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PREPARED BY THE AUTHOR OF "SALAD FOR THE SOLFFARY," " MOSAICS, ' Etc. WITH SEVENTY-THREE PICTURES, BY MEMBERS OF THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN. ENGRAVED BY BOBBETT AND HOOPER. ciifniEijue deuni "' — Horace. NEW YORK: BUNCE AND HUNTINGTON, PUBLISHERS. M.DCCC.I.XVl. Entered according to Act of Congre By BUNCE AND HUNl In the Clerk's Ortic the District Court of the Untted District of New York. lOO.NKV .t HKOWN, ritlNTEKS. f aaiilliam €\Mm Mvpant PRESENTATION. "D IGHT welcome, gentle dames, and ye, worthy gal- lants, to this our festive banqueting. And sith, as "rare Ben" saith, "• 'Tis the fair acceptance that creates The entertainment perfect, not the cates," come to it joyously, with hearts elate, and all a-glow with sweet expectancies and kindly thoughts. The feast itself, select and choice, and enriched with multitudinous dainties to tempt the taste and please the fancy, now but awaits the generous gusto of the guests. There is, for- sooth, a rare and prodigal diversitie of delicacies outspread — a most Epicurean and pleasurable repast : I pray ye, my masters, ot your courtesy, look^ — there is wherewith to regale both soul and sense ; to wit, delicious Melodies to charm the listening ear, and glowing Pidures to fasci- nate the kindling eye withal. In fine, you shall share much joyaunce and delectation from the costly spoils here garnered from our own and divers other times. Moreover, trusty friends, note well the noble folk who grace this festival. Among them are the " kings of thought," ay, "heirs of more than royal race," — a rare companie of most renowned wits and worthies, with whom it is our privilege to hold quiet colloquy, or listen, de- lighted, to their high discourse. Meanwhile, from their ardcntia verba^ we may, perchance, catch somewhat of their inspiration; since, in order thereto (if I trow aright), it needeth that our ear be but attent to the unfolding of " Whate'er in rhapsody, or strain most holy, The hoary minstrels sang in times of old," as well as to the sweet melodies of bards of later days. Nay, of your clemency, look not askance at the mention of ancient minstrels and sages, nor urge that their mouldy tomes are rife with quaint conceits and rugged rhymes. Go to; certes, they are as delightsome as odoriferous herbs, and as voiceful of rich melody as their own loved lyre. Rather let us render rightful homage to these " magnates of the mind," forasmuch as, by their sweet sentiment and song, the tedium of life's prosaic routine hath oft-times been beguiled ; whilst their concentrated wit hath, not seldom, unwittingly seduced us into the pleasant places of wisdom and virtue. I beseech ye then, my singular good friends, let us forget the turbulent world awhile, and surrender ourselves to the high enjoyment that now awaits us. FREDERICK SAUNDERS. POETS. FIRST EVENING. — Chaucer, Surrey, Sidney, Ralekjh, Spenser, Shak- SPEARE, JoNSON, Beaumont, Shiri.ey, Carew, Lovelace, Lyly, TiTCHBOURNE, Marlowe, Daniel, Lodoe, Herrick, King, Wot- ton, Sucklinc; 3 SECOND EVENING.— DRVMMONn, Habincton, C^'arles, Waller, Ayton, Cowley, Milton, Byrd, Chamberlayne, Herbert, Den- ham, Marvell, Dryden, Addison, Pope, Parnell, Thomson, Collins, Shenstone, Young 55 THIRD EVENING. — Gray, Akenside, Jones, Berkeley, Irving, All- STON, Dana, Percival, Sigourney, Pierpont, Drake, Sprague, Brooks, Payne, Burgoyne, Darwin, Woodworth, Goldsmith, CowPER, Burns, Darley, Sheridan, Logan, Leyden, Beattie, Chatterton, Wolfe, Wilde, Halleck 109 FOURTH EVENING.— Brain ARD, Pinknfy, Read, Cutter, Prentice, Cist, Gallagher, Perkins, Byron, Crabbe, Scott, Hogg, Lamb, White, Montgomery, Coleridge, Poe, Hemans, Southey, Moore, Bryant, Hunt, Welby, Nichols, Botta 163 PAGE FIFTH EFENING. — PoLLOK, Morris, Rogers, Boies, Campbell, Osgood, Hood, Maclean, Eastman, Elliott, Blanch ard, Moir, Spencer, Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, Whittier, Keble, Bur- bidge, Eliza Cook, Milman, Swain, Mrs. Norton, Hervev, Tuckerman, Bowles, Praed, Linen, Motherwell, Mrs. Brown- ing, Mrs. Barbauld, Lover, Peabodv, Sterling, Jones, Wilson, Mackay, Vedder, Cooke, Willis, Clarke, Smith 237 SIXTH EVENING. — Longfellow, Chadwick, Fields, Massey', Bulwer- Lytton, Holmes, Emerson, R. Brown, E. Arnold, C. Young, Street, H. Coleridge, Frances Brown, Proctor, R. Browning, A. Proctor, Bailey, A. Smith, Saxe, Hinxman, Kingsley, B. Taylor, Robert Lowell, Thackeray, Macaulay, Westwood, J. R. Lowell, R. B. Lytton, A. C. Coxe, Aldrich, Tennyson, Stoddard, Stedman, Cranch, Dickens, F. Tennyson, Allingham, Wint£r, Boker, Ingelow 315 PAINTERS. Page ALFRED FREDERICKS, A Initial-" First Evening ' i Interior of the Tabard. JAMES HART, N. A Deer-Spring WILLIAM HART, N. A Spring— Landscape 13 " Summer — Landscape 14 " Autumn — Landscape 14 " Winter — Landscape 1- J. F. CROPSEY, N. a Anne Hathawav's Cottagh: 18 ALFRED FREDERICKS, A Juliet taking the Opiate 23 " Ariel and Ferdinank 28 Love's Challenge 33 J. F. KENSETT, N. A Summer Sea 37 A. D. SHATTUCK, N. A Primroses 43 S. COLMAN, N. A Starlight -o ALFRED FREDERICKS, A Initial— « Second Evening" 53 JAMES HART, N. A Landscape— Spring c ,- Page J A. SUYDAM, N. A Quiet Seas 59 EASTMAN JOHNSON, N. A. Pensive Nun 65 C. PARSONS, A Evening 69 A. F. BELLOWS, N. A Summer Morn -J^ V. NEHLIG, N. A Alexander's Feast 77 J. McENTEE, N. A Twilight 82 W. WHITTREDGE, N. A The Western Wild 86 V. NEHLIG, N. A The Hermit 90 G. H. SMILLIE, A Early Dawn 94 W. J. HENNESSY. N. A The Schoolmistress loi ALFRED FREDERICKS, A..... Initial— " Third Evening" 107 V. NEHLIG, N. A The Welsh Bard 109 S. COLMAN, N. A Norman Tower 116 J. A. HOWS, A Language of Flowers 121 ALFRED FREDERICKS, A The Culprit Fay 126 A. D. SHATTUCK, N. a The Old Oaken Bucket 130 W. WHITTREDGE, N. A Rural Pastimes 13+ J. McENTEE, N. A Winter Scene 139 WILLIAM HART, N. A Scottish Cottage 143 W. HOMER, N. A Boyhood's Sports 149 G. H. SMILLIE, A Nature — Morning 154 J. A. HOWS, A The Mocking-Bird 158 ALFRED FREDERICKS, A Initial— " Fourth Evening " 161 Page F. E. CHURCH, N. A Niagara— Table-Rock 163 C. T. DIX, A Iceberg 169 M. F. H. DE HAAS, A Ocean— Storm 174 S. COLMAN, N. A Spanish Bull-fight 180 ALFRED FREDERICKS, A. Allen-a-Dale 186 M. WATERMAN, A Harvest Moon 193 V. NEHLIG, N. A Arnold de Winkelried 199 D. HUNTINGTON. F. N. A Girl's Head 207 R. GIGNOUX, N. A The Dismal Swamp 216 C. PARSONS, A The Waterfowl 223 A. BIERSTADT, N. A The Prairik Hunter 228 ALFRED FREDERICKS, A Initial — "Fifth Evening" 235 J. A. HOWS, A Primeval Nature 237 H. p. GRAY, V. P. N. A Joyousness 251 ALFRED FREDERICKS, A The Haunted Chamber 257 A. B. DURAND, N. A Nutting 266 S. COLMAN, N. A Moonlight 273 ALFRED FREDERICKS, A Nature 281 W. J. HENNESSy, N. A Mother and Child 285 R. S. GIFFORD, N. A The Adirondack Mountains 292 W. J. HENNESSY, N. A Child Sleeping 297 JAMES HART, N. A Moonrise ' 303 J. D. SMILLIE, a Morning Breeze 309 Page ALFRED FREDERICKS, A Initial— " Sixth Evening" 313 F. O. C. DARLEY, N. A The Village Blacksmith 315 « " Weariness 318 J. D. SMILLIE, A The Ploughman 325 S. R. GIFFORD, N. A The Woodpath 333 E. BENSON. A Among the Rocks 339 A. F. BELLOWS, N. A The Church-Gate 350 J. D. SMILLIE, A The Fountain 357 ALFRED FREDERICKS, A Annie's Dream 362 J. R. BREVOORT, N. A November 366 M. WATERMAN, A Cattle in Stream 373 " NoiL\ Stir the fire^ and close the shutters fast. Let full the curtahis, wheel the sofa round., — &o let us welcome peaceful Evening in."" Chaucer. Surrey, tiidney, Raleigh, Spenser, Shakspeare. .Tonson, Beaumont, Shirley, Garew, Lovelace, Lyly, Titchbourne. Marlow, Daniel. Lodge, Herrick, King, Y.'^otton, Suckling. EOFFREY CHAUCER, that worthy minstrel-monk, first in the order of Anglican poets, thus prefaces his Canterbury Tales : — Befelle, that, in that seson on a day, In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage To Canterbury with devoute corage, 3 At nighte was come Into that hostelrie Wei nine and twenty in a compagnie Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle 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. Although written nearly five centuries ago, this work, notwith- standing its obsoleteness of style, has never been more popular among scholars than it is at this time. There is, indeed, to us of the present day, a charm in its very antiquity, as Campbell remarks, — " something picturesque in it, — like the moss and ivy on some majestic ruin." This noble production of the early English muse, which was probably suggested by the Decameron of Boccaccio^ supposes a com- pany to have convened at the Tabard,' Southwark, where they are entertained by the host, on the evening prior to their commencing pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Thomas a Becket, at Canterbury Cathedral ; and that these " nine and twenty sondry folk," by way of beguiling time, agree amongst themselves to contribute each a tale for the entertainment of the company. The old "hostelrie," or rather part of it, is yet extant, under the name of " The Talbot ;" where may be seen a sign-post bearing the inscription, — " This is the Inne zvhere Sir Geoffrey Chaucer and the ttventy-nine pilgrims lodged in their journey to Canterbury^ anno 1383." Chaucer was given to the world in the year 1328 ; and he wrote his Canterbury Tales in the full maturity of his genius, when he had passed his sixtieth year. He was undoubtedly a laborious student, for, according to his own confession, he preferred reading to every other amusement, with the exception of " a mornirig waike in Maytide." He was fond of retirement, temperate in diet, " rose with the larke and lay ' Tabard, a sleeveless coat, worn by nobles in early times, now by heralds only. 4 down with the lambe." He seems to have surrendered himself to the inspiring influences of nature, and to have revelled, as at a festival, amid birds and flowers : hence the rich arabesque character of his poetry, and the marvellous freshness and bloom of his pas- toral pictures : witness the following : — The busy larke, the messenger of day, Saluteth in her song, the morwe gray ; And fiery Phoebus riseth up so bright. That all the Orient laugheth at the sight ! And with his streames dryeth in the greves, The silver droppes hanginge on the leves. Chaucer is said to have been one of the handsomest personages attached to the gallant court of the Plantagenets. As a court ecclesiastic he became involved in the controversies of his times, having espoused the doctrines of Wicliff; and he was, for a season, obliged to leave his native land. He afterwards returned, married Philippa, sister of the renowned John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, and closed his career in the year 1400. His tomb is one of the earliest of the illustrious dead in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey. Now let us bear him company in one of his morning rambles in " Maytide," and mark how observant he is of all that is delicious to soul and sense : — I rose anone, and thought I woulde gone Into the woode to hear the birdes sing. Whan that the misty vapour was agone. And cleare and faire was the morrowing ; The dewe also, like silver in shining Upon the leves, as any baume swete. Till fiery Titan with his persant hete Had dried up the lusty licour newe. Upon the herbes in the grene mede, 5 And that the floures of many divers hewe. Upon hir stalkes gon for to sprede, And for to splaye out hir leves in brede Againe the sunne, gold-burned in his spere, That doune to hem cast his beames clere. Here is that most charming of descriptions and pictures, Emelie in the Garden : — Thus passeth yere by yere, and day by day, Till it felle ones in a morwe of May, That Emelie, that fayrer was to sene Than is the lilie upon his stalke grene. And fresher than the May with floures newe, For with the rose-colour strof hir hewe : I n'ot which was the finer of hem two. Ere it was dav, as she was wont to do, She was arisen, and alle redy dight. For May will have no sluggardy a-night ; The seson pricketh every gentle herte. And maketh him out of his sleepe to start. And sayth. Arise ! and do thine observance. The great charm of Chaucer consists in his simplicity of detail, combined with dramatic effect, and his love of rural sights and sounds. We find the following estimate of his genius in the British Quarterly Review : — " He is, perhaps, the most picturesque poet we possess : his paintings are fresh, glittering and off-hand, done to the life. His love of nature resembles an intoxication of spirit : his sketches are bright with perpetual sunshine, — his flowers are always in bloom, fragrant with odoriferous perfumes, and gemmed with sparkling dew-drops. From mere narrative and playful humor, up to the heights of imaginative and impassioned song, his genius has exer- cised itself in nearly all styles of poetry, and won imperishable laurels in all." Need we wonder, then, that Coleridge, like many others in the line of the Muses' priesthood, took such especial delight in poring over his beautiful living pictures and vivid sketches of character ? We might, indeed, rather marvel, with another noted poet, that the bard should have seen so distinctly in that gray, misty morning of literature, and that his landscapes should still look green in the very dews of Spring. Tennyson beautifully styles him — The first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts, chat rill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. Campbell, with all a poet's appreciation, has thus beautifully ex- pressed our obligations to the great pioneer poet : — Chaucer ! our Helicon's first fountain-stream. Our morning Star of song, that led the way To welcome the long-after coming beam Of Spenser's lights and Shakspeare's perfect day. Old England's fathers Uve in Chaucer's lay. As if they ne'er had died : he grouped and drew Their likeness with a spirit of life so gay. That still they Hve and breathe in fancy's view. Fresh beings fraught with truth's imperishable hue The evils of the protracted civil war in England, prevented not only the progress of literature, but even prostrated its very existence for upwards of a century after the death of Chaucer. With the exceptions of Gower, Wyatt, Raleigh, and Surrey, we meet with no great poet till the age of Spenser. The brilliant character of the Earl of Surrey, — both as to his military career and scholastic attainments, as well as his sad end, — alike endear him to memory. His celebrated poem, written during his unjust imprisonment at Windsor, is universally admired ; and some of his sonnets are no less beautiful. Here is one : — 7 The soote seson, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale ; The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; The turtle to her make hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs ; The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; The fishes flete, with new repaired scale ; The adder all her slough away she flings ; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale The busy bee her honey now she mings ; Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. Of Sir Philip Sidney, it has been said, that his literary renown rests more upon his prose than his verse ; Cowper indeed refers to him as " warbler of poetic prose ;" — yet he has his eminent place among the poets, and here is an effusion ot" his muse : it is styled IVooing Stujfe : — Faint amorist, — what, dost thou think To taste love's honey, and not drink One drachm of gall ; — or to devour A world of swete, and taste no sour r Dost thou e'er think to enter Th' Elysian fields, that durst not venture In Charon's barge ? A lover's mind Must use to sail with every wind. He that loves, and fears to try. Learns his mistress to deny. Doth she chide thee ? 'Tis to show it. That thy coldness makes her doe it : Is she silent — is she mute ? Silence fully grants thy suit : Doth she pout, and leave the room ? Then she goes to bid thee come : Is she sicke ? Why, then, be sure She invites thee to the cure : Doth she cross thy sute with no ? Tush — she loves to hear thee woo : Doth she call the faith of man Into question ? Nay, forsooth, she loves thee than : He that after ten denials. Dares attempt no further trvals, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chast desire. Sidney's Defence of Poes'ie has long been a favorite with scholars. Professor Marsh characterizes it as " the best secular specimen of prose yet written in England ;" and adds, that " it is destined to maintain its high place in sesthetical literature." The Arcadia B 9 is the other prose production bv which he is most known, although it is now but seldom read. Recently was exhibited before the Archaeological Society at Salisbury, a copy of this production, be- tween the leaves of which was found wrapped up a lock of Queen Elizabeth's hair, and some complimentary lines addressed by Sidney, when very young, to the maiden queen. The hair was soft and bright, of a light-brown color, inclining to red, and on the paper enclosing it was written : — " This lock of Queen Elizabeth's own hair was presented to Sir Philip Sidney by her majesty's owne faire hands, on which he made these verses, and gave them to the queen on his bended knee, a. d. 1573." ^"^ pinned to this was another paper on which was written, in a different hand — said to be Sidney's own — these lines : — Her inward worth all outward show transcends, Envy her merits with regret commends ; Like sparkling gems her virtues draw the sight. And in her conduct she is alwaies bright. When she imparts her thoughts, her words have force. And sense and wisdom flow in sweet discourse. The gentle Sidney was one of the especial favorites of the queen, whom she styled " her Jewel of the times," for the noble virtues he illustrated by his heroic life. Every one remembers his brave words, when, fallen on the battle-field, and suffering from thirst caused by. loss of blood, as he ordered the cup presented to him to be given to the wounded soldier, saying, " Thy necessity is yet greater than mine." All England mourned his loss, for every one revered and loved him. Hear Shakspeare's tribute to his memory : — His honour stuck upon him as the sun In the gray vault of heaven, — and by his light Did all the chivalry of England move To do brave acts ! A scarcely less interesting character is that of the gallant Sir Walter Raleigh, who, after having brought a new world to light, wrote the history of the old in a prison. In his wonderful versatility of genius, and in all departments of his remarkable life, it may truly be said, he was equally illustrious. " He was honored by England's greatest queen, and was sacrificed to the caprice of the meanest of her kings." Probably the last words ever traced by his pen were the following, written in his Bible on the evening pre- ceding his execution : — E'en such is time, that takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have. And pays us but with earth and dust ; Who in the dark and silent grave — When we have wandered all 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 ! That '' bold and spirited poem," as Campbell styles the " Soul's Errand^''' is now generally admitted to be from the pen of Raleigh, since it has been traced in manuscript to the year 1593; ^^^ ^^^ answers to it, written in his lifetime, ascribe its authorship to Sir Walter. It was originally designated thus : — "• Sir Walter Raleigh^ his Lie." Campbell tells us that its perusal always deeply affected him ; and he adds,—" It places the last and inexpressibly awful hour of existence before my view, and sounds like a sentence of vanity on the things of this world, pronounced by a dying man, whose eye glares on eternity, and whose voice is raised by strength from another world." Listen to a tew of the strong stanzas : — Goe, soule, the bodies guest, upon a thanklesse arrant ; Feare not to touch the best •, — the truth shall be thy warrant : Goe, since I needs must dye, And give the world the lye. Sav to the Court, it glowes, and shines Hke rotten wood ; Say to the Church, it shewes what's good, and doth no good If Church and Court reply. Then give them both the lye. Tell Zeale it wants devotion ; tell Love it is but lust ; Tell Time it is but motion ; tell Flesh it is but dust ; And wish them not reply. For thou must give the lye. Tell Age it daily wasteth ; tell Honour how it alters ; Tell Beauty how she blasteth ; tell Fauour how it falters And as they shall reply. Give every one the lye. Tell Fortune of her blindnesse ; tell Nature of decay Tell Friendship of unkindnesse ; tell Justice of delay ; And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie. So when thou hast, as I commanded thee, done blabbing ; Although to give the lie deserves no less than stabbing ; Yet stabb at thee who will, No stabb the soul can kill. The author of one of the most romantic poems in the English language, Edmund Spenser, was born near the Tower of London, in 1553. To affirm that his Faerie ^eene is replete with brilliant and luxurious imagery, enriched with wondrous sweetness of ver- sification, is but to echo the universal verdict of critics. Camp- bell styles Spenser the " Rubens of English poetry," while Charles Lamb refers to him as " the Poets' poet ;" and such, indeed, he is : for not only was he the special favourite of Milton, Dryden, Pope, and Gray, but there has scarcely been any eminent poet since his day who has not delighted to peruse, if not to pilfer from, his prolific productions. Leigh Hunt considers him, in the imaginative faculty, superior even to Milton ; his grand characteristic is poetic luxury. Another of our noted bards speaks of him as " steeped in romance ;" and as "the prince of magicians." Glance at his group of the Seasons ; how daintily his allegorical impersonations are decked with flowers, and I'edolent with perfume : — So forth issew'd the seasons of the yeare : First, lusty Spring all dight in leaves of flowres That freshly budded and new bloosmes did beare, Li which a thousand birds had built their bowres That sweetly sung to call forth paramours ; And in his hand a iavelin he did beare, And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures) A guilt engraven morion he did weare ; That as some did him love, so others did him feare. 13 Then came the iollv Sommer, being dight In a thin silken cassock colored greene, That was unlyned all, to be more light : And on his head a girlond well beseene He wore, from which as he had chauffed been The sweat did drop ; and in his hand he bore A bowe and shaftes, as he in forrest greene Had hunted late the libbard or the bore. And now would bathe his limbes with labor heated sore. ^tfiVj/-.^ (• ^ _ Then came the Autumne all in yellow clad. As though he ioyed in his plentious store. Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad That he had banisht h unger, which to-fore Had by the bellv oft him pinched sore : Upon his head a wreath, that was enrold With eares of corne of every sort, he bore ; And in his hand a sickle he did holde. To reape the ripened fruits the which the earth had void. Lastly came Winter cloathed all in frize. Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill ; Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freese, And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill As from a limbeck did adown distil : In his right hand a tipped stafFe he held. With which his feeble steps he staved still ; For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld. That scarce his loosed limbes he able was to weld. In these glowing lines, Spenser pays beautiful tribute to the floral month of May : — Then came faire May, the fairest maid on ground, Deck'd all with dainties of her season's pride. And throwing flowres out of her lap around -, Upon two brethren's shoulders she did ride, The twins of Leda ; which, on either side. Supported her like to their sovereign queene. Lord ! how all creatures laugh'd when her they spied. And leap'd and danced as they had ravisht been ; And Cupid's self about her flutter'd all in greene. Here is another choice stanza from the Faerie ^eene^ descrip- tive of Una (the impersonation of Faith) — " radiant with beauty beaming through her tears :" — One day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome waye, From her unhastie beaste she did alight : And on the grasse her daintie limbes did laye In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight : From her fayre head her fillet she undight And layd her stole aside : her angels-face. As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright. And made a sunshine in the shady place : Did ever mortall eye behold such heavenly grace ? The original plan of this work contemplated twelve books, " fash- ioning twelve moral virtues ;" of these, however, we have only six ; the others, if ever written, were probably destroyed with the rest of his property, and, it is said, his child, in the burning of his castle in Ireland during the rebellion. There is a story on record, but generally discredited, to the effect that when Spenser took his manuscript of the Faerie ^eene to the Earl of Southampton, — the great patron of the poets of his day, — that after reading a few pages, his lordship ordered his servant to carry to the author twenty pounds. Reading further, he cried out in a rapture, " Give him twenty more :" proceeding still with the perusal, he soon again stopped, and added another twenty pounds : but at length, checking his enthusiasm, he told his servant t<') '' put him out of his house or he should be ruined." Sad to state, the close of our gentle poet's career was full of sorrow. He died at an inn in London, it is said, in poverty, and of a broken heart for his loss. Ben Jonson affirms that he died " for lack of bread," and that when Lord Essex sent him (too late) twenty guineas, Spenser refused the gift, saying, " He was sorry he had no time to spend them." He was the friend of Sidney, at whose estate, Penshurst, these gifted sons of genius consecrated many happy hours to friendship and the muse. Li 1580 the poets separated, one to the service of the camp, the other to his estate in Ireland, where he became acquainted with another master-spirit. Sir Walter Raleigh, by whom he was introduced to Queen Elizabeth. " When we conceive," says Campbell, " Spenser reciting his compositions to Raleigh, in a scene so beautifully ap- propriate, the mind casts a pleasing retrospect over that influence which the enterprise of the discoverer of Virginia, and the genius of the author of the '■Faerie ^ueeyie^ have respectively produced on the fortune and language of England. The fancy might even be pardoned for a momentary superstition, that the genius of their country hovered unseen over their meeting, casting her first look of regard on the poet that was destined to inspire her future Milton, and the other on the maritime hero who paved the way for colo- nizing distant regions of the earth, where the language of England was to be spoken, and the poetry of Spenser to be admired." Shakspeare, whom Bunsen styles " the great prophet of human destinies on the awakening of a new world," was, in his fifteenth year, withdrawn from the " free school," where, in the words of Ben Jonson, " he had acquired small Latin and less Greek," for the purpose of aiding his father's business, which, according to Aubrey, was then that of a butcher ; and that " when he killed a calf, he would do it in a high style, and make a speeche." A pursuit so uncongenial naturally tended to pervert his taste, and we soon find him among the roystering fraternities, known as " the topers and sippers" of Stratford, " so renowned for the excellence of its beer and the unquenchable thirst of its inhabitants." The lady of his love, as all the world knows, was Anne Hathaway^ the dark-eyed maiden of the adjacent hamlet of Shottery ; at whose picturesque cottage, worthy Master William was, doubtless, not an unfrequent visitor. The traditionary charge of deer-stealing preferred against our embryo bard, and the indignities he suffered in consequence thereof, are supposed to have caused him to leave his native town, and seek his fortune in the British metropolis, where, after being seventeen years a player, he at length became proprietor of the "Globe" and other theatres, from which he derived an ample in- come. In 1612 he returned to Stratford, after having written most of his dramas. It was not till seven years after his death that the first collective edition of his plays appeared ; and it is no less re- markable that it should have omitted Pericles^ and included seven dramas since rejected as apocryphal. We all regret our ignorance of the " sayings and doings," and personal history of the great poet, who himself seemed to be so well acquainted with our common humanity. Even the walls of that rendezvous of rollickino; wits, the " Boar's-Head Inn," Eastcheap, or the " Mermaid," Blackfriars, no longer echo with the jubilant mirth and pleasantries once fabled of Jack FalstafF and his merry men ; or with the " wise saws" of the illustrious author of those creations. Let us, then, leave the ficti- tious and turn to the real — let us accompany the genial author of The Sketch-Book^ and seek the gra\'e of Shakspeare : — " The place is solemn and sepulchral : tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps up a low, perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried, upon which are inscribed the followino- lines : — GOOD FREND, FOR lESVS SAKE FORBEARE, TO DIGG THE DVST ENCLOASED MARE; BLESE BE Y MAN Y SPARES THES STONES, AND CVRST BE HE Y MOVES MY BONES. Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched forehead." The bust is said to be life-size, and was originally painted over, in imitation of nature : the eyes were light hazel ; the hair and beard, auburn ; the doublet or coat, scarlet ; the loose gown or tabard, bjack. Malone, however, caused the bust to be painted over white, in 1793. " The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its effect : it has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contem- plated. A iew years since, also, as some laborers were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one might have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with his remains, so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and lest any of the idle or curious, or any collector of relics, should be tempted to com- 19 mit depredations, the old sexton kept watcn over the place for two days, until the vault was finished and the aperture closed again. He told me that Jie had made bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor bones — nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakspeare !" But, leaving to its silent repose all that is mortal of the great poet, let us seek communion with the spirit that lives immortal in his pages — pages all aglow with clustered brilliants and gems of thought. Dr. Johnson, referring to the difficulty of exhibiting the genius of Shakspeare by quotation, says : " He that attempts it will succeed like the pedant in Hierocles, who, when he offered his house to sale, carried a brick in his pocket as a specimen." Nevertheless, as we are not restricted to a single specimen, we will make the most of our privilege. Had the great bard given us but these four dramas — Hamlet^ Macbeth^ Lear^ and Othello^ he would have yet been decked with the laurel-crown as Prince of Poets. What an affluence of imagery and splendor of diction signalize the first act of Hamlet ! Familiar though it may be to us, yet it never can become trite, — that matchless soliloquy of the royal Dane : — To be, or not to be, that is the question : Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. And, by opposing, end them ? To die, — to sleep, — No more ; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. 7^o die ; — to sleep ; — To sleep ! perchance to dream ; — ay, there's the rub ; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come. When we have shuffled off this mortal coil. Must give us pause : — there's the respect That makes calamity of so Ions life : For who would bear the whips and scorns ot time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay. The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes. When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin ? who would these' fardels bear. To grunt and sweat under a weary life ; But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will ; And makes us rather bear those ills we have. Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ; And enterprizes of great pith and moment. With this regard, their currents turn away," And lose the name of action. From this noble reach of philosophy, turn we to the fine impas- sioned burst of Romeo in the garden : — But, soft ! what light through yonder window breaks ! It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief. That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she ; Be not her maid, since she is envious ; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it ; cast it off. — It is my lady ; O ! it is my love. ***** These, in first folio, but not in quartos. "" Away, in folio; in quartos, aivry. 21 The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp : her eye in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright, That birds would sing, and think it were not night. What other poet has so felicitously portrayed all that is pictur- esque and lovely in a summer's dawn ; — pouring on our souls all the freshness and cheerfulness of the returning sunlight ? Look, love ! what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east : Night's candles are burnt out, — and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountains' tops ! Among the masterly passages of the great dramatist may be classed the soliloquy of Juliet, on drinking the opiate : — Farewell ! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins. That almost freezes up the heat of life : I'll call them back again to comfort me. — Nurse ! — What should she do here ? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. — Come, phial. — What if this mixture do not work at all ? Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning ? No, no ; — this shall forbid it : lie thou there. — [^Layitig down the dagger. What if it be a poison, which the friar Subtly hath ministered to have me dead ; Lest in this marriage he should be dishonoured. Because he married me before to Romeo ? I fear, it is : and yet, methinks, it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man : I will not entertain so bad a thought.— How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me ? there's a fearful point ! Shall I not, then, be stifled in the vault, 23 To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes ? Or, if I live, is it not very like. The horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place, — As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, Where, for these many hundred years, the bones Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd ; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth. Lies festering in his shroud ; where, as they say. At some hours in the night spirits resort : — Alack, alack ! is it not like, that I, So early waking, — what with loathsonie smells ; And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth. That living mortals, hearing them, run mad ; — O ! if I wake, shall I not be distraught. Environed with all these hideous fears, And madly play with my forefathers' joints, And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud ? And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone, As with a club, dash out my desperate brains ? O, look ! methinks I see my cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body Upon a rapier's point — Stay, Tybalt, stay ! Romeo, I come ! this do I drink to thee. \_She throws herself on the bed. In Othello we have many gems of thought : here is one : — Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls : Who steals my purse steals trash -, 'tis something, nothing ; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands : But he that filches from me my good name, 24 Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed. We all remember these admirable lines : — The quality of mercy is not strained ; It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ; 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown. What a sublime passage is that on the end of all earthly glo- ries : — The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces. The solemn temples, the great globe itself. Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; And, like this insubstantial pageant faded. Leave not a rack behind ! What can be finer in structure of words than the speech of Mark Antony over the body of Caesar ? Or, take another variety — Othello's relation of his courtship, to the Senate ; or, still another familiar, yet exquisite passage, from Romeo and Juliet^ on Dreams, commencing : — O then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. For wonderful condensation and vigor, it has been thought that the passage in Js Tou Like It^ on the world being compared to a stage, is one of the greatest gems of Shakspeare : but we have the authority of Bunsen for assigning the highest merit to the de- scription of a moonlight night with music, in The Merchant oj Venice : — 25 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep into our ears : soft stillness, and the night, Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica : look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins : Such harmony is in immortal -souls ; But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Now for a cluster of little brilliants, rich and rare : — From Two Gentlemen of J^erona :— Who is Silvia ? what is she, That all our swains commend her \ Holy, fair, and wise is she : The heavens 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 eves repair. To help him of his blindness ; And being help'd, 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. 26 From Ale a sure for Meauire : — Take, oh take those lips away, That so sweetly are forsworn j And those eyes, the break of day. Lights that do mislead the morn : But my kisses bring again, Bring again. Seals of love, but seal'd in vain, Seal'd in vain ! From The Merchant of J^enice : — Tell me, where is Fancv' bred. Or in the heart, or in the head ? How begot, how nourished ? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes. With gazing fed ; and Fancy dies In the cradle where it lies : Let us all ring Fancy's knell : I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. Ding, dong, bell. From Ai Tou Like It : — Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude : Thy tooth is not so keen. Because thou art not seen. Although thv breath be rude. Heigh, ho ! sing heigh, ho ! unto the green holly ; Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. ' Frequently used by this poet in tlie sense of Love. From The Tempest : — Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands ; Court'sied when you have, and kissed, (The wild waves whist !) Foot it featly here and there ; And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. The watch-dogs bark — bowgh, bowgh. Hark ! hark ! I hear The strain of strutting chanticlere Cry cock-a-doodle do. Where the bee sucks, there suck I ; In a cowsHp's bell I lie ; There I couch, when owls do cry. On the bat's back do I fly. After summer, merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. From Cymbeline : — Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise. His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies ; And winking mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes : With every thing that pretty bin ; My lady sweet, arise ; Arise, arise ! From Midsummer Night's Dream. The fine song of Oberon :- I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows ; Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine. With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine : There sleeps l^itania, some time of the night. Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight ; And there the snake throws her enamelled skin, Weed-wide enough to wrap a fairy in : And with the juice of this I'll streak her eves, And make her full of hateful fantasies. Here is a magnificent apostrophe to Sleep : — O sleep ! O gentle sleep Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down. And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee. And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great. Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melodv ? O thou dull god ! why liest thou with the vile, In loathsome beds ; and leav'st the kinglv couch, A watch-case, or a common 'larum-bell ? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge. And in the visitation of the winds. Who take the ruffian billows by the top. Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaPning clamours in the slippery clouds. That, with the hurlv, death itself awakes ? Canst thou, O partial sleep ! give thy repose To the wet sea-bov in an hour so rude ; And in the calmest and most stillest night. With all appliances and means to boot. Deny it to a king ? Then, happy low, lie down I Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 30 In Thnon of Athens^ is this humorous passage on steaHng : — I'll example you with thievery ; The sun's a thief, and with his great attraction Robs the vast sea •, the moon's an arrant thief. For her pale fire she snatches from the sun ; The sea's a thief, whose liquid surge resolves The moon into salt tears ; the earth's a thief, That feeds and breeds by a composture stolen From general excrement ; each thing's a thief ; The law, your curb and whip, in their rough power Have unchecked theft. We have but space for one of Shakspeare's fine sonnets ■, but we think this one of the best : — Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments : love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds. Or bends with the remover to remove : no ! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wandering bark Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come ; Lo\'e alters not with his brief hours and weeks. But bears it out even to the edge of doom ; — If this be error, and upon me proved, 1 never writ, nor no man ever loved. In Othello^ Desdemona says : " xMy mother had a maid called Barbara ; she was in love ; and he she loved proved mad, and did forsake her : she had a song of willow, an old thing 'twas, but it expressed her fortune, and she died singing it : that song to-night will not go from my mind ; I have much to do, but to go hang my head all at one side, and sing it like poor Barbara : — The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all a green willow ; Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee. Sing willow, willow, willow : The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans ; Sing willow, willow, willow. Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones. Sing willow, willow, willow — Sing all a green willow must be my garland." Reluctantly as we leave the almost unexplored wealth of thought and imagery which cluster the pages of this magician of the pen, we yet must pass on to some of his contemporaries : — " Those shining stars that run Their glorious course round Shakspeare's golden sun." Among these were Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and others. Glancing over the life-records of these gifted, but, for the most part, erratic sons of genius, who can trace their checkered career without tender sympathy for their misfortunes, while cherish- ing reverence and admiration of their exalted endowments ! Ben Jonson's proud fame was allied with suffering and sorrow, for we find at his closing days the poet thanking his patron, the Earl of Newcastle, for bounties which, he says, had " fallen like the dew of heaven on his necessities." The classic beauty of the following lyric of Jonson has ever been the admiration of all critics : — 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. 3- I sent thee late a rosy wreath, not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope that there it could not wither'd be ; But thou thereon didst only breathe, and sent'st it back to me ; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, not of itself, but thee. His song, entitled The Grace of Simplicity^ is one of the most characteristic of its author : — Still to be neat, still to be drest. As vou were going to a feast ; Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd ; Lady, it is to be presum'd. Though art's hid causes are not found. All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face. That makes simplicity a grace ; Such sweet neglect more taketh me. Than all the adulteries of art : They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. Another of his exquisite songs is the well-known Hy?nn to Diana^' is here addressed the moon, rather than the goddess of hunting. 33 in which the spirit of the classic Ivre is beautifully illustrated. It is supposed to be derived from Philostratus : — - Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep : Hesperus entreats thy light. Goddess, excellently bright ! Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose ; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear, when day did close ; Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright ! Lay thy bow of pearl apart. And thy crystal shining quiver ; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever ; Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright ! There is such a fulness of inspiration about the old poets, such prodigality of fancy and imagery, that their chief difficulty appears to have been to find place for their thick-coming fancies. For in- stance, take Beaumont's fine Ode to Melancholy : — Hence, all you vain delights. As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly ! There's naught in this life sweet. If man were wise to see't. But only melancholy ; Oh, sweetest melancholy ! 34 Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes, A sight that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained 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 passing 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. Here is a delicious lyric from the same source : — Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air ! Even in shadows you are fair. Shut-up beauty is like fire. That breaks out clearer still and higher. Though vour beauty be confin'd, And soft Love a prisoner bound. Yet the beauty of your mind Neither check nor chain hath found ; Look out nobly, then, and dare E'en the fetters that you wear ! What a fine figure has Beaumont employed in the following lines to illustrate the influence of woman : — The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath, Feels in its barrenness some touch of Spring ; And in the April dew, or beam of May, Its moss and lichen freshen and revive ; And thus the heart, most sear'd to human pleasure. Melts at the tear, — joys in the smile of woman. Shirley, the latest of the EHzabethan dramatists, wrote the fol- lowing : — Woodmen, shepherds, come away. This is Pan's great holiday ; Throw ofF cares, with your heaven-aspiring airs — Help us to sing. While valleys with your echoes ring. Nymphs that dwell within these groves. Leave your arbours, bring your loves, Gather posies, crown your golden hair with roses : As you pass, Foot like Fairies on the grass. What stateliness and vigor of expression characterize his cele- brated Dirge : — The glories of our blood and state. Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate : Death lays his icy hand on kings •, Sceptre and crown must tumble down. And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade ! Some men with swords may reap the field. And plant fresh laurels where they kill -, But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still : Early or late, they stoop to fate. And must give up their murmuring breath. When they, pale captives, creep to death ! The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon death's purple altar, now. See, where the victor-victim bleeds : 36 All heads must come to the cold tomb ; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. Listen to the sweet music and melancholy flow of this fine old song : — Go sit by the summer sea, thou whom scorn wasteth, And let thy musing be where the flood hasteth ; Mark, how o'er ocean's breast rolls the hoar billow's crest, — Such is his heart's unrest who of love tasteth. Griev'st thou that hearts should change ? Lo, where life reigneth, Or the free sight doth range, what long remaineth ? Spring, with her flowers, doth die, fast fades the gilded sky, And the full moon on high ceaselessly waneth ! 37 Smile, then, ye sage and wise, and if love sever Bards which thy soul doth prize, such does it ever. Deep as the rolling seas, soft as the twilight breeze, But oi more than these — boast could it never ! Carew, the " sprightly, polished, and perspicuous," wrote sundry love-ditties : one of his most popular begins — Ask me no more where Jove bestows. When June is past, the fading rose ; For, in your beauties, orient deep, Those flowers, as in their causes, sleep. His other noted song commences thus : — He that loves a rosy cheek, or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek fuel to maintain his fires ; As old Time makes these decay. So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, gentle thoughts and calm desires ; Hearts with equal love combined, kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eves. * * * * Here, also, we have some terse lines of his, touching things terrene : — Fame's but a hollow echo — gold, pure clay, — Honour, the darling but of one short day ; Beauty, the eye's idol — but a damask skin ; State, but a golden prison to live in And torture free-born minds, — embroidered 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. The "-gallant and accomplished" Lovelace wrote this beautiful song to his mistress, on joining the army of the King : — Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, that from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind to war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, the first foe in the field -, And with a stronger faith embrace a sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such as you, too, shall adore ; I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more. His fine lines written during his incarceration. To Jlthea, com- mence :- When Love, with unconfined wings, hovers within my gates. And my divine Althea brings to whisper at my grates : When I lie tangled in her hair, and fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air know no such liberty. His last is the finest stanza : — Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet, take that for an hermitage : If I have freedom in my love, and in my soul am tree, Angels alone, that soar above, enjoy such liberty. Love, the great theme of the poets, has been in these pages presented in most of its Protean aspects ; but as it is classed among the noblest virtues, we can hardly have too much of it from the poets. Dr. Johnson once remarked, that " we need not ridicule a passion, which he who never felt, never was happy ; and he who 39 laughs at, never deserves to feel — a passion which has caused the change of empires and the loss of worlds — a passion which has inspired heroism and subdued avarice." Here is an airy, bird-like lyric, bv Hey wood : — Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day ; With night we banish sorrow -, Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, lark, aloft. To give my love good- morrow Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my love good-morrow. To give my love good-morrow, Notes from them both I'll borrow. Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast : Sing, birds, in every furrow ; And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair love good-morrow. Blackbird and thrush, in every bush — Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow — You pretty elves, amongst yourselves. Sing my fair love good-morrow. To give my loye good-morrow, Sing, birds, in every furrow O fly, make haste ! See, see, she falls Into a pretty slumber ; Sing round about her rosy bed. That, waking, she may wonder. Say to her, 'tis her lover true That sendeth love to you ; to you ! And when you hear her kind reply. Return with pleasant warblings. Lyly's genius for lyric verse is seen in the following little Song of the Fairies : — By the moon we sport and play, With the night begins our day : As we dance, the dew doth fall, Trip it, little urchins all. Lightly as the little bee. Two by two, and three by three. And about go we, and about go we. The following exquisitely sportive lines are also by this noted dramatist : — Cupid and my Campaspe play'd At cards for kisses : Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows ; His mother's doves and team of sparrows ; Loses them too, then down he throws The coral of his lip — the rose Growing on's cheek, but none knows how, With these the crystal on his brow. And then the dimple of his chin ; All these did my Campaspe win : At last he set her both his eyes ; She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love, hath she done this to thee ? What shall, alas ! become of me ? TiTCHBOURNE, who was one of the victims of political despotism in 1568, wrote these quaint and touching lines the night preceding his execution : — My prime of youth is but a frost of cares ; My feast of jov is but a dish of pain ; 41 My crop of corn is but a field of tares, And all my goods are but vain hopes of gain. The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun, And now I live, and now my life is done ! My Spring is past, and vet it hath not sprung ; My fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green ; My youth is past, and vet I am but young •, I saw the world, and yet I was not seen ; My thread is cut, and vet it is not spun. And now I live, and now my life is done ! Herrick's Ivrics are among the most sprightly and picturesque that we possess ; they are fragrant with the aroma of Spring flowers. Listen to his lines addressed to " Primroses filled with morning dew :" — Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears Speak grief in you. Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew ? Alas ! you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind ; Nor are ye worn with years. Or warp'd, as we. Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young. Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep : Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby ? Or, that ve have not seen as yet The violet ? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this ? No, no ; this sorrow, shown By your tears shed. Would have this lecture read, — ''That things of greatest, so of meanest worth. Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth. Here are two more of Herrick's sweet songs : — Fair daffodils ! we weep to see You haste away so soon ; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon : Stay, stay, Until the hastening day Has run But to the even-song ; And having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay as you. We have as short a Spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay. As you, or any thing : We die. As your hours do ; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain. Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again. To Blossoms : — Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast ? Your date is not so past. But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile. And go at last. 44 What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night ? 'Tis pity nature brought ye forth. Merely to show your worth. And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave ; And after they have shown their pride. Like you, awhile, they glide Into the erave. Now let us rehearse that famous old song of Marlowe, the favorite of that honest philosopher, angler, and right worthy gentle- man, Izaac Walton : — Come live with me and be my love. And we will all the pleasures prove. That hill and valley, dale and field. And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks. By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There I will make thee beds of roses. And a thousand fragrant posies ; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool. Which from our pretty lambs we pull -, 45 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 mv love. :!= * * Here is the opemng passage of a poem by Daniel, who, for the vigor of his verse, was styled the Atticus of his day : — He that of such a height hath built his mind. And rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong, As neither fear nor hope can shake the frame Of his resolved powers ; nor all the wind Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong His settled peace, or to disturb the same ; What a fair seat hath he, from whence he may The boundless wastes and wilds of man survey ! He also wrote the following sprightlv song : — Love is a sickness full of woes. All remedies refusing ; A plant that most with cutting, grows ; Most barren, with best using : Why so ? More we enjoy it, more it dies ; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries — Heigh-ho ! Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting ; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full, nor fasting : Why so r 46 More we enjoy it, more it dies ; If not enjoyed, it sighing cries — Heigh-ho ! Among favorite love-lvrics of the olden time, is that entitled Rosalind's Madrigal^ by Lodge. Here it is : — Love in my bosom, like a bee. Doth suck his sweet ; Now with his wings he plavs with me. Now with his feet. Within mine eyes he makes his nest. His bed amidst mv tender breast ; My kisses are his daily feast. And yet he robs me of my rest : Ah, wanton, will ye ? And if I sleep, there percheth he With pretty flight, And makes his pillow of my knee. The livelong night. Strike I my lute, he turns the string ; He music plays if so I sing ; He lends me every lovely thing. Yet cruel he my heart doth sting : Whist, wanton, still ye. Else I, with roses, every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play. For your offence : I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in ; I'll make you fast it for your sin ; I'll count your power not worth a pin ; Alas ! what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me r What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod ? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee, And let thy bower my bosom be ; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee, O Cupid ! so thou pity me. Spare not, but play thee. The following impassioned and beautiful lines are the commence- ment of a poem, entitled The Exequy^ written by Dr. King : — Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint. Instead of dirges, this complaint ; And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse. Receive a strew of weeping verse. From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see Quite melted into tears for thee ! Dear loss ! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee ; thou art the book. The library whereon I look. Though almost blind ; for thee (^^loved clay) I languish out, not live, the day, Using no other exercise But what I practise with mine eyes : By which wet glasses I find out How lazily Time creeps about To one that mourns : this, only this, My exercise and business is : So I compute the weary hours With sighs dissolved into showers. His terse lines on Life are more familiar : — Like to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are ■, Or like the fresh Spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew : Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood — E'en such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in and paid to-night : The wind blows out, the bubble dies, The Spring entombed in Autumn lies ; The dew dries up, the star is shot, The flight is past — and man forgot ! Sir H. Wotton's admired lines, entitled The Happy L'lfe^ are well worthy of a place among the most perfect passages of our English poetry : — - How happv is he born and taught That serveth not another's will ; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill ! Whose passions not his masters are. Whose soul is still prepared for death — Untied unto the worldly care Of public fame or orlvate breath ! * * * * Who God doth late and early pray More of His grace than gifts to lend ; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend : This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall ; Lord of himself — though not of lands ; And having nothing, yet hath all. D 49 WoTTON is also justly celebrated for his brilliant stanzas ad- dressed to the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James I. : — You meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eves More by your numbers than vour light, — You common people of the skies, What are vou wnen tne moon s the shall Ye violets, that first appear. By your pure, purple mantles known, — Like the proud virgins of the year. As if the Spring were all vour own, — What are you when the rose is blown ? Ye curious chanters of the wood. That warble forth dame Nature's lavs. Thinking \our passions understood Bv vour weak accents ; what's vour praise When Philomel her \oice shall raise ? So, when my mistress shall be seen, In sweetness of her looks and mind ; By virtue first, then choice, a queen — Tell me, if she was not designed Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? Another of those courtly minstrels was Sir John Suckling ; and here, with some of his graceful contributions to our poetic an- thology, we conclude the hrst of our evening studies : — Why so pale and wan, fond lo\ er ? Pr'\ thee, why so p.ile ? Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill pre\ ail .' Pr'ythee, why so pale r Why so pale and mute, young sinner ? Pr'ythee, why so mute ? Will, when speaking well can't move her, Saying nothing do't ? Pr'ythee, why so mute ? Quit, quit, for shame ; this will not move, This cannot take her ; If of herself she will not love. Nothing can make her ; The devil take her ! His most celebrated piece is The Weddings written in honour oi the beautiful daughter of the Earl of Suffolk. Here are a few of the sparkling stanzas : — 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 looked like the great collar, just, About our young colt's neck. * * * Her feet beneath her petticoat. Like little mice, stole in and out. As if they feared the light. But, oh ! she dances such a wav — 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 Catharine pear (The side that's next the sun). Her lips were red, and one was thin. Compared to that was next her chin (Some bee had stung it newly) ; But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze Than on the sun in July. * * * Druniinond, Habington. Quaries. V/alier, Ayton, Cowiey, Milton, Byrd, Chamberlayne, Herbert, L-enharn, Marvell, L>ryJen, Addison, Pore, Parne'.l, Thoiubon, Colliiib. t'heiiBtone, Y ouiii:;'. RUMMOND OF Hawthorn- den, — the singular sweetness and harmonv of whose poetry re- minds us of Spenser, — wrote some touching sonnets in memory of his lost love, whose sudden death occurred just prior to their appointed nuptials. The poet was of noble lineage, and lived amidst the most romantic scenery, at his fine castle on the banks of the Esk. The following are his beautiful sonnets on Spring : — Sweet Spring ! thou turn'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 jov, in pearls weep down their showers. Thou turn'st, sweet youth, but, ah ! my pleasant hours And happy days with thee come not again ; The sad memorials only of my pain Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours ! Thou art the same which still thou wast before, Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair ; But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air, Is gone ; nor gold, nor gems her can restore. Neglected virtue, seasons go and come. While thine forgot, lie closed in a tomb ! What doth it serye to see sun's burning face ? And skies enamell'd with both Indies' gold ? Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd. And all the glory of that starry place ? What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold. The mountain's pride, the meadow's flowery grace ; The stately comeliness of forests old, The sport of floods which would themselves embrace ? What doth it serve to hear the sylvan's songs. The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains. Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs ? For what doth serve all that this world contains, Sith she, for whom these once to me were dear, No part of them can have now with me here ? Hazlitt thought Drummond's sonnets approached as near almost as any others to the perfection of this kind of writing. Here is his Address to the Nighthigale : — 56 Sweet bird ! that sing'st awav the early hours, Of winter's past or coming, void of care. Well pleased with delights which present are. Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers : To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven ? Sweet, artless songster, thou mv mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angel's lays. Habington's poem on The F'lrinament opens with these grand lines : — When I survey the bright celestial sphere, So rich with jewels hung, that night Doth hke an Ethiop bride appear ; My soul her wings doth spread, And heavenward flies. The Almighty's mysteries to read In the large volumes of the skies. The grave and eccentric Ouarles has written some remarkable poems, equally quaint in conceit and curious in structure : for example : — Behold How short a span Was long enough of old To measure out the life of man : In those well-tempered days, his time was then Surveyed, cast-up, and found — but threescore years and ten ! How soon Our new-born light Attains to full-aged noon And this — how soon to gray-haired night ! We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast : — Ere we can count our days — our days they flee so fast ! And what's a life ? A weary pilgrimage. Whose glory in the day doth HU the stage — With childhood, manhood, and decrepid age. And what's a life ? The flourishing array Of the proud summer-meadow, which to-day — Wears her green plush — and is to-morrow — hay ! False world, thou ly'st : thou canst not lend The least delight : Thy favours cannot gain a friend. They are so slight ! Thy morning's pleasures make an end To please at night : Poor are the wants that thou supply'st. And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st With heaven ! Fond earth, thou boast'st — false world, thou ly'st ! Here are some of his lines, gilded with a little more sunshine : — As when a lady, walking Flora's bower. Picks here a pink, and there a gilly-flower. Now plucks a violet from her purple bed. And then a primrose, — the year's maidenhead ; There nips the brier, here the lover's pansy. Shifting her dainty pleasures with her fancy ; 58 This on her arm, and that she lists to wear Upon the borders of her curious hair ; At length, a rose-bud (passing all the rest) She plucks, and bosoms in her lily breast. Waller, whose life has been thought to possess more romance than his poetry, is, however, the author of these striking stanzas, among the last he wrote :— The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries : 59 The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become. As thev draw near to their eternal home : Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view. That stand upon the threshold of the new. For harmony and elegance of fancy, these verses, by Ayton, have rarely been surpassed : — I loved thee once, I'll love no more. Thine be the grief, as is the blame ; Thou art not what thou wast before. What reason I should be the same ? He that can love, unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain. God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown If thou hadst still continued mine ; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might, perchance, have yet been thine ; But thou thy freedom didst recall. That if thou might'st elsewhere inthral. And then, how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain ? The " melancholy Cowley," as that poet stvles himself, was yet the writer of this paraphrastic version of one of Anacreon's spark- ling lyrics : — The thirsty earth soaks up the rain. And drinks, and gapes for drink again : The plants suck in the earth, and are, With constant drinking, fresh and fair. The sea itself, which one would think Should have but little need of drink, Drinks ten thousand rivers up. So filled that they o'erflow the cup. The busy sun — and one would guess, Bv his drunken, fiery face, no less — Drinks up the sea ; and when he's done, The moon and stars drink up the sun : They drink and dance bv their own light,— They drink and revel all the night ! Nothing in nature's sober found, But an eternal " health" goes round : Should everv creature drink but I — Why — men of morals, tell me why .'' Cowley's deep love of rural retirement is exhibited in the sub- joined lines : — Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good ! Hail, ye plebeian underwood ! Where the poetic birds rejoice. And for their quiet nests and plenteous food Pay with their grateful voice. Here nature does a house for me erect — Nature ! the wisest architect. Who those fond artists does despise. That can the fair and living trees neglect. Yet the dead timber prize If, in the verse of Chaucer, the muse lisped her early numbers with the artless simplicity and grace of infancy, she may be said to have attained to her full-voiced maturity and glory in the august and matchless creations of Shakspeare, and the '' magnificent sphere- harmonies" of Milton. The latter, indeed, as it has been beauti- fully expressed, like the nightingale, sang his sublime song in the night : for not only was he deprived of the glad light of day, but the dark clouds of sorrow cast their added shadows on his pathway. Yet this noble man stood erect in his integrity and exemplary in his patience, amidst all adverse circumstances. Beautifully has he been likened to the bird of Paradise, which, flying against the wind, best displays the splendour of its golden plumage ; so the bard of Paradise, in his sublime excursions amid the beings of light, bursts upon us with a more supernal grandeur, as he emerges from the darkness with which he was environed. Gray thus refers to him, as one — Who rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy -, The Secret of the abyss to spy Who passed the flaming bounds of space and time, — The living throne, the sapphire's blaze. Where angels tremble while they gaze ! He saw : but, blasted with excess of light. Closed his eves in endless night. Milton did not commence the composition of his grand epic until he was forty-seven years of age ; although he had matured its plan in his mind several years before. When he visited the Continent, he met Galileo, then a prisoner of the Inquisition : he also became acquainted with Hugo Grotius. It is a curious fact, that Grotius had then written a tragedy of which the leading subject was the Fall of Man ; and Milton's epic was formed out of the first draught of a tragedy to which he had given the title of Adam Uuparadlsed. No evidence has been adduced, however, to prove that Milton bor- rowed his design from Grotius ; or from Du Bartas' Divine IVeekes^ as has been by some persons supposed. One of his earliest com- positions, the Hy?nn to the Nativity^ was written when he was but twentv-one years old ; yet it has been pronounced b\- critics as un- surpassed by any production of its class since the age of Pindar. Here is a splendid stanza : — No u^ar, or battle's sound, was heard the world around ; The idle spear and shield were high uphung ; The hooked chariot stood unstain'd with hostile blood ; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; And kings sat still with awful eve, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was bw How hne i:; that passage referring to the silencing of the heathen oracles : — The oracles are dumb ; no \oice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving ; Apollo from his shrine can no more divine. With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving ; No nightly trance, or breathed spell. Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. The village of Horton is associated with the earlier portion of the poet's life ; it was there that he wrote his Comus^ Lycidas^ and // Penseroso. At Chalfont St. Giles he wrote his great epic. Fuseli thought the second book of Paradise Lost the grandest effort of the human mind we possess. How splendid is his Invocation to Light — how touchingly it closes ! — Thus with the year Seasons return ; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine : But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair, Presented with a universal blank Of nature's works, to me expunged and razed. And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. According to Sir Egerton Brydges, Milton's sonnet on his loss of sight, is unequalled by anv composition of its class in the language : When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning, chide : " Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?" I fondly ask : but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies — " God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts ; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best ; His state Is kingly : thousands at His bidding speed. And post o'er land and ocean without rest : They also serve who only stand and wait !" // Penseroso abounds with striking passages ; such as the following, to Contemplation : — Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure. All in a robe of darkest grain. Flowing with majestic train. And sable state of cypress lawn. On thy decent shoulders drawn ! 64 % Come ! but keep thy wonted state, With even step and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eves : There, held in holv passion still, Forget thyself to warble, 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 hears the muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing : And add to these retired leisure. That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ;' 65 But first and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fairy-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation. What pen but Milton's could have produced — from so slight an incident as that which occurred at Ludlow Castle when the poet was its guest — a dramatic poem I^Comus) so replete with beautiful imagery, and so lustrous with the graces of style ? Here are a few lines : — Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment ? Sure something holy lodges in that breast. And with these raptures moves the vocal air, To testify his hidden residence : How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence, through the emptv vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness, till it smiled ! * * * So dear to heaven is saintlv chastity. That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lacquey her. Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt. And, in clear dream and solemn vision, Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear. Till oft converse with heavenly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape. The unpolluted temple of the mind, And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence, Till all be made immortal. 66 The Epilogue closes with these beautiful words : — Mortals, that would follow me. Love Virtue, — she alone is free : She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the spherv chime ; Or if Virtue feeble were, Heaven itself would stoop to her. Here is an example of his famous V Allegro : — Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. And love to live in dimple sleek \ Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it, as vou go, On the light fantastic toe ; And in thv right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; And, if I give thee honour due. Mirth, admit me of thy crew. To live with her, and live with thee, \x\ unreproved pleasures free ; To hear the lark begin his flight, And, singing, startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies. Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come, in spite of sorrow. And at my window bid good-morrow. 67 What a dewy Freshness and fragrance breathe from his lines on May Morning : — Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, beauteous May ! that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; Woods and groves are of thy dressing. Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song. And welcome thee, and wish thee long. We are all familiar with Milton's majestic Morning Hy?nn : how grandly it opens : — 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 ! No less beautiful is his description of Eveyiing in Paiadis Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all thing-s clad ; Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale ; She all night long her amorous descant sung : Silence was pleased : now glowed the firmament With living sapphires ; Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw ! What a rich collection of little gems might be gathered from the brilliant pages of this great poet, had we space for the garnering. Here are two or three, caught at random : — 69 Comiis : — How charming is divine philosophy ! Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets, Where no crude surfeit rei2;ns. From L' Allegro : — 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 linked sweetness long drawn out. From Lxcidas : — Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (I'hat last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. How much the world is indebted to the ^ blind old master of English song," it would be impossible to compute ; for not only has he enriched our literature with the vast resources of a mind pre-eminently endowed, but he was among the foremost of the pioneers of civil and religious liberty. His able and authoritative pen served as efficiently in that noble emprise, as legions of armed soldiers in the field. As the champion of human freedom, he was necessarily obnoxious to the opposing party ; accordingly, on the accession of Charles H., Milton became the object of bitter hos- tility : to such an extent, indeed, that in order to save his valuable life, his very existence had for a time to be kept secret. It is said that his friends spread a report that he was dead, and, assembling a mournful procession, followed his pretended remains to the grave. The king, some time afterwards discovering the trick, commended his pohcy "in escaping death by a seasonable show of dying." It is related of the Duke of York, that when, on one occasion, he visited Milton, and he was asked whether he did not regard the loss of his eyesight as a judgment inflicted on him for what he had written against the late king ? he replied, " If your highness thinks that the calamities which befall us here are indications of the wrath of Heaven, in what manner are we to account for the fate of the late king, your father ? the displeasure of Heaven must, upon this supposition, have been much greater upon him than upon me, for I have only lost my eyes, but he has lost his head '" Despised and persecuted as this illustrious man was for his political faith, he stood calmly and grandly forth, in the majesty and integrity of truth, amidst all ; and his posterity has not forgotten his noble service. John Milton's great spirit left the world on Sunday, the eighth of Novem- ber, 1674; and his sacred dust reposes near the chancel of St. Giles's, Cripplegate ; — a shrine, whither tend many pilgrim feet from all parts of the civilized world. It is a note-worthy fact, that while the greatest of English poets (the bard of Avon alone excepted) received only the trifling sum of five pounds for the first edition of his great epic, one of his editors, Newton, received six hundred guineas for his annotations upon it. The following vigorous and impressive stanzas are by Byrd : — My mind to me a kingdom is ; Such perfect joy therein I find, As far exceeds all earthly bliss That God or nature hath assigned. Though much I want, that most would have. Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 71 Content I live ; this is my stay, I seek no more than may suffice ; I press to bear no haughty sway ; Look, what I lack, my mind supplies. Lo ' thus I triumph like a king. Content with that my mind doth bring. Some have too much, yet still they crave ; I little have, yet seek no more ; They are but poor, though much they have, And I am rich with little store. They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give j They lack, I lend ; they pine, I live. My wealth is health and perfect ease ; My conscience clear, my chief defence ; I never seek by bribes to please. Nor by desert to give offence. This is my choice ; for why ? I find No wealth is like a quiet mind. Chamberlayne, a poet but little known, but of evident genius, is the author of this beautiful description of a summer morning: — The morning hath not lost her virgin blush, Nor step, but mine, soiled the earth's tinselled robe. How full of heaven this solitude appears, This healthful comfort of the happy swain ; Who from his hard but peaceful bed roused up, In's morning exercise saluted is By a full quire of feathered choristers, Wedding: their notes to the enamoured air ! Here Nature, in her unaffected dress, Plaited with valleys, and embossed with hills Enchased with silver streams, and fringed with woods, Sits lovelv in her native russet. Who is not charmed with the rich quaintness of worthy George Herbert ? Here is his fine piece, entitled Firtue : — 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. ^ 73 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 seasoned timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. These are the opening stanzas of his Mart's Medley : — Hark ! how the birds do sing, And woods do ring : All creatures have their joy, and man hath his : Yet if we rightly measure, Man's joy and pleasure Rather hereafter, than in present, is. To this life things of sense Make their pretence ; In th' other angels have a right by birth ; Man ties them both alone. And makes them one. With th' one touching heaven — with th' other, earth. There is a charm about Herbert's poetry, notwithstanding the strange conceits with which it abounds ; as in the following lines, entitled 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. 74 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 minde to smell my fatall day. Yet sugaring the suspicion. Farewell, dear flowers ; sweetly your time ye spent, Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament. And after death for cures. I follow straight without complaints or grief. Since, if my scent be good, I care not if It be as short as yours. Addison, it may be remembered, thus refers to a brother bard in the following couplet : — " Nor, Denham, must we e'er forget thy strains, While Cooper's Hii I commands the neighboring plains." It was this Denham that wrote that celebrated quartette — which seems to have been a poetic inspiration : — Oh ! could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme ! Though deep, yet clear ; though gentle, yet not dull ; Strong without rage ; without o'erflowing, full ! Andrew Marvell, the friend of Milton, wrote these glowing lines On a Drop of Devu : — See how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn, Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where 'twas born, 75 Round in itselt" encloses ; And in its little globe's extent, Frames as it can its native element. How it the purple flower does slight ! Scarce touching where it lies ; But giving back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light. Like its own tear, because so long divided from the sphere. Restless it rolls and insecure, trembling lest it grow impure. Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again. So the soul — that drop, that rav Of the clear fountain of eternal day. Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height. Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green. And recollecting its own light. Does in its pure and circling thoughts express The o;reater heaven in a heaven less. Dryden's magnificent Ode, On the Poiuer of Miis'ic^ writteji in 1697, for the festival of St. Cecilia's day, is by many considered his masterpiece. It is pronounced unequalled by anv thing of its kind since classic times ; and is the best illustration of the pliancy of our English extant. He wrote this grand Ode at Burleigh House, where his translation of Virgil was partly executed. One morning Lord Bolingbroke chanced to call on Drv-den, whom he found in unusual agitation. On inquiring the cause, " I have been up all night," replied the bard ; " mv musical friends made me promise to write them an Ode for the Feast of St. Cecilia : I have been so struck with the subject which occurred to me, that I could not leave it till I had completed it : here it is, finished at one sitting." 76 The poem is designed to exhibit the different passions excited bv Timotheus in the mind of Alexander, feasting a triumphant con- queror in Persepolis. The grandeur of the poem can only be ap- preciated by perusing it entire, and more fullv, indeed, on even a second perusal. Here is the opening s-tanza : — ;r---^:'i: 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son : Aloft in awful state the god-like hero sate On his imperial throne ; His valiant peers were placed around. Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound So should desert in arms be crown'd. The lovelv 1 hais bv his side Sat, 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, Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire. With flying fingers touched the lyre ; And trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire ! As instances of Dryden's lighter verse, we present the folk I feed a flame within, which so torments me. That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me ; 'Tis such a pleasing smart, and so I love it. That I had rather die than once remove it. Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it ; My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it. Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses. But they fall silently, like dew on roses. Thus, to prevent my love from being cruel. My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel ; And while I suifer this, to give him quiet. My faith rewards my love, though he deny it. On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me ; Where I conceal my love, no frown can fright me : To be more happy, 1 dare not aspire : Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher. O, lull me, lull me, charming air ! My senses rock with wonder sweet ! Like snow on wool thy fallings are ; Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet. 78 Grief who need fear That hath an ear r Down let him lie, And slumbering die, And change his soul for harmony. Ah, how sweet it is to love ! Ah, how gay is young Desire ! And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach Love's fire ! Pains of love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are. Sighs which are from lovers blown. Do but gently heave the heart ; E'en the tears they shed alone. Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. Lovers, when they lose their breath, Bleed away in easy death. Dryden happening to pass an evening at the Duke of Bucking- ham's, where were assembled Lord Dorset, the Earl of Rochester, and other distinguished men, the conversation chanced to turn upon literary topics. After some debate, it was agreed that each person present should improvise some lines on any subject his fancv might suggest, and that the contributions should be placed under the candlestick. Dryden was excepted, but the office of umpire was assigned to him. Some of the company were at more than ordi- nary pains to outrival their competitors ; but Lord Dorset was noticed to write his two or three lines with the most tranquil un- concern. All the wits having contributed their eftusions, Dryden proceeded to unfold the leaves of their literary destiny. He dis- covered deep emotion during the process, and at length exclaimed, 79 " I must acknowledge that there are abundance of fine things in my hands, and such as do honour to the personages who penned them ; hut I am under the indispensable necessity of giving the preference to Lord Dorset. I must request vou will hear it yourselves, gentle- men, and I believe vou will all then approve my judgment : — ' I promise to pay to yohn Drydfn^ E,-^']-i '"' order ^ on dejtiand^ the sum of Five hun- dred poimds. — Dorset.' I must confess," continued Dryden, " that I am equally charmed with the style and the subject ; and I flatter myself, gentlemen, that I stand in need of no argument to induce you to acquiesce in opinion, even against yourselves. This style of writing excels any other, ancient or modern : it is not the essence, but the quintessence of language, and is, in fact, reason and argu- ment surpassing every thing in letters." Of course, the company cordially concurred with the bard, and complimented the superior penetration of the noble donor. When Dryden was a boy at Westminster School, he was put, with others, to write a copy of verses on the miracle of the conver- sion of water into wine. Being a great truant, he had not time to compose his \'erses ; and when brought up, he had only made one line of Latin, and two of English : — " / idit et ernhnit Ivmpha pudica Deiim /" ' " The modest water, awed by power divine. Beheld its God, and blushed itself to wine ;" which so pleased the master, that instead of being angry, he said it was a presage of future greatness, and ga\'e the youth a crown on the occasion. What a contrast this first outburst of poetic power presents with the closing days of his literary career ! when in his seventieth year he complains that, " worn out with study, and oppressed with fortune, he was compelled to contract with his publisher to furnish ten thousand verses at sixpence per line !" Macaulay thus writes of Dryden : — " His command of language was immense. With him died the secret of the old poetic diction This may be a plagiarism from Crashaw's — ^^ Nympha pudica Dcum -vidit, ct erubuit.' of England, — the art of producing rich effects bv familiar words. On the other hand, he was the first writer under whose skilful management the scientific vocabulary fell into natural and pleasing \'erse : — * The varying verse, the full-resounding line. The long majestic march, and energy divine.' " Warton says, the most splendid and sublime passage that Dryden ever wrote is the following : — So when of old the Almighty Father sate In council, to redeem our ruin'd state, Millions of millions, at a distance round. Silent the sacred consistory crown'd. To hear what mercy, mix'd with justice, could propound : All prompt, with eager pity, to fulfil The full extent of their Creator's will. But when the stern conditions were declared, A mournful whisper through the host was heard, And the whole hierarchy, with heads hung down. Submissively declin'd the ponderous profFer'd crown. Then, not till then, the Eternal Son from high Rose in the strength of all the Deity : Stood forth to accept the terms, and underwent . A weight which all the frame of Heaven had bent. Nor He himself could bear, but as Omnipotent ! Addison's poetry is generally considered cold and artificial, al- though his graver productions are harmonious and beautiful ; they are, indeed, accepted as his best compositions. His well-known Hymn^ says Thackeray, "shines like the stars." Here it is . — The spacious firmament on high. With all the blue ethereal sky. And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied sun, from day to day. Does his Creator's power display. And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale. And nightly, to the listening earth. Repeats the story of her birth ; While all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets, in their turn, Conrirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What, though in solemn silence all Move round this dark terrestrial ball ? What, though no real voice, nor sound, Amid their radiant orbs be found ? In Reason's ear they all rejoice. And utter forth a glorious voice ; Forever singing, as they shine, "The hand that made us is Divine." One of Addison's best pieces is that written at the tomb of Virgil, in 1741 : he also achieved a dramatic triumph in his cele- brated tragedy of Cato. Let us rehearse his grand soliloquy : — 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 naught ? 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 untried 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. * -;:- -;<• 83 The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and dehes its point. The stars shall fade awav, 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 wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds ' Pope was a precocious genius ; for when only in his thirteenth vear, he wrote these pleasmo; lines on Solitude : — Happy the man whose wish and care A icw paternal acres bound. Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread. Whose flocks supply him with attire. Whose trees in summer yield him shade. In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcern'dly rind Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind. Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night ; study and ease. Together mixt ; sweet recreation ; And innocence, which most does please With meditation. Thus let me live unseen, unknown. Thus unlamented let me die. Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. 84 rs He tells us that he sought the solace of poesy to beguile his hou of physical sufFering. At the age of sixteen he wrote his Pastorals; and two or three years later, his Messiah^ and Essay on Criticism. Pope's bodily intirmity caused him to be at times very irascible ; and on one occasion his long-tried friend, Bishop Atterbury, in pleasantry, described the poet as Mens curva in corpore curvo.' His Essay on Man is replete with nervous and picturesque passages -, it is, however, occasionally tinctured with the heresies of his friend Bolingbroke. Subjoined are a (ew fine passages from his famous Essay on Man : — 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-topped hill a 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, Nor fiends torment, nor Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire. He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; In justice to the poet, however, we ought to cite his noble couplet on his friend : — " How pleasing Atterbury 's softer hour ! How shined his soul unconquered in the Tower !" 85 He thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. What a grand conception of his is this closing passage : — 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 th' 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 j 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 fills, He bounds, connects, and equals all. Cease then, nor order imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point : this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness. Heaven bestows on thee. 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 nature is but art, unknown to thee ; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; All discord, harmony, not understood ; All partial evil, universal good. The Rape of the Lock^ which Johnson styles " the most airy, in- genious, and delightful of ail Pope's compositions," was occasioned by a frolic of gallantry. Here are two passages ; one portraying the mysteries of the toilet, and the other the heroine of the story: — And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed. Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores, With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers ; A heavenly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears : The inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and here The various offerings of the world appear ; From each she nicely culls with curious toil. And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. 87 This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transformed to combs, the speckled and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Pulfs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; The fair each moment rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise. And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. The busy Sylphs surround their darling care. These set the head, and those divide the hair, Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown ; And Betty's praised for labours not her own. Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths around her shone. But every eye was fixed on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those ; Favours to none, to all she smiles extends ; Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride. Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide : If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget them all. This nymph, to the destruction of mankind. Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behind In equal curls, and well conspired to deck With shining ringlets the smooth, ivory neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare. And beauty draws us with a single hair. Th' adventurous baron the bright locks admired ; He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired. The poetry of Pope has been compared to mosaic work, — full of thoughts familiar to most minds, but draped in elegant metaphor. There is an absence of passion and emotion in his writings ; he seldom excites a smile, and as seldom touches the sympathies by pathos. His " mellifluence," as Johnson expresses it, has the defect of monotony ; but he possessed the faculty of making " sound an echo to the sense" in an eminent degree. Witness these lines : — Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows. And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar. When Ajax strives some rocks' vast weight to throw, The words, too, labor, and the lines move slow : Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain. Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. A needless Alexandrine ends the song. That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along, Parnell's Hermit^ familiar to most readers, and which Pope pronounced " very good," commences thus : — Far in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ; Remote from men, with God he passed his days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure, praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose. Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose — That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway ; His hopes no more a certain prospect boast. And all the tenor of his soul is lost. So, when a smooth expanse receives imprest Calm nature's image on its watery breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow. And skies beneath with answering colours glow ; But, if a stone the gentle sea divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, And glimmering fragments of a broken sun. Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight. To find if books, or swains, report it right — For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew — He quits his cell ; the pilgrim staff" he bore. And fixed the scallop in his hat before ; Then, with the rising sun, a journey went. Sedate to think, and watching each event. Thomson's Castle of Indolence^ the latest of his productions, seems to have been a labour of love with the poet. The sketch of him- self is interesting, although he tells us, that all except the first line was written by a friend : — A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems. Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain. On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes. Poured forth his unpremeditated strain ; The world forsaking with a calm disdain. Here laughed he careless in his easy seat, — Here quaff''d, encircled with the joyous train. Oft moralizing sage, his ditty sweet, — He loathed much to write, he cared to repeat. There is a great charm about this poem ; its numbers seem to lull one into a dreamy sense of pleasure ; note this stanza : — A pleasing land of drowsy herd it was. Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 91 And of gay casties in the clouds that pass, Forever flashing round a summer sky : There eke the soft delights, that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast. And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh But whate'er smacked of novance or unrest, Was far, far off expelled from that delicious nest. Here is a beautiful passage : — I care not. Fortune, what you me deny ; You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace. You cannot shut the windows of the sky. Through which Aurora shows her bright'ning face : You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve : Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave ; Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. We should scarcely have expected that this lover of luxurious ease, who used to linger a-bed, sometimes, till two of the afternoon, could have given us such a burst of inspiration on early rising as this : — Falsely luxurious ! will not man, awake. And springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour To meditation due, and sacred song ? For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise ? To lie in dead oblivion, losing half The fleeting moments of too short a life ? Total extinction of the enlightened soul ; Or else to feverish vanitv alive, 9a Wilder'd and tossing through distempered dreams ? Who would in such a gloomy state rem.ain Longer than nature craves ; when every muse. And every blooming pleasure, wait without, To bless the wildlv-devious morning walk ? Like others of the illustrious brotherhood, our poet lived for the present, and seldom indulged any anxiety about the future ; the consequence was, that his purse was not unfrequently exhausted. On a certain occasion he was surprised by an unexpected visit from Quin, the comedian, whom he had known only by reputation. Puzzled to think what could have induced such a visit, he pressed the question, when Ouin replied, " Why, I will tell you. Soon after I had read your Seasons^ I took it into my head, that as I had something to leave behind me when I died, I would make my will. Among the rest of my legatees, I set down the author of the Seasons for a hundred pounds : and this day, hearing that you were in this house, I thought I might as well have the pleasure of paying the money myself as order my executors to pay it, when perhaps you might have less need of it ; and this, Mr. Thomson, is the object of my visit." The " poet of the Seasons'' did much to improve the poetic taste of his day. Campbell justly remarks : " Habits of early admiration teach us all to look back upon this poet as the favourite companion of our solitary walks, and as the author who has first, or chiefly, reflected back to our minds a heightened and refined sensation of the delight which rural scenery affords us." Thomson's sketches are Claude-Yike^ — full of pastoral beauty and sunshine. Here is a beautiful burst of song, descriptive of summer dawn : — The meek-eyed Morn appears, mother of dews, At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east : Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow ; And, from before the lustre of her face, 93 White break the clouds away. With quicken'd step Brown night retires. Young day pours in apace, And opens all the lawny prospect wide. The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top. Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents shine ; 'T^\^3' And from the bladed field the fearful hare Limps, awkward ; while along the forest glade The wild deer trip, and often turning, gaze At early passenger. Music awakes The native voice of undissembled joy ; And thick around the woodland hymns arise. Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; And from the crowded fold, in order, drives His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. 94 After describing the traveller lost in the snow, the poet thus con- tinues : — In vain for him the officious wife prepares The fire fair blazing, and the vestment warm ; In vain his little children, peeping out Into the mingling storm, demand their sire With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! Nor wife nor children more shall he behold. Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense. And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold. Lays him along the snows a stiffened corpse. Stretched out, and bleaching on the northern blast ! As long as human passions shall animate or disturb the world, CoLLiNs's masterly Ode will doubtless be perused and prized : yet the gifted author suffered from neglect and poverty, and ultimately became the victim of mental disease. Some evil genius seemed to have presided over his destiny, for in early life he fell in love with a fair damsel, who was born a day before himself, and she refused to respond to his appeals. " Your case is a hard one," said a friend. " It is so indeed," replied Collins, " for I came into the world a day after the fair." When at Magdalen College, Oxford, he was enter- taining a few friends at tea. Hampton, the translator of Polybius^ unexpectedly entered, and finding no one disposed to dispute with him, deliberately upset the tea-table, scattering its contents across the room. Collins, although constitutionally somewhat choleric, was so utterly confounded at the unexpected demonstration, that he took no notice of the aggressor, but calmly began picking up the broken pieces of china, mildly quoting this line of Horace : — " Invemas etiain disjecti membra poetcc.^'' Now for his masterly Ode : — 95 When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possest beyond the muse's painting ; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired. Filled with fury, rapt, inspired. From the supporting myrtles round. They snatched her instruments of sound ; And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art. Each (for madness ruled the hour) Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try. Amid the chords, bewildered laid. And back recoiled, he knew not why. Even at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings ; In one rude clash he struck the lyre. And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woful measures wan Despair, Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled ; A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, oh Hope, with eyes so fair. What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whispered promised pleasure. And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 96 Still would her touch the strain prolono; ; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still, through all the song ; And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsi\'e voice was heard at every close And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. And longer had she sung ; — but, with a frown. Revenge impatient rose ; He threw his blood-stained 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 sounds so full of woe ! And, ever and anon, he beat The double 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, unaltered mien. While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. With eyes upraised, as one inspired. Pale Melancholy sat retired ; And, from her wild, sequestered seat. In notes bv distance made more sweet. Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing. Love of peace and lonely musing. In hollow murmurs died away. N 97 But O ! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nvmph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung. The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ! The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen. Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seen. Peeping from forth their alleys green : Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; And Sport leapt up, and seized 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 loved 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 kissed the strings. Love framed 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 odours from his dewy wings. Oh, Music ! sphere-descended maid. Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid ! Why, goddess ! why to us denied, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? As in that loved Athenian bower, You learned an all-commanding power ; Thy mimic soul, oh, nymph endeared, 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 which charms this laggard age ; Even all at once together found, Cecilia's mingled world of sound. Oh ! bid your vain endeavors cease. Revive the just designs of Greece ; Return in all thy simple state ; Confirm the tales her sons relate ! Collins's grand lines, The Patriof s Grave^ are among the finest of their class : — How sleep the brave, who sink to rest. By all their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould. She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung. By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; And Freedom shall awhile repair. To dwell a weeping hermit there. 99 Shenstone's highest effort was his Schoolmistress. Here is an extract : — In every village marked with little spire, Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name, Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ; They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Awed by the power of this relentless dame ; And oft-times, on \agaries idl\- bent. For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent. And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree. Which Learning near her little dome did stowe ; Whilom a twig of small regard to see, Though now so wide its waving branches flow. And work the simple vassals mickle woe : For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew. But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat low : And as they looked, they found their horror grew. And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. Near to this dome is found a patch so green, On which the tribe their gambols do display ; And at the door imprisoning board is seen. Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray, Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! The noises intermixed, which thence resound, Do learning's little tenement betray ; Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound. And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow. Emblem ri2;ht meet of decency does yield -, Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, 1 trow, As is the hare-bell that adorns the field : And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays ; with anxious tear entwined, With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled ; And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, And furv uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ; A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ■, 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own ; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair ! 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare ; And, sooth to sav, her pupils, ranged around, Through pious awe, did term it passing rare ; For thev in gaping wonderment abound. And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. * '■;■ * In elbow-chair (like that of Scottish stem, By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced. In which, when he receives his diadem. Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is placed) The matron sat ; and some with rank she graced (The source of children's and of courtiers' pride !), Redressed affronts, for vile affronts there passed ; And warned them not the fretful to deride. But love each other dear, whatever them betide. Unlike most other poets. Young preferred to dilate upon themes connected with the shadv side of life, rather than its cheerful aspects. This gloomy proclivity of his pen is the more remarkable from the fact that he was, even to old age, far from being insensible to worldly influences and enjoyments. Schlegel thinks that he was affected in his misanthropy, and unnatural in his pathos. The fol- lowing incident does not seem to conflict with that opinion : — Young was one day walking in his garden at Welwyn, in com- pany with two ladies (one of whom he afterwards married) ; the servant came to acquaint him that a gentleman wished to speak with him. " Tell him," said the doctor, " I am too happily engaged to change my situation." The ladies insisted he should go, as his visitor was a man of rank, his patron and his friend ; but as per- suasion had no effect, one took him by the right arm and the other by the left, and led him to the garden gate ; when, finding resistance vain, he bowed, laid his hand upon his heart, and inipro\ised the following lines : — Thus Adam looked, when from the garden driven. And thus disputed orders sent from heaven : Like him, I go, but vet to go I'm loath ; Like him, I go, for angels drove us both : Hard was his fate, but mine still more unkind, — His Eve went lu'ith h'lm^ hut mine stays behind I Notwithstanding the morbid spirit which pervades and oversha- dows most of his poetry, depriving it of much of its potency, yet it abounds with grand imagerv, and is sustained by splendor of concep- tion. The genius of Christianity is the patron of all that is joyous ; she gilds the pathway of the present life with Heaven's own bright- ness, and makes even the clouds and darkness which hang over the grave, luminous with the rainbow of Hope. If the poet and moralist had but infused a little starlight into his Night Thoughts^ they would have possessed a tenfold charm. It is said that his friend, the Duke of Wharton, sent him a human skull with a candle fixed in it, as the most fitting lamp for him during his nocturnal lucubrations. But we must cull a few passages from our author : and here is an apostrophe to Night : — O majestic night ! Nature's great ancestor ! day's elder-born ! And fated to survive the transient sun ! By mortals and immortals seen with awe ' A starry crown thy raven brow adorns. An azure zone thy waist ; clouds, in heaven's loom Wrought through varieties of shape and shade. In ample folds of drapery divine, Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven throughout. Voluminously Dour thy pompous train : Thv gloomy grandeurs — nature's most august, Inspiring aspect ! — claim a grateful verse ; And, like a sable curtain starred with gold, Drawn o'er mv labours past, shall clothe the scene. Here are his impressive lines on Procrcistnuitio>i :— Be wise to-dav : 'tis madness to defer ; Next day the fatal precedent will plead : Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time ; Year after year it steals, till all are fled. And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. If not so frequent, would not this be strange ? That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still ! Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, — that all men are about to live — Forever on the brink of being born : All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel, and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise. There are some noble thoughts in the following passage : — How poor, how rich, how abject, how august. How complicate, how wonderful is man ! How passing wonder He who made him such ! Who centred in our make such strange extremes. From different natures marvellously mixt. Connection exquisite of distant worlds ! Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! Midway from nothing to the Deity ! A beam ethereal, sullied and absoipt ! Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine ! Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! An heir of glorv — a frail child of dust ! One more passage, for the sake of its striking metaphor : — Hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close ; where passed the shaft no trace is found. As from the wing no stain the air retains. Our last selection is from his Love of Fame^ which Johnson so highly eulogizes : — What will not men attempt for sacred praise ? The love of praise; howe'er concealed by art. Reigns more or less, and glows in every heart : The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure ; The modest shun it but to make it sure. O'er globes and sceptres, now on thrones it swells — Now trims the midnight lamp in college cells. It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head. And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead : Nor ends with life, but nods in sable plumes. Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs. Thus conclude we our second evening's entertainment with the Minstrels ; and since it has been questioned, from his gravitv, whether the author of The Night thoughts was ever Toung^ we shall regard him as the last of the old poets. With regret we bid adieu, then, to these great masters of the lyre, whose magnificent melo- dies, quaint imagery, and rich cadences, fall upon the ear like a benediction — " Or like those maiden showers Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o'er the flowers." Justly has it been said, that with them " the imaginative ruled and reigned ; poetry lived much in the upper air, and, like the lark, sang best as it soared to heaven." A high, chivalrous spirit marked the Elizabethan age of song ; its pomp of diction and stateliness of measure often challenging the curious interest of the reader, by the subtle obscurity and inversion of its style, as well as by its rich cadences. What a galaxy of illustrious names then shed lustre upon literature and life ! It was, indeed, the golden age of letters, with its registered glories in philosophy, science, and song. It was the age of contemplation and devotion to study, as ours is of action. Although poets are mortal, poetry is immortal ; the muse's priest- hood still lives in a line of illustrious succession, " to enrich her jjalleries with glowing and beautiful creations, embodied in deathless and glorified forms :" and the noble inheritance is ours to stimulate us in the highways of wisdom and virtue. We need not, therefore, " Sigh the old heroic ages back; These worthies were but brave and honest men ; Let us their spirit catch, — pursue their track ; — Striving, not sighing, brings them back again." ifaiMe. Gray, Akenside, Jones. Eerkeley, Irving, AUston, Dana, Percival, cJigourney, Pierpont, Drake, Sprague, Brooks, Payne, Eurgoyne Darwin, Woodworth. Goldsmith, Cowper, Burns, Darley, Sheridan, Logan, Leyden. Eeattie, Chatterton, V^olfe, "^A^ilde, Halleck. ^^RA"\, who was "sat- urated with the finest essence of the Attic muse," /' ^ has given us some grand stanzas, in his Ode founded upon the Welsh tradition, that when Edward the First conquered Wales, he ordered the bards to be put to death. These are the openmg stanzas : — " Ruin seize thee, ruthless king ' Confusion on thv banners wait ; Though fann'd bv Conquest's crimson wing, Thev mock the air with idle state 109 Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, Tn rant, shall a\ail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !" Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowden's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; To arms !" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood. Robed in the sable garb of woe. With haggard eyes the poet stood ; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air ;) And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire. Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. " Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert-cave. Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave. Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe : Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay !" Both Campbell and Rogers were much charmed with Gray's writings : the latter used to carry a copy of them in his pocket, to read during his morning walks, till at length, he says, he could repeat them all. Byron considered Gray's Elegy the corner-stone of his glory. Tuckerman, with all a poet's appreciation, thus refers to this remarkable production : — " Almost every line is a select phrase, not to be improved by taste or ingenuity. The subject is one of the happiest in the range of poetry. Who has not strayed at sunset into the quiet precincts of a country churchyard ? Who has not sought the spot where ' the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep r' Who has not felt a melancholy pleasure steal upon his soul, as he has stood among the graves, and received the solemn teachings of the scene ' amid the lingering light ?' The spirit of such reveries, the tone and hues of such a landscape, Gray has caught, and en- shrined forever in his verse." Listen to the sweet, mournful music of some of the stanzas : — 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 ivv-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring 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 forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed. ' This line admits of eighteen different transpositions, without destroying ths rhvme. The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. F'or them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. Or busy housewife plv her evening care : No children run to lisp their sire's return. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homelv iovs, and destinv obscure ; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldrv, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour : The paths of glorv 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 Thd" pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the Heeting breath ? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust. Or flatt'rv soothe the dull cold ear of death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial tire : Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed. Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. Full many a gem of purest rav serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; Full uianv a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 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, lingering 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, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. It is said that on the evening preceding the memorable battle of the Plains of Abraham, General Wolfe repeated the noble line, " The paths of glory lead but to the grave !" which must have seemed at such a time fraught with mournful meaning ; and turning to his officers, said : " Now, gentlemen, I would rather be the author of that poem than take Quebec !" There are two manuscripts of the E/egy in existence ; and they were recently (in 1854) sold at auction — one for one hundred pounds, and the other — which contained live additional stanzas, never printed in the published editions — for one hundred and thirty pounds. The old tower of Upton church (Gray's " ivy-mantled tower") is still a most picturesque object, although fast falling into decay. The memory of the bard is, however, even more closely associated with another locality — that of Stoke. It was here he wrote, wandered, and died ; and here, all that was mortal of him sleeps, under the yew-tree's shade. Gray, with a friend, once attended an auction sale of books, where he saw an elegant book-case, filled with a choice collection of French classics, handsomely bound -, the price being one hundred guineas. He had a great longing for this lot, but could not then afford to buy it. The conversation between the poet and his friend being overheard by the Duchess of Northumberland, vi^ho was ac- quainted with the latter, she took the opportunity of ascertaining who his friend was, and was told it was Gray, the poet. Upon their retiring, she bought the book-case, with its contents, and sent it to Grav's lodgings, with a note, importing that she " was ashamed of sending so small an acknowledgment for the infinite pleasure she had received in reading the Elegy in a Country Churchyard^ — of all others her most favourite poem." Gray was remarkably fearful of fire, and kept a ladder of ropes in his bed-room. On one occasion, some of his mischievous com- panions at Cambridge roused him at midnight with the cry of fire, saying the staircase was in flames. Up went the window, and the poet hastened down his rope-ladder as quickly as possible, but into a tub of cold water placed at the bottom to receive him. This practical joke extinguished his fear of fire, but he would not forgive the trick, and immediately changed his college. That oft-quoted line, " Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise," we derive from Gray's Ode to Eton College : — 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. Turning reluctantly, however, from this our favourite bard, let us carry with us, like a lingering strain of sweet and solemn music, the opening lines of his beautiful Hymn to Adversity : — Daughter of Jove, relentless power. Thou tamer of the human breast, 114 Whose iron scourge and tort'ring 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 befoie, unpitied and alone. When first thy sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, design'd, To thee he gave the heavenly birth. And bade to form her infant mind. Stern, 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. * * * Here is a beautiful passage by Akenside, written in the last year of his life : — O ye dales Of Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands ; where, Oft as the giant flood obliquely strides. And his banks open and his lawns extend, Stops short the pleased traveller to view. Presiding o'er the scene, some rustic tower Founded by Norman or by Saxon hands ; ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook The rocky pavement and the mossy falls Of solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream ! How gladly I recall your well-known seats, Beloved of old, and that delightful time When, all alone, for many a summer's day, 1 wandered through your calm recesses, led In silence by some powerful hand unseen. '•5 Nor will I e'er forget you ; nor shall e'er The graver tasks of manhood, or the advice Of vulgar wisdom, move me to disclaim Those studies which possessed me in the dawi Of life, and fixed the colour of my mind For every future year ; whence even now From sleep I rescue the clear hours of morn, And, while the world around lies overwhelmed In idle darkness, am alive to thoughts Of honourable fame, of truth divine Or moral, and of minds to virtue won By the sweet magic of harmonious verse. There are some noble thoughts in the celebrated Ode by Sir William Jones, the Orientalist. Here are some of the lines : — What constitutes a State ? Not high-raised battlement or laboured mound. Thick wall or moated gate ; Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crowned ; Not bays and broad armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; Not starr'd and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. t- =!; * Men who their duties know. But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain •, Prevent the long-aimed blow. And crush the tyrant, while they rend the chain : These constitute a State. Bishop Berkeley's memorable lines, prophetic of planting the arts in the New World, are of enduring interest to us ; these are the closing stanzas : — There shall be sung another golden age, The rise of empire and of arts. The good and great inspiring epic rage, The wisest heads and noblest hearts. Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay. By future poets shall be sung. Westward the course of empire takes its way ; The first four acts already past, A fifth shall close the drama of the day ; Time's noblest offspring is the last. This poem was written when the author was residing at New- port, Rhode Island, To prove that the prophecy has been in great measure verified, we need but refer to the record of noble names in science, history, philosophy, and song, which adorn our American annals. Among the earlier American poets were Barlow, Trum- BULL, Freneau, and Allston, who was also a renowned painter. While residing in Europe, Allston enjoyed the friendship of Southey, Coleridge, and Lamb ; as well as of Washington Irving, who ex- presses a reverence and affection for his pure and noble character, no less than for his genius. While referring to Irving, we cannot refrain from adding to the world's applause our humble but grateful tribute of regard, as well for the memory of his beautiful character as for his imperishable productions. His name ought undoubtedly to be classed in the category of poets, since much of his charming prose is essentially poetry. He rarely wrote in verse ; but there is a little waif of his extant, which he improvised at the instance of his friend Stuart Newton, to accompany his picture of an old philo- sopher reading from a folio to a young beauty asleep on a chair opposite. Here it is, quaint and characteristic : — Frostie age, frostie age ! vain all thy learning -, Drowsie page, drov/sie page evermore turning. Young head no lore will heed. Young heart's a reckless rover •, Young beautie, while you read — Sleeping, dreams of absent lover. Allston's principal poem is his Sylphs of the Seasons; but his lines on Boyhood are short and sweet : — Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded days ! The minutes parting one by one, like rays That fade upon a summer's eve. But, oh ! what charm, or magic numbers, Can give me back the gentle slumbers Those weary, happy days did leave ? When by my bed I saw my mother kneel. And with her blessing took her nightly kiss ; Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this — E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. His noble Address to England^ which was first printed in Cole- ridge's Sibyllhie Leaves^ l8lO, commences with this stanza: — All hail, thou noble land ! our fathers' native soil ! Oh, stretch thy mighty hand, gigantic grown by toil. O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore ! For thou with magic might Canst reach to where the light Of Phoebus travels bright The world o'er. The poem thus ends : — While the manners, while the arts, that mould a nation's soul. Still cling around our hearts, — between let ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the sun : Yet still from either beach The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech — We are one ! Dana's principal poem. The Buccaneer^ is considered a fine pro- duction : it is a tale of crime and remorse. The opening stanzas are finely descriptive : — The island lies nine leagues away ; along its solitary shore, Of craggy rock and sandy bay, no sound but ocean's roar, Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. * But when the light winds lie at rest, and on the glassy, heaving sea. The black duck, with her glossy breast, sits swinging silently. How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach, And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. 119 And inland rests the green, warm dell ; the brook comes tinkling down its side ; From out the trees the Sabbath bell rings cheerful, far and wide. Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks. That feed about the vale among the rocks : Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat, in former days within the vale ■, Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet ; curses were on the gale ; Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men ; Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. Dana's Little Beach-Bird may be indicated as one of his happiest efforts : — Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice ? And with that boding cry o'er the waves dost thou fly ? O ! rather, bird, with me through the fair land rejoice ! Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea ; Thy cry is weak and scared, as if thy mates had shared The doom of us : thy wail — what does it bring to me ? Pkrcival thus interprets to us Tbt' Language of Flowers :- In Eastern lands they talk in flowers. And they tell in a garland their loves and cares ; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears. The Rose is a sign of joy and love — Young blushing love in its earliest dawn ; And the mildness that suits the gentle dove. From the Myrtle's snowy flower is drawn. Innocence shines in the Lilv's bell, Pure as the light in its native heaven ; Fame's bright star and glory's swell, In the glossy leaf of the Bay are given. The silent, soft, and humble heart. In the Violet's hidden sweetness breathes ; And the tender soul that cannot part, A twine of Exergreen fondly wreathes. The Cypress, that daily shades the grave. Is sorrow that mourns her bitter lot ; And Faith, that a thousand ills can brave. Speaks in th\' blue leaves, Forget-me-Not. Then gather a wreath from the garden bovvers, And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. Here is the commencement of his fine poem. The Coral Grove :- Deep in the wa\'e is a coral grove. Where the purple mullet and the gold-fish rove \