If cross'd with all mishaps be my poor life,If one short day I never spent in mirth,If my sp'rit with itself holds lasting strife,If sorrow's death is but new sorrow's birth;If this vain world be but a mournful stage,Where slave-born man plays to the scoffing stars,If youth be toss'd with love, with weakness age;If knowledge serves to hold our thoughts in wars,If Time can close the hundred mouths of Fame,And make what's long since past, like that's to be;If virtue only be an idle name,If being born I was but born to die;Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days?The fairest rose in shortest time decays.
Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends,Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,Such sad, lamenting strains, that night attends,Become all ear; stars stay to hear thy plight,If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight,May thee importune who like case pretends,And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite.Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains,Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky,Enamour'd, smiles on woods and flowery plains?The bird, as if my questions did her move,With trembling wings sigh'd forth, 'I love, I love.'
Sweet soul, which, in the April of thy years,For to enrich the heaven mad'st poor this round,And now, with flaming rays of glory crown'd,Most blest abides above the sphere of spheres;If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee boundFrom looking to this globe that all upbears,If ruth and pity there above be found,Oh, deign to lend a look unto these tears,Do not disdain, dear ghost, this sacrifice,And though I raise not pillars to thy praise,My offerings take, let this for me suffice,My heart a living pyramid I raise:And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green,Thine shall with myrtles and these flowers be seen.
Look, how the flower which ling'ringly doth fade,The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green,As high as it did raise, bows low the head:Right so the pleasures of my life being dead,Or in their contraries but only seen,With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the nightBy darkness would imprison on his way,Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright,Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day;Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,And twice it is not given thee to be born.
The weary mariner so fast not fliesA howling tempest, harbour to attain;Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise,So fast to fold, to save his bleating train,As I, wing'd with contempt and just disdain,Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize,And sanctuary seek, free to remainFrom wounds of abject times, and Envy's eyes.To me this world did once seem sweet and fair,While senses' light mind's prospective kept blind,Now, like imagined landscape in the air,And weeping rainbows, her best joys I find:Or if aught here is had that praise should have,It is a life obscure, and silent grave.
The last and greatest herald of heaven's King,Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,Which he more harmless found than man, and mild;His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thingMade him appear, long since from earth exiled;There burst he forth; 'All ye whose hopes relyOn God, with me amidst these deserts mourn;Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!'Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?Only the echoes, which he made relent,Rung from their flinty caves, 'Repent, repent!'
Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hoursOf winters past or coming, void of care,Well-pleased with delights which present are,Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs,Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not drivenQuite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raiseTo airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.
As when it happ'neth that some lovely townUnto a barbarous besieger falls,Who both by sword and flame himself installs,And, shameless, it in tears and blood doth drownHer beauty spoil'd, her citizens made thralls,His spite yet cannot so her all throw down,But that some statue, pillar of renown,Yet lurks unmaim'd within her weeping walls:So, after all the spoil, disgrace, and wreck,That time, the world, and death, could bring combined,Amidst that mass of ruins they did make,Safe and all scarless yet remains my mind:From this so high transcending rapture springs,That I, all else defaced, not envy kings.
We have already spoken of Giles Fletcher, the brother of Phineas. Of Phineas we know nothing except that he was born in 1584, educated at Eton and Cambridge, became Rector at Hilgay, in Norfolk, where he remained for twenty-nine years, surviving his brother; that he wrote an account of the founders and learned men of his university; that in 1633, he published 'The Purple Island;' and that in 1650 he died.
His 'Purple Island' (with which we first became acquainted in the writings of James Hervey, author of the 'Meditations,' who was its fervent admirer) is a curious, complex, and highly ingenious allegory, forming an elaborate picture ofMan, in his body and soul; and for subtlety and infinite flexibility, both of fancy and verse, deserves great praise, although it cannot, for a moment, be compared with his brother's 'Christ's Victory and Triumph,' either in interest of subject or in splendour of genius.
With her, her sister went, a warlike maid,Parthenia, all in steel and gilded arms;In needle's stead, a mighty spear she sway'd,With which in bloody fields and fierce alarms,The boldest champion she down would bear,And like a thunderbolt wide passage tear,Flinging all to the earth with her enchanted spear.
Her goodly armour seem'd a garden green,Where thousand spotless lilies freshly blew;And on her shield the lone bird might be seen,The Arabian bird, shining in colours new;Itself unto itself was only mate;Ever the same, but new in newer date:And underneath was writ, 'Such is chaste single state.'
Thus hid in arms she seem'd a goodly knight,And fit for any warlike exercise:But when she list lay down her armour bright,And back resume her peaceful maiden's guise;The fairest maid she was, that ever yetPrison'd her locks within a golden net,Or let them waving hang, with roses fair beset.
Choice nymph! the crown of chaste Diana's train,Thou beauty's lily, set in heavenly earth;Thy fairs, unpattern'd, all perfection stain:Sure heaven with curious pencil at thy birthIn thy rare face her own full picture drew:It is a strong verse here to write, but true,Hyperboles in others are but half thy due.
Upon her forehead Love his trophies fits,A thousand spoils in silver arch displaying:And in the midst himself full proudly sits,Himself in awful majesty arraying:Upon her brows lies his bent ebon bow,And ready shafts; deadly those weapons show;Yet sweet the death appear'd, lovely that deadly blow.
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A bed of lilies flower upon her cheek,And in the midst was set a circling rose;Whose sweet aspect would force Narcissus seekNew liveries, and fresher colours chooseTo deck his beauteous head in snowy 'tire;But all in vain: for who can hope t' aspireTo such a fair, which none attain, but all admire?
Her ruby lips lock up from gazing sightA troop of pearls, which march in goodly row:But when she deigns those precious bones undight,Soon heavenly notes from those divisions flow,And with rare music charm the ravish'd ears,Daunting bold thoughts, but cheering modest fears:The spheres so only sing, so only charm the spheres.
Yet all these stars which deck this beauteous skyBy force of th'inward sun both shine and move;Throned in her heart sits love's high majesty;In highest majesty the highest love.As when a taper shines in glassy frame,The sparkling crystal burns in glittering flame,So does that brightest love brighten this lovely dame.
Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness,And here long seeks what here is never found!For all our good we hold from Heaven by lease,With many forfeits and conditions bound;Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due:Though now but writ and seal'd, and given anew,Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew.
Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good,At every loss against Heaven's face repining?Do but behold where glorious cities stood,With gilded tops, and silver turrets shining;Where now the hart fearless of greyhound feeds,And loving pelican in safety breeds;Where screeching satyrs fill the people's empty steads.
Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide,That all the East once grasp'd in lordly paw?Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling prideThe lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw?Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard,Through all the world with nimble pinions fared,And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shared?
Hardly the place of such antiquity,Or note of these great monarchies we find:Only a fading verbal memory,An empty name in writ is left behind:But when this second life and glory fades,And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades,A second fall succeeds, and double death invades.
That monstrous Beast, which nursed in Tiber's fen,Did all the world with hideous shape affray;That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den,And trod down all the rest to dust and clay:His battering horns pull'd out by civil hands,And iron teeth lie scatter'd on the sands;Backed, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked stands.
And that black Vulture,[1] which with deathful wingO'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sightFrighten'd the Muses from their native spring,Already stoops, and flags with weary flight:Who then shall look for happiness beneath?Where each new day proclaims chance, change, and death,And life itself's as fleet as is the air we breathe.
[1] 'Black Vulture:' the Turk.
Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns!His cottage low and safely humble gateShuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawnsNo feared treason breaks his quiet sleep:Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.
No Serian worms he knows, that with their threadDraw out their silken lives; nor silken pride:His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,Not in that proud Sidonian tineture dyed:No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright,Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite;But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.
Instead of music, and base flattering tongues,Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise,The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes:In country plays is all the strife he uses,Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses,And but in music's sports all difference refuses.
His certain life, that never can deceive him,Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content;The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive himWith coolest shades, till noontide rage is spent;His life is neither toss'd in boisterous seasOf troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease;Pleased, and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.
His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,While by his side his faithful spouse hath place;His little son into his bosom creeps,The lively picture of his father's face:Never his humble house nor state torment him;Less he could like, if less his God had sent him;And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content him.
'Ah, dearest Lord! does my rapt soul behold thee?Am I awake, and sure I do not dream?Do these thrice-blessed arms again enfold thee?Too much delight makes true things feigned seem.Thee, thee I see; thou, thou thus folded art:For deep thy stamp is printed on my heart,And thousand ne'er-felt joys stream in each melting part.'
Thus with glad sorrow did she sweetly 'plain her,Upon his neck a welcome load depending;While he with equal joy did entertain her,Herself, her champions, highly all commending:So all in triumph to his palace went;Whose work in narrow words may not be pent:For boundless thought is less than is that glorious tent.
There sweet delights, which know nor end nor measure;No chance is there, nor eating times succeeding:No wasteful spending can impair their treasure;Pleasure full grown, yet ever freshly breeding:Fulness of sweets excludes not more receiving;The soul still big of joy, yet still conceiving;Beyond slow tongue's report, beyond quick thought's perceiving.
There are they gone; there will they ever bide;Swimming in waves of joys and heavenly loves:He still a bridegroom, she a gladsome bride;Their hearts in love, like spheres still constant moving;No change, no grief, no age can them befall;Their bridal bed is in that heavenly hall,Where all days are but one, and only one is all.
And as in his state they thus in triumph ride,The boys and damsels their just praises chant;The boys the bridegroom sing, the maids the bride,While all the hills glad hymens loudly vaunt:Heaven's winged shoals, greeting this glorious spring,Attune their higher notes, and hymens sing:Each thought to pass, and each did pass thought's loftiest wing.
Upon his lightning brow love proudly sittingFlames out in power, shines out in majesty;There all his lofty spoils and trophies fitting,Displays the marks of highest Deity:There full of strength in lordly arms he stands,And every heart and every soul commands:No heart, no soul, his strength and lordly force withstands.
Upon her forehead thousand cheerful graces,Seated on thrones of spotless ivory;There gentle Love his armed hand unbraces;His bow unbent disclaims all tyranny;There by his play a thousand souls beguiles,Persuading more by simple, modest smiles,Than ever he could force by arms or crafty wiles.
Upon her cheek doth Beauty's self implantThe freshest garden of her choicest flowers;On which, if Envy might but glance askant,Her eyes would swell, and burst, and melt in showers:Thrice fairer both than ever fairest eyed;Heaven never such a bridegroom yet descried;Nor ever earth so fair, so undefiled a bride.
Full of his Father shines his glorious face,As far the sun surpassing in his light,As doth the sun the earth with flaming blaze:Sweet influence streams from his quickening sight:His beams from nought did all thisAlldisplay;And when to less than nought they fell away,He soon restored again by his new orient ray.
All heaven shines forth in her sweet face's frame:Her seeing stars (which we miscall bright eyes)More bright than is the morning's brightest flame,More fruitful than the May-time Geminies:These, back restore the timely summer's fire;Those, springing thoughts in winter hearts inspire,Inspiriting dead souls, and quickening warm desire.
These two fair suns in heavenly spheres are placed,Where in the centre joy triumphing sits:Thus in all high perfections fully graced,Her mid-day bliss no future night admits;But in the mirrors of her Spouse's eyesHer fairest self she dresses; there where liesAll sweets, a glorious beauty to emparadise.
His locks like raven's plumes, or shining jet,Fall down in curls along his ivory neck;Within their circlets hundred graces set,And with love-knots their comely hangings deck:His mighty shoulders, like that giant swain,All heaven and earth, and all in both sustain;Yet knows no weariness, nor feels oppressing pain.
Her amber hair like to the sunny ray,With gold enamels fair the silver white;There heavenly loves their pretty sportings play,Firing their darts in that wide flaming light:Her dainty neck, spread with that silver mould,Where double beauty doth itself unfold,In the own fair silver shines, and fairer borrow'd gold.
His breast a rock of purest alabaster,Where loves self-sailing, shipwreck'd, often sitteth.Hers a twin-rock, unknown but to the shipmaster;Which harbours him alone, all other splitteth.Where better could her love than here have nested,Or he his thoughts than here more sweetly feasted?Then both their love and thoughts in each are ever rested.
Run now, you shepherd swains; ah! run you thither,Where this fair bridegroom leads the blessed way:And haste, you lovely maids, haste you togetherWith this sweet bride, while yet the sunshine dayGuides your blind steps; while yet loud summons call,That every wood and hill resounds withal,Come, Hymen, Hymen, come, dress'd in thy golden pall.
The sounding echo back the music flung,While heavenly spheres unto the voices play'd.But see! the day is ended with my song,And sporting bathes with that fair ocean maid:Stoop now thy wing, my muse, now stoop thee low:Hence mayst thou freely play, and rest thee now;While here I hang my pipe upon the willow bough.
So up they rose, while all the shepherds' throngWith their loud pipes a country triumph blew,And led their Thirsil home with joyful song:Meantime the lovely nymphs, with garlands newHis locks in bay and honour'd palm-tree bound,With lilies set, and hyacinths around,And lord of all the year and their May sportings crown'd.
With an Introductory Essay,
By
WILLIAM HABINGTONEpistle addressed to the Honourable W. E.To his Noblest Friend, J. C., Esq.A Description of Castara
JOSEPH HALL, BISHOP OF NORWICHSatire I.Satire VII.
RICHARD LOVELACESong—To Althea, from PrisonSongA Loose Saraband
ROBERT HERRICKSongCherry-RipeThe Kiss: A DialogueTo DaffodilsTo PrimrosesTo BlossomsOberon's PalaceOberon's FeastThe Mad Maid's SongCorinna's going a-MayingJephthah's DaughterThe Country Life
SIR RICHARD FANSHAWEThe Spring, a Sonnet—From the Spanish
ABRAHAM COWLEYThe Chronicle, a BalladThe ComplaintThe DespairOf WitOf SolitudeThe WishUpon the Shortness of Man's LifeOn the Praise of PoetryThe Motto—'Tentanda via est,' &cDavideis-Book IILifeThe Plagues of Egypt
GEORGE WITHERFrom 'The Shepherd's Hunting'The Shepherd's ResolutionThe Steadfast ShepherdFrom 'The Shepherd's Hunting'
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANTFrom 'Gondibert'—Canto IIFrom 'Gondibert'—Canto IV
DR HENRY KINGSic VitaSongLife
JOHN CHALKHILLArcadiaThealma, a Deserted ShepherdessPriestess of DianaThealma in Full DressDwelling of the Witch Orandra
CATHARINE PHILLIPSThe InquiryA Friend
MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLEMelancholy described by MirthMelancholy describing herself
THOMAS STANLEYCelia SingingSpeaking and KissingLa Belle ConfidanteThe LossNote on Anacreon
ANDREW MARVELLThe EmigrantsThe Nymph complaining of the Death of her FawnOn 'Paradise Lost'Thoughts in a GardenSatire on Holland
IZAAK WALTONThe Angler's Wish
JOHN WILMOT, EARL or ROCHESTERSongSong
THE EARL OP ROSCOMMONFrom 'An Essay on Translated Verse'
CHARLES COTTONInvitation to Izaak WaltonA Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque
DR HENRY MOREOpening of Second Part of 'Psychozoia'Exordium of Third PartDestruction and Renovation of all thingsA Distempered FancySoul compared to a Lantern
WILLIAM CHAMBERLAYNEArgalia taken Prisoner by the Turks
HENRY VAUGHANOn a Charnel-houseOn Gombauld's 'Endymion'Apostrophe to Fletcher the DramatistPicture of the TownThe Golden AgeRegenerationResurrection and ImmortalityThe SearchIsaac's MarriageMan's Fall and RecoveryThe ShowerBurialCheerfulnessThe PassionRules and LessonsRepentanceThe DawningThe TempestThe WorldThe ConstellationMiseryMount of OlivesAscension-dayCock-crowingThe Palm-treeThe GarlandLove-sickPsalm civThe TimberThe JewsPalm-SundayProvidenceSt Mary MagdaleneThe RainbowThe Seed Growing Secretly (Mark iv. 26)ChildhoodAbel's BloodRighteousnessJacob's Pillow and PillarThe FeastThe Waterfall
DR JOSEPH BEAUMONTHellJoseph's DreamParadiseEveTo the Memory of his WifeImperial Borne PersonifiedEnd
FROM ROBERT HEATH—What is Love?Protest of LoveTo Clarastella
BY VARIOUS AUTHORS—My Mind to me a Kingdom isThe Old and Young CourtierThere is a Garden in her FaceHallo, my FancyThe Fairy Queen
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This poet might have been expected to have belonged to the 'Spasmodic school,' judging by his parental antecedents. His father was accused of having a share in Babington's conspiracy, but was released because he was godson to Queen Elizabeth. Soon after, however, he was imprisoned a second time, and condemned to death on the charge of having concealed some of the Gunpowder-plot conspirators; but was pardoned through the interest of Lord Morley. His uncle, however, was less fortunate, suffering death for his complicity with Babington. The poet's mother, the daughter of Lord Morley, was more loyal than her husband or his brother, and is said to have written the celebrated letter to Lord Monteagle, in consequence of which the execution of the Gunpowder-plot was arrested.
Our poet was born at Hindlip, Worcestershire, on the very day of the discovery of the plot, 5th November 1605. The family were Papists, and William was sent to St Omers to be educated. He was pressed to become a Jesuit, but declined. On his return to England, his father became preceptor to the poet. As he grew up, instead of displaying any taste for 'treasons, stratagems, and spoils,' he chose the better part, and lived a private and happy life. He fell in love with Lucia, daughter of William Herbert, the first Lord Powis, and celebrated her in his long and curious poem entitled 'Castara.' This lady he afterwards married, and from her society appears to have derived much happiness. In 1634, he published 'Castara.' He also, at different times, produced 'The Queen of Arragon,' a tragedy; a History of Edward IV.; and 'Observations upon History.' He died in 1654, (not as Southey, by a strange oversight, says, 'when he had just completed his fortieth year,') forty-nine years of age, and was buried in the family vault at Hindlip.
'Castara' is not a consecutive poem, but consists of a great variety of small pieces, in all sorts of style and rhythm, and of all varieties of merit; many of them addressed to his mistress under the name of Castara, and many to his friends; with reflective poems, elegies, and panegyrics, intermingled with verses sacred to love. Habington is distinguished by purity of tone if not of taste. He has many conceits, but no obscenities. His love is as holy as it is ardent. He has, besides, a vein of sentiment which sometimes approaches the moral sublime. To prove this, in addition to the 'Selections' below, we copy some verses entitled—
'NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM.'—David.
When I survey the brightCelestial sphere,So rich with jewels hung, that NightDoth like an Ethiop bride appear,
My soul her wings doth spread,And heavenward flies,The Almighty's mysteries to readIn the large volume of the skies;
For the bright firmamentShoots forth no flameSo silent, but is eloquentIn speaking the Creator's name.
No unregarded starContracts its lightInto so small a character,Removed far from our human sight,
But if we steadfast look,We shall discernIn it, as in some holy book,How man may heavenly knowledge learn.
It tells the conquerorThat far-stretch'd power,Which his proud dangers traffic for,Is but the triumph of an hour;
That, from the furthest North,Some nation may,Yet undiscover'd, issue forth,And o'er his new-got conquest sway,—
Some nation, yet shut inWith hills of ice,May be let out to scourge his sinTill they shall equal him in vice;
And then they likewise shallTheir ruin brave;For, as yourselves, your empires fall,And every kingdom hath a grave.
Thus those celestial fires,Though seeming mute,The fallacy of our desires,And all the pride of life, confute;
For they have watch'd since firstThe world had birth,And found sin in itself accurst,And nothing permanent on earth.
There is something to us particularly interesting in the history of this poet. Even as it is pleasant to see the sides of a volcano covered with verdure, and its mouth filled with flowers, so we like to find the fierce elements, which were inherited by Habington from his fathers, softened and subdued in him,—the blood of the conspirator mellowed into that of the gentle bard, who derived all his inspiration from a pure love and a mild and thoughtful religion.
He who is good is happy. Let the loudArtillery of heaven break through a cloud,And dart its thunder at him, he'll remainUnmoved, and nobler comfort entertain,In welcoming the approach of death, than ViceE'er found in her fictitious paradise.Time mocks our youth, and (while we number pastDelights, and raise our appetite to tasteEnsuing) brings us to unflatter'd age,Where we are left to satisfy the rageOf threat'ning death: pomp, beauty, wealth, and allOur friendships, shrinking from the funeral.The thought of this begets that brave disdainWith which thou view'st the world, and makes those vainTreasures of fancy, serious fools so court,And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.What should we covet here? Why interposeA cloud 'twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature choseMan's soul the exchequer where to hoard her wealth,And lodge all her rich secrets; but by the stealthOf her own vanity, we're left so poor,The creature merely sensual knows more.The learned halcyon, by her wisdom, findsA gentle season, when the seas and windsAre silenced by a calm, and then brings forthThe happy miracle of her rare birth,Leaving with wonder all our arts possess'd,That view the architecture of her nest.Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestowIncrease of knowledge on old minds, which growBy age to dotage; while the sensitivePart of the world in its first strength doth live.Folly! what dost thou in thy power containDeserves our study? Merchants plough the mainAnd bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,By avarice in the possession poor.And yet that idol wealth we all admitInto the soul's great temple; busy witInvents new orgies, fancy frames new ritesTo show its superstition; anxious nightsAre watch'd to win its favour: while the beastContent with nature's courtesy doth rest.Let man then boast no more a soul, since heHath lost that great prerogative. But thee,Whom fortune hath exempted from the herdOf vulgar men, whom virtue hath preferr'dFar higher than thy birth, I must commend,Rich in the purchase of so sweet a friend.And though my fate conducts me to the shadeOf humble quiet, my ambition paidWith safe content, while a pure virgin fameDoth raise me trophies in Castara's name;No thought of glory swelling me aboveThe hope of being famed for virtuous love;Yet wish I thee, guided by the better stars,To purchase unsafe honour in the wars,Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race,And merits, well may challenge the highest place.Yet know, what busy path soe'er you treadTo greatness, you must sleep among the dead.
I hate the country's dirt and manners, yetI love the silence; I embrace the witAnd courtship, flowing here in a full tide,But loathe the expense, the vanity, and pride.No place each way is happy. Here I holdCommerce with some, who to my care unfold(After a due oath minister'd) the heightAnd greatness of each star shines in the state,The brightness, the eclipse, the influence.With others I commune, who tell me whenceThe torrent doth of foreign discord flow;Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,Soon as they happen; and by rote can tellThose German towns, even puzzle me to spell.The cross or prosperous fate of princes theyAscribe to rashness, cunning, or delay;And on each action comment, with more skillThan upon Livy did old Machiavel.O busy folly! why do I my brainPerplex with the dull policies of Spain,Or quick designs of France? Why not repairTo the pure innocence o' the country air,And neighbour thee, dear friend? Who so dost giveThy thoughts to worth and virtue, that to liveBlest, is to trace thy ways. There might not weArm against passion with philosophy;And, by the aid of leisure, so controlWhate'er is earth in us, to grow all soul?Knowledge doth ignorance engender, whenWe study mysteries of other men,And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shad(Thy head upon some flow'ry pillow laid,Kind Nature's housewifery,) contemplate allHis stratagems, who labours to enthrallThe world to his great master, and you'll findAmbition mocks itself, and grasps the wind.Not conquest makes us great. Blood is too dearA price for glory. Honour doth appearTo statesmen like a vision in the night;And, juggler-like, works o' the deluded sight.The unbusied only wise: for no respectEndangers them to error; they affectTruth in her naked beauty, and beholdMan with an equal eye, not bright in gold,Or tall in little; so much him they weighAs virtue raiseth him above his clay.Thus let us value things: and since we findTime bend us toward death, let's in our mindCreate new youth, and arm against the rudeAssaults of age; that no dull solitudeO' the country dead our thoughts, nor busy careO' the town make us to think, where now we are,And whither we are bound. Time ne'er forgotHis journey, though his steps we number'd not.
1 Like the violet which, alone,Prospers in some happy shade,My Castara lives unknown,To no looser's eye betray'd,For she's to herself untrue,Who delights i' the public view.
2 Such is her beauty, as no artsHave enrich'd with borrow'd grace;Her high birth no pride imparts,For she blushes in her place.Folly boasts a glorious blood,She is noblest, being good.
3 Cautious, she knew never yetWhat a wanton courtship meant;Nor speaks loud, to boast her wit;In her silence eloquent:Of herself survey she takes,But 'tween men no difference makes.
4 She obeys with speedy willHer grave parents' wise commands;And so innocent, that illShe nor acts, nor understands:Women's feet run still astray,If once to ill they know the way.
5 She sails by that rock, the court,Where oft Honour splits her mast:And retiredness thinks the portWhere her fame may anchor cast:Virtue safely cannot sit,Where vice is enthroned for wit.
6 She holds that day's pleasure best,Where sin waits not on delight;Without mask, or ball, or feast,Sweetly spends a winter's night:O'er that darkness, whence is thrustPrayer and sleep, oft governs lust.
7 She her throne makes reason climb;While wild passions captive lie:And, each article of time,Her pure thoughts to heaven fly:All her vows religious be,And her love she vows to me.
This distinguished man must not be confounded with John Hall, of whom all we know is, that he was born at Durham in 1627,—that he was educated at Cambridge, where he published a volume of poems,—that he practised at the bar, and that he died in 1656, in his twenty-ninth year. One specimen of John's verses we shall quote:—
Still herald of the morn: whose rayBeing page and usher to the day,Doth mourn behind the sun, before him play;Who sett'st a golden signal ereThe dark retire, the lark appear;The early cooks cry comfort, screech-owls fear;Who wink'st while lovers plight their troth,Then falls asleep, while they are bothTo part without a more engaging oath:Steal in a message to the eyesOf Julia; tell her that she liesToo long; thy lord, the Sun, will quickly rise.Yet it is midnight still with me;Nay, worse, unless that kinder sheSmile day, and in my zenith seated be,I needs a calenture must shun,And, like an Ethiopian, hate my sun.
John's more celebrated namesake, Joseph, was born at Bristowe Park, parish of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire, in 1574. He studied and took orders at Cambridge. He acted for some time as master of the school of Tiverton, in Devonshire. It is said that the accidental preaching of a sermon before Prince Henry first attracted attention to this eminent divine. Promotion followed with a sure and steady course. He was chosen to accompany King James to Scotland as one of his chaplains, and subsequently attended the famous Synod of Dort as a representative of the English Church. He had before this, while quite a young man, (in 1597,) published, under the title of 'Virgidemiarum,' his Satires. In the year 1600 he produced a satirical fiction, entitled, 'Mundus alter et idem;' in which, while pretending to describe a certainterra australis incognita, he hits hard at the existent evils of the actual world. Hall was subsequently created Bishop of Exeter, where he exposed himself to obloquy by his mildness to the Puritans. 'Had,' Campbell justly remarked, 'such conduct been, at this critical period, pursued by the High Churchmen in general, the history of a bloody age might have been changed into that of peace; but the violence of Laud prevailed over the milder counsels of a Hall, an Usher, and a Corbet.' Yet Hall was a zealous Episcopalian, and defended that form of government in a variety of pamphlets. In the course of this controversy he carne in collision with the mighty Milton himself, who, unable to deny the ability and learning of his opponent, tried to cover him with a deluge of derision.
Besides these pamphlets, the Bishop produced a number of Epistles in prose, of Sermons, of Paraphrases, and a remarkable series of 'Occasional Meditations,' which became soon, and continue to be, popular.
Hall, who had in his early days struggled hard with narrow circumstances and neglect, seemed to reach the climax of prosperity when he was, in 1641, created by the King Bishop of Norwich. But having, soon after, unfortunately added his name to the Protest of the twelve prelates against the authority of any laws which should be passed during their compulsory absence from Parliament, he was thrown into the Tower, and subsequently threatened with sequestration. After enduring great privations, he at last was permitted to retire to Higham, near Norwich, where, reduced to a very miserable allowance, he continued to labour as a pastor, with unwearied assiduity, till, in 1656, death closed his eyes, at the advanced age of eighty-two. Bishop Hall, if not fully competent to mate with Milton, was nevertheless a giant, conspicuous even in an age when giants were rife. He has been called the Christian Seneca, from the pith and clear sententiousness of his prose style. His 'Meditations,' ranging over almost the whole compass of Scripture, as well as an incredible variety of ordinary topics, are distinguished by their fertile fancy, their glowing language, and by thought which, if seldom profound, is never commonplace, and seems always the spontaneous and easy outcome of the author's mind. In no form of composition does excellence depend more on spontaneity than in the meditation. The ruin of such writers as Hervey, and, to some extent, Boyle, has been, that they seem to have set themselves elaborately and convulsively to extract sentiment out of every object which met their eye. They seem to say, 'We will, and we must meditate, whether the objects be interesting or not, and whether our own moods be propitious to the exercise, or the reverse.' Hence have come exaggeration, extravagance, and that shape of the ridiculous which mimics the sublime, and has been so admirably exposed in Swift's 'Meditation on a Broomstick.' Hall's method is, in general, the opposite of this. The objects on which he muses seem to have sought him, and not he them. He surrounds himself with his thoughts unconsciously, as one gathers burs and other herbage about him by the mere act of walking in the woods. Sometimes, indeed, he is quaint and fantastic, as in his meditation
'There is much variety even in creatures of the same kind. See these two snails: one hath a house, the other wants it; yet both are snails, and it is a question whether case is the better; that which hath a house hath more shelter, but that which wants it hath more freedom; the privilege of that cover is but a burden—you see if it hath but a stone to climb over with what stress it draws up that artificial load, and if the passage proves strait finds no entrance, whereas the empty snail makes no difference of way. Surely it is always an ease and sometimes a happiness to have nothing. No man is so worthy of envy as he that can be cheerful in want.'
In a very different style he discourses
'How sweetly doth this music sound in this dead season! In the daytime it would not, it could not so much affect the ear. All harmonious sounds are advanced by a silent darkness: thus it is with the glad tidings of salvation. The gospel never sounds so sweet as in the night of preservation or of our own private affliction—it is ever the same, the difference is in our disposition to receive it. O God, whose praise it is to give songs in the night, make my prosperity conscionable and my crosses cheerful!'
Hall fulfilled one test of lofty genius: he was in several departments an originator. He first gave an example of epistolary composition in prose,—an example the imitation of which has produced many of the most interesting, instructive, and beautiful writings in the language. He is our first popular author of Meditations and Contemplations, and a large school has followed in his path—too often, in truth,passibus iniquis. And he is unquestionably the father of British satire. It is remarkable that all his satires were written in youth. Too often the satirical spirit grows in authors with the advance of life; and it is a pitiful sight, that of those who have passed the meridian of years and reputation, grinning back in helpless mockery and toothless laughter upon the brilliant way they have traversed, but to which they can return no more. Hall, on the other hand, exhausted long ere he was thirty the sarcastic material that was in him; and during the rest of his career, wielded his powers with as much lenity as strength.
Perhaps no satirist had a more thorough conception than our author of what is the real mission of satire in the moral history of mankind; —thatis, to shew vice its own image—to scourge impudent imposture —to expose hypocrisy—to laugh down solemn quackery of every kind—to create blushes on brazen brows and fears of scorn in hollow hearts—to make iniquity, as ashamed, hide its face—to apply caustic, nay cautery, to the sores of society—and to destroy sin by shewing both the ridicule which attaches to its progress and the wretched consequences which are its end. But various causes prevented him from fully realising his own ideal, and thus becoming the best as well as the first of our satirical poets. His style—imitated from Persius and Juvenal—is too elliptical, and it becomes true of him as well as of Persius that his points are often sheathed through the remoteness of his allusions and the perplexity of his diction. He is very recondite in his images, and you are sometimes reminded of one storming in English at a Hindoo—it is pointless fury, boltless thunder. At other times the stream of his satiric vein flows on with a blended clearness and energy, which has commanded the warm encomium of Campbell, and which prompted the diligent study of Pope. There is more courage required in attacking the follies than the vices of an age, and Hall shews a peculiar daring when he derides the vulgar forms of astrology and alchymy which were then prevalent, and the wretched fustian which infected the language both of literature and the stage. Whatever be the merits or defects of Hall's satires, the world is indebted to him as the founder of a school which were itself sufficient to cover British literature with glory, and which, in the course of ages, has included such writers as Samuel Butler, with his keen sense of the grotesque and ridiculous—his wit, unequalled in its abundance and point—his vast assortment of ludicrous fancies and language—and his form of versification, seemingly shaped by the Genius of Satire for his own purposes, and resembling heroic rhyme broken off in the middle by shouts of laughter;—Dryden, with the ease, theanimus, and the masterly force of his satirical dissections—the vein of humour which is stealthily visible at times in the intervals of his wrathful mood —and the occasional passing and profound touches, worthy of Juvenal, and reminding one of the fires of Egypt, which ran along the ground, scorching all things while they pursued their unabated speed;—the spirit of satire, strong as death, and cruel as the grave, which became incarnate in Swift;—Pope, with his minute and microscopic vision of human infirmities, his polish, delicate strokes, damning hints, and annihilating whispers, where 'more is meant than meets the ear;' —Johnson, with his crushing contempt and sacrificial dignity of scorn; —Cowper, with the tenderness of a lover combined in his verse with the terrible indignation of an ancient prophet;—Wolcot, with his infinite fund of coarse wit and humour;—Burns, with that strange mixture of jaw and genius—the spirit of acairdwith that of a poet—which marked all his satirical pieces;—Crabbe, with his caustic vein and sternly-literal descriptions, behind which are seen, half-skulking from view, kindness, pity, and love;—Byron, with the clever Billingsgate of his earlier, and the more than Swiftian ferocity of his later satires;—and Moore, with the smartness, sparkle, tiny splendour, and minikin speed of his witty shafts. In comparison with even these masters of the art, the good Bishop does not dwindle; and he challenges precedence over most of them in the purpose, tact, and good sense which blend with the whole of his satiric poetry.
Time was, and that was term'd the time of gold,When world and time were young, that now are old,(When quiet Saturn sway'd the mace of lead,And pride was yet unborn, and yet unbred;)Time was, that whiles the autumn fall did last,Our hungry sires gaped for the falling mastOf the Dodonian oaks;Could no unhusked acorn leave the tree,But there was challenge made whose it might be;And if some nice and liquorous appetiteDesired more dainty dish of rare delight,They scaled the stored crab with clasped knee,Till they had sated their delicious eye:Or search'd the hopeful thicks of hedgy rows,For briary berries, or haws, or sourer sloes:Or when they meant to fare the fin'st of all,They lick'd oak-leaves besprint with honey fall.As for the thrice three-angled beech nutshell,Or chestnut's armed husk, and hide kernel,No squire durst touch, the law would not afford,Kept for the court, and for the king's own board.Their royal plate was clay, or wood, or stone;The vulgar, save his hand, else he had none.Their only cellar was the neighbour brook:None did for better care, for better look.Was then no plaining of the brewer's 'scape,Nor greedy vintner mix'd the stained grape.The king's pavilion was the grassy green,Under safe shelter of the shady treen.Under each bank men laid their limbs along,Not wishing any ease, not fearing wrong:Clad with their own, as they were made of old,Not fearing shame, not feeling any cold.But when by Ceres' huswifery and pain,Men learn'd to bury the reviving grain,And father Janus taught the new-found vineRise on the elm, with many a friendly twine:And base desire bade men to delven low,For needless metals, then 'gan mischief grow.Then farewell, fairest age, the world's best days,Thriving in all as it in age decays.Then crept in pride, and peevish covetise,And men grew greedy, discordous, and nice.Now man, that erst hail-fellow was with beast,Wox on to ween himself a god at least.Nor aery fowl can take so high a flight,Though she her daring wings in clouds have dight;Nor fish can dive so deep in yielding sea,Though Thetis' self should swear her safëty;Nor fearful beast can dig his cave so low,As could he further than earth's centre go;As that the air, the earth, or ocean,Should shield them from the gorge of greedy man.Hath utmost Ind ought better than his own?Then utmost Ind is near, and rife to gone,O nature! was the world ordain'd for noughtBut fill man's maw, and feed man's idle thought?Thy grandsire's words savour'd of thrifty leeks,Or manly garlic; but thy furnace reeksHot steams of wine; and can aloof descryThe drunken draughts of sweet autumnitie.They naked went; or clad in ruder hide,Or home-spun russet, void of foreign pride:But thou canst mask in garish gauderieTo suit a fool's far-fetched livery.A French head join'd to neck Italian:Thy thighs from Germany, and breast from Spain:An Englishman in none, a fool in all:Many in one, and one in several.Then men were men; but now the greater partBeasts are in life, and women are in heart.Good Saturn self, that homely emperor,In proudest pomp was not so clad of yore,As is the under-groom of the ostlery,Husbanding it in work-day yeomanry.Lo! the long date of those expired days,Which the inspired Merlin's word foresays;When dunghill peasants shall be dight as kings,Then one confusion another brings:Then farewell, fairest age, the world's best days,Thriving in ill, as it in age decays.
Seest thou how gaily my young master goes,Vaunting himself upon his rising toes;And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side,And picks his glutted teeth since late noontide?'Tis Ruffio: Trow'st thou where he dined to-day?In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphray.Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer,Keeps he for every straggling cavalier,And open house, haunted with great resort;Long service mix'd with musical disport.Many fair younker with a feather'd crest,Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest,To fare so freely with so little cost,Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host.Hadst thou not told me, I should surely sayHe touch'd no meat of all this livelong day.For sure methought, yet that was but a guess,His eyes seem'd sunk for very hollowness;But could he have (as I did it mistake)So little in his purse, so much upon his back?So nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his belt,That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt.Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hip?Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip;Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by,All trapped in the new-found bravery.The nuns of new-won Calais his bonnet lent,In lieu of their so kind a conquerment.What needed he fetch that from furthest Spain.His grandam could have lent with lesser pain?Though he perhaps ne'er pass'd the English shore,Yet fain would counted be a conqueror.His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head,One lock, Amazon-like, dishevelled,As if he meant to wear a native cord,If chance his fates should him that bane afford.All British bare upon the bristled skin,Close notched is his beard both lip and chin;His linen collar labyrinthian set,Whose thousand double turnings never met:His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings,As if he meant to fly with linen wings.But when I look, and cast mine eyes below,What monster meets mine eyes in human show?So slender waist with such an abbot's loin,Did never sober nature sure conjoin,Lik'st a strawn scarecrow in the new-sown field,Rear'd on some stick, the tender corn to shield;Or if that semblance suit not every deal,Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel.Despised nature, suit them once aright,Their body to their coat, both now misdight.Their body to their clothës might shapen be,That nill their clothës shape to their body.Meanwhile I wonder at so proud a back,Whiles the empty guts loud rumblen for long lack:The belly envieth the back's bright glee,And murmurs at such inequality.The back appears unto the partial eyne,The plaintive belly pleads they bribed been:And he, for want of better advocate,Doth to the ear his injury relate.The back, insulting o'er the belly's need,Says, Thou thyself, I others' eyes must feed.The maw, the guts, all inward parts complainThe back's great pride, and their own secret pain.Ye witless gallants, I beshrew your hearts,That sets such discord 'twixt agreeing parts,Which never can be set at onement more,Until the maw's wide mouth be stopt with store.
This unlucky cavalier and bard was born in 1618. He was the son of Sir William Lovelace, of Woolwich, in Kent. He was educated some say at Oxford, and others at Cambridge—took a master's degree, and was afterwards presented at Court. Anthony Wood thus describes his personal appearance at the age of sixteen:—'He was the most amiable and beautiful person that eye ever beheld,—a person also of innate modesty, virtue, and courtly deportment, which made him then, but especially after when he retired to the great city, much admired and adored by the fair sex.' Soon after this, he was chosen by the county of Kent to deliver a petition from the inhabitants to the House of Commons, praying them to restore the King to his rights, and to settle the government. Such offence was given by this to the Long Parliament, that Lovelace was thrown into prison, and only liberated on heavy bail. His paternal estate, which amounted to £500 a-year, was soon exhausted in his efforts to promote the royal cause. In 1646, he formed a regiment for the service of the King of France, became its colonel, and was wounded at Dunkirk. Ere leaving England, he had formed a strong attachment to a Miss Lucy Sacheverell, and had written much poetry in her praise, designating her asLux-Casta. Unfortunately, hearing a report that Lovelace had died at Dunkirk of his wounds, she married another, so that, on his return home in 1648, he met a deep disappointment; and to complete his misery, the ruling powers cast him again into prison, where he lay till the death of Charles. Like some other men of genius, he beguiled his confinement by literary employment; and in 1649, he published a book under the title of 'Lucasta,' consisting of odes, sonnets, songs, and miscellaneous poems, most of which had been previously composed. After the execution of the King, he was liberated; but his funds were exhausted, his heart broken, and his constitution probably injured. He gradually sunk; and Wood says that he became very poor in body and purse, was the object of charity, 'went in ragged clothes, and mostly lodged in obscure and dirty places.' Alas for the Adonis of sixteen, the beloved of Lucasta, and the envied of all! Some have doubted these stories about his extreme poverty; and one of his biographers asserts, that his daughter and sole heir (but who, pray, was his wife and her mother?) married the son of Lord Chief-Justice Coke, and brought to her husband the estates of her father at Kingsdown, in Kent. Aubrey however, corroborates the statements of Wood; and, at all events, Lovelace seems to have died, in 1658, in a wretched alley near Shoe Lane.
There is not much to be said about his poetry. It may be compared to his person—beautiful, but dressed in a stiff mode. We do not, in every point, homologate the opinions of Prynne, as to the 'unloveliness of love-locks;' but we do certainly look with a mixture of contempt and pity on the self-imposed trammels of affectation in style and manner which bound many of the poets of that period. The wits of Charles II. were more disgustingly licentious; but their very carelessness saved them from the conceits of their predecessors; and, while lowering the tone of morality, they raised unwittingly the standard of taste. Some of the songs of Lovelace, however, such as 'To Althea, from Prison,' are exquisitely simple, as well as pure. Sir Egerton Brydges has found out that Byron, in one of his be-praised paradoxical beauties, either copied, or coincided with, our poet. In the 'Bride of Abydos' he says of Zuleika—
'The mind, themusicbreathing from her face.'
Lovelace had, long before, in the song of 'Orpheus Mourning for hisWife,' employed the words—
'Oh, could you view the melodyOf every grace,Andmusic of her face,You'd drop a tear;Seeing more harmonyIn her bright eyeThan now you hear.'
While many have praised, others have called this idea nonsense; although, if we are permitted to speak of the harmony of the tones of a cloud, why not of the harmony produced by the consenting lines of a countenance, where every grace melts into another, and the various features and expressions fluctuate into a fine whole? Whatever, whether it be the beauty of the human face, or the quiet lustre of statuary, or the mild glory of moonlight, gives the effects of music, and, like that divine art,
'Pours on mortals a beautiful disdain,'
may surely become music's metaphor and poetic analogy.
1 When Love, with unconfined wings,Hovers within my gates,And my divine Althea bringsTo whisper at my grates;When I lie tangled in her hair,And fetter'd to her eye,The birds, that wanton in the air,Know no such liberty.
2 When flowing cups run swiftly roundWith no allaying Thames,Our careless heads with roses bound,Our hearts with loyal flames;When thirsty grief in wine we steep,When healths and draughts go free,Fishes, that tipple in the deep,Know no such liberty.
3 When, like committed linnets, IWith shriller throat shall singThe sweetness, mercy, majesty,And glories of my king;[1]When I shall voice aloud how goodHe is, how great should be,Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,Know no such liberty.
4 Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for an hermitage.If I have freedom in my love,And in my soul am free,Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.
[1] Charles I., in whose cause Lovelace was then in prison.
1 Amarantha, sweet and fair,Forbear to braid that shining hair;As my curious hand or eye,Hovering round thee, let it fly:
2 Let it fly as unconfinedAs its ravisher, the wind,Who has left his darling east,To wanton o'er this spicy nest.
3 Every tress must be confess'dBut neatly tangled at the best,Like a clew of golden threadMost excellently ravelled:
4 Do not then wind up that lightIn ribands, and o'ercloud the night;Like the sun in his early ray,But shake your head and scatter day.
1 Ah me! the little tyrant thief,As once my heart was playing,He snatch'd it up, and flew away,Laughing at all my praying.
2 Proud of his purchase, he surveys,And curiously sounds it;And though he sees it full of wounds,Cruel, still on he wounds it.
3 And now this heart is all his sport,Which as a ball he boundeth,From hand to hand, from breast to lip,And all its rest confoundeth.
4 Then as a top he sets it up,And pitifully whips it;Sometimes he clothes it gay and fine,Then straight again he strips it.
5 He cover'd it with false belief,Which gloriously show'd it;And for a morning cushionetOn's mother he bestow'd it.
6 Each day with her small brazen stingsA thousand times she raced it;But then at night, bright with her gems,Once near her breast she placed it.
7 Then warm it 'gan to throb and bleed,She knew that smart, and grieved;At length this poor condemned heart,With these rich drugs reprieved.
8 She wash'd the wound with a fresh tear,Which my Lucasta dropped;And in the sleeve silk of her hair'Twas hard bound up and wrapped.
9 She probed it with her constancy,And found no rancour nigh it;Only the anger of her eyeHad wrought some proud flesh nigh it.
10 Then press'd she hard in every vein,Which from her kisses thrilled,And with the balm heal'd all its painThat from her hand distilled.
11 But yet this heart avoids me still,Will not by me be owned;But, fled to its physician's breast,There proudly sits enthroned.