very beauty awe has birth, 
 
 Dismay'd by too much glory for the earth. 
 
 Across the threshold now abruptly strode 
 
 Her youth's stern guardian. " Child of Rasena," 
 
 He said, " the lover on thy youth bestow'd 
 For the last time on earth thine eyes survey, 
 
 Unless thy power can chain the faithless breast. 
 
 And sated bliss deigns gracious to be blest." 
 
 " Not so ! " cried Arthur, as his loyal knee 
 Bent to the earth, and with the knightly truth 
 
 Of his right hand he clasp'd her own ; " to be 
 Thine evermore ; youth mingled with thy youth, 
 
 Age with thine age ; in thy grave mine ; above. 
 
 Soul with thy soul ; — this is the Christian's love ! 
 
 " Oft wouldst thou smile, believing smile, to hear 
 Thy lover speak of knighthood's holy vow — 
 
LORD LYTTON. S51 
 
 That vow holds falsehood more abhorr'd than fear — 
 
 And canst thou doubt both love and knighthood now?" 
 His words rush'd on ; told of the threaten'd land, 
 The fates confided to the sceptred hand. 
 
 Here gathering woes, and there suspended toU, 
 And the stem warning from the distant seer. 
 
 " Thine be my people, thine this bleeding soil ! 
 Queen of my realm, its groaning murmurs hear ! 
 
 Then ask thyself, what manhood's choice should be ; 
 
 False to my country, were I worthy thee ? " 
 
 Dim through her struggling sense the light came slo\ir, 
 Struck fi-om those words of fire. Alas, poor child ! 
 
 What, in thine isle of roses, shouldst thou know 
 Of earth's grave duties? of that stormy wild 
 
 Of care and carnage, the relentless strife 
 
 Of man with happiness, and soul with life ? 
 
 Thou who hadst seen the sun but rise and set 
 
 O'er one Satumian Arcady of rest, 
 Snatch'd from the Age of Iron ? Ever yet 
 
 Dwells that fine instinct in the noble breast. 
 Which each high truth intuitive receives. 
 And what the Reason grasps not, Faith believes. 
 
 So in mute woe, one hand to his resign'd. 
 And one press'd firmly on her swelling heart. 
 
 Passive she heard, and in her labouring mind 
 Strove with the dark enigma — "part ! to part! " 
 
 Till, having solved it by the beams that broke 
 
 From that clear soul on -hers, struggling she spoke : 
 
 " Thou bid'st me trust thee ! — This is my reply : 
 
 Trust is my life ; to trust thee is to live ! 
 And eVn farewell less bitter than thy sigh 
 
 For something ^gle is too poor to give. 
 Thou speak'st of dread and terror, strife and woe ; 
 And I might wonder why they tempt thee so ; 
 
 " And I might 'ask how more can mortals please 
 The heavens, than thankful to enjoy the earth ; 
 
 But -through its mist my soul, though faintly, sees 
 Where thine sweeps on beyond this mountain girth. 
 
 And, awed and dazzled, bending I confess 
 
 Life may have holier ends than happiness. 
 312 
 
Ssz LORD LYTTON. 
 
 " Yes, as thou ofFerest joy upon the shrine 
 Of some bright good, all human joys above. 
 
 So does my heart its altar seek in thine, 
 
 Content to bleed ; — thee, not myself, I love ! " 
 
 Sighing, she ceased ; and yet still seem'd to sigh, 
 
 As doth the wave on vi-hich the zephyrs die. 
 
 Then, as she felt his tears upon her hand. 
 Sorrow woke sorrow, and her face she bow'd : 
 
 As when the silver gates of heaven expand. 
 And on the earth descends the melting cloud, 
 
 So sunk the spirit from sublimer air, 
 
 And all the woman rush'd on her despair.. 
 
 " To lose thee — oh, to lose thee ! To live on 
 And see the sun — ^not thee 1 WUl the sun shine, 
 
 Will the birds sing, flowers bloom,. when thou art gone.' 
 Desolate, desolate ! Thy right hand in mine, 
 
 Swear, by the past, thou wilt return ! Oh, say, 
 
 Say it again ! " voice died in sobs away ! 
 
 Mute look'd the Augur, with his deathful eyes. 
 On the last anguish of their look'd embrace. 
 
 "Priest," cried the lover, " canst thou deem this prize 
 Lost to my future ? No, though round the place 
 
 Yon Alps took life, with all the dire array 
 
 Of demon legions, Love would force the way. 
 
 " Hear me, adored one ! " On the silent ear 
 The promise fell, and o'er the unconscious frame 
 
 Wound the protecting arm. — " Since neither fear 
 Of the great Powers thou dost blaspheming name, 
 
 Nor the soft impulse native in man's heart, 
 
 Restrains thee, doom'd one ; hasten to depart. 
 
 " Come, in thy treason merciful at least. 
 
 Come, while those eyes by pitying slumbers bound 
 
 See not thy shadow pass from earth ! " — The priest 
 Spoke .; and now caU'd the infant handmaids round; 
 
 But o'er that form with arms that vainly cling. 
 
 And words that idly comfort, bends the King. 
 
 " Nay, nay, look up ! It is these arms that fold ; — 
 I still am here ; — this hand, these tears, are mine." 
 
 Then, when they sought to loose her from his hold. 
 He waved them back with a fierce jealous sign ; 
 
LORD LYTTON. 853 
 
 O'er her hush'd breath his listening ear he bow'd, 
 And the awed children round him wept ^oud. 
 
 But when the soul broke faint from its eclipse, 
 And his own name came, shaping life's first sigh, 
 
 His very heart seem'd breaking in the lips 
 Press'd to those faithful ones ;— then, tremblingly. 
 
 He rose ; he moved ; he paused : his nerveless hand 
 
 Veil'd the dread agony of man unmann'd. 
 
 Thus, from the chamber, as an infant meek 
 The priest's slight arm lead forth the mighty King ; 
 
 In vain wide air came fresh upon his cheek, 
 Passive he went in his great sorrowing ; 
 
 Hate the mute guide, the waves of death the goal ; — 
 
 So, following Hermes, ghdes to Styx a soul. 
 
 MAZARIN. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE BEAUTIFUL WITHOUT. 
 
 " I was walking} some days after, in the new apartments of his palace. I recognised 
 the approach of the Cardinal (Mazarin) by the sound of his slippered feet, which he 
 dragged one after the other, as a man enfeebled by a mortal malady. I concealed 
 myself behind the tapestry, and I heard him say, ' II faut quitter tout cela ! * (* I 
 must leave all that ! ') . He stopped at every step, for he was very feeble, and casting 
 his eyes on each object that attracted him, he sighed forth, as from the bottom of his 
 heart, ' II &ut quitter tout cela ! What pains have I taken to acquire these things ! 
 Can I abandon them without regret ? I shall never see them more where I am about 
 to go ! ' " — MiMoiRES inAdits de Louis Henri, Comte de Brienne, Barr&n's 
 edition, toL it p. 115. 
 
 Serene the Marble Images 
 
 Gleam'd down, in lengthen'd rows ; 
 
 Their life, like the Uranides, 
 A glory and repose. 
 
 Glow'd forth the costly canvas spoil 
 
 From many a gorgeous frame : 
 One race will starve the Uving toil. 
 
 The next will gild the name. 
 
 That stately silence silvering thro'j 
 
 The stedfast tapers shone 
 Upon the Painter's pomp of hue, 
 
 The Sculptor's solemn stone. 
 
 Saved from the deluge storm of Time, 
 
 Within that ark, survey 
 Whate'er of elder Art sublime 
 
 Survives a world's decay ! 
 
854 LORD LYTTON. 
 
 There creeps a foot, there sighs a breath, 
 
 Along the quiet floor ; 
 An old man leaves his bed of death 
 
 To count his treasures o'er. 
 
 Behold the dying mortal glide 
 
 Amidst the eternal Art ; 
 It were a sight to stir with pride 
 
 Some pining Painter's heart ! 
 
 It were a sight that might beguile 
 Sad Genius from the Hour, 
 
 To see the life of Genius smile 
 Upon the death of Power. 
 
 The ghost-like master of that hall 
 
 Is king-like in the land ; 
 And France's proudest heads could fall 
 
 Beneath that spectre hand. 
 
 Veil'd in the Roman purple, preys 
 
 The canker-worm within ; 
 And more than Bourbon's sceptre sways 
 
 The crook of Mazarin. 
 
 Italian, yet more dear to thee 
 Than sceptre, or than crook, 
 
 The Art in which thine Italy 
 Still charm'd thy glazing look ! 
 
 So feebly, and with wistful eyes. 
 
 He crawls along the floor, 
 A dying man, who, ere he dies. 
 
 Would count his treasures o'er. 
 
 And from the landscape's soft repose 
 Smiled thy calm soul, Lorraine ; 
 
 And from the deeps of Raphael rose 
 Celestial Love again. 
 
 In pomp, which his own pomp recalls, 
 
 The haggard owner sees 
 Thy cloth of gold and banquet halls, 
 
 Thou stately Veronese ! 
 
 While' cold, as if they scom'd to hail 
 
 Creations not their own. 
 The Gods of Greece stand marble-pale 
 
 Around the Thunderer's throne. 
 
LQRP LYXTON. SSS 
 
 There Hebe bri|n§,the urn of gold; 
 
 There Hermes txqads, the skies \ 
 Th^e, ever in the Serpent^a fold, 
 
 Laocoon deathless, dies. 
 
 There, startled from her mountain rest, 
 
 Young Dian turns to draw 
 The arrowy death, that waits the breast 
 
 Her slumber fail'dto awe. 
 
 There, earth subdued by daimtless deeds, 
 
 And Kfe's large labour done, 
 Stands, sad as Worth with mortal meeds, 
 
 Alcmena's mournful son. 
 
 They gaze upon the fading form 
 
 With mute immortal eyes ; — 
 Here clay that waits the hungry worm, 
 
 There children of the skies. 
 
 Then slowly as he totter'd by, 
 
 The old man, unresign'd, 
 Sighed forth i "Alas ! and must I die. 
 
 And leave such life behind? 
 
 " The Beautiful, from which I part. 
 
 Alone defies decay!" 
 StiU, while he sigh'd,, the eternal Art 
 
 Smiled down upon the clay. 
 
 And as he w^ved the feeble hand. 
 
 And crawl'd unto the porch, 
 He saw the Silent Genius stand 
 
 With the extinguish'd torch V 
 
 The world without, for ever yours, 
 
 Ye stem remorseless Three ; 
 What from that changeful world secures 
 
 Calm Immortality? 
 
 Nay, soon or late decays, alas, 
 
 Or canvas, stone, or scroll ; 
 From all material forms must pass 
 
 To forms afresh the Soul, 
 
 'Tis but in that which 4pth. creaU: 
 
 Dm-atjon can be sought ; 
 A worm can waste the capvas ; Fata 
 
 Ne'er swept from Tiit^ie a TlfLqught 
 
8s6 LORD LYTTON. 
 
 Lives Phidias in his works alone ? — 
 
 His Jove returns to air : 
 But wake one godlike shape from stone, 
 
 And Phidian thought is there ! 
 
 Blot out the Iliad from the earth, 
 Still Homer's thought would fire 
 
 Each deed that boasts sublimer worth 
 And each diviner lyre. 
 
 Like light, connecting star to star. 
 Doth Thought transmitted run ; — 
 
 Rays that to earth the nearest are 
 Have longest left the sun. 
 
 THE HOLLOW OAK. 
 
 Hollow is the oak beside the sunny waters drooping; 
 "thither came, when I was young, happy children trooping ; 
 Dream I now, or hear I now, far their mellow whooping ? 
 
 Gay below the cowslip bank see the billow dances : 
 There I lay, beguiling time, when I lived romances ; 
 Dropping pebbles in the wave, fancies into fancies. 
 
 Farther, where the river glides by the wooded cover, 
 Where the merlin singeth low, with the hawk above her, 
 Came a foot and shone a smile j — woe is me, the lover ! 
 
 Leaflets on the hollow oak still as greenly quiver. 
 
 Musical amid the reeds murmurs on the river ; 
 
 But the footstep and the smile ? — woe is me for ever 1 
 
 FROM "THE LADY OF LYONS." 
 
 Melnotte. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou would'st have me paint 
 The home to which, could love fulfil its prayers, 
 This hand would lead thee, listen ! — A deep vale 
 Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world ; 
 Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold 
 And whispering myrtles ; glassing softest skies 
 
Lord LYTTON. 857 
 
 As cloudless, save with .rare and roseate shadows, 
 As I would have thy fate ! 
 
 Pauline. My own dear love ! 
 
 Mel. A palace lifting to eternal summer 
 Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower 
 Of coolest foliage musical with birds. 
 Whose songs should syllable thy name ! At noon 
 We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder 
 Why Earth could be unhappy, while the heavens 
 Still left us youth and love ! We'd have no friends 
 That were not lovers ; no ambition, save 
 To excel them all in love ; we'd read no books 
 That were not tales of love — that we might smile 
 To think how poorly eloquence of words 
 Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! 
 And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens 
 We'd guess what star should be our home when love 
 Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light 
 Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, 
 And every air was heavy with the sighs 
 Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, 
 And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth 
 I' the midst of roses ! Dost thou like the picture ? 
 
 FROM "RICHELIEU." 
 
 Richelieu. Approach, Sir. Can you call to mind the hour, 
 Now three years since, when in this room, methinks, 
 Your presence honour'd me ? 
 
 De 'Mauprat. It is, my lord, 
 
 One of my most 
 
 Rich, (dryly) Delightful recollections. 
 
 De Mau. {aside) St. Denis ! doth he make a jest of axe 
 And headsman ? 
 
 Rich, {sternly) I did then accord you 
 A mercy ill requited : you still live. 
 
 De Mau. To meet death face to face at last. 
 
 Rich. Yoiu: words 
 
 Are bold. 
 
 De Mau. My deeds have not belied them. 
 
 Rich. Deeds ! 
 
 O miserable delusion of man's pride ! 
 
858 LORD LYTTON. 
 
 Deeds ! cities sack'd, fields ravaged, hearths profaned, 
 
 Men butcher'd ! In your hour of doom behold 
 
 The deeds you boast of ! From rank showers of blood, 
 
 And the red light of blazing roofs, you build 
 
 The rainbow glory, and the shuddering Conscience 
 
 Cry : Lo, the Bridge to Heaven! 
 
 De Mail. If war be sinful, 
 
 Your hand the gauntlet cast. 
 
 Rich. It was so. Sir. 
 
 Note the distinction : — I weigh'd well the cause 
 Which made the standard holy ; raised the war 
 But to secure the peace. France bled ; I groan'd : 
 But look'd beyond, and in the vista saw 
 France saved, and I exulted. You — ^but you 
 Were but the tool of slaughter — knowing nought^ 
 Foreseeing nought, nought hoping, nought lamenting. 
 And for nought fit, save cutting throats for hire. 
 Deeds ! marry, deeds ! 
 
 De Mau. If you would deign to speak 
 
 Thus to your armies ere they march to battle. 
 Perchance your Eminence might have the pain 
 Of the throat-cutting to yourself. 
 
 Rich, {aside) He has wit, 
 
 This Mauprat. {aloud) Let it pass ; there is against you 
 What you can less excuse. Messire de Mauprat, 
 Doom'd to sure death, how hast thou since consumed 
 The time allotted thee for serious thought 
 And solemn penitence ? 
 De Mau. {embarrassed) The time, my Lord ? 
 Rich. Is not the question plain ? I'll answer for thee. 
 Thou hast sought nor priest nor shrine j no sackcloth chafed 
 Thy delicate flesh. The rosary and the death's-head 
 Have not, with pious meditation, purged 
 Earth from the carnal gaze. What thou hast not done, 
 Brief told ; what done, a volume ! Wild debauch. 
 Turbulent riot : for the morn the dice-box ; 
 Noon claim'd the duel j and the night the wassail : 
 These your most holy, pure preparatives 
 For death and judgment. Do I wrong you. Sir ? 
 
 De Mau. I was not always thus : if changed my nature. 
 Blame that which changed my fate. Alas, my Lord, 
 
 ***** 
 Were you accursed with that which you inflicted — 
 By bed and board, dogg'd by one ghostly spectre. 
 
LORD LYTTON. 859 
 
 The while within you youth beat high, and life 
 
 Grew lovelier from the neighbouring frown of death ; 
 
 The heart no bud, nor fruit, save in those seeds 
 
 Most worthless, which spring up, bloom, bear, and wither 
 
 In the same hour — were this your" fate,, perchance 
 
 You would have err'd like me ! 
 
 Rick. I might, like you. 
 
 Have been a brawler and a reveller ; — ^not. 
 Like you. a trickster and a thief. 
 
 De Mau. {advancing threaieningly) Lord Cardinal ! 
 Unsay those words 1 
 
 [Huguet deliberately raises the carbine. 
 
 Rich, {waving his hand) Not quite so qtiick, friend Huguet ; 
 Messire de Mauprat is a patient man. 
 And he can wait ! — 
 
 You have outrun your fortime ; — 
 I blame you not, that you would be a beggar. 
 Each to his taste ! But I do charge you. Sir, 
 That, being beggar'd, you would coin false moneys 
 Out of that crucible called Debt. To live 
 On means not yours — be brave in silks and laces, 
 Gallant in steeds, splendid in banquets ; all 
 Hot yours ; ungiven, uninherited, unpaid for; 
 This is to be a trickster : and to filch 
 Men's art and labour, which to them is wealth, 
 Life, daily bread, quitting all scores with, " Friend, 
 You're troublesome ! " Why this, forgive me. 
 Is what, when done with a less dainty grace. 
 Plain folks call " Theft !" You owe eight thousand pistoles, 
 Minus one crown two liards ! 
 
 De Mau. {aside) The old conjuror!— 
 
 'Sdeath, heTl inform me next how many cups 
 I drank at dinner ! 
 
 Rich. This is scandalous, 
 
 Shaming your birth and blood. I tell you, Sir, 
 That you must pay your debts. 
 
 De Mau. With all my heart, 
 
 My Lord. Where shall I borrow, then, the money ? 
 
 Rich, {aside, laughing) A humorous dare-devil! the very man 
 To suit my purpose, ready, frank, and bold ! 
 
 [Rising, and earnestly, 
 Adrien de Mauprat, men have called me cruel ; 
 I am not; — I Axajust! I found France rent asunder : 
 The rich men despots, and the poor banditti ; 
 
86o LORD LYTTON. 
 
 Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple ; 
 
 Brawls festering to rebellion, and weak laws 
 
 Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths. 
 
 I have re-created France ; and from the ashes 
 
 Of the old feudal and decrepit carcase 
 
 Civilization on her luminous wings 
 
 Soars, phcenix-like, to Jove ! — What was my art ? 
 
 Genius, some say ; some, Fortune ; Witchcraft, some. 
 
 Not so ; my art was Justice ! Force and Fraud 
 
 Misname it cruelty : you shall confute them ! 
 
 My champion j/(?a .' You met me as your foe ; 
 
 Depart my friend. You shall not die. France needs you. 
 
 You shall wipe off all stains, be rich, be honour'd. 
 
 Be great. 
 
 [De Mauprat falls on his knee. Richelieu raises him. 
 
 I ask. Sir, in return, this hand, 
 To gift it with a bride, whose dower shall match 
 Yet not exceed her beauty. 
 
 De Mau. I, my Lord ! — {hesiiating) 
 
 I have no wish to marry. 
 
 Rich, Surely, Sir, 
 
 To die were worse ! 
 
 De Mau. Scarcely : the poorest coward 
 
 Must die ; but knowingly to march to marriage — 
 My Lord, it asks the courage of a lion ! 
 
 Rich. Traitor, thou triflest with me ! — I know all ! 
 Thou hast dared to love my ward — my charge. 
 
 De Mau. ' As rivers 
 
 May love the sunlight — basking in the beams. 
 And hurrying on ! 
 
 Rich. Thou hast told her of thy love ? 
 
 De Mau. My Lord, if I had dared to love a maid, 
 Lowliest in France, I would not so have wronged her 
 As bid her link rich life and virgin hope 
 With one the deathman's gripe might from her side 
 Pluck at the nuptial altar. 
 
 Rich. I believe thee : 
 
 Yet since she knows not of thy love, renounce her ; 
 Take life and fortune with another ! — Silent ? 
 
 De Mau. Your fate has been one triumph. You know not 
 How bless'd a thing it was in my dark hour 
 To nurse the one sweet thought you bid me banish. 
 Love hath no need of words ; — nor less within 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON, 86i 
 
 That holiest temple — the Heaven-buflded soul — 
 Breathless the recorded vow. Base knight, false lover, 
 Were he, who bartered all that brighten'd grief, 
 Or sanctified despair, for life and gold. 
 Revoke your mercy ; — I prefer the fate 
 I look-d for ! 
 
 Rich. Huguet ! to the tapestry chamber 
 
 Conduct your prisoner. 
 
 {To Mauprat) You will there behold 
 The executioner : your doom be private : 
 And Heaven have mercy on you ! 
 
 -^ns; 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Bom 1809. Living. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson was bom at Somerley, in Lincolnshire, in 1809. 
 His father, the Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, D.D., was rector of 
 the parish. Tennyson was the third son in a very large family. His 
 grandfather, George Tennyson, Esq. of Usselby Hall and Bayons Manor, 
 outUved his eldest son, the rector of Somerley. At his death the large 
 property he possessed (inherited from the Claytons, and increased by 
 his marriage with a Miss Turner of Caistor, ) passed to his second son, 
 Charles Tennyson, who, in obedience to his father's will, assmned the 
 name of D'Eyncourt (from which noble family the Teiinysons are 
 descended), and will be popularly remembered as the Righ/ Hon. 
 Charles Tennyson D'Eyncourt, M. P. for Lambeth. 
 
 The pedigree of the family, reaching back to Norman and Saxon 
 ancestors, may be studied in the Dictionary of the Landed Gentry. Alfred 
 Tennyson received his early education at the school of Somerley. From 
 thence both he and his elder brothers proceeded to Cambridge, entering 
 at Trinity College when Dr. Whewell was tutor. In 1829 Tennyson 
 won the Chancellor's medal for his poem iu blank verse entitled 
 "Timbuctoo." While at Cambridge Charles and Alfred Tennyson 
 published privately a small volume of poems, which was favourably 
 noticed by Coleridge; but in the year 1830, and while still an under- 
 graduate, Alfred appeared before the world by the production of a 
 volume entitled "Poems, chiefly Lyrical," published by EfEngham 
 Wilson, Comhm. This book contained, among other pieces, " Claribel, " 
 the "Ballad of Oriana," "Lilian," the "Merman." The volume did not 
 
862 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 attract particular notice at the time, though the musical ring of the 
 lines and the command of the author over metre were observed and 
 appreciated. In 1833 Mr, Moxon published a new volume, which 
 reproduced some of the former poems (many of them studiously altered 
 and corrected), and several new pieces, which have since become so 
 familiar to all lovers of poetry, such as the "May Queen," the "Lady of 
 Shalott," the "Lotus Eaters," the "Dream of Fair Women," ".ffilnoiie," 
 &c. &c. 
 
 The volume of 1833 was regarded as a surprising advance upon the 
 work of 1830. At that date the fame of Tennyson was planted, and it 
 has gone on growing and ilourishing ever since. In 1842 Tennyson 
 published in two volumes a collected edition of his smaller pieces, 
 and introduced to the world "Locksley Hall," "Godiva," "Lady Clara 
 Vere de Vere," the "Lord of Burleigh," "Morte d' Arthur," the "Two 
 Voices," "Dora," " St. Simon Stylites," &c. Ever since the appear- 
 ance of those volumes Tennyson's position among English poets has 
 been established. Whatever has since followed has only widened and ex- 
 tended his reputation. In 1847 "The Princess" was published ; in 1850 
 " In Memoriam"— a tribute to the memory of the poet's college chum, 
 Arthur Hallam, son of the historian. The same year Wordsworth died, 
 and the office of Poet Laureate was conferred upon Tennyson, with a 
 pension of 200/. per annum. In 1852 the Duke of Wellington died, 
 when the pen of the Laureate was first exercised in the composition of 
 the famous "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington." In 1855 
 "Maude" was published; in i8s8ttie"Idylls of the King, "and in 1864 
 "Enoch Arden. " 
 
 In the year 1855 the University, of Oxford conferred upon the Laureate 
 the degree of D.C.L. At a later date the FeUows of Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, adorned the vestibule of their library with a bust of Tennyson 
 by Woolner. 
 
 For many years Tennyson has lived in the. midst of his family in 
 retirement at Freshwater, in the Isle of Wight, enjoying as much repose 
 as can be secured from the vulgar curiosity of tourists and visitors to the 
 island. 
 
 Any criticism of Tennyson's poetry in this place is unnecessary. It 
 haS' already been observed that his position in English literature has long 
 since been established; and all that remains to be said is to give ex- 
 pression to the hope that the Laureate may be spared for many a year 
 to come, to contribute to the delight of his countrymen as largely as Jie 
 has done during the thirty years that have been marked by successive 
 productions of the poet's genius. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 863 
 
 FROM "ENOCH ARDEN." 
 
 [Enoch, after his ten yeais of absence, his being -wrecked, and dwellihg-on the 
 desert island, hails a homeward-bound sliip, and returns to England. He '-at once 
 seeks his native place, where he had left his wife and children at the time of his going 
 to sea.] 
 
 Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
 His heart foreshadowing aU calamity, 
 His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home 
 Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
 In those far-off seven happy years were bom ; 
 But finding neither light nor murmur there 
 (A bUl of sale gleam-d thro' the drizzle) crept 
 StiU downward, thinking ' dead or dead to me ! ' 
 
 Down to the pool and narrow Wharf he went, 
 Seeking a tavern which of old- he knew, 
 A front of timber-crost antiquity, 
 So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old. 
 He thought it must have gone ; but he was gone 
 Who kept it, and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
 With daily-dwindling profits held the house ; 
 A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
 Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
 There Enoch rested silent many days. 
 
 But Miriam Lane was good and garralous. 
 Nor let him be, but often breaking in. 
 Told him, with other annals of the port, 
 Not knowing— Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, 
 So broken — all the story of his house. 
 His baby's death, her growing poverty. 
 How Philip put her little ones to school. 
 And kept them in it, his long wooing her. 
 Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 
 Of PhiUp's child : and o'er his countenance 
 No shadow past, nor motion : any one, 
 Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale 
 Less than the teller : only when she closed, 
 ' Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost,' 
 He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 
 Repeated muttering ' cast away and lost ; ' 
 Again in deeper inward whispers ' lost ! ' 
 
864 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again ; 
 ' If I might look on her sweet face again 
 And know that she is happy.' So the thought 
 Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth, 
 At evening when the dull November day 
 Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
 There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
 There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 
 Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
 The ruddy square of comfortable light. 
 Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
 Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
 The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
 Against it, and beats out his weary life. 
 
 For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, 
 The latest house to landward ; but behind, 
 With one small gate that open'd on the waste, 
 Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd : 
 And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
 A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
 Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
 But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 
 Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 
 That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs 
 l.ike his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 
 
 For cups and silver on the bumish'd board 
 Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth ; 
 And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
 Philip, the slighted suitor of old times. 
 Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; 
 And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
 A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
 Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand 
 Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
 To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms. 
 Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd : 
 And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
 The mother glancing often toward her babe. 
 But turning now and then to speak with him, 
 Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, 
 And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 865 
 
 Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
 His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
 Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, 
 And. all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
 And his own children tall and beautiful. 
 And him, that other, reigning in his place. 
 Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 
 Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him aU, 
 Because things seen ^e mightier than things heard, 
 Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd 
 To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
 Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 
 Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 
 
 He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
 Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot. 
 And feeling all along the garden-wall. 
 Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found. 
 Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, 
 As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door. 
 Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 
 # * * » * 
 
 He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
 Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
 Prayer from a living source within the will. 
 And beating up thro' all the bitter world. 
 Like fountains of sweet water in the sea. 
 Kept him a living soul. ' This miller's wife ' 
 He said to Miriam ' that you told me of. 
 Has she no fear that her first husband lives ? ' 
 ' Ay, ay, poor soul,' said Miriam, ' fear enow ! 
 If you could tell her you had seen him dead. 
 Why, that would be her comfort ; ' and he thought 
 ' After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, 
 I wait His time : ' and Enoch set himself, 
 Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
 ***** 
 
 For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope 
 On Enoch thinking, ' After I am gone. 
 Then may she learn I loved her to the last.' 
 He called aloud for Miriam Lane and said : 
 ' Woman, I have a secret— only swear. 
 Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
 3 K 
 
866 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.' 
 
 • Dead ' clamour'd the good woman, ' hear him talk ! 
 
 I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.' 
 
 ' Swear ' added Enoch sternly ' on the book.' 
 
 And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 
 
 Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 
 
 ' Did you know Enoch Arden of this town.? ' 
 
 ' Know him ? ' she said : ' I knew him far away. 
 
 Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; 
 
 Held his head high, and cared for no man, he.' 
 
 Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her : 
 
 ' His head is low, and no man cares for him. 
 
 I think I have not three days more to live ; 
 
 I am the man.' At which the woman gave 
 
 A'half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 
 
 ' You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was a foot 
 
 Higher than you be.' Enoch said again : 
 
 ' My God has bow'd me down to what I am ; 
 
 My grief and solitude have broken me ; 
 
 Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
 
 Who married — but that name has twice been changed- 
 
 I married her who married Philip Ray. 
 
 Sit, listen.' Then he told her of his voyage. 
 
 His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 
 
 His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
 
 And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 
 
 Fast Bow'd the current of her easy tears, 
 
 While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly 
 
 To rush abroad all round the little haven, 
 
 Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 
 
 But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 
 
 Saying only, ' See your bairns before you go ! 
 
 Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden,' and arose 
 
 Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
 
 A moment on her words, but then replied. 
 
 ' Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 
 But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
 Sit down again ; mark me and understand. 
 While I have power to speak. I charge you now. 
 When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
 Blessing her, praying for her, loving her ; 
 Save for the bar between us, loving her 
 As when she laid her head beside my own. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 867 
 
 And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 
 So like her mother, that my latest breath 
 Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 
 And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
 And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
 He never meant us anything but good. 
 But if my children care to see me dead. 
 Who hardly knew me hving, let them come, 
 I am their father ; but she must not come, 
 For my dead face would vex her after-hfe. 
 And now there is but one of all my blood 
 Who wiU embrace me in the world-to-be : 
 This hair is his : she cut it off and gave it. 
 And I have borne it with me all these years, 
 And thought to bear it with me to my grave ; 
 But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him. 
 My babe, in bhss : wherefore, when I am gone, 
 Take, give her this, for it may comfort her : 
 It will moreover be a token to her. 
 That I am he. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Then the third night after this, 
 While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale. 
 And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals. 
 There came so loud a calling of the sea, 
 That all the houses in the haven rang. 
 He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad. 
 Crying with a loud voice, ' A sail ! a sail ! 
 I am saved ; ' and so fell back and spoke no more. 
 ***** 
 
 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 
 
 My heart is wasted with my woe, 
 
 Oriana. 
 There is no rest for me below, 
 
 Oriana. 
 When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, 
 And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 
 
 Oriana, 
 Alone I wander to and fro, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 3 K 2 
 
868 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Ere the light on dark was growing, 
 
 Oriana, 
 At midnight the cock was crowing, 
 
 Oriana : 
 Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
 We heard the steeds to battle going, 
 
 .Oriana : 
 Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 In the yew-wood black as night, 
 
 Oriana, 
 Ere I rode into the fight, 
 
 Oriana, 
 While blissful tears blinded my sight 
 By star-shine and by moonlight, 
 
 Oriana, 
 I to thee my troth did plight, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 She stood upon the castle wall, 
 
 Oriana ; 
 She watch'd my crest among them all, 
 
 Oriana ; 
 She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
 When forth there stept a foeman tall, 
 
 Oriana, 
 Atween me and the castle wall, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 The bitter arrow went aside, 
 
 Oriana ; 
 The false, false arrow went aside, 
 
 Oriana; 
 The damnfed arrow glanced aside. 
 And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, 
 
 Oriana ! 
 Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 
 
 Oriana ! 
 
 Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, 
 
 Oriana. 
 Loud, loud rung out the bugle's bray, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 869 
 
 Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace, 
 The battle deepen'd in its place, 
 
 Oriana ; 
 But I was down upon my face, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 
 
 Oriana. 
 How could I rise and come away, 
 
 Oriana ? 
 How could I look upon the day ? 
 They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 
 
 Oriana : 
 They should have trod me into clay, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 O breaking heart that will not break, 
 Oriana ! 
 
 pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 
 
 Oriana ! 
 Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
 And then the tears run down thy cheek, 
 
 Oriana ! 
 What wantest thou 'i whom dost thou seek, 
 
 Oriana ? 
 
 1 cry aloud : none hear my cries, 
 
 Oriana, 
 Thou comest atween me and the skies, 
 
 Oriana. 
 I feel the tears of blood arise 
 Up from my heart into my eyes, 
 
 Oriana. 
 Within thy heart my arrow lie?, ; 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 
 
 Oriana ! 
 O happy thou that liest low, 
 
 Oriana ! 
 All night the silence seems to flow 
 Beside me in my utter woe, 
 
 Oriana. 
 A weary, weary way I go, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
870 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 When Norland winds pipe down the sea, 
 
 Oriana, 
 I walk, I dare not think of thee, 
 
 Oriana. 
 Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
 I dare not die and come to thee, 
 
 Oriana. 
 I hear the roaring of the sea, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 Of me you shall not win renown : 
 You thought to break a country heart 
 
 For pastime, ere you went to town. 
 At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 
 
 I saw the snare, and I retired : 
 The daughter of a hundred Earls, 
 
 You are not one to be desired. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, — 
 
 I know you proud to bear your name, — 
 Your pride is yet no mate for mine. 
 
 Too proud to care from whence I came. 
 Nor would I break for your sweet sake 
 
 A heart that doats on truer charms. 
 A simple maiden in her flower 
 
 Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 Some meeker pupil you must find, 
 For were you queen of all that is, 
 
 I could not stoop to such a mind. 
 You sought to prove how I could love. 
 
 And my disdain is my reply : 
 The lion on your old stone gates 
 
 Is not more cold to you than I. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 You put strange memories in my head. 
 Not thrice your branching limes have blown 
 
 Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 871 
 
 Oh ! your sweet eyes, your low replies : 
 
 A great enchantress you may be ; 
 But there was that across his throat 
 
 Which you had hardly cared to see. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 When thus he met his mother's view, 
 She had the passions of her kind, 
 
 She spake some certain truths of you. 
 Indeed I heard one bitter word 
 
 That scarce is fit for you to hear ; 
 Her manners had not that repose 
 
 Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 There stands a spectre in your hall : 
 The guilt of blood is at your door : 
 
 You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 
 You held your course without remorse. 
 
 To make him trust his modest worth. 
 And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, 
 
 And slew him with your noble birth. 
 
 Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 From yon blue heavens above us bent 
 The grand old gardener and his wife 
 
 Smile at the claims of long descent. 
 Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
 
 'Tis only noble to be good. 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood. 
 
 I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : 
 
 You pine among your halls and towers : 
 The languid light of your proud eyes 
 
 Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
 In glowing health, with boundless wealth. 
 
 But sickening of a vague disease, 
 You know so ill to deal with time, 
 
 You needs must play such pranks as these. 
 
 Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 If time be heavy on your hands, 
 Are there no beggars at your gate. 
 
 Nor any poor about your lands ? 
 
872 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read. 
 Or teach the orphan-girl to sew. 
 
 Pray Heaven for a human heart, 
 And let the foolish yeoman go. 
 
 Come not, when I am dead, 
 
 To drop the foolish tears upon my grave. 
 To trample round my fallen head. 
 
 And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. 
 There let the wind sweep and the plover cry ; 
 
 But thou, go by. 
 
 Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 
 
 I care no longer, being all unblest : 
 Wed whom thou wilt : but I am sick of Time, 
 
 And I desire to rest. 
 Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : 
 
 Go by, go by. 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, O Sea t 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 O' well for the fisherman's boy. 
 That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
 
 O well for the sailor lad, 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 To their haven under the hill ; 
 
 But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand. 
 And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. / 873 
 
 THE POET'S SONG. 
 
 The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 
 
 He passed by the town and out of the street, 
 A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, 
 
 And waves of shadow went over the wheat. 
 And he sat him down in a lonely place. 
 
 And chanted a melody loud and sweet. 
 That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud. 
 
 And the lark drop down at his feet. 
 
 The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, 
 
 The snake slipt under a spray, 
 The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, 
 
 And stared, with his foot on the prey, 
 And the nightingale thought : " I have sung many songs, 
 
 But never a one so gay. 
 For he sings of what the world will be 
 
 When the years have died away." 
 
 FROM "IN MEMORIAM." 
 
 When Lazarus left his chamel-cave. 
 And home to Mary's house return'd, 
 Was this demanded — if he yeam'd 
 
 To hear her weeping by his grave ? 
 
 "Where wert thou, brother, those four days?" 
 
 There lives no record of reply. 
 
 Which telling what it is to die 
 Had surely added praise to praise. 
 
 From every house the neighbours met. 
 The streets were fill'd with joyful sound, 
 A solemn gladness even crown'd 
 
 The purple brows of Olivet. 
 
 Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 
 
 The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 
 
 He told it not ; or something seal'd 
 The lips of that Evangelist. 
 
874 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
 Nor other thought her mind admits 
 But, he was dead, and there he sits, 
 
 And He that brought him back is there. 
 
 Then one deep love doth supersede 
 All other, when her ardent gaze 
 Roves from the living brother's face, 
 
 And rests upon the Life indeed. 
 
 All subtle thought, all curious fears, 
 Borne down by gladness so complete. 
 She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 
 
 With costly spikenard and with tears. 
 
 Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, 
 Whose loves in higher love endure ! 
 What souls possess themselves so pure. 
 
 Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 
 
 Could we forget the widow'd hour 
 And look on spirits breathed away. 
 As on a maiden in the day 
 
 When first she wears her orange-flower ! 
 
 When crown'd with blessing she doth rise 
 To take her latest leave of home, 
 And hopes and light regrets that come 
 
 Make April of her tender eyes ; 
 
 And doubtful joys the father move. 
 And tears are on the mother's face, 
 As parting with a long embrace 
 
 She enters other realms of love ; 
 
 Her office there to rear, to teach, 
 Becoming as is meet and fit 
 A link among the days, to knit 
 
 The generations each with each. 
 
 And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
 A life that bears immortal fruit 
 In such great offices as suit 
 
 The full-grown energies of heaven. 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 875 
 
 Ah me, the diflference I discern ! 
 
 How often shall her old fireside 
 
 Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride, 
 How often she herself return, 
 
 And tell them all they would have told. 
 And bring her babe, and make her boast. 
 Till even those that miss'd her most 
 
 Shall count new things as dear as old : 
 
 But thou and I have shaken hands. 
 
 Till growing winters lay me low ; 
 
 My paths are in the fields 1 know, 
 And thine in undiscover'd lands. 
 
 Dost thou look back on what hath been. 
 As some divinely gifted man, 
 AVhose life in low estate began 
 
 And on a simple village green ; 
 
 Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 
 And grasps the skirts of happy chance. 
 And breasts the blows of circumstance. 
 
 And grapples with his evil star ; 
 
 Who makes by force his merit known 
 And lives to clutch the golden keys ; 
 To mould a mighty state's decrees, 
 
 And shape the whisper of the throne ; 
 
 And. moving up from high to higher. 
 Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
 The pillar of a people's hope. 
 
 The centre of a world's desire : 
 
 Yet feels, as in a pensive dream. 
 When all his active powers are still, 
 A distant dearness in the hill, 
 
 A secret sweetness in the stream, 
 
 The limit of his narrower fate. 
 While yet beside its vocal springs 
 He played at counsellors and kings 
 
 With one that was his earliest mate ; 
 
876 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
 And reaps the labour of his hands, 
 Or in the furrow musing stands, 
 
 " Does my old friend remember me ? " 
 
 •*s>S 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 Born 1809. Died i86l. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Moulton-Barrett was bom in London in 
 1809. Her parents being in affluent circumstances she had the advan- 
 tage of an excellent education ; and while trained with the greatest 
 care, she early exhibited those evidences of genius for whicli she became 
 distinguished. At ten years of age she had commenced composing 
 both in prose and verse. While yet very young her literary efforts 
 began to appear in. our periodicals. Among others she wrote various 
 essays on the Greek ppets, which gave evidence of her attainments 
 in classical literature. In 1833 she published a translation, of the 
 Prometheus Desmothes of ^Eschylus. 
 
 In 1838 appeared " The Seraphim, and other Poems, "^-the latter 
 chiefly collected from the periodicals in which they had appeared. This 
 volume won for its authoress a high reputation, and gave her a recognised 
 position as a poetess. Unfortunately the breaking of a blood vessel 
 reduced her to such a weak state that for some years afterwards she was 
 a prisoner to an invalid's room, and a cause of the deepest anxiety to all 
 her friends. From her sick chamber she sent forth in 1844 a collected 
 edition of her poems in two volumes. 
 
 Her health gradually improved, and she was enabled to return once 
 more to the enjoyment of social life. In 1846 she was married to Robert 
 Brovming. In 1850 and 1853 new editions of her poems were pub- 
 lished. Mr. and Mrs. Browning lived for the most part of their time 
 in Italy, at Pisa and at Florence, the climate of Italy being considered 
 favourable for her health. 
 
 In 185 1 Mrs. Browning published "Casa Guidi Windows," a poem 
 which reviews the state of Italy, as she is supposed to see it from the 
 windows of the Casa Guidi Palace at Florence, in which she lived, as 
 the municipality has since commemorated by a tablet and inscription. 
 
 In 1856 the most important work from Mrs. Browning's pen appeared, 
 entitled "Aurora Leigh," a poem in nine books. It excited great interest 
 in literary circles, and commanded notices and criticisms in all the 
 leading journals of England. In i860 " Poems before Congress " were 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 877 
 
 published — suggested by the poUtical events of the time. This was the 
 last work from Mis. Browning's pen. Her delicate constitution gave 
 way, and, to the grief of a very large circle of friends and admirers of 
 her genius, she died at Florence in 1861. Her remains were interred in 
 the Protestant cemetery of that city. 
 
 A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD. 
 
 They say that God lives very high ; 
 
 But if you look above the pines 
 You cannot see our God ; and why? 
 
 And if you dig down in the mines 
 You never see Him in the gold ; 
 Though from Him all that's glory shines. 
 
 God is so good, He wears a fold 
 
 Of heaven and earth across His face — 
 Like secrets kept, for love, untold. 
 
 But still I feel that His embrace 
 
 Slides down by thrills through all things made. 
 Through sight and sound of every place. 
 
 As if my tender mother laid 
 
 On my shut lips her kisses' pressure, 
 
 Half-waking me at night, and said, 
 
 Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser? 
 
 THE SLEEP. 
 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Of aU the thoughts of God that are 
 Borne inward into souls afar. 
 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep. 
 Now tell me if that any is, 
 For gift or grace, surpassing this — 
 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep"? 
 
 What would we give to our beloved ? 
 The hero's heart to be unmoved, 
 The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep. 
 
878 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, 
 The monarch's crown to light the brows ? — 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 What do we give to our beloved ? 
 A little faith all undisproved, 
 
 A little dust to overweep, 
 And bitter memories to make 
 The whole earth blasted for our sake.- — 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 "Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say, 
 Who have no tune to charm away 
 
 .Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep : 
 But never doleful dream again 
 Shall break the happy slumber when 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
 O men, with wailing in your voices ! 
 O delved gold, the waller's heap ! 
 
 strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
 God strikes a silence through you all, 
 
 And giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 His dews drop mutely on the hill. 
 His cloud above it saileth still. 
 
 Though on its slope men sow and reap : 
 More softly than the dew is shed. 
 Or cloud is floated overhead. 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
 A living, thinking, feeling man 
 
 Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 
 But angels say, and through the word 
 
 1 think their happy smile is heard, 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
 For me, my heart that erst did go 
 Most like a tired child at a show. 
 
 That sees through tears the mummers leap. 
 Would now its wearied vision close. 
 Would childlike on His love repose 
 
 Who giveth His beloved sleep. 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 879 
 
 And friends, dear friends, when it shall be 
 That this low breath is gone from me, 
 
 .And round my bier ye come to weep, 
 Let one, most loving of you aU, 
 Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall ! 
 
 He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 THE PET NAME. 
 
 I have a name, a little name, 
 
 Uncadenced for the ear, 
 Unhonoured by ancestral claim, 
 Un sanctified by prayer and psalm 
 
 The solemn font anear. 
 
 It never did to pages wove 
 
 For gay romance belong ; 
 It never dedicate did move. 
 As " Sacharissa," unto love, 
 
 "Orinda," unto song. 
 
 Though I write books, it will be read 
 
 Upon the leaves of none. 
 And afterward, when I am dead. 
 Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread 
 
 Across my funeral-stone. 
 
 This name, whoever chance to call, 
 
 Perhaps your smile may win : 
 Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall 
 Over mine eyes and feel withal 
 The sudden tears within. 
 
 Is there a leaf that greenly grows 
 
 Where summer meadows bloom, 
 But gathereth the winter snows 
 And changeth to the hue of those. 
 If lasting till they come ? 
 
 Is there a word, or jest, or game, 
 
 But time incrusteth round 
 With sad associate thoughts the same ? 
 And so to me my very name 
 
 Assumes a mournful sound. 
 
88o ELIZA BE TH BARRETT BRO WNING. 
 
 My brother gave that name to me 
 When we were children twain, 
 
 When names acquired baptismally 
 
 Were hard to utter, as to see 
 That Hfe had any pain. 
 
 No shade was on us then, save one 
 
 Of chestnuts from the hill ; 
 And through the word our laugh did run 
 As part thereof : the mirth being done. 
 
 He calls me by it still. 
 
 Nay, do not smile ! I hear in it 
 What none of you can hear, — 
 The talk upon the willow seat, 
 The bird and wind that did repeat. 
 Around, our human cheer. 
 
 I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, 
 
 My sister's woodland glee. 
 My father's praise I did not miss, 
 When stooping down he cared to kiss 
 
 The poet at his knee. 
 
 And voices which, to name me, aye 
 
 Their tenderest tones were keeping ; — 
 To some I never more can say 
 An answer till God wipes away 
 In heaven these drops of weeping. 
 
 My name to me a sadness wears : 
 
 No murmurs cross my mind ; 
 Now God be thanked for these thick tears. 
 Which show of those departed years 
 Sweet memories left behind. 
 
 Now God be thanked for years enwrought 
 
 With love which softens yet : 
 Now God be thanked for every thought 
 Which is so tender it has caught 
 Earth's guerdon of regret. 
 
 Earth saddens, never shall remove 
 
 Affections purely given ; 
 And e'en that mortal grief shall prove 
 The immortality of love, 
 
 And heighten it with heaven. 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 FROM "THE SOUL'S TRAVELLING." 
 
 I dwell amid the city ever, 
 The great humatiity which beats 
 Its life along the stony streets, 
 Like a strong and unsunned river. 
 In a self-made course, 
 I sit and hearken while it rolls, 
 
 Very sad and very hoarse 
 Certes is the flow of souls ; 
 
 Infinitest tendencies 
 By the finite prest and pent, 
 In the finite, turbulent : 
 
 How we tremble in surprise 
 When sometimes, with an awful sound, 
 God's great plummet strikes the ground ! 
 
 The champ of the steeds on the silver bit. 
 As they whirl the rich man's carriage by ; 
 The beggar's whine as he looks at it, — 
 But it goes too fast for charity ; 
 The trail on the street of the poor man's broom. 
 That the lady who walks to her palace-home 
 On her silken skirt may catch no dust ; 
 The tread of the business men who must 
 Count their per-cents by the paces they take ; 
 The cry of the babe unheard of its mother. 
 Though it lie on her breast, while she thinks of the other 
 Laid yesterday where it will not wake ; 
 The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks. 
 Held out in the smoke, like stars by day ; 
 The gin-door's oath that hollowly chinks 
 Guilt upon grief and wrong upon hate ; 
 The cabman's cry to get out of the way ; 
 The dustman's call down the area-grate ; 
 The young maid's jest, and the old wife's scold, 
 The haggling talk of the boys at a stall, 
 The fight in the street which is backed for gold. 
 The plea of the lawyers in Westminster Hall, 
 The drop on the stones of the blind man's staff 
 As he trades in his own griefs sacredness. 
 The brothel shriek, and the Newgate laugh. 
 The hum upon 'Change, and the organ's grinding, 
 3L 
 
882 ELIZA BE TH BA RRE TT BRO WNING. 
 
 (The grinder's face being nevertheless 
 
 Dry and vacant of even woe, 
 While the children's hearts are leaping so 
 At the merry music's winding ;) 
 The black-plumed funeral's creeping train 
 Long and slow, (and yet they will go 
 As fast as life though it hurry and strain !) 
 Creeping the populous houses through 
 And nodding their plumes at either side, — 
 At many a house where an infant, new 
 To the sunshiny world, has just struggled and cried,- 
 At many a house where sitteth a bride 
 Trying to-morrow's coronals 
 With a scarlet blush to-day : 
 Slowly creep the funerals, 
 As none should hear the noise and say, 
 The living, the living, must go away 
 To multiply the dead. 
 
 I dwell amid the city, 
 And hear the flow of souls in act and speech, 
 For pomp or trade, for merrymake or folly : 
 I hear the confluence and sum of each. 
 
 And that is melancholy ! 
 Thy voice is a complaint, O crowned city. 
 The blue sky covering thee like God's great pity. 
 
 I am gone from peopled town ! 
 It passeth its street-thunder round 
 My body which yet hears no sound, 
 For now another sound, another 
 Vision, my soul's senses have — 
 O'er a hundred valleys deep 
 Where the hill's green shadows sleep. 
 Scarce known because the valley-trees 
 Cross those upland images. 
 O'er a hundred hills each other 
 Watching to the western wave, 
 I have travelled — I have found 
 The silent, lone, remembered ground. 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 883 
 
 Alway ! alway ! must this be ? 
 
 Rapid soul from city gone, 
 
 Dost thou carry inwardly 
 
 What doth make the city's moan ? 
 
 Must this deep sigh of thine own 
 
 Haunt thee with humanity? 
 
 Green visioned banks that are too steep 
 
 To be o'erbrowzed by the sheep. 
 
 May all sad thoughts adown you creep 
 
 Without a shepherd? Mighty sea, 
 
 Can we dwarf thy magnitude 
 
 And fit it to our straitest mood ? 
 
 O fair, fair nature, are we thus 
 
 Impotent and querulous 
 
 Among thy workings glorious. 
 
 Wealth and sanctities, that stiU 
 
 Leave us vacant and defiled, 
 
 And wailing like a soft-kissed child, 
 
 Kissed soft against his will ? 
 
 God, God ! 
 With a child's voice I cry. 
 Weak, sad, confidingly — 
 God, God ! 
 Thou knowest ; eyelids, raised not always up 
 Unto Thy love (as none of ours are), droop 
 
 As ours, o'er many a tear : 
 Thou knowest, though Thy universe is broad, 
 Two little tears suffice to cover all : 
 Thou knowest, Thou, who art so prodigal 
 Of beaut)', we are oft but stricken deer 
 Expiring in the woods, that care for none 
 Of those delightsome flowers they die upon. 
 
 O blissful Mouth which breathed the mournful breath 
 We name our souls, self-spoilt ! — by that strong passion 
 Which paled Thee once with sighs, by that strong death 
 Which made Thee once unbreathing, from the wrack 
 Themselves have called around them call them back, 
 Back to Thee in continuous aspiration ! 
 
 For here, O Lord, 
 For here they travel vainly, vainly pass 
 From city pavement to untrodden sward, 
 Where the lark finds her deep nest in the grass 
 
 3 L2 
 
884 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 Cold with the earth's last dew. Yea, very vain 
 The greatest speed of all these souls of men, 
 Unless they travel upward to the throne 
 Where sittest Thou, the satisfying One, 
 With help for sins, and holy perfectings 
 For all requirements : while the archangel, raising 
 Unto Thy face his full ecstatic gazing. 
 Forgets the rush and rapture of his wings. 
 
 'S>=S^ 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 Born l8l2. Living. 
 
 Robert Browning was bom in the year i8i2, at Camberwell. He 
 was educated at home, and attended the lectures at the University of 
 London. In. 1833 he published his first poem, " Pauline," and in 1835 
 "Paracelsus," which was so remarkable and original a production as 
 to attract considerable attention among literary men, if not among the 
 generality of readers. In 1837 his tragedy of " Strafford " was produced, 
 under Mr. Macready's management, but did not achieve any lasting 
 success. Another play, "The Blot in the Scutcheon," was lilcewise 
 introduced to the public by IVIr. Macready, in 1843. ^ third, entitled 
 " Colombe's Birthday," was enacted at the Haymarket. Between 1841 
 and 1846 a variety of poems of great intellectual beauty were published 
 by Mr. Browning, under the title " Bells and Pomegranates, " the first 
 of which, " Pippa Passes," won for the poet an estimation with the public 
 which he had not. previously enjoyed. In 1849 Mr. Browning published 
 a collection of his miscellaneous works in two volumes. " Men and 
 Women," which appeared about 1850, brought him more directly under 
 the observation of literary critics. It was then that the English public 
 began to estimate the value of a poet whose writings generally had dealt 
 in too great intellectual subtlety to catch the ear of the multitude. He 
 commanded an appreciation which placed him in the first rank of living 
 poets. Previous to the above date Mr. Browning had married Miss 
 Elizabeth Barrett Moulton-Barrett — herself a poetess held in high esteem 
 by the public. Their married life was passed chiefly at Pisa, Rome, 
 Florence, and at other places in Italy. It is therefore natural to find 
 Mr. Browning's poetry has its scenes chiefly in Italy, Spain, under 
 sunny skies, and among medieval stories and traditions. In 1861 
 Mr. Browning lost his wife ; and since that time ha,s resided chiefly in 
 London. In 1865 a complete edition of his works in three volumes was 
 
ROBERT BROWNING. 885 
 
 published, containing lyrics, romances, and "Men and Women," "Para- 
 celsus," "Christmas Eve and Easter Day," "Sordello," tragedies and 
 plays. Every year has added to the esteem in -which Mr. Browning is 
 held as a poet. The crowning honour paid him was last year, when the 
 most unusual distinction of the d^ree of M.A. by diploma was con- 
 ferred upon him by the University of Oxford, and he was elected a 
 Fellow of Balliol College. 
 
 ST. PETER'S AT ROME. 
 
 — Where am I, in city or plain, 
 Since I am 'ware of the world again ? 
 And what is this that rises propped 
 By pillars of prodigious girth ? 
 Is it really on the earth, 
 This miraculous Dome of God ? 
 Has the Jtngel's measuring rod, 
 Which numbered cubits, gem from gem, 
 'Twixt the gates of the New Jerusalem, 
 Meted it out ? and what he meted 
 Have the sons of men completed ? 
 — Binding, ever as he bade. 
 Columns in this colonnade 
 With arms wide open to embrace 
 The entry of the human race 
 To the breast of . . . What is it, yon building, 
 A blaze in front, aU paint and gilding, 
 .Vith marble for brick, and stones of price 
 For garniture of the edifice ? 
 Now I see : it is no dream : 
 It stands there and it does not seem ; 
 For in pictures ever thus it looks, 
 And thus 1 have read of it in books, 
 Often in England, leagues away. 
 And wondered how those fountains play. 
 Growing up eternally 
 Each to a musical water-tree, 
 Whose blossoms drop, a glittering boon, 
 Before my eyes, in the light of the moon. 
 To the granite lavers underneath. 
 Liar and dreamer in your teeth ! 
 I, the sinner that speak to you, 
 Was in Rome this night, and stood, and knew 
 Both this and more ! For see, for see, 
 The dark is rent, mine eye is free 
 
886 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 To pierce the crust of the outer wall, 
 
 And I view inside, and all there, all, 
 
 As the swarming hollow of a hive, 
 
 The whole Basilica alive ! 
 
 Men in the chancel, body, and nave. 
 
 Men on the pillar's architrave, 
 
 Men 01 the statues, men on the tombs. 
 
 With popes and kings in their porphyry wombs, 
 
 All famishing in expectation 
 
 Of the main altar's consummation. 
 
 For see, for see, the rapturous moment 
 
 Approaches, and earth's best endowment 
 
 Blends with heaven's : the taper-fires 
 
 Pant up ; the winding brazen spires 
 
 Heave loftier yet the baldachin ; 
 
 The incense-gaspings, long kept in, 
 
 Inspire in clouds ; the organ blatant 
 
 Holds his breath and grovels latent, 
 
 As if God's hushing finger grazed him 
 
 (Like Behemoth when He praised him) ; 
 
 At the silver bells' shrill tinkling 
 
 Quick cold drops of terror sprinkling 
 
 On the sudden pavement, strewed 
 
 With faces of the multitude. 
 
 Earth breaks up, time drops away, 
 
 In flows heaven, with its new day 
 
 Of endless life, when He who trod. 
 
 Very man and very God, 
 
 This earth in weakness, shame, and pain. 
 
 Dying the death whose signs remain 
 
 Up yonder on the accursed tree. 
 
 Shall come again, no more to be 
 
 Of captivity the thrall. 
 
 But the one God, all in all. 
 
 King of kings, and Lord of lords. 
 
 As His servant John received the words, 
 
 " I died, and live for evermore !" 
 
ROBERT BROWNING. 887 
 
 INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 
 
 ROMANCE. 
 You know, we French stormed Ratisbon. 
 
 A mile or so away, 
 On a little mound, Napoleon 
 
 Stood on our storming-day : 
 With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 
 
 Legs wide, arms locked behind. 
 As if to balance the prone brow 
 
 Oppressive with its mind. 
 
 Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans, 
 
 That soar, to earth may fall, 
 Let once my army-leader Lannes 
 
 Waver at yonder wall," 
 Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 
 
 A rider, bound on bound 
 Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 
 
 Until he reached the mound. 
 
 Then off there flung in smiling joy. 
 
 And held himself erect 
 By just his horse's mane, a boy : 
 
 You hardly could suspect — 
 (So tight he kept his lips compressed. 
 
 Scarce any blood came through) — 
 You looked twice ere you saw his breast 
 
 Was all but shot in two. 
 
 " WeU," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace, 
 
 We've got you Ratisbon ! 
 The Marshal's in the market-place. 
 
 And youll be there anon 
 To see your flag-bird flap his vans 
 
 Where I, to heart's desire. 
 Perched him ! " The Chief's eye flashed ; his plans 
 
 Soared up again like fire. 
 
 The Chief's eye flashed ; but presently 
 
 Softened itself, as sheathes 
 A film the mother eagle's eye 
 
 When her bruised eaglet breathes : 
 " You're wounded ! " " Nay," his soldier's pride 
 
 Touch'd to the quick, he said : 
 " I'm killed. Sire ! " And, his Chief beside. 
 
 Smiling the boy fell dead. 
 
888 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 EVELYN HOPE. 
 
 LYRIC. 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
 
 Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
 That is her bookshelf, this is her bed ; 
 
 She plucked that piece of geranium flower, 
 Beginning to die too, in the glass ; 
 
 Little has yet been changed, I think : 
 The shutters are shut, no light may pass 
 
 Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 
 
 Sixteen years old when she died ! 
 
 Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name ; 
 It was not her time to love ; beside. 
 
 Her life had many a hope and aim. 
 Duties enough and little cares, 
 
 And now was quiet, now astir, 
 Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 
 
 And the sweet white brow is all of her. 
 
 Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? 
 
 What, your soul was pure and true, 
 The good stars met in your horoscope. 
 
 Made you of spirit, fire and dew — 
 And just because I was thrice as old. 
 
 And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
 Each was nought to each, must I be told .' 
 
 We were fellow mortals, nought beside ? 
 
 No, indeed ! for God above 
 
 Is great to grant, as mighty to make ; 
 And creates the love to reward the love : 
 
 I claim you still, for my own love's sake 
 Delayed it may be for more lives yet. 
 
 Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few : 
 Much is to learn and much to forget 
 
 Ere the time be come for taking you. 
 
 But the time will come, at last it will, 
 When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
 
 In the lower earth, in the years long still, 
 That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
 
ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 Why your hair was amber I shall divine, 
 
 And your mouth of your own geranium's red, 
 
 And what you would do with me, in fine, 
 In the new hfe come in the old one's stead. 
 
 I have lived (I shall say) so much since then. 
 
 Given up myself so many times. 
 Gained me the gains of various men. 
 
 Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; 
 Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope. 
 
 Either I missed or itself missed me : 
 And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 
 
 What is the issue ? Let us see ! 
 
 HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM 
 GHENT TO AIX. 
 
 I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 
 
 I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; 
 
 " Good speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ; 
 
 " Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through ; 
 
 Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest. 
 
 And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 
 
 Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace 
 Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ; 
 I turned in my saddle, and made its girths tight. 
 Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
 Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit. 
 Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 
 
 'Twas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near, 
 
 Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ; 
 
 At Boom a great yeUow star came out to see ; 
 
 At Diiffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 
 
 And from Mechelu church-steeple we heard the half-chime. 
 
 So Joris broke silence with " Yet there is time ! " 
 
 At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, 
 And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
 To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past, 
 And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 
 With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
 The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. 
 
890 ROBER T BRO WNING. 
 
 And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
 For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; 
 And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
 O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! 
 And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon 
 His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 
 
 By Hasselt Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur ! 
 
 Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, 
 
 We'll remember at Aix," — for one heard the quick wheeze 
 
 Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees. 
 
 And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
 
 As down on her haunches she shuddered and, sank. 
 
 So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
 
 Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 
 
 The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
 
 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble-like chaff ; 
 
 Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white. 
 
 And " Gallop ! " gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight ! " 
 
 " How they'll greet us ! " and all in a moment his roan 
 Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone : 
 And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
 Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
 With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
 And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 
 
 Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall. 
 
 Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. 
 
 Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. 
 
 Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer ; 
 
 Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, 
 
 Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 
 
 And aU I remember is, friends flocking round, 
 
 As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground ; 
 
 And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
 
 As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine. 
 
 Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
 
 Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. 
 
ROBER T BRO WNING. 89 1 
 
 A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S. 
 
 Oh, Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad. to find ! 
 
 I can hardly misconceive you, that would prove me deaf and 
 
 blind ; 
 But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind ! 
 
 Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it 
 
 brings. 
 What, they lived once thus at Venice, where the merchants were 
 
 the kings. 
 Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with 
 
 rings ? 
 
 Ay, because the sea's the street there, and 'tis arched by . . . 
 
 what you call 
 . . . Shylock's bridge, with houses on it, where they kept the 
 
 carnival ! 
 1 was never out of England : it's as if I saw it all ! 
 
 Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in 
 
 May? 
 Balls and masks began at midnight, burning ever to mid-day, 
 When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say? 
 
 Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red ; 
 On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed. 
 O'er the breast's superb abundance, where a man might base his 
 head? 
 
 Well (and it was graceful of them), they'd break talk off and 
 
 afford, 
 .She to bite her mask's black velvet, he to finger on his sword. 
 While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord ? 
 
 What ? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh 
 
 on sigh, 
 Told them something ? Those suspensions, those solutions — 
 
 " must we die ? " 
 Those commiserating sevenths—" life might last ! we can but 
 
 try!" 
 
892 ROBER T BRO WNING. 
 
 ' ■ Were you happy ? " — " Yes." — '' And are you still as happy ? " 
 
 — " Yes : and you ? " 
 — " Then more kisses ? " — " Did I stop them, when a million 
 
 seemed so few ? " 
 Hark the dominant's persistence, till it must be answered to ! 
 
 So an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare 
 
 say ! 
 " Brave Galuppi ! that was music ! good alike at grave and gay ! 
 I can always leave off talking, when I hear a master play." 
 
 Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, one by 
 
 one, 
 Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well 
 
 undone. 
 Death came tacitly and took them where they never see the sun. 
 
 But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor 
 
 swerve. 
 While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve, 
 In you come with your cold music, till I creep through every 
 
 nerve. 
 
 Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was 
 
 burned — 
 " Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice 
 
 earned ! 
 The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a soul can be discerned. 
 
 "Yours for instance : you know physics, something of geology, 
 Mathematics are your pastime : souls shall rise in their degree : 
 Butterflies may dread extinction : you'll not die ; it cannot be ! 
 
 " As for Venice and its people, merely born to bloom, and drop. 
 Here on earth they bore their fruitage ; mirth and folly were the 
 
 crop : 
 What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop ? 
 
 " Dust and ashes ! " So you creak it, and I want the heart to 
 
 scold. 
 Dear dead women! with such hair, too! what's become of all 
 
 the gold 
 Used to hang and brush their bosoms ? I feel chilly and grown 
 
 old. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING. 893 
 
 SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS. 
 
 Plague take all your pedants, say I ! 
 
 He who wrote what I hold in my hand 
 Centuries back was so good as to die, 
 
 Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land ; 
 This, that was a book in its time, 
 
 Printed on paper and bound in leather : 
 Last month in the white of a matin-prime, 
 
 Just when the birds sang all together, 
 
 Into the garden I brought it to read, 
 And under the arbute and laurustine 
 
 Read it, so help me grace in my need, 
 
 ' From title-page to closing line. 
 
 Chapter on chapter did I count. 
 As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge ; 
 
 Added up the mortal amount ; 
 And then proceeded to my revenge. 
 
 Yonder's a plum-tree, with a crevice 
 
 An owl would build in, were he but sage ; 
 For a lap of moss, like a fine pont-levis 
 
 In a castle of the middle age, 
 Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber : 
 
 When he'd be private, there might he spend 
 Hours alone in his lady's chamber : 
 
 Into this crevice I dropped our friend. 
 
 Splash went he, as under he ducked, 
 
 — I knew at the bottom rain-drippings stagnate ; 
 Next, a handful of blossoms I plucked 
 
 To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate; 
 Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf. 
 
 Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis, 
 Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf 
 
 Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. 
 
 Now, this morning, betwixt the moss 
 And gum that locked our friend in limbo, 
 
 A spider had spun his web across. 
 
 And sate in the midst with arms a-kimbo ; 
 
894 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 So I took pity, for learning's sake, 
 
 And, De profundis, accentibus latis, 
 Cantate / quoth I, as I got a rake, 
 
 And up I fished his delectable treatise. 
 
 Here you have it, dry in the sun. 
 
 With all the binding all of a blister. 
 And great blue spots where the ink has run. 
 
 And reddish streaks that wink and glister 
 O'er the page so beautifully yellow — 
 
 Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks ! 
 Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow ? 
 
 Here's one stuck in his chapter six ! 
 
 How did he like it when the live creatures 
 
 Tickled and toused and browsed him all over. 
 And worm, slug, eft, with serious features. 
 
 Came in, each one, for his right of trover ; 
 When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face 
 
 Made of her eggs the stately deposit, 
 And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface 
 
 As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet. 
 
 All that life, and fun, and romping. 
 
 All that frisking, and twisting, and coupling. 
 While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping, 
 
 And clasps were cracking, and covers suppling ! 
 As if you had carried sour John Knox 
 
 To the playhouse at Paris, Vienna, or Munich, 
 Fastened him into a front-row box. 
 
 And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic. 
 
 Come, old martyr ! What, torment enough is it ? 
 
 Back to my room shall you take your sweet self! 
 Good-bye, mother-beetle ; husband-eft, sufficitl 
 
 See the snug niche I have made on my shelf: 
 A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you. 
 
 Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to be gay. 
 And with E. on each side, and F. right over you. 
 
 Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day ! 
 
 "Sn^ 
 
89S 
 
 AYTOUN. 
 
 Born 1813. Died 1865. 
 
 William Edmondstoune Aytoun, descended from an old Fife- 
 shire family, was born in 1813, and passed both his school and college 
 days in Edinburgh. At the Academy of Edinburgh he won a prize for 
 -^ poem on Judith. In 1831 he published his first volume of poetry, 
 entitled "Poland, and other Poems." In! 1840 Aytoun was called to 
 the Scotch bar, and will long be remembered among the northern 
 lawyers as one of the wits who could set the counsels' table in a roar. 
 In 184S he was appointed Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in 
 the University of Edinburgh. Aytoun shortly afterwards became a 
 regular contributor to Blackwood's Magazine. In the pages of that old, 
 and justly honoured, favourite of the British public most of Aytoun's 
 stirring national ballads appeared, which are now familiarly known to 
 the public in their collected form as " Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers. " 
 Since the appearance of Lord Macaulay's " Horatius " there have been 
 no ballads introduced to the public which have received so much, favour 
 as the "Execution of Montrose," "Edinburgh after Flodden Field," 
 the "Widow of Glencoe," and the "Burial March of Dundee." 
 Macaulay's are Roman lays : Aytoun's are purely national, and, as such, 
 dealing with subjects dear to memory among those who regard with a 
 lingering look of love the old Royalist cause, it is not to be wondered 
 at that they have been received with delight, especially in Scotland. 
 A)rtoun had a higher purpose than the mere jingling of rhymes in ballads. 
 He knew his countrymen, and how great a hold their ancient ballads 
 had upon the hearts of the people. By his ballads and introductory 
 historical sketches he accomplished a good work in rescuing the cha- 
 racters of men like Montrose and Bonnie Dundee from the grotesque and 
 shamefiU misrepresentations of partisan writers. The native humour of 
 Aytoim's mind exhibited itself in the publication of a work, jointly 
 composed by him and Mr. Theodore Martin, entitled " Bon Gaultier's 
 Ballads." This volume of laughter-moving song has become so familiar 
 to the public that it is hardly necessary to do more than mention it. 
 Since Horace and James Smith produced their " Rejected Addresses," 
 humorous literature has been enriched with no such clever and comical 
 imitations of the stj-le of various authors as may be read under the 
 heading of " The Laureate's Tourney," wherein Tennyson, Lord Lytton, 
 Harrison Ainsworth, Robert Montgomery, and Lord Macaulay are 
 marvellously travestied. 
 
 In 1853 Professor Aytoun delivered a course of lectures at Willis's 
 Rooms on poetry and dramatic literature, which attracted not only the 
 
896 AYTOUN. 
 
 fashion but the intellectual life of London. In the year previous, Lord 
 Derby had appointed Aytoun Sheriff of Orkney. Another humorous 
 production of his pen was " Firmilian," a mock-heroic tragedy, in ridicule 
 of the spasmodic school of poetry which about 1855 enjoyed peculiar 
 popularity. 
 
 The last poem from Professor Aytoun's pen was " Both well." It is 
 in length and construction his most important work. Divided into 
 Books, it is supposed to be a history of Bothwell's life, soliloquized by 
 himself when in prison at Malmoe, in Denmark, where he lay for years 
 a prisoner, and at length died. The object of the poem is to give the 
 world Aytoun's view of the character and conduct of Mary, Queen of 
 Scots, in her relations with Damley and with Bothwell, which has been 
 and will be a vexed question among historians. 
 
 Aytoun died on the 4th of August, 1865, at Blackhills, near Elgin, 
 where he had gone for the benefit of his health. His remains were 
 interred in the Dean Cemetery, at Edinburgh, in the same grave with 
 those of his first wife, a daughter of "Christopher North" — Professor 
 Wilson. Wilson's and Aytoun's last resting-places are in neighbouring 
 graves in the same " God's acre." 
 
 THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 
 
 Come hither, Evan Cameron ! 
 
 Come, stand beside my knee ! 
 I hear the river roaring down 
 
 Towards the wintry sea. 
 There's shouting on the mountain-side, 
 
 There's war within the blast : 
 Old faces look upon me, 
 
 Old forms go trooping past : 
 I hear the pibroch wailing 
 
 Amidst the din of fight, 
 And my dim spirit wakes again 
 
 Upon the verge of night. 
 
 'Twas I that led the Highland host 
 
 Through wild Lochaber's snows, 
 What time the plaided clans came down 
 
 To battle with Montrose. 
 I've told thee how the Southrons fell 
 
 Beneath the broad claymore, 
 And how we smote the Campbell clan 
 
 By Inverlochys shore. 
 I've told thee how we swept Dundee, 
 
 And tamed the Lindsays' pride. 
 
A YTOUN. 897 
 
 But never have I told thee yet 
 
 How the great Marquis died. 
 
 ' * * * * 
 
 They brought him to the Watergate, 
 
 Hard bound with hempen span, 
 As though they held a lion there, 
 
 And not a fenceless man : 
 They set him high upon a cart — 
 
 The hangman rode below : 
 They drew his hands behind his back, 
 
 And bared his noble brow. 
 Then, as a hound is slipped from leash, 
 
 They cheered the common throng, 
 And blew the note with yell and shout. 
 
 And bade him pass along. 
 
 It would have made a brave man's heart 
 
 Grow sad and sick that day, 
 To watch the keen malignant eyes 
 
 Bent down on that array. 
 There stood the Whig west-country lords 
 
 In balcony and bow ; 
 There sat their gaunt and withered dames, 
 
 And their daughters all a-row ; 
 And every open window 
 
 Was fiill as full might be 
 With black-robed Coyenanting carles, 
 
 That goodly sport to see ! 
 # * * * 
 
 But onwards, always onwards. 
 
 In silence and in gloom. 
 The dreary pageant laboured, 
 
 Till it reached the house of doom. 
 Then first a woman's voice was heard 
 
 In jeer and laughter loud, 
 And an angry cry and a hiss arose 
 
 From the heart of the tossing crowd ; 
 Then, as the Graeme looked upwards, 
 
 He saw the ugly smile 
 Of him who sold his king for gold — 
 
 The master-fiend Argyle ! 
 
 The Marquis gazed a moment, 
 And nothing did he say, 
 3M 
 
898 AYTOUN. 
 
 But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale, 
 
 And he turned his eyes away. 
 The painted harlot by his side 
 
 She shook through every limb, 
 For a roar like thunder swept the street, 
 
 And hands were clenched at him ; 
 And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, 
 
 " Back, coward, from thy place ! 
 For seven long years thou hast not dared 
 
 To look him in the face." 
 
 They placed him next 
 
 Within the solemn hall, 
 Where once the Scottish kings were throned 
 
 Amidst their nobles all. 
 But there was dust of vulgar feet 
 
 On that polluted floor, 
 And perjured traitors filled the place 
 
 Where good men sate before. 
 With savage glee came Warristoun 
 
 To read the murderous doom ; 
 And then uprose the great Montrose 
 
 In the middle of the room. 
 
 " Now, by my faith as belted knight. 
 
 And by the name I bear, 
 And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross 
 
 That waves above us there, 
 Yea, by a greater, mightier oath — 
 
 And oh, that such should be ! — 
 By that dark stream of royal blood 
 
 That lies 'twixt you and me, 
 I have not sought in battle-field 
 
 A wreath of such renown. 
 Nor dared I hope on my dying day 
 
 To win the martyr's crown ! 
 
 " There is a chamber far away 
 Where sleep the good and brave, 
 
 But a better place ye have named for me 
 Than by my father's grave. 
 
 For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, 
 This hand hath always striven. 
 
A YTOUN. 899 
 
 And ye raise it up for a witness still 
 
 In the eye of earth and heaven. 
 Then nail my head on yonder tower, 
 
 Give every town a limb ; 
 And God who made shall gather them : 
 
 I go from you to Him !" 
 
 The morning dawned full darkly, 
 
 The rain came flashing down, 
 And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt 
 
 Lit up the gloomy town. 
 The thunder crashed across the heaven, 
 
 The fatal hour was come ; 
 Yet aye broke in, with mufiHed beat. 
 
 The 'larum of the drum. 
 There was madness on the earth below 
 
 And anger in the sky. 
 And young and old, and rich and poor. 
 
 Came forth to see him die. 
 
 Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet ! 
 
 How dismal 'tis to see 
 The great tall spectral skeleton, 
 
 The ladder and the tree ! 
 Hark ! hark ! it is the clash of arms ; 
 
 The bells begin to toll ; 
 " He is coming ! he is coming ! 
 
 God's mercy on his soul !" 
 One last long peal of thunder. 
 
 The clouds are cleared away. 
 And the glorious sun once more looks down 
 
 Amidst the dazzling day. 
 
 " He is coming ! he is coming ! " 
 Like a bridegroom from his room 
 
 Came the hero from his prison 
 To the scaffold and the doom. 
 
 There was glory on his forehead. 
 There was lustre in his eye. 
 
 And he never walked to battle 
 More proudly than to die : 
 
 There was colour in his visage, 
 
 Though the cheeks of all were wan, 
 
 And they marvelled as they saw him pass- 
 That great and goodly man ! 
 
goo A YTOUN. 
 
 He mounted up the scaffold, 
 
 And he turned him to the crowd ; 
 But they dared not trust the people, 
 
 So he might not speal? aloud. 
 But he looked upon the heavens. 
 
 And they were clear and blue. 
 And in the liquid ether 
 
 The eye of God shone through ! 
 Yet a black and murky battlement 
 
 Lay resting on the hill, 
 As though the thunder slept within : 
 
 All else was calm and still. 
 
 The grim Geneva ministers 
 
 With anxious scowl drew near, 
 As you have seen the ravens flock 
 
 Around the dying deer. 
 He would not deign them word nor sign, 
 
 But alone he bent the knee 
 And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace 
 
 Beneath the gallows-tree. 
 Then radiant and serene he rose, 
 
 And cast his cloak away : 
 For he had ta'en his latest look 
 
 Of earth and sun and day. 
 
 A beam of light fell o'er him, 
 
 Like a glory round the shriven. 
 And he climbed the lofty ladder 
 
 As it were the path to heaven. 
 Then came a flash from out the cloud, 
 
 And a stunning thunder-roll ; 
 And no man dared to look aloft, 
 
 For fear was on every soul. 
 There was another heavy sound, 
 
 A hush, and then a groan ; 
 And darkness swept across the sky; — 
 
 The work of death was done ! 
 
A YTOUN. 90 J 
 
 FROM "BOTH WELL." 
 
 Come — I will far away from hence — 
 
 I cannot tarry here : 
 Whate'er the penance, I must forth, 
 
 And quit this dungeon drear ! 
 Man lives not for the single point 
 
 That marks the passing time ; 
 He lives in thoughts and memories 
 
 Of glory or of crime. 
 And I will back, and bravely back, 
 
 To that tremendous night 
 When the whole state of Scotland reeled, 
 
 And Darnley took his flight, 
 Borne on the wings of that red blast, 
 
 Whose fell volcano-roar 
 Shook the dark city to its base, 
 
 And bade it sleep no more. 
 That which I did, nor shrunk to do, 
 
 I may at least recall ; 
 If spectres rise from out the grave, 
 
 I dare to face them all ! 
 
 High mirth there was in Holyrood, 
 
 As fitted nuptial scene. 
 For on that day Sebastian wed 
 
 The favourite of the Queen. 
 
 I doubt if there was any there 
 Who showed in face or mien a care. 
 Save Mary. But her cheek was paie ; 
 Sad was her smile at jest or tale ; 
 And though she strove to bear her part. 
 
 She could not so devise, 
 But that the anguish of her heart 
 
 Came glistening to her eyes. 
 
 Yes, when she looked upon the pair 
 So fondly placed together there, 
 Loving and loved, without a thought 
 
 Beyond their present bliss and joy, 
 All hope, all trust, all happiness, 
 
 All faith without alloy, 
 
902 AYTOUN. 
 
 I saw her strive to hide her tears. 
 I am not gentler than my peers ; 
 Nor could I, in the general case, 
 
 Divine why women weep and wail ; 
 But gazing on Queen Mary's face, 
 
 I saw the cause, and could not fail. 
 She thought her of the marriage-feast 
 
 When Damley was the chosen groom. 
 When, trusting to his vows and faith, 
 
 She gave herself, in beauty's bloom, 
 When she was radiant as the bride, 
 
 And he was, as the lover, gay : 
 Alas ! there rolled an awful tide 
 
 Between that time and this to-day \ 
 Short interval ; yet where was he. 
 
 The partner of her bed and throne. 
 The chief of aU her chivalry ? 
 
 A wretched leper, and alone \ 
 Stricken, and sick, and ill at ease. 
 Worn out with base debaucheries, 
 
 Her lord once more was nigh ; 
 Broken in body and in mind — 
 A wretch, who paradise resigned, 
 
 To wallow in a sty ! 
 
 How she endured him, after aU 
 
 His foulness and his insolence. 
 Puzzles my mind : but let it fall ! 
 
 God gave to woman gentler sense 
 And sweeter temper than to man ; 
 
 And she will bear, like penitence, 
 A load that makes the other ban. 
 Saint-like she tarried by his side, 
 
 And soothed his torment day by day ; 
 And though her grief she, could not hide, 
 
 No anger did her look betray. 
 Now, in the midst of mirth and song, 
 
 Her loving nature did not yield, 
 And every moment seemed too long 
 
 That kept her from the Kirk-of- Field. 
 Early she gave the wonted sign 
 
 In token that the feast was done ; 
 Her place was then by Damley's bed, 
 
 Till the late revelry begun. 
 
A YTOUN. 903 
 
 And I, like her, had counted time, 
 
 And might not longer tarry there ; 
 For the wild impulse to a crime 
 
 Hath all the urgence of despair. 
 I knew her errand, and my own ! 
 
 I knew them both but far too well : 
 Hers was the thorny path to heaven, 
 
 And mine the road that leads to hell ! 
 
 I stood that night in Darnle/s room, 
 
 Above the chamber charged with death ; 
 At every sound that rose below 
 
 There was a catching in my breath. 
 The aspect of the boy was sad, 
 
 For he was weak, and wrung with pain .; 
 Weary he lay upon the bed. 
 
 From which he never rose again. 
 I saw his brow so pale and damp, 
 
 I saw his cheek so thin and spare — 
 I've seen it often since in dreams — 
 
 O wherefore did I seek him there ? 
 He lay, indeed, a dying man. 
 
 His minutes numbered, marked, and spanned ; 
 With every ticking of the clock 
 
 There fell a priceless grain of sand. 
 Yet over him an angel bent. 
 
 And soothed his pain, and wiped his brow, 
 So fair, so kind, so innocent, 
 
 That all hell's tortures to me now 
 Could scarce be worse than what I felt 
 
 Within that thrice-accursed room ! 
 
 Time trickled on. I knew 'twas done, 
 
 When Paris entered with the key : 
 I'd listened for his foot, as one 
 Upon the rack might hail the tread 
 Of the grim gaoler of the dead. 
 Yet loathsome was his face to me ! 
 
 Let no man seek to gain his end 
 By felon means ! I never felt 
 
904 A YTOUN. 
 
 So like a slave as when he passed 
 And touched the key beneath his belt ; 
 
 For in his glance I read the thought : 
 " Lord Bothwell ! ever from this hour, 
 
 Though you be great, and I am nought. 
 Your life and fame are in my power ! " 
 
 No more of that ! — The Queen arose. 
 And we, her nobles, stood aloof 
 
 Until she parted from her spouse. 
 And then we left the fated roof. 
 
 " Back, back to Holyrood ! away ! " 
 
 Then torches flashed, and yeomen came, 
 And round the royal litter closed 
 
 A gleaming zone of ruddy flame. 
 I have slight memory of that walk : 
 
 Argyle, I think, spoke earnestly 
 On state affairs ; but of his talk 
 
 Not any word remains With me. 
 We came to Holyrood ; and soon 
 
 A gush of music filled the hall : 
 The dance was set ; the long saloon 
 
 Glowed as in time of carnival. 
 
 hateful to me was the sound. 
 And doubly hateful was the light ! 
 
 1 could not bear to look around, 
 
 I longed to plunge into the night. 
 A low dull boom was in mine ear, 
 
 A surging as of waters pent ; 
 And the strained sense refused to hear 
 
 The words of passing merriment. 
 What if that Babel should be stilled. 
 
 Smote dumb, by one tremendous knell ? 
 What if the air above were filled 
 
 With clanging from the clocks of hell .■' 
 Yet waited I till all was o'er ; 
 
 The bride withdrew, the masque was done 
 And as I left the postern-door 
 
 Dully the palace bell struck one ! 
 
 I heard a sermon long ago. 
 Wherein the preacher strove to show 
 
A YTOUN. 
 
 That guiltiness in high or low 
 
 Hath the hke touch of fear; 
 And that the knight who salUes forth 
 Bent on an action of unworth, 
 Though he be duke or belted earl, 
 Feels the same tremor as the churl 
 
 Who steals his neighbour's gear. 
 I held his words for idle talk, 
 
 And cast theih from my view; 
 But in that awful midnight walk 
 
 I felt the man spake true. 
 
 I heard the echo of toy foot. 
 
 As up the Canongate I sped, 
 Distinct, as though in close pursuit 
 
 Some spy kept even with my tread. 
 Or did I run, or did I pause. 
 
 That sound was ever bickering near ; 
 And though I guessed full well the cause, , 
 
 I could not free myself from fear. 
 I almost stumbled in the dark 
 
 Upon a houseless, vagrant hound, 
 And his sharp snarl and sudden bark 
 
 Made my heart leap and fJulses bound. 
 Wherever there were lights oh high 
 
 Methought there stood some watcher pale ; 
 Thin shadows seemed to flitter by ; 
 
 I heard low voices mourn and wail ; 
 And I could swear that once I saw 
 
 A phantom gliding by the place 
 Where then I stood. I shook with awe : 
 
 The face was like my mother's face, 
 When last I saw her on her bier ! 
 
 Are there such things ? or does the dread 
 Of coming evil craze our fear, 
 
 And so bring up the sheeted dead ? 
 I cannot tell. But this I know. 
 
 That rather that endure again 
 Such hideous thoughts, I'd fight the foe. 
 And reckon with them, blow for blow. 
 
 Though I were one and they were ten ! 
 
 I passed beyond the city wall ; 
 No light there was in hut or bield. 
 
 905 
 
9o6 A YTOUN. 
 
 I scarce could find the narrow lane 
 That led me to the Kirk-of-Field. 
 
 Three men were speeding from the door ; 
 
 They ran against me in the way ; 
 " Who's that ? " " 'Tis I ! " " Lord Bothwell ? Back, 
 
 Back, back, my Lord ! make no delay ! 
 The doors are locked, the match is lit ; 
 
 A moment more, and all is done ; 
 Let's 'void the ground ! " " He sleeps then sound ? " 
 
 " Within that house shall waken none ! " 
 Shortly we paused. I strained my sight 
 
 To trace the outline of the pile ; 
 But neither moon nor stars gave light : 
 
 And so we waited for a while. 
 
 Down came the rain with steady pour. 
 
 It splashed the pools among our fjjet ; 
 Each minute seemed in length an hour, 
 
 As each went by, yet uncomplete. 
 " Hell! should it fail, our plot is vain! 
 
 Bolton, you have mislaid the light. 
 Give me the key, I'll fire the train. 
 
 Though I be partner of his flight." 
 " Stay, stay, my Lord ! you shall not go ! 
 
 'Twere madness now to near the place; 
 The soldiers fuses' burn but slow ; 
 
 Abide, abide a little space ! 
 There's time enough " 
 
 He said no more. 
 
 For at the instant flashed the glare, 
 And with a hoarse infernal roar 
 
 A blaze went up and filled the air I 
 Rafters, and stones, and bodies rose 
 
 In one quick gush of blinding flame, 
 And down, and down, amidst the dark. 
 
 Hurtling on every side they came. 
 Surely the devil tarried near. 
 
 To make the blast more fierce and fell. 
 For never pealed on human ear 
 
 So dreadful and so dire a knell. 
 The heavens took up the earth's dismay, 
 
 The thunder bellowed overhead ; 
 
A YTOUN. 907 
 
 Steep called to steep. Away, away ! 
 
 Then fear fell on me, and I fled ; 
 FSr I was dazzled and amazed — 
 
 A fire was flashing in my brain-* 
 I hasted like a creature crazed. 
 
 Who strives to overrun his pain. 
 I took the least frequented road, 
 
 But even there arose a hum ; 
 Lights showed in every vile abode. 
 
 And far away I heard the drum. 
 Roused was the city, late so still ; 
 
 Burghers, half clad, ran hurrying by. 
 Old crones came forth, and scolded shrilT, 
 
 Men shouted challenge and reply, 
 Yet no one dared to cross my path, 
 
 My hand was on my dagger's hilt : 
 Fear is as terrible as wrath. 
 
 And vengeance not more fierce than guilt. 
 I would have stricken to the heart 
 
 Whoever should have stopped me then. 
 None saw me from the palace part. 
 
 None saw me enter it again. 
 Ah ! but I heard a whisper pass — 
 
 It thrilled me as I reached the door — 
 " Welcome to thee, the knight that was, 
 
 The felon now for evermore ! " 
 
INDEX TO THE POETS: 
 
 WITH THE DATES OF THEIR BIRTHS AND DEATHS, AND TITLES 
 OF THE PIECES. 
 
 Page 
 ADDISON, JOSEPH, a.d. 1672— 
 
 ^i7i9„ 467 
 
 FroOT The Campaign," a poem to 
 
 the Duke of Marlborough . . . 470 
 A Letter from, Italy to Charles, Lord 
 
 Haliiax . 473 
 
 An Hymn 474 
 
 The Playhouse 476 
 
 An Ode, "The Spacious Firmament 
 
 on high" ... . 478 
 
 Rosamond, scene 2 . 479 
 
 Cato, act V. scene i . 480 
 
 AKENSIDE, MARK, a.d. 1721— 
 1770 ....... 592 
 
 On a Sermon against Glory . . . 593 
 From "Pleasures of Imagination," 
 
 Book I ib. 
 
 From ** Pleasures of Imagination," 
 Book II. - 595 
 
 AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMOND- 
 STOUNE, A.D. 1813— 1865 . 894 
 Execution of Montrose . . 896 
 
 From " Bothwell " . 900 
 
 BARKLAY, ALEXANDER, a.d. 
 
 1480 — 1552 67 
 
 The Shipof Fools— Of theMutabilitie 
 
 of Fortune 68 
 
 The Lennoy of Barclay to the Fooles 70 
 Eclogue — the Citizen and Uplandish 
 
 M^ . . 7^ 
 
 BEATTIE, JA:\IES, a.d. 1735— 
 1803 , . . . . . . 621 
 
 From "The Minstrel" 623 
 
 On the report of a Monument to be 
 erected in Westminster Abbey . . 624 
 
 Song, **Blow, blow, thou Winter 
 Wind". . . .626 
 
 Retirement - . . . - 627 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER 
 Beaumont, Francis, a.d. 1586 — 
 
 1616 251 
 
 Fletcher, John, a.d. 1576—1625. ib. 
 
 Sonnet - 252 
 
 Eternity of Love protested . . . 254 
 
 In the praise of Sack . . . 255 
 
 From "The Elder Brother" . .258 
 
 From "The Maid's Tragedy" . . 259 
 
 Page 
 From " Valentinian " . . . 259 
 
 From " Rollo" tit. 
 
 From "Nice Valour, or the Passion- 
 ate Madman" 260 
 
 BLAIR, ROBERT, a.d. 1699— 1747. 554 
 From " The Grave " . . . . z*. 
 
 BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE, a.d. 
 1762 — 1850 . . 659 
 
 Time . . . 660 
 
 The Rhine ... zB. 
 
 Bamborcugh Castle . . 661 
 
 Dover CUffs ib, 
 
 BROWNING, ELIZABETH BAR- 
 RETT, A.D. 1809— 1861 . . .876 
 A Child's Thought of God . . 877 
 
 The Sleep . . . . . ib. 
 
 The Pet-Name 879 
 
 From "The Soul's TravelUng *' 881 
 
 BROWNING, ROBERT, a.d. 1812 
 
 {livijtg) ... .884 
 
 Sl Peter's at Rome 885 
 
 Inddent of the French Camp (a 
 Romance) . 887 
 
 Evelyn Hope 
 
 How they brought the Good News 
 from Ghent to Aix . . 
 
 A Tocatta of Galuppi's . . 
 
 Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis . 
 
 BUCKINGHAM, SHEFFIELD. 
 DUKE OF, A.D. 1649—1720 . . 396 
 An Essay on Poetry . . . 398 
 
 On the Times . . . 399 
 
 The Reconcilement . . 401 
 
 On the Deity . . . . ib. 
 
 BURNS, ROBERT, a.d. 1759—17^1. 649 
 Stanzas on the Death of a iavounte 
 
 Daughter . 650 
 
 Cotter's Saturday Night . . 651 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo . . 656 
 
 The Banks o* Doon . . . 657 
 
 Auld Lang Syne ... . . 658 
 
 BUTLER, SAMUEL, a.d. 1612- 
 
 1680 350 
 
 From "Hudibras," Part I. canto i. 352 
 
 Part I. canto 3 354 
 
 Miscellaneous Thoughts . . . 358 
 
 888 
 
 891 
 892 
 
910 
 
 INDEX TO THE POETS. 
 
 Page 
 
 BYRON, LORD, a.d. 1788— 1824 . 758 
 From " The Prisoner of Chillon " . 760 
 From " Childe Harold " . . . . 766 
 Epigram— "The World is a bundle 
 
 of Hay" 770 
 
 From " Marino Faliero " . • 77^ 
 
 From "The Giaour" ... -773 
 
 Destruction of Sennacherib - 775 
 
 CAMPBELL, THOMAS, a.d. 1777 
 
 —1844 728 
 
 Battle of the Baltic . . 73° 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 732 
 
 Hohenlinden . - 733 
 
 Soldier's Dream . . • 734 
 
 The Cricketer , . 735 
 
 CAREW, THOMAS, a.d. 1589— 
 
 1639 278 
 
 Epitaph on Maria Wentworth 279 
 
 The Protestation . . 280 
 
 Red and White Roses t^- 
 
 Ask me no more . . . 281 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek , - ib. 
 
 On my Lord Chief Justice Finch 282 
 
 The Enquiry . . 283 
 
 The Hue and Cry ih. 
 
 CHATTERTON, THOMAS, a.d. 
 1752—1770 . 634 
 
 Resignation . 636 
 
 Hymn for Christmas Day .... 637 
 The Minstrelle's Song, from "iEUa" 638 
 " Goddwyn," Chorus from . . 640 
 
 CHAUCER, GEOFFREY, a.d. 1328 
 
 — 1400 I 
 
 CANTEftBURY Tales — the Prologuc 2 
 
 The Tabard— the Knight . 3 
 
 Knight's Son ... 4 
 
 The Nun — the Monk . . 5 
 
 The Friar 6 
 
 The Merchant— Clerk of Oxford . 7 
 
 Sergeant of Law — the Franklein . 8 
 
 The Haberdasher, Carpenter, &c. . 9 
 
 The Cook— The Sailor— The Doctor ib. 
 
 Wife of Bath — The Poor Parson 20 
 
 The Ploughman 11 
 
 The Miller— The Manciple— The 
 
 Reve . . ... 12 
 
 The Sompnour .... , . 13 
 
 A Ballad on Gentilness 15 
 
 COLERIDGE, HARTLEY, a. d. 1796 
 ■ — 1849 ... . . 805 
 
 Poietes Apoietes . . . 808 
 
 The Forget-me-not 809 
 
 Death-bed Reflections of Michael 
 
 Angelo . .810 
 
 Agnes . , ib. 
 
 COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR, 
 
 A.D. 1772 — 1834 707 
 
 From "The Ancient Mariner" . 708 
 
 From "Christabel" 712 
 
 On Revisiting the Sea-shore, after a 
 
 long absence .... ... 713 
 
 Lines written at the King's Arms, 
 
 Ross . ib. 
 
 COLLINS, WILLIAM, a.d. 1721— 
 1756 ... . . 586 
 
 The Passions . 587 
 
 Ode on the Death of Thomson . 590 
 
 Page 
 
 CONGREVE, WILLIAM, a.d. 167a 
 — 1729 . . . • ■ • 458 
 
 Amoret ... ... • 459 
 
 Elegy to a Candle 460 
 
 Of Pleasing — an Epistle to Sir 
 
 Richard Temple 461 
 
 The Mourning Bride, act i. scene i. 462 
 ,, act iii. scene 5. 465 
 
 CORBET, RICHARD, a.d. 1582— 
 
 163s 230 
 
 A Certain Poem, presented before 
 
 James I. at Cambridge .... 231 
 Journey into France . . . 235 
 
 COWLEY, ABRAHAM, a.d. 1618— 
 
 1667 360 
 
 The Wish 362 
 
 Upon the Shortness of Man's Life . 364 
 
 Davideis 365 
 
 Claudian's Old Man of Verona . . 366 
 
 COWPER, WILLIAM, a.d 1731— 
 1800 616 
 
 On the receipt of my '' Mother's 
 Picture . 617 
 
 Verses supposed to have been written 
 by Alexander Selkirk ... .620 
 
 CRABBE,GEORGE,A.D. 1754— 1832 461 
 
 From "The Village" 643 
 
 Phoebe Dawson, from "The Parish 
 
 Register" . ■ 646 
 
 CRASHAW, RICHARD, a.d. 1610 
 
 -15 («yc.)— 1650 . . 342 
 
 Steps to the Temple 344 
 
 Wishes— To his supposed Mistress . 347 
 On the Blessed Virgin's bashfulness 35a 
 "Two went up into the Temple to 
 
 pray" . . ib. 
 
 CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN, a.d. 1784 
 
 —1842 749 
 
 Roast Beef of old England. ... 750 
 A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea 751 
 
 DAVENANT, SIR WILLIAM, a.d. 
 
 1605 — 1668 294 
 
 " My Lodging is on the cold Ground " 295 
 The Long Vacation in London . . 296 
 Song, " The Lark now leaves his 
 
 watery nest" 300 
 
 Song, "The Soldier going to the 
 
 field" 301 
 
 In remembrance of Master William 
 
 Shakspere .... ib. 
 
 DIBDEN, CHARLES, a.d. 1745— 
 1814 ... . . 629 
 
 Poor Jack ... . . 630 
 
 Tom Bowling .... . 631 
 
 Every Bullet has its Billet . . 632 
 The Token . . . 633 
 
 DONNE, DR. JOHN, a.d. 1573— 
 
 1631 188 
 
 On the Blessed Virgin Mary . . 190 
 The Cross . . , . . U. 
 
 On the Sacrament . . . 192 
 
 Translation from Gazajus . . . . ib. 
 The Calm, from the Island Voyage 
 
 with the Earl of Essex . . . «S, 
 The Anniversary 193 
 
INDEX TO THE POETS, 
 
 911 
 
 DORSET. CHAS. SACKVILLE, 
 EARL OF, A.D. 1637—1716 . . 3S9 
 To Mr, Edv^ird Howard, on his 
 
 Poem "The British Princes" . , 392 
 A French Song paraphrased . . . 393 
 Son?, written at Sea in the first Dutch 
 War 394 
 
 DOUGLAS. GAWAIN, a.d. 1474— 
 1:522 .... . . . 36 
 
 The Month of May I7 
 
 DRAYTON, MICHAEL, a.d, 1563 
 
 — 1631 147 
 
 The Barons* Wars .... . 148 
 Edward H. at Berkeley Castle . . 150 
 , H^enry Howard to the Lady Geral- 
 dine ... . .153 
 
 Hynmhidia 158 
 
 The Cryer ... . . . 163 
 
 Ballad of Agincourt . , . 167 
 
 DRUMMOND, WILLIAM, a.d. 
 1585—1649 - . -239 
 
 Ascendit ad Coslos . 241 
 
 Human Frailty . . 243 
 
 No Trust in Time . ^. 
 
 Book of the World . . .244 
 
 To a Nightingale &, 
 
 " I know that all beneath the Moon 
 
 decays", . . . 245 
 
 To Sleep ... . . , ^. 
 
 Beauty fades . . . . , t&. 
 
 The Nightingale . . . 246 
 
 To Alexis . ... ... so. 
 
 To Spring .... . 247 
 
 To his Lute i&. 
 
 Epigrams 248 
 
 The Five Senses — Seeing, Hearing, 
 Tasting, Feeling, SmeUing . 248-250 
 
 DRYDEN, JOHN, a.d. 1631— 1700. 367 
 
 The Art of Poetry 368 
 
 Veni, Creator 371 
 
 Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Killi- 
 
 grew 372 
 
 l^es written imderMilton*s Picture 374 
 Epitaph intended for Dryden's wife. z6. 
 Song for St. Cecilia's Day . ... id. 
 Alexander's Feast, an Ode in honour 
 
 of St. Cecilia's Day 376 
 
 Character of the Earl of Shaftesbury, 
 
 from "Absalom and Achitophel". 381 
 Character of Buckingham .... 382 
 
 DUNBAR, WILLIAM, a.d. 146a— 
 1520 . . 34 
 
 Gladness . 35 
 
 FALCONER, WILLIAM, a.d. 1730 
 
 —1769 V 612 
 
 From 'Tlie Shipwreck" . . . . tS. 
 
 FLETCHER, GILES, a.d. 15S0— 
 
 1623 • 216 
 
 Chxisf s Victory in Heaven, . , 219 
 The Wooing Song 221 
 
 FLETCHER, PHINEAS, a.d. 1584 
 —1660 ._ . . - .216 
 
 Against a Rich Man despising Po- 
 verty 223 
 
 The Purple Island,— Canto xii. 
 
 GASCOIGNE, GEORGE, a.d. 1536 
 
 _— 1577 83 
 
 Gascoigne's Good-morrow .... to. 
 "Durum, iEneum, et Miserabiie 
 .ffivum" . . 85 
 
 GAY, JOHN, a.d. 1688— 1732 . . .534 
 A Ballad— from the "What d'ye 
 
 call it?" 536 
 
 My own Epitaph .... . . 537 
 
 True Story of an Apparition . . . w. 
 Sweet William's Farewell to Black- 
 eyed Susan ... . . . 539 
 
 The Quidnunkis, a tale , ... 541 
 The Painter who pleased nobody 
 and everybody . . . 542 
 
 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER, A.D. 1728 
 
 — 1774 600 
 
 From ^*The Deserted Village" . . 603 
 Retaliation .... .... 606 
 
 Stanzas on Woman . . . 610 
 
 From "The Traveller" . 61 r 
 
 GOWER, JOHN, a.d. 1325— 1408 i6 
 " Confessio Amantis " . . . 17 
 
 GRAY, THOMAS, a.d. 1716— 1771 . 577 
 On a distant prospect of Eton Col- 
 lege. . . . 579 
 
 Hymn to Adversity 581 
 
 Elegy written in a Country Church- 
 yard 583 
 
 The Epitaph 586 
 
 HALIFAX, CHAS. MONTAGUE, 
 EARL OF, A.D. 1661—1715. . 41Z 
 On the Death of King Charles II . 415 
 
 The Man of Honour 416 
 
 On the Countess Dowager of . 418 
 
 HALL, BISHOP, a.d. 1574— 1656 - 210 
 
 Anthem for the Cathedral of Exeter. 212 
 
 On Love — Satire vii. book 2 . . . 3. 
 
 On the Sale of Benefices, — Satire v. 
 
 book 2 .... . .... 213 
 
 On Men discontented with their lot. 214 
 
 HAWES, STEPHEN, a.d, 1450—1510 39 
 Pastime of Pleasure . . zA 
 
 HEBER, REGINALD, a.d. 1783— 
 1826 • . . . . . . 747 
 
 From " Palestine " 748 
 
 HEM ANS.'-MRS. a. 0.1794—1835 . 794 
 X^anding of the Pilgrim Fathers in 
 
 NewEngland 795 
 
 Cassabianca. . . 796 
 
 War Song of the Spanish Patriots . 797 
 Dirge, "Where shall we make her 
 
 grave?" 799 
 
 HENRYSONE, ROBERT, a-D'. 1425 
 
 —1495 • 3^ 
 
 Garment of Good Ladies . . 32 
 
 The Abbey Walk . • • 33 
 
 HERBERT, GEORGE, a.d. 1593— 
 
 1632 . . . 4 . . 289 
 
 Life 291 
 
 The Church Windows . ... 292 
 
 Prayer . . w. 
 
 Content . .... . . 293 
 
 Virtue • 294 
 
912 
 
 INDEX TO THE POETS. 
 
 Page 
 
 HILL, AARON, a.d. 1684— 1749 • ■ S09 
 
 The Messenger. . ... 510 
 
 HOOD, THOMAS, a.d. 1798—1843 . 812 
 Address to the Very Rev. the Dean 
 and Chapter of Westminster , 813 
 
 Love 816 
 
 Faithless Sally Brown, a ballad . . 817 
 The Death-bed . . - 819 
 
 HOWARD, HENRY, Earl of Sur- 
 rey, A.D. 1516 — 1547 • • -77 
 Prisoner in Windsor . . .80 
 
 Description of Spring 81 
 
 Description and Praise of Love Geral- 
 
 dine ib. 
 
 How no age is content with his own 
 estate . , .82 
 
 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND, a.xj. 
 1396 — 1437- ■ - ■ 28 
 
 The King's Quhair ... 29 
 
 JOHNSON, DR. SAMUEL, a.d. 
 
 1709 — 1784 567 
 
 The Vanity of Human Wishes . 570 
 
 JONSON, BEN, A.D. 1573—1537. . ig6 
 To the memory of my beloved Mr. 
 William Shakspeare 199 
 
 To Celia 202 
 
 Epitaph on S. P,, a Child of Queen 
 
 Elizabeth's Chapel . . ih. 
 
 Epigram on Donne . . 203 
 
 To Heaven ib. 
 
 Hymn on the Nativity of my Saviour 204 
 To the World— Farewell for a Gentle- 
 woman . 205 
 
 An Epistle, answering to one that 
 asked to be sealed of the Tribe of 
 
 Ben 207 
 
 Epitaph on the Countess of Pem- 
 broke . . . 209 
 
 KEATS, JOHN, A.D. 1796—1820 800 
 
 From " Endymiou " ib. 
 
 From " Isabella, or the Pot of Basil " 802 
 To Hope .... . . . S05 
 
 LANDON, MISS, a.d. 1802—1839 . 833 
 Yearnings for Immortality .... 834 
 The Troubadour . . . ib. 
 
 Hannibal's Oath . . 836 
 
 Crescentius . . ib. 
 
 LANSDOWNE, GEORGE GRAN- 
 VILLE, LORD, a.d. 1663 {circ.) 
 
 —173s -428 
 
 Ode on the present Corruption of 
 
 Mankind . . ... 429 
 
 Definition of Love . . . 430 
 
 The Wild Boar's Defence . . 431 
 To Myra .... . ib. 
 
 LYDGATE, JOHN, a.d. 1375—1491 20 
 
 The London Lack-penny . 21 
 
 Life and Passion of St Alban . 24 
 
 As Straight as a Ram's Horn ... 26 
 St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand 
 
 Virgins . . .... 28 
 
 LYTTON, LORD, a.d. 1805 [living) 847 
 Meeting of uEgle and King Arthur, 
 from "King Arthur" . . . . S48 
 
 Page 
 
 Mazarin — Farewell to the Beautiful . 853 
 The Hollow Oak . . . .856 
 
 From "Richelieu" ... . . 857 
 
 MACAULAY, LORD, a.d. z8oo— 
 
 1859 . . 8ig 
 
 Horatius 821 
 
 Valentine to the Hon. Mary C. Stan- 
 hope .... . . 831 
 
 MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER, A.D. 
 ^1563—1593 • ■ 134 
 
 Edward 11. . . . . 136 
 
 Massacre at Paris. . . 138 
 
 Hero and Leander . . . 140 
 
 Epigram of a Gull . . . 143 
 
 Death of Faustus 145 
 
 The Passionate Shepherd to his Love .ib. 
 The Nymph's reply to the Shepherd, 
 — Sir Walter Raleigh's rejoinder . 146 
 
 MASSINGER, PHILIP, a.d. 1584 
 
 — 1640 261 
 
 The City Madam, act iv. scene 4. . 262 
 The Duke of Milan, act i. scene 3 . 267 
 
 MILTON, JOHN, a.d. 1608— 1674. 313 
 From " Paradise Lost," Books i. and 
 
 V .316 
 
 Hymn on the Nativity 321 
 
 From " L' Allegro " . , 328 
 
 From '' II Penseroso " . 329 
 
 Sonnet, On Shakspeare . . 330 
 
 On the University Carrier . 331 
 
 To Cyriac Skinner . . . ib. 
 
 MONTGOMERY, JAMES, A.D. 1771 
 
 —1854 .698 
 
 From " The West Indies " 700 
 
 The Grave 702 
 
 Sonnets — "If in the field I meet a 
 
 smiling Rose." , . 705 
 
 Saints in Heaven 706 
 
 MOORE, THOMAS, a.d. 1779- 
 
 1852 736 
 
 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp, a 
 
 ballad . 737 
 
 Canadian Boat-Song . . . 739 
 
 Sound the Loud Timbrel, &c. . . . ib. 
 Letter from the Princess Charlotte of 
 
 Wales 740 
 
 From the " Fire Worshippers" 742 
 
 " She is far from the Land," &c. . 744 
 " *Tis the last Rose of Sununer " . w. 
 Oh the Shamrock . . ... 745 
 Oh ! doubt me not ! 746 
 
 MORE, SIR THOMAS, a.d. 1480— 
 
 1535 57 
 
 The Nme Pageauntes : Chyldhod . 63 
 Manhod— Venus and Cupyde — ^Age 
 
 — Deth .64 
 
 Fame — Tyme — Etemitee . . 65 
 
 On the Death of the Queen 66 
 
 OTWAY, THOMAS, a.d. 1651— 
 
 1685 402 
 
 "Windsor Castle— St. George's Chapel 403 
 
 The Complaint 405 
 
 From "Venice Preserved," act i. 
 scene i. . . . . 406 
 
INDEX TO THE POETS. 
 
 913 
 
 PARNELL, THOMAS, a.d. 1679— 
 
 ^ 1717 
 
 Love and Innocence . 
 Elegy on an Old Beauty 
 An Allegory on Man . 
 
 PHILIPS, JOHN, A.D. 1676—1708 
 The Splendid Shilling ... 
 
 PITT, CHRISTOPHER, A-d. 1699 
 
 —1748 
 
 From "The Art of Preaching," 
 Fragment . . . . 
 
 POPE, ALEXANDER, a.d. i68i 
 
 1744 
 
 Messiah, a Sacred Eclogue. . 
 The dying Christian to his So«l . 
 From " An Essay on Man " 
 The Univereai Prayer 
 On the Use of Riches . . 
 Ode on St Cecilia's Day . . 
 
 499 
 
 496 
 
 497 
 
 PRIOR, MATTHEW, a.d. 1664- 
 1721 . . 
 The Garland 
 The Cameleon . . 
 Her right Name . 
 Protogenes and Apell 
 Epitaph for my own Tombstone 
 ■ Monument 
 
 PROCTER, BRYAN WALTER, a.d. 
 1790 {lining) . 
 The Blood Horse . . 
 The Stormy Petrel .... 
 " Softly woo away her breath " 
 " Sit down, sad Soul '* . 
 Life — " We are bom," &a 
 
 517 
 520 
 523 
 ib. 
 527 
 528 
 531 
 
 419 
 421 
 422 
 423 
 424 
 426 
 427 
 
 776 
 777 
 778 
 ib. 
 
 779 
 780 
 
 QUARLES, FRANCIS, a.d. 1592— 
 
 1644 ... 284 
 
 A Feast for Worms . . 285 
 
 Emblems 286 
 
 Pentelogia— Dolor Infemi . . 288 
 
 Alphabet of Elemes . . . . . H. 
 
 Mildreiados — Stanza on Mildred 
 Lady Luckyn . 289 
 
 RALEIGH, SIR WALTER, A.D. 1552 
 
 — 1618 . . -97 
 
 His Pilgrimage 102 
 
 Verses said to have been found in his 
 
 Bible 103 
 
 De Morte — On the Snuff of a Candle 104 
 The Soul's Errand . ib. 
 
 ROGERS, SAMUEL, a.d. 1763— 
 
 1855 662 
 
 From ** Pleasures of Memory " 664 
 
 The Sailor 668 
 
 " Go — you may call it Madness," &c. 669 
 Ginevra . . . . ib. 
 
 ROSCOMMON,EARLOF, a.d. 1633 
 
 {«?r.)— 1684 382 
 
 An Essay on Translated Verse . . 384 
 On the Day of Judgment . . 387 
 
 ROWE, NICHOLAS, a.d. 1673— 
 1718 .... ... 485 
 
 Cohn's Complaint 486 
 
 Verses occasioned by his first visit to 
 Lady Warwick ... . 4S8 
 
 ROYE, WILLIAM, a.d. 1490— 1531 52 
 Brefe Dialoge between two Prestes 
 Servaunts 54 
 
 SACKVILLE, THOMAS, Earl of 
 Dorset, a.d. 1536— 1608 ... 87 
 Induction to a Min-ourfor Magistrates 89 
 
 SAVAGE, RICHARD, a.d. 1697- 
 
 1743 544 
 
 The Bastard . , . ... 547 
 
 A Character. ... . 549 
 
 Verses to a young Lady . . . 551 
 
 SCOTT, SIR WALTER, a.d. 1771— 
 
 1832 687 
 
 The Battle — from "Marmion " . . 689 
 From the " Lay of the Last Minstrel" 694 
 Scotland . . .... . 6^5 
 
 Milrose Abbey ib. 
 
 Lochinvar — Lady Heron's Song . . 696 
 " Where shall the Lover rest ? " . . 697 
 
 SHAKESPERE, WILLIAM, a.d. 
 1564 — 1616. ...... . 169 
 
 Song, from " Two Gentlemen of 
 
 Verona " 172 
 
 Winter— from "Love's Labour Lost " ib. 
 Song, from "Cymbeline." . . 174 
 
 Sonnets 175 
 
 From the "Passionate Pilgrim " . 178 
 
 SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE, a.d. 
 1792 — 1822 . ... 780 
 
 The Cloud ... . .781 
 
 To a Skylark . 783 
 
 Adonais . . . . 785 
 
 Ginevra . 790 
 
 SHEN STONE, WILLIAM, A.D. 1714 
 
 —1763 574 
 
 A Ballad — "From Lincoln to Lon- 
 don," &c. ... . . ib. 
 
 Extent of Cookery . . . . 573 
 
 Rape of the Trap ... . 575 
 
 SKELTON, JOHN, a.d. 1460—1529 43 
 
 On Tyme -44 
 
 Why come ye nat to Court ? . . 45 
 
 The Dead Man's Head .... 49 
 On Sir Thomas More .... 50 
 
 SMOLLETT, TOBIAS GEORGE, 
 
 a.d. 172^ — 1771 . ... 597 
 
 To Blue-eyed Anne . . . ib. 
 
 The Tears of Scotland . . 598 
 
 SOUTHEY, ROBERT, a.d. 1774— 
 1843 .... .-714 
 
 Curse of Kehama .716 
 
 The Old Woman of Berkeley . . 722 
 
 Battle of Blenheim . . . 726 
 
 SOUTHWELL, ROBERT, a.d. 1550 
 
 —159s 91 
 
 S. Mary Magdalen's Blvsh 92 
 
 At Home in Heauen . 93 
 
 The Christian's Manna ... .94 
 
 SPENSER, EDMUND, a.d. 1533— 
 1598 .... . . . 106 
 
 The Faerie Queen . 108 
 
 Una and the Lion , . . . 113 
 
 Guardian Angels . .116 
 
 Temperance . . ny 
 
 Ruins of Time ib. 
 
 Description of Belphebe . . . 120 
 
 Epithalamion ... - . 122 
 
 3N 
 
914 
 
 INDEX TO THE POETS. 
 
 Page 
 
 SUCKLING, SIR JOHN, a.d. 1609 
 1641 .... . . . - 332 
 
 A Wedding 334 
 
 "I pr'y thee send me backmy heart." 337 
 Song, "When, dearest, I but think 
 
 of Thee ! " i^- 
 
 Session of the Poets .... - 338 
 
 SWAIN,CHARLES.A.D.i8o3 {living) 838 
 The Mind; Sculpture— Music . .839 
 
 Ships of England 842 
 
 The Chapel Bell . .... 843 
 In Memoriam . 846 
 
 SWIFT, JONATHAN, a.d. 1667— 
 
 ^"7.45- ••■-.■• ■ • 432 
 
 Desire and Possession ..... 440 
 Inventory of the goods belonging to 
 Dr. Swift, on lending his house to 
 the Bishop of Meath . . .441 
 
 Verses by Stella - . . . _. . .442 
 Directions for making a Birthday 
 
 Song i^- 
 
 The Parson's Case 44^ 
 
 On the Death of Dr. Swift ... 447 
 On Poetry — a Rhapsody . . . 453 
 
 SYDNEY, SIR PHILIP, a.d. 1554— 
 
 1586 126 
 
 The Seven Wonders of England , . 128 
 
 Song, "Who is it this dark night?". 130 
 
 Song, "Ring out your Bells" . . 131 
 
 Song, "Leave me, O Love." . . 132 
 
 Sonnet to Sleep . . . . . 133 
 
 Sonnet on Edward IV. . . ib. 
 
 TENNYSON, ALFRED, a.d. 1809 
 
 {living) .861 
 
 From " Enoch Arden." . 863 
 
 Ballad of Oriana ... . 867 
 
 Lady Clara Vere deVere . . . 870 
 
 "Come not, when I am dead." . . 872 
 "Break, break, break, on thy cold 
 
 gray stones, O Sea." . . ih. 
 
 The Poet's Song . . -873 
 
 From " In Memoriam " . ib. 
 
 THOMSON, JAMES, a.d. 1700— 
 
 1748 SS8 
 
 Spring . . . . 560 
 
 Summer . . , 563 
 
 From "The Castle of Indolence " . 565 
 Rule, Britannia ! . . . . 566 
 
 TICKELL, THOMAS, a.d. 1686— 
 
 1740 511 
 
 On Queen Caroline's rebuilding the 
 Lodgings of the Black Prince and 
 Henry V. . . . . . . 512 
 
 On the Death of Mr. Addison 513 
 
 Colin and Lucy, a ballad . . 515 
 
 WALLERi EDMUND, a.d. 1605— 
 
 1687 . 302 
 
 Panegyric to my Lord Protector . . 304 
 
 At Penshurst . . . . . , 308 
 
 To Amoret . . ib. 
 
 On a Girdle . 310 
 
 On Tea , . ib. 
 
 On the Death of the Lord Protector 
 Go, lovely rose , , . 
 
 WATTS, DR., A.D. 1674— 1748. 
 False Greatness .... 
 
 True Riches . . .... 
 
 Stanzas to Lady Sunderland, 
 
 Tunbridge Wells .... 
 Praises for Mercies, Spiritual and 
 
 Temporal . . . . 
 
 An Evening Song .... 
 For the Lord's Day Evening 
 The Sluggard . . 
 
 WHITE, HENRY KIRKE,a.d. 1785 
 -1806 
 
 Paffg 
 
 311 
 312 
 
 489 
 
 to. 
 
 494 
 zb. 
 
 7SI 
 752 
 754 
 755 
 757 
 
 270 
 272 
 
 273 
 =75 
 277 
 
 672 
 
 673 
 678 
 679 
 ib. 
 680 
 
 ib. 
 
 My Study , 
 
 Song, written at the age of Fourteen, 
 Time — " In yonder Cot'* .... 
 The Wonderful Juggler, a song 
 
 WITHER, GEORGE, a.d. 1588— 
 
 1667 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair . . . 
 
 From the Fourth Eclogue of the 
 
 Shepherd's Hunting . ... 
 
 " Sleep, baby, sleep ! *' . . 
 " I loved a lass, a fair one " 
 
 WORDSWORTH, WILUAM, a.d. 
 1770 — 1850 .... ... 
 
 Immortality, Intimations of, from 
 " Recollections of Earty Child- 
 hood" . 
 
 To Lucy 
 
 To Evening . . 
 
 The Sonnet . 
 
 The Poet 
 
 Stanzas composed upon Westminster 
 Bridge, 1S03. . . 
 
 Death of George III 
 
 Force of Prayer, or the Founding 
 of Bolton Abbey . 681 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph . ... 683 
 
 "We are Seven " . 685 
 
 WOTTON, SIR HENRY, a.i>. 1568 
 
 — 1639 . 180 
 
 Character of a Happy Life . . . 181 
 Farewell to the Vanities of the World 182 
 Hymn, written at Venice .... 184 
 On his Mistress, the Queen of 
 
 Bohemia 185 
 
 Tears at the grave of Sir Albertus 
 
 Morton ib. 
 
 On the Death of Sir Albertus Mor- 
 ton's Wife 186 
 
 Hymn to my God in a Night of my 
 late Sickness . , . 187 
 
 WYAT, SIR THOMAS, a.d. 1503— 
 
 1542 . . -74 
 
 The Lover 75 
 
 Of a new-married Student . 77 
 
 YOUNG, EDWARD, a.d. 1681- 
 
 1765 505 
 
 From "The Complaint," or "Night 
 Thoughts" , . . . 506 
 
INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
 
 WITH REFERENCES TO THE NOTES. 
 
 -*>«; 
 
 Page 
 Abbey Walk, by Henrysone ... 33 
 Addison, on the death of, by Tickell , 513 
 
 Adonais, by Shelley 785 
 
 Adversity, Hymn to, by Gray . . .581 
 ^gle and King Arthur, meeting of . S48 
 i£so, his bodily weakness removed by 
 Medea .... . . note 158 
 
 Age, by Sir T. More 64 
 
 Age never content with his own estate. 82 
 Agincoart, Ballad of, by Drayton . . 165 
 
 Agnes, by Coleridge 810 
 
 Alexander's Feast, an ode, byDryden 376 
 Alexis, to, by Drummond . . 246 
 Amoret, to, by Waller 308 
 
 - by Congreve 459 
 
 "Ancient Mariner," extract from the. 708 
 Angels, a play upon the word . n 103 
 
 coins so called ... . « 158 
 
 Anniversary, the, by Donne . . . 193 
 Apparition, true story of an, by Gay _ 537 
 "Ascenditad Coelos," by Drummond. 241 
 "Ask me no more," by Carew . . 281 
 At Home in Heaiien, by Southwell . 93 
 Auld Lang Syne, by Bums . . . 658 
 A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea . . .751 
 
 Ballad, from the " What d'ye call it ? " 536 
 Ballad of Oriana, by Tennyson . 867 
 Bamborough Castle, by Bowles . 661 
 Banks o' Doon, by Bums , . . 657 
 Barons' Wars, by Drayton . 148 
 Barry, the painter . . n 607 
 Bastard, the, by Savage . . . 547 
 Battle, the, from "Marmion" 689 
 of the Baltic, by Campbell . . . 730 
 
 — of Blenheim, by Southey . . . 726 
 " Beauty a vain and doubtful good " . 178 
 Beauty fades, by Drummond . . . 245 
 Beckwith, John, monument to « 442 
 Benefice, on the sale of a . . . 213 
 
 Bernard, Dr. . . . _ « 606 
 
 Birthday Song, directions for making 442 
 Blessed Virgin, lines on the, by Donne igo 
 
 on the bashfulness of . . . . 350 
 
 Blood Horse, the, by Procter . 777 
 
 " Blow, blow, thou winter wind " . . 626 
 Blue-eyed Ann, lines to, by Smollett . 597 
 Bohemia, Elizabeth, Queen of . n 185 
 Book of the World, by Drummond . . 244 
 " Bothwell," by Aytoun, extract from . 894 
 
 " Break, break, on the cold grey stones" 872 
 Bribery, custom of . . . » 102 
 
 Broghill, Lord, marriage of . « 334 
 
 Brook, Christopher, notices of . . » 192 
 Buckingham, character of, by Dryden 382 
 Burke, Edmund . u 606 
 
 William .... n 606 
 
 Burns, Robert, family of . . . . « 652 
 Buskin and Sock, when the term was 
 first introduced n 200 
 
 Calenture, a distempered fever n 193 
 
 Calm, the, by Donne . . 192 
 
 Cameleon, the, by Prior 422 
 
 "Campaign," by Addison. . , . 470 
 Canadian Boat Song, by Moore. 739 
 
 Candle, on the snufi" of a . . . . 104 
 Candle, elegy to a, by Congreve . . 460 
 Cantabrigiam, de Aventu Regis ad 231 
 Canterbury Tales, by Chaucer . 2 
 
 Carcanet explained .... . » 265 
 
 Casabianca, by Mrs. Hemans . . . 796 
 " Castle of Indolence," by Thomson . 565 
 Catherine de Medici ... « 13 
 
 Cato, act V. scene i. by Addison . . 480 
 Celia, lines to, by Jonson . . . 202 
 
 Chantries in St. Paul's n iz 
 
 Chapel Bell, by Swain . . . 843 
 
 Character, by Savage . . 449 
 
 Character of a Happy Life .... i8i 
 Charles, Prince, and the Infanta of 
 
 Spain, proposed match broken off. n 208 
 Charles II. on the death of . 415 
 
 Charles IX. of France ... . k 139 
 
 Charlotte, Princess of Wales, letter 
 
 from, by Moore 740 
 
 Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel . 202 
 " Childe Harold," by Lord Byron . . 766 
 Child's thought of God, a . . . . 877 
 Chillingworth, William . . . . « 338 
 Christabel, by Coleridge, extract from 712 
 Christian's Manna, by Southwell . 94 
 
 Christmas Day, Hymn for .... 637 
 Christ's Victory in Heaven, by Fletcher 219 
 Church Windows, the, by Hei;bert . 292 
 Chyldhod, by Sir T. More .... 63 
 Citizen and tJplandish Man, eclogue . 71 
 **City Madam, ^ the," act iv. scene iv. 462 
 Claudian's Old Man of Verona . . . 366 
 Clerk of Oxford, by Chaucer . . 7 
 
9i6 
 
 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
 
 Cloud, the, by Shelley 781 
 
 Colin and Lucy, a ballad, by Tickell . 515 
 Colin's Complaint, by Rowe . . . 486 
 
 " Come not when I am dead," . . . 872 
 Complaint, the, by Otway . . . 405 
 
 by Young . 506 
 
 Confessio Amantis, by Gower . 17 
 
 Content, by Herbert .... 293 
 
 Cook, the, by Chaucer 9 
 
 Cookery, extent of, by Shenstone . 573 
 
 Cornelius Agrippa n 154 
 
 Cosmo de Medici, Grand Duke . n 156 
 Cotter's Saturday Night, by Burns . 637 
 
 Countess Dowager of , on the . . 418 
 
 Country Churchyard, Elegy written in 
 
 a, by Gray . 583 
 
 Crabbe's tale of Phoebe Dawson n 649 
 
 Crescentius, by Miss Landon . 836 
 
 the Roman Consul . . . . n ib. 
 
 Cricketer, the, by Campbell . 735 
 
 Cross, the, by Donne . . . . 190 
 Cryer, the, by Drayton . . 165 
 
 Cumberland, Richard .... n 606 
 Cunrtingham, Peter, his note on Sir 
 
 Walter Raleigh .... . n 104 
 
 Curse of Kehama, by Southey 716 
 
 Damascus, notices of « 215 
 
 Davenant, William . . n 340 
 
 Davideis, by Cowley .... . 365 
 
 Day of Judgment, by Roscommon . 387 
 De Morte, by Sir W. Raleigh . 104 
 
 Dead Man's Head, by Skelton ... 49 
 Dean and Chapter of Westminster, 
 
 Address to the, by Hood .... 813 
 
 Death-bed, by Hood 819 
 
 Death-bed Reflections of M. Angelo 810 
 Deity, on the, by Buckingham . . 401 
 
 "Deserted Village," by Goldsmith . 603 
 Desire and Possession, by Swift . 432 
 
 Deth, by Sir T. More . . . . 64 
 
 Devil Tavern, Fleet Street . . n 198 
 
 Dialogue between two Priests . . 54 
 
 Digby, Sir Kenelme . . . , « 338 
 
 Dirge, '■"Where shall we make her 
 
 grave?" by Mrs. Hemans . . 799 
 
 Doctor, the, by Chaucer , . 9 
 
 Dodd, Rev. Dr w 608 
 
 Donne, epigram on, by Jonson . , 203 
 
 Douglas, Dr. Bishop of Salisbury . « 606 
 Dover Cliffs, by Bowles . . .' . 661 
 Dryden's Wife, epitaph intended for . 374 
 "Duke of Milan, the," act i. scene ii. 267 
 Durum, .(En eum, et Miserabile iEvum . 85 
 Dying Christian to his Soul, by Pope. 523 
 
 Ear-rings, temp. Elizabeth andjames I. n 144 
 Edward II. death-scene of, by Marlowe 136 
 
 his dungeon ... . n 137 
 
 at Berkeley Castle . . . . 150 
 
 Edward _1V, his accession . , « 133 
 
 his impartial justice . . . ih. 
 
 — marriage and expulsion . . . « 134 
 "Elder Brother, the," extract from 258 
 Elegies, alphabet of, by Quarles . 288 
 Elegy on an Old Beauty, by Pamell . 500 
 Emblems, by Quarles .... 286, 287 
 " Endymion," by Keats, extract from. Soo 
 English- French, Chaucer's opinion of n 5 
 " Enoch Arden," by Tennyson . . 861 
 
 Enquiry, the, by Carew . . . 283 
 
 Page 
 Epigram of a Gull, by Marlowe . .134 
 
 Epigrams, by Drummond 248 
 
 Epistle to one that asked to be sealed 
 
 of the tribe of Ben, by Jonson . . 207 
 Epitaph, by Gray .... . 586 
 
 for my own Tombstone . . 426 
 
 for my own Monument .... 427 
 
 Erasmus. . ... ...» 154 
 
 Essay on Man, by Pope . . 523 
 
 Eternity, lines on, by Sir T. More , . 65 
 Eternity of Love protested .... 254 
 
 Eton College, on a distant prospect of. 579 
 Evelyn Hope, by Robert Browning . 884 
 Evening, to, by Wordsworth . . 679 
 
 Evening Song, by Watts 494 
 
 Every Bullet has its Billet, by Dibdin 632 
 Execution of Montrose, byAytoun . 889 
 Exeter Cathedral, anthem for . . 212 
 
 Faery Queen, by Spenser . . 108 
 
 Faithless Sally Brown, a ballad . . 81? 
 
 Falkland, Lucius Carey, Viscount . n y,\ 
 False Greatness, by Watts .... 490 
 Fame, lines on, by Sir T. More . . 65 
 Farewell to the vanities of the world 182 
 Faustus, death of ... . . 145 
 Favourite daughter, death of a . . . 650 
 Feast for Worms, by Quarles . . . 285 
 Feeling, sense of, by Drummond , 249, 250 
 Finch, Lord Chief Justice, lines on -. 282 
 "Fire Worshippers," by Moore. . 742 
 
 Five Senses, the, by Drummond . 248-250 
 
 Flemings, the . » 22 
 
 Forget-me-not, by Coleridge .... 8og 
 Fortune, Mutability of, by Barklay 68 
 
 France, journey into, by Corbet. ' . 235 
 Franklein, the, by Chaucer .... 8 
 Frederick Lewis, Prince of Wales . n aaa. 
 French Song, paraphrased by Sackville 
 Friar, the, by Chaucer .... 
 
 Friar Bacon « 
 
 " From Lincoln to London," a ballad . 
 
 393 
 6 
 
 572 
 574 
 
 Galingale, notices of the term . n 9 
 
 Garland, the, by Prior .... . 421 
 
 Garment of Good Ladies ... ■ 3^ 
 
 Garrick, David n 606 
 
 Gascoigiie's Good-morrow . * . . 83 
 " Gazaeus," translation from, by Donne 192 
 Gentilness, a ballad, by Chaucer . 15 
 George III., on the death of . . . 680 
 
 Geraldine, praise of 81 
 
 " Giaour, the," by Lord Byron , 773 
 
 Ginevra, by Rogers .... . . 669 
 
 by Shelley ... ... 790 
 
 Girdle, on a, by WaUer. . . 310 
 
 Gladness, by Dunbar .... -35 
 
 " Go, lovely rose," by Waller . . . 312 
 " Go — you may call it madness," &c. . 669 
 
 " Goddwyn," chorus from 640 
 
 "Grave, the," by Blair .... 554 
 
 by Montgomery 702 
 
 Guardian Angels, by Spenser . , . 116 
 Guilds of the Middle Ages . . « 9 
 
 Haberdasher, Carpenter, &c. . . 9 
 
 Hales, John . , , , « 341 
 
 Handel, notices of h 446 
 
 HannibaPs Oath,^ by Miss Landon. . 836 
 " He that loves a rosy cheek " . . . 281 
 Hearing, sense of, by Drummond 249, 250 
 
INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
 
 Page 
 Heaven, Address to, by Jonson . , . 203 
 Henrie Quatre of France, married to 
 Marie de Medici ... . w 238 
 
 — his profligacy .... .id. 
 
 Henry of Navarre « 140 
 
 Henry VI., founder of Eton College n 579 
 " Her right Nanie," by Prior . . . 423 
 Sero and Leander, by Marlowe . . 140 
 Hickey, the attorney . . . n 606, 609 
 Hohenlinden, by Campbell . . . 733 
 HoUow Oak, the, by Lord Lytton . . 856 
 Hope, by Keats . . . 805 
 
 Horatius, by Macaulay ... .819 
 How they brought the good news . . 887 
 Howard, Edward, lines to, on his poem 
 
 "The British Princes" 392 
 
 Howard, Henry, to the Lady Geraldine 148 
 Howard's Armou(;, addition to . « 155 
 Hudibras, Part I. by Butler . 352-354 
 
 Hue and Cry, the, by Carew . . 283 
 
 Human Frailty, by Drummond . . 243 
 Hymn, written at Venice, by Wotton. 184 
 
 • to my God in my late Sickness 187 
 
 on the Nativity, by Milton . . 321 
 
 by Addison .... . 474 
 
 " I know that all beneath the moon 
 
 decays," by Drummond . . 245 
 
 "I loved a lass, a.fair one," .... 277 
 " I pr'ythee send me back my heart " 337 
 " If in the field I meet a smiling Rose " 705 
 
 Iguoto, by Marlowe 143 
 
 "II Penseroso," by Milton, lines from 329 
 Immortality, Intimations of . . 673 
 
 Yeammgs for .... . 834 
 
 " In Memoriam," by Tennyson . 873 
 
 by Swain 846 
 
 Incident of the French Camp, a 
 
 romance, by R^obert Browning . . 883 
 Inventory of goods belonging to Dr. 
 
 Swift . . 441 
 
 " Isabella, or the Pot of Basil '^ . . 802 
 
 Italy, letter from, to Lord Halifax . 473 
 
 James I. notice of « 228 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo ! by Bums . 656 
 JoDSon, Ben, his youthful associates n soy 
 
 Kelly, Hugh « 609 
 
 Kenridc, Dr. « 608 
 
 Kid's " Spanish Tragedy" ...» 200 
 KiUigrew, Mrs., ode to the memoryof 372 
 "King Arthur," extract from . 848 
 
 Kings of Quhair, by James I. ... 29 
 King's Anns, Ross, lines written at the 713 
 Knight, the, by Chaucer . . 3 
 
 Knight's Son, by Chaucer 4 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere 870 
 
 Lake of the Dismal Swamp, by Moore 737 
 "L' Allegro," by Milton, lines from . 328 
 Lancaster, Earl of, beheaded . . n 152 
 " Lay of the Last Minstrel," extract . 694 
 Lennoy of Barclay to the Fooles 70 
 
 Life, stanzas on, by Herbert . . . 291 
 Life, " We are bom, we laugh," &c. 780 
 
 Lily's Plays « 200 
 
 Lintot, the publisher « 450 
 
 Lochinvar, I>ady Heron's song . . . 696 
 London Lackpenny, by Lydgate ■ . . 21 
 Long Vacation in London, by Davenant 296 
 
 917 
 
 Puffe 
 T.ord Protector, Panegyric to the . 304 
 
 on the death of the . . , . 311 
 
 Lord's Day Evening, by Watts . . . 494 
 i jouis XI. signs the treaty of Pacquigny « 133 
 Louis XIII. his early accession . . ■ n 236 
 
 his love of birds ■ . « 237 
 
 Louis XlV. notice of ... . « 393 
 Love, Satire on, by Bishop Hall . . 212 
 
 Definition of, by Lord Lansdowne 430 
 
 by Wood 816 
 
 Love and Innocence, by Parnell . 500 
 Lover, the, by Sir T. Wyat 74 
 
 Lucy, by Wordsworth .... 678 
 
 Lute, to his, by Dninunond 247 
 
 Macpherson, James ... « 608 
 
 *' Maid's Tragedy," from the . . . 259 
 
 Maistre, for the, explained . . « 5 
 
 Man, an allegory on. by Pamell . . 502 
 Man of Honour, by Earl of Halifax . 416 
 Manciple, the, by Chaucer .... 12 
 
 Duties of the k 1 1 
 
 Manhod, by Sir T. More 64 
 
 Mankind, ode on the present corrup- 
 tion of, by Lord Lansdowne _ . 429 
 Man's Life, on the shortness of . . . 364 
 Marie de Medici, married to Henrie 
 
 Quatre K 238 
 
 Marlowe, Jonson's critique on n 200 
 
 *' Marino Faliero," extract from , . 771 
 Mary, Queen of Scots, couplet said to 
 have been written by . » 75 
 
 " Masque of Alfred " « 566 
 
 Massacre at Paris, by Marlowe . . . 138 
 Maundeviile, Sir J ohn, Whetstone 
 
 leasingsof . 215 
 
 Biographical notice of . n 215 
 
 May, Month of, by Douglas . . 37 
 
 Thomas, notice of n 339 
 
 Mazarin, Farewell to the Beautiful . 853 
 
 Anecdote of . . . . 853 
 
 Melrose Abbey, by Scott .... 695 
 Men discontented with their lot, sat. vi. 214 
 Merchant, the, by Chaucer . . 7 
 
 Messenger, the, by Hill 510 
 
 Messiah, a sacred eclogue, by Pope . 520 
 Mesure, signification of ....?: 41 
 Miller, the, by Chaucer .... 12 
 
 Milton's Picture, lines written under . 374 
 Mind, the, by Swain .... . 839 
 " Minstrel, the," extract from . . . 623 
 "MirrourforMagistrates,"Inductionto 89 
 Miscellaneous Thoughts, by Butler 358 
 Monk, the, by Chaucer .... 5 
 
 Montrose, execution of, by Aytoun . 88g 
 More, Sir Thos. , lines on, by Skelton. 50 
 Morton, Sir Albertus, Tears at the 
 grave of, by Wotton . 185, fto^e on 185 
 
 on the death of his wife . . 186 
 
 Mortress, notice of the term . n g 
 
 Moses, figure of, by Angelo . . . n 840 
 Mother's Picture, on the receipt of . 612 
 " Mourning Bride," act i. scene i. . , 462 
 
 act iii. scene v. . ... . 465 
 
 Murray, Sir R « 341 
 
 Music, stanzas on, by Swain 841 
 
 " My flocks feed not," &c. .... 179 
 '* My lodging is oji the cold ground "- 295- 
 My own Epitaph, by Gay , . 537 
 
 My Study, by Kirke White . 751 
 
 Myra, to, by Lord Lansdowne . 431 
 
9i8 
 
 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
 
 M nstrelle's Songe, from "iElia"'. . 638 
 
 Nativity of my Saviour, Hymn on . 204 
 
 Necke, explanation of « 72 
 
 "Nice Valour," lines from .... 260 
 " Night Thoughts," by Young ... 506 
 Nightingale, the, by Drummond 244-246 
 Nine Pageauntes, the, by Sir T. More 63 
 " No Trust in Time," by Drummond . 243 
 Nun, the, by Chaucer . . S 
 
 Nymphidia, by Drayton 158 
 
 Nymph's reply to the Shepherd, and 
 Sir Walter Raleigh's rejoinder . 146 
 
 Oh the Shamrock, by Moore . . 745 
 
 Oaker-dide, explained . . . . « 119 
 
 Oh ! doubt me not ! 746 
 
 Old Woman of Berkeley, by Southey 722 
 Oriana, ballad of, by Tennyson . 867 
 
 " Painful," use of the term . . . « 155 
 Painter, the, who pleased nobody and 
 
 everybody, by Gay 542 
 
 "Palestine," by Heber, extract from . 748 
 " Paradise Lost," Book i. by Milton . 316 
 
 Book V. . . . . „ . 320 
 
 Parish Poorhouse ... . . n 643 
 
 Parson's Case, the, by Swift. . . 446 
 " Passionate Pilgrim," lines from the . 178 
 Passionate Shepherd to his Love . 145 
 
 Passions, ode on the, by Collins . 587 
 
 Patched Cockers .... « 215 
 
 Pavy, Salathiel, epitaph on . . « 202 
 Pembroke, Mary, Countess of. Poem 
 dedicated to ... . « 117 
 
 Epitaph on, by Jonson . 209 
 
 Biographical notices of . . • n 209 
 
 Penshurst, lines written at, by Waller. 308 
 Penny, value of a, in the 15th century n 24. 
 Pentelogia Dolor Infemi, by Qiiarles . 2S8 
 Pet Name, by Mrs, Browning . . 879 
 
 Phcebe Dawson, by Crabbe . . . 646 
 
 Pilgrim Fathers, landing o^the , 794 
 
 Pilgrimage, by Sir W. Raleigh 102 
 
 Playhouse, the, by Addison . . . 476 
 
 Pleasing, epistle on, by Congreve . . 461 
 Pleasure, pastime of, by Hawes . . 39 
 Pleasures of Imagination, by Akenside 
 
 Book I. . 593 
 
 Book II 595 
 
 Pleasures of Memory, by Rogers . 664 
 Ploughman, the, by Chaucer u 
 
 Poet, the, by Wordsworth . . . 680 
 
 Poet's Epitaph, by Wordsworth . 683 
 
 Song, by Tennyson . . . 873 
 
 Poetry, Art of, by Dryden . . 368 
 
 Essay on, by Buckingham . 398 
 
 Rhapsody on, by Swift . . 453 
 
 Poietes Apoietes, by Coleridge . . 808 
 Poor Jack, by Dibdin ... . ,630 
 
 Parson, the, by Chaucer ... 10 
 
 Praises for mercies spu-itual and tem- 
 poral, by Watts .... . 493 
 Prayer, stanzas on, by Herbert 292 
 
 ■ Force of, by Wordsworth . . . 681 
 
 Preaching, on the Art of, a fragment . 553 
 
 Prisoner in Windsor 80 
 
 " Prisoner of Chillon," extract from . 760 
 Protestation, the, by Carew . . . 280 
 
 Protogenes and Apelles, by Prior . 424 
 Psaltery, a stringed instrument . . « 7 
 
 Paga 
 
 Purple Island, canto ni. . . . . 224 
 Pym, Drummond's aversion to . . « 248 
 
 Queen, death of the, by Sir T. More ^(t 
 
 of Bohemia, lines on 185 
 
 Caroline's building the lodgings of 
 
 the Black Prince and Henry V. , 512 
 Quidnunkis, a tile, by Gay . . . 541 
 
 Rabelais, FranQois n 158 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter, his rejoinder . . 146 
 Rape of the Trap, by Shenstone . . 575 
 Reconcilement, the, by Buckingham . 401 
 Red and White Roses, by Carew . . 280 
 Rekkeles, known sense of . . . » 6 
 
 Resignation, by Chatterton . . 636 
 
 Retaliation, by Goldsmith . 606 
 
 Retirement, by Beattie . . . 627 
 
 Reve, the, by Chaucci 12 
 
 Reynolds, Sir Joshua . « 606, 6og 
 
 Rhine, the, by Bowles . . . . . 660 
 Rich Man despising Poverty, lines on 123 
 " Richelieu," extracts from . . . 857 
 
 Riches, on the use of, by Pope . . . 528 
 Ridge, Counsellor John . . . . n 606 
 Roast Beef of Old England . . .750 
 " RoUo," by Beaumont, lines from . 259 
 Roman Central Milliarium . . . « 23 
 " Rosamond," scene ii. by Addison . 479 
 Rotten Bourbon lock . n 144 
 
 Royal Society. . n 341 
 
 Ruffs, explained . « 265 
 
 Rule, Britannia ! by Thomson . . 566 
 Ryswick, treaty of . . . « 393 
 
 Sack, in the praise of, by Beaumont . 255 
 Sacrament, on the, by Donne . 192 
 
 Sailor, the, by Chaucer 9 
 
 by Rogers ..... .668 
 
 St. Albon, Life and Passion of . . . 24 
 St. Bartholomew, Massacre of 138, » 139 
 St. Cecilia's Day, song for, by Dryden 374 
 
 Ode in honour of . . . 376 
 
 Ode on, by Pope . . -531 
 
 St. Mary Magdalen's blvsh . . . . gz 
 St. Patrick, his use of the shamrock n 745 
 St Peter's at Rome, by R. Browning 882 
 St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand 
 
 Virgins, by Lydgate 28 
 
 Saints in Heaven, by Montgomery . 706 
 Sausfleme, notice of . . . « 13 
 
 Scarron, Paul . . ' . . . ?* 606 
 
 Scotland, lines to, by Scott . 695 
 
 ■ Tears of, by Smollett .... 598 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter, his admiration of 
 
 Crabbe's poems « 649 
 
 Sculpture, stanzas on, by Swain . . 840 
 Sea shore, on revisiting the, after a 
 
 long absence, by Coleridge . . 713 
 
 Seeing, sense of, by Drummond .248-250 
 
 Selden, John « 338 
 
 Selkirk, Alexander, verses supposed to 
 
 be written by, by Cowper , . . 620 
 
 Sennacherib, destruction of . . 775 
 
 Sergeant of Law, by Chaucer ... 8 
 Sermon against Glory, on a , 593 
 
 Session of the Poets, by Suckling . . 338 
 Seven Wonders of England, by Sydney 128 
 Shaftesbury, Anthony Ashley Cooper, 
 Earl of, his character, from " Absa- 
 lom and Achitophel," by Dryden . 381 
 
INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
 
 919 
 
 Shaftesbury, biographical notice of n 381 
 Shakes]}ere, to the memorj* of . . , 199 
 — ^ in remembrance of . . . 301 
 
 Sonnets on, by Milton .... 330 
 
 "Shall I, wasting in despair," . , . 272 
 Shamrock, its use by St. Patrick . « 745 
 "She is far from the land," &c. . . 744 
 Shepherd's Hunting, by Wither . 273 
 
 Ship of Fools, by Barktiy 6S 
 
 Ships of England, by Swain . . 842 
 
 •'Shipwreck, the," by Falconer. . . 612 
 "Sit down, sad Soul," by Proctor . 779 
 Skinner, Cyriac, lines to, by Milton . 331 
 Skylark, stanzas to, by Shelley . 783 
 
 Sleep, by Mrs. Browning . , . . 877 
 
 lines to, by Drummond . . . 245 
 
 *' Sleep, baby, sleep," by Wither 275 
 
 Sluggard, the, by Watts .... 495 
 Smelling, sense of, by Drummond . . 250 
 Smyrkynge, explanation of . . n 72 
 
 "Softly woo away her breath" . . 778 
 Soldier's Dream, by Campbell 734 
 
 Sompnour, the, by Chaucer . . 13 
 
 Duties of the ?; 11 
 
 Song, "Who is it that this dark night," 130 
 
 " Ring out your bells " . . . 131 
 
 *' Leave me, O love," &c. . . . 132 
 
 from "Two Gentlemen of Ve- 
 rona," by Shakespere . . 172 
 
 Guiderius and Aviragus . 172 
 
 from "Cymbeline" ... . 174 
 
 " The lark now leaves his 
 
 watery nest," by Davenant . . . 300 
 
 "The Souldier going to the 
 
 field," by Davenant 301 
 
 ~ — "When, dearest, I but think of 
 
 thee," by Suckling 337 
 
 written at Sea, in the first 
 
 Dutch war, by Sackville^ . . . . 394 
 
 "Blow, blow, thou winter wind" 626 
 
 written at the age of Fourteen . 754 
 
 The Wonderful Juggler . . . 757 
 
 Sonnet on Edward IV. by Sydney . 133 
 
 to Sleep, by Sydney . • • ■ ^33 
 
 by Beaumont . . . . . 252 
 
 xii. by Shakespere . . . 175 
 
 xix. XXX. Ix. . . . 176 
 
 Ixxi. xci 177 
 
 Soul's Errand, by Sir W. Raleigh . . 104 
 " Sound the loud timbrel," &c. . . 739 
 " Spacious firmament on fiigR, the " . 478 
 
 Spain, war with « 444 
 
 - Spanish Patriots, war song of the 797 
 
 Splendid Shilling, the, by Philips . . 497 
 Spring, by Henry Lord Howard . 81 
 
 by Drummond . . . 247 
 
 by Thomson 558 
 
 Stanhope, Lady Mary, marriage of n 832 
 Star Chamber, Institution of the n 45 
 Starres, Chambre of . . . « 45 
 
 Stella, Swift's Inamorata . . . . 439 
 
 Verses to, by Swift ... - 442 
 
 Steps to the Temple, by Crashaw . . 344 
 Stormy Petrel, by Procter .... 778 
 Straight as a Ram's Horn, by Lyd^ate 26 
 Student, new-married, by Sir T. Wyat 77 
 Suckling, Sir John . - - « 34^ 
 
 Suffolk House . . . . - « 334 
 
 Summer, by Thomson 563 
 
 Sunderland, Lady, stanzas to . - 49= 
 
 Sutures, explanation of ........ iQi 
 
 • 117 
 n 439 
 
 n 253 
 ■ sgo 
 n 215 
 
 - 755 
 . 660 
 
 . "7 
 399 
 744 
 
 • 633 
 n 631 
 
 Page 
 Sweet William's farewell to Black-eyed 
 
 Susan, by Gay 539 
 
 Swift, Dr. on the death of, by Swift . 447 
 — — Dean, the founder of a lunatic 
 
 asylum in Dublin . . . « 453 
 
 Tabard, the, by Chaucer 3 
 
 an inn in Southwark, where 
 
 Chaucer and other pilgrims met to- 
 gether « 3 
 
 Tanfield churchyard .... « 422 
 Tasting, sense of, by Drummond 249-250 
 
 Tea, praise of, by Waller 310 
 
 its introduction into England . w 310 
 
 Temperance, lines on, by Spenser 
 Temple, Sir William .... 
 Tent, a roll of lint .... 
 Thomson, ode on the death of 
 Thrave, explained . . . 
 Time, "In yonder cot" 
 
 by Bowles 
 
 — ; — Ruins of, by Spenser . 
 Times, on the, by Buckingham . 
 " *Tis the last rose of summer " 
 Token, the, by IXbdin . . 
 Tom Bowling, by Dibdin ... 
 Townshend,. Thomas, Lord Sydney « 607 
 Translated Verse, essay on . . . 382 
 "Traveller," the, extract from . . 611 
 Trentals, explanation of .... » 132 
 "Tribe of Ben "designated by Jonson 207 
 Troubadour, the, by Miss Landon . . 834 
 True Riches, by Watts . . . 490 
 Truth, stanzas on, by Jonson . . . 205 
 "Twowentup into tfie temple to pray" 350 
 Tyme, stanzas on, by Skelton . 44 
 lines on, by Sir T. More . 65 
 
 Una and the Lion, by Spenser . 113 
 
 Universal Prayer, by Pope . . . 527 
 University Carrier, on the, by Milton. 331 
 
 Valentine to the Hon. Mary C. Stanhope 831 
 "Valentinian," by Beaumont, lines from 259 
 Vanity of Human Wishes, by Jonson 570 
 Veni, Creator, by Dryden . . _ . 371 
 "Venice Preserved," act i. scene i. . 406 
 Venus and Cupyde, by Sir T. More . 64 
 Verses found in Sir W. Raleigh's Bible 103 
 "Village, the," by Crabbe .... 648 
 Virgins, skulls of, exhibted at Cologne « 23 
 Virtue, stanzas on, by Herbert . . 294 
 
 Wakefield, battle of . . . « 133 
 
 Walpole, Sir Robert . . n 430 
 
 Notice of « 443. 
 
 Walton, Isaac, Sir H. Wotton's letter to n 187 
 War Song of the Spanish Patriots . . 797 
 Warwick, Lady, first visit to, by Rowe 488 
 " We are Seven," by Wordsworth . . 685 
 Wedding, a, by Suckling . . . 334 
 
 Wentworth, Maria, epitaph on . . 279 
 
 Notice of ... . . w 279. 
 
 Sisters of Lady Anne . . . n 282 
 
 West Indies, by Montgomery . . . 700 
 Westminster Abbey, on the report of a 
 
 monument to be erected in, byBeattie 624 
 Westminster Bridge, stanzas composed 
 
 upon, by Wordsworth 68a 
 
 Westminster Hall, notice of . . « 22 
 "Where shall the Lover rest?," . 69^ 
 
920 
 
 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
 
 Page 
 Whetstone leasings of old Maundevilleff 215 
 White, Henry Kjrke, stanzas by . n 312 
 Whitefoord, Caleb ...... n 610 
 
 "Why come ye nat to court?" . 45 
 
 Wife, elegy on his, by Donne . . 194 
 Wife of Bath, by Chaucer .... 10 
 
 Wild Boar's Defence, the 431 
 
 Windsor Castle, St. George's Chapel . 403 
 Winter, from " Love's Laoour Lost" . 172 
 Wishes, to his supposed Mistress . . 347 
 Wither, notes of . . . . . . « 273 
 
 Wish, the, by Cowley .... . 362 
 
 Woman, stanzas on 6zo 
 
 Page 
 
 Wonderful Juggler, by Kirke White . 757 
 
 Woodfall, W « 609 
 
 H. S » 610 
 
 Woodville, Elizabeth, married to 
 
 Henry IV. » 134 
 
 Wooing Song, by Giles Fletcher . . zzi 
 World, farewell to the, by Jonson , . 205 
 Wotton» Sir H. historical notices 
 
 of . . . ^ . . . . n 1S5, 189 
 
 *' Ye Mariners of England " .... 732 
 Yearnings for Immortality . . ' . 834 
 Young Lady, verses to a, by Savage . 551 
 
 THE END. 
 
 London : R. Clay, Son, and Taylor, Printers. 
 

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