3RARY - * /I73 W3 v.-l c * THE ENGLISH POETS T. H. WARD. VOL. I EARLY POETRY: CHAUCER TO DONNE. VOL. L THE ENGLISH POETS SELECTIONS WITH CRITICAL INTRODUCTIONS BY VARIOUS WRITERS AND A GENERAL INTRODUCTION BY MATTHEW ARNOLD EDITED BY THOMAS HUMPHRY WARD, M.A. Late Fellow of Brasenose College, Oxford VOL. I CHAUCER to DONNE LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED \_All rights reserved} Printed at the University Press, Oxford, 1880 Reprinted 1883. 1887. 1891. 1895. 1899. 1901 PREFACE. THE aim of this book is to supply an admitted want that of an anthology which may adequately represent the vast and varied field of English Poetry. Nothing of the kind at present exists. There are great collections of the whole works of the poets, like that of Chalmers ; there are innumerable volumes of ' Beauties ' of a more or less unsatisfactory kind ; there are Selections from single poets; there are a few admirable volumes, like that of Mr. Palgrave, which deal with special departments of our poetical literature. The only book which attempts to cover the whole ground and to select on a large scale is Campbell's; and Campbell's, though the work of a true poet and, according to the standard of his time, a critic of authority, can no longer be regarded as sufficient. It is indeed impossible that a selection of the kind should be really well done, should be done with an approach to finality, if it is the work of one critic alone. The history of English poetry is so wide, its various sections and stages have become the objects of so special a study, that a book which aims at selecting the best from the whole field and pronouncing its judgments with some degree of authority, must not be the work of one writer, but of many. It was on this plan that M. Cre'pet's excellent book, Les poetes franfais, was constructed twenty years ago; and what he there did for French poetry we here wish to do for English vi PREFACE. l>octry to present a collection of what is best in it, chosen and judged by those whose tastes and studies specially qualify them for the several tasks they have undertaken. Our design has not been to present a complete collection of all that may fairly be called masterpieces if it had been t>o, the volumes would of necessity have been three times as many as they are. Still less has it been to give a complete history of English poetry if it had been so, many names that we have passed over would have been admitted. It has been, to collect as many of the best and most characteristic of their writings as should fully represent the great poets, and at the same time to omit no one who is poetically considerable. There are writers who were famous in their day and who played a great part in the history of English literature, but who have faded from public notice and are no longer gene- rally read ; men like Sidney, and Cowley, and Waller. Again, there are writers who never were well known, but who wrote a few beautiful poems as it were by accident ; men like some of the minor Elizabethans, or Lovelace, or Christopher Smart. We have endeavoured to do justice to both these classes ; to gather from the former what may serve to explain why they were famous, and from the latter whatever they wrote that is of real poetical excellence. We have not included the writings of living poets, nor the drama, properly so called. Had we admitted the drama we should have been compelled to double our space; besides, in spite of Charles Lamb, we may venture to say that by the nature of the case a play lends itself to selection less than any other form of literature. But where a play is only a play in name, like Comus or the Gentle Shepherd, we have not excluded it ; and songs from the dramatists have of course been admitted. PREFACE. vii Two points seem to require a word of notice the order and the orthography. The first is approximately chronological; for in this matter it was found impossible to follow any rigid rule. To go uniformly by the date, either of birth or pub- lication, would be in many cases misleading ; for we often find a poet not beginning to write till after the death of some younger contemporary, and oftener still we find his poems only posthumously collected. A vague floruit circa is the only date that is often possible in literary history. With regard to the orthography, the principle adopted has been, to print accord- ing to contemporary spelling up to the time of Wyatt and Surrey the time of the Renascence and since that date to adopt the uniform modern spelling. The exceptions that we have made are in the case of the Scotch poets (though with them it is a matter rather of language than of orthography), and of Spenser, who is so intentionally archaic that his spelling is peculiar, and is a part of himself. Spenser accordingly we have printed from Dr. Morris's text. It remains for the Editor to express his cordial thanks to those who have so kindly co-operated with him ; and he may be permitted to mention specially the names of Professor Skeat, who has revised the whole of the text of the poets down to Douglas ; of Mr. Edmund W. Gosse, whose great knowledge of English poetry, especially of that of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, has been of the greatest service to the book; and of Mr. Matthew Arnold, who, besides his direct contributions, has from time to time given most valuable advice. CONTENTS. PACK General Introduction Matthew Arnold xvii GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1340-1400) The Editor i Extracts from The Boke of the Duchesse 15 ,, ,, Troylus and Criseyde 16 ,, ,, The Parlement of Foules 36 ,, ,, The Hous of Fame 40 ,, ,, Prologue to the Legende of Goode Women . . 42 ,, ,, Prologue to the Canterbury Tales .... 46 ,, The Tale of the Man of Lawe 56 The Clerkes Tale 61 The Frankeleynes Tale 62 The Knightes Tale 72 Good Counseil of Chaucer 80 POEMS COMMONLY ATTRIBUTED TO CHAUCER . . The Editor 82 Extracts from The Romaunt of the Rose 82 The Flower and the Leaf 85 The Court of Love 88 WILLIAM LANGLEY or LANGLAND (born about 1332) . Prof. Skeat 91 Extracts from The Vision of Piers the Plowman .... 96 JOHN GOWER (1330-1408) T. Arnold 102 Extracts from Cinkante Balades 107 ,, ,, Confessio Amantis : Prologue . 107 Alexander and the Robber ........ 109 The Story of Constance . . . no JOHN LYDGATE (1370-1440) T. Arnold 114 Extracts from London Lickpenny .119 ,, ,, The Dietary 121 ,, Falls of Princes : Description of the Golden A^e . . . .122 X CONTENTS. MMI THOMAS OCCLBVK (13657-1450?) T. Arnold 124 Extracts from De Regimine Principum 127 JAMES THE FIKST OF SCOTLAND (1394-1437) . . The Editor 129 Extract from The King's Quair 132 Poem from The Gude and Godlie Ballates ... .136 ROBERT HENRYSON (1425 7-1480?) . . . . \V. E. Henlty 137 The Garmond of Fair Ladies 140 The Taill of the Lyoun and the Mous ...;.. 141 WILLIAM DUNBAR (1450 7-1513?) ...... Prof. Nickol 147 Extracts from The Thrissill and the Rois 151 The Goldyn Targe 152 The Dance of the Sevin Deidly Synnis . . . 153 The Lament for the Makaris 157 GAWAIN DOUGLAS (1474-1522) A Lang 159 Extracts from The Palice of Honour : A Desert Terrible 163 The Fete Champetre ........ 166 A Ballade in Commendation of Honour 167 Extracts from the Aeneid : A Scottish Winter Landscape ....... 164 The Ghost of Creusa .' . . 168 Dido's Hunting ." . . 170 Sleep 171 Spring 172 The Tribes of the Dead 173 The Destiny of Rome 173 STEPHEN HAWES (d. 1530?) J. Churton Collins 175 Extracts from The Pastime of Pleasure : Dialogue between Graunde Arnoure and La Pucel ... 178 Amoure laments the absence of La Pucel 179 The Character of a True Knight 181 Description of La Belle Pucel 182 JOHN SKELTON (1460 7-1529) . . . . J. Chttrton Collins 184 ALullabye 186 Extract from The Bowge of Court : Picture of Riot ........ 187 Extract from The Garlande of Laurell : To Maystress Margaret Hussey r- Extract from Colyn Cloute 188 SIR DAVID LYNDESAY (14907-1558) .... Prof.Nickol 192 Extracts from The Dreme 196 .. The Testament and Complaynt of the Papingo . . 198 .. Ane Satire of the Threi Estaitis 199 CONTENTS. xi PAGE Extracts from The Monarchic aor The Hope of Immortality ..... 202 BALLADS . . . . . . . . . .A. Lang 203 Historical Ballads : Sir Patrick Spens . . . 210 Edom O'Gordon 213 Romantic Ballads : Qlasgerion 218 The Douglas Tragedy 221 The Twa Corbies 224 Waly Waly 225 Supernatural Ballads : Clerk Saunders 226 The Wife of Usher's Well 230 A Lyke-Wake Dirge ......... 232 Ballads of the Marches : Kinmont Willie ......... 233 Robin Hood Ballads : Robin Hood rescuing the Widow's Three Sons .... 239 Robin Hood's Death and Burial 243 Domestic Ballads : The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington 246 SIR THOMAS WYATT (1503-1542) . . . . J. Churton Collins 248 Extracts from Songs and Sonnets . . . . . . . 251 ,, ,, Satires 253 THE EARL OF SURREY (1517 7-1547) . . . J. Churton Collins 255 Description of Spring 257 A Complaint by Night of the Lover not beloved .... 257 Lines written in imprisonment at Windsor ..... 258 The Means to attain Happy Life ....... 259 A Praise of his Love ......... 260 An Epitaph on Clere . . . . . .. . .261 On the Death of Sir Thomas Wyatt 261 GEORGE GASCOIGNE (1536 7-1577) .... Prof. Hales 263 The Arraignment of a Lover ........ 265 A Strange Passion of a Lover ........ 266 Extracts from The Steel Glass : Piers Ploughman ......... 267 Epilogus 268 THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST (1536-1608). The Dean of St. Paul's 270 Extract from The Induction ........ 271 Complaint of the Duke of Buckingham ...... 273 Sleep 274 xii CONTENTS. PAOE EDMUND SPENSER (1553 1598) . . . Tht Dean of St. Paul't 275 Extracts from The Shcpheard's Calender : Fable of the Oak and the Briar 284 Chase after Love 987 Description of Maying . . . .."';' . 389 1'he Complaint of Age 290 Extracts from The Faerie Queene : The Red Cross Knight and Una 293 The House of Pride . . ." '.'' . . . . ao6 Una's Marriage . . 298 Phaedria and the Idle Lake .'....-.. 300 The Cave of Mammon . . . . '"'. . 305 The Bower of Bliss 313 The Gardens of Venus . . . . " . ' "%' ' . 315 Wooing of Amoret ' . . . . 317 The Quelling of the Blatant Beast . . ... .322 Claims of Mutability pleaded before Nature .... 326 Extract from the Teares of the Muses : Complaint of Thalia (Comedy) . . . v : . : '. ' . 330 Sonnets . . . . . . 331 Epithalumion 333 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) . . . . Mary A. Ward 341 Sonnets from Astrophel and Stella . .... . . 348 Songs from the Same . . . . . . . . . 359 Philomela 361 A Dirge > . " 362 Two Sonnets . . . . 363 Poems from The Arcadia 364 FULKE GREVILLE. LORD BROOKE (1554-1628) . Mary A. Ward 365 Extracts from Mustapha : Chorus of Tartars . . . . . . . . . 369 Chorus of Priests . . . 370 Chorus from Alaham 371 Extracts from Caelica : Seed-time and Harvest ........ 372 Elizabeth.! Regina ' . 373 Sonnet 373 An Elegy on Sir Philip Sidney 374 SIR EDWARD DYER (i550?-i6o7) .... Mary A. Ward 376 My Mind to me a Kingdom is 377 To 1'hillis the Fair Shepherdess . . ... . . . .378 Extracts from Sixe Idillia : Helen's Epithalamion . . . . . . . . 379 The Prayer of Theocritus for Syracuse 380 CONTENTS. xiii PAGE HENRY CONSTABLE (1555-1615?) A. Lang 381 A Pastoral Song . . . 3 82 The Shepherd's Song of Venus and Adonis 384 Sonnet to Sir Philip Sidney's Soul 388 THOMAS WATSON (15577-1592?) The Editor 389 Extracts from The Hecatompathia : Passion II . . . 391 Passion XL 392 Passion LXV 393 JOHN LYLY (1554-1606) IV. Minto 394 Songs from Plays : Sappho's Song (from Sappho and Phao) 396 Apelles' Song (from Alexander and Campaspe) .... 396 Pan's Song (from Midas) 397 GEORGE PEELE (1558 7-1592?) IV. Minto 398 A Farewell to Sir John Norris and Sir Francis Drake . . . 400 ROBERT GREENE (15607-1592) .... Edmund \V. Gosse 402 Sephestia's Song to her Child 405 Samela ............ 406 Fawnia 406 The Palmer's Ode in Never too Late 407 Song 408 Philomela's Ode 409 Orpheus' Song 410 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1564-1593) . . . . A. C. Bradley 411 The Passionate Shepherd to his Love 418 A Fragment 418 Extracts from the First Sestiad of Hero and Leander . . . 419 THOMAS LODGE (15567-1625) .... Edmund W. Gosse 424 Rosalynd's Madrigal 427 Rosader's description of Rosalynd 428 The Harmony of Love 429 Phillis' Sickness 429 Love's Wantonness 430 WILLIAM WARNER (15507-1609) G. Saintsbury 431 Extract from Albion's England : Before the Battle of Hastings ....... 433 SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616) .... Prof. Dowden 435 Extracts from Venus and Adonis . 442 ,, ,, Lucrece ......... 446 Sonnets 450 \iv CONTENTS. PAOR Song* from Plays : A Morning Song for Imogen (from Cymbelinc) .... 4 02 Silvia (from The Two Gentlemen of Verona) . . . . 4 6a Sigh no more, Indies (from Much Ado about Nothing) . . 463 A Lover's Lament (from Twelfth Night) 4 6 3 Ariel's Song (from The Tempest) 464 A Sea Dirge (from The Tempest) 464 In the Greenwood (from As You Like It) 4^5 Winter (from Love's Labour 's Lost) 4^5 Song of Autolycus (from The Winter's Tali-) .... 466 SAMUEL DANIEL (1560-1619) G. Saintsbury 467 Sonnet to Delia . . .<.... . . . 469 Extracts from The History of the Civil War : The Death of Talbot . . 460 To the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland .... 471 Extract from Hymen's Triumph ....... 473 RICHARD BARNPIELD (1574-1627) . . . * . . The Editor 474 Sonnet from Cynthia 476 Extracts from Poems in Divers Humors : Sonnet to his friend Maister R. L. . * * 47*> An Ode 477 ROBERT SOUTHWELL (15627-1594) .... Prof. Halts 479 Times go by Turns 482 Loss in Delay 482 The Burning Babe 484 Extract from St. Peter's Complaint 484 SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1552-1618) .... Prof. Hales 486 A Vision upon this Conceit of The Fairy Queen .... 489 Reply to Marlowe's 'The Passionate Shepherd to His Love' . . 489 The Lie 400 His Pilgrimage 492 Verses found in his Bible at the Gate-House at Westminster . . 494 ELIZABETHAN MISCELLANIES The Editor 495 From The Paradyse of Dainty Devises : Amantium Irae {R. Edwards} 498 From A Handefull of Pleasant Delites : A Proper Sonnet (/tnon.) . . . < . . . 498 From The Arbor of Amorous Devises : A Sweet Lullaby (Anon.) . . . f . 5 From England's Helicon : A Palinode {Edmund Bolton) . \ ''."', . . . 501 Phillida and Corydon (Nicolas Brtton) *-.''." . .502 CONTENTS. xv PAOE To Colin Clout (Shepherd Tonie) 53 Phillida's Love-call to her Corydon, and his Replying (Ignoto) . 503 From Davison's Poetical Rapsody: A Fiction : how Cupid made a Nymph wound herself with his Arrows (Anon., but attributed to A. W.) .... 505 A Sonnet to the Moon (Charles Best) 507 Sonnet (J. Sylvester) 57 A Hymn in Praise of Neptune ( T. Campion) 508 Of Corinna's Singing (T. Camp ion) 508 Madrigals 59 GEORGE CHAPMAN (1557? 15597-1634) A. Lang 510 The Thames (from Ovid's Banquet of Sense) 516 The Spirit of Homer (from The Tears of Peace) .... 516 The Procession of Time 517 Helen on the Rampart (from Iliad III) 518 The Camp at Night (from Iliad VIII) 519 The grief of Achilles for the slaying of Patroclus, Menoetius* Son (from Iliad XVIII) 520 Hermes in Calypso's Island (from Odyssey V) 521 Odysseus' Speech to Nausicaa (from Odyssey VI) .... 522 The Song the Sirens sung (from Odyssey XII) 524 Odysseus reveals himself to his Father (from Odyssey XXIV) . . 524 MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631) G. Saintsbury 526 Queen Margaret to William de la Pool, Duke of Suffolk . . . 529 To the Cambro-Britons and their Harp, his Ballad of Agincourt . 530 The Arming of Pigwiggen (from Nymphidia) 534 Extract from Polyolbion 535 JOSEPH HALL (1574-1656) J, Churton Collins 537 The Golden Age 540 Hollow Hospitality 541 A Coxcomb 542 A Deserted Mansion . . 542 Advice to Marry betimes 543 JOHN MARSTON ( ? - ? ) w. Minto 544 To Detraction 546 To Everlasting Oblivion 546 SIR JOHN DAVIES (d. 1626) Mary A. Ward 548 Extracts from Nosce Teipsum : The Soul compared to a River ..... . . 551 The Soul compared to a Virgin wooed in Marriage . . . 552 Extract from Orchestra, or A Poeme of Dauncing : Antinous praises dancing before Queen Penelope . . , 553 xri CONTENTS. PAOR From Hymncs of Astrea, In Acrostic Verse : . To the Spring 556 To the Nightingale ..'<,. . . . 556 To the Month of September 557 JOHN DONNB (1573-1631) . . . .' . . Prof. Hales 558 Song 36! A Valediction forbidding Mourning 561 Son* 563 From Verses to Sir Henry Wootton 564 The Will 565 INTRODUCTION. ' THE future of poetry is immense, because in poetry, where it is worthy of its high destinies, our race, as time goes on, will find an ever surer and surer stay. There is not a creed which is not shaken, not an accredited dogma which is not shown to be questionable, not a received tradition which does not threaten to dissolve. Our religion has materialised itself in the fact, in the supposed fact; it has attached its emotion to the fact, and now the fact is failing it. But for poetry the idea is everything; the rest is a world of illusion, of divine illusion. Poetry attaches its emotion to the idea; the idea is the fact. The strongest part of our religion to-day is its unconscious poetry.' Let me be permitted to quote these words of my own, as uttering the thought which should, in my opinion, go with us and govern us in all our study of poetry. In the present work it is the course of one great contributory stream to the world-river of poetry that we are invited to follow. We are here invited to trace the stream of English poetry. But whether we set ourselves, as here, to follow only one of the several streams that make the mighty river of poetry, or whether we seek to know them all, our governing thought should be the same. We should conceive of poetry worthily, and more highly than it has been the custom to conceive of it. We should conceive of it as capable of higher uses, and VOL. i. b xviii THE ENGLISH POETS. called to higher destinies, than those which in general men have assigned to it hitherto. More and more mankind will discover that we have to turn to poetry to interpret life for us, to console us, to sustain us. Without poetry, our science will appear incomplete; and most of what now passes with us for religion and philosophy will be replaced by poetry. Science, I say, will appear incomplete without it. For finely and truly does Wordsworth call poetry ' the impassioned ex- pression which is in the countenance of all science;' and what is a countenance without its expression ? Again, Words- worth finely and truly calls poetry ' the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge : ' our religion, parading evidences such as those on which the popular mind relies now ; our philosophy, pluming itself on its reasonings about causation and finite and infinite being ; what are they but the shadows and dreams and false shows of knowledge? The day will come when we shall wonder at ourselves for having trusted to them, for having taken them seriously; and the more we perceive their hollowness, the more we shall prize ' the breath and finer spirit of knowledge ' offered to us by poetry. But if we conceive thus highly of the destinies of poetry, we must also set our standard for poetry high, since poetry, to be capable of fulfilling such high destinies, must be poetry of a high order of excellence. We must accustom ourselves to a high standard and to a strict judgment. Sainte-Beuve relates that Napoleon one day said, when somebody was spoken of in his presence as a charlatan : ' Charlatan as much as you please ; but where is there not charlatanism ? ' ' Yes,' answers Sainte-Beuve, 'in politics, in the art of governing mankind, that is perhaps true. But in the order of thought, in art, the glory, the eternal honour is that charlatanism shall find no entrance ; herein lies the inviolableness of that noble portion of INTRODUCTION. xix man's being.' It is admirably said, and let us hold fast to it. In poetry, which is thought and art in one, it is the glory, the eternal honour, that charlatanism shall find no entrance ; that this noble sphere be kept inviolate and inviolable. Charlatan- ism is for confusing or obliterating the distinctions between excellent and inferior, sound and unsound or only half- sound, true and untrue or only half-true. It is charlatanism, conscious or unconscious, whenever we confuse or obliterate these. And in poetry, more than anywhere else, it is unpermissible to con- fuse or obliterate them. For in poetry the distinction between excellent and inferior, sound and unsound or only half-sound, true and untrue or only half-true, is of paramount importance. It is of paramount importance because of the high destinies of poetry. In poetry, as a criticism of life under the conditions fixed for such a criticism by the laws of poetic truth and poetic beauty, the spirit of our race will find, we have said, as time goes on and as other helps fail, its consolation and stay. But the consolation and stay will be of power in proportion to the power of the criticism of life. And the criticism of life will be of power in proportion as the poetry conveying it is excellent rather than inferior, sound rather than unsound or half-sound, true rather than untrue or half-true. The best poetry is what we want; the best poetry will be found to have a power- of forming, sustaining, and delighting us, as nothing else can. A clearer, deeper sense of the best in poetry, and of the strength and joy to be drawn from it, is the most precious benefit which we can gather from a poetical collection such as the present. And yet in the very nature and conduct of such a collection there is inevitably something which tends to obscure in us the consciousness of what our benefit should be, and to distract us from the pursuit of it. We should therefore steadily set it before our minds b2 XX TUB ENGLISH POETS. at the outset, and should compel ourselves to revert constantly to the thought of it as we proceed. Yes ; constantly, in reading poetry, a sense for the best, the really excellent, and of the strength and joy to be drawn from it, should be present in our minds and should govern our estimate of what we read. But this real estimate, the only true one, is liable to be superseded, if we are not watchful, by two other kinds of estimate, the historic estimate and the personal estimate, both of which are fallacious. A poet or a poem may count to us historically, they may count to us on grounds personal to ourselves, and they may count to us really. They may count to us historically. The course of develop- ment of a nation's language, thought, and poetry, is profoundly interesting ; and by regarding a poet's work as a stage in this course of development we may easily bring ourselves to make it of more importance as poetry than in itself it really is, we may come to use a language of quite exaggerated praise in criticising it ; in short, to over-rate it. So arises in our poetic judgments the fallacy caused by the estimate which we may call historic. Then, again, a poet or a poem may count to us on grounds personal to ourselves. Our personal affinities, likings, and circumstances, have great power to sw.iy our estimate of this or that poet's work, and to make us attach more import- ance to it as poetry than in itself it really possesses, because to us it is. or has been, of high importance. Here also we over-rate the object of our interest, and apply to it a language of praise which is quite exaggerated. And thus we get the source of a second fallacy in our poetic judgments, the fallacy caused by an estimate which we may call personal. Both fallacies are natural. It is evident how naturally the study of the history and development of a poetry may incline a man to pause over reputations and works once conspicuous INTRODUCTION. xxi but now obscure, and to quarrel with a careless public for skipping, in obedience to mere tradition and habit, from one famous name or work in its national poetry to another, igno- rant of what it misses, and of the reason for keeping what it keeps, and of the whole process of growth in its poetry. The French have become diligent students of their own early poetry, which they long neglected; the study makes many of them dissatisfied with their so-called classical poetry, the court- tragedy of the seventeenth century, a poetry which Pellisson long ago reproached with its want of the true poetic stamp, with its politesse stirile el rampan/e, but which nevertheless has reigned in France as absolutely as if it had been the perfec- tion of classical poetry indeed. The dissatisfaction is natural ; yet a lively and accomplished critic, M. Charles d'He'ricault, the editor of Cle'ment Marot, goes too far when he says that ' the cloud of glory playing round a classic is a mist as dangerous to the future of a literature as it is intolerable for the purposes of history.' ' It hinders,' he goes on, ' it hinders us from seeing more than one single point, the culminating and exceptional point; the summary, fictitious and arbitrary, of a thought and of a work. It substitutes a halo for a physiognomy, it puts a statue where there was once a man, and hiding from us all trace of the labour, the attempts, the weaknesses, the failures, it claims not study but veneration ; it does not show us how the thing is done, it imposes upon us a model. Above all, for the historian this creation of classic personages is inadmissible ; for it withdraws the poet from his time, from his proper life, it breaks historical relationships, it blinds criticism by con- ventional admiration, and renders the investigation of literary origins unacceptable. It gives us a human personage no longer, but a God seated immovable amidst his perfect work, like Jupiter on Olympus; and hardly will it be possible for xxii THE ENGLISH POETS. the young student, to whom such work is exhibited at such a distance from him, to believe that it did not issue ready made from that divine head.' All this is brilliantly and tellingly said, but we must plead for a distinction. Everything depends on the reality of a poet's classic character. If he is a dubious classic, let us sift him; if he is a false classic, let us explode him. But if he is a real classic, if his work belongs to the class of the very best (for this is the true and right meaning of the word classic, classical), then the great thing for us is to feel and enjoy his work as deeply as ever we can, and to appreciate the wide dif- ference between it and all work which has not the same high character. This is what is salutary, this is what is formative ; this is the great benefit to be got from the study of poetry. Everything which interferes with it, which hinders it, is injurious. True, we must read our classic with open eyes, and not with eyes blinded with superstition ; we must perceive when his work comes short, when it drops out of the class of the very best, and we must rate it, in such cases, at its proper value. But the use of this negative criticism is not in itself, it is entirely in its enabling us to have a clearer sense and a deeper enjoyment of what is truly excellent To trace the labour, the attempts, the weaknesses, the failures of a genuine classic, to acquaint oneself with his time and his life and his historical relation- ships, is mere literary dilettantism unless it has that clear sense and deeper enjoyment for its end. It may be said that the more we know about a classic the better we shall enjoy him ; and, if we lived as long as Methuselah and had all of us heads of perfect clearness and wills of perfect steadfastness, this might be true in fact as it is plausible in theory. But the case here is much the same as the case with the Greek and Latin studies of our schoolboys. The elaborate philological groundwork which INTRODUCTION. xxiii we require them to lay is in theory an admirable preparation for appreciating the Greek and Latin authors worthily. The more thoroughly we lay the groundwork, the better we shall be able, it may be said, to enjoy the authors. True, if time were not so short, and schoolboys' wits not so soon tired and their power of attention exhausted; only, as it is, the elaborate philological preparation goes on, but the authors are little known and less enjoyed. So with the investigator of ' historic origins' In poetry. He ought to enjoy the true classic all the better for his investigations; he often is distracted from the enjoyment of the best, and with the less good he overbusies himself, and is prone to overrate it in proportion to the trouble which it has cost him. The idea of tracing historic origins and historical relation- ships cannot be absent from a compilation like the present. And naturally the poets to be exhibited in it will be assigned to those persons for exhibition who are known to prize them highly, rather than to those who have no special inclination towards them. Moreover the very occupation with an author, and the business of exhibiting him, disposes us to affirm and amplify his importance. In the present work, therefore, we are sure of frequent temptation to adopt the historic estimate, or the personal estimate, and to forget the real estimate; which latter, nevertheless, we .must employ if we are to make poetry yield us its full benefit. So high is that benefit, the benefit of clearly feeling and of deeply enjoying the really excellent, the truly classic in poetry, that we do well, I say, to set it fixedly before our minds as our object in studying poets and poetry, and to make the desire of attaining it the one prin- ciple to which, as the Imitation says, whatever we may read or come to know, we always return. Cum multa legeris et cognoveris, ad unum semper oportei redire principium. xxiv THE ENGLISH POETS. The historic estimate is likely in especial to affect our judgment and our language when we are dealing with ancient poets ; the personal estimate when we are dealing with poets our contemporaries, or at any rate modern. The exaggerations due to the historic estimate are not in themselves, perhaps, of very much gravity. Their report hardly enters the general ear ; probably they do not always impose even on the literary men who adopt them. But they lead to a dangerous abuse of lan- guage. So we hear Caedmon, amongst our own poets, com- pared to Milton. I have already noticed the enthusiasm of one accomplished French critic for ' historic origins.' Another eminent French critic, M. Vitet, comments upon that famous document of the early poetry of his nation, the Chanson de Jtoland. It is indeed a most interesting document. ^The joculator or jongleur Taillefer, who was with William the Con- queror's army at Hastings, marched before the Norman troops, so said the tradition, singing ' of Charlemagne and of Roland and of Oliver, and of the vassals who died at Roncevaux ; ' and it is suggested that in the Chanson de Roland by one Turoldus or The'roulde, a poem preserved in a manuscript of the twelfth century in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, we have certainly the matter, perhaps even some of the words, of the chaunt which Taillefer sang. The poem has vigour and freshness; it is not without pathos. But M. Vitet is not satisfied with seeing in it a document of some poetic value, and of very high historic and linguistic value; he sees in it a grand and beautiful work, a monument of epic genius. In its general design he finds the grandiose conception, in its details he finds the constant union of simplicity with greatness, which are the marks, he truly says, of the genuine epic, and distinguish it from the artificial epic of literary ages. One thinks of Homer; this is the sort of praise which is given to Homer, and justly INTRODUCTION: xxv given. Higher praise there cannot well be, and it is the praise due to epic poetry of the highest order only, and to no other. Let us try, then, the Chanson de Roland at its best. Roland, mortally wounded, lays himself down under a pine-tree, with his face turned towards Spain and the enemy : De plusurs choses & remembrer li prist, De tantes teres cume li bers cunquist, De dulce France, des humes de sun lign, De Carlemagne sun seignor ki 1'nurrit 1 .' That is primitive work, I repeat, with an undeniable poetic quality of its own. It deserves such praise, and such praise is sufficient for it. But now turn to Homer: *Cis <(>&TO' TOVS 5' fify Ko.rtx.fv vi\ri tv varpiSi fa'ty t . We are here in another world, another order of poetry alto- gether ; here is rightly due such supreme praise as that which M. Vitet gives to the Chanson de Roland. If our words are to have any meaning, if our judgments are to have any solidity, we must not heap that supreme praise upon poetry of an order immeasurably inferior. Indeed there can be no more useful help for discovering what poetry belongs to the class of the truly excellent, and can therefore do us most good, than to have always in one's mind lines and expressions of the great masters, and to apply them as a touchstone to other poetry. Of course we are not to require this other poetry to resemble them; it may be very 1 'Then began he to call many things to remembrance, all the lands which his valour conquered, and pleasant France, and the men of his lineage, and Charlemagne his liege lord who nourished him.' Chanson de Roland, iii. 939-942. * 'So said she ; they long since in Earth's soft arms were reposing, There, in their own dear land, their father land, Lacedsemon.' Iliad, iii. 243-4 (translated by Dr. Hawtrey). xxvi THE ENGLISH POETS. dissimilar. But if we have any tact we shall find them, when we have lodged them well in our minds, an infallible touch- stone for detecting the presence or absence of high poetic quality, and also the degree of this quality, in all other poetry which we may place beside them. Short passages, even single lines, will serve our turn quite sufficiently. Take the two lines which I have just quoted from Homer, the poet's comment on Helen's mention of her brothers ; or take his *A ZiX; vptts 9' laruv T*poi> *at tmovbatorepov). Let us add, therefore, to what we have said, this : that the substance and matter of the best poetry acquire their special character from possessing, in an eminent degree, truth and seriousness. We may add yet further, what is in itself evident, that to the style and manner of the best poetry their special character, their accent, is given by their diction, and, even yet more, by their movement. And though we distinguish between the two characters, the two accents, of superiority, yet INTRODUCTION. xxix they are nevertheless vitally connected one with the other. The superior character of truth and seriousness, in the matter and substance of the best poetry, is inseparable from the supe- riority of diction and movement marking its style and manner. The two superiorities are closely related, and are in steadfast proportion one to the other. So far as high poetic truth and seriousness are wanting to a poet's matter and substance, so far also, we may be sure, will a high poetic stamp of diction and movement be wanting to his style and manner. In propor- tion as this high stamp of diction and movement, again, is absent from a poet's style and manner, we shall find, also, that high poetic truth and seriousness are absent from his substance and matter. So stated, these are but dry generalities ; their whole force lies in their application. And I could wish every student of poetry to make the application of them for himself. Made by himself, the application would impress itself upon his mind far more deeply than made by me. Neither will my limits allow me to make any full application of the generalities above propounded; but in the hope of bringing out, at any rate, some significance in them, and of establishing an important principle more firmly by their means, I will, in the space which remains to me, follow rapidly from the commencement the course of our English- poetry with them in my view. Once more I return to the early poetry of France, with which our own poetry, in its origins, is indissolubly connected. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, that seed-time of all modern language and literature, the poetry of France had a clear pre- dominance in Europe. Of the two divisions of that poetry, its productions in the langue d'oil and its productions in the langue d'oc, the poetry of the langue d'oc, of southern France, of the troubadours, is of importance because of its effect on XXX THE ENGLISH POETS. Italian literature; the first literature of modern Europe to strike the true and grand note, and to bring forth, as in Dante and Petrarch it brought forth, classics. But the predominance of French poetry in Europe, during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, is due to its poetry of the lattgue d'oil, the poetry of northern France and of the tongue which is now the French language. In the twelfth century the bloom of this romance- poetry was earlier and stronger in England, at the court of our Anglo-Norman kings, than in France itself. But it was a bloom of French poetry; and as our native poetry formed itself, it formed itself 'out of this. The romance-poems which took possession of the heart and imagination of Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries are French ; ' they are,' as Southey justly says, ' the pride of French literature, nor have we anything which can be placed in competition with them.' Themes were supplied from all quarters ; but the romance- setting which was common to them all, and which gained the ear of Europe, was French. This constituted for the French poetry, literature and language, at the height of the Middle Age, an unchallenged predominance. The Italian Brunette Latini, the master of Dante, wrote his Treasure in French because, he says, ' la parleure en est plus delitable et plus commune a toutes gens.' In the same century, the thirteenth, the French romance-writer, Christian of Troyes, formulates the claims, in chivalry and letters, of France, his native country, as follows : 4 Or vous ert par ce livre apris, Que Gresse ot de chevalerie Le premier los et de clergie; Puis vint chevalerie a Rome, Et de la clergie la some, Qui ore est en France venue. Diex doinst qu'ele i soit retenue, Et que li lius li abelisse Tant que de France n'isse L'onor qui s'i est aresteel* INTRODUCTION. xxxi ' Now by this book you will learn that first Greece had the renown for chivalry and letters ; then chivalry and the primacy in letters passed to Rome, and now it is come to France. God grant it may be kept there; and that the place may please it so well, that the honour which has come to make stay in France may never depart thence ! ' Yet it is now all gone, this French romance-poetry, of which the weight of substance and the power of style are not unfairly represented by this extract from Christian of Troyes. Only by means of the historic estimate can we persuade ourselves now to think that any of it is of poetical importance. But in the fourteenth century there comes an Englishman nourished on this poetry, taught his trade by this poetry, getting words, rhyme, metre from this poetry; for even of that stanza which the Italians used, and which Chaucer derived immediately from the Italians, the basis and suggestion was probably given in France. Chaucer (I have already named him) fascinated his contemporaries, but so too did Christian of Troyes and Wolfram of Eschenbach. Chaucer's power of fascination, however, is enduring; his poetical importance does not need the assistance of the historic estimate, it is real. He is a genuine source of joy and strength which is flowing still for us and will flow always. He will be read, as time goes on, far more generally than he is read now. His language is a cause of difficulty for us ; but so also, and I think in quite as great a degree, is the language of Burns. In Chaucer's case, as in that of Burns, it is a difficulty to be unhesitatingly accepted and overcome. If we ask ourselves wherein consists the immense superiority of Chaucer's poetry over the romance-poetry, why it is that in passing from this to Chaucer we suddenly feel ourselves to be in another world, we shall find that his superiority is both in the substance of his poetry and in the style of his poetry. xxxii THE ENGLISH POETS. His superiority in substance is given by his large, free, simple, clear yet kindly view of human life, so unlike the total want, in the romance-poets, of all intelligent command of it. Chaucer has not their helplessness ; he has gained the power to survey the world from a central, a truly human point of view. We have only to call to mind the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales. The right comment upon it is Dry den's : ' It is sufficient to say, according to the proverb, that here is God's plenty' And again : ' He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.' It is by a large, free, sound representation of things, that poetry, this high criticism of life, has truth of substance ; and Chaucer's poetry has truth of substance. Of his style and manner, if we think first of the romance- poetry and then of Chaucer's divine liquidness of diction, his divine fluidity of movement, it is difficult to speak temperately. They are irresistible, and justify all the rapture with which his successors speak of his ' gold dew-drops of speech.' Johnson misses the point entirely when he finds fault with Dryden for ascribing to Chaucer the first refinement of our numbers, and says that Gower also can show smooth numbers and easy rhymes. The refinement of our numbers means something far more than this. A nation may have versifiers with smooth numbers and easy rhymes, and yet may have no real poetry at all. Chaucer is the father of our splendid English poetry, he is our ' well of English undefiled/ because by the lovely charm of his diction, the lovely charm of his movement, he makes an epoch and founds a tradition. In Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, we can follow the tradition of the liquid diction, the fluid movement, of Chaucer; at one time it is his liquid diction of which in these poets we feel the virtue, and at another time it is his fluid movement. And the virtue is irresistible. Bounded as is my space, I must yet find room for an example INTRODUCTION. xxxiii of Chaucer's virtue, as I have given examples to show the virtue of the great classics. I feel disposed to say that a single line is enough to show the charm of Chaucer's verse ; that merely one line like this : ' O martyr souded l in virginitee ! * has a virtue of manner and movement such as we shall not find in all the verse of romance-poetry ; but this is saying nothing. The virtue is such as we shall not find, perhaps, in all English poetry, outside the poets whom I have named as the special inheritors of Chaucer's tradition. A single line, however, is too little if we have not the strain of Chaucer's verse well in our memory ; let us take a stanza. It is from The Prioress's Tale, the story of the Christian child murdered in a Jewry : ' My throte is cut unto my nekke-bone Saide this child, and as by way of kinde I should have deyd, yea, longe time agone; But Jesu Christ, as ye in bookes finde, Will that his glory last and be in minde, And for the worship of his mother dere Yet may I sing O Alma loud and clere.' Wordsworth has modernised this Tale, and to feel how delicate and evanescent is the charm of verse, we have only to read Wordsworth's first three lines of this stanza after Chaucer's : ' My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow, Said this young child, and by the law of kind I should have died, yea, many hours ago.' The charm is departed. It is often said that the power of liquid- ness and fluidity in Chaucer's verse was dependent upon a free, a licentious dealing with language, such as is now impossible ; upon a liberty, such as Burns too enjoyed, of making words like neck, bird, into a dissyllable by adding to them, and words 1 The French soudi; soldered, fixed fast VOL. I. C xxxiv THE ENGLISH POETS. like cause, rhyme, into a dissyllable by sounding the e mute. It is true that Chaucer's fluidity is conjoined with this liberty, and is admirably served by it; but we ought not to say that it was dependent upon it. It was dependent upon his talent Other poets with a like liberty do not attain to the fluidity of Chaucer ; Burns himself does not attain to it. Poets again, who have a talent akin to Chaucer's, such as Shakespeare or Keats, have known how to attain to his fluidity without the like liberty. And yet Chaucer is not one of the great classics. His poetry transcends and effaces, easily and without effort, all the romance- poetry of Catholic Christendom ; it transcends and effaces all the English poetry contemporary with it, it transcends and effaces all the English poetry subsequent to it down to the age of Elizabeth. Of such avail is poetic truth of substance, in its natural and necessary union with poetic truth of style. And yet, I say, Chaucer is not one of the great classics. He has not their accent. What is wanting to him is suggested by the mere mention of the name of the first great classic of Christendom, the immortal poet who died eighty years before Chaucer, Dante. The accent of such verse as In la sua volontade & nostia pace . . .* is altogether beyond Chaucer's reach; we praise him, but we feel that this accent is out of the question for him. It may be said that it was necessarily out of the reach of any poet in the England of that stage of growth. Possibly; but we are to adopt a real, not a historic, estimate of poetry. However we may account for its absence, something is wanting, then, to the poetry of Chaucer, which poetry must have before it can be placed in the glorious class of the best. And there is no doubt what that something is. It is the . That this be soth hath proved and doth yit ; For this, trowe I, ye knowen alle and some, Men reden not that folk han gretter wit Than thei that hath ben most with love ynome"; And strengest folk ben therwith overcome, The worthiest and the grettest of degree ; This was and is, and yit men schal it see. And treweliche it sit wel to be so, For alderwysest han therwith ben plesed, And thai that han ben aldermost in wo, With love han ben conforted most and esed ; And oft it hath the cruel herte apesed, And worthi folk made worthier of name, And causeth most to dreden vice and schame. 1 ' Bay,' a common name for a horse. 2 fellows, steer. 4 therefore. * nature. * taken prisoners. C 2 ao THE ENGLISH POETS. And sith it may not godely ben withstonde, And is a thing so vertuous in kynde, Refuseth not to Love for to ben bonde, Syn, as him selven list, he may yow bynde, The yerde ' is bet that bowen wol and wynde Than that that brest s ; and therfor I yow rede To folowen him that so wel kan yow lede. [Pandarus, the uncle of Criseyde and the friend of Troylus, has told her of Troylus* love. She is left alone, and sees him returning from battle.] With this he tok his leve, and home he wente ; A, Lord ! so he was glad, and wel bygon I Criseyde arcs, no longer she ne stente, But streght into hire closet wente anon, And set hire down, as stille as any ston, And every word gon up and down to wynde, That he hadde seyde, as it come hire to mynde, And wex somdel" astoned in hire thought, Right for the newe cas ; but when that she Was ful avysed, tho fond she right nought Of peril, why she aught afered be : For man may love of possibility A woman so, his herte may to-breste 4 , And she nought love ayeyn, but if hire leste. But as she sat allon and thoughte thus, Ascry aroos at scarmich 6 al withoute, And men cried in the street, ' Se Troilus Hath right now put to flyght the Greke's route.' With that gan al hire meyn ' for to shoute : 1 A ! go we se, caste up the yate's wide, For thorwgh this strete he moot to paleys ryde ; ' 1 wand. ' bursts, breaks. somewhat. break. a battle cry arose. * attendant* CHAUCER. 21 For oother way is to the gates noon, Of Dardanus, ther * open is the cheyne : With that come he, and alle his folk anon, An esy pace rydynge, in routes tweyne, Right as his happy day was 2 , sothe to seyne : For which men seyn may nought distourbed be That shal bytyden of necessite". This Troilus sat on his baye stede Al armed save his hed ful fichely, And wonded was his hors, and gan to blede, On whiche he rood a paas 8 fill softely : But swiche a knyghtly sights trewely As was on hym, was nought, withouten faile, To loke on Mars, that god is of batayle. So like a man of arme's and a knyght, He was to sen, fulfild of heigh prowesse ; For bothe he hadde a body, and a myght To don that thyng, as wele as hardynesse ; And ek to sen hym in his gere hym dresse, So fressh, so yong, so weldy* settled he, It was an heven upon hym for to se. His helm to-hewen was in twenty places, That by a tyssew heng his bak byhynde, His shelde to-dasshed was with swerdes and maces, In which men myghte many an arwe fynde, That thyrled 6 hadde horn, and nerf, and rynde ; And ay the peple criede, ' Here cometh oure joye, And, next his brother, holder up of Troye.' For which he wex a litel rede for schame Whan he the peple upon him herde crien, That to byholde it was a noble game, How sobreliche he caste down his eighen : Criseyd anon gan al his chere aspyen, And leet so softe it in hire herte synken, That to hire self she seyde, ' Who yaf me drynken *?' 1 where. * as though it were a lucky day for him. * at foot's pace. ' wieldy, active. ' pierced (thrilled). who has given me a love-potion? >t THE ENGLISH POETS. For of hire owen thought she wex al rede, Rcmembtynge hire right thus, ' Lo ! this is he, Which that myn uncle swerth he moot be dede, But I on hym have mercy and pit : ' And with that thought, for pure ashamed she Can in hire hed to pullc, and that as faste, While he and al the peple forby paste. And gan to caste, and rollen up and down Within hire thought his excellent prowesse, And his estat, and also his renoun, His wit, his shappe, and ek his gentilnesse ; But moost hire favour was for his distresse Was al for hire, and thought it as a rowthe ' To sleen* swich oon, if that he mente trouthe. Now myghte som envious jangle thus, 'This was a sodeyn love, how myghte it be That she so lightly lovede Troylus, Right for the firste sighte?' Ye, parde"? Now who so seith so, moot he never ythe * ! For every thyng a gynnyng hath it nede Er al be wrought, withouten any drede. For I sey nought that she so sodeynly Yaf hym hire love, but that she gan enclyne To like hym firste, and I have told yow why; And efter that, his manhod and his pyne* Made love withinne hire herte for to myne ; For which by proces, and by goode servysc, He gat hire love, and in no sodeyn wyse. 1 pitf. ilmy. jr-the : sncceed, prosper. * torment. CHAUCER. 83 (Troylus* long courtship is at last rewarded with the love of Criseyde.] soth is seyd, that hele'd for to be, As of a fevere, or other gret syknesse, Men moste drynke, as men may ofte se, Ful bittre drynk : and for to han gladnesse Men drynken of peyne's, and gret distresse : 1 mene it here, as for this aventure, That thorwgh a peyne hath fonden al his cure. And now swetnesse semeth more swete, That bitternesse assayed was byforn ; For out of wo in blisse now they flete, Non swich they felten syn that they were born ; Now is this bet than bothe two be lorn ! For love of God ! take every womman hede, To werken thus, if it cometh to the nede. Criseyde, al quyt from every drede and teene, As she that juste cause hadde hym to triste, Made hym swich feste, it joie was to scene, When she his trouthe and clene entente wiste : And as aboute a tre, with many a twiste, Bytrent and writh 1 the soote wodebynde, Gan ich of hem in arme's other wynde. And as the new abaysed 2 nyghtyngale, That stynteth first, when she bygynneth synge, When that she hereth any herde's tale, Or in the hegges any wight sterynge ; And, after, syker s doth hire vois out rynge ; Right so Criseyde, when hire drede stente, Opned hire herte, and told hym hire entente. 1 entwines and wreathes. * alighted. * sure, clear. S4 THE ENGLISH POETS. And right as he that seth his deth yshapcn, And deyen mot, in aught that he may gesse, And sodeynly rescous doth hym escapen 1 , And from his deth is brought in sykcrncsse ; For al this world, in swich present gladnesse Was Troilus, and hath his lady swete : With worse hap God lat us nevere mete ! In suffisaunce, in blisse, and in syngynges, This Troilus gan al his lyf to lede : He spendeth, jousteth, maketh festeyinges, He yeveth frely ofte, and chaungeth wede* ; He halt aboute hym alway, out of drede, A world of folk, as com hym wel of kynde 8 , The fressheste and the beste he koude fynde That swich a vois was of hym and a neven*, Thorughout the world, of honour and largesse, That it up rong unto the yate of heven ; And as in love he was in swich gladnesse, That in his herte he deme'd, as I gesse, That ther nys lovere in this world at ese, So wel as he, and thus gan love hym plese. The goodlyhed or beautd, which that kynde In any other lady hadde iset, Kan nought the mountaunce qf a knotte unbynde About his herte, of al Criseydes net : He was so narwe ymasked 3 , and yknet, That it undon on any manner syde, That nyl nought ben, for aught that may betide. And by the bond ful oft he wolde take This Pandarus, and into gardyn lede, And swich a feste, and swiche a proces make Hym of Criseyde, and of hire wommanhede, And of hire beaute*, that, withouten drede, makes him free. * dress. * as well suits his nature. 4 name. * enmeshed. CHAUCER. 25 It was an heven his worde's for to here, And thanne he wolde synge in this manere : ' Love \ that of erth and se hath governaunce ! Love, that his hestes hath in heven hyel Love, that with an holsom alliaunce Halt peples joyned, as hym list hem gye * I Love, that knetteth law and compaignye, And couples doth in vertu for to dwelle ! Bynd this acorde, that I have told and telle ! ' That, that the world, with faith which that is stable, Dyverseth so, his stounde's 3 concordynge ; That elementz, that ben so discordable, Holden a bond perpetualy durynge ; That Phebus mot his rosy carte forth brynge, And that the mone hath lordschip over the nyght ; Al this doth Love, ay heryed* be his myghtl 'That, that the se, that gredy is to flowen, Constreyneth to a certeyn ende so Rise flode's, that so fiersly they ne growen To drenchen erth and al for evermo ; And if that Love aught lete his brydel go, Al that now loveth asonder sholde lepe, And lost were al that Love halt now to hepe 5 . ' Soo, wolde Code, that auctour is of kynde *, That with his bond Love, of his vertu, liste To cerclen herte's alle, and faste bynde, That from his bond no wighte the wey out wyste ! And herte's colde, hem wolde I that he twiste, To make hem love, and that hem liste ay rewe On herte's soore, and kepe hem that ben trewe.' 1 This song is paraphrased from Boethius, Cons. 2, met. 8. 1 guide. * times. * praised. * holds together. * nature. 6 THE ENGLISH POETS. [Criseyde is to be sent way to her father Calchas, to the Grecian camp, in exchange for Anterior, who has been taken prisoner. She vows fidelity, and tells Troylus why she loves him, promising to return on the tenth night.] ' For trusteth wel that your estat real, Ne veyn delite, nor oonly worthinesse Of yow in werre or tournay marcial, Ne pomp, array, nobley, or ek richesse, Ne made me to rewe on youre distresse, But moral virtu, grounded upon trowthe, That was the cause I first hadde on yow routhe. 'Eke gentil herte, and manhode that ye hadde, And that ye hadde (as me thought) in despite Every thyng that souned in-to 1 badde, As rudenesse, and poeplish* appetite, And that your reson brideled your delite, This made, aboven every creature, That I was youre, and shal whil I may dure. ' And this may length of yere's nought fordo, Ne remuable fortune deface ; But Juppiter, that of his myght may do The sorwful to be glad, so yeve us grace, Er nyghtes ten to meten in this place, So that it may youre herte and myn suffise ! And fareth now wel, for tyme is that ye rise.' [Troylus wanders about, waiting for Criseyde's return.] And therwithalle, his meynye for to blende *, A cause he fond in towne' for to go, And to Criseydes hous they gonnen wende ; 1 tended towards. * vulgar. ' to deceive his companions. CHAUCER. 27 But Lord ! this sely Troilus was wo ! Hym thoughte his sorwful herte braste atwo ; For when he saugh hire dorres sperred ' alle, Wei neigh for sorwe adoun he gan to falle. Thenvith, when he was ware, and gan biholde, How shet was every wyndow of the place, As frost hym thoughte his herte gan to colde ; For which, with chaunged deedlich pale face, Withouten word, he forth bygan to pace ; And, as God wolde, he gan so faste ryde, That no wight of his contenaunce espyde. Than seyde he thus : * O paleys desolat ! O hous of housses, whilom best yhight I O paleys empty and disconsolat ! O thou lanterne, of which queynt is the light ! O paleys, whilom day, that now art nyght ! Wei oughtestow to falle, and I to dye, Syn she is went that wont was us to gye*. ' O paleys, whilom crowne of houses alle, Enlumyned with sonne of alle blisse ! O rynge, fro which the ruby is out falle \ O cause of wo, that cause has ben of blisse f Yit syn I may no bet*, fayn wolde I kysse Thy colde dore's, dorste I for this route ; And farewel shryne, of which the seint is oute '. Therwith he caste on Pandarus his ye, With chaunged face, and pitous to beholde j And when he myght his tyme aright espye, Ay as he rood, to Pandarus he tolde His newe sorwe, and ek his joyes olde, So pitously, and with so dede an hewe, That every wight myght on his sorwes rewe 1 bolted. * guide. * better. 8 THE ENGLISH POETS. Fro thennes-forth he rydeth up and down, And every thynge com hym to remembraunce, As he rood forth by places of the town, In which he whilom had al his plesaunce : 4 Lo ! yond saugh I myn owen lady daunce ; And in that temple, with hire eye'n clcre, Me caughte first my righte lady deere. 'And yonder have I herd ful lustily My deere hertg laughe ; and yonder pleye Saugh Ich hire oones ek ful blisfully ; And yonder oones to me gan she seye, 1 Now goodg swete ! love me wel, I preye ; And yond so gladly gan she me beholde, That to the deth myn herte is to hir holde, 'And at that corner in the yonder hous, - Herde I myn alderlevest 1 lady deere, So wommanly, with vois melodyous, ^* Syngen so wel, so goodely and so clere, That in my soulg yit me thynkth I here The blisful sown ; and in that yonder place My lady first me took unto hire grace.' Than thought he thus, ' Q blisful lord Cupide ! When I the processe havefal] in mem6rie, How thow me hast werreyed s on every syde, Men myght a book make of it lyk a storie ! What nede is thee to seke on me victdrie, Syn I am thyn, and holly at thi wille ? What joye hastow thyn owen folk to spille? 'Wel hastow, lord, ywroke on me thyn ire, Thow myghty god ! and dredeful for to greve ! Now mercy, god ! thow woost wel I desire Thy grace moost, of allg lustgs leeve * ! And lyve and dye I wol in thy beleve ; For which I naxe 4 in guerdon but a boone, That thow Criseyde ayein me sende soone. * l*kt beloved. * made war on. * dear pleasures ' ask not CHAUCER. 20 'Destreyne hire herte as faste to retourne, ,, As thow doost myn to longen hire to see ; Than woot I wel that she nyl naught sojourne : Now blisful lord ! so cruwel thow ne be Unto the blod of Troye, I preye the, As Juno was unto the blod Thebane, For which the folk of Thebes caughte hire bane.' And efter this he to the yate's wente, Ther as Criseyde out rood a ful good pas, And up and doun ther made he many a wente, And to himself ful ofte he seyde, ' Alias ! Fro henne's rood my blisse and my solas ! As wolde blisful God now for his joye, I myght hire seen ayein com into Troye ! 'And to the yonder hille I gan hire gyde ; Alias ! and ther I took of hire my leeve ; And yond I saugh hire to hire fader ryde, For sorwe of which myn herte shal to-cleve ; And hider horn I com when it was eve ; And here I dwelle, out-cast from alle joye, And shal, til I may seen her eft L in Troye.' And of hym-self ymagyned he ofte, To be defet 2 , and pale, and waxen lesse Than he was wont, and that men seyde softe, ' What may it be ? who kan the sothe gesse, Why Troylus hath al this hevynesse ? ' And al this nas, but his melencolye, That he hadde of hym-self swich fantasye. Another tyme ymagynen he wolde, That every wyght that wente by the weye Hadde of him routhe, and that they seyen sholde, 'I am right sory, Troilus wol deye.' And thus he drof a day yit forth or tweye, As ye han herd ; swich lyf right gan he lede, As he that stood bitwixen hope and drede. 1 again. 2 cast down. 30 THE ENGLISH POETS. For which hyin liked in his songgs shewe Thcncheson ' of his wo, as he best myghte, And made a song of wordcs but a fewe, Somwhat his woful hcrtc for to lighte : And when he was from every manniis sighte, With softfi vois, he of his lady dcere, That absent was, gan synge as ye may here. 'O sterre, of which I lost have al the lighte, With herte soore wel oughte I to bewaylle, That ever derk in tormente, nyght by nyghtfi, Towarde my deth, with wynde in steere a I saylle ; For which the tenthe nyght if that I faile The gidynge of thi bemes brighte an houre, My ship and me Caribdes wol devoure.' This songe when he thus songen hadde soone He fel ayein into his sikes 3 olde ; And every nyght, as was his wone to doone, He stood, the bryghte mone to beholde ; And al his sorwe he to the moone tolde, And seyde, 'Iwis, when thow art horned newe I shal be glad, if al the world be trewe. 4 1 saugh thyn homes olde ek by the morwe, Whan henne's rood my righte lady deere, That cause is of my torment and my sorwe ; For which, O bryghte Lucina the cleere ! For love of God ! renne fast aboute thy spere 4 ; For when thyn homes newe gynnen sprynge, Than shal she come that may my blisse brynge.' The day is moore, and longer ever nyght Than they ben wont to be, hym thoughte tho ; And that the sonne wente his course unright, By longer weye than it was wont to go ; And seyde, 'Iwis, me dredeth everemo The sonnes sone, Pheton, be on lyve 5 , And that his fader cart amys he dryve.' 1 the cause. with a fair wind. ' sighing. ' sphere. ' alive. CHAUCER. 31 Upon the walles fast ek wolde he walke, And on the Grekes oost 1 he wolde se ; And to hymself right thus he wolde talke : ' Lo, yonder is myn owen lady free, Or elles yonder, ther the tente's bee, And thennes comth this eyr that is so soote*, That in my soule I feele it doth me boote. 'And hardyly, this wynd that moore and moore Thus stoundemele 3 encresseth in my face, Is of my ladys depe syke's sore ; I preve it thus, for in noon other place Of al this town, save oonly in this space, Feele I no wynd that souneth so lyke peyne ; It seith 'Alias! whi twynned be we tweyne?' This longe tyme he dryveth forth right thus, Til fully passed was the nynthe nyght ; And ay bysyde hym was this Pandarus, That bisily dide al his fulle myght Hym to confort, and make his herte light ; Yevynge hym hope alwey, the tenthe morwe That she shal come, and stenten al his sorwe. [Criseyde, in her father's tent, is wooed by Diomede, and gradually yields to him.] Retournynge in hir soule ay up and doun The worde's of this sodeyn Diomede, His gret estate, and peril of the town, And that she was allon, and hadde nede Of frendes help ; and thus bygan to brede * The cause whi, the sothe for to telle, That sche tok fully purpos for to dwelle 8 . best. * sweet. * from time to time. * to arise. * to remain with her father, instead of returning to Troy. THE ENGLISH POETS. The morwe com, and gostly for to speke, This Diomede is com unto Criseyde ; And shortly, lest that ye my talg breke, So wel he for hymselfe spak and seydc, That alle hire syki-s soore adown he layde ; And finaly, the sothe for to seyne, He refte hire of the grete of al hire peyne. And efter this, the storie telleth us, That she him yaf the fairii bayg steede, The which she ones wan of Troilus ; And eke a broch (and that was litel nede) That Troilus l was, she yaf this Diomede ; And ek the bet from sorw hyra to releve, She made hym were a pensel * of hire sieve I fynde ek in storyes elleswhere, When thorugh the body hirt was Dyomede Of Troilus, tho weep she many a teere, When that she saugh hise wyde woundes blede, And that she took to kepen hym good hede, And for to hele hym of his sorwes smerte, Men seyn, I not *, that she yaf hym hire herte. But trewelyche, the storye telleth us, Ther made never womman more wo Than she, when that she falsede Troylus ; She seyde, 'Alias! for now is clene ago 4 My name of trouthe in love for evermo ; For I have falsed oon the gentileste That evere was, and oon the worthieste. ' Alias ! of me unto the worldes ende Shal neither ben ywriten nor ysonge No good word, for thise boke's wol me shende': Trolled schal I ben on many a tonge ; Thorughout the world my belle schal be ronge ; Troilui't. pennoncel (made). ne wot -know not. gone. rain CHAUCER. 33 And wommen most wol haten me of alle ; Alias ! that swich a cas me sholde falle ! 'They wol seyn, in as muche as in me is, I have hem don dishonoure, walaway ! Al be I not the firste that dide amys, What helpeth that to don my blame away? But syn I se ther is no better way, And that to late is now for me to rewe, To Dyomede algate l I wol be trewe. 'But, Troilus, syn I no better may, And syn that thus departen ye and I, Yet preye I God so yeve yow right good day; As for the gentileste trewely, That evere I say 2 , to serven faithfully, And best kan ay his lady honour kepe ;' And with that word she braste anon to wepe. 'And certes, yow to haten shal I nevere, And frendes love, that shal ye han of me, And my good word, al shold I lyven evere ; And trewely I wol right sory be, For to sen yow in adversitd ; And giltelees I wot wel I yow leeve, And al shal passe, and thus tak I my leve.' But trewely how longe it was betweyne, That she forsok hym for this Dyomede, Ther is non auctour telleth it, I wene ; Tak every man now to his boke's hede, He shal no time fynden, out of drede ; For though that he bigan to wowe 3 hire soone, Er he hire wan, yet was ther more to doone. Ne me ne list this sely womman chyde Ferther than the storie wol devyse ; Hire name, alias ! is publyshed so wyde, That for hire gilte it ought ynough suffise ; And if I myght excuse hire any wyse, 1 always, anyhow. a saw. * woo. VOL. I. D 34 THE ENGUSH POETS. For she so sory was for hire untrouthe, Iwis I wold excuse hire yet for routhe, [Trojlus discovers Criseyde's infidelity, and meets his death, fighting desperately.] The wrath, as I bigan yow for to seye, Of Troilus, the Grekes boughten deere ; For thousandths his hondcs maden dye, As he that was withouten any peere, Save Ector in his tyme, as I lean here ; But, walawey ! save only Godde's wille, Dispitously hym slough the fiers Achille. And when that he was slayn in this manere. His lighte gost ful blisfully is went Up to the holownesse of the seventh spere, In convers letynge everych element 1 ; And ther he saugh, with ful avysement, The erratyk sterres, herkenynge armonye, With sownes ful of hevenyssh melodye. And down from thennes faste he gan avyse This litel spot of erth, that with the se Embraced is ; and fully gan despise This wreched world, and held al vanyte^ To respect of the pleyn felicit That is in hevene above : and at the laste, Ther he was slayn, his lokyng down he caste. And in hymself he lough right at the wo Of hem that wepten for his deth so faste, And dampned al our werk that folweth so The blynde lust, the which that may not laste, And sholden al our herte on hevene caste ; 1 From the seventh or uttermost heaven all the others would appear convex, or convert. CHAUCER. 35 And forth he wente, shortly for to telle, Ther as Mercuric sorted hym to dwelle. Swich fyn 1 hath, lo! this Troilus for love! Swich fyn hath al his grete worthynesse! Swich fyn hath his estat real 2 above ! Swich fyn his lust, swich fyn hath his noblesse ! Swich fyn hath false worldes brotelnesse 8 ! And thus bigan his lovynge of Cryseyde, As I have told, and in this wise he deyde. O yonge fresshe folke's, he or she, In which that love up groweth with your age, Repeireth* horn fro worldly vanyte", And of your herte up casteth the visage To thilke God, that after his ymage Yow made, and thynketh al nys but a faire, This world that passeth soon, as floures faire. And loveth hym the which that, right for love, Upon a crois, our soules for to beye, First starf 6 and roos, and sit 6 in heven above, For he nyl falsen no wight, dar I seye, That wol his herte al holly on hym leye; And syn he best to love is, and most meke, What nedeth feyned loves for to seke? Lo ! here of payens cursed olde rites ! Lo! here what alle hire godde's may availle ! Lo ! here this wreched worldes appetites ! Lo ! here the fyn and guerdon for travaille, Of Jove, Apollo, of Mars, and swich rascaille ! Lo ! here the forme of olde clerkes speche In poetrie, if ye hire bokes seche. 1 end. * royal. * brittleness. * Repair ye. * died. sits. D 2 36 THR ENGLISH POETS. THE PARLEMENT OF FOULES. [Chaucer dreams that he sees the birds assembled on St. Valentine's Day to choose their mates, the Goddess Nature presiding. Among the mates is a formel, or female eagle, wooed by three tercels : the formel being probably Anne of Bohemia, and the tercel royal King Richard II.] And in a launde, upon an hille of flourcs, Was set this noble goddesse" Nature ; Of braunches were hir hallos and hir boures Ywrought, after hir crafte and hir mesure ; Ne ther nas fowl that cometh of engendrure, That there ne were prest 1 , in hir presence, To take hir dome 8 , and yeve hir audience. There myghtg men the royal egle fynde, That with his sharpe look perceth the Sonne ; And other egles of a lower kynde, Of which that clerkes wel devysen konne ; There was the tiraunt with his fethres donne And grey, I mene the goshauke that doth pyne* To briddes, for his outrageous ravyne. The gent faucoun *, that with his feet distreyneth The kynges bond ; the hardy sperhauk eke, The quayles foo ; the merlyon that peyneth Hymself ful ofte the larke for to seke ; There was the dowve, with hir eye'n meke ; The jalouse swanne, ayens 6 hys deth that syngeth The owle eke, that of dethe the bode bryngeth. 1 ready. ' judgment. * causes torment. ' the peregrine. ' against. CHAUCER. 37 The crane the geaunt, with his trompes soune : The thefe the chough, and eke the janglyng pye ; The scornyng jay, the eles foo the heroune ; The false lapwyng, ful of trecherye ; The stare, that the counseyl kan bewrye 1 ; The tame ruddok 2 , and the coward kyte ; The cok, that orlogge ys of thropes lyte*. The sparow, Venus sone, and the nyghtyngale That clepeth forth the fresshe leves newe : The swalow, mordrer of the bees smale, That maken hony of floures fressh of hewe ; The wedded turtel, with hys herte trewe ; The pecok, with his aungels fethers bryghte ; The fesaunt, scorner of the cok by nyghte. The waker* goos, the cukkow ever unkynde, The papinjay, ful of delycacye ; The drake, stroyer of his owen kynde ; The storke, wreker of avowterie ; The hoote cormeraunt, ful of glotonye ; The ravene and the crowe, with voys of care; The throstel old, the frosty feldefare. [The question as to which tercel is to have the formel eagle is referred to the Parliament of Birds. Some of the opinions given are as follows.] The watir foules han her hede's leyd Togedir, and of shorte avysement, Whan everych had hys large golee 5 seyd, They seyden sothly al by on assent, How that the goos, with hir faconde gent*, That soo desireth to pronounce our nede, Shal telle our tale, and preyde to God hir spede. 1 that talks and reveals secrets. ' robin. * that is clock to small villages. * wakeful. B mouthful. * gentle eloquence. 3 8 THE ENGLISH POETS. And for these watir foules tho began The goos to spcke, and in hir cakelynge, She seyde", 4 PCS now, tak kepe * every man, And hcrkneth which a resoun I shal forth bringe ! My wyt ys sharpe, I love no taryinge ! I sey I rede* hym, though he were my brother, But she wol love hym, lat hym love another.' ' Loo ! here a parfyte resoun of a goos ! ' Quod the sperhauke. 'Never mote she thee'l Loo, suche hyt ys to have a tonge loos ! Now pardd, fool, yet were hit bet* for the Have holde thy pes, than shewed thy nycete" ; Hyt lyth not in hys wyt, nor in hys wille ; But sooth ys seyd, a fool kan noght be stille.' The laughtre aroos of gentil foules alle, And ryght anoon the sede-foul 8 chosen hadde The turtel trewe, and ganne hir to hem calle ; And prayden hir to seye the soth sadde Of thys matere, and asked what she radde 6 . And she answerde, that pleynly hir entente She wolde shewe, and sothly what she mente. ' Nay, God forbede a lover shulde chaunge ! ' The turtel seyde, and wex for shame al reed : ' Thoogh that hys lady evermore be straunge, Yet let hym serve hir ever, tyl he be deed. Forsoth, I preyse noght the gooses reed ; For though she deyed, I wolde noon other make 1 ; I wol ben hirs til that the deth me take.' 'Wei bourdedV quod the duke 9 , 'by my hat! That men shulde alwey loven causeles, Who kan a resoun fynde, or wyt in that ? Daunceth he murye 10 that ys murtheles ? Who shulde rechche " of that ys rechcheles ? 1 pay attention. * advise. may she thrive. better. the fowls that feed on grain. advised. T mate. jested. duck. " merrily. u reck, care. CHAUCER. 39 Ye ! quek ! yet,' quod the duke, ' wel and faire ! There ben moo sterres, God woot, than a paire.' 1 Now fy, cherl ! ' quod the gentil tercelet, ' Out of the dunghil com that word ful ryght ; Thou kanst noght see which thing is wel beset ; Thou farest be love as owle's doon by lyght, The day hem blent, ful wel they see by nyght ; Thy kynde ys of so lowe a wrechednesse, That what love is thou kanst not see ne gesse.' Thoo gan the cukkow put hym forth in pres l For foule that eteth worm, and seyde blyve 2 : ' So I, 5 quod he, ' may have my make in pes, I reche not how longe that ye strive. Lat ech of hem be soleyn al her lyve, This ys my reed, syne they may not acorde ; This shorte lessoun nedeth noght recorde.' ' Yee, have the glotoun fild ynogh hys paunche, Thanne are we wel ! ' seyde the merlyoun s : ' Thou mordrere of the haysogge 4 on the braunche That broghte the forth ! thou rewful glotoun ! Lyve thou soleyn, worme's corrupcioun ! For no fors ys of lak of thy nature 8 ; Goo, lewe'd be thou while the world may dure ! ' ' Now pes,' quod Nature, ' I commaunde here, For I have herd al your opynioun, And in effect yet be we never the nere ; But fynally, this ys my conclusioun, That she hir self shal have the eleccioun Of whom hir lyst, who-so be wrooth or blythe ; Hym that she cheest 6 , he shal ban hir as switheV 1 among the crowd. " quickly. * the merlin. * hedge-sparrow, failure of thy whole species would not matter. chooses. 7 swillly. 40 THE ENGLISH POETS. THE Hous OF FAME. [Chaucer dreams that he is carried up by an eagle to the House of Fame, midway between heaven, earth, and sea. The eagle thus explains why Jove does him this honour.] 'But er I here thee moche ferre 1 , I wol thee telle what I am, And whider thou shalt, and why I cam To do thys, so that thou [thee] take Good herte, and not for fere quake.' 'Gladly,' quod I. 'Now wel,' quod he: 'First, I, that in my feet have thee, Of which thou hast a fere and wonder, Am dwellyng with the god of thonder, Whiche that men callen Jupiter, That dooth me flee ful ofte fer To do al hys comaundemenL And for this cause he hath me sent To thee : now herke, be thy trouthe 1 Certeyn he hath of thee routhe, That thou so longe trewely Hast served so ententyfly* Hys blynde nevew s Cupido, And faire Venus also, Withoute guerdoun ever yit, And nevertheles hast set thy wit, (Although [that] in thy hede ful lyt is) To make songe's, bokes, and dytees, In ryme, or elle's in cadence, As thou best conne, in reverence Of Love, and of hys servantes eke, That have hys servyse soght, and seke ; 1 further. attentively. grandson (nepos). CHAUCER. 4 And peynest the to preyse hys art, Although thou haddest never part ; Wherfore, al-so God me blesse, J oves halt l hyt gret humblesse, And vertu eke, that thou wolt make A nyght ful ofte thyn hede to ake, In thy studye so thou writest, And evermo of love enditest, In honour of hym and preysynges, And in his folke's furtherynges, And in hir matere al devisest, And noght hym nor his folk dispisest, Although thou maist goo in the daunce Of hem that hym lyst not avaunce. Wherfore, as I seyde, ywys, Jupiter considereth this ; And also, beausir, other thynges ; That is, that thou hast no tydynges Of Love's folke, yf they be glade, Ne of noght elles that God made ; And noght oonly fro fer contree, That ther no tydyng cometh to thee, Not of thy verray neyghebores, That dwellen almost at thy dores, Thou herest neyther that nor this, For when thy labour doon al ys, And hast made al thy rekenynges, Instede of reste and newe thynges, Thou goost home to thy house anoon, And, also 2 domb as any stoon, Thou sittest at another booke, Tyl fully dasewyd 3 ys thy looke, And lyvest thus as an heremyte, Although thyn abstynence ys lyte. And therfore Jove's, through hys grace, Wol that I bere thee to a place, Which that hight the Hous of Fame, To do thee som disport and game, 1 holds, deems. 2 quite as. 8 dazed. 41 THE ENGLISH POETS. In som recompcnsacioun Of labour and devocioun That thou hast had, loo ! causclcs, To Cupido the rechchclcs. PROLOGUE TO THE LEGENDE OF GOODE WOMEN. [The poet loves books, but loves the daisy more.] And as for me, though than I kon but lyte 1 , On bokes for to rede I me delyte, And to hem yive I feyth and ful credence, And in myn herte have hem in reverence So hertely, that ther is game noon That fro my bokes maketh me to goon, But yt be seldom on the holy day, Save, certeynly, when that the moneth of May Is comen, and that I here the foule's synge, And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, Farewel my boke, and my devocioun ! Now have I than suche a condicioun, That of alle the floures in the mede, Than* love I most thise floures white and rede, Suche as men callen daysyes in her toun. To hem have I so gret affeccioun, As I seyde erst, whan comen is the May, That, in my bed ther daweth 2 me no day, That I nam up and walkyng in the mede, To seen this floure ayein the sonne sprede, Whan it up ryseth erly by the morwe ; That blisful sight softeneth al my sorwe, So glad am I, whan that I have presence Of it, to doon it alle reverence, As she that is of alle floures flour, Fulfilled of al vertue and honour, 1 little. Then. dmwneth. CHAUCER. 43 And ever ilike l faire, and fressh of hewe. And I love it, and ever ylike newe, And ever shal, til that myn herte dye ; Al swere I nat 2 of this I wol nat lye, Ther lovede no wight hotter in his lyve. And, whan that hit ys eve, I renne blyve 3 , As sone as ever the sonne gynneth weste, To seen this flour, how it wol go to reste, For fere of nyght, so hateth she derknesse ! Hire chere is pleynly sprad in the brightnesse Of the sonne, for ther yt wol unclose. Alias, that I ne had Englyssh, ryme, or prose, Suflfisant this flour to preyse aryght ! But helpeth, ye that han konnyng and myght, Ye lovers, that kan make of sentement ; In this case oghten ye be diligent, To forthren me somwhat in my labour, Whethir ye ben with the leef or with the flour 4 , For wel I wot, that ye han herbiforn Of makynge ropen 6 , and lad awey the corn ; And I come after, glenyng here and there, And am ful glad yf I may fynde an ere Of any goodly word that ye han left. And thogh it happen me rehercen eft That ye han in your fresshe songe's sayd, Forbereth me, and beth not evil apayd 8 , Syn that ye see I do yt in the honour Of love, and eke in service of the flour, Whom that I serve as I have wit or myght She is the clerenesse and the verray lyght, That in this derke worlde me wynt 7 and ledyth, The hert in-with my sorwful brest yow dredith, And loveth so sore, that ye ben verrayly The maistresse of my wit, and nothing I. My word, my werkes, ys knyt so in your bond That, as an harpe obeieth to the hond 1 alike. " Though I swear not. * run quickly. * See the introduction to the poem of that name, p. 84. 5 reaped the fruit of poetry. be not ill pleased. T winds, turns. 44 THE ENGLISH POETS. That maketh it soune after his fyngerynge, Ryght so mowe * ye outc of myn herte" bringc Swich vois, ryght as yow lyst, to laughe or pleyne ; Be ye myn gide, and lady sovereyne. As to my erthely God, to yow I calle, Bothe in this werke, and in my sorwes alle. [He falls asleep, and dreams that he sees the God of Love leading in Queen Alcestis, clad like the daisy.] Whan that the sonne out of the south gan weste, And that this flour gan close, and goon to rcste, For derknesse of the nyght, the which she dredde, Home to myn house ful swiftly I me spedde To goon to reste, and erly for to ryse, To seen this flour sprede, as I devyse. And in a litel herber that I have, That benched was on turves fresshe ygrave, I bad men sholde me my couche make ; For deyntee of the newe someres sake 1 , I bad hem strawen floures on my bed. Whan I was leyd, and had myn eyen hed*, I fel on slepe, in-with an houre or twoo, Me mette 4 how I lay in the medewe thoo *, To seen this flour that I love so and drede ; And from a-fer come walkyng in the mede The God of Love, and in his hande a quene, And she was clad in real ' habit grene ; A fret of gold she hadde next her heer, And upon that a whit coroune she beer, With flourouns smale, and [that] I shal nat lye, For al the world ryght as a dayesye Ycorouned ys with whitg leves lyte 7 , So were the flowrouns of hire coroune white ; For of oo * perlg, fyne, oriental, Hire white coroune was imaked al, can. ' for the sake of the rarity of the new summer. hid. ' I dreamed. * then. ' royal. "' little ' one. CHAUCER. 45 For which the white coroune above the grene Made hire lyke a dayesie for to sene, Considered eke hir fret of golde above. Yclothed was this myghty God of Love In silke, enbrouded ful of grene greves 1 , In-with a fret of rede rose leves, The fresshest syn the world was first begonne. His gilte here was coroned with a sonne In stede of gold, for hevynesse and wyghte * ; Therwith me thoght his face shoon so brighte That wel unnethes ' myghte I him beholde ; And in his hand me thoghte I saugh him holde Twoo firy dartes, as the glede's * rede, And aungelyke hys wynge's saugh I sprede. And, al be that men seyn that blynd ys he, Algate me thoghte that he myghte se ; For sternely on me he gan byholde, So that his loking dooth myn herte colde. And by the hande he held this noble quene, Coroned with white, and clothed al in grene, So womanly, so be'nigne, and so meke, That in this world, thogh that men wolde seke, Half of hire beaute" shulde men nat fynde In creature that formed ys by kynde 5 . And therfore may I seyn, as thynketh me, This song in preysyng of this lady fre. Hyde, Absalon, thy gilte tresses clere ; Ester, ley thou thy mekenesse al adown ; Hyde, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere ; Penelopee, and Marcia Catoun 6 , Make of your wifhode no comparysoun ; Hyde ye your beautes, Ysoude 7 and Eleyne, My lady comith, that al this may disteyne*. 1 groves: 'embroidered with green branches.' 1 because gold would be heavy. * scarcely. * sparks. * nature. ' i. e. wife of Cato. * Iseult. * stain ; make foul by comparison. 46 THE ENGLISH POETS. Thy fairg body lat yt nat appere, Lavync ; and thou Lucresse of Rome toune, And Polixene, that boghten love so dere, And Clcopatre, with al thy passyoun, Hyde ye your trouthe of love, and your renoun, And thou, Tesbe", that hast of love suche peyne, My lady comith, that al this may disteyne. Hero, Dido, Laudomia, alle yfere 1 , And Phillis, hangyng for thy Demophoun, And Canace, espied by thy chere 2 , Ysiphile betraysed with Jasoun, Maketh of your trouthe neyther boost ne soun, Nor Ypermystre, or Adriane", ye tweyne, My lady cometh, that all this may dysteyne. THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES. Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote The drought of Marche had perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour, Of which vertue engendred is the flour ; Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breethe Enspired hath in every holte and heethe The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours i-ronne, And smale fowle's maken melodic, That slepen al the night with open eye, So priketh hem nature in here corages*: Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, And palmers for to seeken straunge strondes, To ferne halwes, kouthe * in sondry londes ; And specially, from every schires ende Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 1 together. * discovered by thy look. Ariadne. * their hearts. * distant saints, known. CHAUCER. 47 The holy blisful martir for to seeke, That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke 1 . Byfel that, in that sesoun on a day, In South werk at the Tabard as I lay, Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, At night was come into that hostelrye Wei nyne and twenty in a compainye, Of sondry folk, by aventure i-falle In felaweschipe, and pilgryms were thei alle, That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde ; The chambres and the stables weren wyde, And wel we weren esed atte beste 3 . And schortly, whan the sonne was to reste, So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, That I was of here felaweschipe anon, And made forward erly for to ryse, To take our wey ther as I yow devyse. But natheles, whil I have tyme and space, Or* that I forther in this tale pace, Me thinketh it acor daunt to resoun, To telle yow al the condicioun Of eche of hem, so as it semede me, And whiche they weren, and of what degre ; And eek in what array that they were inne : And at a knight than wol I first bygynne. A KNIGHT ther was, and that a worthy man, That from the tyme that he first bigan To ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye, Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye. Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, And therto hadde he riden, noman ferre *, As wel in Cristendom as in hethenesse, And evere honoured for his worthinesse. At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne, Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bygonne 5 1 sick. * treated in the best way. a Before. * further. 8 Either been served first at table,' or ' begun the tournament.' 48 THE ENGLISH POETS. Aboven allc naciouns in Pruce. In Lettowe hadde he reysed ' and in Ruce, No cristen man so ofte of his degre. In Gernade atte siege hadde he be Of Algesir, and riden in Belmarie. At Lieys was he, and at Satalie, Whan they were wonne ; and in the Greets see At many a noble arive a hadde he be. At mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene, And foughten for our feith at Tramassenc In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. This ilke worthy 'knight hadde ben also Somtyme with the lord of Palatye, Ageyn another hethen in Turkye : And evermore he hadde a sovereyn prys*. And though that he was worthy, he was wys, And of his port as meke as is a mayde. He nevere yit no vileinye ne sayde In al his lyf, unto no maner wight. He was a verray perfight gentil knight. But for to tellen you of his array, His hors was good, but he ne was nought gay. Of fustyan he werede a gepoun 4 Al bysmotered 6 with his habergeoun*. For he was late ycome from his viage, And wente for to doon his pilgrimage. With him ther was his sone, a yong SQUYER, A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler, With lokkes crulle 7 as they were leyd in presse. Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. Of his stature he was of even lengthe, And wonderly delyver 8 , and gret of strengthe. And he hadde ben somtyme in chivachye 9 , In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye, And born him wel, as of so litel space, In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 1 campaigned. * disembarkation. high fame. * tnnic. ' soiled. coat of mail. * curled. * active. military service. CHAUCER. 49 Embrowded was he, as it were a mede Al ful of fresshe floures, white and reede. Syngynge he was, or floytynge ', al the day ; He was as fressh as is the moneth of May. Schort was his goune, with sleeves longe and wyde. Wei cowde he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. He cowde songe's make and wel endite, Juste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and write. So hote he lovede, that by nightertale 2 He sleep nomore than doth a nightyngale. Curteys he was, lowly, and servysable, And carf 8 byforn his fader at the table. A YEMAN hadde he, and servauntz nomoo At that tyme, for him luste * ryde soo ; And he was clad in coote and hood of grene. A shef of pocok arwe's brighte and kene Under his belte he bar ful thriftily. Wel cowde he dresse his takel yemanly ; His arwes drowpede nought with fetheres lowe. And in his hond he bar a mighty bowe. A not-heed 6 hadde he with a broun visage. Of woode-craft wel cowde 6 he al the usage. Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer 7 , And by his side a swerd and a bokeler, And on that other side a gay daggere, Harneysed wel, and scharp as poynt of spere ; A Cristofre on his brest of silver schene. An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene ; A forster 8 was he .sothly, as I gesse. Ther was also a Nonne, a PRIORESSE, That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy ; Hire grettest ooth ne was but by seynt Loy 9 ; And sche was cleped madame Eglentyne. Ful wel sche sang the servise divyne, Entuned in hire nose ful semely; And Frensch sche spak ful faire and fetysly 10 , 1 fluting. 2 night-time. * carved. * it was his pleasure. 5 crop-head. * knew. T guard for the arms. forester. St. Eligius (probably). 10 neatly. VOL. I. E 50 THE ENGLISH POETS. After the scole of Stratford att Bowe, For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe. At mete 1 wel i-taught was sche withalle ; Sche lect no morsel from hire lippes falle, Ne wette hire fyngres in hire sauce deepe. Wel cowde sche carie a morsel, and wel keepc, That no drope ne fille upon hire breste. In curteisie was set ful moche hire leste. Hire overlippe" wypede sche so clene, That in hire cuppe was no ferthing sene Of grece, whan sche dronken hadde hire draughte. Ful semely after hir mete sche raughte ', And sikerly sche was of gret disport, And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port, And peynede hir a to countrefete cheere Of court, and ben estatlich of manere, And to ben holden digne of reverence. But for to speken of hir conscience, Sche was so charitable and so pitous, Sche wolde weepe if that sche saw a mous Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. Of smalg houndes hadde sche, that sche fedde With rosted flessh, or mylk and wastel breed '. But sore weep sche if oon of hem were deed, Or if men smot it with a yerde smerte : And al was conscience and tendre herte. Ful semely hire wympel 4 i-pynched was ; Hir nose tretys 8 ; hir eyen greye as glas ; Hir mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed But sikerly sche hadde a fair forheed. It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe ; For hardily sche was not undergrowe. Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war. Of smal coral aboute hir arm sche bar A peire of bedes gauded 6 al with grene ; And theron heng a broch of gold ful schene, 1 reached. took trouble. * cake (gosteav). * gorget * well shaped. * The gaud tea were the large I Leads. CHAUCER. 51 On which was first i-write a crowned A, And after, Amor "vincit omnia. Another NONNE with hir hadde sche, That was hir chapeleyne, and PRESTES thre. A MONK ther was, a fair for the maistrye ', An out-rydere, that lovede venerye ; A manly man, to ben an abbot able. Ful many a deynte" hors hadde he in stable : And whan he rood, men mighte his bridel heere Gynglen in a whistlyng wynd as cleere, And eek as lowde as doth the chapel belle. Ther as this lord was kepere of the celle, The reule of seynt Maure or of seint Beneyt, Bydause that it was old and somdel streyt, This ilke monk leet olde thinges pace, And held after the newe world the space. He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen 2 , That seith, that hunters been noon holy men ; Ne that a monk, whan he is reccheles 3 Is likned to a fissch that is waterles ; This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre. But thilke text held he not worth an oystre. And I seide his opinioun was good. What * schulde he studie, and make himselven wood 5 , Upon a book in cloystre alway to powre, Or swynke with his hande's, and laboure, As Austyn bit 6 ? How schal the world be served ? Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reserved. Therfor he was a pricasour 7 aright ; Greyhoundes he hadde as swifte as fowe'l in flight ; Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. I saugh his sieves purfiled atte honde With grys 8 , and that the fyneste of a londe. And for to festne his hood under his chynne He hadde of gold y-wrought a curious pynne : 1 to a sovereign degree. * valued it less than a plucked ben. 8 or, resetless, away from his seat or station. 4 why. * mad. 1 bids (biddeth). 7 hunter. * grey fur. E 2 51 THE ENGLISH POETS. A love-knot in the grettere ende ther was. His heed was balled, that schon as eny glas, And eek his face, as he hadde ben anoynt. He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt ; His eyfin steepe 1 , and rollyng in his heede, That stemcdc as a forneys of a leede 1 ; His boote's souple, his hors in gret estat. Now certeinly he was a fair prelat ; He was not pale as a for-pyned* goost A fat swan lovede he best of eny roost. His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. A FRERE there was, a wantown and a merye, A lymytour 4 , a ful solcmpne man. In alle the ordres foure is noon that can So moche of daliaunce and fair langage. He hadde i-mad ful many a manage Of yonge wymmen, at his owe'n cost. Unto his ordre he was a noble post. Ful wel biloved and famulier was he With frankeleyns over-al in his cuntre, And eek with worthy wommen of the toun : For he hadde power of confessioun, As seyde himself, more than a curat, For of his ordre he was licentiat 8 . Ful swetely herde he confessioun, And plesaunt was his absolucioun ; He was an esy man to yeve penaunce Ther as he wiste han * a good pitaunce ; For unto a poure ordre for to yive Is signe that a man is wel i-schrive. For if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt, He wistg that a man was repentaunt. For many a man so hard is of his herte, He may not wepe although him sore smerte, Therfore in stede of wepyng and preyeres, Men moot yive silver to the poure freres. 1 bright. * under a cauldron. * worn out. 4 a begjjar over a certain district. * held a licence from the Pope. * where- i ver he knew he would have. CHAUCER. 53 His typet was ay farsed fill of knyfes And pynnes, for to yive faire wyfes. And certeynly he hadde a mery note ; Wei couthe he synge and pleyen on a rote 1 . Of yeddynges 2 he bar utterly the prys. His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys. Therto he strong was as a champioun. He knew the tavernes wel in every toun, And everych hostiler and tappestere, Bet then a lazer, or a beggestere, For unto such a worthy man as he Acorded not, as by his faculte", To han with sike lazars aqueyntaunce. It is not honest, it may not avaunce, For to delen with no such poraille s , But al with riche, and sellers of vitaille. And overal, ther as profyt schulde arise, Curteys he was, and lowly of servyse. Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous. He was the beste beggere in his hous, For though a widewe hadde noght oo schoo, So plesaunt was. his In przncipio*, Yet wolde he have a ferthing or he wente. His purchas 8 was wel better than his rente. And rage he couthe as it were right a whelpe, In love-dayes 8 couthe he mochel helpe. For ther he was not lik a cloysterer, With a thredbare cope as is a poure scoler, But he was lik a .maister or a pope. Of double worsted was his semy-cope, That rounded as a belle out of the presse. Somwhat he lipsede, lor his wantownesse, To make his Englissch swete upon his tunge ; And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde sunge, His eye'n twynkled in his heed aright, As don the sterres in the frosty night. 1 harp, or fiddle. * songs. * paupers. * St. John i. i, the usual friars' greeting. 8 what he got by begging. days of arbitration. 54 THE ENGLISH POETS. This worthy lymytour was clcped Huberd. A MARCHAUNT was ther with a forked herd, In mottelcyc, and high on hors he sat, Upon his heed a Flaundrisch bevere hat ; His botes elapsed faire and fetysly. His resons he spak ful solempnely, Sownynge alway thencres 1 of his wynnynge. He wolde the see were kept for* eny thinge Betwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. Wei couthe he in eschaunge scheeldes* selle. This worthi man ful wel his wit bisette ; Ther wiste" no wight that he was in dette, So estatly was he of governaunce, With his bargayns, and with his chevysauncc 4 . For sothe he was a worthy man withalle, But soth to sayn, I not how men him calle. A CLERK ther was of Oxenford also, That unto logik hadde longe i-go. As lene was his hors as is a rake, And he was not right fat, I undertake ; But lokede holwe, and therto soberly. Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy 5 . For he hadde geten him yit no benefice, Ne was so worldly for to have office. For him was levere have at his bedde's heede Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reede, Of Aristotle and his philosophye, Then robes riche, or fithele, or gay sawtrye*. But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre ; But al that he mighte of his frendes hente, On bookes and on lernyng he it spente, And busily gan for the soules preye Of hem that yaf him wherwith to scoleye ; Of studie took he most cure and most heede. Not oo word spak he more* than was neede, 1 Celebrating the increase. * for fear of. * coins stamped with a shield : fcut. * gains. * short cloak. ' psaltery, harp. CHAUCER. 55 And that was seid in forme and reverence And schort and quyk, and ful of high sentence. Sownynge in l moral vertu was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. ****** A good man was ther of religioun, And was a poure PERSOUN of a toun ; But riche he was of holy thought and werk. He was also a lerned man, a clerk, That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche ; His parischens devoutly wolde he teche. Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, And in adversitd ful pacient ; And such he was i-proved ofte sithes 2 . Ful loth were him to curse for his tythes. But rather wolde he yeven, out of dowte, Unto his poure parisschens aboute, Of his offrynge, and eek of his substaunce. He cowde in litel thing han suffisaunce. Wyd was his parische, and houses fer asonder, But he ne lafte not for reyne ne thonder, In siknesse nor in meschief to visite The ferreste in his parissche, moche and lite 8 , Upon his feet, and in his hond a staf. This noble ensample to his scheep he yaf, That first he wroughte, and afterward he taughte, Out of the gospel he tho worde's caughte, And this figure he addede eek therto, That if gold ruste; what schal yren doo ? For if a prest be foul, on whom we truste, No wonder is a lewed man to ruste ; And schame it is, if that a prest tak keep, A [filthy] schepherde and a clene scheep ; Wei oughte a prest ensample for to yive, By his clennesse, how that his scheep schulde lyve. He sette not his benefice to hyre, And leet his scheep encombred in the myre, 1 tending towards. 2 oft-times. * great and small. 5 meet in a wood near Athens.] And with that word he fel doun in a traunce A long tyme ; and after he upsterte* This Palamon, that thoughte that thurgh his herte He felte a cold swerd sodeynliche glyde ; For ire he quook*, no lenger nolde he byde. And whan that he hadde herd Arches tale, As he were wood 4 , with face deed and pale, He sterte him up out of the bussches thikke, And seyde : 'Arcyte, false traitour wikke, Now art thou hent 8 , that lovest my lady so, For whom that I have al this peyne and wo, And art my blood, and to my counseil sworn, 1 am merely. 2 started up. * quaked. mad. * caught CHAUCER. 75 As I ful ofte have told thee heer byforn, And hast byjaped 1 heer duk Theseus, And falsly chaunged hast thy name thus ; I wol be deed, or elles thou schalt dye. Thou schalt not love my lady Emelye, But I wil love hir oonly and no mo ; For I am Palamon, thy mortal fo. And though that I no wepne have in this place, But out of prisoun am astert by grace, I drede not that outher thou schalt dye, Or thou ne schalt not loven Emelye. Ches a which thou wilt, for thou schalt not asterte V This Arcite, with ful despitous herte, Whan he him knew, and hadde his tale herd, As fers as lyoun pullede out a swerd, And seide thus : ' By God that sit * above, Nere it 6 that thou art sik and wood for love, And eek that thou no wepne hast in this place, Thou schuldest nevere out of this grove pace, That thou ne schuldest deyen of myn hond. For I defye 6 the seurt and the bond Which that thou seyst that I have maad to the. What, verray fool, think wel that love is fre ! And I wol love hir mawgre 7 al thy might. But, for as muche thou art a worthy knight, And wilnest to derreyne hir by batayle, Have heer my trouthe, to-morwe I nyl not fayle, Withouten wityng 8 of any other wight, That heer I wol be founden as a knight, And bryngen harneys right inough for the ; And ches 2 the beste, and leve the worste for me. And mete and drynke this night wil I brynge Inough for the, and clothes for thy beddynge. And if so be that thou my lady wynne, And sle me in this woode ther I am inne, Thou maist wel ban thy lady as for me.' This Palamon answerde : ' I graunte it the.' 1 tricked. * choose. * escape. * sitteth. e were it not. reject. T in spite of. * knowledge. 76 THE ENGLISH POETS. And thus they ben departed til a-morwc, When ech of hem hadde leyd his feith to borwe O Cupide, out of alle charite* I O regne, that wolt no felawe han with the I Ful soth is seyd, that love ne lordschipe VVol not, his thankes l , han no felaweschipc. Wei fynden that Arcite and Palamoun. Arcite is riden anon unto the toun, And on the morwe, er it were daye's light, Ful prively two harneys hath he dight, Bothe suffisaunt and mete to darreyne The batayle in the feeld betwixe hem tweyne. And on his hors, allone as he was born, He caryeth al this harneys him byforn ; And in the grove, at tyme and place i-set, This Arcite and this Palamon ben met. Tho a chaungen gan the colour in here face. Right as the honter in the regne of Trace That stondeth at the gappe with a spere, Whan honted is the lyoun or the bere, And hereth him come ruschyng in the greves, And breketh bothe bowe's and the leves, And thinketh, ' Here comth my mortel enemy, Withoute faile, he mot 8 be deed or I ; For eyther I mot slen him at the gappe, Or he mot sleen me, if that me myshappe :' So ferden they, in chaungyng of here hewe, As fer as everich of hem other knewe. Ther nas no ' good day,' ne no saluyng ; But streyt withouten word or rehersyng, Everych of hem halp * for to armen other, As frendly as he were his owe'n brother ; And after that with scharpe spere's strongc They foynen ech at other wonder longe. Thou myghtest wene that this Palamon In his fightynge were as a wood 3 lyoun, And as a cruel tygre was Arcite : As wilde* boore's gonne they to smyte 1 willingly. * then. * must, shall. helped. mad. CHAUCER. 77 That frothen white as foom for ire wood. Up to the ancle foughte they in her blood. [The poet describes the Temples of Venus and Mars, where Arcite and Palamon are about to offer their prayers before the final combat.] First in the temple of Venus maystow se Wrought on the wal, ful pitous to byholde, The broken slepes, and the syke's ' colde ; The sacred teeres, and the waymentyng ; The fyry strokes of the desiryng, That loves servauntz in this lyf enduren ; The othes, that her covenantz assuren. Plesaunce and hope, desyr, fool-hardynesse, Beautd and youthe, bauderye, richesse, Charmes and force, lesynges, flaterye, Dispense, busynesse, and jelousye, That werede of yelwe goldes 2 a gerland, And a cokkow sittyng on hir hand ; Festes, instrumentes, caroles, daunces, Lust and array, and alle the circumstaunces Of love, whiche that I rekned have and schal, By ordre weren peynted on the waL And mo than I can make of mencioun. For sothly, al the mount of Citheroun, Ther 3 Venus hath hir principal dwellyng, Was schewed on the wal in portreying, With al the gardyn, and the lustynesse. Nought was foryete 4 the porter Ydelnesse, Ne Narcisus the fayre of yore agon, Ne yet the folye of kyng Salamon, Ne eek the grete strengthe of Hercules, Thenchauntementz of M^dea and Circes, Ne of Turnus the hardy fiers corage, The riche Cresus, caytif 6 in servage 6 . Thus may ye seen that wisdom ne richesse, Beaut ne sleighte, strengthe, ne hardynesse, 1 sighs. 2 marigolds. * where. * forgotten. s captive. 6 servitude. 78 THE ENGLISH POETS. Nc may with Venus holde" champartye *, For as hir list the world than may sche gye *, l.o, allc thise folk i-caught were in hir las', Til they for wo ful often sayde alias. Sufficeth heer ensamples oon or tuo, And though* I couthe rekne a thousand mo. The statue of Venus, glorious for to see, Was naked fletyng* in the large" see, And fro the navel doun al covered was With wawgs" grene, and brighte as any glas. A citole 7 in hir right hond hadde sche, And on hir heed, ful semely for to see, A rosg garland, fresch and wel smellyng, Above hir heed hir dowves flickeryng. Biforn hir stood hir sone Cupido, Upon his schuldres wynges hadde he two ; And blynd he was, as it is ofte scene ; A bowe he bar and arwes brighte and kene. Why schulde I nought as wel eek telle you al The portreiture, that was upon the wal Withinne the temple of mighty Mars the reede ? Al peynted was the wal in lengthe and breede Lik to the estres 8 of the grisly place, That highte 9 the grete temple of Mars in Trace, In thilke colde frosty regioun, Ther as Mars hath his sovereyn mansioun. First on the wal was peynted a forest, In which ther dwelleth neyther man ne best 10 , With knotty knarry bareyne trees olde Of stubbes scharpe and hidous to byholde ; In which ther ran a swymbel in a swough ", As though a storm schulde bersten every bough : And downward on an hil under a bente la , Ther stood the temple of Marz armypotente, Wrought al of burned 18 steel, of which thentrd 1 divided empire. * guide, turn. * lace, snare. * never- theless. * floating. waves. T harp. * interior. is called. I0 beast, animal. " moaning in a gust. n slope. a burnished. CHAUCER. 79 Was long and streyt 1 , and gastly for to see. And therout cam a rage and such a vese 1 , That it made al the gates for to rese 8 . The northern light in at the dore's schon, For wyndowe on the wal ne was ther noon, Thurgh which men mighten any light discerne. The dore was al of ademaunt eterne, I -clenched overthwart and endelong* With iren tough ; and, for to make it strong, Every piler the temple to susteene Was tonne greet 5 , of iren bright and schene. Ther saugh I first the derke ymaginyng Of felonye, and al the compassyng ; The cruel ire, as reed as eny gleede 6 ; The pikepurs, and eek the pale drede ; The smyler with the knyf under the cloke ; The schepne 7 brennyng 8 with the blake smoke ; The tresoun of the murtheryng in the bed ; The open werre, with woundes al bi-bled ; Contek 9 with bloody knyf, and scharp manace. Al ful of chirkyng 10 was that sory place. The sleere of himself 11 yet saugh I there, His herte-blood hath bathed al his here ; The nayl y-dryven in the schode 12 a-nyght ; The colde deth, with mouth gapyng upright. Amyddes of the temple sat meschaunce, With disconfort and sory contenaunce. Yet saugh I woodnesse 13 laughying in his rage ; Armed complaint,- outhees 14 , and fiers outrage. The caroigne 1B in the bussh, with throte y-corve 16 : A thousand slain, and not of qualme y-storve 17 ; The tiraunt, with the prey by force y-raft 18 ; The toun destroyed, ther was no thyng laft. Yet sawgh I brent 19 the schippes hoppesteres ; 1 strait, narrow. ' rash. 3 shake. * across and downwards. 5 great as a tun. 6 live coal. * stable. 8 burning. ' strife. J shrieking. u suicide. M temple. 13 madness. M outcry. u carcase. 16 cut. " dead of sickness. 18 reft. w burnt. i9 the dancing ships. 8o THE ENGLISH POETS. The huntc" 1 strangled with the wildC bcres*: The sowc freten ' the child right in the cradel ; The cook i-skalded, for al his longe ladel. Nought was foryete* by 6 the infortune of Marte ; The cartere over-rydcn with his carte, Under the whel ful lowe he lay adoun. Ther were also of Maries divisioun, The harbour, and the bocher ; and the smyth That forgeth scharpe swcrdes on his stith * And al above depeynted 7 in a tour Saw I conqudst sittyng in gret honour, With the scharpe swerd over his heed Hangynge by a sotil 8 twynes threed. GOOD COUNSEIL OF CHAUCER. Fie fro the pres, and dwelle with sothfastnesse ; Suffice thee thy good, though hit be smal ; For hord hath hate, and clymbyng tikelnesse 9 , Pres hath envye, and wele blent over al 10 . Savour no more then thee behove shal ; Do wel thy-self that other folk canst rede, And trouthe thee shal delyver, hit ys no drede 11 . Peyne thee not eche croked to redresse In trust of hir that turneth as a bal", Gret reste slant in lytil besynesse ; Bewar also to spurne ayein a nal", Stryve not as doth a crokke with a wal 14 ; Daunte thy-selfe that dauntest otheres dede, And trouthe thee shal delyver, hit is no drede. 1 hunter. * bears. * (I saw) the sow eat. * forgotten. as regards. * anvil. T painted. subtle, thin. in- security. 10 wealth everywhere blinds people. " there is no doubt u i.e. Fortune. u an awL u i.e. as weak does with strong. CHAUCER. 8 1 That thee is sent receyve in buxumnesse 1 , The wrasteling of this world asketh 2 a fal ; Heer is no hoom, heer is but wyldernesse. Forth pilgrime, forth ! forth best, out of thy stal ! Loke up on hye, and thonke God of al ; Weyve 3 thy lust, and let thy gost thee lede, And trouthe shal thee delyver, hit is no drede. L'Envoye *. Therfor, thou vache 8 , leve thyn old wrecchednesse ; Unto the worlde leve now to be thral 8 ; Crye him mercy, that of his heigh goodnesse Made thee of naught ; and, in especial, Draw unto him, and pray in general For thee, and eek for other, hevenly mede T ; And trouthe schal thee delivere, it is no drede. 1 with submission. 2 brings. * set aside. 4 This stanza is only in MS. Addit. 10340 (Brit. Mus.). * cow, poor creature. 6 cease to be a slave to the world. 7 reward. VOL. L POEMS COMMONLY ATTRIBUTED TO CHAUCER. THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE. It has already been said (p. 7) that Chaucer translated the Komaunt, and that a version has been current under his name for centuries. There is only one MS. of this translation, in the Hunterian Museum at Glasgow, so that we have no means of comparing texts, and thus settling the difficult questions that have been raised about it As it stands, the poem contains various features which, in the opinion of the most advanced school of Chaucerian criticism, mark it out as being not Chaucer's ; the principal difficulty being connected with the rhymes, some of which seem to be irreconcileable with Chaucer's principles of pronunciation. The question cannot be properly discussed here, but in deference to what seems to be the balance of opinion we quote the Romaunt under the head of ' Poems attributed to Chaucer.' The passage given is remarkable as the original of the ' May morning ' passages which abound in Chaucer and his successors. Whether by Chaucer or not, it is a vigorous and exact rendering of the French. That it was May me thoughte tho 1 , It is .v. yere or more ago ; That it was May, thus dremed me, In tyme of love and jolite', That al thing gynneth waxen gay, For ther is neither busk nor hay * In May, that it nyl shrouded been, And it with newe leve's wreen *. These wodes eek recoveren grene, That drie in wynter ben to sene ; And the erth wexith proud withalb, For swote dewes that on it falle ; And the pore estat forget, In which that wynter had it set 1 then. * hedge. * cover. POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO CHAUCER. 83 And than bycometh the ground so proud, That it wole have a nevve shroud, And makith so queynt his robe and faire, That it had hewes an hundred payre, Of gras and flouris, ynde and pers *, And many hewes full dyvers : That is the robe I mene, iwis, Through which the ground to preisen is. The briddes, that han left her song, While thei han suffrid cold so strong In wedres gryl 2 and derk to sighte, Ben in May for the sonne brighte, So glade, that they shewe in syngyng, That in her hertis is sich lykyng, That they, mote syngen and be light. Than doth the nyghtyngale hir myght, To mak noyse, and syngen blythe. Than is blisful many sithe 3 , The chelaundre 4 , and the papyngay. Than younge folk entenden ay, For to ben gay and amorous, The tyme is than so savorous. Hard is the hert that loveth nought In May, whan al this mirth is wrought ; Whan he may on these braunches here The smale briddes syngen clere Her blisful swete song pitous, And in this sesoun delytous : Whan love afTraieth 5 alle thing. Methought a nyght, in my sleping, Right in my bed ful redily, That it was by the morowe erly, And up I roos, and gan me clothe ; Anoon I wissh 6 myn hondis bothe ; A sylvre nedle forth I drough Out of an aguler 7 queynt ynough, 1 azure and blue-gray. 2 horrible storms. * times. * goldfinch. 6 disturbs. ' washed. T needle-case. G 2 84 THE ENGLISH POETS. And gan this nedle threde anon ; For out of toun me list to gon, The song of briddes for to here That in thise busldfs syngen clere, And in the swete seson that leve is ; With a threde bastyng my slevis, Alone I wente in my playing, The smale foulcs song harknyng. They peyned hem ful many peyre, To synge on bowes blosmed feyre 1 . Joly and gay, ful of gladnesse, Toward a ryver gan I me dresse, That I herd renne faste by ; For fairer playing non saugh I Than playen me by that ryvere, For from an hille that stood ther nere, Cam doun the streme ful stif and bold, Cleer was the water, and as cold As any welle is, sooth to seyn, And somdele lasse* it was than Seyn, But it was straiter, wel-away ! And never saugh I, er that day, The watir that so wel lyked me ; And wondir glad was I to se That lusty place, and that ryvere ; And with that watir that ran so clere My face I wissh. Tho saugh I wel, The botme paved everydel* With gravel, ful of stones shene. The medewe softe, swote, and grene, Beet right up on the watir-syde. Ful clere was than the morow-tyde, And ful attempre, out of drede *. Tho gan I walke thorough the mede, Dounward ay in my pleying, The ryver-syde costeying 5 . 1 blossomed fair. * less. * everywhere, * attempered, without doubt. following. POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO CHAUCER. 85 THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF. The Flower and the Leaf, written, according to internal evi- dence, by a lady, and about 1450, follows out a fancy of French origin which had already in Chaucer's time found its way into the stock poetical material of the age, and to which he makes reference in The Legende of Goode Women. ' But helpeth, ye that han conning and might, Ye lovers, that can make of sentement; In this case oughte ye be diligent To ferthren me somewhat in my labour, Whether ye been with the leafe or with the flour.' The followers of the Flower ' Are such folk that loved idlenesse, And not deliten in no businesse, But for to hunte and hauke and play in medes And many other suchlike idle dedes:' whereas the company of the Leaf, wearing laurel chaplets, ' whose lusty green may not appaired be' by winter storms or frosts, represent the brave and steadfast of all ages, the great knights and champions, the constant lovers and pure women of past and present times. The poem opens with the usual spring morning, and the de- scription of a woodland arbour hedged round with sycamore and eglantine, and haunted with the songs of birds. Thence the poet sees the rival companies of the Flower and the Leaf scattered over the plain outside, and describes their dresses and equipments with a length and wearisome detail which would alone mark off the poem from Chaucer's work. A storm comes on, which drenches the flower-chaplets and green dresses of Flora's train, while it leaves those of the Leaf unharmed. These bring shelter and friendly help to the followers of the Flower, and then the two companies pass singing out of sight, and a 'fair lady,' herself a servant of the Leaf, explains to the poet the meaning of the vision. Dryden's paraphrase of this poem, which he of course believed to be by Chaucer, is well known. 86 THE ENGLISH POETS. [The author having passed a sleepless night, though why she knows not, as she has neither sickness nor disease, wanders out early.] And up I roos three hourfis after twelfc, Aboute the [erly] springing of the day ; And on I putte my geare and mine array, And to a pleasaunt grove I gan to passe, Long or the brighte Sonne up-risen was ; In which were okes grete, streight as a line, Under the which the gras, so fresh of hew, Was newly spronge ; and an eight foot or nine Every tree wel fro his fellow grew, With branches brode, laden with leves new, That sprongen out ayen the sunne" shene, Some very red, and some a glad light grene ; Which, as me thoughte, was right a plesant sight ; And eke the briddes songes for to here Would have rejoyced any earthly wight ; And I that couthe not yet, in no manere, Here the nightingale of all the yere, Ful busily herkned with hart and ere, If I her voice perceive coude any- where. And, at the last, a path of little breede 1 I found, that gretly hadde not used be ; For it forgrowen was with grasse and weede, That well unneth a wight [ne] might it se : Thoght I, 'This path some whider goth, parde*!' And so I followed, till it me brought To right a pleasaunt herber, 8 well ywrought, That benched was, and eke with turfe's newe Freshly turved, whereof the grene gras, So small, so thicke, so short, so fresh of hewe, That most ylike grene wool, I wot, it was : The hegge also that yede in this compas 3 , And closed in all the grene herbere, With sicamour was set and eglatcre *. ****** 1 breadth. arbour. went round about. * eglantine. POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO CHAUCER. 87 And as I stood and cast aside mine eie, I was ware of the fairest medler-tree, That ever yet in all my life I sie 1 , As full of blossomes as it mighte be ; Therein a goldfinch leaping pretilie Fro bough to bough ; and, as him list, gan etc Of buddes here and there and floures swete. And to the herber side ther was joyninge This faire tree, of which I have you told ; And at the last the brid began to singe, When he had eten what he etc wolde, So passing sweetly, that by manifolde It was more pleasaunt than I coude devise. And when his song was ended in this wise, The nightingale with so mery a note Answered him, that all the woode rong So sodainly, that, as it were a sote 2 , I stood astonied ; so was I with the song Thorow ravished, that till late and longe, Ne wist I in what place I was, ne where ; And ay, me thoughte, she song even by mine ere. Wherefore about I waited busily, On every side, if that I her mighte see ; And, at the last, I gan full well aspie Where she sat in a fresh grene laurer tree, On the further side, even right by me, That gave so passing a delicious smell, According to the eglantere full well. ****** And as I sat, the briddes barkening thus, Me thoughte that I herde voices sodainly, The most sweetest and most delicious That ever any wight, I trow truly, Herd in here life ; for sothe the armony And sweet accord was in so good musike, That the voice[s] to angels most were 3 like. 1 saw. * sot, fool. * Old ed. was. 88 THE ENGLISH POETS. And at the last, out of a grove faste by, That was right goodly and pleasant to sight, I sic where there cam, singing lustily, A world of ladies ; but, to tell aright Her grete bcautic, it licth not in my might, Ne her array ; neverthelcsse I shall Telle you a part, though I speake not of all THE COURT OF LOVE. The Court of Love (date about 1 500) is a poem of the Chau- cerian school, containing many echoes of Chaucer, and making distinct reference to The Compleynte of Pite and The Legende of Good* Women, 'Philogenet, of Cambridge Clerk,' who, in the days of unreflecting Chaucerian criticism, was always supposed to represent the young Chaucer himself, repairs to the Court of Venus, where he finds Admetus and Alceste, the heroine of The Legende of Goode Women, with her 'ladies good nineteene' presiding over the Castle of Love. The Queen's handmaid Philobone takes him in charge and shows him the wonders of the place. He swears allegiance to the Twenty Statutes of Love, and is then introduced to the Lady Rosial, with whom he has already fallen in love in his dream, and whose presence inspires him with long protestations of devotion. Rosial is for the time obdurate, and sends him away again with Philobone to wait her pleasure. After a graphic description of the Courtiers of Love, an unequal but vigorous piece of writing, there appears to be a break in the poem, for we find ourselves suddenly in the middle of a tender speech of Rosial, who describes how Pite, risen from the shrine in which Philogenet had seen her buried within the temple of Venus, had softened her breast towards him. The poem ends with one of the favourite bird-scenes of the time, a curious paraphrase of the Matins for Trinity Sunday. This song in honour of Love,, sung on May morning by a chorus of birds, should be compared with the last scenes of the Parlement of Foules. The first of the following extracts, a beautiful sketch of Privy Thought or Fancy, among the Courtiers of Love, is full of delicate imagination, and represents the author better than the tedious Statutes of Love, or the hymn to Venus, taken from Boethius, of POEMS ATTRIBUTED TO CHAUCER. 89 which his master, Chaucer, had before him made more successful use. The second piece, which represents the close of the May festival, is so characteristic of the school of poetry and of the time, that it will bear quoting, in spite of its conventionality. And Prevye Thought, rejoycing of hym-self, Stode not fer thens in abite mervelous ; 'Yon is,' thought I, 'som sprite or [els] som elf, His sotill image is so curious : How is,' quod I, 'that he is shaded thus With yonder cloth, I note 1 of what coloure?' And nere I went and gan to lere and pore, And framed him a question full hard. ' What is,' quod I, ' the thyng thou lovest best ? Or what is bote 2 unto thy payne's hard ? Me think thou livest here in grete unrest, Thow wandrest ay from south to est and west, And est to north ; as fer as I can see, There is no place in courte may holden the. ' Whom folowest thow ? where is thy harte iset ? But my demaunde asoile 3 I thee require.' ' Me thoughte,' quod he, ' no creature may lette Me to ben here and where as I desire : P'or where as absence hath don out the fire, My mery thought it kyndelith yet agayn, That bodily me thinke with my souverayne 'I stand and speke, and laugh, and kisse, and halse 4 , So that my thought comforteth me ful ofte : I think, God wot, though all the world be false, I wil be trewe ; I think also how softe My lady is in speche, and this on-lofte Bryngeth myn harte in joye and grete gladnesse ; This prevey thought alayeth myne hevynesse. 'And what I thinke or where to be, no man In all this erth can tell, iwis, but I : And eke there nys no swalowe swifte, ne swan 1 know not. * remedy. * absolve, solve. * embrace. 9 THE ENGLISH POETS. So wight ' of wyng, ne half so yerne * can flye ; For I can ben, and that right sodenly, In Hevcn, in Hellc, in Paradise, and here, And with my lady, whan I wil desire. * I am of councell ferre and wide, I wot, With lord and lady, and here* privite* I wot it all ; and be it cold or hoot, Thay shalle not speke withoute licence of me. I mynde, in suche as sesonable* bee, Tho 8 first the thing is thought withyn the harte, Er any worde out from the mouth astarte.' And furth the cokkowe gan procede anon, With ' Benedictus' thankyng God in haste, That in this May wold visite hem echon, And gladden hem all while the feste shall laste : And therewithal a loughter out he braste, 'I thanke it God that I shuld ende the song, And all the service which hath ben so long.' Thus sange thay all the service of the feste, And that was done right erly, to my dome 8 ; And furth goth all the courte, bothe moste and leste, To feche the floures fressh, and braunche and blome ; And namly hawthorn brought both page and grome, With fressh garlantis, partie blewe and white, And hem rejoysen in her grete delite. Eke eche at other threw the flourgs brighte, The prymerose, the violet, and the golde 7 ; So than, as I beheld the riall 8 sighte, My lady gan me sodenly beholde, And with a trewe love, plited many-folde, She smote me thrugh the very harte as blive", And Venus yet I thanke I am alive. 1 swift. * eagerly, briskly. * their. * ripe for, inclined to love. * Then = when. * in my judgment. T marigold. * royal swiftly. WILLIAM LANGLEY, LANGLAND. CONTEMPORANEOUSLY with Chaucer there lived and worked one of the most remarkable of our poets, of whom we know little or nothing except from his works. And even these have been so little studied by the generality of readers, that the singular mis- take has arisen of confusing the name of the work with the name of the author. It is common to see references made to ' Piers Plowman ' as if he were a writer living in the fourteenth century, which is no less confusing than if we should speak of Hamlet as flourishing in the reign of Elizabeth. Our author's name is not certainly known. That his Christian name was William there can be no doubt, though by some mistake he has sometimes been called Robert. In a note written on the fly-leaf of one of the Dublin MSS., in a hand of the fifteenth century, we are told that a certain Stacy de Rokayle, living at Shipton-under-Wychwood (about four miles from Burford in Ox- fordshire), and holding land of Lord le Spenser, was the father of William de Langlond who wrote the book called Piers Plowman. The only difficulty about this testimony is the name Langland, which should rather, perhaps, be read as Langley ; since the Langland family was at that date connected with Somersetshire, whilst there is actually a hamlet named Langley at no great distance from Shipton. By a careful study of the internal evidence afforded us by the poet's works, we can make out quite sufficient to give us a clear idea of the man. We gather, chiefly from his own words, that he was born about A.D. 1332, probably at Cleobury Mortimer in Shrop- shire. His father and his friends put him to school (possibly in the monastery at Great Malvern), made a clerk or scholar of him, and taught him what holy writ meant. In 1362, at the age of about thirty, he first began work upon the poem, which was to occupy him during a great part of his after life. The real subject of the poem is the religious and social condition of the poorer qa THE ENGLISH POETS. classes of England during the reigns of Edward III. and Richard II. His testimony is invested with a peculiar interest by the fact that he clearly knew what he was talking about. His own expe- rience, and his own keen powers of observation provided him with an abundant supply of material. He saw the necessity of some reform, and endeavoured to realise in his own mind the person of the coming reformer. To this ideal person he gave the name of Piers the Plowman, to signify that great results can often be achieved by comparatively humble means ; and perhaps as hinting, at the same time, that if the labouring classes were to expect any great improvement to take place in their condition, they had best consider what they could do to help themselves. As years wore on, William's supposed reformer seems to have become less actual to him, and assumed, as it were, a more spiritual form to his mind. At last he fully grasps the idea that it is better to turn from any expectation of a reformer to come to the contemplation of the Saviour who has come already. At this point, his mind seizes a bolder conception ; he no longer describes Piers Plowman as he had done at first, as if he were no more than what was formerly called a head harvestman, giving directions to the reapers and sowing the corn himself that he might be sure it was sown properly ; but he identifies him rather with the Good Samaritan, or personified Love, who is to be of more help to mankind than Faith as typified by Abraham, or than Hope as typified by Moses. The true Good Samaritan is He who told the parable of Himself; the Reformer is no other than Christ When Christ became incarnate, He was like a warrior doing battle in another's cause, and wearing his arms and cognisance. He put on the armour of Piers the Plowman when He took upon Himself human nature ; and His victory over death was the earnest of the deliverance of mankind from all miseries, and the beginning of the improvement of the condition of the lower orders. Such ideas as these form, in fact, a part of the author's own life ; they are essentially an important chapter in his autobiography. In the first instance, he began his poem under the form of a Vision, which took at last the name of the Vision of Piers the Plowman ; though it is rather a succession of visions, in some of which Piers is never seen at all. The poet describes himself as wandering on the Malvern Hills, where he falls asleep beside a murmuring brook, and dreams of a Field full of Folk, i.e. the world, of the Lady Holychurch who acts as his instructress, of the Lady Meed who corrupts justice and is ready to bribe even the LANGLEY OR LANGLAND. 93 king himself, of the Seven Deadly Sins, and of Piers the Plowman. Such was the first draught of his poem, to which a sort of appendix was shortly added, with the title of Do -Well, Do-bet [i.e. Do- better], and Do-best. It would appear that he had already some acquaintance with London life ; and, soon after the writing of the first draught of the poem, he seems to have resided there permanently, taking up his abode in Cornhill, where he lived with his wife Kitte and his daughter Calote, for many long years. About A.D. 1377 he under- took the task of revising his poem ; it ended in his completely rewriting it, at the same time expanding it to so great an extent that it grew to three times its former length. Incidentally, he describes himself as a tall man, going by the nickname of Long Will ; one loath to reverence lords or ladies, or persons dressed in fur and wearing silver ornaments, and not deigning to say ' God save you ' to the seVjeants whom he met. It requires no great stretch of the imagination to picture to ourselves the tall gaunt figure of Long Will, in long robes and with shaven crown, striding along Cornhill, saluting no man by the way, and minutely obser- vant of the gay dresses to which he paid no outward reverence. It further appears that he was thoroughly versed in legal forms, and conversant with the writing out of legal documents ; such knowledge enabled him to earn small sums as a notary, and he was frequent in his attendance at Westminster Hall. Towards the year 1393, or even a little earlier, we find him again becoming dissatisfied with the wording of his poem. Again he resolved to revise it thoroughly, but this time he is more careful about the form than the matter. Minute corrections and altera- tions were made in almost every line ; a few passages were cur- tailed, and others somewhat lengthened. Perceiving that one long passage of his poem as it stood in the second draught was, as to its general contents, a repetition of a former passage, he so trans- posed his material as to bring the two passages together, inter- weaving them with such ingenuity that the numerous insertions seem to fall into their places naturally enough. The resulting third draught of the poem is not much longer than the second. In some points he made improvements, but the general effect of the whole is less striking and original ; this being the inevitable result of his obvious desire to tone down some of the more out- spoken passages, and to express a certain leaning towards conser- vatism such as frequently comes with advancing years. We are 94 THE ENGLISH POETS. bound, perhaps, to consider this latest version of the poem as being, upon the whole, the best ; but we cannot but remark that, whilst it is more mature, it is less vigorous. Thus, during a period of more than thirty years, the poem called the Vision of Piers the Plowman, with its appendix of Do-Well, Do-bet, and Do-best, descriptive of three stages in the Christian's life and experience, grew slowly into its final shape under the author's hands. It is a poem of almost unique character, and can hardly be judged by any of the usual standards. In one respect, it reminds us of Butler's Hudibras ; it was obviously written rather to give the author an opportunity of saying many things by the way than on such a definite plan as requires a close attention on the part of a reader. The general plan has but slight coherence, and merely aims at considering what improvement can be made in men's characters, and what hope there is for the world from the teachings of Christianity. He who does a kindly action, does well; but he who teaches men to do good, does better ; whilst he who combines both, who does good himself and teaches others to do the same, does best. From frequently dwelling on this theme, the poet at last considers the life of Christ ; and, following the narrative of the gospels, describes His entry into Jerusalem, His betrayal and crucifixion. At this point, he supplements the gospel narrative from the apocryphal gospel of Nicodemus, describing the descent of Christ into hell, His victory over Satan and Lucifer, and His release of the souls of the patriarchs from their long prison. Then follows the glorious Resurrection of the Saviour, the descent of the Holy Ghost, and the bestowal upon men of the gifts of the Spirit. But the progress of Christianity is checked to some extent by the descent of Antichrist and the attack of the Seven Deadly Sins upon the church ; and the poem concludes by reminding us that the church is still militant, that corruptions have crept in where only truth should be preached, and that the end is not yet In 1399, during the brief space when the deposition of Richard 1 1. was already imminent but had not yet been decided upon, our author wrote a poem, addressed to the king, upon the subject of the misgovernment under which England suffered. This poem, in the only extant manuscript, breaks off abruptly in the middle of a sentence ; and, though it is of considerable interest, its immediate application was speedily set aside by the rapid progress of events. The manuscripts of Piers the Plowman, in all three versions, are very numerous, and it was once an extremely favourite poem. In LANGLEY OR LAKGLAND. 95 the reign of Edward VI. it was for the first time printed, and went through three editions in one year. It was familiar to several of our great writers, including Lydgate, Skelton, Gascoigne, Drayton, and Spenser. The author's vocabulary is extremely copious, which occasions one difficulty in understanding his language. Some have imagined that his language contains only words of English origin, but this notion must have originated in extreme ignorance. He uses, in fact, the common midland dialect of the time, into which French words were introduced with great freedom ; and the percentage of French words employed by him is slightly greater than that which is to be found in Chaucer. The metre is the usual unrhymed alliterative metre of the older English period ; almost the only metre which can rightly be called English, since nearly all others have been borrowed from French or Italian. We commonly find about three syllables in each line, which begin with the same letter ; and such syllables are, as a rule, accented ones. The general swing of the lines has been described as anapaestic ; it is rather dactylic, with one or more unaccented syllables prefixed. The characters which William describes as appearing to him in consecutive visions have all allegorical names, and some are visionary enough ; but others may have been sketched from the life, and are as distinct as a drawing by Hogarth. The chief power of his writing resides in its homely earnestness, and in his hearty hatred of untruth in every form. In treating of theological questions, he is often obscure, minute, and tedious ; but in treating of life and manners he is keen, direct, satirical, and vivid. Some portions of the poem could well be spared ; others are of much value. It is not suited to all readers ; but most of those who explore it must be glad that they have done so. Apart from its literary merit, it is one of the most valuable linguistic monuments in the whole range of our literature. Instead of giving, as is usual, short scraps of the poem which are almost unintelligible for lack of context, we present here, in a much abridged form, the 2ist Passus or canto of the poem, the sub- ject of which will be readily perceived. It deals with Christ's entry into Jerusalem, the crucifixion, descent into hell, and resurrection. In the following extract, the spelling has been modernised, because the language is a little difficult, as is usual in alliterative poems. It is given as a specimen of style, but has no linguistic value in its modern dress. W. W. SKEAT. 96 THE EbGUSH POETS. FROM 'THE VISION OF PIERS THE PLOWMAN.' PASSUI XXI. (Latlit Version.) Wo-weary and wetshod * went I forth after, As a reckless renk 1 * that recketh not of sorrow, And yede* forth like a lorel 8 * all my life-time, Till I wex* weary of this world and wilned B eft* to sleep, And leaned me till Lent * and long time I slept Of girls " and of gloria laus ' greatly I dreamed, And how hosanna by organ old folk sung. One, was semblable 8 to the Samaritan and some-deal to Piers Plowman, Barefoot on an ass-back * bootless came pricking, Without spurs or spear ' and sprackly* he looked, As is the kind of a knight ' that cometh to be dubbed, To get his gold spurs * and galoches 10 y-couped 11 . Then was Faith in a fenestre l2 and cried, ' Ah ! fili David! ' As doth an herald of arms when auntres 1S come to jousts. Old Jews of Jerusalem for joy they sung, Benedictus qui venit in nomine domini. Then I frayned 14 at Faith * what all that fare meant, And who should joust in Jerusalem 'Jesus,' he said, 'And fetch that 15 the fiend claimeth Piers fruit the Plowman".' 'Is Piers in this place?' quoth I and he preynte" upon me, ' Liberum Dei arbitrium} quoth he * 'for love hath undertaken That this Jesus, of his gentrise 18 shall joust in Piers' arms, In his helm and in his habergeon * humand naturd. That Christ be not known for consummates Deus, In Piers' plates the Plowman 19 this pricker 20 shall ride; For no dint " shall him dere M * as in Deitate patris.' 1 man. * went. * caitiff. became. * wished. again. T children. like. sprightly. lj shoes. " curiously cut. " window. u adventurers. H asked. u that which. w the fruit [souls of men] belonging to Piers Plowman [Christ]. 1T glanced, looked. u condescension. " in the plate-armour of Piers Plowman. " rider. * blow. * harm. LANG LEV OR LANGLAND. 97 ' Who shall joust with Jesus ? ' quoth I ' Jews, or the scribes ? ' ' Nay,' quoth Faith, ' but the fiend * and false-doom-to-die. Death saith he will for-do 1 and adown bring All that liveth or looketh on land and in water. Life saith that he lieth and hath laid his life to wed a , That, for all that Death can do within three days, To walk, and fetch from the fiend * Piers fruit the Plowman, And lay it where him liketh and Lucifer bind, And for-beat 3 and bring adown * bale and death for everl O mors, era ntors tua! Then came Pilate with much people sedens pro tribunal^ To see how doughtily Death should do * and deem 4 their beyer right 5 . The Jews and the justices against Jesus they were, And all the court cried crucifige! loud. Then put him forth a pilour 6 ' before Pilate, and said, ' This Jesus of our Jews' temple ' japed 7 and despised, To for-do it on a day ' and in three days after Edify it eft new * here He stands that said it, And yet make it as much 8 in all manner [of] points Both as long and as large ' aloft and aground, And as wide as it ever was * this we witness all ! ' ' Crucifige! ' quoth a catch-poll he can of 9 witchcraft.- * Tolle! tolle! ' quoth another * and took of keen thorns, And began of a green thorn ' a garland to make, And set it sore on His head and sith 10 said in envy, ' Ave! Rabbi!* quoth that ribald and reeds shot at His eyes: And nailed Him with three nails naked on the rood, And, with a pole, poison * [they] put to his lips, And bade Him drink, His death to let 11 ' and His days lengthen ; And said, ' if He soothfast be ' He will Himself help ; And now, if Thou be Christ * God's son of heaven, Come adown off this rood ' and then will we 'lieve That life Thee loveth * and will not let Thee die.' 1 destroy. * as a pledge. * beat to death. * adjudge. the right [claim] of them both. 6 a robber put himself forward. 7 jested. great. knows much of. w then. u prevent. VOL. L H 98 THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 Consvmmatum estl ' quoth Christ and comsed l for to swoon Piteously and pale * as prisoner that dieth. The Lord of life and of light ' then laid His eyes together, The day for dread thereof withdrew and dark became the sun, The wall of the temple to-clave " " even in two pieces ; The hard rock all to-rove 8 * and right dark night it seemed. The earth quook and quashed as [if] it quick 4 were, And dead men for that din ' came out of deep graves, And told why that tempest ' so long time dured ; 'For a bitter battle' ' the dead body said; ' Life and Death in this darkness the one for-doth" the other, But shall no wight wit witterly 6 who shall have the mastery Ere Sunday, about sun-rising' ' and sank with that to earth. ******* Lo ! how the sun gan lock her 7 light in her-self, When she saw Him suffer death who sun and sea made ! Lo ! the earth, for heaviness that He would death suffer, Quaked * as [a] quick thing and al to-quashed the rocks ! Lo ! hell might not hold but opened, when God tholed ', And let out Simon's 10 sons to see Him hang on rood. Now shall Lucifer 'lieve it ' though him loath think ; For Jesus, as a giant with a gin 11 cometh yond, To break and to beat adown ' all that be against Him, And to have out all of them that Him liketh. ' Suffer we,' said Truth ' I hear and see both A Spirit speak to hell ' and bids unspar the gates ; Attollite port as, principes, -uestras; &C.' A voice loud in that light ' to Lucifer cried, ' Princes of this palace prest 12 undo the gates, For here cometh with crown * the king of all glory. 1 Then sighed Satan ' and said to hell, ' Such a light, against our leave Lazarus it fetched ; Cold care and cumbrance is come to us alL 1 began. * was cloven in twain. * was reft in two. 4 alive. destroys. know certainly. T SUM is feminine. so htrt; above we have quook. suffered. M In the apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus, two sons of Simeon rise from the dead, and reveal what they have witnessed in hell during Christ's descent into it. u device, plan. u quickly. LANGLEY OR LANGLAND. 99 If this king come in mankind will he fetch, And lead it where Lazar is * and lightly me bind. Patriarchs and prophets * have parled 1 hereof long, That such a lord and a light ' shall lead them all hence. But rise up, Ragamuffin ! * and reach me the bars That Belial thy bel-sire a ' beat 3 , with thy dam 4 , And I shall let 8 this lord and His light stop. Ere we through brightness be blent 6 * bar we the gates ! Check we, and chain we ' and each chine 7 stop, That no light leap in at louvre nor at loop. And thou, Ashtaroth, hoot out and have out our knaves, Coking, and all his kin our cattle 8 to save. Brimstone boiling * burning out-cast it All hot on their heads that enter nigh the walls. Set bows of brake 9 * and brazen guns, And shoot out shot enough His sheltrums 10 to blend 11 . Set Mahound at the mangonel 12 * and mill-stones throw, With crooks and with calthrops a-cloy 1S we them each one ! ' ' Listen ! ' quoth Lucifer * ' for I this lord know, Both this lord and this light ' is long ago I knew him. May no death this Lord dere 14 nor devil's queintise 15 ; And, where He will, is His way ' but warn Him of the perils. If He reave me of my right He robbeth me by mastery 18 . For, by right and by reason the renks 17 that be here Body and soul be mine ' both good and ill. For He Himself it said * that Sire is of hell, That Adam and Eve and all their issue Should die with dool 18 * and here dwell ever, If that they touched a tree or took thereof an apple. Thus this lord of light * such a law made ; And, since He is so leal a Lord * I 'lieve that He will not Reave us of our right * since reason them damned. And, since we have been seised 19 seven thousand winters, And [He] never was there-against * and now will begin, 1 spoken. a good father. * forged. * mother. * stop. ' blinded. T chink. 8 chattels. * cross-bows, with powerful levers for setting them. 10 squadrons. u blind. u catapult. 13 frustrate. " harm. u device. M mere force. 17 men. 18 sorrow. M in possession. H2 ioo THE ENGLISH POETS. He were unwrast of 1 His word * that witness is of truth 1* ' That is sooth,' said Satan * ' but I me sore doubt, For 1 thou got them with guile and His garden broke, Against His love and His leave * on His land yedest 5 , Not in form of a fiend but in form of an adder ; And enticedest Eve to eat by herself, And behightest* her and him * after to know, As two gods, with God both good and ill ; Thus with treason and with treachery thou troiledest* them both, And diddest* them break their buxomncss 7 through false byhest ; Thus haddest thou them out and hither at the last. It is not graithly" gotten * where guile is at the root. Forthy 10 I dread me,' quoth the devil * 'lest Truth will them fetch; And, as thou beguiledest God's image in going of an adder, So hath God beguiled us all in going of a wy 11 .' ******* 'What lord art Thou?' quoth Lucifer a voice aloud said, ' The lord of might and of main that made all things. Duke of this dim place * anon undo the gates, That Christ may come in the king's son of heaven.' And with that breath hell brake " with all Belial's bars ; For any wy or ward 1 * ' wide opened the gates. Patriarchs and prophets pofntlus in tenebris Sang with saint John * ecce agnus Dei/ Lucifer might not look so light him ablent"; And those that our Lord loved with that light forth flew. * * * * * Jf: ir -%'* Ashtoreth and all others * hid them in hernes 1 *, They durst not look on our Lord the least of them all, But let Him lead forth which Him list and leave which Him liked 1 turned away from. ' because. ' wentest ' didst promise. * didst deceive. didst cause. T obedience, promise. regularly. * therefore. u in taking the form of a man. u despite any wight or guard, u blinded. u corners. LANGLEY OR LANGLAND. IOI Many hundreds of angels harped then and sang, Culpat faro, purgat caro, Regnat Deus Dei caro. Then piped Peace of poetry a note, Clarior est solito post maxima nebula Phebus, Post inimicitias clarior est et amor. ' After sharpest showers,' quoth Peace * ' most sheen is the sun, Is no weather warmer than after watery clouds, Nor love liefer * nor liefer friends, Than after war and wrack * when Love and Peace be masters. Was never war in this world nor wickeder envy, But Love, if him list * to laughing it brought, And Peace, through patience ' all perils stopped.' ******* Truth trumped them, and sang Te Deum laudamits ; And then luted Love * in a loud note, Ecce quam bonum et quam iocundum est habitare fratres in unum/ Till the day dawned ' these damsels danced, That men rung to the resurrection and with that I awaked, And called Kitte my wife ' and Calote my daughter, ' Arise ! and go reverence ' God's resurrection, And creep on knees to the cross ' and kiss it for a jewel, And rightfullest relic ' none richer on earth ! For God's blessed body it bare, for our boot 1 , And it a-feareth 2 the fiend ; * for such is the might, May no grisly ghost ' glide where it shadoweth. 1 help, remedy. * frightens away. JOHN GOWER. QOHH GOWER seems to have been born about 1330, and died in 1408, having been blind for eight or nine years before his death. He was a gentleman of ancient family, owning estates in Kent and Suffolk. The place of his birth is unknown ; he is believed to have died in the priory of St. Mary Overies, Southwark, in the church of which, now called St. Saviour's, his tomb may still be seen. The earliest of his three principal works, Sptcvlum Meditantis, was in French verse, but it has not come down to posterity, nor is the precise time of its composition known. The second, Vox Clamantis, in Latin elegiac verse, was written between 1382 and 1384, and commemorates the rising of the commons under Wat Tyler in the former year, moralizing upon it and improving the occasion with astonish- ing prolixity. The third, Con/essio Amantis, one of the best known of early English poems, was written between 1385 and 1393.] The poetry of Gower has been variously estimated. It was a practice with the poets of the sixteenth century to link his name in a venerated trio with those of Chaucer and Lydgate, just as in the seventeenth century the names of Shakspere, Jonson, and Fletcher were often joined together as the great dramatic lights of the preceding age. In each case the effect of closer study has been to lead men to think that they have been joining gold with iron and clay. Shakspere, read attentively, rises high above the standard reached by Jonson and Fletcher ; and in a yet greater degree has the genius of Chaucer, accurately studied and rightly felt, impressed the present age with the sense of his unrivalled eminence among his contemporaries. Gower, a man of birth and fortune, must have lived in the cultivated society of his day. Of that society, French poetry, in its various forms of Fabliau, Rondel, Romance, Epigram, Chanson, &c., was one of the chief delights and distractions. With much imitative power, with the faculty of sustained attention, with a high appreciation for his own thoughts, and remarkable COWER. 103 linguistic facility, Gower, when he betook himself to poetry, was sure to become a copious and prolific writer. But, possessing no originality, he was equally sure to remain pent within the im- prisoning bounds of fashion and conventionality, to follow, not take the lead, to interpret, not modify opinion. He seems to have been without the sense of humour ; we doubt if a single jest of his own making can be found throughout his writings. From this cause, although he may justly be called a moralist and a didactic writer, (Chaucer and Lydgate both speak of him as the 'moral' Gower), the higher intellectual rank of a satirist must be denied him. The moralist declaims, the satirist paints ; we are convinced of the deformity of vice in the one case, but we see it in the other. The faculties of the first dispose him to subjective estimates of men and things, those of the second to objective estimates. The one describes the offenders, the other makes them exhibit them- selves. The moralist inveighs against the selfish cowardice of a degraded proletariat ; the satirist puts a few simple words in their mouths, and we know them and their kind for evermore. ' Curramus praecipites, et Ditm jacet in ripa, calcemus Caesaris hostem? Several MSS. of the Confessio Amantis, Gower's principal poem, contain a passage in Latin prose in which he describes the three books which he had written, all with a didactic motive, ' doctrinae causa.' The first of these, Speculum Meditantis, was in French verse. It was probably written between 1360 and 1370, at a period when the ladies at Edward Ill's court and their admirers would hardly have condescended to read a poem couched in their native English, a tongue not then believed to be suited to themes of love, mysticism, and chivalry. It was a strictly moral poem, treating of virtues and vices, and the methods of penitence and amendment ; but it has absolutely vanished ; and since from the account we have of the contents it is impossible not to believe that it was exceedingly dull, we may be reconciled to the loss. Gower's next considerable effort, the Vox Clamantis, a Latin elegiac poem in seven books, was suggested by the rising of the commons under Wat Tyler and others in 1381. Why he chose to write it in Latin it is impossible to say, unless we suppose that he wished to hide from the objects of them, under the veil of a learned language, the sharp censures on the classes of knights, burghers, and cultivators, which the poem contains. In a passage 104 THE ENGLISH POETS. which is grotesque if not dramatic, the poet thus describes the ringleaders of the insurrection : Watte vocat, cui Thomme venit, neque Symme retardat, Rectcque Gibbe simul Hicke venire jubent : Colic furit, quern Gefle juvat, nocumenta parantes, Cum quibus ad damnum Wille coire vovet. Grigge rapit. dum Dawe strepit, comes est quibus Hobbe, Lbrkin et in medio non minor esse putat.' The murder of Archbishop Sudbury by the rebels is described, but with little of that local or circumstantial colouring which we should desire. All that they succeeded in doing, says Gower, was to send him to heaven, ' Vivere fecerunt, quern mortificare putarunt ; Quern tollunt mundo, non potuere Deo.' For several years before the rising of the commons the fame of Chaucer's English poetry must have been growing. Mere fashion could not hold out against the commanding power of that poetry ; and Gower, when next he attempted a considerable work, found that he might as well write it in English. The Confessio A mantis was begun, he tells us, at the command of Richard II, who meeting him one day on the Thames, while the tide was flowing, called him into his barge, and bade him in the course of their talk to 'boke some newe thing.' Thus incited, Gower planned a work ' Whiche may be wisdom to the wise, And play to hem that list to play.' The long prologue is taken up with an account of the then state of the world, in which he repeats much of the censure on the various orders of men that he had introduced into the Vox Clamantis. He deplores tho decline of virtue and good customs, and the general tendency of things to grow worse. Love itself is diseased, and no longer the pure passion that it once was. Start- ing from this point, he devotes the greater part of the voluminous poem which follows to an examination of the various ways in which men offend against the god of love. The seventh or penultimate book only is an exception to this remark, being a sketch of the philosophy of Aristotle. The lover is represented as a penitent, who, being half dead from a wound inflicted by Cupid, and resorting to Venus his mother, is recommended by the goddess to apply to Genius her priest, and confess to him all the sins that COWER. 105 he has committed in the article of love. With the seven deadly sins, pride, anger, envy, &c., for his groundplan, the penitent confesses under the head of each his misdeeds as a lover, and the confessor consoles and directs him by relating the experiences of former lovers in part materia. This strange medley of things human and divine, of which notable examples exist in the works of Chaucer and Boccaccio, does not mean the consecration of the world of passion by introducing religion into it, but the profanation of reli- gion by degrading its rites and emblems to the service of earthly desire. But in this commingling of the morality of Christianity and the morality of Ovid, the two elements agree no better than fire and water ; and the sense of this, forcing itself upon the consciences of the nobler spirits that thus offended, led to those 'Retractations' and palinodes which modern critics have regarded with so much wonder and disdain. Thus it was with Chaucer ; thus with Boccaccio : to Gower perhaps, who wrote under the spell of fashion and in the groove of imitation, the precise character of the absurd confusion of ideas which reigns in his book was never sufficiently apparent to induce him to regret it. The quarrels of poets are not relevant to the purpose of this book ; otherwise we might be tempted to enter on the much- debated question of the relations between Chaucer and Gower, and the meaning of certain inserted or suppressed passages in their writings. We will only observe that since the discovery (in Trivet's Chronicle) of the common source of the story of Constance, told by Chaucer in the Man of Lawe's tale and by Gower in the second book of the Confessio Amantis, the chief reason for doubt- ing the existence of a bitter feeling between the two poets has been removed. If Chaucer had, as Tyrwhitt and Warton thought, borrowed from Gower the story of Constance, it was hard to believe that he would speak roughly of him in the prologue to the very tale which attested the literary obligation. But no such obligation existed, and therefore the words may be taken in their natural bearing *. That Gower was timid and a timeserver is a conclusion which it is difficult to resist, when we consider the changes made in the Prologue to the Confessio Amantis. In its original shape, as we 1 Speaking of the stories of Canace and of Appollinus of Tyre, told by Gower in his third and eighth books, Chaucer says 'Of suche corsed stories I seye fy,' and declares that not a word of this kind shall come from his pen. 106 THE ENGLISH POETS. have seen, it states that the poem was undertaken and made ' for kynge Richardes sake,' and prays ' that his corone longe stonde.' But in several MSS. all this is, not very skilfully, omitted or changed. In these the poem is dedicated to ' Henry of Lancaster,' and is said to have been composed in the sixteenth year of King Richard, i.e. in 1393. Henry, afterwards Henry IV, could not have been called Henry of Lancaster till after his father's death in February 1399. Soon after that date Richard II went over to Ireland ; his unpopularity in England was great ; the plot for supplanting him by Henry was set on foot, and with every month that passed the movement grew in strength. It was probably in the course of the summer of 1399 that Gower, perceiving how things were going, transformed his prologue so as to make it acceptable to the pretender whose success he anticipated. In the copies with the altered prologue he also omitted the lines of eulogy on Chaucer at the end, which the poem had originally- contained. What could have prompted the omission but a feeling of estrangement ? And for this estrangement the severity of the language just quoted from Chaucer supplies a probable motive. The last considerable work of our author was the Cronica Tripartite^ a Latin poem in three books, giving a regular history of political incidents in England from 1387 to 1399. As might be expected, the writer bears hardly throughout the poem on the unfortunate Richard. He seems to know nothing of the common story as to the manner of his death. The deposed king died, he says, in prison, from grief, and because he refused to take food. Of Gower's shorter French poems, his Cinkante Ealades, which exist in MS. in the library of the Duke of Sutherland, Warton has printed four. They are in stanzas of seven and eight lines, with refrains, and are written not without elegance ; the opening of one of them is here printed. T. ARNOLD. COWER. 107 OPENING OF THE THIRTIETH OF GOWER'S * CINKANTE BALADES.' Si com la nief 1 , quant le fort vent tempeste, Pur halte mier se torne gi et la, Ma dame, ensi a mon coer* manit en tempeste, Quant le danger de vo parole orra, La nief qe votre bouche soufflera, Me fait sigler sur le peril de vie, Quest en danger, fait * quil merri supplie. OPENING OF THE ORIGINAL PROLOGUE TO THE 'CONFESSIO AMANTIS.' Of hem, that writen us to-fore, The boke's dwelle, and we therfore Ben taught of that was writen tho. Forthy s good is, that we also In oure time amonge us here Do write of-newe some matere Ensampled of the olde wise, So that it might in suche a wise, Whan we be dede and elleswhere, Beleve 6 to the worldes ere In time comend 7 after this. But for men sain, and soth it is, That who that al of wisdom writ, It dulleth ofte a mannes wit To hem that shall it al day rede, For thilke cause, if that ye rede, I wolde go the middel wey And write a boke betwene the twey, Somwhat of lust 8 , somwhat of lore, That of the lasse or of the more Som man may like of that I write. And for that fewe men endite nef, ship. 2 ainsi. 3 cceur. * faut. s Therefore. remain. 7 coming. 8 pleasure. 108 THE ENGLISH POETS. In cure Englisshe, I thenkC make A bok for king Richardes sake, To whom belongcth my legeaunce With all min hertes obeisaunce, In al that ever a lego man Unto his king may don or can. So ferforth I me recommaunde To him, which all me may commaunde, Preiend 1 unto the highe regne, Which causeth every king to regne, That his corone longe stoncle. I thenke, and have it understonde, As it befell upon a tide, As thing, which shuldg tho betide, Under the town of newe Troy, Which tok of Brute his firste joy, In Themse, whan it was flowend ; As I by bote cam rowend, So as fortune her time sette, My lege lord perchaunce I mette, And so befell, as I came nigh, Out of my bote, whan he me sigh 1 , He bad me come into his barge. And whan I was with him at large, Amonges other thinges said, He hath this charge upon me laid And bad me do my besinesse, That to his highe worthynesse Some newe thing I shulde boke, That he himself it mighte loke After the forme of my writing. And thus upon his commaunding Min herte is well the morg glad To write so as he me bad ; And eke my fere is well the lasse, That non envie shall compasse ; Without a resonable wite 3 To feigne and blamg that I write. 1 praying. * saw. cause of censure. COWER. 109 ALEXANDER AND THE ROBBER. [Confessio Amantis, lib. iii.] Of him, whom all this erthe dradde, Whan he the world so overladde Through werre, as it fortuned is, King Alisaundre, I rede this, How in a marche ', where he lay, It fell parchaunce upon a day A rover of the see was nome ', Which many a man had overcome, And slain and take her good away. This pilour 3 , as the bokes say, A famous man in sondry stede Was of the werkes, whiche he dede. This prisoner to-fore the kinge Was brought, and ther upon this thinge In audience he was accused ; And he his dede had nought excused, And praid the king to done him right, And said : Sire, if I were of might, I have an herte liche unto thine, For if thy power were mine, My wille is most in speciall To rifle and geten over all The large worldes good about But for I lede a pover route* And am, as who saith 6 , at mischefe *, The name of pilour and of thefe I bere, and thou, which routes grete Might lede, and take thy beyete 7 , And dost right as I wolde do, Thy name is nothing cleped so, But thou art named emperour. Our dede's ben of oon colour, And in effecte of oon deserte ; But thy richesse and my poverte 1 border-land, country. * taken. 8 pillager. * a poor company. * as the phrase is. ' in ill-luck. ' advantage, acquisition. HO THE ENGLISH POETS. They be nought taken evenliche, And netheles he that is riche This day, to-morwe he may be pover, And in contrarie also recover A pover man to grete richesse. Men sain forthy, let rightwisenesse Be peisSd 1 even in the balaunce. The king his hardy contenaunce Beheld, and herde his wordes wise, And said unto him in this wise : Thin answere I have understonde, Whereof my will is, that thou stonde In my service and stille abide. And forth withal the same tide He hath him terme of life witholde*: The more and for he shuld ben holde 8 , He made him knight and yaf him lond, Whiche afterward was of his hond An orped 4 knight in many a stede, And gret prowesse of armes dede, As the croniques it recorden. THE STORY OF CONSTANCE. [Confessio A mantis, lib. ii.] But what the highe God woll spare It may for no perill misfare. This worthy maiden, which was there, Stode than, as who saith, dede for fere, To se the fest, how that it stood, Whiche all was torned into blood The dissh forth with the cuppe and all Bebled 8 they weren over all She sigh 8 hem die on every side, No wonder though she wepte and cride, 1 poised, weighed. * retained for his life-time. * and in order that he might be bound to him the more. * ' horped ' in the Harleian MS. It means ' bold.* besmeared. saw. COWER. 1 1 1 Makend many a wofull mone. Whan all was slain but she al-one, This olde fend, this Sarazin, Let take anone this Constantin, With all the good she thider brought, And hath ordeigned as she thought A naked ship withoute stere, In which the good and her infere 1 Vitailled full for yeres five, Where that the wind it wolde drive, She put upon the wawes wilde. But he, which alle thing may shilde, Thre yeer til that she cam to londe, Her ship to stere hath take on honde 2 , And in Northumberlond arriveth, And happeth thanne that she driveth Under a castell with the flood, Whiche upon Humber banke stood : And was the kinge's owne also, The whiche Alice was cleped tho, A Saxon and a worthy knight, But he beleveth nought aright Of this castell was castellaine Elda, the kinge's chamberlaine, A knightly man after his lawe. And when he sigh upon the wawe, The ship drivend alone so, He badde anon men shulden go To se, what it betoken may. This was upon a somer day, The ship was loked, and she founde 8 . Elda within a litel stounde It wist, and with his wife anon Toward this yonge lady gon, Where that they founde gret richesse. But she her wolde nought confesse, Whan they her axen what she was. And netheles, upon the cas, 1 together. a taken in hand. 8 Constance was foand. lia THE ENGLISH POETS. Out of the ship with great worship They toke her into felaship, As they that wcren of her glade But she no mancr joic* made, But sorweth sore of that she fonde No Cristendome in thilke londe. But elles she hath all her will, And thus with hem she dwelleth still. Dame Hermegild, which was the wife Of Elda, liche her owen life Constance lovcth ; and fell so, Spekend all day betwene hem two, Through grace of Godde's purveiaunce, This maiden taught e the creaunce 1 Unto this wif so parfitly, Upon a day that, faste by, In presence of her husbonde, Wher they go walkend on the stronde, A blinde man, which cam ther ladde, Unto this wife criend he badde With bothe his honde's up, and praide To her, and in this wise he saide ; ' O Hermegilde, which Cristes feith Enformed, as Constance saith, Received hast, yif me my sighte.' Upon this worde her herte aflighte 1 , Thenkend what beste was to done, But netheles she herde his bone*, And saide, ' In trust of Cristes lawe, Which don was on the crosse and slawe, Thou blinde man, beholde and se.' With that to God upon his kne Thonkend*, he tok his sight anon, Wherof they merveile everychon. But Elda wondreth most of alle ; This open thing whiche is befalle 1 creed. f felt afflicted. * petition. * Giving thanks. COWER. 113 Concludeth him by such a way, That he the feith no nede obey. Now list what fell upon this thinge. This Elda forth unto the kinge A morwe tok his way and rood, And Hermegild at home abood Forth with Constance well at ese. Elda, which thought his king to plese As he, that than unwedded was, Of Constance all the pleine cas As godelich as he couthe, tolde. The king was glad and said he wolde Comen thider in suche a wise, That he him might of her avise. VOL.1. JOHN LYDGATE, [Jon* LTDOATS was bom at the village of Lydgate near Newmarket in Suffolk, about 1370. His death probably occurred about 1440. Appar- ently the latest date discoverable in any of his poems is 1433, in which year he wrote a sort of ' city poem,' celebrating the pageants, processions, and other rejoicings in the city of London on the occasion of the solemn entry of Henry VI. He was a monk in the Benedictine monastery of Bury St. Edmunds. Among his numerous writings three stand out prominently : the Storie of Thebes, written when he was nearly fifty; the Troye Book, begun under Henry IV, and finished about 1420; and the Falls o/Princet, written between 1422 and 1433.] Lydgate seems to have been stimulated to write partly by the example and renown of Chaucer, partly by a predilection for the French poets of that day Christine de Pisan, Machault, Granson, &c. and the desire ,to emulate them. He was a monk of that monastery of St. Edmund king and martyr, at Bury, into the interior life of which Jocelyn de Brakelonde, much helped by his modern editor 1 , has enabled us to look so clearly. But Abbot Hubert and Abbot Samson had laboured and gone to their account more than two centuries before, and though his rule remained the same, the conditions of life were much changed in the interval, even for a monk of Bury. In particular, the dazzling and distract- ing images of Literature besieged his cell, and haunted his thoughts, with a persistency unknown at the earlier period. Then the ver- nacular literatures were in their infancy, and sober Latin was the ordinary dress of a cultivated man's thought ; now, in France and Italy, and in England, numerous works, bearing the imprint of the newest spirit of the day, decked also with sallies of wit and beautiful imagery which came directly from the heart and brain, through the familiar mother-tongue, were circulating amongst and influencing all who could think and feel Lydgate, who by his 1 Mr. Carljle, in Tart II of his Past and Preunt. LYDG.4TE. 115 own account had little vocation for the cloister, whose boyhood had been mischievous l , his youth lazy and riotous 2 , and his early manhood disedifying s , for a long time cared little about St. Edmund and the special duties of the monastic life. He had an intense admiration for Chaucer, and his first large work seems to have been The Storie of Thebes, which he represents as a new Canterbury tale, told by himself soon after his joining the company of pilgrims at Canterbury. It is founded on the Thebaid of Statius and the Teseide of Boccaccio, and written in the ten-syllable rhyming couplet which Chaucer had used with such effect in The Knightes Tale. The prologue is spirited, but when the body of the poem is reached the attention soon flags. Chaucer versifies with facility, and also with power ; Lydgate has the facility without the power. His next considerable work, on the story of Troy, was undertaken about A.D. 1412, at the request of Prince Henry, after- wards Henry V., and finished in 1420. The prince desired that the ' noble storye ' of Troye should be as well known in England as elsewhere, and as well written in English ' As in the Latyn and the Frenshe it is.' Troy was then regarded as the ' antiqua mater ' of every European nation. It would therefore seem very fitting, that since Wace and his English translators, following Geoffrey of Monmouth, had given in the vernacular the story of the original Trojan settlement of England under Brutus the great-grandson of Aeneas, the moving vicissitudes of the city to which Brutus and Aeneas belonged should also now be told in English. This poem is in five books, and written, like The Storie of Thebes, in the ten-syllable couplet. It is founded on the Latin prose history of Troy by Guido di Colonna, a Sicilian jurist of the thirteenth century. The austere old layman 1 ' To my bettre did no reverence, Of my sovereyns gafe no fors at al, Wex obstinat by inobedience, Ran into gardyns, applys ther I stal.' ' 'Loth to ryse, lother to bedde at eve, With unwash handys reedy to dyneer, My Pater-noster, my crede, or my beleeve, Cast at the cok ; loo ! this was my manere.' * ' Of religioun I weryd a blak habite, Oonly outward as by apparence.' Lydgate's Testament, among his Minor Poems, edited by Mr. Halliwell. 1 2 ri6 THE EKGl.l.Mf POETS. wrote many things to the disadvantage of the fair sex which are painful to the politeness of the monk, who declares that he trans- lates them unwillingly, and would give their author, were he alive, a 'bitter penance' for his crabbed language. In the third book, where the story of Troilus and Cressida is introduced, Lydgate seizes the opportunity of paying an ardent tribute of praise, love, and admiration to his ' maister Chaucer,' who had chosen that subject for a poem. The versification of Lydgate, in this Troy-book anA in The Storie ff Thebes, as well as in his numerous shorter pieces, is extremely rough. If the structure of the lines is attentively considered, it will be seen that he did not regard them as consisting of ten syllables and five feet, or at least that he did not generally so regard them, but rather as made up of two halves or counter- balancing members, each containing two accents. Remembering this, the reader can get through a long passage by Lydgate or Barclay with some degree of comfort ; though, if he were to read the same passage with the expectation of meeting always the due number of syllables, his ear would be continually disappointed and .-nnoyed. This vicious mode of versification was probably a legacy from the alliterative poets, whose popularity, especially in the North of England, was so great that their peculiar rhythm long survived after rhyme and measure had outwardly carried the day. Not to mention Layamon's Brut, where we see a curious mixture of rhyme and alliteration, the former, as the poem proceeds, gradually edging out the latter, romances and other pieces of much later date can be pointed out, in which not only rhyme and measure but even the stanza form is adopted (for instance, in the Anters of Arthur, published by the Camden Society, 1842), yet still alliteration is carefully practised, and the syllabic lawlessness which the alliterator held to be his privilege, maintained. In the South of England, where the influences of French and Italian literature were more powerful, alliteration was repudiated ; thus we find Chaucer making his ' Persone ' say, ' I am a sotherne man, I cannot geste, rom, ram, ruf, by my letter.' 'To geste' meant to write in alliterative style, because of the great number of romances or gestes so written which were then in circulation. Lydgate's last notable work was The Falls of Princes, founded L YDGA TE. 117 on a French version of the Latin treatise by Boccaccio, De Casibus Virorum Illustrium. It is dedicated to Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, brother to Henry V, whom he speaks of as dead, and mentions his having written his Troy-book at his desire. The subject of this vast poem, which is in nine books, and was printed in folio in 1558, may be gathered from the old title-page, which runs, 'The Tragedies gathered by Jhon Bochas of all such Princes as fell from theyr Estates throughe the Mutability of Fortune since the creation of Adam until his time ; wherin may be seen what vices bring menne to destruccion, wyth notable warninges howe the like may be avoyded. Translated into English by John Lidgate, Monke of Burye.' The Monk's Tale of Chaucer proceeds on the same lines ; and a company of Marian or Elizabethan poets, Sackville, Baldwin, Ferrers, &c., working out the same idea, but with a more distinct ethical purpose, produced that stupendous but forgotten work, the Myrrour for Magistrates. In this work Lydgate adopted the seven-line stanza so much employed by Chaucer, and also seems to have taken more pains than before to emulate the rhythmic excellence of his master's work. Hence the Falls of Princes is, of his three principal poems, by far the most readable. In the beginning of the eighth book he complains of age and poverty ; and one of the minor poems, written while he was employed on this work, is in the ibrm of a letter to the Duke of Gloucester, saying that his ' purs was falle in great rerage ' (arrears), and asking for money. In his old age the genius loci, and the saintly memories which clung round the monastery, appear to have influenced the poet more than in his youth. We find him composing a metrical ' Life of St. Edmund,' which still reposes in MS., and writing the ' Legend of St. Alban ' for the monks of that famous monastery. Of his minor poems a large and not uninteresting selection was edited some forty years ago for the Percy Society by Mr. H alii well. They are mostly written in an octave stanza, not the ottava rima, but one in which the second rhyme embraces the second, fourth, fifth and seventh lines, whilst the third rhyme connects the sixth and eighth. A considerable number are in the ' rhyme royal,' or seven-line stanza. Two or three of them are satirical, not to say cynical ; several are descriptive ; but the majority are either versions of French or Latin fabliaux, or moral- izing pieces based on proverbs and old saws. There is much that is vivid and forcible in the picture of the manners and humours of Il8 THE ENGLISH POETS. London and Westminster given in London Lickpenny. Pur le Roy may remind us of the effusions of Elkanah Settle the city poet, unmercifully ridiculed by Pope in the Dunciad. If it may certainly be attributed to Lydgate, it proves that he was living in 1433, in which year occurred the visit of Henry VI to London after his coronation, when the citizens received him with extra- ordinary demonstrations of joy and loyalty. The pageants, dresses, uniforms, speeches, &c., are described by the poet with a weari- some minuteness. It is unlikely that Lydgate lived long after writing this poem, but the exact year of his death has never been ascertained. It happened while he was engaged in translating into rhyme royal a French version of the supposed work of Aris- totle, addressed to Alexander, which is variously entitled On the Government of Princes, The Secret of Secrets, and The Philosopher's Stone. At the head of one of the MSS. of this work 1 (which has never been printed) there is a small picture of Lydgate : he is represented as an old man, dressed in the black habit of the Benedictines, and tendering, bare-headed and on his knees, his book to some august personage above him, who is meant either (or Henry VI or St. Edmund the patron of his monastery. T. ARNOLD. * liarL 4836. LYDGATE. 119 LONDON LICKPENNY. To London once my stepps I bent, Where trouth in no wyse should be faynt, To Westmynster-ward I forthwith went, To a man of law to make complaynt ; I sayd, ' for Marys love, that holy saynt ! Pity the poore that wold proceede ' ; But for lack of mony I cold not spede. [After visiting all the courts at Westminster one after another, and finding that everywhere want of cash is the one insuperable impediment, he passes eastward to the City.] Then unto London I dyd me hye, Of all the land it beareth the pryse : ' Hot pescodes,' one began to crye, ' Strabery rype, and cherryes in the ryse ' ; One bad me come nere and by some spyce, Peper and safforne they gan me bede 1 , But for lack of mony I myght not spede. Then to the Chepe I began me drawne, Where mutch people I saw for to stand ; One ofred me velvet, sylke, and lawne, An other he taketh me by the hande, ' Here is Parys thred, the fynest in the land ' ; I never was used to such thyngs indede, And wanting mony, I might not spede. Then went I forth by London stone, Th[o]roughout all Canwyke streete ; Drapers mutch cloth me offred anone ; Then comes me one, cryed, ' Hot shepes feete ' ; One cryde 'makerell,' ' ryshes 2 grene,' an other gan greete * ; On bad me by a hood to cover my head, But for want of mony I myght not be sped. 1 began to offer me. a rushes. 3 cry. I2C THE ENGLISH POETS. Then I hyed me into Est-Chepe ; One cryes rybbs of befe, and many a pye : Pewter pottes they clattered on a heape ; There was harpe, pype, and mynstralsye. 4 Yea, by cock I nay, by cock ! ' some began crye ; Some songe of Jenken and Julyan for there mede ; But for lack of mony I myght not spede. Then into Corn-Hyll anon I yode 1 , Where was mutch stolen gere amonge ; I saw where honge myne owne hoode, That I had lost amonge the thronge ; To by my own hood I thought it wrongc, I knew it well as I dyd my crede, But for lack of mony I could not spede. The taverner tooke me by the sieve, ' Sir,' sayth he, ' wyll you our wyne assay ' ? I answered, 'That can not mutch me greve: A peny can do no more then it may ' ; I drank a pynt, and for it did paye ; Yet sone a-hungerd from thence I yede, And wantyng mony, I cold not spede. Then hyed I me to Belyngsgate ; And one cryed, ' Hoo ! go we hence ! ' I prayd a barge-man, for God's sake, That he wold spare me my expence. 1 Thou scapst not here,' quod he, ' under two pence ; I lyst not yet bestow my almes dede.' Thus, lackyng mony, I could not spede. Then I convayd me into Kent ; For of the law wold I meddle no more ; Because no man to me tooke entent, I dyght me to do as I dyd before. Now Jesus, that in Bethlem was bore, Save London, and send trew lawyers there mede ! For who so wantes mony with them shall not spede. 1 went. L YDGA TE. 121 FROM LYDGATE'S ' DIETARY,' OR RULES FOR HEALTH. And if so be that lechis done the faile ', Thanne take good hede, and use thynges three, Temperat diete, temperat travaile, Nat malicious for none adversite" ; Meke in trouble, gladde in poverte" ; Riche with litel, content with suffisaunce ; Nat grucchyng 2 , but mery like thi degre* : If phisyk lak, make this thy governaunce. ****** Fyre at morowe, and towards bed at eve, For mystis blak, and eyre 3 of pestilence ; Betime at masse, thow shalt the better preve, First at thi risyng do to God reverence, Visite the poor with intyre diligence, On al nedy have thow compassioun, And God shal sende grace and influence, To encrease the and thy possessioun. Suffre no surfetis in thy house at nyght, Ware of rere-soupers 4 , and of grete excesse, Of noddyng hede's, and of candel light, And sloth at morow, and slomberyng idelnes, Whiche of al vices is chief porteresse ; Voyde al drunklew, lyers, and lechours ; Of al unthriftes exile the mastres, That is to say, dyse-players, and haserdours. After mete beware, make not to longe slepe, Hede, foote, and stomak preserve ay from cold ; Be not to pensyf, of thought take no kepe ; After thy rent, mayntene thyn houshold, Suffre in tyme, in thi right be bold ; Swere none othis no man to begyle ; In thy youth be lusty, sad whan thow art olde. 1 if physicians make thee fall ill. 2 murmuring. 3 air. 4 late suppers. THE ENGLISH POETS. Dyne nat at morwe aforne thyn appetite, Gere eyre and walkyng makith goode digestioun, Between mcles drynk nat for no froward delite, But ' thurst or travaile yeve the occasion ; Over-salt mete doth grete oppressioun To feble stomakes, whan they can nat refrayne ; For nothing more contrary to theyr complexioun, Of gredy handes the stomak hath grete peyne. Thus in two thinges standith al the welthe Of sowle and body, whoso lust to sewe", Moderat foode gevith to man his helthe, And al surfetis doth from hym remeue 8 , And charite' unto the sowle is dewe : This ressayt * is bought of no poticarye, Of maister Antony, nor of maister Hewe, To all indifferent, richest diatorye*. DESCRIPTION OF THE GOLDEN AGE. {Falls of Princn, book viL] Rightwisenes chastised al robbours, By egall balaunce of execucion, Fraud, false mede", put backward fro jurours, True promes holde, made no delacioun 7 ; Forswearing shamed durst enter in no toun, Nor lesingmongers, because Attemperaunce Had in that world wholy the governaunce. That golden world could love God and drede, All the seven dedes of mercy for to use, The rich was ready to do alme's dede, Who asked harbour, men did him not refuse ; No man of malice would other tho accuse, Defame his neighbour, because Attemperaunce Had in that world wholy the governaunce. 1 unless. * follow. * remove. 4 receipt, for recipe. dietary. biibery. * no informers at work, LYDGATE. 123 The true marchant by measure bought and sold, Deceipt was none in the artificer, Making no balkes 1 , the plough was truely hold, Abacke stode Idlenes, farre from labourer, Discrecion marcial 2 at diner and supper, Content with measure, because Attemperaunce Had in that world wholy the governaunce. Of wast in clothing was that time none excesse; Men might the lord from his subjectes know ; A difference made twene povertie and richesse, Twene a princesse and other states lowe ; Of horned beastes no boast was then blowe, Nor counterfeit feining, because Attemperaunce Had in that world wholy the governaunce. This golden world long whyle dyd endure, Was none allay in that metall sene, Tyll Saturne ceased, by record of scripture, Jupiter reygned, put out his father clene, Chaunged obrison 3 into silver shene, Al up so downe, because Attemperaunce Was set asyde, and loste her governaunce. leaving no ridges unfurrowed. * soldierlike frugality. s virgin gold. THOMAS OCCLEVE. [THOWAI OCCLEVE, or HOCCLEVE (the name is spelt both ways in the MSS. of his works), was born between 1365 and 1370. He is thought to have l*en of north-country parentage, deriving his name from the village of Mocclough in Northumberland. One of his minor poems, addressed to Richard duke of York, cannot well have been written before 1448, since the young prince Edward (born in 1441) and his French tutor Picard nre mentioned in it. Occleve must therefore have lived to a great age, but the precise year of his death is unknown. His principal poem, D Regimtne Principum, was written in 1411 or 1412. The asceitainable dates of his minor poems, of which only a portion has been printed, range between 1400 and 1448.] The principal work of Thomas Occleve is the poem De Regimine Principum, a free version of the Latin treatise written under that title by Aegidius or Giles, a native of Rome and a disciple of St. Thomas Aquinas, which he dedicated to Philip le Hardi, son of St. Louis. This poem is in the rhyme royal, and contains between five and six thousand lines. Nearly a third part of it is taken up with a Prelude or proem, which is considerably more interesting than the work itself. A slight analysis of this proem will bring Occleve before us, both as a man and a writer, more clearly than anything else could. After a restless night, spent in painful and fruitless musing on the insecurity of all things here below, the poet goes forth into the fields near his lodging in the Strand. A poor old man meets him, and plies him with questions as to the reason of his dejection. After naming various causes of trouble, he says 4 If thou fele the in any of thise ygreved, Or dies what, tel on in Goddes name ; Thou seest, al day the begger is releved, That syt and beggith, crook >d, Llynd, and lame; And whi ? for he ne lettith for no shame His harme-s and his pove-rt to bewreye To folke, as thei goon Li turn bi the wev^.' OCCLEVE. 125 The old man goes on to warn him against indulgence in too prolonged and solitary meditations. By these, he says, men are sometimes led on to deny the faith, as happened in the case of a heretic ' not longe agoo,' who denied that after consecration the eucharistic bread was Christ's body. For this he was burnt, though the prince (Henry) tried hard to save him, and promised to obtain his full pardon and the means of living from the king, if he would return to the faith 1 . He speaks also of the folly of extravagance in dress, that costly and ' outragious array,' which will ruin England if it is not stopped, on the thoughtlessness and wantonness of youth, and so on. The author, much consoled and edified, tells his mentor who he is, and how he lives. He is a writer to the Privy Seal 2 , and has an annuity of twenty marks a year in the Exchequer, granted him by Henry IV. But his mis- fortune is that he can never depend on this being paid regularly, so that he is sometimes in danger of starving. If this be so now, what will be his plight when he is grown old, and has no other resource but the annuity? Herein lies the secret cause of his dejection. The old man, after counselling a religious resignation to the divine will, questions him still further,, and finding that he is a literary man, and had known Chaucer, advises him to compose some new work and present it to the Prince, who will perhaps graciously accept it and relieve the author from his distress : 'Write him no thinge that sowneth unto vice, Kithe* thi love in mater of saddenesse*, Loke if thou finde canst any tretice Grounded on his astates holsomnesse; Suche thing translate, and unto his highnesse, As humbely as thou canst, it present; Do this, my sone.' ' Fadir, I assent.' But he laments that ' the honour of English tounge is deed,' with whom he might have taken counsel ; then follows the celebrated passage on Chaucer, which will be found among our extracts 5 . The poet returns home, takes parchment, and writes a dedication 1 This was Thomas Badby, executed in April 1410, under the statute of 1401. 2 Among the Additional MSS. in the British Museum may be seen a large volume, No. 24,062, the documents in which, or the greater part of them, are said to be in Occleve's handwriting. 3 Make known. * a serious subject. 5 See pp. 127, 1 28. 126 THE ENGLISH POETS. of his work to the Prince of Wales, Shaksperc's Prince Hal. It is founded, he says, on Aristotle's ' boke of govcrnaunce' (the supposed correspondence between Aristotle and Alexander which made so deep an impression on the mediaeval mind), and the work of Aegidius above mentioned ; he has also studied the work of Jacobus de Cessolis (Casali) called The Chess-moralized*; and the fruits of these studies he now presents to the Prince. The poem is not interesting. The various aspects under which his duty presents, or ought to present, itself to the mind of a ruler are considered successively under the heads of justice, good faith, temperance, mercy, prudence, deliberation, and so forth. Other poems ascribed to Occleve are the story of Gerelaus emperor of Rome and his virtuous empress, and that of Jonathas and the three jewels. Both these are from the Gesta Romanorum: they have never been printed, but the story of Jonathas was modernised by Browne and introduced into the Shepherds Pipe (1614). Some of his minor poems were edited in 1798 by a Mr. Mason. The longest of them, La male rtgle de T. Hocclevc, exhibits a picture of the jovial and riotous life led by the poet in his younger days, ifhich is in complete accordance with that presented in the proem to the De Regimine. T. ARNOLD. 1 One of the first books printed by Caxton, under the name of The Gamt and Play of the Outs*. OCCLEVE. 127 FROM THE PROEM TO THE 'DE REGIMINE PRINCIPUM.' But wele awaye, so is myn herte wo, That the honour of English tounge is deed, Of which I was wonte have counseil and rede. O maister dere and fader reverent, My maister Chaucer ! floure of eloquence, Mirrour of fructuous entendement, O universal fadir in science, Alias ! that thou thyne excellent prudence In thy bedde mortel myghtest not bequethe ; What eyled Dethe? alias, why wold he sle the? O Dethe, that didest not harme singulere In slaughtre of hym, but alle this lond it smerteth ; But natheles yit hast thow no powere His name to slee ; his hye vertu asterteth Unslayne fro the, whiche ay us lyfly herteth 1 With booke's of his ornat endityng, That is to alle this londe enlumynyng. Hastow 2 nat eek my maistre Gower slayne? Whos vertu I am insufficient For to descreyve, I wote wel in certeyne : For to sleen alle this world thow hast y-ment, But syn cure Lord Christ was obedient To thee, in feyth I can no better seye, His creatures musten thee obeye. 1 encourages. * Hast thou. (2 8 THE ENGLISH POETS. FROM THE ' DE REGIMINE PRINCIPUM.' Symple is my goste ', and scars my letterure, % Unto youre excellence for to write Myne >nward love, and yit in aventure Wol I me put, thogh I can but lyte ; My dere maister, God his soule quyte, And fader, Chaucer, fayne wold have me taught, But I was dulle, and lerned lyte or naught. Alias ! my worthy maister honorable, This londes verray tresour and richesse, Dethe by thy dethe hath harme irreperable Unto us done : hir vengeable duresse Dispoiled hath this londe of the swetnesse Of rethoryk, for unto Tullius Was never man so like amonges us. Also, who was hye'r in phylosofye To Aristotle in our tunge but thow? The steppes of Virgile in poysye Thou folwedest eke : men wote wel' ynow. That combre-worlde 2 , that the my maister slowe", (Wolde I slayne were !) dethe was to hastyf To renne on the, and reve the thy lyf. She myght han taryed hir vengeaunce a whyle, Tyl sum man hadde egal to the be ; Nay, let be that ; she wel knew that this ylc May never man forth bringe lik to the, And hir office nedys do must she ; God bad hire soo, I truste as for the beste, O maystir, maystir, God thy soule reste 1 1 mind. bone of the world ; viz. death. * slew. JAMES THE FIRST OF SCOTLAND. [BORN 1394. Captured by the English in time of peace 1405, and kept a prisoner in the Tower, in Nottingham Castle, at Croydon, and at Windsor, till 1424, when he was released. In that year he married Lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and granddaughter of John of Gaunt. She was the heroine of his principal poem, The King's Quair. In 1437, after reigning thirteen years in Scotland, the king was assassinated at Perth. Besides The King's Quair, he is commonly supposed to have written one or two other poems, notably the humorous ballad Chris fs Kirk on the Green."] James the First of Scotland is one of the earliest and one of the best of the imitators of Chaucer, and is the first of that line of Scottish poets who kept the lamp of poetry burning during the darkness of the fifteenth century. His chief poem, The King's Quair, or the King's Book, seems to have been written in 1423 or 1424, about the time of his marriage ; when he was thirty years old and when Chaucer had been in his grave nearly a quarter of a century. The King's Quair, written in the seven-lined stanza, is about 200 stanzas long, and it tells in a style that is a curious mixture of autobiographical fact and allegorical romance the story of the captive king's courtship of the lady who became his wife, Lady Jane Beaufort. The royal prisoner, after a sleepless night spent in reading Boethius, rises at the sound of the matins bell and begins to complain of his fortune. Suddenly in the garden beneath he sees a lady, so beautiful that he who has never known love till now is instantly subdued, the nightingale and all the other birds singing in harmony with his passion. The lady dis- appears, and half-sleeping, half-swooning, he dreams of a strange sequel. He seems to be carried up 'fro spere to spere' to the Empire of Venus ; he wins her favour, but since his desperate case requires ' the help of other mo than one goddesse,' he is sent on with Good Hope for guide to the Palace of Minerva. The goddess VOL. I. K 1 3 THE ENGLISH POETS. of Wisdom receives him with a speech on Free Will ; and finally, after an interview with the great goddess Fortune herself, he wakes to find a real messenger from Venus, ' a turture, quhite as calk,' bringing him a flowering branch, joyful evidence that his suit is to succeed : ' " Awake I awake ! I bring, lover, I bring The ncwis glad that blissful ben and sure Of thy confort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, That art beside so glad an aventure; For in the hevyn decretit is the cure." And unto me the flouris did present ; With wyngis spred hir wayis furth sche went.' With this and with the poet's song of thankfulness The King's Quair ends. No subject could be better fitted than the love-story of the captive king for a poem in the accepted trouvtre style. The paganism of romance was fond of representing man as passive material in the hands of two supernatural powers, Fortune and Love ; and poetry for two centuries was for ever returning to the theme. James the First was neither original enough to depart from the poetical conventions of his time, nor artist enough to work out his subject without confusion and repetition ; and yet the personal interest of his story and its adaptability to the chosen form of treatment would be enough to save The King's Quair from oblivion, even without the unquestionable beauty of much of the verse. The dress is the common tinsel of the time, but the body beneath is real and human. We have said that King James was an early and close imitator of Chaucer 1 . His nineteen years of captivity allowed him to steep himself in Chaucer's poetry, and any Chaucerian student who reads The King's Quair is constantly arrested by a line or a stanza or a whole episode that exactly recalls the master. It is unneces- 1 The concluding stanza of the poem is as follows : ' Vnto impnis of my maisteris dere, Gowere and Chaucere, that on the steppis satt Of rethorike, quhill thai were lyvand here, Superlatiue as poetis laureate, In moralitee and eloquence ornate, I recommend my buk in lynis seven, And eke thair saulis vnto the blisse of lie via.' JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 131 t>ary to point out, for instance, the close resemblance of the passage which we here quote, the King's first sight of Lady Jane, to the passage in TheKnightes Tale (see p. 72) where Palamon and Arcite first see Emilye. Not only the general idea but the details are copied ; for example, the King, like Palamon, doubts whether the beautiful vision be woman or goddess. The ascent to the Empire of Venus is like an abridgement of The Hous of Fame. Minerva's discussion of Free Will is imitated from Chaucer's rendering of the same theme, after Boethius, in Troylus and Creseyde. The catalogue of beasts near the dwelling of Fortune, is an echo of Chaucer's catalogue of birds in The Parlement of Foules. Isolated instances of imitation abound ; thus ' Til Phebus endit had his bemes brycht, And bad go farewel every lefe and floure, That is to say, approchen gan the night,' is a repetition of a well-known passage in The Frankeleynes Tale : ' For the orizont had left the sonne his liht, (That is as much to sayn as it was nyht).* A passage in Troylus is recalled by ' O besy goste, ay flikering to and fro ' ; and another by the King's concluding address to his book ' Go, Iitel tretis.' Outside The King's Quatr, the 'gude and godlie ballate' here given (although it would be difficult to prove that it belongs to King James) is obviously modelled on the ' good counseil of Chaucer' which we have quoted above (p. 80). These examples of the influence of Chaucer upon so rich a mind as that of the young King of Scotland are strong evidence of the greatness of the earlier poet and of the instantaneousness with which his genius made itself felt EDITOR. 13* THE ENGLISH POETS. THE KING'S QUAIR. (St. 30 et seqq.) Bewailling in my chamber thus allone, Despaired of all joye and remedye, For-tiret of my thought and wo-begone, And to the wyndow gan I walk in hye, To see the warld and folk that went forbye, As for the tyme though I of mirthis fude Mycht have no more, to luke it did me gude. Now was there maid fast by the Touris wall A gardyn faire, and in the corneris set Ane herbere grene, with wandis long and small Railit about, and so with treis set Was all the place, and hawthorn hegis knct, That lyf 1 was non walkyng there forbye, That mycht within scarce any wight aspy. So thick the beuis 1 and the leves grene Beschadit all the allyes that there were, And myddis every herbere mycht be sene The scharpe grene suete jenepere, Growing so fair with branchis here and there, That, as it semyt to a lyf without, The bewis spred the herbere all about. And on the smalg grene twistis sat The lytil suete nyghtingale, and song So loud and clere, the ympnis* consecrat Of luvis use, now soft now lowd among, That all the gardynis and the wallis rong Ryght of thaire song, and on the copill next Of thaire suete armony, and lo the text : 1 living thing. ' boughs. ' hymn*. JAMES 7. OF SCOTLAND. 133 ' Worschippe, ye that loveris bene, this May, For of your bliss the kalendis are begonne, And sing with us, away winter, away, Come somer, come, the suete seson and sonne, Awake, for schame ! that have your hevynis wonne, And amourously lift up your hedis all, Thank Lufe that list you to his merci call/ Quhen thai this song had song a littil thrawe 1 , Thai stent a quhile, and therewith unafraid, As I beheld, and kest myn eyen a-lawe a , From beugh to beugh thay hippit and thai plaid, And freschly in thair birdis kynd araid Thaire fatheris 3 new, and fret thame in the sonne, And thankit Lufe, that had thair makis* wonne. This was the plane ditie of thair note, And therewithall unto myself I thought, Quhat lufe is this, that makis birdis dote? Quhat may this be, how cummyth it of ought? Quhat nedith it to be so dere ybought ? It is nothing, trowe I, bot feynit chere 5 , And that one list to counterfeten chere. Eft wold I think, O Lord, quhat may this be? That Lufe is of so noble mycht and kynde, Lufing his folk, and suich prosperitee Is it of him, as we in bukis fynd, May he oure hertis setten and unbynd : Hath he upon our hertis suich maistrye? Or all this is bot feynit fantasye? For giff he be of so grete excellence, That he of every wight hath cure and charge, Quhat have I gilt to him, or doon offense That I am thrall, and birdis gone at large ? Sen him to serve he mycht set my corage, And, gif he be not so, than may I seyne Quhat makis folk to jangill of him in veyne ? 1 space. J below. s feathers. * mates. mirth. 134 THE ENGLISH POETS. Can I not cllis fynd hot gift* that he Be lord, and, as a god, may lyve and regne, To bynd, and louse, and makcn thrallis free, Than wold I pray his blissful grace benigne To hable 1 me unto his service digne, And evermore for to be one of tho Him trewly for to serve in wele and wo. And therewith kest I doun myn eye ageyne, Quhare as I saw walkyng under the Toure, Full secretely, new cumyn hir to pleyne, The fairest or the freschest youngg floure That ever I sawe, methought, before that houre, For quhich sodayne abate, anon astert The blude of all my body to my hert. And though I stood abaisit tho a lyte, No wonder was ; for quhy? my wittis all Were so ouercome Tvith plesance and delyte, Only through latting of myn eyen fall, That sudaynly my hert become hir thrall, For ever of free wyll, for of manace a There was no takyn 3 in her suete face. And in my hede I drew rycht hastily, And eft sones I lent it out ageyne, And saw hir walk that verray womanly, With no wight mo, bot only women tueyne, Than gan I studye in myself and seyne, Ah ! suete, are ye a warldly creature, Or hevinly thing in likeness of nature ? Or ar ye god Cupidis owin princesse ? And cumyn are to louse me out of band, Or are ye veray Nature the goddesse, That have depayntit with your hevinly hand This gardyn full of flouris, as they stand? Quhat sail I think, allace ! quhat reverence Sail I minister to your excellence. 1 enable. pride, lit menace. token. JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 135 Giff ye a goddesse be, and that ye like To do me payne, I may it not astert ; Giff ye be warldly wight, that dooth me sike *, Quhy lest 2 God mak you so, my derest hert, To do a sely 3 prisoner thus smert, That lufis you all, and wote of nought but wo? And, therefore, merci, suete ! sen it is so. Quhen I a lytill thrawe had maid my mone, Bewailing myn infortune and my chance, Unknawin how or quhat was best to done, So ferre* I fallyng into lufis dance, That sodeynly my wit, my contenance, My hert, my will, my nature, and my mynd, Was changit clene rycht in ane other kind. ***** In hir was youth, beautee, with humble aport, Bountee, richesse, and womanly faiture, God better wote than my pen can report ; Wisdome, largesse, estate, and conyng sure In every point, so guydit hir mesure, In word, in dede, in schap, in contenance, That nature mycht no more hir childe auance. Throw quhich anon I knew and understude Wele that sche was a wardly creature, On quhom to rest myn eye, so much gude It did my wofull hert, I yow assure That it was to me joye without mesure, And, at the last, my luke unto the hevin I threwe furthwith, and said thir versis sevin : O Venus clere ! of goddis stellifyit, To quhom I yelde homage and sacrifise, Fro this day forth your grace be magnifyit, That me ressauit 5 have in such [a] wise, To lyve under your law and your seruise ; Now help me furth, and for your merci lede My hert to rest, that deis nere 6 for drede. 1 causes me to sigh. * did it please. * innocent. 4 fared. 8 received. ' ; nearly dies. 136 THE ENGLISH POETS. Quhen I with gude entent this orison Thus endit had, I stynt a lytill stound, And eft myn eye full pitously adoun I kest, behalding unto hir lytill hound, That with his bellis playit on the ground, Than wold I say, and sigh therewith a lyte, Ah ! wele were him that now were in thy plyte ! An other quhile the lytill nyghtingale, That sat upon the twiggis, wold I chide, And say rycht thus, Quhare are thy notis smale, That thou of love has song this morowe tyde ? Seis thou not hir that sittis the" besyde? For Venus' sake, the blisfull goddesse clere, Sing on agane, and make my Lady chere. FROM 'THE GUDE AND GODLIE BALLATES' (1570). Sen throw vertew incressis dignitie, And vertew is flour and rute of noble's ay, Of ony wit, or quhat estait thou be Ris ' steppis few, and dreid for none effray : Exill al vice, and follow treuth alway ; Lufe maist thy God, that first thy lufe began, And for ilk inche He will thd quyte ane span. Be not ouir proude in thy prosperitie, For as it cummis, sa will it pass away ; The tyme to compt is schort, thou may weill se, For of grene gress sone cummis wallowit* hay. Labour in treuth, quliilk suith is of thy fay s ; Traist maist in God, for He best gyde the" can, And for ilk inche He will the" quyte ane span. Sen word is thrall, and thocht is only fre, Thou dant* thy toung, that power hes and may, Thou steik thy ene * fra warldis vanitie, Refraine thy lust, and harkin quhat I say; Graip or thou slyde', and keip furth the hie way, Thou hald the" fast upon thy God and man, And for ilk inche He will the" quyte ane span. 1 rise. * withered. ' faith. 4 daunt, i.e. tame, restrain. ' eyes. * Grip ere thou slide. ROBERT HENRYSON. [Of ROBERT HENRYSON, the charming fabulist, Chaucer's aptest and brightest scholar, almost nothing is known. David Laing conjectures him to have been born about 1425, to have been educated at some foreign university, and to have died towards the closing years of the fifteenth century. It is certain that in 1462, being then 'in Artibus Licentiatus et in Decretis Bacchalarius,' he was incorporated of the University of Glasgow; and that he was afterwards schoolmaster in Dunfermline, and worked there as a notary-public also.] Henryson was an accomplished man and a good and genuine poet. He had studied Chaucer with the ardour and insight of an original mind, and while he has much in common with his master, he has much that is his own. His verse is usually well-minted and of full weight. Weak lines are rare in him ; he had the instinct of the refrain, and was fond of doing feats in rhythm and rhyme ; he is close, compact, and energetic. Again, he does not often let his learning or his imagination run away with him and divert him from his main issue. He subordinates himself to the matter he has in hand ; he keeps himself to the point, and never seeks to develope for development's sake ; and so, as it appears to me, he approves himself a true artist. It follows that, as a story- teller, he is seen to great advantage. He narrates with a gaiety, an ease, a rapidity, not to be surpassed in English literature between Chaucer and Burns. That, moreover, he was a born dramatist, there is scarce one of his fables but will prove. It is to be noted that he uses dialogue as a good playwright would use it ; it is a means with him not only of explaining a personage but of painting a situation, not only of introducing a moral but of advancing an intrigue. He had withal an abundance of wit, humour, and good sense ; he had considered life and his fellow 138 THE ENGLISH POETS. men, nature and religion, the fashions and abuses of his epoch, with the grave, observant amiability of a true poet ; he was directly in sympathy with many things ; he loved to read and to laugh ; it was his business to moralise and teach. It was natural that he should choose the fable as a means of expressing himself. It was fortunate as well ; for his fables are perhaps the best in the language, and are worthy of consideration and regard even after La Fontaine himself. To a modern eye his dialect is distressingly quaint and crabbed. In his hands, however, it is a right instrument, narrow in com- pass, it may be, but with its every note sonorous and responsive. To know the use he made of it in dialogue, he must be studied in Robyne and Makyne, the earliest English pastoral ; or at such moments as that of the conversation between the widows of the Cock who has just been snatched away by the Fox ; or in the incomparable Taile of the Wolf that got the Nek-Herring throw the Wrinkis of the Fox that Begylit the Cadgear, which, outside La Fontaine, I conceive to be one of the high-water marks of the modern apologue. In such poems as T/te Three Deid Powis 1 , where he has anticipated a something of Hamlet at Yorick's grave, as The Abbey Walk, the Garmond of Fair Ladies, the Reasoning between Age and Youth, it is employed as a vehicle for the expres- sion of austere thought, of quaint conceitedness, of solemn and earnest devotion, of satirical comment, with equal ease and equal success. As a specimen of classic description as the classic appeared to the mediaeval mind I should like to quote at length his dream of ^Csop. As a specimen of what may be called the choice and refined realism that informs his work, we may give a few stanzas from the prelude to his Testament of Cresseid. It was winter, he says, when he began his song, but, he adds, in despite of the cold, 'Within mine orature I stude, when Titan with his bemis bricht Withdrawin doun, and sylit* undercure, And fair Venus, the beauty of the nicht, Uprais, and stt unto the west full richt Hir goldin face, in oppositioun Of God Phoebus, direct discending doun. 1 (kails. hidden. HENRYSON: 139 Throwout the glass hir bemis brast so fair That I micht se on everie side me by. The northin wind had pvrifyit the air, And sched the misty cloudis Jra the sky 1 . The frost freisit, the blastis bitterly Fra Pole Article came quhistling loud and schill, And causit me remufe aganist my will. ***** I mend the fire, and beikit* me about. Than tuik a drink my spreitis to comfort. And armit me weill fra the cauld thairottt ; To cut the winter nicht and mak it schort, I tuik ane Quair 3 , and left all uther sport, Writtin be worthie Chaucer glorious Of fair Cresseid and lusty Troilus.' In this charming description Henryson, by the use of simple and natural means and by the operation of a principle of selection that is nothing if not artistic, has produced an impression that would not disgrace a poet skilled in the knacks and fashions of the most pictorial school. Indeed I confess to having read in its connection a poem that might in many ways be imitated from it (La Bonne Soiree), and to feeling and seeing more with Henry- son than with The"ophile Gautier. W. E. HENLEY. 1 'The wind had swept from the wide atmosphere, Each vapour vhat obscured the sunset's ray.' Shelley. bustled. book. 1 4 THE ENGLISH POETS. THE GARMOND OF FAIR LADIES Wald my gud Lady lufe me best, And wirk eftir my will, I sold ane Garmond gudliest Gar mak hir body till. Off hie honour suld be hir hud, Upoun hir heid to weir, Garneist with governance so gud, Na demyng 1 suld hir deir*. Hir sark suld be hir body nixt, Of chestetie so quhyt, With schame and dreid togidder mixt, The same suld be perry!. Hir kirtill suld be of clene Constance, Lasit with lesum 8 lufe, The mailyheis* of continuance For nevir to remufe. Hir gown suld be of gudliness Weill ribband with renowne, Purfillit with plesour in ilk place. Furrit with fyne fassoun*. Hir belt suld be of benignitie, About hir middill meit ; Hir mantill of humilitie, To tholl* bayth wind and welt. Hir hat suld be of fair having And hir tepat 7 of trewth, Hir patelet 8 of gude pansing*, Hir hals-ribbane 10 of rewth, 1 suspicion. ' hann. * lawful. * eylet-holes. ' good manners. 1 withstand. ' tippet. ruflet. * fair thought. * neck-ribband. HENRYS ON\ 141 Hir slevis suld be of esperance, To keip hir fra dispair ; Hir gluvis of the gud govirnance, To hyd hir fyngearis fair. Hir schone 1 suld be of sickernes 1 , In syne that scho nocht slyd ; Hir hoiss 8 of honestie, I ges, I suld for hir provyd. Wald scho put on this Garmond gay, I durst sweir by my seill 4 , That scho woir nevir grene nor gray That set 5 hir half so weilL THE TAILL OF THE LYOUN AND THE Mous. Ane Lyoun at his pray wery foirrun 6 , To recreat his limmis and to rest, Beikand 7 his breist and bellie at the sone, Under ane tree lay in the fair forrest, Swa 8 come ane trip 9 of Myis out of thair nest, Rycht tait and trig 10 , all dansand in ane gyis n , And ouer the Lyoun lansit 12 twyis or thrys. He lay so still, the Myis wes nocht effeird Bot to and fro out ouer him tuke thair trace, Sum tirllit at the campis 13 of his beird, Sum spairit nocht to claw him on the face ; Merie and glaid, thus dansit thay ane space, Till at the last the nobill Lyoun woke, And with his pow u the maister Mous he tuke. 1 shoes. * security. * hosen. * soul. * suited. 8 foundered, spent. T basking ; as a transitive verb. iso, band. 10 gamesome and dainty. u figure. u darted. u long hair, locks. " paw. J 4 3 THE ENGLISH POETS. Scho gaif ane cry, and all the laif 1 agast Thair dansing left, and hid thame sone allquhair ; Scho that wes tane, cryit and weipit fast, And said, Allace I oftymes, that scho come thair ; ' Now am I tane ane wofull presonair, And for my gilt traistis* incontinent, Of lyfe and deith to thoill * the jugement.' Than spak the Lyoun to that cairfull * Mous, 'Thou cative wretche, and vile unworthie thing, Ouer malapert, and eik presumpteous Thow wes, to mak out ouer me thy tripping. Knew thow nocht weill, I wes baith lord and king Of Beistis all?' 'Yes,' quod the Mous. 'I knaw j But I misknew, because ye lay so law. 4 Lord ! I beseik thy kinglie royaltie, Heir quhat I say, and tak in pacience ; Considder first my simple povertie, And syne thy mychtie hie magnificence : See als how thingis done of negligence, Mouther 8 of malice nor presumptioun, Erar ' suld haif grace and remissioun. ' We wir repleit, and had grit haboundance Of alkin 7 thingis, sic as to us effeird 8 . The sweit sesoun provokit us to dance, And mak sic mirth as Nature to us leird *, Ye lay so still, and law upon the eird, That, be my saull, we wend 10 ye had bene deid, Ellis wald we nocht haif dancit ouer your heid.' 'Thy fals excuse,' the Lyoun said agane, ' Sail nocht availl ane myte, I underta u : I put the case, I had bene deid or slane And syne my skyn bene stoppit 12 full of stra, Thocht thow had found my figure lyand swa, Because it bair the prent of my persoun, Thow suld for feir on knees haif fallin doun. 1 rest. * expect. ' endure. * sorrowful. * And not. rather. T all manner of. * appertained. * taught. * thought. u undertake, vow. " stuffed. HENRYSON. 143 'For thy trespas thow sail mak na defence, My nobill persoun thus to vilipend ; Of thy feiris, nor thy awin negligence, For to excuse, thow can na cause pretend ; Thairfoir thow suffer sail ane schamefull end, And deith, sic as to tressoun is decreit, On to the gallous harlit 1 be the feit.' ' A mercie, Lord ! at thy gentrice 2 I ase * : As thow art king of beistis coronat 4 , Sober thy wraith, and let thy yre ouerpas, And mak thy mynd to mercy inclynat ; I grant offence is done to thyne estait, Quhairfoir I worthie am to suffer deid, Bot gif 5 thy kinglie mercie reik remeid 6 . ' In everie juge mercy and reuth suld be As assessouris, and collaterall. Without mercie Justice is crueltie, As said is in the Lawis Spirituall ; Ouhen rigour sittis in the tribunall, The equitie of Law quha may sustene ? Richt few or nane, but 7 mercie gang betwene. Alswa ye knaw the honour triumphall Of all 8 victour upon the strenth dependis Of his conqueist, quhilk manlie in battell Throw jeopardie of weir lang defendis. Quhat price or loving 9 quhen the battell cndis Is said of him, that ouercummis ane man Him 10 to defend quhilk nouther may nor can ? ' Ane thousand myis to kill, and eke devoir, Is lytill manheid to ane strong Lyoun ; Full lytill worschip haif ye wyn thairfoir, To quhais strenth is na comparisoun : It will degraid some part of your renoun, To slay ane Mous quhilk may mak na defence, Bot u askand mercie at your Excellence. 1 dragged, trundled. * nobleness, magnanimity. ' ask. 4 crowned. * unless. ' bestow pardon. T unless. * every, praise. lo For ' himself.' u unless it be that of. 144 THE ENGLISH POETS. Also, it semis 1 nocht your celsitude 1 , Quhilk usis daylie mcittis delitious, To syle your teith, or lippis, with my blude, Quhilk to your stomok is contagious : Unhailsum meit is of ane sairie* Mous, And that namelie untill ane strang Lyoun Wont till be fed with gentill vennisoun. ' My lyfe is lytill worth, my deith is less, Yet and I leif, I may peradventure Supple 4 your Hienes beand in desires; For oft is sene, ane man of small stature Reskewit hes ane Lord of hie honour, Keipit that wes in point to be ouerthrawin 5 , Throw misfortune. Sie cace may be your awin.' Quhen this was said, the Lyoun his language Paissit 8 , and thocht according to ressoun, And gart 7 mercie his cruell yre asswage, And to the Mous grantit remissioun, Opinnit his pow, and scho on kneis fell doun, And baith his handis unto the hevin upheld, Cryand 'Almychtie God, mot you foryeild 8 !' Quhen scho wes gone, the Lyoun held to hunt, For he had nocht, bot levit on his pray, And slew baith tayme and wylde, as he wes wont, And in the cuntrie maid ane greit deray'; Till at the last, the pepill fand the way This cruell Lyoun how that they mycht tak, Of hempyn cordis strang nettis couth thay male. And in ane rod, quhair he wes wont to ryn, With raipis rude fra tre to tre it band : Syne kest ane range on raw the wod 10 within, With hornis blast, and kennettis u fast calland : The Lyoun fled, and throw the rone '* rynnand, 1 it does not become. ' highness. f sorry. * help. that was just upon the point of being overthrown * appeased. T caused. Almighty God reward you. disorder. u i.e. they drove the wood. ll hounds. a scrub. HENRYSON. 145 Fell in the nett, and hankit 1 fute and held, For all his strenth he couth mak na remeid, Welterand about with hiddeous rummissing 2 , Quhyles to, quhyles fra, gif he mycht succour get ; Bot all in vane, it vailyeit him na thing, The mair he flang 3 , the safter wes the net ; The raipis rude wes sa about him plet 4 , On everilk syde, that succour saw he none, Bot still lyand, and murnand maid his mone. ' O lamit Lyoun ! liggand " heir sa law, Quhair is the mycht of magnificence ? Of quhome all brutall beistes in eird stude aw", And dreid to luke upon thy excellence ! But 7 hoip or help, but succour or defence, In bandis strang heir mon I ly, allace ! Till I be slane I see nane uther grace. 'Thair is na wy 8 that will my harmis wreck", Nor creature do confort to my croun ; Quha sail me bute 10 ? quha sail my bandis brek ? Quha sail me put fra pane of this presoun ?' Be" he had mide this lamentatioun, Throw aventure 11 the lytill Mous come neir, And of the Lyoun hard the pietuous beir 13 . And suddandlie it come in till hir mynd That it suld be the Lyoun did hir grace, And said, ' Now were I fals, and richt unkynd, But gif I quit sum part of thy gentrace 1 * Thow did to me : ' and on this way scho gais To hir fellowis, and on thame fast can cry, 'Cum help, cum help;' and they come all in hy 15 . 'Lo!' quod the Mous, 'this is the samin Lyoun That grantit grace to me quhen I wes tane ; 1 entangled. * roaring. * straggled. 4 woven. 5 lying. * earth stood in awe. T Without. * No man. 9 avenge. 10 help. " When. M By chance. '* noise. 14 kindness. ts in haste. VOL. I. L 146 THE ENGLISH POETS. And now is fast heir bundin in presoun, Brekand his heart, with sair murning and mane ; Dot we him help, of succour wait ' he nane ; Cum help to quyte ane gude turne for ane uther ; Go, louse f him sone ;' and they said, ' Yea, gude brother/ They tuke na knyfe, their teith wes scharp aneuch : To se that sicht, forsuith it wes greit wonder, How that thay ran amang the raipis teuch Befoir, behind, sum yeild 1 about, sum under, And schuir* the raipis of the nett in schundcr ; Syne bad him ryse, and he start up anone, And thankit thame, syne on his way is gone. 1 Imows. loose. * went. * cut WILLIAM DUNBAR. [Born 145-, died 1513 (?).] M. TAINE, in his History of English Literature, leaps from Chaucer to Surrey with the remark, ' Must we quote all these good people who speak without having anything to say ? . . dozens of translators, importing the poverties of French poetry, rhyming chroniclers, most commonplace of men.' Of this period he men- tions only and merely names Gower and Lydgate and Skelton. The more genuine successors of Chaucer were the Scotch poets, who, almost alone in our island, lit up the dusk of the I5th century with some flashes of native power. Neither James I nor Henryson was commonplace, and Dunbar, the most conspicuous of the group, displays in his best work a distinct original genius. William Dunbar was born, probably in East Lothian, between 1450 and 1460. He entered the University of St. Andrews in 1475, and took his full degree in 1479. In early life, according to his own account, he went about from Berwick to Dover, and passed over to Calais and Picardy, preaching and alms-gathering as a Franciscan noviciate ; but he became dissatisfied with this life and does not seem to have taken the vows of the order. It has been inferred from allusions in his verse that he was for some years employed in connection with foreign embassies. Toward the close of the century we find him in attendance on the Scotch Court, a poet with an established reputation, and a continual suitor for place. In 1500 he received from the king (James IV) a pension of ^10, raised by degrees, during the next ten years to ,80 then a respectable annuity: but he never obtained the Church promotion, to which on somewhat irrelevant grounds he constantly laid claim. Dunbar revisited England in 1501, when the king's marriage with the Princess Margaret was being negotiated. The Thistle and the Rose in commemoration of that event was composed on the Qth of May, 1503. The Golden Targe and the Lament for the L 2 THE ENGLISH POETS. Motors were issued from Chepman's the first Scotch press in 1508. The poet must have accompanied the Queen, in whose favour he stood fast, to the north in 1511 ; for he celebrates her reception at Aberdeen. There is a record of an instalment of his pension being paid in August, 1513 : the rest is a blank, and it has been plausibly conjectured that he may, a month later, have fallen at Floddcn with the King. If he lived to write the Orison on the passing of Albany to France (doubtfully attributed to him) the absence of any other reference to the great national disaster is remarkable. We are, however, only certain from an allusion in Lyndesay's Papyngo that he must have been dead in 1530. The writings of Dunbar on the whole the most considerable poet of our island in the interval between Chaucer and Spenser are mainly Allegorical, Satirical, and Occasional. Allegory, a disease of the middle ages infecting most poets down to the end of the 1 6th century, was rife in our old Scotch verse, much of which is cast on the model of The Romaunt of the Rose and The Flower dnd the Leaf. In The Golden Targe the influence of those works is conspicuous, though much of the imitation is indirect, through The King's Quair. Like the royal minstrel, the poet represents himself as being roused from his slumbers by the morn- ing, and led to the bank of a stream where presently a ship lands a hundred ladies (v. the ' world of ladies' in The Flower and the Leaf) in green kirtles : among them are Nature, Dame Venus, the fresh Aurora, Latona, Proserpine, &c. Then Cupid appears, leading a troop of gods to dance with the goddesses. Love detecting the poet orders his arrest. Reason defends him with the Golden Targe, till Presence comes and throws dust into the eyes of Reason and leaves Venus victrix. The plot is no more barren than those of Chaucer's own contributions to the literature of the Courts of Love : but the Targe is farther beset by an unusual number of the ' aureate ' terms or affected Latinisms with which the Scotch poets of the century disfigured their language, planting them, as Campbell says, like children's flowers in a mock garden. The merit of the piece almost wholly consists in its riches of de- scription; but this is enough to preserve it: the ship 'like a blossom on the spray,' the skies that ' rang with shouting of the larks,' recall Chaucer's Orient and anticipate Burns. The Thistle and the Rose has the same pictorial charm, with the added merit of being inspired by a genuine national enthusiasm. It is perhaps the happiest political allegory in our tongue. Heraldry has never DUNBAR. 149 been more skilfully handled, nor compliments more gracefully paid, nor fidelity more persuasively preached to a monarch than in this poem, which has under its southern dress a strong northern body. This remark applies to the author's work in general, and more especially to those compositions in which he mingles allegory with satire. His masterpiece, The Dance of the Deadly Sins, may have been suggested by passages in Piers Plowman, as it in turn transmitted its influence through Sackville to The Faery Queen : but the horrid crew of vices, summoned from their dens by lines each vigorous as the crack of a whip, are real, and Scotch, and contemporary, drawn from a knowledge of the world, not from books : these supplied Dunbar with his terminology, that with his thought. His most elaborate composition, and that which ranks next in originality to The Dance, The Two Married Women and the Widow, has a tincture of Boccaccio and The Wife of Bath, but the scene is again a northern summer eve, and the gossips are con- temporaries of Queen Margaret. The poet's satire, which is here subtle, is often furious. Half his minor poems are vollies of abuse, unprecedented in English literature, unless by some of the almost contemporaneous outbursts of Skelton, mainly directed against those who had, by fair means or foul, been promoted over him ; the other half are religious and moral reveries, those of a good Catholic who lived when the first mutters of the Reformation were in the air, and are the finest devotional fragments of their age. The special characteristics of Dunbar's genius are variety and force. His volume is a medley in which tenderness and vindic- tiveness, blistering satire and exuberant fancy meet. His writings are only in a minor degree bound up with the politics of his age, and though they reflect its fashions, they for the most part appeal to wider human sympathies. He has not wearied us with any very long poem. His inspiration and his personal animus find vent within moderate bounds, but they are constantly springing up at different points and assuming various attitudes. At one time he is a quiet moralist praising the golden mean, at another he is as fierce as Juvenal. Devoid of the subtlety and the dra- matic power of Chaucer, his attacks, often coarse, are always direct and sincere. His drawing, like that of the Ballads, is in the fore-ground : there is no chiaroscuro in his pages, no more than in those of his countrymen from Barbour to Burns. The story of the battle between The Tailor and S outer might have been 150 THE ENGLISH POETS. written by Rabelais : The Devil's Inquest is the original of The Devil's Drive: the meditation on A Winter's Walk is not un- worthy of Cowper, nor the best stanzas in The Merle and the Nightingale of Wordsworth. Like Erasmus, Dunbar railed against the friars and their indul- gences 'quorum pars fuit :' but there is no reason to suspect that lie was more or less than a large-hearted Roman Catholic in his creed. He had none of the protagonist spirit which is required to assail the traditions of a thousand years. Of a generally buoyant temper he appears, like most satirists, to have taken at times a view of the world, in which the Epicurean gloom dominates the Epicurean gaiety. ' All earthly joy returns in pain ' is the refrain of one of his poems ; ' Timor mortis conturbat me ' of another. The shadow of the ' atra dies' falls aslant his most luxuriant moods. In the sonnet beginning : What is this life but ane straucht way to deid, \Vhilk has a time to pass and nane to dwell'; there is something of the satiety of a disappointed worldling ; but in others ' Be merry, man, and tak not sare in mind The wavering of this wretched warld of sorrow,' we have the manlier temper : on the one side Vanitas vanilatum, et omnia vanilas, on the other the Philosophic douce. ]. NlCHOL. Nott. In the following extracts, the text of Mr. David Laing, Ed. 1834, has been generally adhered to. Where there are different readings, that has been adopted which give* the best metre. D UNBAR. 151 FROM 'THE THRISSILL AND THE Rois.' Quhen Merche wes with variand windis past And Appryle had, with her silver schouris, Tane leif at Nature with ane orient blast, And lusty May, that muddir is of flouris, Had maid the birdis to begyn thair houris* Amang the tendir flouris reid and quhyt, Quhois armony to heir it wes delyt : In bed at morrow, sleiping as I lay, Me thocht Aurora, with hir cristall ene In at the window lukit by the day, And halsit 2 me, with visage paill and grene ; On quhois hand a lark sang fro the splene 8 , Awalk, luvaris, out of your slomering Se hou the lusty morrow dois up-spring. Me thocht fresch May befoir my bed up stude, In weid depaynt of mony diverss hew, Sobir, benyng, and full of mansuetude In brycht atteir of flouris forgit new Hevinly of color, quhyt, reid, broun and blew, Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus bemys ; Quhyll all the house illumynit of her lemys*. Slugird, scho said, awak annone for schame, And in my honour sum thing thou go wryt ; The lark hes done the mirry day proclame, To raise up luvaris with confort and delyt j Yit nocht incressis thy curage to indyt, Quhois hairt sum tyme hes glaid and blisfull bent, Sangis to mak undir the levis grene. ****** morning orisons. 2 embraced. * from the heart. * rays. I 5 a THE ENGLISH POETS. Than callit scho all flouris that grew on feild Discirnyng all thair fassionis and effeiris: Upone the awfull Thrissil scho beheld And saw him kepit with a busche of speiris ; Considering him so able for the weiris 1 A radius* croun of rubeis scho him gaif, And said, In feild go furth and fend the laiP : And sen thou art a King, thou be discreit ; Herb without vertew thow hald nocht of sic prycc As herb of vertew and of odour sueit ; And lat no nettill vyle, and full of vyce, Hir fallow * to the gudly flour-de-lyce ; Nor latt no wyld weid, full of churlicheness, Compair hir till the lilleis nobilness. Nor hald non udir flour in sic denty 5 As the fresche Rois, of cullour reid and quhyt : For gife thow dois, hurt is thyne honesty; Considring that no flour is so perfyt, So full of vertew, plesans, and delyt, So full of blisful angeilik bewty, Imperial! birth, honour and dignitd FROM 'THE GOLDVN TARGE.' Bryght as the stern of day begouth to schyne Quhen gone to bed war Vesper and Lucyne, I raise, and by a rosere* did me rest : Up sprang the goldyn candill matutyne, With clere depurit bemes cristallyne Glading the mery foulis in thair nest ; Or Phebus was in purpur cape revest Up raise the lark, the hevyn's menstrale fyne In May, in till a morow myrthfullest. Full angellike thir birdis sang thair houris Within thair courtyns grene, in to thair bouris, Apparalit quhite and red, wyth blomes suete ; 1 radiant. * rest. * match herself. * favour. * rose bush. DUNBAR. 153 Anamalit was the felde with all colouris, The perly droppis schuke in silvir schouris ; Quhill all in balme did branch and levis flete *, To part fra Phebus did Aurora grete 2 ; Hir cristall teris I saw hyng on the flouris Quhilk he for lufe all drank up with his hete. For mirth of May, wyth skippis and wyth hoppis, The birdis sang upon the tender croppis, With curiouse notis, as Venus chapell clerkis ; The rosis yong, new spreding of their knoppis 3 War powderit brycht with hevinly beriall droppis Throu bemes rede, birnyng as ruby sperkis ; The skyes rang for schoutyng of the larkis. THE DANCE OF THE SEVIN DEIDLY SYNNIS. Of Februar the fyiftene nycht, Full lang befoir the dayis lycht, I lay in till a trance ; And than I saw baith Hevin and Hell : Me thocht, amangis the feyndis fell, Mahoun gart cry ane Dance Off Schrewis 4 that were nevir schrevin, Aganis the feist of Fasternis evin 5 To mak thair observance ; He bad gallandis ga graith a gyiss * And kast up gamountis 7 in the Skyiss As varlotis dois in France. ****** Heilie Harlottis on hawtane wyiss Come in with mony. sindrie gyiss, Bot yit luche 8 nevir Mahoun, Quhill 9 preistis come in with bair schevin nekkis, Than all the Feyndis lewche, and made gekkis 10 , Blak-belly and Bawsy-Broun. ****** 1 float. a wep. * buds. * Outcasts. * Fasterns Evening, the eve of Lent. * prepare a guise or mask. 7 gambols * laughed. till. w mocks. 154 THE ENGLISH POETS. Lat s<5, quoth he, now quha bcgynnis, With that the fowll Sevin Deidly synnis Begowth to leip at anis. And first of all in Dance was Pryd, With hair wyld bak, and bonet on syd, Lyk to mak vaistie 1 wanis*; And round abowt him, as a quheill, Hang all in rumpillis to the hcill His kcthat 3 for the nanis : Mony prowd trumpour with him trippit Throw skaldand * fyre, ay as thay skippit Thay gyrnd with hyddous granis 8 . Than Yre come in with sturt and stryfe ; His hand wes ay upoun his knyfe, He brandeist lyk a beir: Bostaris, braggaris, and barganeris, Eftir him passit in to pairis, All bodin* in feir of weir In jakkis, and scryppis and bonettis of steill Thair leggis wer chenyeit to the heill, Frawart was their affeir : Sum upoun uder with brandis beft 7 , Sum jagit uthers to the heft With knyvis that scherp cowd scheir. Nixt in the Dance followite Invy, Fild full of feid 8 and fellony, Hid malyce and dispyte. For pryvie hatrent that tratour trymlit ; Him followit mony freik ' dissymlit With fenyeit wordis quhyte : And flattereris in to menis facis ; And bak-byttaris in secreit placis, To ley that had delyte ; And rownaris 10 of false lesingis, Allace ! that courtis of noble kingis Of thame can nevir be quyte. 1 waste. * abodes. * robe. * northern participial form. They grinned with hideous groan*. * arrayed. T struck. 1 feud. petulant fellow. " whispereri. DUNBAR. 155 Nixt him in Dans come Cuvatyce Rute of all evill, and grund of vyce, That nevir cowd be content : Catyvis, wrechis, and ockeraris 1 , Hud-pykis a , hurdaris 3 , and gadderaris 4 , All with that warlo went : Out of thair throttis thay schot on udder Hett moltin gold, me thocht, a fudder 5 As fyre-flawcht 6 maist fervent ; Ay as thay tumit 7 them of schot, Feyndis fild thame new up to the thrott With gold of allkin 8 prent Syne Sweirnes 9 , at the secound bidding, Come lyk a sow out of a midding, Full slepy wes his grunyie 10 , Mony sweir bumbard belly huddroun 11 , Mony slute daw 12 , and slepy duddroun ls f Him servit ay with sounyie 14 . He drew thame furth in till a chenyie And Belliall with a brydill renyie Evir lascht thame on the lunyie 13 : In Dans thay war so slaw of feit, Thay gaif thame in the fyre a heit, And made them quicker of counyie l \ Than Lichery, that lathly corse, Came berand 17 lyk a bagit horse, And Ydilness did him leid ; Thair wes with him ane ugly sort, And mony stynkand fowll tramort 18 That had in syn bene deid : Quhen they were enterit in the Dance, Thay wer full strenge of countenance, Lyke tortchis byrnand reid, ***** 1 usurers. * misers. 3 hoarders. * gatherers. * load, properly of 128 Ibs. weight. ' wild- fire. T emptied. 8 of all kinds. 9 sloth. l grunt. " heavy tun-bellied sloven. 1Z slothful wench. u slut. " care. u loins. u apprehension. 1T inurting. M corpse. 156 THE ENGLISH POETS. Than the fowll monstir Gluttony Of wame unsasiable and grcdy, To Dance he did him dress : Him followit mony fowll drunckart, With can and collep ', cop and quart, In surffet and excess ; Full mony a waistlcss wally-drag *, With wamis unweildable, did furth wag, In creische 8 that did incress : Drynk ! ay thay cryit with many a gaip, The Feyndis gaif thame hait leid to laip* Thair leveray* wes na less. Na menstrallis playit to thame but dowt, For gle-men thair wer haldin owt, Be day, and eik by nycht : Except a menstrall that slew a man, Swa till his heretage he wan, And enterit by breif of richt. Than cryd Mahoun for a Heleand Padyane': Syne ran a Feynd to feche Makfadyane, Far northwart in a nuke ; Be he the Correnoch had done schout, Ersche 7 men so gadderit him abowt, In Hell grit rowme thay tuke ; Thae tarmegantis, with tag and tatter, Full lowd in Ersche begowth to clatter And rowp lyk revin and ruke 8 . The Devill sa devt* wes with thair yell, That in the depest pot of hell, He smorit 10 thame with smuke. 1 drinking cups. ' outcast. ' grease. ' hot lead to lap. reward. Highland pageant. ' Irish. croak like raves and rook. deafened. w smothered. DUNBAR. 157 FROM 'THE LAMENT FOR THE MAKARIS QUHEN HE WAS SEIK.' I that in heill ' wes and glaidness, Am trublit now with gret seikness, And feblit with infirmitie ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. Our plesance heir is all vane glory This fals Warld is bot transitory The flesche is brukle 2 , the Feynd is sld ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. The stait of Man dois change and vary Now sound, now seik, now blyth, now sary, Now dansand mirry, now like to die ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. No Stait in Erd heir standis sicker, As with the wynd wavis the wickir*, So wavis this warldis vanit ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. Unto the Deid gois all Estaitis Princis, Prellattis, and Potestaitis, Baith riche and puire of all degre" ; Timor mortis conturbat me. He takis the knychtis in to* feild, Anarmit under helme and scheild, Victour he is at all mellie 5 ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. ***** I see that Makaris amang the laif Playis heir thair padyanis, syne gois to graif; Spairit is nocht thair facultd ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. health. * brittle. * osier. * in the. melee. ' poets among the rest 1 5 8 THE ENGLISH POETS. He hes done peteouslie devour The noble Chawcer of makaris flouir * The Monk of Bery, and Cower, all thre' ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. ****** He hes Blind Hary, and Sandy Traill Slaine with his schot of mortall haill Quhilk Patrick Johnestoun mycht nocht fle' ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. He hes reft Merseir his endyte, That did in luve so lifly write, So schort, so quyk, of sentence hie ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. He hes tane Roull of Abirdene, And gentil Roull of Corstorphine ; Two bettir fallowis did no man s6 ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. In Dumfermelyne he hes tane Brown With Maister Robert Henrisoun Schir Johne the Ross embraist hes he* ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. And he hes now tane, last of aw, Gud gentill Stobo and Quintyne Schaw Of quhome all wichtis hes petie ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. Gud Maister Walter Kennedy, In poynt of dede ryis veraly, Gret reuth it were that so suld be ; Timon Mortis conturbat me. Sen he has all my Brether tane, He will nocht lat me leif alane, On forse I mon his nyxt pray be ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. Sen for the Dcid remeid is non, Best is that we for deid dispone*, Eftir our deid that leif may we ; Timor Mortis conturbat me. 1 flower of poets. * make ready for death GAWAIN DOUGLAS. [GAWAIN DOUGLAS (born 1474-75) was a younger son of the famous Earl of Angus, called ' Bell the Cat.' Though even elementary education was rare in his noble family, ('Thanks to St. Bothan, son of mine, Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line/) Gawain devoted himself to study, matriculated at the University of St. Andrews in 1489, and took his degree in 1494. He published his Police of Honour in 1501, and finished his translation of the Aeneid in 1513. He seems now to have abandoned poetry, and after many stormy intrigues, was consecrated Bishop of Dunkeld in 1515. He was carried down the 'drumly' stream of Scotch politics, and died in exile in London in 1522. The date of his unpublished poem King Hart is uncertain ; it was probably composed between 1501 and 1512. An admirable edition of Douglas' works has lately been made, in four volumes, by Mr. John Small of Edinburgh.] GAWAIN DOUGLAS attempted the poet's art amidst the clash of arms ; he was learned in an age and among a people that de- spised literature. The revival of letters, when it reached Scotland, was crushed out by the nobles, who hated dominies and Italians. Classical literature and Erasmus had a pupil in the young Arch- bishop of St. Andrews, a Stuart who fell under the English arrows, when 'groom fought like noble, squire like knight' around the king at Flodden. Gawain Douglas, noble by birth and ambitious of nature, ceased to court poetry, after poetry had done her best for him, had helped the recommendations of the English Court to win him a bishopric from Leo X. The lilies and laurels of Italy, the sweet Virgilian measures, were soon blighted and silenced by the wind and hail of Scotland, by clerical austerity, and the storms of war that in those days beat round even episcopal palaces. Among all the poets beheld by Douglas in vision (in the Pa/tee of Honour), but two or three were countrymen of his own. 160 THE ENGLISH POETS. The chief original poem of Douglas, The Police of Honour, is an allegory of the sort which had long been in fashion. Moral ide.is in allegorical disguises, descriptions of spring, and scraps of mediaeval learning were the staple of such compositions. Like the other poets, French and English, of the last two centuries, Douglas woke on a morning of May, wandered in a garden, and beheld various masques or revels of the goddesses, heroes, poets, virtues, vices (such as ' Busteousness '), and classical and Biblical worthies. In his vision he characteristically confused all that he happened to know of the past, made Sinon and Achitophel comrades in guilt and misfortune, while Penthesilea and Jeptha's daughter ranged together in Diana's company, and ' irrepreuabill Susanf.' rode about in the troop of 'Cleopatra and worthie Mark Anthone.' The diverting and pathetic combinations of this sort still render Douglas's poems rich in surprises, and he occasionally does poetical justice on the wicked men of antiquity, as when he makes Cicero knock down Catiline with a folio. To modern readers his allegory seems to possess but few original qualities. His poem, indeed, is rich with descriptions of flowers and stately palaces, his style, like Venus's throne, is 'with stones rich over fret and cloth of gold," his pictures have the quaint gorgeousness and untarnished hues that we admire in the paintings of Crivelli. But these qualities he shares with so many other poets of the century which preceded his own, that we find him most original when he is describing some scene he knew too well, some hour of storm and surly weather, the bleakness of a Scotch winter, or a ' desert terribill,' like that through which ' Childe Roland to the dark tower came.' (See extracts i and 2.) A poem of Douglas's which was not printed during his lifetime, King Hart, is also allegorical. King Hart, or the heart of man, dwells in a kind of city of Mansoul ; he is attended by five servants the five senses, besieged and defeated by Dame Plea- sance, visited by Age, deserted by Youthhead, Disport, and Fresh Delight. There is nothing particularly original in an allegory of which the form was common before, and not unfrcquently employed after the age of Douglas. (Compare ' the Bewitching Mistress Heart' in The Legal Proceedings against Sin in Man-shire, 1640.) The little piece of verse called Conscience is not bad in its quibbling way. When the Church was young and flourishing, Conscience ruled her. Men wearied of Conscience, and cut off the Con, leaving Science. Then came an age of ecclesiastical learning, DOUGLAS. 161 which lasted till the world ' thought that Science was too long a jape,' and got rid of Set. Nothing was left now but ens, worldly substance, 'riches and gear that gart all grace go hence.' The Church in Scotland did not retain even ens long after the age of Douglas. Grace, on the other hand, waxed abundant. The work by which Douglas lives, and deserves to live, is his translation of the Aeneid. It is a singular fruit of a barren and unlearned time, and, as a romantic rendering of the Aeneid, may still be read with pleasure. The two poets whom Douglas most admired of all the motley crowd who pass through The Palice of Honour were Virgil and Chaucer. Each of these masters he calls an a per se. He imitated the latter in the manner of his allegorical verse, and he translated the former with complete success. We must not ask the impossible from Douglas, we must not expect exquisite philological accuracy ; but he had the ' root of the matter,' an intense delight in Virgil's music and in Virgil's nar- rative, a perfect sympathy with ( sweet Dido,' and that keen sense of the human life of Greek, Trojan, and Latin, which enabled him in turn to make them live in Scottish rhyme. If he talks of ' the nuns of Bacchus,' and if his Sibyl admonishes Aeneas to 'tell his beads,' Douglas is merely using what he thinks the legitimate freedom of the translator. He justifies his method, too, by quotations from Horace and St. Gregory. He is giving a modern face to the ancient manners, a face which his readers would recognise. In his prologues, his sympathy carries him be- yond orthodox limits, and he defends the behaviour of Aeneas to Dido against the attacks of Chaucer. He is so earnest a ' humanist ' that he places himself in the mental attitude of Virgil, and avers that Aeneas only deserted Dido at the bidding of the gods : ' Certes, Virgill schawis Enee did na thing, Frome Dido of Cartaige at his departing, Bot quhilk the goddes commandit him to forne ; And gif that thair command maid him mansworne, That war repreif to thair divinitee And na reproche unto the said Enee.' But though Douglas is a humanist in verse, all the Bishop asserts himself in prose. In his prose note he observes that 'Enee falit then gretly to the sueit Dido, quhilk fait reprefit nocht the goddessis divinite, for they had na divinite, as said VOL. I. M i6a THE ENGLISH POETS. is before.' Though he adores the Olympians in verse, Douglas adopts the Euhcmeristic theory in prose: 'Juno was hot ane woman, dochter to Saturn, sistir and spows to Jupiter king of Crete. 1 In spite of these edifying notes, Douglas's conscience pricked him, 'for he to Gentiles' bukis gaif sik keip.' Even if he knew Greek, he probably would not have translated Homer, as a friend asked him to do. The prologue to the Thirteenth Hook of the Aeneid (i.e. of the book 'ekit' to Virgil by Mapheus Vegius,) proves that there were moments when he thought even Virgil a perilous and unprofitable heathen. The language of Douglas, as he observes (Prologue to the First Book), is ' braid and plane,' that is to say, it is good broad Scotch, and still ' plain ' enough to a Scotch reader. He does not, how- ever, ' clere all sudroun refuse,' when no Scotch word served his turn, and he frankly admits that 'the ryme Causis me to mak digressioun sum tyme.' Douglas's rank is that of an accomplished versifier, who deserted poetry with no great regret for the dangerous game of politics. A. LANG. DOUGLAS. 163 A DESERT TERRIBLE. [From The Police of Honour.'] My rauist spreit 1 in that desert terribill, Approchit neir that vglie flude horribill, Like till 2 Cochyte the riuer infernall, With vile water quhilk maid a hiddious trubil, Rinnand ouirheid, blude reid, and impossibill That it had been a riuer naturall ; With brayis 3 bair, raif 4 rochis like to fall, Quhairon na gers 8 nor herbis were visibill, Bot swappis 6 brint with blastis boriall. This laithlie flude rumland as thonder routit, In quhome the fisch 3elland 7 as eluis schoutit, Thair Jelpis wilde my heiring all fordeifit, Thay grym monstures my spreits abhorrit and doutit. Not throw the soyl bot muskane 8 treis sproutit, Combust, barrant, vnblomit and vnleifit, Auld rottin runtis quhairin na sap was leifit, Moch, all waist, widderit with granis moutit, A ganand 9 den, quhair murtherars men reifit 10 . Quhairfoir my seluin was richt sair agast, This wildernes abhominabill and waist, (In quhome nathing was nature comfortand) Was dark as rock, the quhilk the sey vpcast The quhissilling wind blew mony bitter blast, Runtis rattillit and vneith 11 micht I stand. Out throw the wod I crap on fute and hand, The riuer stank, the treis clatterit fast. The soyl was nocht bot marres 12 , slike 1S , and sand. 1 ravished spirit. * to. * braes, slopes. * riven. 8 grass. ' sedges. 7 screaming. * rotten. ' proper. 19 rob. n scarcely. B marsh. u slime. M 2 1 64 THE ENGLISH POETS. A SCOTTISH WINTER LANDSCAPE. [From the Prolngui to the Atntid, Bk. vii.] The frosty regioun ringis of the Beir, The tyme and sessoune bitter cald and paill, Thai schort days that clerkis clepe brumaill ; Quhen brym ' blastis of the northyne art* Ourquhelmit had Neptunus in his cart, And all to schaik the levis of the treis, The ragcand storm ourwalterand wally seis * ; Revcris ran reid on spait with watteir broune, And burnis hurlis all thair bankis downe, And landbrist rumland * rudely wyth sic beir 5 , So loud ne rummist wyld lioun or beir. Fludis monstreis, sic as meirswyne or quhailis *, For the tempest law 7 in the deip devallyis*. Mars Occident, retrograide in his speir, Provocand stryflf, regnit as lord that Jeir ; Rany Orioune wyth his stormy face Bewalit of the schipman by his rays ; Frawart Saturne, chill of complexioune, Throw quhais aspect derth and infectioune Bcne causit oft, and mortale pestilens, Went progressiue the greis 9 of his ascens ; And lusty Hebe, Junois douchtir gay, Stud spul^eit 10 of hir office and array. The soill ysowpit into wattir wak 11 , The firmament ourkest with rokis " blak, The ground fadyt, and fauch wolx " all the feildis, Montayne toppis sleikit wyth snaw ourheildis, On raggit rolkis of hard harsk quhyne stane 11 , With frosyne frontis cauld clynty clewis " schane ; Bewtie wes lost, and barrand schew the landis, With frostis haire 18 ourfret the feildis standis. 1 violent. * quarter of the heaven. * overwhelming the wavy seas. 4 the flood roaring. * cry, noise. porpoises or whales. T low. descends. degrees. ' spoiled. " wet. " mists. 11 became reddish. " rough whin-stones. ' stony cliffs. l hoar DOUGLAS. 165 Soure bittir bubbis 1 , and the schowris snell Semyt on the sward ane similitude of hell, Reducyng to our mynd, in every steid, Goustly schaddois of eild and grisly deid, Thik drumly scuggis 2 dirknit so the hevyne. Dym skyis oft furth warpit feirfull levyne 8 , Flaggis of fyir, and mony felloun flawe, Scharp soppis of sleit, and of the snypand * snawe. The dowy 5 dichis war all donk and wait, The law vaille flodderit 8 all wyth spait, The plane stretis and every hie way Full of fluschis, doubbis 7 , myre and clay. ****** Our craggis, and the front of rochis seyre, Hang gret isch schoklis 8 lang as ony spere ; The grund stude barrand, widderit, dosk and gray, Herbis, flouris, and gersis wallowit away ; Woddis, forestis, wyth nakyt bewis blout 9 , Stud strypyt of thair weyd in every hout 10 . So bustuysly Boreas his bugill blew, The deyr full dern u dovne in the dalis drew ; Smal byrdis, flokand throw thik ronnis 12 thrang, In chyrmyng and with cheping changit thair sang, Sekand hidlis and hirnys 13 thaim to hyde Fra feirfull thudis of the tempestuus tyde. The wattir lynnis 1 * routtis, and every lynde Quhyslyt and brayt of the swouchand wynde. Puire laboraris and byssy husband men Went wayt and wery draglyt in the fen ; The silly scheip and thair lytill hyrd gromis Lurkis vndir le of bankis, wodys, and bromys ; And wthir 16 dantit gretar bestial 16 , Within thair stabillis sesyt into stall, Sic as mulis, horsis, oxin and ky, Fed tuskit baris 17 , and fat swyne in sty, 1 blasts. a gloomy shadows. 8 lightning. * nipping. 6 dreary. * valley flooded. 7 pools. 8 icicles. naked. 10 holt, wood. u secretly. u brambles. 1S corners. M waterfalls. 15 other. 18 frightened cattle. l7 boars. 1 66 THE ENGLISH POETS. Sustenit war by mannis gouernance On hervist and on symmeris purviancc. Widcquhair 1 with fors so Eolus schouttis schyll In this congelyt sessioune scharp and chyll, The callour* air, penetrative and puire, Dasyng the bluide in every creature, Maid seik* warm stovis, and beyne 4 fyris hoyt, In double garment cled and wyly coyt s , Wyth mychty drink, and meytis confortive, Agayne the storme wyntre for to strive. THE FETE CHAMPETRE. [From The Police of Honour."] Our horsis pasturit in ane plesand plane, Law at the fute of ane faire grene montane, Amid ane meid schaddowit with ceder treis, Saif fra all heit, thair micht we weill remane. All kinde of herbis, flouris, frute, and grane, With euerie growand tre thair men micht cheis, The beriall* stremis rinnand ouir stanerie greis 7 Made sober noyis, the schaw 8 dinnit agane For birdis sang, and sounding of the beis. The ladyis fair on diuers instrumentis, Went playand, singand, dansand ouir the bends', Full angellike and heuinlie was thair soun. Quhat creature amid his hart imprentis, The fresche bewtie, the gudelie representis, The merie speiche, fair hauingis 10 , hie renoun Of thame, wald set a wise man half in swoun, Thair womanlines wryithit" the elementis, Stoneist 12 the heuin, and all the eirth adoun. 1 Wherever. * fresh. made men seek. 4 genial. secret under-garment. like beryl. 7 gravelly ledges thicket. open fields. " manners. u disturbed. u astonished. DOUGLAS. 167 A BALLADE IN COMMENDATION OF HONOUR. [From The Police of Honour^ O hie honour, sweit heuinlie flour degest 1 , Gem verteous, maist precious, gudliest. For hie renoun thow art guerdoun conding 2 , Of worschip kend the glorious end and rest, But quhome 3 in richt na worthie wicht may lest. Thy greit puissance may maist auance all thing, And pouerall to mekill auaill sone bring*. I the require sen thow but peir 5 art best, That efter this in thy hie blis we ring 8 . Of grace thy face in euerie place sa 7 schynis, That sweit all spreit 8 baith heid and feit inclynis, Thy gloir afoir 9 for till imploir remeid. He docht 10 richt nocht, quhilk out of thocht the tynis " ; Thy name but 12 blame, and royal fame diuine is ; Thow port at schort of our comfort and reid, Till 13 bring all thing till glaiding efter deid, All wicht but sicht of thy greit micht ay crynis ", O schene I mene, nane may sustene thy feid l5 . Haill rois 16 maist chois till clois thy fois greit micht, Haill stone quhilk schone vpon the throne of licht, Vertew, quhais trew sweit dew ouirthrew al vice, Was ay ilk day gar say the way of licht ; Amend, offend, and send our end ay richt. Thow stant, ordant as sanct, of grant 1T maist wise, Till be supplie, and the hie gre 18 of price. Delite the tite 19 me quite of site 20 to dicht, For I apply schortlie to thy deuise. 1 grave. * condign. * without whom. 4 bring the poor to great prosperity. 5 without a peer. 6 reign. T so. 8 every sweet spirit. ' before thy glory. 10 avails. " loses. without. 13 to. M diminishes. 15 hatred. ' rose. 1T giving. 1B degree. 19 quickly. * shame. J68 THE ENGLISH POETS. THE GHOST OF CREUSA. [From The Atneid.] How Eneas socht his sfous, all the cost, And how to him apperis hir grete gost. To Priamus palice eftir socht I than, An syne onto the temple fast I ran : Quhar, at the porchis or closter of Juno, Than all bot waist, thocht it was girth 1 , stude tho Phenix and dour Vlixes, wardanes tway, For to observe and keip the spreith * or pray : Thiddir in ane help was gaderit precius geir, Riches of Troy, and wther jewellis seir 8 Reft from all partis ; and, of templis brynt, Of massy gold the veschale war furth hynt From the goddis, and goldin tabillis all, With precius vestmentis of spuil3e * triumphall : The 3ing childring 8 , and frayit matrounis eik, Stude all on raw 8 , with mony peteous screik About the tresour quhymperand woundir sair. And I also my self so bald wox thair, That I durst schaw my voce in the dirk nyclit, And cleip and cry fast throw the stretis on hycht Full dolorouslie, Creusa ! Creusa ! Agane, feil sise 7 , in vane I callit swa 8 , Throw howsis and the citie quhar I joid, But 9 outhir rest or resoun, as I war woid 10 ; Quhill that the rigour of Creusa and gost, Of far mair statur than air quhen scho was lost, Before me, catife, hir seikand, apperit thair. Abaisit I wolx, and widdersyns 11 start my hair, Speik mycht I nocht, the voce in my hals 12 sa stak. Than" sche, belife, on this wise to me spak, 1 though it was a sanctuary. ' booty. ' many. * spoil. 8 young children a row. T many times so without. " mad. " in Cwider-sinns') contrary fashion. u neck. u Then. DOUGLAS. 169 With sic wourdis my thochtis to assuage : O my suete spous, into sa furious raige Quhat helpis thus thi selfin to turment ? This chance is nocht, but goddis willis went * ; Nor it is nocht [a] lefull thing, quod sche, Fra hyne Creuse thou turs 2 away with the, Nor the hie governour of the hevin abufe is Will suffir it so to be ; bot the behufis From thens to wend full far into exile, And our the braid see saile full mony a myle, Or thou cum to the land Hesperia, Quhar, with soft cours, Tybris of Lidia Rynnis throw the riche feildis of peple stout. Thair is grete substaunce ordanit the, but dowt, Thair sail thou haue ane realme, thair sail thou ryng 3 , And wed to spous the dochtir of a kyng. Thy weping and thi teris do away, Quhilk thou makis for thi luifit Crewsay : For I, the nece of mychty Dardanus, And guide dochtir vnto the blissit Venus, Of Mirmidonis the realme sail neuir behald, Nor 3it the land of Dolopes so bald, Nor go to serve na matroun Gregioun ; Bot the grete moder of goddis ilk one In thir cuntreis withhaldis me for evir. Adew, fair weile, for ay we man dissevir! Thou be guide frend, luif wele, and keip fra skaith Our a 5ong 4 sone, is comoun till ws 5 baith, Quhen this was spokin, away fra me she glaid, Left me weping and feil wordis wald haue said : For sche sa lichtlie wanyst in the air, That with myne armes thrise I pressit thair About the hals hir for to haue bilappit 6 , And thryse all wais my handis togiddir clappit ; The figour fled as lycht wynd, or son beyme, Or mast liklie a waverand sweving or dreyme. the way of the gods' will. 2 draw. 8 reign. * all-young. 6 who is common to us. ' clasped 170 THE ENGLISH POETS. DIDO'S HUNTING. [From Tht Aentid.] Quhou that the Quene to hunteyn raid at And of the first day of hyr joy and sorow. Furth of the see, with this, the dawing 1 springis. As Phebus rais, fast to the Jettis 3 thringis The chois galandis, and huntmen thaim besyde, With ralis and with nettis strang and wyde, And hunting speris stif with hedis braid ; From Massylyne horsmen thik thiddir raid, With rynning hundis, a full huge sort. Noblis of Cartage, hovand 3 at the port, The quene awatis that lang in chalmer dwellis : Hir fers steid stude stamping, reddy ellis, Rungeand * the fomy goldin bitt jingling ; Of goldin pall wrocht his riche harnissing ; And scho, at last, of palice ischit out, With huge menje 8 walking hir about, Lappit in ane brusit mantill of Sydony, With gold and perle the bordour all bewry, Hingand by hir syde the cais with arrowis ground; Hir brycht tressis envolupit war and wound Intill a kuafe 7 of fyne gold wyrin 8 threid ; The goldin buttoun claspit hir purpour weid, And furth scho passit with all hir company : The Troiane peple forgadderit, by and by Joly and glaid the fresche Ascanius 3ing. Bot first of all, most gudlie, hym self thar king, Enee gan entir in falloschip, but dout, And vnto thaim adionyt 9 his large rowt. Lyk quhen Apollo list depart or ga Furth of his wintring realm of Lisia, 1 dawn * gat:*. * waiting. * champing. ' suite. * embroMe r ed. f coif. ' made of wire. ' joined. DOUGLAS. 171 And leif the flude Exanthus for a quhile, To vesy ' Delos his moderis land and ile, Renewand ringis and dancis, mony a rowt ; Mixt togiddir, his altaris standing abowt, The peple of Crete, and thaim of Driopes, And eik the payntit folkis Agathirces, Schowtand on ther gise with clamour and vocis hie ; Apon thi top, mont Cynthus, walkis he, His wavand haris, sum tyme, doing down thring 2 With a soft garland of lawrere sweit smelling, And wmquhile thaim gan balmyng and anoynt, And into gold addres, at full gude poynt 3 ; His grundin 4 dartis clattering by his syde. Als 5 fresch, als lusty did Eneas ryde ; With als gret bewtie in his lordlie face. SLEEP. [From The Ae/ieid."] Quhat sorow dreis* queyne Dido all the nycht, And quhow Memtir bad Enee tak the flycht. The nycht followis, and euery wery wicht Throw out the erd has caucht anone richt The sound plesand slepe thame likit best ; Woddis and rageand seis war at rest ; And the sternis thar myd cours rollis down ; All feyldis still, but othir noyis or sown ; And bestis and birdis of diuers culloris seir 7 , And quhatsumevir in the braid lochis weir, Or amang buskis harsk leyndis 8 ondir the spray, Throw nichtis silence slepit quhar thai lay, Mesing 9 ther besy thocht and curis smart, All irksum laubour for3et and out of hart. Bot the onrestles fey 10 spreit did nocht so Of this wnhappy Phenician Dido : 1 to visit. * making his hair hang thickly down. * in good order. 4 grounden. 5 so. suffers. 7 several. dwells among rough bushes. ' diminishing. 10 fated. I7 THE ENGLISH POETS. For neuir mair may scho skip a wynk, Nor nychtis rest in ene nor brcist lat synk: The hevy thochtis multiplyis euir onane ' ; Strang luif begynis to rage and ryse agane, And fclloun stormis of ire gan hir to schaik : Thus fynaly scho out bradis ', alaik ! Rolling allane sere thingis in hir thocht SPRING. [From the Prologut to the Aentid, Bk. v.] Glad is the ground of the tender florist grene, Birdis the bewis and thir schawis 8 schene, The wery hunter to fynd his happy 4 pray, The falconer the riche riveir our to flene 8 , The clerk reiosis his buikis our to seyne, The luiffar to behald his lady gay, 5oung folk thaim schurtis 6 with gam, solace, and play ; Quhat maist delytis or likis every wycht, Therto steris 7 thar curage day or nycht. Knychtis delytis to assay sterand 8 stedis, Wantoun gallandis to traill in sumptuus wedis ; Ladeis desyris to behald and be sene ; Quha wald be thrifty courteouris sais few credis ; Sum plcsance takis in romanis that he rcdis, And sum has lust to that was never sene : How mony hedis als feil consatis ' bene ; Tua appetitis vneith 10 accordis with vther ; This likis the, perchance, and nocht thi brodir. Plesance and joy r>'cht halesum and perfyte is, So that the wys therof in prouerb writis, Ane blyth spreit makis greyn and flurist age. Myn author eik in Bucolikis u enditis, The 3oung infant first with lauchter delytis 1 one another. 2 starts. * thickets. ' chance. ' fly (his hawks). amuse. T stirs. * restive. so many fancies. M with difficulty. 11 bee Virgil, Ed. 4. DOUGLAS. 173 To knaw his modir, quhen he is litil page ; Quha lauchis nocht, quod he, in his barnage 1 , Genyus, the God, delitith nocht their table, Nor Juno thaim to keip in bed is able. THE TRIBES OF THE DEAD. [From The Aeneid.'} During this tyme Eneas gan aduert 2 , Within a vaill fer thens closit apert, Quhair stude a wod with sowchand 3 bewis schene, The flude Lethe flowand throw the fair grene ; About the quhilk peple vnnomerable, And silly saulis, fleis fast, but* fabill, Quhill all the feildis of thar dyn resoundis : Lyke as in medowis and fresche fluris boundis, The byssy beis in schene symmeris tyde, On diuers colorit flouris scalit wyde, Flokkis about the blomyt lillyis quhyte, And vthir fragrant blosumys redemyte 5 . THE DESTINY OF ROME. [From The Aeneid."] Anchises gyffis- Eneas gud fetching, To gyde the peple ondir his governing. The peple of vdyr realmis, son, sayd he, Bene moyr expert in craftis, and moir sle 8 To forge and carve lyflyk staturis of bras, Be countinance as the spreit tharin was ; I traist, forsuith heyreftyr mony ane Sail hew quyk facis furth of marbyll stane ; childhood. 8 turn aside. * rustling. * without. 5 adorned. sly, clever. 174 THE ENGLISH POETS. Sum wtheris better can thair causis pleid ; Sum bene mair crafty in ane wthir steid, With rcwlis and with mesouris by and by For til excers the art of geometry ; And sum moir subtel to discrive and prent The sternis movingis and the hevynis went ' : Bot thow, Romane, remember, as lord and syre, To rewle the pepill vndir thyne impyre ; Thir sail thi craftis be at* weil may seme, The paix to modyfy and eik manteme, To pardoun all cumis 3oldin and recreant; And prowd rabellis in batale for to dant. 1 path. that STEPHEN HAWES, [Of STEPHEN HAWES little is known beyond the facts that he was a native of Suffolk, that he was educated at Oxford, had travelled in France, and was Groom of the Privy Chamber to Henry VII. We can gather also that he was alive in January 1520-21, and that he was dead in 1530. He was the author of several minor poems which are treasured by collectors, but are of no literary value. It is a proof of the carelessness of those who have dealt with Hawes, that they have assigned to him The Temple of Glasse, though Hawes has himself expressly stated (Pastime of Pleasure, canto xiv.) that Lydgate was the author. Hawes' great work is The Paslime of Pleasure, or the Historie of Graunde A moure and La Belle Pucel, written in or about 1506, and first printed in 1509. It is an allegorical poem describing the education and history of one Grande Amoure, who learns in the Tower of Doctrine and in the Tower of Chivalry those accomplishments which are necessary to constitute a perfect knight worthy of a perfect love La Belle Pucel. His career through the world is then delineated his combats with monsters, his strange adventures, his mar- riage, his death, his fame. The poem is dedicated, with an elaborate apology for its deficiencies, to Henry VII, and terminates with another apology ' unto all Poets ' on the same grounds.] Hawes belongs to the Provencal School. His model and master was, as he is constantly reiterating, Lydgate, though he was well acquainted with the works of Chaucer, whose comic vein he occasionally affects, with the verses of Gower, and with the narrative poetry of France and Italy. His poem is elaborately allegorical, though the allegory is not always easy to follow in detail, and is obviously much impeded with extraneous matter. The style has little of the fluency of Lydgate, and none of his vigour ; none of the picturesqueness and brilliance which are characteristic of Chaucer and not less characteristic of Chaucer's Scotch dis- ciples who were Hawes' contemporaries. The narrative, though by no means lacking incident, and by no means unenlivened with beauties both of sentiment and expression, too often stagnates in 1 76 THE ENGLISH POETS. prolix discussions, and wants as a rule life and variety. The com- position is often loose and feeble, the vocabulary is singularly limited, and bad taste is conspicuous in every canto. But Hawes, with all his faults, is a true poet. He has a sweet simplicity, a pensive gentle air, a subdued cheerfulness about him which have a strange charm at this distance of dissimilar time. Though the hand of the artist is not firm, and the colouring sometimes too sober, his pictures are very graphic. Take one out of many : 1 The way was troublous and ey nothyng playne, Tyll at the last I came into a dale, Beholdyng Phoebus declinying lowe and pale. With my greyhoundes, in the fayre twylight I sate me downe ' His verse is sometimes harsh, but it often breathes a plaintive music, and has a weirdly beautiful rhythm ' which falls on the ear like the echo of a vanished world,' and seems to transport us back to the dim cloister of some old mediaeval abbey. One such stanza we give : 4 O mortall folke you may beholde and see Howe I lye here, sometime a mighty knight, The end of joye and all prosperite Is death at last, thorough his course and mighte, After the daye there cometh the darke nighte, For though the daye be never so long, At last the belle ringeth to evensong.' That couplet alone should suffice for immortality. We may claim also for this neglected poet complete originality at an age when English poetry at least had degenerated into mere translations, into feeble narratives, or into sickly imitations of Chaucer. But there are two other interesting points connected with The Pastime of Pleasure. It marks with singular precision a great epoch in our literature. It is the last expiring echo of Medi- aevalism ; it is the first articulate prophecy of the Renaissance. It is the link between The Canterbury Tales and The Faery Queen. Hawes is in poetry what Philippe de Commines is in prose: he belongs to the old world and he breathes its atmosphere he belongs also to the new, for its first rays are falling on him. He connects the two. The weeds of a time sad and sombre indeed hang about him, but Hope is the refrain of his song. HA WES. 177 ' Drive despaire away, And live in hope which shall do you good. Joy cometh after when the payne is past ; Be ye pacient and sober in mode : To wepe and waile, all is for you in waste. Was never payne, but it had joy at last In the fayre morrowe.' The dawn had broken, the morning he felt was near. Again, The Pastime of Pleasure was the precursor of The Faery Queen. The two poems are similar in allegorical purpose, similar in the development of their allegory. Some of the incidents, though not identical, are of the same character, and if it would be going too far to say that Spenser was a disciple of Hawes, it would not be going too far to say that Spenser had been a careful student of The Pastime of Pleasure, had been indebted to it for many a useful hint, many a slight preliminary sketch, many a pleasing effect of rhythm and cadence. We have dwelt with some minute- ness on Hawes, because of the injustice which all his critics have so inexplicably done him. 'He is,' says Scott, 'a bad imitator of Lydgate, ten times more tedious than his original.' 'Even his name may be omitted,' adds Campbell, ' without any treason to the cause of taste.' Our extracts are, we may add, selected from The Pastime of Pleasure : his minor poems are best forgotten. J. CHURTON COLLINS. VOL. I. 178 THE ENGLISH POETS. DIALOGUE BETWEEN GRAUNDE AMOURE AND LA PUCEL. [From Cantos xviii. and xix.] Atnoure. 6 swete lady, the good perfect starre Of my true hart, take ye nowe pitie, Thinke on my paine, whiche am tofore you here, With your swete eyes beholde you and se, Howe thought and wo, by great extremitie Hath chaunged my hue into pale and wanne. It was not so when I to loue began. Pucel. So me thinke, it dothe right well appeare By your coloure, that loue hath done you wo, Your heuy countenaunce, and your doleful cheare, Hath loue suche might, for to aray you so In so short space ? I maruell muche also That you woulde loue me, so sure in certayne Before ye knew that I woulde loue agayne. Amour e. My good deare hart, it is no maruaile why ; Your beauty cleare and louely lokes swete, My hart did perce with loue so sodainely, At the firste time, that I did you mete In the olde temple, when I did you grete. O lady deare, that pers'd me to the root ; floure of comfort, all my heale and boote l . Pucel. Your wo and paine, and all your languishyng Continually, ye shall not spende in vayne, Sithe I am cause of your great mournyng. Nothinge exile you shall I by disdaine: Your hart and mine shall neuer part in twaine, 1 For these two lines the Ed. of 1555 reads : Your beaute my herte so surely assayde That sylh that tyme it hath to you obaycle. HA WES. 179 Thoughe at the first I wouldne not condescende, It was for feare ye did some yll entende. Amoure. With thought of yll my minde was neuer mixt To you, madame, but always cleare and pure Bothe daye and nyght, vpon you whole perfixt Put I my minde, yet durst nothing discure Howe for your sake I did such wo endure, Till nowe this houre with dredfull hart so faint, To you, swete hart, I haue made my complaint. Pucel. I demed oft you loued me before ; By your demenoure I did it espye, And in my minde I judged euermore That at the last ye woulde full secretely Tell me your minde, of loue right gentilly : All ye haue done so my mercy to craue In all worship, you shall my true loue haue. v/ Amoure. O gemme of vertue, and lady excellent Aboue all other in beauteous goodlines, O eyen bright as starre refulgent, profounde cause of all my sickenes, Nowe all my joye and all my gladnes, Wouldne God that we were joyned in one In mariage, before this daye were gone. AMOURE LAMENTS THE ABSENCE OF LA BELLE PUCEL. [From Canto xx.] Then agayne I went to the tower melodious Of good dame Musicke, my leaue for to take ; And priuely with these wordes dolorous 1 saied ; O tower, thou maiest well aslake * Suche melody nowe in the more to make : The gemme is gone of all famous port a That was chefe cause of the great comfort. 1 cease. a behaviour. N 2 l8o THE ENGLISH POETS. Whilome thou was the faire tower of light, But nowe thou art replete with darkenes, She is nowe gone, that shone in the so bright. Thow wast sometime the tower of gladnes, Now maist thou be the tower of heauines, For the chefe is gone of all thy melody, Whose beauty cleare made most swete armony. The faire carbuncle, so full of clearenes, That in the truely did most purely shine, The pearie of pitie, replete with swetenes, The gentle gillofloure, the goodly columbine, The redolent plante of the dulcet vyne, The dede aromatike may no more encense, For she is so farre out of thy presence. Ah, ah ! truely, in the time so past Mine errande was, the often for to se ; Nowe for to enter I may be agast When thou art hence, the starre of beauty, For all my delite was to beholde the : Ah Tower, Tower ! all my ioye is gone ; In me to enter comfort there is none. So then inwardly my selfe bewaylyng In the tower I went, into the habitacle Of dame MusScke, where she was singyng The ballades swete, in her fayre tabernacle ; Alas, thought I, this is no spectacle To fede mine eyen, whiche are nowe all blynde, She is not here, that I was wont to finde. Then of dame Musicke, with all lowlines, I did take my leaue, withouten tariyng ; She thanked me with all her mekenes. And all alone, forthe I went musyng: Ah, ah, quoth I, my loue and likyng Is nowe farre hence, on whom my whole delite Daiely was set vpon her to haue sight. HA WES. 181 Farewell, swete harte, farewell, farewel, farewel, Adieu, adieu, I wouldne I were you by ; God geue me grace with you sone to dwell Like as I did for to se you dayly ; Your lowly cheare and gentle company Reioysed my hart with fode most delicate, Mine eyen to se you were insaciate. THE CHARACTER OF A TRUE KNIGHT. [From Canto xxviii.] For knyghthode is not in the feates of warre As for to fight in quarrell ryght or wrong, But in a cause which trouthe can not defarre. He ought himselfe for to make sure and strong Justice to kepe, myxt with mercy among, And no quarell a knyght ought to take But for a trouthe, or for a womman's sake. For first good hope his legge harneyes shoulde be^ His habergion, of perfect ryghteousnes Gyrde fast wyth the girdle of chastitie. His riche placarde shoulde be good busines Brodred with almes so full of larges j The helmet, mekenes, and the shelde, good fayeth, His swerde God's word, as Saynt Paule sayeth. Also true wydowes he ought to restore Unto their ryght, for to attayne their dower ; And to vpholde, and mayntayne euermore The wealth of maydens, wyth his myhty power, And to his souerayne at euery maner hower To be ready, true, and eke obeysaunt, In stable loue fyxte, and not variaunt. l8 THE ENGLISH POETS. DESCRIPTION OF LA BELLE PUCEU [From Canto xxx.] I sawe to me appeare The flower of comfort, the starre of vertue cleare, Whose beauty bryght into my hart did passe, Like as fayre Phebus dothe shyne in the glasse. So was my harte by the stroke of loue With sorowe persed and with mortall payne, That vnneth I myght from the place remoue Where as I stode, I was so take certayne, Yet vp I loked to se her agayne, And at aduenture, with a sory mode Up then I went, where as her person stode. And first of all, my harte gan to Icarne Right well to regester in remembraunce Howe that her beauty I might then decerne From toppe to tooe endued with pleasaunce, Whiche I shall shewe withouten variaunce ; Her shining heere GO properly she dresses Aloft her forheade with fayre golden tresses. Her forheade stepe, with fayre browes ybent, Her eyen gray, her nose straight and fayre. In her white chekes the faire bloude it went As among the wite the redde to repayre ; Her mouthe right small, her breathe swete of ayre ; Her lippes soft and ruddy as a rose ; No hart alive but it woulde him appose. With a little pitte in her well fauoured chynne, Her necke long, as white as any lillye, With vaynes blewe in which the bloude ranne in, Her pappes rounde, and therto right pretye ; Her armes slender, and of goodly bodye, Her fingers small and therto right long, White as the milke, with blewe vaynes among. HA WES. 183 Her fete proper, she gartred well her hose : I neuer sawe so fayre a creature ; Nothing she lacketh, as I do suppose, That is longyng to faire dame Nature. Yet more ouer her countenaunce so pure, So swete, so louely, woulde any hart enspire With feruent loue to attayne his desire. But what for her maners passeth all, She is bothe gentle, good, and vertuous. Alas, what fortune did me to her call Without that she be to me pitifull? With her so fettred, in paynes dolorous. Alas, shall pitie be from her exiled, Whiche all vertus hath so vndefiled? JOHN SKELTON. [THE date of Skelton's birth is not known ; it probably took place some- where about 1460. He began his career as a sober scholar; he ended it as a ribald priest. In his first capacity he was tutor to Prince Henry (after- wards Henry VIII), the Laureate of three Universities, and the friend of Caxton and Erasmus, who has described him as litterarum Angliearvm lumen et decut. In his second capacity he was rector of Diss in Norfolk and a hanger-on about the Court of Henry VIII. He died at Westminster, where he had taken sanctuary to escape the wrath of Wolsey, in 1529. Some of his poems are said to have been printed in London in 1512; a completer collection of them appeared in 1568, but it was not until Dyce's admirable collection in 1843 that they were published in their integrity.] Skelton's claims to notice lie not so much in the intrinsic ex- cellence of his work as in the complete originality of his style, in the variety of his powers, in the peculiar character of his satire, and in the ductility of his expression when ductility of expression was unique. His writings, which are somewhat voluminous, may be divided into two great classes those which are written in his own peculiar measure, and which are all more or less of the same character, and those which are written in other measures and in a different tone. To this latter class belong his serious poems, and his serious poems are now deservedly forgotten. Two of them, however, The Boivge of Court, a sort of allegorical satire on the court of Henry VIII, and the morality of Magnificence, which gives him a creditable place among the fathers of our drama, contain some vigorous and picturesque passages which have not been thrown away on his successors. As a lyrical poet Skelton also deserves mention. His ballads are easy and natural, and though pitched as a rule in the lowest key, evince touches of real poetical feeling. When in the other poems his capricious muse breaks out into lyrical singing, as she sometimes does, the note is clear, the music wild and airy. The Garlande of Laurel I for example con- tains amid all its absurdities some really exquisite fragments. SKELTON. 185 But it is as the author of The Boke of Colin Clout, Why come ye nat to Court, Ware the Hawke, The Boke of Philipp Sparowe, and The Tunnyng of Elinore Rummyng, that Skelton is chiefly inter- esting. These poems are all written in that headlong voluble breathless doggrel which, rattling and clashing on through quick- recurring rhymes, through centos of French and Latin, and through every extravagant caprice of expression, has taken from the name of its author the title of Skeltonical verse. The three first poems are satires. Colin Clout is a general attack on the ignorance and sensuality of the clergy. The second is a fierce invective against Cardinal Wolsey, and the third is directed against a brother clergyman who was, it appears, in the habit of flying his hawks in Skelton's church. These three poems are all in the same strain, as in the same measure grotesque, rough, intemperate, but though gibbering and scurrilous, often caustic and pithy, and sometimes rising to a moral earnestness which contrasts strangely with their uncouth and ludicrous apparel. Though my rime be ragged, Tatter'd and jagged, Rudely raine-beaten, Rusty and moth-eaten; If ye take wel therewith, It hath in it some pith.' And the attentive student of Skelton will soon discover this. Indeed he reminds us more of Rabelais than any author in our language. In The Boke of Philipp Sparoive he pours out a long lament for the death of a favourite sparrow which belonged to a fair lay nun. This poem was probably suggested by Catullus' Dirge on a similar occasion. In Skelton, however, the whole tone is burlesque and extravagant, though the poem is now and then relieved by pretty fancies and by graceful touches of a sort of humorous pathos. In The Tunnyng of Elinore Rumrnynge his powers of pure description and his skill in the lower walks of comedy are seen in their highest perfection. In this sordid and disgusting delineation of humble life he may fairly challenge the supremacy of Swift and Hogarth. But Skelton is, with all his faults, one of the most versatile and one of the most essentially original of all our poets. He touches Swift on one side, and he touches Sackville on the other. J. CHURTON COLLINS. 1 86 THE ENGLISH POETS. A LULI.ABYE. With Lullay, lullay, lyke a chylde Thou slepyst to long, thou art begylile. My darlyng dere, my daysy floure, Let me, quod he, ly in your lap. Ly styll, quod she, my paramoure, Ly styll hardely, and take a nap. Hys hed was hevy, such was his hap, All drowsy, dremyng, dround in slepe, That of hys love he toke no kepe. With Hey, lullay, && With ba, ba, ba, and bas, bas, bas, She cheryshed hym both cheke and chyn, That he wyst neuer where he was : He had forgotten all dedely syn. He wantyd wyt her love to wyn, He trusted her payment, and lost all hys pray 1 : She left hym slepyng, and stale away, Wyth Hey, lullay, &c The ryvers rowth 2 , the waters wan ; She sparyd not to wete her fete ; She wadyd over she found a man That halsyd 3 her hartely, and kyst her swete. Thus after her cold she cought a hete. My lafe, she sayd, rowtyth 4 in hys bed: 1 wys he hath a hevy hed, Wyth Hey, lullay, &c. What dremyst thou, drunchard, drowsy pate 1 Thy lust 6 and lykyng is from th gone : Thou blynkerd blowboll ', thou wakyst to late ; Behold thou lyeste, luggard, alone ! Well may thou sygh, well may thou gronc, To dele wyth her so cowardly : I wys, powle hachet, she bleryd thyne 1 7 . 1 Or pay (?) * rough. embraced. * snorelh * pleasure. * drunkard. T deceived you. SKELTON. 187 PICTURE OF RIOT. [From The Bowge of Court* 1 .] Wyth that came Ryott, russhynge all at once, A rusty gallande, to-ragged and to-rente : And on the borde he whyrled a payre of bones ; Quater treye dews he clatered as he wente : Now have at all, by Sainte Thomas of Kente ! And ever he threwe and kyst 3 I wote nere what, His here 3 was growen thorowe oute his hat. Thenne I behelde how he dysgysed was : His hede was hevy for watchynge over nyghte, His eyen blereed, his face shone lyke a glas, His gowne so shorte that it ne cover myghte His rumpe, he wente so all for somer lyghte, His hose was garded 4 wyth a lyste of grene, Yet at the knee they were broken I wene. His cote was checked with patches red and blewe, Of Kyrkeby Kendall was his shorte demye 5 , And ay he sange, ' In fayth, decon thow crewe' His elbowe bare, he ware his gere so nye 6 : His nose a droppynge, his lyppes were full drye, And by his syde his whynarde 7 and his pouche The devyll myghte daunce therein for ony crowche 8 . To MAYSTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY. [From The Garlande ofLaurellJ] Mirry Margaret, As mydsomer flowre ; Jentill as fawcoun Or hawke of the towere : 1 i. e. The Rewards of a Court. Bowge is properly ' allowance of meat and drink' (Fr. bouche). 2 cast. hair. * trimmed. * waist- coat, or jacket. 6 so short (?). T dagger. * without meeting with any cross, i. e. piece of money so marked. 1 88 THE ENGLISH POETS. With solace and gladnes, Moche mirthe and no madness. All good and no badness, So joyously, So maydcnly, So womanly, Her demenyng In every thynge, Far, far passynge That I can endyght, Or suffyce to wryghte, Of mirry Margarete, As mydsomer flowre, Jentyll as fawcoun Or hawke of the towre : As pacient and as styll, And as full of good wyll As faire Isaphill ; Colyaunder, Swete pomaunder, Goode Cassaunder ; Stedfast of thought, Wele made, wele wrought ; Far may be sought, Erst that ye can fynde So corteise, so kynde, As mirry Margaret, This mydsomer floure, Jentyll as fawcoun Or hawke of the towrc. FROM COLYN CLOUTE. I Colyn Clout As I go about And wandryng as I walke I heare the people talke ; Men say for syluer and golde Miters are bought and sold ; SKELTON. 189 There shall no clergy appose A myter nor a crosse But a full purse. A straw for Goddes curse I What are they the worse ? For a simoniake, Is but a hermoniake *, And no more ye make Of symony men say But a childes play. Over this, the forsayd laye Report how the pope maye A holy anker 2 call Out of the stony wall, And hym a bysshopp make If he on him dare take To kepe so hard a rule, To ryde vpon a mule Wyth golde all betrapped, In purple and paule belapped. Some hatted and some capped, Rychely be wrapped, God wot to theyr great paynes, In rochettes of fine raynes 3 ; Whyte as morowes * mylke, Their tabertes of fine silke, Their stirops of mixt golde begared* There may no cost be spared. Their moyles 8 golde doth eate, Theyr neighbours dye for meat. What care they though Gill sweat, Or Jacke of the Noke ? The pore people they yoke With sommons and citacions And excommunications 1 A word unexplained by Dyce. Mr. Skeat suggests that harmoniac = promoter of harmony; a man who makes things pleasant all round. * anchorite. 8 linen made at Rennes in Brittany. * rooming. * adorned. mules. 190 THE ENGLISH POETS. Aboute churches and market ; The bysshop on his carpet At home full soft doth syt, This is a feareful fyt, To heare the people iangle ! How warely they wrangle, Alas why do ye not handle, And them all mangle ? Full falsly on you they lye And shamefully you ascry 1 , And say as untruly, As the butterfly A man might say in mocke Ware 2 the wethercocke Of the steple of Poules 8 , And thus they hurt their soules In sclaunderyng you for truth, Alas it is great ruthe ! Some say ye sit in trones Like prynces aquilonis *, And shryne your rotten bones With pearles'and precious stones, But now the commons grones And the people mones For preestes 4 and for lones Lent and neuer payde, But from day to day delaid, The commune welth decayd. Men say ye are tunge tayde *, And therof speake nothing But dissimuling and glosing. Wherfore men be supposing That ye geue shrewd* counsel Against the commune wel, By pollyng 7 and pillage In cities and village, 1 call out against. * were. * Like so many Lncifen. 4 advances. * tied. * evil. f plundering. SKELTON. 191 By taxyng and tollage, Ye have monks to have the culerage For coueryng of an old cottage, That committed is a collage, In the charter of dottage, Tenure par service de sottage, And not par service de socage, After old segnyours And the learning of Litleton tenours, Ye haue so ouerthwarted That good lawes are subuerted, And good reason peruerted. SIR DAVID LYNDESAY. [Born circ. 1490, died 1558.] Dunbar's attitude toward the change of religion, in his time impending, is that of a wholly unconscious precursor ; he is ;i minor Chaucer, who would have had less sympathy with men like Wyclyffe than his master had. Sir David Lyndesay was a ' spirit of another sort ' a child of the new age, when the trumpets of the Reformation had summoned the strong minds of the time to take their sides for or against the old order. Indefinitely less of a poet, hardly a poet at all, he was yet a literary power filling a place and discharging a function of his own ; a trenchant satirist, almost a dramatist ; a political and moral pamphleteer, whose versified pamphlets are always sus- tained at a high level by vigour and courage, and occasionally illumined by gleams of imagination. Lyndesay's life is part of the history of his time. The following dates are its mere landmarks. He was born at The Mount in Fifeshire about the year 1490, the junior by ten years of Luther and Sir Thomas More, the senior by fifteen of Knox. He was a student of St. Andrews in 1508, and passed from the Uni- versity to the service of the court. In 1513 he was present with James IV at Linlithgow when a supposed apparition came to warn the monarch against his fatal expedition. Subsequently he was gentleman-usher to the young prince a fact to which he alludes in one of those appeals for promotion, which recall the similar petitions of Dunbar : ' When thou was young, I bore thee in mine arm, Full tenderly till thou begowth to gang.' In 1530 he was knighted and made Lyon King of Arms, or chief court herald, in which capacity he served in several foreign embassies. In 1535 his Thrie Estates was acted at Cupar Fife, the court and company sitting nine hours to listen to it. 1536 must have been the date of the King's Ffyting, one of the LYNDESAY. 193 most audacious compositions in the language. Next year the king's wife, Magdalene, died before her coronation, and Lyndesay wrote the Deploratioun, which may be compared, though un- favourably, with Chaucer's Lament for the Duchess. The metre is the rhyme royal, and the I47th line, ' Twynkling lyke sterris in ane frostie nycht,' is transcribed verbatim from the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. In 1542 the poet witnessed at Falkland the death of the king (James V), who had been his consistent patron. In 1547, after the assassination of Beaton, he was present with the garri- son in the castle of St. Andrews, and was among the most urgent of those there assembled in persuading Knox to assume the direc- tion of affairs. In 1555 we hear of his presiding over a meeting of heralds to pronounce on some point of their pseudo-science. In 1558 he died at his family seat, having mingled in all the great movements of his age. Lyndesay's verse, on which his reputation as a writer depends, is all connected with the contemporary state of his country. To the lightest as well as the gravest ranging from tedious allegory to lively ridicule he has attached political and social applications. More than half his works are allegories. In the earliest, and as regards imaginative decoration the richest, The Dreme, he is led through a series of dissolving views of the past ages of the world, a journey to Hades, and a flight beyond the stars to an interview with ' Sir Commonweal,' who joins with him in lamentation over a realm misgoverned by an ' ouir young king' and dissolute priests. In the same strain he harps in his Complaynt, in the direct attack on ecclesiastical corruption put into the mouth of a dying parrot, under the title of The Testament of the Papyngo, and in The Tra- gedy of the Cardinal, the- last of which passes on the moral of the Fall of Princes from Lydgate to Sackville. In all of these, and elsewhere, he preaches, with less consistency, the old sermon of Wyclyffe against the corruptions of wealth, and upholds, for the admiration of his readers, the poverty of the Apostolic age. In Kitteis Confession (c. 1541) he crosses the line drawn by D unbar, and commits himself to a direct attack on one of the still esta- blished institutions of the Church, glancing incidentally at her foreign ceremonial 'And mekle Latin he did mummil, I hard na thing but hnmmil bummil' VOL. I. O 194 THE ENGLISH POETS. and referring, as professed reformers in most ages have been wont to do, to the better practice of the 'gude kirk primitive.' In the Contplaynt of Bagsche, an old dog who has to give place to a new favourite, we have a reflection on the fickleness of court favour ; in The Jousting of Watson and Barbour a satire on the medical profession ; in the attack on Syde Taillis a rough exposure of the affected fashions of the day. In his Squire Meldrum^ the most pleasing and lively of his narrative pieces, Lyndesay appears as a late metrical romancer, taking as the basis of his story the career and exploits of a contemporary Scotch laird. The Satyre of the Thrie Estates, a well-sustained invective against the follies and vices of the time, the first approach to a regular dramatic composition in Scotland, and the most considerable of our Moral- ities, abounds in exhibitions of the author's unrestrained Ra- belaisian humour. It is impossible to read three pages without laughing, but there are many pages which it would be impossible to read at all to any modern audience. In his latest work, the Dialog concerning the Monarchic (c. 1553) Lyndesay reverts to the allegorical manner of his Dreme, and represents himself in con- verse with an old man, Experience, on 'the miserable estate of the world.' After a polemical defence of the use of his native tongue (v. inf.), the poem glides into a somewhat tiresome metrical his- tory of the ancient kingdoms of the earth ; it ends with an attack on that of the Pope as Antichrist, and a prophecy of the mil- lennium, which he anticipates in the year 2000 A.D. In the Pro- logue to this his most elaborate composition the author speaks modestly of his own artistic skill. He has never slept on Par- nassus, nor kept company with the Muses, nor drunk of Helicon : his inspiration is drawn from Calvary ; and he prays that the miracle of Cana may be renewed in converting the water of his instruction into wine. This candid self-criticism is on the whole correct. Lyndesay was rather a man of action bent on popular- ising his keen convictions than a professional writer. The bias of his mind and the temper of his time were alike unfavourable to finished works of art. His superabundant energy and ready humour made him a power, but he had no inclination to philo- sophise in solitude or to refine at leisure. His life was spent amid stormy politics, and we need not wonder that a pressure of affairs similar to that which for a space held even the genius of Milton in abeyance, should have marred the literary produc- tions of a man who had more talent than genius, and who wrote LYNDESAY. ' currente calamo' on such various themes with an almost fatal fluency. His greatest admirers have confessed that 'he has written so many verses that they cannot always be expected to reach a very high standard.' Passages in The Dreme, Squire Meldrum, and The Monarchic, may for grace of description be set beside any corresponding to them in the works of his pre- decessors ; but his writings are in the main more distinguished for trenchant sense, vivacity, courage, and observing power than by high imagination. He himself speaks of his 'raggit rural verse,' and he willingly passes from more delicate fancies to discourse on the grave matters with the rehearsal of which he desires rather to edify than to delight his readers. His style is generally incisive, and though frequently disfigured by 'aureate' terms, leaves us little room to doubt of the author's meaning. Unlike Dunbar, Lyndesay may almost be said to have been born a Protestant ; but he never ventured beyond the range of the leading Reformers of his age. He is a Calvinist, more tolerant of sins of blood than errors of brain, rejoicing like Tertullian over the agonies of the damned. His mission was to amuse and arouse the people of his time, to affront them with a reflection of their vices, and to set to rough music the thunder and the whirlwind of sixteenth- century iconoclasm. J. NlCHOL. 196 THE ENGLISH POETS. FROM THE PROLOGUE TO 'THE DREME.' Efter that I the lang wynteris nycht Had lyne walking 1 , in to my bed, allone, Throuch hevy thocht, that no way sleip 2 I mycht, Rememberyng of divers thyngis gone : So, up I rose, and clethit me anone ; Be this, fair Tytane with his lemis* lycht Ouer all the land had spred his baner brycht. With cloke and hude I dressit me belyve*, With dowbyll schone, and myttanis on my handis ; Howbeit the air was rycht penetrative, Yit fure I furth, lansing ouirhorte* the landis, Toward the see, to schorte ' me on the sandis ; Because unblomit was baith bank and braye, And so, as I was passing be the waye, I met dame Flora, in dule weid dissagysit*, Quhilk into May wes dulce, and delectabyll ; With stalwart stormis, hir sweitnes wes supprisit ; Hir hevynlie hewis war turnit into sabyll, Quhilkis umquhile war to luffaris 8 amiabylL Fled frome the froste, the tender flouris I saw, Under dame Naturis mantyll, lurking law'. ****** Pensyve in hart, passing full soberlie Unto the see, ford ward I fure anone ; The see was furth, the sand wes smooth and drye ; Then up and doune I musit myne allone, Tyll that I spyit ane lyttill cave of stone, Heych in ane craig : upwart I did approche. But tarying, and clam up in the roche : 1 waking. J Observe the use of a for several southern vowel-sounds, rays. * at once. * athwart. ' amuse. T disguised, lovers. low. LYNDESAY. 1 97 And purposit, for passing of the tyme, Me to defend from ociositie With pen and paper to register in ryme Sum mery mater of Antiquitie : Bot Idelnes, ground of iniquitie, Scho maid so dull my spreitis, me within, That I wyste nocht at quhat end to begin. But satt styll in that cove, quhare I mycht see The wolteryng of the wallis 1 up and down ; And this fals Warldis instabylytie Unto that see makkand 2 comparisoun, And of this Warldis wracheit variatioun To thame that fixis all thair hole intent, Consideryng quho most had suld most repent. So, with my hude my hede I happit warme, And in my cloke I fauldit boith my feit ; I thocht my corps with cauld suld tak no harme, My mittanis held my handis weill in heit ; The skowland craig me coverit frome the sleit : Thare styll I satt, my bonis for to rest, Tyll Morpheus, with sleip, my spreit opprest So throw the bousteous 3 blastis of Eolus, And throw my walkyng on the nycht before, And throw the seyis movyng marvellous Be Neptunus, with mony route and rore, Constrainit I was to sleip, withouttin more : And quhat I dremit, in conclusion I sail you tell, ane marvellous Visioun. raves. * Northern participial form. 8 boisterous. 198 THE ENGLISH POETS. FROM 'THE TESTAMENT AND COMPLAYNT OF THE PAPINGO.' Kyng James the First, the patroun of prudence, Gem of ingyne ', and peirll of polycie, Well of Justice, and flude of eloquence, Quhose vertew doith transcende my fantasie For tyll discryve ; yit quhen he stude most hie Be fals exhorbitant conspiratioun That prudent Prince was piteouslie put down. Als, James the Secunde, roye of gret renoun, Beand in his superexcelland glore, Throuch reakless schuttyng of one gret cannoun The dolent deith > allace ! did hym devore. One thyng thare bene, of quhilk I marvell more, That Fortune had at hym sic mortall feid a Throuch fyftie thousand, to waill* him by the heid. My hart is peirst with panes, for to pance *, Or wrytt, that courtis variatioun Of James the Third, quhen he had governance, The dolour, dreid, and desolatioun, The change of court and conspiratioun ; And quhou that Cochrane, with his companye, That tyme in courte clam so presumpteouslye. ****** Allace! quhare bene that rycht redoutit roye, That potent prince, gentyll King James the Feird *? I pray to Christe his saule for to convoye : Ane greater nobyll rang 6 nocht in to the eird. O Atropus ! warye 7 we maye thy weird ; For he wes myrrour of humylitie, Lode sterne and lampe of liberalytie. And of his court, throuch Europe sprang the fame, Of lustie Lordis and lufesum Ladyis ying, Tryumphand tornayis, justyng, and knychtly game, With all pastyme, accordyng for ane kyng : He wes the glore of princelie governyng, 1 understanding. * feud. * choose. ' think. 1 fourth. * reigned. * curse. LYNDESAY. 199 Quhilk, throuch the ardent lufe he had to France, Agane Ingland did move his ordinance 1 . Of Floddoun Feilde the rewyne to revolve, Or that most dolent daye for tyll deplore, I nyll, for dreid that dolour yow dissolve, Schaw how that prince, in his tryumphand glorc, Distroyit was, quhat nedeith proces more ? Nocht be the vertew of Inglis ordinance Bot, be his awin wylfull mysgovernance. FROM 'ANE SATYRE OF THE THREI ESTAITIS.' Veritie. For our Christ's saik, I am richt weill content To suffer all thing that sail pleis his grace, Howbeit, ye put ane thousand till torment, Ten hundreth thowsand sail ryse into thair place. [Veritie sits down on hir knies and sayis:] Yet up, thow slepis all too lang, O Lord, And mak sum ressonabill reformatioun, On thame that dois tramp down thy gracious word, And hes ane deidlie indignatioun, At them, quha maks maist trew narratioun : Suffer me not, Lord, mair to be molest, Gude Lord, I mak the supplicatioun, With thy unfriends let me nocht be supprest. ****** Pardoner. My patent pardouns, ye may se, Cum fra the Cane of Tartarei, Weill seald with oster schellis ; Thocht ye have na contritioun, Ye sail have full remissioun, With help of buiks and bellis. Heir is ane relict, lang and braid, Of Fine Macoull J the richt chaft blaid 3 , With teith and al togidder : 1 array. * Finn Maccoll. * jaw-bone. 200 THE ENGLISH POETS. Of Colling's cow, heir is ane home, For eating of Mackonnal's corne Was slain into Baquhidder. Heir is ane coird, baith great and lang, Ouliilk hangit Johne the Armistrang ; Of gude hemp soft and sound : Gude, halie peopill, I stand for'd, Quha ever beis hangit with this cord Neids never to be dround. The culum ' of Sanct Bryd's kow, The gruntill ' of Sanct Antonis sow, Quhilk buir his haly bell ; Quha ever he be heiris this bell clinck, Gif me ane ducat for till drink, He sail never gang to hell. ****** Pauper. Marie! I lent my gossop my mear* to fetch hame coills ', And he hir drounit into the Querrell hollis 6 ; And I ran to the Consistorie, for to pleinze 6 , And thair I happinit amang ane greidie meinze*. Thay gave me first ane thing thay call Citandum^ \Vithin aucht dayis, I gat bot Lybellandum, Within ane moneth, I gat ad Opponendum In half ane yeir I gat Interloquendum, And syne, I gat, how call ye it? ad Replicandum. Bot, I could never ane word yit understand him ; And than, they gart 8 me cast out many plackis, And gart me pay for four-and-twentie actis : Bot, or thay came half gait to Concludendum The Feind ane plack was left for to defend him. Thus, thay post-ponit me twa yeir, with thair traine, Syne, Hodie ad octo, bad me cum againe, And than, thir ruiks, thay roupit* wonder fast, For sentence silver, thay cryit at the last. Of Pronunciandum they maid me wonder faine ; Bot I got never my gude gray meir againe. tail. * snout. * mare. 4 coals. * holes. complain. 1 crew. made. croaked. L YNDESA Y. FROM 'THE MONARCHIC' Christ, efter his glorious Ascentioun, Tyll his Disciplis send the Holy Spreit, In toungis of fyre, to that intentioun, Thay, beand of all languages repleit, Throuch all the warld, with wordis fair and sweit, Tyll every man the faith thay suld furth schaw In thare owin leid 1 , delyverand thame the Law. Tharefore I thynk one gret dirisioun, To heir thir Nunnis and Systeris nycht and day Syngand and sayand Psalmes and Orisoun, Nocht understandyng quhat thay syng nor say. Bot lyke one Stirlyng or ane Papingay, Quhilk leirnit ar to speik be lang usage : Thame I compair to byrdis in ane cage. Rycht so childreyng and ladyis of honouris Prayis in Latyne, to thame ane uncuth 2 leid, Mumland 3 thair Matynis, Evinsang, and thair Houris, Thare Pater Noster, Ave, and thare Creid. It wer als plesand to thare spreit, in deid, God have mercy on me, for to say thus, As to say, Miserere met Deus. Sanct Jerome in his propir toung Romane The Law of God he trewlie did translait, Out of Hebrew and Greik, in Latyne plane, Quhilk hes bene hid from us lang tyme, God wait, Onto this tyme : bot, efter myne consait, Had Sanct Jerome bene borne in tyll Argyle In to Yrische toung his bukis had done compyle. Prudent Sanct Paull doith mak narratioun Twycheyng 4 the divers leid of every land, Sayand, there bene more edificatioun In fyve wordis that folk doith understand, Nor to pronounce of wordis ten thousand In strange langage, sine wait 5 not quhat it menis : I thynk sic pattryng is not worth twa prenis 6 . ****** 1 language. 8 unknown. * Mumbling. * Touching. * without knowing. ' pins. 208 THE ENGLISH POETS. THE HOPE OF IMMORTALITY. All creature that ever God creat, As wryttis Paull, thay wys 1 to se that day Quhen the childryng of God, predestinat, Sail do appeir in thare new fresche array ; Quhen corruptioun beis clengit clene away, And changeit beis thair mortall qualitie In the gret glore of immortalitie. And, moreattour ", all dede thyngis corporal!, Vnder the concave of the Hevin impyre *, That now to laubour subject ar, and thrall, Sone, mone, and stems, erth, waiter, air, and fyre, In one maneir thay have ane hole desyre, Wissing that day, that thay may be at rest, As Erasmus exponis 4 manifest. We se* the gret Globe of the Firmament Continuallie in moveyng marvellous ; The sevin Planetis, contrary thare intent, Are reft about, with course contrarious ; The wynd, and see, with stormys furious, The trublit air, with frostis, snaw and rane, Unto that day thay travell evir in pane. And all the Angellis of the Ordouris Nyne, Haveand compassioun of our misereis, Thay wys efter that day, and to that fyne 5 , To se' us freed frome our infirmeteis, And clengit frome thir gret calamiteis And trublous lyfe, quhilk never sail have end On to that day, I mak it to thee kend 7 . 1 wish. ' moreover. * empyrean. ' expounds * end. cleaned. f known. BALLADS. In treating of the Ballads, or old popular poetry of England, it is impossible to follow the plan generally adopted in this col- lection. We cannot arrange them by date of composition, for, while the plots and situations are often of immemorial age, the language is sometimes that of the last century. They are therefore inserted here, as they were first committed to the press and sold as broad-sheets not much later than the period at which we have arrived. About the authors of the ballads, and their historical date, we know nothing. Like the Volks-lieder of other European countries, the popular poems of England were composed by the people for the people. Again, the English ballads, and those of the Lowland Scotch, deal with topics common to the peasant singers of Denmark, France, Greece, Italy, and the Slavonic countries. The wide distribution of these topics is, like the dis- tribution of mdrchen or popular tales, a mark of great antiquity. We cannot say when they originated, or where, or how ; we only know that, in one shape or other, the themes of romantic ballads are very ancient. There are certain incidents, like that of the return of the dead mother to her oppressed children ; like the sudden recovery of a fickle bridegroom's heart by the patient affection of his first love ; like the adventure of May Colvin with a lover who has slain seven women, and tries to slay her ; like the story of the bride who pretends to be dead that she may escape from a detested marriage, which are in all European countries the theme of popular song. Again, the pastimes and labours of the husbandmen and shepherd were, long ago, a kind of natural opera. Each task had its old song, ploughing, harvest, seed-time, marriage, burial, had appropriate ballads or dirges. Aubrey, the antiquary, mentions ' a song sung in the ox-house, when they wassel the oxen.' A similar chant survives in Berry. Further, each of the rural dance-tunes had its ballad-accompani- ment, and the dance was sometimes a rude dramatic representa- tion of the action described in the poem. Many of the surviving 204 THE ENGLISH POETS. volks-lieder are echoes from the music of this idyllic world of dance and song from the pleasant England in which When Tom came home from labour, And Cis from milking rose, Merrily went the tabor, And merrily went their toes.* Other European ballads are echoes from the same stage of social life, but they are clearer, sweeter, more full and unbroken in tone than the lays of rural England. Our ballads speak of adventures known to Romaic, Danish, and Italian peasants ; but in listening to them we hear the drawl of the dull rustic, and catch the snivelling drone of the provincial moralist. Unlike the Provencal, or Romaic, or Lowland Scotch ballads, the English remains are too often flat, garrulous, spiritless, and didactic. They lack the picturesqueness, the simplicity, the felicitous choice of expression, the fire, the speed of the best European volks-lieder. The probable reason of this flatness and languor will be stated presently ; in the meantime we must note that the ballads of the Lowland Scotch, recovered from oral tradition, have the fire which we miss in English popular poems. It is for this reason that many of our selected ballads are chosen from the northern Border. The poets were none the less English in blood and language. Before attempting to assign the causes of the poverty of English ballads, it may be as well to prove the fact. The death of Douglas in the English ballad of Chevy Chase is a passage that has won the praise of Addison. It runs thus : With that there came an arrow keene Out of an English bow, Which struck Erie Douglas on the breast, A deepe and deadlye blow; Who never said more words than these, " Fight on, my merrymen all I For why, my life is at an end, Lord Pearcy sees my fall." ' In the Scotch ballad this event is prepared for by a dream which visits Douglas, a dream singularly impressive and romantic ' But I hae dreamed a dreary dream, Beyond the Isle of Sky; I saw a dead man win a fight, But I think that man was I.' BALLADS. 205 This supernatural effect is repeated at the moment of Douglas's fall, and thus a new charm is won for the poem, which is missed in Chevy Chase. The supernatural is almost invariably treated in a gross and flat style by the English balladist. He never thrills the reader with that shudder of awe which is caused by Clerk Saunders, the Wife of Usher's Well, the Demon Lover, and Sir Roland. To give another example : the story of the Dead Man's Ride is common in European popular poetry. The German popular version has been lost in the fame of Burger's Lenore. Everywhere the ballad tells how a dead lover (in Greece it is a dead brother), is roused from the sleep of death by the grief of a mistress or a mother, how the dead man carries his bride, or his sister, behind him on the saddle in a swift night ride, while the birds in the roadside cry, ' who is the fair girl that rides with the corpse?' 'who is the lover, perfumed with the incense of the dead ?' The Romaic version is perhaps the most moving of all. The dead brother gallops with the living sister to the house of the bereaved mother ; she hears his knock, and comes to the door, thinking that he is Charon, the emissary of death Charon, who need not visit her, for she has already given him all her children but one daughter, and she is in a dis- tant land, "Av ijcra Xapos 8ta@aii>f, ical aAAa natSia 5tv f\tu ; Thus she speaks ; and even as she speaks, she recognises the ghost of her son, and dies of terror in the presence of the living and the dead. In England this ballad becomes The Suffolk Miracle (Child, English and Scotch Ballads, vol. i. p. 217) ; 'a relation of a young man, who, two months after his death, appeared to his sweetheart, and carried her on horse-back behind him for forty miles in two hours, and was never seen after but in her grave.' The ballad tells us how the young people loved each other, and how the father of the girl disapproved of the engagement ; ' Forty miles distant was she sent Unto his brother, with intent That she should there so long remain, Till she had changed her mind again.' The lover dies of grief, and his ghost pays a morning visit to the house where the lady is living, ' Which, when her uncle understood, He hoped it would be for her good;' to6 THE ENGLISH POETS. and gave his consent to the homeward ride, which the spectre accomplished at the creditable pace of twenty miles an hour. It would be easy, but it is perhaps superfluous, to go on mul- tiplying examples of the poetic flatness of the English ballad. The enthusiasm of the specialist and the collector may be fired by the combat between Robin Hood and 'the bloody Butcher,' but who can call this sort of thing poetry ? ' Robin he marcht in the greene forest, Under the greenwood spray, And there he was ware of a proud buchcr, Came driving flesh that way ; The Bucher he had a cut-tailed dogg," &c. If this be not enough, consider the exquisite final stanza of The LadySs Fall : 'Take heed you dainty damsells all, Of flattering words beware ; And to the honour of your name. Have you a specyal care I" As a general rule the Lowland Scotch ballads have escaped the didactic drivel and the long-drawn whine of the English examples. It is true that in one of them we learn, from a marvellously prosaic bard, how ' John Thomson fought against the Turks,' and how 'this young chieftain' (namely Thomson) 'sat alone.' But this weakness is rare enough in the poetry of the Northern Border. Even in a comparatively modern ballad, composed on a murder committed at Warristoun, near Edinburgh in 1600, there are picturesque touches. The lady of Warristoun had procured the death of her cruel husband. In the ballad she exclaims : Warristoun, Warristoun I I wish that ye may sink for sin, I was but fifteen years auld, When first I entered your gates within.* To any one who knew the gloomy house of Warristoun, hanging over the deep black pool below, this verse must have seemed charged with the sentiment of The Fall of the House of Usher. The ballad is a fine example of the working of popular fancy on a historical datum. Popular poetry has often been compared to the wild rose, the BALLADS. 207 wild stock out of which the richer garden roses are grown. If the wild stock be so poor and feeble in England, how comes it, we may ask, that English cultivated poetry is so rich in colour and perfume? In simpler language, if the people is so devoid of poetry, how has the race come to produce so many great poets and the noblest poetic literature of the modern world, while artistic poets are rare indeed among races which have great wealth of popular song? This is not the place to attempt a full answer to the question ; we can only defend the natural imagination of the English people by saying that we do not really possess its unsophisticated productions. The English ballads are not, or are very rarely, pure volks-lieder. The vast majority of them have not been collected from oral tradition, like the ballads of the Scotch Border, of Italy, and of Greece. As soon as printing was firmly established in England, the traditional songs were distributed in cheap broad-sheets. The people 'love a ballad but even too well ; if it be doleful matter, merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably.' Pedlars like Shakspeare's Autolycus 'had songs for man or woman of all sizes.' These songs may originally have been true volks-lieder many of them, indeed, can have been nothing else. In passing, however, through the hands of the printers and poor scholars who prepared them for the press, they became dull, long-drawn, and didactic. The loyalty, good-humour, and love of the free air and the green- wood remain, but the clerks have spoiled the praise of ' Robin Hood, the good outlaw.' The ballads wandered about the land, corrupted from the simplicity that pleased the untaught, into har- mony with the roughest educated taste. By Addison's time these broad-sheet ballads had been pasted on the walls of chambers in country houses. In the country, says The Spectator (No. 85, June 7, 1711), 'I cannot, for my Heart, leave a Room before I have thoroughly studied the Walls of it, and examined the several printed Papers which are usually pasted upon them.' And on a wall, Addison says, he found ' the old Ballad of The two Children in the Wood, which is one of the darling songs of the common People.' Most of our English ballads are gathered from old broad-sheets and ancient MS. collections. To say that is to say that they are dashed with the humblest literary common- place, that they do not come straight from the heart and lips of a singing people, like the modern Greeks or Italians. They have acquired, in the hands of half-educated printers and editors, a 208 THE ENGLISH POETS. tone which is not the tone of the people. They are almost as bald, often, as Dr. Johnson declared them to be as bald as Johnson's parody : I put my hat upon my head, and went into the Strand, And there I saw another man, with his hat in his hand.' The history of English ballad-collecting may be summed up very briefly. We know from Sir Philip Sidney's Defence of Poesie, and from many passages in the Elizabethan drama, that ballads were both sung by 'blind crowders,' like the minstrels on the modern Greek frontier, and distributed by pedlars. Addison not only studied English volks-lieder, but also those of France and Italy. He tells us that Lord Dorset 'had a numerous collection of old English Ballads, and took a particular pleasure in the reading of them.' Mr. Dryden was of the same humour, so was Pepys of the famous diary. ' The little conceited wits of the age ' laughed at Addison, but Dryden ventured to publish some ballads in Mis- cellany Poems (1684-1708). A Collection of Old Ballads (since re- printed) was put out in 1723. Ramsay's Evergreen, containing many popular songs, appeared in 1724. The great event in the history of the taste for ballads was the publication of Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry, in 1765. Percy, as is well known, altered, softened, and diluted the old copies which he found in a folio MS. that came into his possession. A correct text from the folio, with excessively copious notes and prolegomena, was published by Messrs. Furnivall and Hales (London, 1867-68, 3 vols.). Other noteworthy collections are those of Herd (1769), Ritson, Buchan, Motherwell, Kinloch, Jamieson (1806), and above all, The Border Minstrelsy of Scott. Perhaps the best modern collection, the most scholarly, and the least overladen with notes, is that of Professor F. J. Child (English and Scotch Ballads, Bos- ton, U.S. 1864). The Ballad Book of Mr. W. Allingham (London, 1864) is the companion of every true ballad lover. The poetic character and quality of the ballads will be best learned from these poems themselves. They have the imaginative daring of early and simple minds ; they often deal with great tragic situations, with deep and universal passions. They are most poetical when the ardour, the anguish, the love, the remorse of some passionate mind becomes for once articulate, as in the cry of Waly, waly, the regret of Edam o 1 Gordon, the mysterious wail of The Wife o y Usher's Well, or the monotonous chant of The Lyke-wake Dirge. BALLADS. 209 In selecting Ballads lor a purely poetical collection, it is neces- sary to choose, not those which the historian, the antiquary, the student of early society might prefer, but those which have most poetical power and charm, and are least embellished by modern editors. We may, for the purposes of this work, divide Ballads into five classes the Historical, or Mythico-historical, to represent which we pick out Sir Patrick Spens, and Edom o' Gordon. In each of these poems the popular fancy works on true historical data. The second class is the Romantic, and here Glasgerion, The Doitglas Tragedy, The Tiva Corbies, and Waly, Waly are chosen. As specimens of the popular treatment of the Supernatural, we take Clerk Sounders, The Wife of Usher's Well, and the fragment of a popular Dirge, like those which are still sung by the women of Corsica and the Greek isles. Ballads of the adventures of outlaws and wild marchmen will find their representative in Kinmont Willie. As any selection, however limited, is incomplete without fragments of the Robin Hood cycle, we end with Robin and the Widow's Three Sons, and Robin Hood's Death and Burial, while The Bailiff's Daughter illustrates the more domestic ballads of the English people. These are representatives of different classes of volks-lieder, but few poems suffer so much in the process of selection. Too many of the highest quality have to be omitted for want of space. And the ballads are wronged too, when they are made to appear among the more ornate and various measures of cultivated and artistic poetry. A. LANG. VOL. I. 210 THE ENGLISH POETS. HISTORICAL. SIR PATRICK SPENS. [This ballad is a confused echo of the Scotch expedition which should have brought the Maid of Norway to Scotland, about 1285. While Dun- ftrmlint is still spoken of as the favourite Royal residence, the Scotch nobles wear the cork-heeled shoon of a later century, a curious example 01 the medley common in traditional poetry.] The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine ; 1 whare will I get a skeely skipper, To sail this new ship of mine !' O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee, 'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, , ' That ever sail'd the sea.' Our king has written a braid letter, And seal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem ; The king's daughter of Noroway, Tis thou maun bring her hame.' The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud loud laughed he ; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e. * O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time of the year, To sail upon the sea? BALLADS. 2 1 1 ' Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet l , Our ship must sail the faem ; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame.' They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may ; They hae landed in Noroway, Upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway, but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say, ' Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, And a' our queenis fee.' ' Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud ! Fu' loud I hear ye lie. ' For I brought as much white monie, As gane 2 my men and me, And I brought a half-fou * o' gude red goud, Out o'er the sea wi' me. ' Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a' ! Our gude ship sails the morn.' ' Now, ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm ! 6 1 saw the new moon, late yestreen. Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; And, if we gang to sea, master, I fear we '11 come to harm.' They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud. And gurly grew the sea. 1 A line adapted in Kinmont Willie, as the formulae of the Iliad recur in the Odyssey. * suffice. 8 the eighth part of a peck. F 2 2ia THE ENGLISH POETS. The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm ; And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn. 'O where will I get a gude sailor, To take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall top-mast, To see if I can spy land?' 'O here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall top-mast ; But I fear you '11 ne'er spy land.' He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in. ' Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let na the sea come in.' They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Another of the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in. O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heel'd shoon ! But lang or a' the play was play'd, They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather-bed, That flattered on the faem ; And mony was the gude lord's son, That never mair cam hame. BALLADS. 213 The ladyes wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair, A' for the sake of their true loves ; For them they'll see na mair. O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand ! And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves ! For them they'll see na mair. O forty miles off Aberdeen, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. EDOM o' GORDON. [Popular version of the story of the burning of the House of Towey, a hold of the Forbes's, by the Gordons, in 1571. There is one English version, named Captain Car.] It fell about the Martinmas, When the wind blew shrill and cauld, Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, ' We maun draw to a hauld. 'And whatna hauld sail we draw to. My merry men and me? We will gae to the house of the Rodes, To see that fair ladye.' 214 THE ENGLISH POETS. The lady stood on her castle wa', Beheld baith dale and down ; There she was aware of a host of men Came riding towards the town. 'O see ye not, my merry men a', see ye not what I see? Methinks I see a host of men ; 1 marvel who they be.' She ween'd it had been her lovely lord. As he cam' riding hame ; It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon, Wha reck'd nor sin nor shame. She had na sooner buskit hersell, And putten on her gown, Till Edom o' Gordon an' his men Were round about the town 1 . They had nae sooner supper set, Nae sooner said the grace, But Edom o' Gordon an' his men Were lighted about the place. The lady ran up to her tower-head, As fast as she could hie, To see if by her fair speeches She could wi" him agree. 1 Come doun to me, ye lady gay, Come doun, come doun to me ; This night sail ye lig within mine arms, To-morrow my bride sail be.' ' I winna come down, ye fause Gordon, I winna come down to thee ; I winna forsake my ain dear lord, And he is na far frae me. 1 1 Toum is used in Scotland for any country house or farm-building*. BALLADS. 215 'Gie owre your house, ye lady fair, Gie owre your house to me ; Or I sail burn yoursell therein, But an your babies three.' ' I winna gie owre, ye fause Gordon, To nae sic traitor as thee ; And if ye burn my ain dear babes, My lord sail mak' ye dree. ' Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man, And charge ye weel my gun ; For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, My babes, we been undone I ' She stood upon her castle wa', And let twa bullets flee : She miss'd that 'bluidy butcher's heart, And only razed his knee. ' Set fire to the house ! ' quo' fause Gordon, Wud wi' dule and ire : ' Faus ladye, ye sail rue that shot As ye burn in the fire ! ' 'Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man! I paid ye weel your fee ; Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane, Lets in the reek to me? ' And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man ! I paid ye weel your hire ; Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane, To me lets in the fire?' 'Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye, Ye paid me weel my fee : But now I 'm Edom o' Gordon's man, Maun either do or dee.' 2 ,6 THE ENGLISH POETS. O then bespake her little son, Sat on the nurse's knee : Says, 'O mither dear, gie owre this house. For the reek it smothers me.' * I wad gie a' my goud, my bairn, Sae wad I a' my fee, For ae blast o' the western wind, To blaw the reek frae thee.' then bespake the daughter dear, She was baith jimp and sma' : 1 O row' me in a pair o' sheets, And tow me owre the wa' ! ' They row'd her in a pair o' sheets, And tow'd her owre the wa' ; But on the point o' Gordon's spear She gat a deadly fa'. bonnie, bonnie was her mouth, And cherry were her cheeks, And clear, clear was her yellow hair, Whereon her red blood dreeps. Then wi" his spear he turn'd her owre ; gin her face was wan ! He said, 'Ye are the first that e'er 1 wish'd alive again.' He cam and lookit again at her ; O gin her skin was white ! 'I might hae spared that bonnie face To hae been some man's delight' 1 Busk and boun, my merry men a', For ill dooms I do guess ; I cannot look on that bonnie face As it lies on the grass.' BALLADS. 217 * Wha looks to freits 1 , my master dear, It 's freits will follow them ; Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' Gordon Was daunted by a dame.' But when the ladye saw the fire Come flaming o'er her head, She wept, and kiss'd her children twain, Says, ' Bairns, we been but dead.' The Gordon then his bugle blew, And said, ' Awa', awa' ! This house o' the Rodes is a' in a flame ; I hauld it time to ga'.' And this way lookit her ain dear lord, As he came owre the lea ; He saw his castle a' in a lowe 2 , Sae far as he could see. 'Put on, put on, my wighty men, As fast as ye can dri'e ! For he that's hindmost o' the thrang Sail ne'er get good o' me.' Then some they rade, and some they ran, Out-owre the grass and bent ; But ere the foremost could win up, Baith lady and babes were brent. And after the Gordon he is gane, Sae fast as he might dri'e ; And soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's blude He 's wroken 3 his fair ladye. 1 omens. 2 flame. ' avenged. 218 THE ENGLISH POETS. ROMANTIC GLASGERION. [Glasgerion, or Kurion the Pale, was a Celtic minstrel, whom Chaucer places in the company of such bards as Orpheus, Arion, and ' Eacydes Chiron.' This ballad exists in the Scotch version of Glenlcindit (Jamiesou, i. 93). It is here printed from Percy's Reliques, Bohn's ed.] Glasgerion was a kings owne sonne, And a harper he was goode ; He harped in the kings chambere, Where cuppe and caudle stoode, And soe did hee in the queens chambere, Till ladies waxed glad, And then bespake the kinges daughter, And these wordes thus shee sayd : 'Strike on, strike on, Glasgerion, Of thy striking doe not blinne ; Theres never a stroke comes oer thy harpe, But it glads my hart withinne.' ' Faire might he fall,' quoth hee, ' Who taught you nowe to speake ! I have loved you, ladye, seven longe yeere, My minde I neere durst breake.' 'But come to my bower, my Glasgerion, When all men are att rest : As I am a ladie true of my promise, Thou shall bee a welcome guest.' Home then came Glasgerion, A glad man, lord 1 was hee : 'And, come thou hither, Jacke my boy, Come hither unto race. BALLADS. 2 1 9 ' For the kinges daughter of Normandyc Hath granted mee my boone ; And att her chambere must I bee Beffore the cocke have crowen.' 'O master, master,' then quoth hee, ' Lay your head downe on this stone ; For I will waken you, master deere, Afore it be time to gone.' But up then rose that lither ladd, And hose and shoone did on ; A coller he cast upon his necke, He seemed a gentleman. And when he came to the ladyes chamber, He thrild upon a pinn : The lady was true of her promise, And rose and lett him inn. He did not take the lady gaye To boulster nor to bed : Nor thoughe hee had his wicked wille, A single word he sed. He did not kisse that ladyes mouthe, Nor when he came, nor yode : And sore that ladye did mistrust, He was of- some churls bloud. But home then came that lither ladd, And did off his hose and shoone ; And cast the coller from off his necke : He was but a churles sonne. 'Awake, awake, my deere master, The cock hath well-nigh crowen ; Awake, awake, my master deere, I hold it time to be gone. a 20 THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 For I have saddled your horse, master, Well bridled I have your steede, And I have served you a good breakfast, For thereof ye have need.' Up then rose good Glasgerion, And did on hose and shoone, And cast a coller about his necke : For he was a kinge his sonne. And when he came to the ladyes chambere, He thrilled upon the pinne ; The lady was more than true of promise, And rose and let him inn. ' O whether have you left with me Your bracelet or your glove ? Or are you returned back againe To know more of my love ?' Glasgerion swore a full great othe, By oake, and ashe, and thorne ; 'Ladye, I was never in your chambere, Sith the time that I was borne.' *O then it was your lither foot-page, He hath beguiled mee :' Then shee pulled forth a little pen-knlffe, That hanged by her knee. Sayes, 'There shall never noe churles blood Within my bodye spring: No churles blood shall eer defile The daughter of a kinge.' Home then went Glasgerion, And woe, good lord ! was hee : Sayes, 'Come thou hither, Jacke my boy, Come hither unto mee. BALLADS. 'If I had killed a man to-night, Jacke, I would tell it thee : But if I have not killed a man to-night, Jacke, thou hast killed three.' And he puld out his bright browne sword, And dryed it on his sleeve, And he smote off that lither ladds head, Who did his ladye grieve. He sett the swords poynt till his brest, The pummil until a stone : Throw the falsenesse of that lither ladd, These three lives were all gone. THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. [This ballad exists in Denmark, and in other European countries. The Scotch have localised it, and point out Blackhouse, on the wild Douglas Burn, a tributary of the Yarrow, as the scene of the tragedy.] ' Rise up, rise up, nov/, Lord Douglas,' she says, ' And put on your armour so bright ; Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine Was married to a lord under night. ' Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, And put on your armour so bright, And take better care of your youngest sister, For your eldest's awa the last night.' He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And lightly they rode away. Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, To see what he could see, And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold, Come riding over the lea. 222 THE ENGLISH fOETS. 1 Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret,' he said, And hold my steed in your hand, Until that against your seven brothers bold, And your father, I mak a stand.' She held his steed in her milk-white hand, And never shed one tear, Until that she saw her seven brethren fa', And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. ' O hold your hand, Lord William ! ' she said, ' For your strokes they are wond'rous sair ; True lovers I can get many a ane, But a father I can never get mair.' O she 's ta'en out her handkerchief, It was o' the holland- sae fine, And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds, That were redder than the wine. ' O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret,' he said, ' O whether will ye gang or bide ?' 'Ill gang, 111 gang, Lord William,' she said, ' For ye have left me no other guide.' He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And slowly they baith rade away. O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they came to yon wan water, And there they lighted down. They lighted down to tak a drink Of the spring that ran sae clear ; And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, And sair she gan to fear. BALLADS. 223 ' Hold up, hold up, Lord William,' she says, 'For I fear that you are slain!' ' 'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, That shines in the water sae plain.' O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they cam' to his mother's ha' door, And there they lighted down. ' Get up, get up, lady mother,' he says, ' Get up, and let me in ! Get up, get up, lady mother,' he says, ' For this night my fair ladye I've win. 'O mak my bed, lady mother,' he says, ' O mak it braid and deep ! And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back, And the sounder I will sleep.' Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, Lady Marg'ret lang ere day And all true lovers that go thegither, May they have mair luck than they ! Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk, Lady Margaret in Mary's quire ; Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, And out o' -the knight's a brier. . And they twa met, and they twa plat 1 , And fain they wad be near ; And a' the warld might ken right weel, They were twa lovers dear. But bye and rade the Black Douglas, And wow but he was rough ! For he pull'd up the bonny brier, And flang'd in St. Mary's loch. 1 plighted troth. 22* THE ENGLISH POETS THE TWA CORBIES \ [An English version makes the lady faithful, ' She lifted up his bloody head, And kissed his wounds that were so red ; She buried him before the prime, She was dead herself ere evensong time.*"l As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane ; The tane unto the t'other say, 'Where sail we gang and dine to-day?' ' In behint yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain knight ; And nae body kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. 'His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, So we may make our dinner sweet. 'Ye '11 sit on his white hause 2 bane, And I '11 pike out his bonny blue een : Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, We '11 theek 3 our nest when it grows bare. ' Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sail ken whare he is gane ; O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sail blaw for evermair.' 1 ravens. * neck. 3 thatch. BALLADS. 225 WALY, WALY. [This fragment, variously corrupted, is often printed as part of a rather dull ballad, concerned with events in the history of Lord James Douglas, of the Laird of Blackwood, and of the lady who utters the beautiful lament here printed.] waly, waly, up the bank, waly, waly, doun the brae, And waly, waly, yon burn-side, Where I and my love were wont to gae 1 1 lean'd my back unto an aik, 1 thocht it was a trustie tree, But first it bow'd and syne it brak', Sae my true love did lichtlie me. O waly, waly, but love be bonnie A little time while it is new ! But when it 's auld it waxeth cauld, And fadeth awa' like the morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my heid, Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? For my true love has me forsook, And says he'll never lo'e me mair. Noo Arthur's Seat sail be my bed, The sheets sail ne'er be press'd by me ; Saint Anton's well sail be my drink ; Since my true love's forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree ? O gentle death, when wilt thou come ? For of my life I am wearie. 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie, Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry ; But my love's heart grown cauld to me. VOL. I. Q 226 THE ENGLISH POETS. When we cam' in by Glasgow toun, We were a comely sicht to see ; My love was clad in the black velvet, An' I mysel' in cramasie. But had I wist before I kiss'd That love had been so ill to win, I'd lock'd my heart in a case o' goud, And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. Oh, oh ! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee ; And I mysel' were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me ! SUPERNATURAL. CLERK SAUNDERS. Clerk Saunders and may Margaret Walked ower yon garden green ; And sad and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between. 'A bed, a bed,' Clerk Saunders said, 'A bed for you and me !' * Fye na, fye na,' said may Margaret, 'Till anes we married be. For in may come my seven bauld brothers, ' Wi' torches burning bright ; They'll say "We hae but ae sister, And behold she's wi' a knight!"' * Then 1 11 take the sword frae my scabbard, And slowly lift the pin ; And you may swear, and safe your aith, Ye never let Clerk Saunders in. BALLADS. 227 'And take a napkin in your hand, And tie up baith your bonny een ; And you may swear, and safe your aith, Ye saw me na since late yestreen.' It was about the midnight hour, When they asleep were laid, When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning red. When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches shining bright ; They said, 'We hae but ae sister, And behold her lying with a knight !' Then out and spake the first o' them, ' I bear the sword shall gar him die !' And out and spake the second o' them, ' His father has nae mair than he !' And out and spake the third o' them, 'I wot that they are lovers dear!' And out and spake the fourth o' them, ' They hae been in love this mony a year !' Then out and spake the fifth o' them, ' It were great sin true love to twain !' And out and spake the sixth o' them, ' It were shame to slay a sleeping man !' Then up and gat the seventh o' them, And never a word spake he ; But he has striped his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye. Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned Into his arms as asleep she lay ; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae. Q2 i8 THE ENGLISH POETS. And they lay still and sleeped sound, Until the day began to daw ; And kindly to him she did say, ' It is time, true love, you were awa'.* But he lay still, and sleeped sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen ; She looked atween her and the wa 1 , And dull and drowsie were his een. Then in and came her father dear, Said ' Let a' your mourning be : I '11 carry the dead corpse to the clay, And I '11 come back and comfort thee.' 1 Comfort weel your seven sons ; For comforted will I never be : I ween 'twas neither knave nor loon Was in the bower last night wi' me. 1 The clinking bell gaed through the town, To carry the dead corse to the day ; And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret's window, I wot, an hour before the day. 'Are ye sleeping, Margaret?' he says, Or are ye waking presentlie? Give me my faith and troth again, I wot, true love, I gied to thee.' 'Your faith and troth ye sail never get, Nor our true love sail never twin, Until ye come within my bower, And kiss me cheik and chin.' ' My mouth it is full cold, Margaret, It has the smell, now, of the ground ; And if I kiss thy comely mouth, Thy days of life will not be lang 1 . 1 Al. Thy days will soon be at an end. BALLADS. 229 4 O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight, I wot the wild fowls are boding day ; Give me my faith and troth again, And let me fare me on my way.' *Thy faith and troth thou sail na get, And our true love shall never twin, Until ye tell what comes of women, I wot, who die in strong trai veiling?' 'Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good lord's knee, Weel set about wi' gillyflowers : I wot sweet company for to see. ' O cocks are crowing a merry midnight, I wot the wild fowl are boding day ; The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, And I, ere now, will be missed away.' Then she has ta'en a crystal wand, And she has stroken her troth thereon ; She has given it him out at the shot-window, Wi' mony a sad sigh, and heavy groan. ' I thank ye, Marg'ret ; I thank ye, Marg'ret ; And aye I thank ye heartilie ; Gin ever the dead come for the quick, Be sure, Marg'ret, I '11 come for thee.' It 's hosen and shoon, and gown alone, She climbed the wall, and followed him, Until she came to the green forest, And there she lost the sight o' him. *Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? Is there ony room at your feet ? Or ony room at your side, Saunders, Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?' a 30 THE ENGLISH POETS. 'There's nae room at my head, Marg'ret, There 's nae room at my feet ; My bed it is full lowly now : Amang the hungry worms I sleep. 'Cauld mould it is my covering now, But and my winding-sheet ; The dew it falls nae sooner down, Than my resting-place is weet 1 But plait a wand o' bonnie birk, And lay it on my breast ; And shed a tear upon my grave, And wish my saul gude rest. 'And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret, And Marg'ret o' veritie, Gin e'er ye love another man, Ne'er love him as ye did me.' Then up and crew the milk-white cock, And up and crew the gray ; Her lover vanish'd in the air, And she gaed weeping away. THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. [Sometimes printed as part of Tkt Thrtt Clerks ' Owsnford.] There lived a wife at Usher's Well, And a wealthy wife was she ; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them o'er the sea. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely ane, When word came to the carline wife, That her three sons were gane. BALLADS. 231 They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, Whan word came to the carline wife, That her sons she 'd never see. ' I wish the wind may never cease, Nor fishes 1 in the flood, Till my three sons come hame to me, In earthly flesh and blood!' It fell about the Martinmas, When nights are lang and mirk, The carline wife's three sons came hame, And their hats were o' the birk. It neither grew in syke 2 nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh 3 ; But at the gates o' Paradise, That birk grew fair eneugh. ***** * Blow up the fire, my maidens ! Bring water from the well ! For a' my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well." And she has made to them a bed, She 's made it large and wide ; And she's ta'en her mantle her about, Sat down at the bed-side. ***** Up then crew the red red cock, And up and crew the gray ; The eldest to the youngest said, "Tis time we were away.' The cock he hadna craw'd but once, And clapp'd his wings at a', When the youngest to the eldest said, ' Brother, we must awa. 1 Al. ' Nor fish be ' (? ' Nor freshets '). * marsh. * trench. 232 THE ENGLISH POETS. 'The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin' worm doth chide ; Gin we be mist out o' our place, A sair pain we maun bide. ' Fare ye weel, my mother dear I Fareweel to barn and byre ! And fare ye weel, the bonny lass, That kindles my mother's fire.' ***** A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE. [Contains popular beliefs common to Asiatic and European races, as to the trials of the Dead.] This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every night and alle, Fire and sleet, and candle lighte, And Christe receive thy saule. When thou from hence away are paste, Every night and alle ; To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste ; And Christe receive thye saule. If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, Every night and alle ; Sit thee down, and put them on ; And Christe receive thye saule. If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane, Every night and alle : The whinnes shall pricke thee to the bare bane ; And Christe receive thye saule. From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe, Every night and alle ; To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at laste ; And Christe receive thye saule. * * * * BALLADS. 233 From Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst passe, Every night and alle ; To Purgatory fire thou comest at laste ; And Christe receive thye saule. If ever thou gavest meat or drink, Every night and alle ; The fire shall never make thee shrinke ; And Christe receive thye saule. If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane, Every night and alle ; The fire will burn thee to the bare bane ; And Christe receive thy saule. This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle ; Fire and sleet, and candle lighte, And Christe receive thye saule. A SONG OF THE SCOTCH MARCHES. KINMONT WILLIE. [The events here reported occurred in 1596. The ballad is the best example of those which treat of rescues, and lawless exploits in the debate- able land.] O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde? O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroop ? How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie, On Hairibee to hang him up ? Had Willie had but twenty men, But twenty men as stout as he, Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, Wi' eight score in his cumpanie. 234 THE ENGLISH POETS. They band his legs beneath the steed, They tied his hands behind his back ; They guarded him, fivesome on each side, And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. They led him thro' the Liddel-rack, And also thro' the Carlisle sands They brought him to Carlisle castell, To be at my Lord Scroop's commands. ' My hands are tied, but my tongue is free, And whae will dare this deed avow ? Or answer by the border law ? Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch !' ' Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver ! There 's never a Scot shall set ye free : Before ye cross my castle yate, I trow ye shall take farewell o' me.' 'Fear na ye that, my lord,' quo' Willie: ' By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroop,' he said, ' I never yet lodged in a hostelrie, But I paid my lawing before I gaed.' Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper, In Branksome Ha', where that he lay, That Lord Scroop has ta'en the Kinmont Willie, Between the hours of night and day. He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, He garrtl the red wine spring on hie ' Now Christ's curse on my head,' he said, ' But avenged of Lord Scroop I '11 be I 'O is my basnet 1 a widow's curch 3 ? Or my lance a wand of the willow tree? Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand, That an English lord should lightly me 1 1 helmet. * coif. BALLADS. 235 'And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Against the truce of border tide ? And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Is Keeper here on the Scottish side? 'And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Withouten either dread or fear ? And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Can back a steed, or shake a spear? 'O were there war between the lands, As well I wot that there is none, I would slight Carlisle castell high, Tho' it were builded of marble stone. I 1 would set that castell in a low *, And sloken it with English blood ! There's nevir a man in Cumberland, Should ken where Carlisle castell stood. ' But since nae war 's between the lands, And there is peace, and peace should be ; I 'II neither harm English lad nor lass, And yet the Kinmont freed shall be !' He has calFd him forty marchmen bauld, I trow they were of his ain name, Except Sir Gilbert Elliot call'd, The laird of Stobs, I mean the same. He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch ; With spur on heel, and splent on spauld 8 , And gleuves of green, and feathers blue. There were five and five before them a', Wi' hunting horns and bugles bright ; And five and five came wi' Buccleuch, Like warden's men, arrayed for fight : 1 flame. a armour on shoulder. a 36 THE ENGLISH POETS. And five and five, like a mason gang, That carried the ladders lang and hie ; And five and five, like broken men ; And so they reached the Woodhouselee. And as we cross'd the Bateable Land, When to the English side we held, The first o' men that we met wi', Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde? 'Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?' Quo' fause Sakelde ; ' come tell to me 1 * 'We go to hunt an English stag, Has trespassed on the Scots countrie.' 'Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?' Quo' fause Sakelde ; ' come tell me true ! ' We go to catch a rank reiver, Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch.' 'Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie?' 'We gang to herry a corbie's nest, That wons not far frae Woodhouselee,' 'Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?' Quo' fause Sakelde; 'come tell to me I' Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band, And the never a word o' lear had he. 'Why trespass ye on the English side? Row-footed outlaws, stand !' quo' he ; The never a word had Dickie to say, Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie. Then on we held for Carlisle toun, And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross'd; The water was great and meikle of spait, But the ncvir a horse nor man we lost BALLADS. 237 And when we reached the Staneshaw-bank, The wind was rising loud and hie ; And there the laird garr'd leave our steeds, For fear that they should stamp and nie. And when we left the Staneshaw-bank, The wind began full loud to blaw, But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, When we came beneath the castle wa'. We crept on knees, and held our breath, Till we placed the ladders against the wa' ; And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell To mount the first, before us a'. He has ta'en the watchman by the throat, He flung him down upon the lead ' Had there not been peace between our land, ' Upon the other side thou hadst gaed ! 'Now sound out, trumpets !' quo' Buccleuch; 'Let's waken Lord Scroop, right merrilie !' Then loud the warden's trumpet blew '0 ivha dare meddle a//' mef* Then speedilie to work we gaed, And raised the slogan ane and a', And cut a hole thro' a sheet of lead, And so we wan to the castle ha'. They thought King James and a' his men Had won the house wi' bow and spear ; It was but twenty Scots and ten, That put a thousand in sic a stear I Wi' coulters, and wi' fore-hammers, We garr'd the bars bang merrilie, Untill we cam to the inner prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie. 238 THE ENGLISH POETS. And when we cam to the lower prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie 'O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, Upon the mom that thou's to die?' ' O I sleep saft, and I wake aft ; Its lang since sleeping was fleyed 1 frae me 1 Gie my service back to my wife and bairns, And a' gude fellows that spier* for me.' Then Red Rowan has hente him up, The starkest man in Teviotdale 'Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell 1 Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope ! My gude Lord Scroope, farewell ! ' he cried ' I '11 pay you for my lodging maill *, When first we meet on the border side.' Then shoulder high, with shout and cry, We bore him down the ladder lang ; At every stride Red Rowan made, I wot the Kinmont's aims * played clang ! 1 O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, I have ridden horse baith wild and wood*; But a rougher beast than Red Rowan, I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. 4 O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, ' I 've pricked a horse out oure the furs '; But since the day I backed a steed, I never wore sic cumbrous spurs !' We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank, When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, And a thousand men, in horse and foot, Cam wi' the keen Lord Scroope along. 1 frighted. * ask. * rent. * irons. * mad. * furrows. BALLADS. 239 Buccleuch has turned to Eden water, Even where it flowed frae bank to brim, And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, And safely swam them thro' the stream. He turned him on the other side, And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he ' If ye like na my visit in merry England, In fair Scotland come visit me!' All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope, He stood as still as rock of stane ; He scarcely dared to trew his eyes, When thro' the water they had gane. ' He is either himself a devil frae hell, Or else his mother a witch maun be ; I wad na ha ridden that wan water, For a' the gowd in Christentie.' ROBIN HOOD BALLADS. ROBIN HOOD RESCUING THE WIDOW'S THREE SONS. There are twelve months in all the year, As I hear many say, But the merriest month in all the year Is the merry month of May. Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, With a link a down, and a day, And there he met a silly old woman, Was weeping on the way. 'What news? what news? thou silly old woman, What news hast thou for me?' Said she, ' There 's my three sons in Nottingham town To-day condemned to die.' 140 THE ENGLISH POETS. * O, have they parishes burnt ?' he said, ' Or have they ministers slain ? Or have they robbed any virgin ? Or other men's wives have ta'en ? 'They have no parishes burnt, good sir, Nor yet have ministers slain, Nor have they robbed any virgin, Nor other men's wives have ta'en.' 1 0, what have they done ?' said Robin Hood, 1 1 pray thee tell to me.' 1 It 's for slaying of the king's fallow deer, Bearing their long bows with thee.' 'Dost thou not mind, old woman,' he said, ' How thou madest me sup and dine ? By the truth of my body,' quoth bold Robin Hood, 'You could not tell it in better time.' Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, With a link a down, and a day, And there he met with a silly old palmer, Was walking along the highway. ' What news ? what news ? thou silly old man, What news, I do thee pray ? ' Said he, 'Three squires in Nottingham town Are condemn'd to die this day.' 'Come change thy apparel with me, old man, Come change thy apparel for mine ; Here is ten shillings in good silver, Go drink it in beer or wine.' 'O, thine apparel is good,' he said, 'And mine is ragged and torn ; Wherever you go, wherever you ride, Laugh not an old man to scorn.' BALLADS. 241 ' Come change thy apparel with me, old churl, Come change thy apparel with mine ; Here is a piece of good broad gold, Go feast thy brethren with wine.' Then he put on the old man's hat, It stood full high on the crown : 'The first bold bargain that I come at, It shall make thee come down.' Then he put on the old man's cloak, Was patch'd black, blue, and red ; He thought it no shame, all the day long, To wear the bags of bread. Then he put on the old man's breeks, Was patch'd from leg to side : ' By the truth of my body,' bold Robin can say, ' This man loved little pride.' Then he put on the old man's hose, Were patch'd from knee to wrist : 'By the truth of my body,' said bold Robin Hood, ' I 'd laugh if I had any list.' Then he put on the old man's shoes, Were patch'd both beneath and aboon ; Then Robin Hood swore a solemn oath, ' It 's good habit that makes a man.' Now Robin Hood is to Nottingham gone, With a link a down and a down, And there he met with the proud sheriff, Was walking along the town. ' Save you, save you, sheriff ! ' he said ; ' Now heaven you save and see ! And what will you give to a silly old man To-day will your hangman be?' VOL, I. R 242 THE ENGLISH POETS. ' Some suits, some suits,' the sheriff he said, ' Some suits I '11 give to thee ; Some suits, some suits, and pence thirteen, To-day 's a hangman's fee.' Then Robin he turns him round about, And jumps from stock to stone : 'By the truth of my body,' the sheriff he said, ' That 's well jumpt, thou nimble old man.' ' I was ne'er a hangman in all my life, Nor yet intends to trade ; But curst be he,' said bold Robin, * That first a hangman was made ! * I've a bag for meal, and a bag for malt, And a bag for barley and corn ; A bag for bread, and a bag for beef, And a bag for my little small horn. ' I have a horn in my pocket, I got it from Robin Hood, And still when I set it to my mouth, For thee it blows little good.' ' O, wind thy horn, thou proud fellow ! Of thee I have no doubt. I wish that thou give such a blast, Till both thy eyes fall out' The first loud blast that he did blow, He blew both loud and shrill ; A hundred and fifty of Robin Hood's men Came riding over the hill The next loud blast that he did give, He blew both loud and amain, And quickly sixty of Robin Hood's men Came shining over the plain. BALLADS. 243 ' O, who are these,' the sheriff he said, ' Come tripping over the lee ? ' 1 They 're my attendants,' brave Robin did say ; ' They 11 pay a visit to thee.' They took the gallows from the slack, They set it in the glen, They hanged the proud sheriff on that, Released their own three men. ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH AND BURIAL. [The close of this ballad singularly resembles a Romaic song on the death of a famous klepht, or brigand, in Fauriel's collection.] When Robin Hood and Little John, Down a down, a down, a down, Went o'er yon bank of broom, Said Robin Hood to Little John, ' We have shot for many a pound : Hey down, a down, a down. 'But I am not able to shoot one shot more, My arrows will not flee ; But I have a cousin lives down below, Please God, she will bleed me.' Now Robin is to fair Kirkley gone, As fast as he can win ; But before he came there, as we do hear, He was taken very ill. And when that he came to fair Kirkley-hall, He knock'd all at the ring, But none was so ready as his cousin herself For to let bold Robin in. ' Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin,' she said, ' And drink some beer with me ? ' No, I will neither eat nor drink Till I am blooded by thee.' p 2 244 THE ENGLISH POETS. 'Well, I have a room, cousin Robin,' she said, 'Which you did never see, And if you please to walk therein, You blooded by me shall be.' She took him by the lily-white hand, And led him to a private room, And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, Whilst one drop of blood would run. She blooded him in the vein of the arm, And locked him up in the room ; There did he bleed all the live-long day, Until the next day at noon. He then bethought him of a casement door, Thinking for to be gone ; He was so weak he could not leap, Nor he could not get down. He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, Which hung low down to his knee ; He set his horn unto his mouth, And blew out weak blasts three. Then Little John, when hearing him, As he sat under the tree, 'I fear my master is near dead, He blows so wearily.' Then Little John to fair Kirkley is gone. As fast as he can dri'e ; But when he came to Kirkley-hall, He broke locks two or three : Until he came bold Robin to, Then he fell on his knee : A boon, a boon,' cries Little John, ' Master, I beg of thee.' BALLADS. 245 'What is that boon,' quoth Robin Hood, 'Little John, thou begs of me?' 'It is to burn fair Kirkley-hall, And all their nunnery.' 'Now nay, now nay,' quoth Robin Hood, ' That boon I '11 not grant thee ; I never hurt woman in all my life, Nor man in woman's company. ' I never hurt fair maid in all my time, Nor at my end shall it be ; But give me my bent bow in my hand, And a broad arrow I '11 let flee ; And where this arrow is taken up, There shall my grave digg*d be. 'Lay me a green sod under my head, And another at my feet ; And lay my bent bow by my side, Which was my music sweet ; And make my grave of gravel and green, Which is most right and meet 'Let me have length and breadth enough, With a green sod under my head ; That they may say, when I am dead, Here lies bold Robin Hood.' These words they readily promis'd him, Which did bold Robin please ; And there they buried bold Robin Hood, Near to the fair Kirkleys. THE ENGLISH fOETS. DOMESTIC THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON. There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, And he was a squires son ; He loved the bayliffes daughter deare, That lived in Islington. Yet she was coye, and would not believe That he did love her soe, Noe nor at any time would she Any countenance to him showe. But when his friendes did understand His fond and foolish minde, They sent him up to faire London, An apprentice for to binde. And when he had been seven long yeares, And never his love could see, 'Many a teare have I shed for her sake, When she little thought of mee.' Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and playe, All but the bayliffes daughter deare ; She secretly stole awaye. She pulled off her gowne of greene, And put on ragged attire, And to faire London she would go Her true love to enquire. As as she went along the high road, The weather being hot and drye, She sat her downe upon a green bank, And her true love came riding bye. BALLADS. 247 She started up, with a colour soe redd, Catching hold of his bridle-reine ; ' One penny, one penny, kind sir,' she sayd, 'Will ease me of much paine.' 'Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, Praye tell me where you were borne.' 'At Islington, kind sir,' sayd shee, 'Where I have had many a scorne.' 1 1 prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, O tell me, whether you khowe The bayliffes daughter of Islington.' ' She is dead, sir, long agoe.' ' If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also ; For I will into some farr countrye, Where noe man shall me knowe.' 'O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, She standeth by thy side ; She is here alive, she is not dead, And readye to be thy bride.' 'O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, Ten thousand times therefore ; For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, Whom I thought I should never jee more.' SIR THOMAS WYATT. [THOMAJ WYATT, the eldest son of Sir Henry Wyatt, a baronet of ancient family, was bom at Allington Castle, in Kent, in 1503. In the Court of Henry VIII he soon became a conspicuous figure, famous for his wit, his learning, his poetical talents, his linguistic attainments, his skill in athletic exercises, his fascinating manners and his handsome person. From a courtier he developed into a statesman and a diplomatist, and in the dutie-. incident to statesmanship and diplomacy most of his life was passed. He died at Sherborne, while on his road to Falmouth, and was buried then October nth, 1543. His poems were first printed in TotttFt Mhctllany in '5570 Wyatt and Surrey are usually classed together par nobile fratrum the Dioscuri of the Dawn. They inaugurated that im- portant period in our literature known as the Era of Italian Influence, or that of the Company of Courtly Makers the period which immediately preceded and ushered in the age of Spenser and Shakespeare. With some of the characteristics of expiring mediaevalism still lingering about them, the prevailing spirit of their poetry is the spirit of the Renaissance, not its colour, not its exuberance, not its intoxication ; but its classicism, its harmony, and its appreciation of form. With the writings of Virgil, Martial and Seneca, in ancient, and with the writings of Petrarch and his school in modern times, they were evidently familiar, and they have as evidently made them their models. The influence of that school is indeed manifest in almost everything these poets have left us, sometimes directly in translations, in professed imi- tation, in turns of expression, still oftener indirectly in tone, form and style : but they owed more to the Italy of the fourteenth than to the Italy of the first century. To Wyatt and Surrey our debt is a great one. They introduced and naturalised the Sonnet, both the Sonnet of the true Petrarchian type and the Sonnet which was afterwards carried to such perfection in the hands of Shakespeare IVY ATT. 249 and Daniel. In Surrey we find the first germ of the Bucolic Eclogue. In Wyatt we have our first classical satirist. Of our lyrical poetry they were the founders. Their tone, their style, their rhythm, their measures, were at once adopted by a school of disciples, and have ever since maintained their popularity among poets In their lyrics indeed is to be found the seed of everything that is most charming in the form of Jonson and Her- rick, of Waller and Suckling, of Cowley and Prior. They gave us but this is the glory of Surrey alone the first specimens of blank verse that our language can boast They were the creators of that majestic measure the heroic quatrain. They enriched diction with fulness and involution. They were the first of our poets who had learned the great secret of transfusing the spirit of one language into that of another, who had the good taste to select the best models and the good sense to adhere to them. They gave the deathblow to that rudeness, that grotesqueness, that prolixity, that diffuseness, that pedantry, which had deformed with fatal persist- ency the poetry of medievalism, and while they purified our language from the Gallicisms of Chaucer and his followers, they fixed the permanent standard of our versification. To them we are indebted for the great reform which substituted a metrical for a rhythmical structure. Their services to our literature may at once be realised by comparing their work with that of their immediate predecessors, and by observing its influence on the writers in the four Miscellanies which appeared between 1557 and the publication of England's Helicon in 1600. Indeed these interesting men stand in much the same relation to the poetical literature of England as Boscan and Garcilaso de la Vega stand to the poetical literature of Castile. It is unfortunately not possible to decide how far these two poets acted and re-acted on each other. We are however in- clined to think that Wyatt was the master-spirit, and that Surrey nas been enabled to throw him so completely and so unfairly into the shade, mainly because he had his friend's patterns to work upon. Wyatt was his senior by at least fourteen years, and Wyatt's poems, if we except at least the Satires and the Peni- tential Psalms, were in all probability early works. The poems of Wyatt consist of Sonnets, Lyrics in all varieties of measure, Rondeaux, Epigrams, Satires, and a poetical para- phrase of the Penitential Psalms. His genius is essentially imitative. His Sonnets are either direct translations or servile 250 THE ENGLISH POETS. imitations of Petrarch's. Of his lyrics some are borrowed from the Spanish, some from the French, some from the Italian ; all, with the exception of half a dozen perhaps, are more or less modelled on writings in those languages. What we call his Epigrams are for the most part versions from the Strambotti of Serafino d' Aquila. One of his Satires is an abridged imitation of the Tenth Satire of Alamanni, the other two were respectively suggested by Horace and Persius. Even in his version of the Penitential Psalms he was careful to follow in the footsteps of Dante and Alamanni. The dignity and gravity which characterise the structure of some of his lyric periods appear to have been caught from the poets of Castile. His general tone is sombre, sententious and serious, and he is too often reflecting when he ought to be feeling. The greater part of his poetry is wasted in describing with weary minuteness transports of slighted and requited affection, but his true place is among observant men of the world, scholars and moralists. His versification is often harsh and uncouth, except in some of his lyrics, which are occasionally very musical, and in his Satires, which are uniformly terse and smooth. He is inferior to Surrey in diction, in taste, in origin- ality, and in poetical feeling ; but it may be doubted whether the more delicate genius of the younger poet would have been able to achieve so complete a triumph over the mechanism of expression had he not been preceded by his robuster brother. J. CHURTON COLLINS. WYATT. 251 [The lover having dreamed enjoying of his love, complaineth that the dream is not either longer or truer.] Unstable dream, according to the place, Be steadfast once, or else at least be true : By tasted sweetness make me not to rue The sudden loss of thy false feigned grace. By good respect, in such a dangerous case, Thou broughtest not her into these tossing seas ; But madest my sprite to live, my care to encrease, My body in tempest her delight to embrace. The body dead, the spirit had his desire ; Painless was the one, the other in delight. Why then, alas, did it not keep it right, But thus return to leap into the fire ; And when it was at wish, could not remain ? Such mocks of dreams do turn to deadly pain. [The lover beseecheth his mistress not to forget his stedfast faith and true intent ] Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant ; My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet ! Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye know, since whan The suit, the service none tell can ; Forget not yet ! Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet \ 253 THE ENGLISH POETS. Forget not ! oh ! forget not this, How long ago hath been, and is The mind that never meant amiss. Forget not yet ! Forget not then thine own approved, The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved : Forget not yet 1 [The lover complaineth of the unkindness of his love.] My lute, awake ! perform the last Labour that thou and I shall waste ; And end that I have now begun : And when this song is sung and past, My lute ! be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none ; As lead to grave in marble stone, My song may pierce her heart as soon ; Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan? No, no, my lute ! for I have done. The rock doth not so cruelly, Repulse the waves continually, As she my suit and affection : So that I am past remedy ; Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot, By whom, unkind, thou hast them won ; Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, That makest but game of earnest pain ; Trow not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lovers plain, Although my lute and I have done. WYATT. 253 May chance thee lie withered and old In winter nights, that are so cold, Plaining in vain unto the moon ; Thy wishes then dare not be told : Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon : Then shall thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want, as I have done. Now cease, my lute ! This is the last Labour that thou and I shall waste ; And ended is that we begun : Now is thy song both sung and past ; My lute, be still, for I have done. ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN. Tagus farewell ! that westward with thy streams Turns up the grains of gold already tried ; For I with spur and sail go seek the Thames Gainward the sun that showeth her wealthy pride. And to the town that Brutus sought by dreams, Like bended moon that leans her lusty side ; My king, my country alone for whom I live, Of mighty Love the winds for this me give 1 \ FROM THE SECOND SATIRE. My Poins, I cannot frame my tongue to feign, To cloak the truth for praise without desert Of them that list all vices to retain. I cannot honour them that set their part 1 Al. My king, my country, I seek, for whom I live; O mighty Jove, the winds for this me give! 254 THE ENGLISH POETS. With Venus, and Bacchus, all their life long, Nor hold my peace of them although I smart. I cannot crouch nor truckle to such a wrong, To worship them like God on earth alone That are as wolves these sely lambs among. I cannot with my words complain and moan, And suffer nought ; nor smart without complaint, Nor turn the word that from my mouth has gone. I cannot speak and look like as a saint, Use wiles for wit and make deceit a pleasure, Call craft counsel, for lucre still to paint ; I cannot wrest the law to fill the coffer, With innocent blood to feed myself fat And do most hurt where that most help I offer. I am not he that can allow the state Of high Caesar, and damn Cato to die, That by his death did scape out of the gate From Caesar's hands, if Livy doth not lie, And would not live where Liberty was lost; So did his heart the common wealth apply. I am not he, such eloquence to boast To make the crow in singing as the swan ; Nor call the lion of coward beasts the most. That cannot take a mouse as the cat can : And he that dieth for hunger of the gold, Call him Alexander, and say that Pan Passeth Apollo in music manifold, Praise Sir Topas for a noble tale And scorn the story that the Knight hath told; Praise him for counsel that is drunk of ale ; Grin when he laughs, that beareth all the sway ; Frown when he frowns, and groan when he is pale, On other's lust to hang both night and day. None of these points could ever frame in me ; My wit is nought, I cannot learn the way. THE EARL OF SURREY. [HENRY HOWARD was the eldest son of Thomas Earl of Surrey, by his second wife, the Lady Elizabeth Stafford, daughter of Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. The date and place of his birth are alike unknown. It probably occurred in 1517. He became Earl of Surrey on the accession of his father to the dukedom of Norfolk in 1524. The incidents of his early life are buried in obscurity ; the incidents of his later life rest on evidence rarely trustworthy and frequently apocryphal. He was beheaded on Tower Hill January 21, 1547, nominally on a charge of high treason, really in consequence of having fallen a victim to a Court intrigue, the particulars of which it is now impossible to unravel. With regard to the chronology of his various poems we have nothing to guide us. Though they were extensively circulated in manuscript during his lifetime, they were not printed till June 1557, when they made their appearance, together with Wyatt's poems and several fugitive pieces by other authors, in Tottefs Miscellany.] The works of Surrey, though not so numerous as those of his friend Wyatt, are of a very varied character. They consist of son- nets, of miscellaneous poems in different measures, of lyrics, of elegies, of translations, of Scriptural paraphrases, of two long ver- sions from Virgil. The distinctive feature of Surrey's genius is its ductility ; its characteristic qualities are grace, vivacity, pathos, picturesqueness. He had the temperament of a true poet, refine- ment, sensibility, a keen eye for the beauties of nature, a quick and lively imagination, great natural powers of expression. His tone is pure and lofty, and his whole writings breathe that chivalrous spirit which still lingered among the satellites of the eighth Henry. His diction is chaste and perspicuous, and though it bears all the marks of careful elaboration it has no trace of stiffness or pedantry. His verse is so smooth, and at times so delicately musical, that Warton questioned whether in these qualities at least our versifica- tion has advanced since Surrey tuned it for the first time. Without the learning of Wyatt, his literary skill is far greater. His taste is 256 THE ENGLISH POETS. exquisite. His love poetry, which is distinguished by touches of genuine feeling, is modelled for the most part on the Sonnetti and Rallatc of Petrarch, though it has little of Petrarch's frigid puerility and none of his metaphysical extravagance. The Laura of Surrey is the fair Geraldine. We may perhaps suspect the existence of some less shadowy object. As a lyrical poet, when he permits himself to follow his own bent he is easy and graceful His elegiac verses and his epitaph on Clere have been deservedly praised for their pathos, dignity, and terseness, and his translation from Martial makes us regret that he has not left us more in the same vein. His versions from Virgil we are not inclined to rank so highly as Warton does, but they are interesting as being the first English versions from the poets of antiquity worthy of the name, and as furnishing us with the earliest specimens of that verse which was to become the omnipotent instrument of Shakespeare and Milton. As a son- neteer he follows closely in the footsteps of Petrarch, though he is not,- like Wyatt, a servile copyist, and he is entitled to the high praise not only of being the first who introduced the sonnet into our language, but of having made that difficult form of composition the obedient interpreter of a poet's feelings and of a poet's fancies. His most unsuccessful pieces are his Scriptural paraphrases and the poems written in Alexandrines, though one of these, T/ie Com- plaint of a Dying Lover, is valuable as being, after Henryson's Robine and Makyne t the first pastoral poem in British literature. J. CHURTON COLLINS. EARL OF SURREY. 257 DESCRIPTION OF SPRING, [Wherein each thing renews, save only the lover.] The soote season, 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 1 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 slings ; The fishes flete with new repaired scale ; The adder all her slough away she slings ; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; The busy bee her honey now she mings 2 ; Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs ! J A COMPLAINT BY NIGHT OF THE LOVER NOT BELOVED. Alas ! so all things now do hold their peace ! Heaven and earth disturbed in no thing ; The beasts, the air, the birds their song do cease ; The nightes car the stars about doth bring. Calm is the sea ; the waves work less and less : So am not I, whom love, alas ! doth wring, Bringing before my face the great increase Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing, In joy and woe, as in a doubtful ease. For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring ; But by and by, the cause of my disease Gives me a pang, that inwardly doth sting. When that I think what grief it is again, To live and lack the thing should rid my pain. 1 mate. a mingles. VOL. I. S 258 THE ENGLISH POETS. [Prisoned in Windsor, he recounteth his pleasure there passed.] So cruel prison how could betide, alas, As proud Windsor? where I in lust and joy, With a King's son, my childish years did pass, In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy. Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour, The large green courts, where we were wont to hove 1 , With eyes cast up into the maiden's tower, And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love. The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue, The dances short, long tales of great delight ; With words and looks, that tigers could but rue ; When each of us did plead the other's right The palme-play 2 where, despoiled for the game, With dazed eyes oft we by gleams of love Have missed the ball, and got sight of our dame, To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above. The gravelled ground, with sleeves tied on the helm, On foaming horse, with swords and friendly hearts ; With cheer, as though one should another whelm, \Vhen we have fought, and chased oft with darts ; With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth, In active games of nimbleness and strength, Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth. Our tender limbs, that yet shot up in length. The secret groves, which oft we made resound Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise ; Recording oft what grace each one had found, What hope of speed, what dread of long delays. The wild forest, the clothed holts with green ; With reins availed, and swift ybreathed horse, With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between, When we did chase the fearful hart of force. The void walls eke, that harboured us each night: Wherewith, alas ! reviveth in my breast The sweet accord, such sleeps as yet delight ; The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest j 1 abide. a tennit. EARL OF SURREY. 259 The secret thoughts, imparted with such trust ; The wanton talk, the divers change of play ; The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just, Wherewith we passed the winter night away. And with this thought the blood forsakes the face ; The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue : The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas ! Upsupped have, thus I my plaint renew : ' O place of bliss, renewer of my woes ! Give me account, where is my noble fere *, Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose, To other lief 2 , but unto me most dear.' Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow rue Returns thereat a hollow sound of plaint. Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew, In prison pine, with bondage and restraint ; And with remembrance of the greater grief, To banish the less, I find my chief relief. THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE. [Translated from Martial.] Martial, the things that do attain The happy life be these, I find ; The riches left, not got with pain ; The fruitful ground, the quiet mind. The equal friend, no grudge, no strife, No charge of rule nor governance ; Without disease, the healthful life ; The household of continuance. The mean * diet, no delicate fare ; True wisdom joined with simpleness ; The night discharged of all care, Where wine the wit may not oppress. The faithful wife, without debate ; Such sleeps as may beguile the night ; Contented with thine own estate, Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. 1 companion. a dear. * moderate. S2 *6o THE ENGLISH POETS. A PRAISE OF HIS LOVE. [Wherein he reproveth them that compare their ladies with his.] Give place, ye lovers, here before That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; My lady's beauty passeth more The best of yours, I dare well sayen, Than doth the sun the candle light Or brightest day the darkest night. And thereto hath a troth as just As had Penelope the fair ; For what she saith, ye may it trust, As it by writing sealed were : And virtues hath she many moe Than I with pen have skill to show. I could rehearse, if that I would, The whole effect of Nature's plaint, When she had lost the perfect mould, The like to whom she could not paint : With wringing hands, how she did cry, And what she said, I know it, I. I know she swore with raging mind, Her kingdom only set apart, There was no loss by law of kind That could have gone so near her heart j And this was chiefly all her pain ; ' She could not make the like again.' Sith Nature thus gave her the praise, To be the chiefest work she wrought ; In faith, methinks ! some better ways On your behalf might well be sought, Than to compare, as ye have done, To match the candle with the sun. EARL OF SURREY. 261 AN EPITAPH ON CLERE, SURREY'S FAITHFUL FRIEND AND FOLLOWER. Norfolk sprung thee, Lambeth holds thee dead ; Clere, of the Count of Cleremont, thou hight ; Within the womb of Ormond's race thou bred, And saw'st thy cousin 1 crowned in thy sight. Shelton for love, Surrey for lord thou chase 2 . (Aye me ! whilst life did last that league was lender) Tracing whose steps thou sawest Kelsal blaze, Landrecy burnt, and battered Boulogne render. At Montreuil gates, hopeless of all recure, Thine Earl, half dead, gave in thy hand his will ; Which cause did thee this pining death procure, Ere summers four times seven thou couldst fulfill. Ah ! Clere ! if love had booted, care, or cost, Heaven had not won, nor earth so timely lost. ON THE DEATH OF SIR THOMAS WYATT. Wyatt resteth here that quick could never rest : Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain, And virtue sank the deeper in his breast ; Such profit he by envy could obtain. A head where wisdom mysteries did frame, Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain, As on a stithe where that some work of fame Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain's gain. A visage stern and mild : where both did grow Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice ; Amid great storms whom grace assured so To live upright, and smile at fortune's choice. A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme ; That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit ; A mark, the which (unperfected for time) Some may approach, but never none shall hit 1 Thomas Clere was first cousin of Anne Boleyn. ' Didst choose. *6a THE ENGLISH POETS. A tongue that served in foreign realms his king ; Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflame Each noble heart : a worthy guide to bring Our English youth by travail unto fame. An eye whose judgment none affect * could blind, Friends to allure and foes to reconcile, Whose piercing look did represent a mind With virtue fraught reposed void of guile. A heart where dread was never so imprest To hide the thought that might the truth advance ; In neither fortune loft 2 , nor yet represt, To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance A valiant corpse, where force and beauty met, Happy alas, too happy but for foes, Lived, and ran the race that nature set ; Of manhood's shape where she the mould did lose. But to the heavens that simple soul is fled, Which left, with such as^coyet Christ to know, Witness of faith that never could be dead ; Sent for our health, but not received so. Thus for our guilt this jewel have we lost ; The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost. 1 no passion. ' exalted. GEORGE GASCOIGNE. [GEORGE GASCOIGNE was born circ. 1536; died 1577. The dates of his poems are: 1572. A hundred Sundry Flowers bound up in one small Posy. 1575. The Posies corrected, perfected, and augmented by the Author. The Glass of Government. 1576. The Steel Glass, with the Complaint of Philomene. 1587. The Phasantest Works of George Gascoigne, newly compiled into one volume.'] Amongst the poets that immediately preceded the great Eliza- bethan Period, which may be said to begin with the publication of The Shepherd's Calendar in 1580, Gascoigne occupied, and occupies, a notable place. Bolton indeed, in his Hypercritica, speaks slightingly of him : ' Among the lesser late poets George Gascoigne's Works may be endured ' ; but for the most part he is mentioned with high respect and praise. Raleigh commends The Steel Glass in what are his earliest known verses. Puttenham distinguishes him for 'a good metre and for a plentiful vein.' Webbe calls him ' a witty gentleman, and the very chief of our late rimers'; 'gifts of wit,' he says, 'and natural promptness appear in him abundantly.' Amongst other eulogists may be named Nash, Gabriel Harvey, Whetstone. He was a man of family and position, well known to and amongst the ' Inns of Court men,' who, in the Elizabethan age, as in that of Queen Anne, passed for the arch wits and critics as well as the first gentlemen of the day ; and when campaigning in the Low Countries he met with adventures which added to his per- sonal prestige. Thus he was a conspicuous figure in the society of his time, and for this reason, if for nothing else, his verses would win esteem and circulation. Gascoigne, then, is interesting as a poet who was popular during Shakspere's boyhood and Spenser's adolescence. But he is yet more important as one who did real service in the way of extend- ing and improving the form of literature as a pioneer of the 264 THE ENGLISH POETS. Elizabethan Period. ' Whoever,' says Nash, ' my private opinion condemns as faulty, Master Gascoigne is not to be abridged of his deserved esteem, who first beat the path to that perfection which our best poets have aspired to since his departure ; whereto he did ascend by comparing the Italian with the English, as Tully did Graca cum Latinis.' He is the author of our earliest extant comedy in prose possibly the earliest written The Supposes, a translation of Ariosto's Suppositt, and in part the author of one of our earliest tragedies, of yocasta a paraphrase rather than a translation of the Phoinissai of Euripides ; he is one of our earliest writers of formal satire and of blank verse, and in his 4 Certain Notes of Instruction concerning the making of verse or rime in English written at the request of Master Edouardo Donati,' one of the earliest essayists, if not the earliest, on English metres. Happily, we can add, his works have not only these historical claims on our attention ; they have intrinsic merits. His lyrics are occasionally characterised by a certain lightness and grace, which give and will give them a permanent life. Singing of all a lover's moods and experiences how he passions, laments, com- plains, recants, is refused, is encouraged he is never a mere mimic of his Italian masters, or, though somewhat monotonous, wanting in vigour and sincerity. His style is clear and unaffected. The crude taste of his age is often enough apparent ; and in this re- spect his ' poor rude lines,' if we ' compare them with the bettering of the times,' may sometimes make but little show ; but here too he rises above his fellows, who are often simply grotesque when they mean to be fervent, and are dull when they are not grotesque. He writes in various metres with various facility and skill. Of blank verse his mastery is imperfect ; he is like a child learning to walk, whose progress is from chair to chair ; he lacks freedom and fluency. The metre of his Complaint of Philomene is ill chosen for its purpose. It is a jig, not a movement of ' even step and musing gait.' Much of his work is autobiographical. We can trace him ' from gay to grave,' perhaps we may add ' from lively to severe ' ; for in his later years, by a reaction that is com- mon enough, it would seem he took a somewhat morbid view of the life he was leaving, under-prizing it, after the manner of zealots, even as in his youth he had prized it too highly. JOHN W. HALES. GASCOIGNE. 265 THE ARRAIGNMENT OF A LOVER. At Beauty's bar as I did stand, When false Suspect accused me, George (quoth the Judge), hold up thy hand, Thou art arraigned of flattery : Tell therefore how thou wilt be tried : Whose judgement here wilt thou abide ? My Lord (quoth I) this Lady here, Whom I esteem above the rest, Doth know my guilt if any were : Wherefore her doom shall please me best. Let her be Judge and Juror both, To try me guiltless by mine oath. Quoth Beauty, no, it fitteth not, A prince herself to judge the cause : Will is our Justice well you wot, Appointed to discuss our laws : If you will guiltless seem to go, God and your country quit you so. Then Craft the crier call'd a quest, Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere, A pack of pickthanks were the rest, Which came false witness for to bear. The jury such, the judge unjust, Sentence was said I should be trussed. Jealous the jailer bound me fast, To hear the verdict of the bill, George (quoth the Judge) now thou art cast, Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill, And there be hanged all but the head, God rest thy soul when thou art dead. 266 THE ENGLISH POETS. Down fell I then upon my knee, All flat before Dame Beauty's face, And cried Good Lady pardon me, Which here appeal unto your grace, You know if I have been untrue, It was in too much praising you. And though this Judge do make such haste, To shed with shame my guiltless blood : Yet let your pity first be placed, To save the man that meant you good, So shall you show yourself a Queen, And I may be your servant seen. (Quoth Beauty) well : because I guess, What thou dost mean henceforth to be, Although thy faults deserve no less, Than Justice here hath judged thee, Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife And be true prisoner all thy life ? Yea madam (quoth I) that I shall, Lo Faith and Truth my sureties : Why then (quoth she) come when I call, I ask no better warrantise. Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall, At her command when she doth call A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER. Amid my bale I bathe in bliss, I swim in Heaven, I sink in hell : I find amends for every miss, And yet my moan no tongue can tell. I live and love (what would you more ?) As never lover lived before. I laugh sometimes with little lust, So jest I oft and feel no joy ; Mine eye is builded all on trust, And yet mistrust breeds mine annoy. CASCOIGNE. 267 I live and lack, I lack and have ; I have and miss the thing I crave. These things s-cem strange, yet are they true. Believe me, sweet, my state is such, One pleasure which I would eschew, Both slakes my grief and breeds my grutch \ So doth one pain which I would shun, Renew my joys where grief begun. Then like the lark that passed the night In heavy sleep with cares oppressed, Yet when she spies the pleasant light, She sends sweet notes from out her breast ; So sing I now because I think How joys approach when sorrows shrink. And as fair Philomene again Can watch and sing when other sleep, And taketh pleasure in her pain, To wray the woe that makes her weep ; So sing I now for to bewray The loathsome life I lead alway. The which to thee dear wench I write, That know'st my mirth but not my moan : I pray God grant thee deep delight, To live in joys when I am gone. I cannot live ; it will not be : I die to think to part from thee. PIERS PLOUGHMAN. [From The Steel Glass.] Behold him, priests, and though he stink of sweat, Disdain him not : for shall I tell you what ? Such climb to heaven before the shaven crowns : But how ? forsooth with true humility. Not that they hoard their grain when it is cheap, Nor that they kill the calf to have the milk, 1 grudging. 268 THE ENGLISH POETS. Nor that they set debate between their lords, By earing up the balks that part their bounds : Nor for because they can both crouch and creep (The guileful'st men that ever God yet made) When as they mean most mischief and deceit, Nor that they can cry out on landlords loud, And say they rack their rents an ace too high, When they themselves do sell their landlord's lamb For greater price than ewe was wont be worth. (I see you Piers, my glass was lately scoured.) But for they feed with fruits of their great pains Both king and knight and priests in cloister pent: Therefore I say that sooner some of them Shall scale the walls which lead us up to heaven, Than comfed beast?, whose belly is their God, Although they preach of more perfection. EPILOGUS. Alas, (my lord), my haste was all too hot, I shut my glass before you gazed your fill, And at a glimpse my seely self have spied A stranger troop than any yet were seen : Behold, my lord, what monsters muster here, With angels face, and harmful hellish hearts, With smiling looks and deep deceitful thoughts, With tender skins, and stony cruel minds, With stealing steps, yet forward feet to fraud. Behold, behold, they never stand content. With God, with kind, with any help of Art, But curl their locks with bodkins and with braids. But dye their hair with sundry subtle sleights, But paint and slick till fairest face be foul, But bumbast, bolster, frizzle and perfume : They marr with musk the balm which nature made, And dig for death in delicatest dishes. The younger sort come piping on apace, In whistles made of fine enticing wood, GASC01GNE. 269 Till they have caught the birds for whom they brided, And on their backs they bear both land and fee, Castles and towers, revenues and receipts, Lordships and manors, fines, yea farms and all. What should these be ? (speak you my lovely lord) They be not men : for why they have no beards. They be no boys which wear such sidelong gowns. They be no Gods, for all their gallant gloss. They be no devils (I trow) which seem so saintish. What be they ? women ? masking in men's weeds ? With dutchkin doublets, and with jerkins jagged ? With Spanish spangs and ruffs set out of France, With high copt hats and feathers flaunt a flaunt ? They be so sure even woe to Men in deed. Nay then, my lord, let shut the glass apace, High time it were for my poor Muse to wink, Since all the hands, all paper, pen and ink, Which ever yet this wretched world possest, Cannot describe this sex in colours due. No, No, my lord, we gazed have enough, (And I too much ; God pardon me therefore), Better look off than look an ace too far : And better mum than meddle overmuch, But if my glass do like my lovely lord, We will espy some sunny summers day, To look again and see some seemly sights. Meanwhile my muse right humbly doth beseech, That my good lord accept this vent'rous verse Until my brains may better stuff devise. THOMAS SACKVILLE. [THOMAS SACKVII.LE was bom in 1536 at Buckhurst in Sussex, where his family had been settled since the Conquest. After some time spent at Oxford and Cambridge, he entered parliament (1557-58), and in the begin- ning of Elizabeth's reign he became known as a poetical writer. Between 1557 and 1563 he took part in Tht Tragedy ofGorboduc, and also planned a work called Tht Mirror of Magistrates, a series of poetical examples, show- ing ' with how grievous plagues vices are punished in Great Princes and Magistrates, and how frail and unstable worldly prosperity is found, where fortune seemeth most highly to favour.' He wrote the Induction, a preface, and the Story of Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. But he soon threw himself into the risks of public life. On the whole he was successful. In 1567 he was created Lord Buckhurst. He experienced the fitful temper of the Queen in various public employments. He sat on several of the great state trials of the time those of the Duke of Norfolk, Mary Queen of Scots, the Earl of Essex. In 1599 he was made Lord High Treasurer. James I created him Earl of Dorset in 1604. In 1 608 he died, while sitting at the council table at Whitehall.'] The scanty remains of Sackville's poetry are chiefly interesting because they show a strong sense of the defects of the existing poetical standard, and a craving after something better. They show an effort after a larger and bolder creation of imagery ; as where the poet, copying Dante, imagines himself guided by the Genius of Sorrow through the regions of the great Dead, there to hear from their own mouths the sad vicissitudes of their various stories. There is a greater restraint and severity than had yet been seen in the choice of language and ornament, though stiffness and awkwardness of phrase, and the still imperfect sense of poetical fitness and grace, show that the writer could not yet reach in execution what he aimed at in idea. And there is visible both in the structure of the seven-line stanzas, and in the flow of the verses themselves, a feeling for rhythmic stateliness and majesty corresponding to his solemn theme. In their cadences, as well as in the allegorical figures and pathetic moralising of Sackville's verses, we see a faint anticipation of Spenser, who inscribed one of the prefatory Sonnets of the Faery Queene to one who may have been one of his masters in his art R. W. CHURCH. SACKVILLE. 271 FROM 'THE INDUCTION.' [Sorrow guides the poet to the realms of the dead.] Then looking upward to the heaven's leams, With nighted stars thick powder'd every where, Which erst so glisten'd with the golden streams, That cheerful Phoebus spread from down his sphere, Beholding dark oppressing day so near, The sudden sight reduced to my mind, The sundry changes that in earth we find. That musing on this worldly wealth in thought, Which comes, and goes, more faster than we see The flickering flame that with the fire is wrought, My busy mind presented unto me Such fall of peers as in the realms had be, That oft I wish'd some would their woes descrive, To warn the rest whom fortune left alive. And straight forth stalking with redoubled pace, For that I saw the night draw on so fast, In black all clad, there fell before my face A piteous wight, whom woe had all forewaste : Forth from her eyen the crystal tears out brast : And sighing sore her hands she wrung and fold, Tare all her hair, that ruth was to behold. ****** I stood aghast, beholding all her plight, Tween dread and dolour, so distrain'd in heart, That, while my hairs upstarted with the sight, The tears outstream'd for sorrow of her smart : But, when I saw no end that could apart The deadly dewle which she so sore did make, With doleful voice then thus to her I spake : ****** 'O Sorrow, alas, sith Sorrow is thy name, And that to thee this drear doth well pertain, In vain it were to seek to cease the same : But, as a man himself with sorrow slain, So I, alas, do comfort thee in pain, 273 THE ENGLISH POETS. That here in sorrow art foresunk so deep, That at thy sight I can but sigh and weep.' ****** For forth she paced in her fearful tale : 1 Come, come,' quoth she, ' and see what I shall show, Come, hear the plaining and the bitter bale Of worthy men by Fortune overthrow : Come thou and see them rueing all in row, They were but shades that erst in mind thou roll'd : Come, come with me, thine eyes shall them behold.' ****** Flat down I fell, and with all reverence Adored her, perceiving now that she, A goddess, sent by godly providence, In earthly shape thus show'd herself to me, To wail and rue this world's uncertainty : And, while I honoured thus her godhead's might, With plaining voice these words to me she shright. ' I shall thee guide first to the grisly lake, And thence unto the blissful place of rest, Where thou shalt see, and hear, the plaint they make That whilom here bare swing among the best : This shalt thou see : but great is the unrest That thou must bide, before thou canst attain Unto the dreadful place where these remain.' ****** Thence come we to the horrour and the hell, The large great kingdoms, and the dreadful reign Of Pluto in his throne where he did dwell, The wide waste places, and the hugy plain, The wailings, shrieks, and sundry sorts of pain, The sighs, the sobs, the deep and deadly groan : Earth, air, and all, resounding plaint and moan. Here pul'd the babes, and here the maids unwed With folded hands their sorry chance bewail'd, Here wept the guiltless slain, and lovers dead, That slew themselves when nothing else avail'd : A thousand sorts of sorrows here, that wail'd SACKVILLE. 273 With sighs, and tears, sobs, shrieks, and all yfear, That, oh, alas, it was a hell to hear. Lo here, quoth Sorrow, princes of renown, That whilom sat on top of fortune's wheel, Now laid full low, like wretches whirled down, Ev'n with one frown, that stay'd but with a smile : And now behold the thing that thou, ere while, Saw only in thought : and what thou now shall hear, Recount the same to kesar, king and peer.' COMPLAINT OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. So long as fortune would permit the same, I liv'd in rule and riches with the best : And pass'd my time in honour and in fame, That of mishap no fear was in my breast : But false fortune, when I suspected least, Did turn the wheel, and with a doleful fall Hath me bereft of honour, life, and all Lo, what avails in riches floods that flows? Though she so smil'd, as all the world were his : Even kings and kesars biden fortune's throws, And simple sort must bear it as it is. Take heed by. me that blith'd in baleful bliss: My rule, my riches, royal blood and all, When fortune frown'd, the feller made my fall. For hard mishaps, that happens unto such Whose wretched state erst never felt no change, Agrieve them not in any part so much As their distress, to whom it is so strange That all their lives, nay, passed pleasures range, Their sudden woe, that aye wield wealth at will, Algates their hearts more piercingly must thrill. VOL I. T 274 THE EKGUSH POETS. For of my birth, my blood was of the best, First born an earl, then duke by due descent : To swing the sway in court among the rest, Dame Fortune me her rule most largely lent, And kind with courage so my corpse had blent, That lo, on whom but me did she most smile ? And whom but me, lo, did she most beguile ? Now hast thou heard the whole of my unhap, My chance, my change, the cause of all my care In wealth and woe, how fortune didjne wrap, With world at will, to win me to her snare : Bid kings, bid kesars, bid all states beware, And tell them this from me that tried it true : Who reckless rules, right soon may hap to rue. SLEEP. By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath : Small keep fook he, whom Fortune frowned on, Or whom she lifted up into the throne Of high renown : but as a living death, So, dead alive, of life he drew the breath. The body's rest, the quiet of the heart, The travail's ease, the still night's fear was he, And of our life on earth the better part : Reaver of sight, and yet in whom we see Things oft that tide, and oft that never be: Without respect, esteeming equally King Croesus' pomp, and Irus' poverty. EDMUND SPENSER. [EDMUND SPENSER was born in London about 1552. He was educated at Merchant Taylors' School : his first poetical performances, translations from Petrarch and Du Bellay, published without his name in a miscella- neous collection, belong to the time of his leaving school in 1569. From that year to 1576 he was at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. In 1579 he was in London, acquainted with Philip Sidney, and in Lord Leicester's house- hold. In 1580 was published, but without his name, The Shepheards Calender; and in the autumn of that year he went to Ireland with Lord Grey of Wilton, as his private secretary. The remainder of his life, with the exception of short visits to England, was spent in Ireland, where he held various subordinate offices, and where he settled on a grant of forfeited land at Kilcolman in the county of Cork. In 1589 he accom- panied Sir Walter Ralegh to London, and in 1590 published the first three books of The Faerie Queene. In 1591 he returned to Ireland, and a miscel- laneous collection of compositions of earlier and later dates (Complaint*) was published in London. In June 1594 he married, and the next year, 1595, he again visited London, and in Jan. 1595-6 published the second instalment of The Faerie Queene (iv-vi). With the same date. 1595, were published his Colin Clouts Come Home again, an account of his visit to the Court in 1589-90, and his Amoretei Sonnets, and an Epithalamion, relating to his courtship and marriage. At the end of 1 598 his house was sacked and burnt by the Munster rebels, and he returned in great distress to London. He died at Westminster, Jan. 16, 1598-9, and was buried in the Abbey.] Spenser was the first who in the literature of England since the Reformation made himself a name as a poet which could be compared with that of Chaucer, or of the famous Italians who then stood at the head of poetical composition. National energy had revived under the reign of Elizabeth, and with it had come a burst of poetical enthusiasm. Many persons tried their hand at poetry. Versification became a fashion. It was encouraged in the Court circles. The taste for poetry shows itself in a popular shape in ballads, and among scholars in translation ; and amid a good T 2 276 THE ENGLISH POETS. deal of bad poetry there was some written which was genuine and beautiful, and which has survived to charm us still. The poetical spirit and feeling came out most naturally in short love poems, of which many of great grace and fire are preserved in the collec- tions of the time ; the other form which it took at this time was the expression of the pathetic incidents and conditions of human greatness and fortune. Sir Philip Sidney, one of the most ac- complished and most rising of the young men about the Court, encouraged an interest in poetry in his circle of friends, and some of them, Edward Dyer and Fulke Greville, have, like Sidney himself, left poems of merit But while there was much poetical writing, and not a little poetical power even among men engaged in the business and wars of the time, such as Walter Ralegh, no successful attempt had been made to produce a great poetical work which might challenge comparison with the Canterbury Tales at home, or the Orlando Furioso abroad. Spenser was the first who had the ambition and also the power for such an enterprise. His earliest work, The Shepherds Calendar, a series of what were called pastoral poems, after the fashion of the Italian models and some English imitators, partly original, partly translated or para- phrased, though very immature and very unequal in its composition, was at once felt to be something more considerable as a poetical achievement than anything which the sixteenth century had yet seen in England. The 'new poet' became almost a recognised title for the man who had shown, not merely by a few spirited fugitive stanzas, but in a sustained work, that he could write so sweetly and so well The fame and the associations of The Shepherd's Calendar clung to him even to the end of his career. To the end he had a predilection for its pastoral colouring and scenery ; to the end he liked to give himself the rustic name by which he had represented himself in its dialogues, and called himself Colin Clout. But The Faery Queen was something beyond the expectations raised by The Shepherd's Calendar. In its plan, its invention, and its execution, it took the world of its day by surprise. It opened a new road to English poetry, and new kingdoms to be won by it. The name of Spenser stands in point of time even before that 01 Shakespeare in the roll of modern English poets. A discoverer of something new to be done, he first did what all were trying to do, and broke down the difficulties of a great and magnificent art. But the first are not always the greatest in poetry, any more than. SPENSER. 277 in painting, in music, in science, in geographical discovery : they lead the way and make it possible to greater men and greater things. Spenser delighted Shakespeare : he was the poetical master of Cowley and then of Milton, and, in a sense, of Dryden and even Pope. None but a man of strength, of originality, of rare sense of beauty and power of imagination and music, could have been this. But he was the great predecessor of yet greater successors. The Faery Queen is a noble and splendid work. When we think that it was the first of its kind, and that Spenser had no master of English, except in antiquity, to show him how to write, it is an astonishing one. But it has the imperfections and shortcomings of most original attempts to do what is new and hard, and what none have yet succeeded in ; and it has the im- perfections which actually belonged to the genius, the mind and character of the writer. The Faery Queen is, as every one knows, an allegorical poem ; and in this it differs from the Italian models then talked of and famous, from the works of Ariosto and Tasso, as well as from Chaucer. The idea and framework was taken from them ; the machinery, like theirs, was borrowed from the days, or rather the literature, of chivalry ; and like theirs, the story rolled on in stanzas, and Spenser invented for his purpose a new form of stanza, one of nine lines, instead of the eight-line one of the Italians. But, unlike them, Spenser avowedly designed to him- self a moral purpose and meaning in his poem. It was not merely a brilliant and entertaining series of adventures, like the Orlando. It was not merely a poetical celebration of a great historical legend, a religious epic, like the Gerusalemme. It professed to be a veiled exposition of moral philosophy. It was planned, and all its imaginative wealth unfolded, in order to pourtray and recommend the virtues, and to exhibit philosophical speculations. It was intended to be a book, not for delight merely, but for instruction. Such a view of poetry was characteristically in har- mony with the serious spirit of the time in England, which welcomed heartily all intellectual efforts, but which expected in them a purpose to do more than amuse, and had fashion on its side in putting the note of frivolity on what did not bear this purpose distinctly in view. Spenser thought it right to declare to his friends, and to set down in writing, the aim and intention of his poem. He described it as a work which ' is in heroical verse under the title of a Faery Queen to represent all the moral 278 THE ENGLISH FOETUS. virtues, assigning to every virtue a knight as the patron and de- fender of the same, in whose actions and feats of arms and chivalry the operations of that virtue, whereof he is the protector, are to be expressed, and the vices and unruly appetites that oppose themselves against the same, to be beaten down or over- come.' And in a letter to Sir Walter Ralegh, written to give the key to the poem, he says that the general end of his ' Allegory or dark conceit,' and of all his book, is ' to fashion a gentleman or noble person in virtuous and gentle discipline.' He indeed sees this purpose and intention in the 'antique poets historical.' Homer meant to represent ' a good governor and virtuous man ' in Agamemnon and Ulysses, Virgil meant the same in Aeneas, Ariosto in Orlando. Tasso dissevered them, representing "the Ethical part of Moral Philosophy, or the virtues of a private man, in Rinaldo ; the other, ' named Politic^ the public virtues of a governor in Goffredo. In King Arthur, Spenser meant once more to join both. ' By example of which excellent poets,' he says, 1 1 labour to pourtray in Arthur, before he was king, the image of a brave knight, perfected in the XII private moral virtues, as Aristotle hath devised ; the which is the purpose of these first twelve books ; which if I find to be well accepted, I may be per- haps encouraged to frame the other part of politick virtues in his person, after that he came to be king.' Of this large design of twenty-four books, each of twelve cantos, little more than a fourth part was accomplished, or at any rate has survived. The first three books were published in 1 590 ; three more, books iv, v, vi, were added to them in a second edition in 1596. Two cantos, with a couple of stray stanzas, were published after his death. The political part of the design does not seem to have even come into sight of the poet. The poem was designed in England, but it was mostly written in Ireland, amid scenes of disorder and wretchedness, which sorely tested not only the courage, but the justice, the wisdom, and the humanity of the Englishmen who had any share in the govern- ment of the most unfortunate of the Queen's dominions. It needed indeed to be a knight as perfect in strength and goodness as the ideal Arthur, to deal with the evils of Ireland. Spenser, as men do in trying times, thought he saw the virtues partially realised in the friends engaged in the difficult tasks round him : we, at our point of view, are obliged to see how far the best and noblest of them was from t'.ie poet's ideal. But the piesence and actual SPENSER. 279 sight of all this energy, struggle, danger, courage, doubtless gave life to Spenser's conception of the life of warfare which he pro- posed to pourtray. It was before him on the spot ; and The Faery Queen is the reflection of it, tempered and sobered by the poet's purpose, to make it represent his conception of all that makes a man great and true in his resistance to the vices and evils of the world. The Faery Queen purports to be a story, and the outline of the story, which was to bind it together, is given in the poet's ex- planatory letter to Sir Walter Ralegh, now prefixed to the poem. He imagines the Faery Queen, by whom he shadows forth Eliza- beth, holding a great festival, on occasion of which twelve of her knights, each the example and champion of some particular virtue, undertake separate enterprises at her appointment and in her honour ; while Prince Arthur, in whom is represented the com- prehensive Aristotelic virtue of magnificence, or greatness of soul, is to fall in with them one by one in his quest of his fated bride the Faery Queen, helping and saving them by the superior power of his virtue and his knightly skill. The adventures of the twelve knights were to furnish the ' Legends ' of the twelve books of the first portion of his design, the * ethical ' portion. He thought it inartificial for a poet to begin from the occasion and starting-point of these various adventures: 'A Poet,' he said, 'thrusteth him- self into the middest, even when it most concerneth him, and there recoursing to the things forepast, and divining of things to come, maketh a pleasant analysis of all.' So he starts in the middle of one of the adventures, reserving his poetical account of the origin of them all, till he should have brought all his Knights back again to the Faery Queen's Court in the last book. The arrangement was an awkward one, and the Twelfth Book was never reached. Though we know the- framework of the story, we do not know it from the poem itself. And as he went on with his work, the main story is soon lost in the separate ones, and the poem becomes a succession of adventures, stories, pictures, and allegories, with little attempt to keep them together. In the First Book, the story and the allegory, the dangers, the combats, the defeats, the final victory of the Red Cross Knight of Holiness, the champion of the Virgin Una with her milk-white lamb, and that which ail this shadowed, the struggle of true religion and godliness with its foes, its vicissitudes, and its triumph, both in the visible scene of the world's history, and in 280 THE ENGLISH POETS. the heart of man, are both carried on clearly and consecutively. The Second Book, which takes the Knight of Temperance through his contest with violence, with the falsehood of extremes, with the madness of uncontrolled temper, with the temptations of Mammon, of riches and ambition, to the closing achievement, the conquest over all that Pleasure could present to allure and fascinate him, is straightforward and distinct in its construction. But after this the poet's hold over his story relaxes. The legend of Chastity in the next book presents the same idea as that of the second, but exhibited in the persons of the lady knight Britomart, and the virgin huntress Belphcebe, both of them in various aspects imaging the ' sacred saint ' of the poet's worship. In the three later books, the legend of Justice is marked by its strong and definite representations of some great historical events of Spenser's age, the administration of Lord Grey of Wilton in Ireland, the blows dealt at the Spanish power in the Channel and in the Netherlands, the fate of Mary Queen of Scots. The legends of ' Friendship ' and ' Courtesy ' certainly exhibit examples of friend- ship and courtesy. But when we think of what friendship is, we wonder that Spenser has so little to say about it, and that his imagination found nothing more to work upon than the com- panionship in love or war, sometimes loyal, sometimes false, of men-at-arms : and so many other interests and incidents come in besides, that it seems rather arbitrary to assign the legends specially to these virtues. And then, with the exception of the fragment on ' Mutability,' which is part of a projected legend of ' Constancy,' the poem stops, and with it all our knowledge of the way in which it was to be carried forward. The interest in The Faery Queen is twofold. There is the in- terest of the moral picture which it presents, and there is the interest of it as a work of poetical art. The moral picture is of the ideal of noble manliness in Eliza- beth's time. Besides the writers and the thinkers, the statesmen and the plotters, the traders and the commons, of that fruitful and vigorous age, there were the men of action : the men who fought in France and the Netherlands and Ireland, the men who created the English navy, and showed how it could be used : the men who tried for the north-west passage with Sir Humphrey Gilbert, and sailed round the world with Sir Francis Drake, and planted colonies in America with Sir Walter Ralegh : the men who chased the Armada to destruction, and dealt the return buffet to Spanish pride SPENSER. 281 in the harbour of Cadiz ; men who treated the sea as the rightful dominion of their mistress, and seeking adventures on it far and near, with or without her leave, reaped its rich harvests of plunder, from Spanish treasure ships and West Indian islands, or from the exposed towns and churches of the Spanish coast. They were at once men of daring enterprise and sometimes very rough execu- tion ; and yet men with all the cultivation and refinement of the time, courtiers, scholars, penmen, poets. These are the men whom Spenser had before his eyes in drawing his knights their ideas of loyalty, of gallantry, of the worth and use of life, their aims, their enthusiasm, their temptations, their foes, their defeats, their triumphs. In his tales of perpetual warfare, of perpetual resistance to evil, of the snares and desperate dangers through which they have to fight their way, there is a picture of the conditions which affect the whole life of man. The allegory may be applied, and was intended to be applied generally, to the difficulties which beset his course and the qualities necessary to overcome them. But it specially exhibits the ideals and standards and aspirations the characteristic virtues and the characteristic imperfections, the simple loyalty and the frank selfishness, of the brilliant and high-tempered generation, who are represented by men like Philip Sidney and Walter Ralegh, and Howard of Effingham and Richard Grenville, or by families like those of Vere and Norreys and Carew. As a work of art The Faery Queen at once astonishes us by the wonderful fertility and richness of the writer's invention and imagin- ation, by the facility with which he finds or makes language for his needs, and above all, by the singular music and sweetness of his verse. The main theme seldom varies : it is a noble knight, fighting, overcoming, tempted, delivered ; or a beautiful lady, plotted against, distressed, in danger, rescued. The poet's affluence of fancy and speech gives a new turn and colour to each adventure. But besides that under these conditions there must be monotony, the poet's art, admirable as it is, gives room for objections. Spenser's style is an imitation of the antique ; and an imitation, however good, must want the master charm of naturalness, reality, simple truth. And in his system of work, with his brightness and quickness and fluency, he wanted self-restraint the power of holding himself in, and of judg- ing soundly of fitness and proportion. There was a looseness and carelessness, partly belonging to his age, partly his own. In the use of materials, nothing comes amiss to him. He had no scruples 232 THE ENGLISH POETS. as a copyist. He took without ceremony any piece of old metal, word, or story, or image which came to his hand, and threw it into the melting-pot of his imagination, to come out fused with his own materials, often transformed, but often unchanged. The effect was sometimes happy, but not always so. With respect to his diction, it must ever be remembered that the language was still in such an uncertain and unfixed state as naturally to invite attempts to extend its powers, and to enrich, supple, and colour it. Spenser avowedly set himself to do this. The editor of his first work, The Shepherds Calendar, takes credit on his behalf for attempting 'to restore, as to their rightful heritage, such good and natural English words, as have been long time out of use, and almost clean disherited.' Spenser draws largely on Chaucer, both for his vocabulary and his grammar: and his autho- rity and popularity have probably saved us a good many words which we could ill afford to lose. And some of his words we certainly have forgotten to our loss such words as 'ingate' (like ' insight,') ' glooming,' ' fool-happy,' ' overgone,' and his many com- binations with en 'empeopled,' 'engrieved,' 'enrace.' But it is not to enrich a language but to confuse and spoil it, when a writer forces on it words which are not in keeping with its existing usages and spirit, and much more when he arbitrarily deals with words to make them suit the necessities of metre and rime : and there is much of this in Spenser. He overdoes, especially in his earlier books, the old English expedient of alliteration, or 'hunting the letter,' as it was called, which properly belongs to a much earlier method of versification, and which the ear of his own generation had already learned to shrink from in excess. He not only re- vives old words, but he is licentious as far as we are able to trace the usages of the time in inventing new ones. He is unscrupulous in using inferior forms for better and more natural ones, not for the sake of the word, but for the convenience of the verse. The transfer of words adjectives and verbs from their strict use to a looser one, the passage from an active to a neuter sense, the investing a word with new associations, the interchange of attributes between two objects, with the feelings or phrase which really belong to one reflected back upon the other are, within limits, part of the recognised means by which language, and especially poetical language, extends its range. But Spenser was inclined to make all limits give way to his convenience, and the rapidity of his work. It is not only to us that his language is SPENSER. 2$ 3 both strange and affectedly antique ; it looked the same to the men of his own time. It is a drawback to the value of Spenser as a monument of the English of his day, that it is often uncertain whether a form or a meaning of word may not be due simply to his own wayward and arbitrary use of it. The Faery Queen has eclipsed all Spenser's other writings : but his other writings alone would be enough to place him, as his con- temporaries placed him, at the head of all who had yet attempted English poetry. The Shepherd's Calendar, as has been said, with all its defects and affectations, showed force, skill, command of lan- guage and music as yet unknown. In it were shown the beginnings of two powers characteristic of Spenser : the power of telling a story, as in the fables of The Oak and Briar, and The Fox and Kid ; and the power of satire, a power which he used both there and afterwards in Mother Hitbberd's Tale, to lash the Church abuses of the time and the manners of the Court, and in using which he is in strong contrast, in his sobriety and self-restraint, to the coarse extravagance of such writing in his time. The Fox and Ape of Mother Hubberd's Tale is much nearer to the satire of Dryden and Pope, than it is to such writers as Donne and Hall. He did his necessary share of work in writing poems of salutation or congratulation for the great, or of lamentation for their mis- fortunes and sorrows. The Prothalamion celebrates the marriage of two ladies of the Worcester family ; and he bewailed the death of Sir Philip Sidney and the Earl of Leicester. Much of this poetry was conventional. But in it appear fine and beautiful passages. The Prothalamion has great sweetness and grace. The Dirges never fail to show his deep and characteristic feeling for the vicissitudes of our human state. Finally, his own love and courtship inspired a series of Sonnets, and a Wedding Hymn. The Sonnets on the whole are disappointing. There is warmth and sincerity in them ; but they want the individual stamp which makes such things precious. On the other hand, the Wedding Hymn,_the. Epithalamion^ is onejaf the richest and most tp_ a ff"iifirfi ni ' **"*" p"g- tions of the kind in any language. R. W. CHURCH. 284 THE ENGLISH POETS. FABLE OF THE OAK AND THE BRIAR. [From Tki Shephtardt Calender, 1579-80. February.] There grewe an aged Tree on the greene, A goodly Oake sometime had it bene, With armes full strong and largely displayd, But of their leaves they were disarayde : The bodie bigge, and mightely pight, Throughly rooted, and of wonderous hight ; Whilome had bene the King of the field, And mochell mast to the husband did yielde, And with his nuts larded many swine : But now the gray mosse marred his rine ; His bared boughes were beaten with stormes, His toppe was bald, and wasted with wormes, His honor decayed, his braunches sere. Hard by his side grewe a bragging Brere, Which proudly thrust into Thelement, And seemed to threat the Firmament : It was embellisht with blossomes fayre, And thereto aye wonned to repayre The shepheards daughters to gather flowres, To peinct their girlonds with his colowres ; And in his small bushes used to shrowde The sweete Nightingale singing so lowde ; Which made this foolish Brere wexe so bold, That on a time he cast him to scold And snebbe the good Oake, for he was old. 'Why standst there (quoth he) thou brutish blocke? Nor for fruict nor for shadowe serves thy stocke ; Seest how fresh my flowefs bene spredde, Dyed in Lilly white and Cremsin redde, With Leaves engrained in lusty greene ; Colours meete to clothe a mayden Queene ? Thy wast bignes but combers the grownd, And dirks the beauty of my blossomes rownd : The mouldie mosse, which thee accloieth, SPENSER. 285 My Sinamon smell too much annoieth : Wherefore soone I rede thee hence remove, Least thou the price of my displeasure prove.' So spake this bold brere with great disdaine : Little him aunswered the Oake againe, But yeelded, with shame and greefe adawed, That of a weede he was overcrawed. Yt chaunced after upon a day, The Hus-bandman selfe to come that way, Of custome for to survewe his grownd, And his trees of state in compasse rownd : Him when the spitefull brere had espyed, Causelesse complained, and lowdly cryed Unto his lord, stirring up sterne strife. ' O, my liege Lord ! the God of my life ! Pleaseth you ponder your Suppliants plaint, Caused of wrong and cruell constraint, Which I your poore Vassall dayly endure ; And, but your goodnes the same recure, Am like for desperate doole to dye, Through felonous force of mine enemie.' Greatly aghast with this piteous plea, Him rested the goodman on the lea, And badde the Brere in his plaint proceede. With painted words tho gan this proude weede (As most usen Ambitious folke :) His colowred crime with craft to cloke. ' Ah, my soveraigne ! Lord of creatures all, Thou placer of plants both humble and tall, Was not I planted of thine owne hand, To be the primrose of all thy land ; With flowring blossomes to furnish the prime, And scarlot berries in Sommer time? How falls it then that this faded Oake, Whose bodie is sere, whose braunches broke, Whose naked Armes stretch unto the fyre, Unto such tyrannie doth aspire ; Hindering with his shade my lovely light, And robbing me of the swete sonnes sight ? 286 THE ENGLISH POETS. So beate his old boughes my tender side, That oft the bloud springeth from woundes wyde ; Untimely my flowres forced to fall, That bene the honor of your Coronall : And oft he lets his canckcr-wormes light Upon my braunches, to worke me more spight ; And oft his hoarie locks downe doth cast, Where-with my fresh flowretts bene defast : For this, and many more such outrage, Craving your goodlihead to aswage The ranckorous rigour of his might, Nought aske I, but onely to hold my right ; Submitting me to your good sufferance, And praying to be garded from greevance.' To this the Oake cast him to replie Well as he couth ; but his enemie Had kindled such coles of displeasure, That the good man noulde stay his leasure, But home him hasted with furious heate, Encreasing his wrath with many a threate ; His harmefull Hatchet he hent in hand, (Alas ! that it so ready should stand !) And to the field alone he speedeth, (Ay little helpe to harme there needeth !) Anger nould let him speake to the tree, Enaunter l his rage mought cooled bee ; But to the roote bent his sturdy stroake, And made many wounds in the wast Oake. The Axes edge did oft turne againe, As halfe unwilling to cutte the graine ; Semed, the sencelesse yron dyd feare, Or to wrong holy eld did forbeare ; For it had bene an auncient tree, Sacred with many a mysteree, And often crost with the priestes crewe', And often halowed with holy-water dewe : But sike fancies weren foolerie, And broughten this Oake to this miserye ; 1 lest * holy vessel, cruise. SPENSER. For nought mought they quitten him from decay, For fiercely the good man at him did laye. The blocke oft groned under the blow, And sighed to see his neare overthrow. In fine, the steele had pierced his pitth, Tho downe to the earth he fell forthwith. His wonderous weight made the ground to quake, Thearth shronke under him, and seemed to shake : There lyeth the Oake, pitied of none ! Now stands the Brere like a lord alone, Puffed up with pryde and vaine pleasaunce ; But all this glee had no continuaunce : For eftsones Winter gan to approche ; The blustering Boreas did encroche, And beate upon the solitarie Brere ; For nowe no succoure was scene him nere. Now gan he repent his pryde to late ; For, naked left and disconsolate, The byting frost nipt his stalke dead, The watrie wette weighed downe his head, And heaped snowe burdned him so sore, That nowe upright he can stand no more ; And, being downe, is trodde in the durt, Of cattell, and brouzed, and sorely hurt. Such was thend of this Ambitious brere, For scorning Eld CHASE AFTER LOVE. ^ [March.] Tho. It was upon a holiday, When shepheardes groomes han leave to playe, I cast to goe a shooting. Long wandring up and downe the land, With bowe and bolts in either hand, For birds in bushes tooting 1 , At length within an Yvie todde 2 , (There shrouded was the little God) I heard a busie bustling. 1 looking about. * a thick bush. 283 THE ENGLISH POETS. I bent my bolt against the bush, Listening if any thing did rushe, But then heard no more rustling: Tho, peeping close into the thicke, Might see the moving of some quicke, Whose shape appeared not ; But were it faerie, feend, or snake, My courage earnd 1 it to awake, And manfully thereat shotte. With that sprong forth a naked swayne With spotted winges, like Peacocks trayne, And laughing lope to a tree ; His gylden quiver at his backe, And silver bowe, which was but slacke, Which lightly he bent at me : That seeing, I levelde againe And shott at him with might and inaine, As thicke as it had hayled. So long I shott, that al was spent ; Tho pumie stones I hastly hent And threwe ; but nought availed : He was so wimble and so wight, From bough to bough he lepped light, And oft the pumies latched 2 . Therewith affrayd, I ranne away : But he, that earst seemd but to playe, A shaft in earnest snatched, And hit me running in the heele : For then I little smart did feele, But soone it sore encreased ; And now it ranckleth more and more, And inwardly it festreth sore, Ne wote I how to cease it. Wil. Thomalin, I pittie thy plight, Perdie with Love thou diddest fight : I know him by a token ; For once I heard my father say, How he him caught upon a day, (Whereof he will be wroken) 1 yearned. * caught. SPENSER. 289 Entangled in a fowling net, Which he for carrion Crowes had set That in our Peere-tree haunted : Tho sayd, he was a winged lad, But bowe and shafts as then none had, Els had he sore be daunted. But see, the Welkin thicks apace, And stouping Phebus steepes his face : Yts time to hast us homeward. DESCRIPTION OF MAYING. [May.] Palinode. Is not thilke the mery moneth of May, When love-lads masken in fresh aray? How falles it, then, we no merrier bene, Ylike as others, girt in gawdy greene ? Our bloncket liveryes 1 bene all to sadde For thilke same season, when all is ycladd With pleasaunce : the grownd with grasse, the Woods With greene leaves, the bushes with bloosming buds. Yougthes folke now flocken in every where, To gather May bus-kets 2 and smelling brere : And home they hasten the postes to dight, And all the Kirke pillours eare day light, With Hawthorne buds, and swete Eglantine, And girlonds of roses, and Sopps in wine. Such merimake holy Saints doth queme 3 , But we here sitten as drownd in a dreme. Piers. For Younkers, Palinode, such follies fitte, But we tway bene men of elder witt. Pal. Sicker this morrowe, no lenger agoe, I sawe a shole of shepeheardes outgoe With singing, and shouting, and jolly chere : Before them yode * a lusty Tabrere, That to the many a Horne-pype playd, Whereto they dauncen, eche one with his mayd. 1 gray coats. * bushes. 3 please. 4 went. VOL. I. U 290 THE ENGLISH POETS. To see those folkes make such jovysaunce, Made my heart after the pype to daunce : Tho to the greene Wood they speeden hem all, To fetchen home May with their musical! : And home they bringen in a royall throne, Crowned as king : and his Queene attone Was Lady Flora, on whom did attend A fayre flocke of Faeries, and a fresh bend Of lovely Nymphs. (O that I were there, To helpen the Ladyes their Maybush beare !) Ah ! Piers, bene not thy teeth on edge, to thinke How great sport they gaynen with little swinck ? THE COMPLAINT OF AGE. [December.] Whilome in youth, when flowrd my joyfull spring, Like Swallow swift I wandred here and there ; For heate of heedlesse lust me so did sting, That I of doubted daunger had no feare : I went the wastefull woodes and forest wide, Withouten dreade of Wolves to bene espyed. ***** How often have I scaled the craggie Oke, All to dislodge the Raven of her nest ? How have I wearied with many a stroke The stately Walnut-tree, the while the rest Under the tree fell all for nuts at strife? For ylike to me was libertee and lyfe. ***** Tho gan my lovely Spring bid me farewel, And Sommer season sped him to display (For love then in the Lyons house did dwell) The raging fyre that kindled at his ray. A comett stird up that unkindly heate, That reigned (as men say-i) in Venus seate. SPENSRR. 291 Forth was I ledde, not as I wont afore, When choise I had to choose my wandring wayej But whether luck and loves 'unbridled lore Woulde leade me forth on Fancies bitte to playe : The bush my bedde, the bramble was my bowre, The Woodes can witnesse -many a wofull stowre ] Where I was wont >to seeke the honey Bee, Working her formall rowmes in wexen frame, The grieslie Tode-stoole growne there mought I se, And loathed Paddocks 2 lording on 'the same : And where the chaunting birds luld me asleepe, The ghastlie Owle her grievous ynne doth keepe. Then as the springe gives place to elder time, And bringeth forth the fruite of sommers pryde ; Also my age, now passed youngthly pryme, To thinges of ryper season selfe applyed, And learnd of lighter timber cotes to frame, Such as might save my sheepe and me fro shame. To make fine cages for the Nightingale, And Baskets of bulrushes, was my wont : Who to entrappe the fish in winding sale 3 Was better scene, or hurtful beastes to hont ? I learned als the signes of heaven to ken, How Phcebe fayles, where Venus sittes, and when. And tryed time yet taught me greater thinges ; The sodain rysing of the raging seas, The soothe of byrdes by beating of their winges, The power of herbs, both which can hurt and ease, And which be wont t' enrage the restlesse sheepe, And which be wont to worke eternall sleepe. But, ah ! unwise and witlesse Colin Cloute, That kydst * the hidden kinds of many a wede, Yet kydst not ene to cure thy sore hart-roote, Whose ranckling wound as yet does rifelye bleede. Why livest thou stil, and yet hast thy deathes wound ? Why dyest thou stil, and yet alive art founde ? 1 tumult. 2 toads. 3 \vicker net. * knewest. U 2 292 THE ENGLISH POE TS. Thus is my soramer worne away and wasted, Thus is my harvest hastened all to rathe ' ; The eare that budded faire is burnt and blasted, And all my hoped gaine is turnd to scathe : Of all the seede that in my youthe was sowne Was nought but brakes and brambles to be mowne. My boughes with bloosmes that crowned were at firste, And promised of timely fruite such store, Are left both bare and barrein now at erst ; The flattring fruite is fallen to grownd before. And rotted ere they were halfe mellow ripe ; My harvest, wast, my hope away dyd wipe. The fragrant flowres, that in my garden grewe, Bene withered, as they had bene gathered long; Theyr rootes bene dryed up for lacke of dewe, Yet dewed with teares they han be ever among. Ah ! who has wrought my Rosalind this spight, To spil the flowres that should her girlond dight ? And I, that whilome wont to frame my pype Unto the shifting of the shepheards foote, Sike follies nowe have gathered as too ripe, And cast hem out as rotten and unsoote. The loser Lasse I cast to please no more ; One if I please, enough is me therefore. And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care ; Which, when I thought have thresht in swelling sheave, Cockel for corne, and chaflfe for barley, bare : Soone as the chaffe should in the fan be fynd, All was blowne away of the wavering wynd. So now my yeare drawes to his latter terme, My spring is spent, my sommer burnt up quite ; My harveste hasts to stirre up Winter sterne, And bids him clayme with rigorous rage hys right : So nowe he stormes with many a sturdy stoure ; So now his blustring blast eche coste dooth secure. 1 too early. 293 The carefull cold hath nypt my rugged rynde, And in my face deepe furrowes eld hath pight : My head besprent with hoary frost I fynd, And by myne eie the Crow his clawe dooth wright : Delight is layd abedde ; and pleasure past ; No sonne now shines ; cloudes han all overcast. Now leave, ye shepheards boyes, your merry glee ; My Muse is hoarse and wearie of thys stounde J : Here will I hang my pype upon this tree : Was never pype of reede did better sounde. Winter is come that blowes the bitter blaste, And after Winter dreerie death does hast. Gather together ye my little flocke, My little flock, that was to me so liefe ; Let me, ah ! lette me in your foldes ye lock, Ere the breme 2 Winter breede you greater griefe. Winter is come, that blowes the balefull breath, And after Winter commeth timely death. Adieu, delightes, that lulled me asleepe ; Adieu, my deare, whose love I bought so deare ; Adieu, my little Lambes and loved sheepe ; Adieu, ye Woodes, that oft my witnesse were : Adieu, good Hobbinoll, that was so true, Tell Rosalind, her Colin bids her adieu. [From The Faerie Queene, Bk. i. 1589-90.] THE RED CROSS KNIGHT AND UNA. A gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine, Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde, Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine, The cruell markes of many a bloody fielde ; Yet armes till that time did he never wield. His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, As much disdayning to the curbe to yield : Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt. 1 effort. 2 sharp. 2QA THE ENGLISH POETS. And on his brest a bloodie Crosse he bore, The deare remembrance of his dying" Lord, For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead, as living, ever him ador'd : Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, For soveraine hope which in his helpe he had. Right faithfull true he was in deede and word, But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad ; Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. Upon a great adventure he was bond, That greatest Gloriana to him gave, (That greatest Glorious Queene of Faery lond) To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have, Which of all earthly thinges he most did crave : And ever as he rode his hart did earne To prove his puissance in battell brave Upon his foe, and his new force to learne, Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne. A lovely Ladie rode him faire beside, Upon a lowly Asse more white then snow, Yet she much whiter ; but the same did hide Under a vele, that wimpled was full low ; And over all a blacke stole shee did throw : As one that inly mournd, so was she sad, And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow ; Seemed in heart some hidden care she had, And by her, in a line, a milkewhite lambe she lad. So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, She was in life and every vertuous lore ; And by descent from Royall lynage came Of ancient Kinges and Queenes, that had of yore Their scepters stretcht from East to Westerne shore, And all the world in their subjection held ; Till that infernall feend with foule uprore Forwasted all their land, and them expeld ; Whom to avenge she had this Knight from far compeld. SPENSER. 295 Behind her farre away a Dwarfe did lag, That lasie seemd, in being ever last, Or wearied with bearing of her bag Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast, And angry Jove an hideous storme of raine Did poure into his Lemans lap so fast, That everie wight to shrowd it did constrain ; And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain. Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, A shadie grove not farr away they spide, That promist ayde the tempest to withstand ; Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride, Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide, Not perceable with power of any starr : And all within were pathes and alleies wide, With footing worne, and leading inward farr. Faire harbour that them seems, so in they entred ar. And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led, Joying to heare the birdes sweete harmony, Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred, Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. Much can they praise the trees so straight and hy, The sayling Pine ; the Cedar proud and tall ; The vine-propp Elme ; the Poplar never dry ; The builder Oake, sole king of forests all ; The Aspine good for staves ; the Cypresse funerall ; The Laurell, meed of mightie Conquerours And Poets sage ; the Firre that weepeth still : The Willow, worne of forlorne Paramours ; The Eugh, obedient to the benders will ; The Birch for shaftes ; the Sallow for the mill ; The Mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound ; The warlike Beech ; the Ash for nothing ill ; The fruitful! Olive ; and the Platane round ; The carver Holme ; the Maple seeldom inward sound. 296 THE ENGLISH POETS. Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, Untill the blustring storme is overblowne ; When, weening to returne whence they did stray, They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, But wander too and fro in waies unknowne, Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene, That makes them doubt their wits be not their owne : So many pathes, so many turnings scene, That which of them to take in diverse doubt they been. THE HOUSE OF PRIDE. High above all a cloth of State was spred, And a rich throne, as bright as sunny day ; On which there sate, most brave embellished With royall robes and gorgeous array, A mayden Queene that shone as Titans ray, In glistring gold and perelesse pretious stone ; Yet her bright blazing beautie did assay To dim the brightnesse of her glorious throne, As envying her selfe, that too exceeding shone : Exceeding shone, like Phoebus fayrest childe, That did presume his fathers fyrie wayne, And flaming mouthes of steedes, unwonted wilde, Through highest heaven with weaker hand to rayne : Proud of such glory and advancement vayne, While flashing beames do daze his feeble eyen, He leaves the welkin way most beaten playne, And, rapt with whirling wheeles, inflames the skyen With fire not made to burne, but fayrely for to shyne. So proud she shyned in her princely state, Looking to heaven, for earth she did disdayne, And sitting high, for lowly she did hate : Lo ! underneath her scornefull feete was layne A dreadfull Dragon with an hideous trayne ; And in her hand she held a mirrhour bright, Wherein her face she often vewed fayne, And in her selfe-lov'd semblance took delight ; For she was wondrous faire, as any living wighL SPENSER. 297 Of griesly Pluto she the daughter was, And sad Proserpina, the Queene of hell ; Yet did she thinke her pearelesse worth to pas That parentage, with pride so did she swell ; And thundring Jove, that high in heaven doth dwell And wield the world, she claymed for her syre, Or if that any else did Jove excell ; For to the highest she did still aspyre, Or, if ought higher were than that, did it desyre. And proud Lucifera men did her call, That made her selfe a Queene, and crownd to be ; Yet rightfull kingdome she had none at all, Ne heritage of native soveraintie ; But did usurpe with wrong and tyrannic Upon the scepter which she now did hold : Ne ruld her Realme with lawes, but pollicie, And strong advizement of six wisards old, That, with their counsels bad, her kingdome did uphold. Soone as the Elfin knight in presence came, And false Duessa, seeming Lady fayre, A gentle H usher, Vanitie by name, Made rowme, and passage for them did prepaire : So goodly brought them to the lowest stayre Of her high throne ; where they, on humble knee Making obeysaunce, did the cause declare, Why they were come her roiall state to see, To prove the wide report of her great Majestee. With loftie eyes, halfe loth to looke so lowe, She thancked them in her disdainefull wise ; Ne other grace vouchsafed them to showe Of Princesse worthy ; scarse them bad arise. Her Lordes and Ladies all this while devise Themselves to setten forth to straungers sight : Some frounce their curled heare in courtly guise ; Some prancke their ruffes ; and others trimly dight Their gay attyre ; each others greater pride does spight. ****** 298 THE ENGLISH POETS. Suddein upriseth from her ttately place The roiall Dame, and for her coche doth call : AH hurtlen forth ; and she, with princely pace, As faire Aurora in her purple pall "4 Out of the East the dawning day doth call. So forth she comes ; her brightnes brode doth blaze. The heapes of people, thronging in the hall, Doe ride each other upon her to gaze : Her glorious glitterand light doth all mens eies amaze. So forth she comes, and to her coche does clyme, Adorned all with gold and girlonds gay, That seemd as fresh as Flora in her prime ; And strove to match, in roiall rich array, Great Junoes golden chayre ; the which, they say, The gods stand gazing on, when she does ride To Joves high hous through heavens bras-paved way, Drawne of fayre Pecocks, that excell in pride, And full of Argus eyes their tayles dispredden wide. UNA'S MARRIAGE. Then forth he called that his daughter fayre, The fairest Un', his onely daughter deare, His onely daughter and his only hayre ; Who forth proceeding with sad sober cheare, As bright as doth the morning starre appeare Out of the East, with flaming lockes bedight, To tell that dawning day is drawing neare, And to the world does bring long-wished light : So faire and fresh that Lady shewd herselfe in sight So faire and fresh, as freshest flowre in May ; For she had layd her mournefull stole aside, And widow-like sad wimple throwne away, Wherewith her heavenly beautie she did hide, Whiles on her wearie journey she did ride ; And on her now a garment she did weare All lilly white, withoutten spot or pride, That seemd like silke and silver woven neare ; But neither silke nor silver therein did appeare. SPENSER. 299 The blazing brightnesse of her beauties beame, And glorious light of her sunshyny face, To tell were as to strive against the streame : My ragged rimes are all too rude and bace Her heavenly lineaments for to enchace. Ne wonder ; for her own deare loved knight, All were she daily with himselfe in place, Did wonder much at her celestial sight : Oft had he scene her faire, but never so faire dight. #**#** His owne two hands the holy knotts did knitt, That none but death for ever can divide ; His owne two hands, for such a turne most fitt, The housling 1 fire did kindle and provide, And holy water thereon sprinckled wide ; At which the bushy Teade 2 a groome did light, And sacred lamp in secret chamber hide, Where it should not be quenched day nor night, For feare of evil fates, but burnen ever bright. Then gan they sprlnckle all the posts with wine, And made great feast to solemnize that day : They all perfumde with frankincense divine, And precious odours fetcht from far away, That all the house did sweat with great aray: And all the while sweete Musicke did apply Her curious skill the warbling notes to play, To drive away the dull Melancholy ; The whiles one sung a song of love and jollity. During the which there was an heavenly noise Heard sownd through all the Pallace pleasantly, Like as it had bene many an Angels voice Singing before th' eternall majesty, In their trinall triplicities on hye: Yett wist no creature whence that hevenly sweet Proceeded, yet each one felt secretly Himselfe thereby refte of his sences meet, And ravished with rare impression in his sprite. 1 sacramental. a torch. 300 THE ENGLISH POETS. Great joy was made that day of young and old, And solemne feast proclaymd throughout the land, That their exceeding merth may not be told : Suffice it heare by signes to understand The usuall joyes at knitting of loves band. Thrise happy man the knight himselfe did hold, Possessed of his Ladies hart and hand ; And ever, when his eie did her behold, His heart did seeme to melt in pleasures manifold. Her joyous presence, and sweet company, In full content he there did long enjoy ; Ne wicked envy, ne vile gealosy, His deare delights were hable to annoy; Yet, swimming in that sea of blisfull joy, He nought forgott how he whilome had sworne, In case he could that monstrous beast destroy, Unto his Faery Queene backe to retourne ; The which he shortly did, and Una left to mourne. Now, strike your sailes, yee jolly Mariners, For we be come unto a quiet rode, Where we must land some of our passengers, And light this weary vessell of her lode : Here she a while may make her safe abode, Till she repaired have her tackles spent, And wants supplide ; And then againe abroad On the long voiage whereto she is bent : Well may she speede, and fairely finish her intent ! [From The Faerie Queene, Bk. ii.] PHAEDRIA AND THE IDLE LAKE. A harder lesson to learne Continence In joyous pleasure then in grievous paine ; For sweetnesse doth allure the weaker sence So strongly, that uneathes it can refraine From that which feeble nature covets faine : But griefe and wrath, that be her enemies And foes of life, she better can abstaine : Yet vertue vauntes in both her victories, And Guyon in them all shewes goodly maysteries. SPENSER. 301 Whom bold Cymochles traveiling to finde, With cruell purpose bent to wreake on him The wrath which Atin kindled in his mind, Came to a river, by whose utmost brim Wayting to passe, he saw whereas did swim Along the shore, as swift as glaunce of eye, A litle Gondelay, bedecked trim With boughes and arbours woven cunningly, That like a litle forrest seemed outwardly. And therein sate a Lady fresh and fayre, Making sweet solace to herselfe alone : Sometimes she song as lowd as larke in ayre, Sometimes she laught, as merry as Pope Jone ; Yet was there not with her else any one, That to her might move cause of meriment : Matter of merth enough, though there were none, She could devise ; and thousand waies invent To feede her foolish humour and vaine jolliment. Which when far off Cymochles heard and saw, He lowdly cald to such as were abord The little barke unto the shore to draw, And him to ferry over that deepe ford. The merry mariner unto his word Soone hearkened, and her painted bote streightway Turnd to the shore, where that same warlike Lord She in receiv'd ; but Atin by no way She would admit, albe the knight her much did pray. Eftsoones her shallow ship away did slide, More swift then swallow sheres the liquid skye, Withouten oare or Pilot it to guide, Or winged canvas with the wind to fly : Onely she turnd a pin, and by and by It cut away upon the yielding wave, Ne cared she her course for to apply ; For it was taught the way which she would have, And both from rocks and flats it selfe could wisely save. 30 a THE ENGLISH POETS. And all the way the wanton Damsell found New merth her passenger to entertaine ; For she in pleasaunt purpose did abound, And greatly joyed merry tales to faine, Of which a store-house did with her remaine : Yet seemed, nothing well they her became ; For all her wordes she drownd with laughter vaine, And wanted grace in utt'ring of the same, That turned all her pleasaunce to a scoffing game. And other whiles vaine toyes she would devize, As her fantasticke wit did most delight : Sometimes her head she fondly would aguize With gaudy girlonds, or fresh flowrets dight About her necke, or rings of rushes plight : Sometimes, to do him laugh, she would assay To laugh at shaking of the leaves light Or to behold the water worke and play About her little frigot, therein making way. Her light behaviour and loose dalliaunce Gave wondrous great contentment to the knight, That of his way he had no sovenaunce, Nor care of vovv'd revenge and cruell fight, But to weake wench did yield his martiall might : So easie was to quench his flamed minde With one sweete drop of sensuall delight So easie is t' appease the stormy winde Of malice in the calme of pleasaunt womankind. Diverse discourses in their way they spent ; Mongst which Cymochles of her questioned Both what she was, and what that usage ment, Which in her cott she daily practized? ' Vaine man,' (saide she) ' that wouldest be reckoned A straunger in thy home, and ignoraunt Of Phaedria, (for so my name is red) Of Phaedria, thine owne fellow servaunt ; For thou to serve Acrasia thy selfe doest vaunt SPENSER. 303 ' In this wide Inland sea, that hight by name The Idle lake, my wandring ship I row, That knowes her port, and thither sayles by ayme, Ne care, ne feare I how the wind do blow, Or whether swift I wend, or whether slow : Both slow and swift alike do serve my tourne ; Ne swelling Neptune ne lowd thundring Jove Can chaunge my cheare, or make me ever mourne : My little boat can safely passe this perilous bourne.' Whiles thus she talked, and whiles thus she toyd, They were far past the passage which he spake, And come unto an Island waste and voyd, That floted in the midst of that great lake ; There her small Gondelay her port did make, And that gay payre, issewing on the shore, Disburdned her. Their way they forward take Into the land that lay them faire before, Whose pleasaunce she him shewd, and plentifull great store. It was a chosen plott of fertile land, Emongst wide waves sett, like a litle nest, As if it had by Natures cunning hand Bene choycely picked out from all the rest, And laid forth for ensample of the best : No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd, No arborett with painted blossomes drest And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd To bud out faire, -and throwe her sweete smels al arownd. No tree whose braunches did not bravely spring ; No braunch whereon a fine bird did not sitt ; No bird but did her shrill notes sweetely sing ; No song but did containe a lovely ditt. Trees, braunches, birds, and songs, were framed fitt For to allure fraile mind to carelesse ease : Carelesse the man soone woxe, and his weake witt Was overcome of thing that did him please ; So pleased did his wrathfull purpose faire appease. 304 THE ENGLISH POETS. Thus when shee had his eyes and sences fed With false delights, and fild with pleasures vayn, Into a shady dale she soft him led, And layd him downe upon a grassy playn ; And her sweete selfe without dread or disdayn She sett beside, laying his head disarmd In her loose lap, it softly to sustayn, Where soone he slumbred fearing not be harmd : The whiles with a love lay she thus him sweetly charmd. ' Behold, O man ! that toilesome paines doest take, The flowrs, the fields, and all that pleasaunt growes, How they them selves doe thine ensample make, Whiles nothing envious nature them forth throwes Out of her fruitfull lap ; how no man knowes, They spring, they bud, they blossome fresh and faire, And decke the world with their rich pompous showes ; Yet no man for them taketh paines or care, Yet no man to them can his carefull paines compare. ' The lilly, Lady of the flowring field, The flowre-deluce, her lovely Paramoure, Bid thee to them thy fruitlesse labors yield, And soone leave off this toylsome weary stoure : Loe, loe ! how brave she decks her bounteous boure, With silkin curtens and gold coverletts, Therein to shrowd her sumptuous Belamoure ; Yet nether spinnes nor cards, ne cares nor fretts. But to her mother Nature all her cares she letts. ' Why then doest thou, O man ! that of them all Art Lord, and eke of nature Soveraine, Wilfully make thyselfe a wretched thrall, And waste thy joyous howres in needelesse paine, Seeking for daunger and adventures vaine? What bootes it al to have, and nothing use? Who shall him rew that swimming in the maine Will die for thrist, and water doth refuse ? Refuse such fruitlesse toile, and present pleasures chuse.' SPENSER. 305 By this she had him lulled fast asleepe, That of no worldly thing he care did take : Then she with liquors strong his eies did steepe, That nothing should him hastily awake. So she him lefte, and did her selfe betake Unto her boat again, with which she clefte The slouthfull wave of that griesy lake : Soone shee that Island far behind her lefte, And now is come to that same place where first she wefte 1 . THE CAVE OF MAMMON. As Pilot well expert in perilous wave, That to a stedfast starre his course hath bent. When foggy mistes or cloudy tempests have The faithfull light of that faire lampe yblent, And cover'd heaven with hideous dreriment, Upon his card and compas firmes his eye, The maysters of his long experiment, And to them does the steddy helme apply, Bidding his winged vessell fairely forward fly : So Guyon having lost his trustie guyde, Late left beyond that Ydle lake, proceedes Yet on his way, of none accompanyde ; And evermore himselfe with comfort feedes Of his own vertues and praise-worthie deedes. So, long he yode, yet no adventure found, Which fame of her shrill trumpet worthy reedes ; For still he traveild through wide wastfull ground, That nought but desert wildernesse shewed all around. At last he came unto a gloomy glade, Cover'd with boughes and shrubs from heavens light, Whereas he sitting found in secret shade An uncouth, salvage, and uncivile wight, Of griesly hew and fowle ill favour'd sight ; 1 was wafted. VOL. I. X 306 THE ENGLISH POETS. His face with smoke was tand, and eies were bleard, His head and beard with sout were ill bedight, His cole-blacke hands did seeme to have been seard In smythes fire-spitting forge, and nayles like clawes appeard. His yron cote, all overgrowne with rust, Was underneath enveloped with gold ; Whose glistring glosse, darkned with filthy dust, Well yet appeared to have beene of old A worke of rich entayle and curious mould, Woven with antickes and wyld ymagery ; And in his lap a masse of coyne he told, And turned upside downe, to feede his eye And covetous desire with his huge threasury. And round about him lay on every side Great heapes of gold that never could be spent ; Of which some were rude owre, not purifide Of Mulcibers devouring element ; Some others were new driven, and distent Into great Ingowes and to wedges square ; Some in round plates withouten moniment ; But most were stampt, and in their metal bare The antique shapes of kings and kesars straunge and rare. Soone as he Guyon saw, in great affright And haste he rose for to remove aside Those pretious hils from straungers envious sight, And downe them poured through an hole full wide Into the hollow earth, them there to hide. But Guyon, lightly to him leaping, stayd His hand that trembled as one terrifyde ; And though himselfe were at the sight dismayd, Yet him perforce restraynd, and to him doubtfull sayd: ' What art thou, man, (if man at all thou art) That here in desert hast thine habitaunce, And these rich hils of welth doest hide apart From the worldes eye, and from her right usaunce?' Thereat, with staring eyes fixed askaunce, SPENSER. 307 In great disdaine he answerd : ' Hardy Elfe, That darest view my direfull countenaunce, I read thee rash and heedlesse of thy selfe, To trouble my still seate, and heapes of pretious pelfe. ' God of the world and worldlings I me call, Great Mammon, greatest god below the skye, That of my plenty poure out unto all, And unto none my graces do envye : Riches, renowme, and principality, Honour, estate, and all this worldes good, For which men swinck and sweat incessantly, Fro me do flow into an ample flood, And in the hollow earth have their eternall brood. ' Wherefore, if me thou deigne to serve and sew \ At thy commaund lo ! all these mountaines bee : Or if to thy great mind, or greedy vew, All these may not suffise, there shall to thee Ten times so much be nombred francke and free.' ' Mammon,' (said he) ' thy godheads vaunt is vaine, And idle offers of thy golden fee ; To them that covet such eye-glutting gaine Proffer thy giftes, and fitter servaunts entertaine. ' Me ill besits, that in der-doing 2 armes And honours suit my vowed daies do spend, Unto thy bounteous baytes and pleasing charmes, With which weake men thou witchest, to attend ; Regard of worldly mucke doth fowly blend, And low abase the high heroicke spright, That joyes for crownes and kingdomes to contend : Faire shields, gay steedes, bright armes be my delight ; Those be the riches fit for an advent'rous knight.' ' Vaine glorious Elfe,' (saide he) ' doest not thou weet, That money can thy wantes at will supply? Sheilds, steeds, and armes, and all things for thee meet, It can purvay in twinckling of an eye ; And crownes and kingdomes to thee multiply. 1 follow. * of derring-do. X 2 THE ENGLISH POETS. Do not I kings create, and throw the crowne Sometimes to him that low in dust doth ly, And him that raignd into his rowme thrust downe, And whom I lust do heape with glory and renowne?' 1 All otherwise ' (saide he) 4 I riches read, And deeme them roote of all disquietnesse ; First got with guile, and then preserv'd with dread, And after spent with pride and lavishnesse, Leaving behind them griefe and heavinesse : Infinite mischiefes of them doe arize, Strife and debate, bloodshed and bitternesse, Outrageous wrong, and hellish covetize, That noble heart as great dishonour doth despize. 4 Ne thine be kingdomes, ne the scepters thine ; But realmes and rulers thou doest both confound, And loyall truth to treason doest incline : Witnesse the guiltlesse blood pourd oft on ground, The crowned often slaine, the slayer cround ; The sacred Diademe in peeces rent, And purple robe gored with many a wound, Castles surprizd, great cities sackt and brent ; So mak'st thou kings, and gaynest wrongfull government. 4 Long were to tell the troublous stormes that tosse The private state, and make the life unsweet : Who swelling sayles in Caspian sea doth crosse, And in frayle wood on Adrian gulf doth fleet, Doth not, I weene, so many evils meet.' Then Mammon wexing wroth : 4 And why then,' sayd, 4 Are mortall men so fond and undiscreet So evill thing to seeke unto their ayd, And having not complaine, and having it upbrayd?' 4 Indeede,' (quoth he) 'through fowle intemperaunce, Frayle men are oft captiv'd to covetise ; But would they thinke with how small allowaunce Untroubled Nature doth her selfe suffise, Such superfluities they would despise, SPENSER. 309 Which with sad cares empeach our native joyes. At the well-head the purest streames arise ; But mucky filth his braunching armes annoyes, And with uncomely weedes the gentle wave accloyes. ' The antique world, in his first flowring youth, Fownd no defect in his Creators grace ; But with glad thankes, and unreproved truth, The gifts of soveraine bounty did embrace : Like Angels life was then mens happy cace ; But later ages pride, like corn-fed steed, Abusd her plenty and fat swolne encreace To all licentious lust, and gan exceed The measure of her meane and naturall first need. ' Then gan a cursed hand the quiet wombe Of his great Grandmother with steele to wound, And the hid treasures in her sacred tombe With Sacriledge to dig. Therein he fownd Fountaines of gold and silver to abownd, Of which the matter of his huge desire And pompous pride eftsoones he did compownd ; Then avarice gan through his veines inspire His greedy flames, and kindled life-devouring fire.' ' Sonne,' (said he then) ' lett be thy bitter scorne, And leave the rudenesse of that antique age To them that liv'd therin in state forlorne : Thou, that doest live in later times, must wage Thy workes for wealth, and life for gold engage. If then thee list my offred grace to use, Take what thou please of all this surplusage ; If thee list not, leave have thou to refuse : But thing refused doe not afterward accuse.' ' Me list not ' (said the Elfin knight) * receave Thing offred, till I know it well be gott ; Ne wote I but thou didst these goods bereave From rightfull owner by unrighteous lott, Or that bloodguiltinesse or guile them blott* 310 THE ENGLISH POETS. 'Perdy,' (quoth he) 'yet never eie did vew, Ne tong did tell, ne hand these handled not ; But safe I have them kept in secret mew From hevens sight, and powre of al which them poursew.' 'What secret place' (quoth he) 'can safely hold So huge a masse, and hide from heaven's eie? Or where hast thou thy wonne, that so much gold Thou canst preserve from wrong and robbery ? ' 'Come thou,' (quoth he) 'and see.' So by and by Through that thick covert he him led, and fownd A darkesome way, which no man could descry, That deep descended through the hollow grownd, And was with dread and horror compassed arownd. At length they came into a larger space, That stretcht itselfe into an ample playne ; Through which a beaten broad high way did trace, That streight did lead to Plutoes griesly rayne. By that wayes side there sate intemall Payne, And fast beside him sat tumultuous Strife : The one in hand an yron whip did strayne, The other brandished a bloody knife ; And both did gnash their teeth, and both did threten life. On thother side in one consort there sate Cruell Revenge, and rancorous Despight, Disloyall Treason, and hart-burning Hate ; But gnawing Gealosy, out of their sight Sitting alone, his bitter lips did bight ; And trembling Feare still to and fro did fly, And found no place wher safe he shroud him might : Lamenting Sorrow did in darknes lye, And Shame his ugly face did hide from living eye. And over them sad Horror with grim hew Did alwaies sore, beating his yron wings ; And after him Owles and Night-ravens flew, The hatefull messengers of heavy things, Of death and dolor telling sad tidings, SPENSEX. 311 Whiles sad Celeno, sitting on a clifte, A song of bale and bitter sorrow sings, That hart of flint asonder could have rifte ; Which having ended after him she flyeth swifte. All these before the gates of Pluto lay, By whom they passing spake unto them nought ; But th' Elfin knight with wonder all the way Did feed his eyes, and fild his inner thought. At last him to a litle dore he brought, That to the gate of Hell, which gaped wide, Was next adjoyning, ne them parted ought : Betwixt them both was but a little stride, That did the house of Richesse from hell-mouth divide. Before the dore sat selfe-consuming Care, Day and night keeping wary watch and ward, For feare least Force or Fraud should unaware Breake in, and spoile the treasure there in gard : Ne would he suffer Sleepe once thither-ward Approch, albe his drowsy den were next ; For next to death is Sleepe to be compard ; Therefore his house is unto his annext : Here. Sleep, ther Richesse, and Hel-gate them both betwext. So soon as Mammon there arrivd, the dore To him did open and affoorded way: Him followed eke Sir Guyon evermore, Ne darkenesse him, ne daunger might dismay. Soone as he entred was, the dore streight way Did shutt, and from behind it forth there lept An ugly feend, more fowle then dismall day, The which with monstrous stalke behind him stept, And ever as he went dew watch upon him kept. Well hoped hee, ere long that hardy guest, If ever covetous hand, or lustfull eye, Or lips he layd on thing that likte him best, Or ever sleepe his eie-strings did untye, Should be his pray. And therefore still on hye 312 THE ENGLISH POETS. lie over him did hold his cruell clawes, Threatning with greedy gripe to doe him dye, And rend in peeces with his ravenous pawes, If ever he transgrest the fatall Stygian lawes. That houses forme within was rude and strong, Lyke an huge cave hewne out of rocky clifte, From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches hong Embost with massy gold of glorious guifte, And with rich metall loaded every rifte, That heavy mine they did seeme to threatt ; And over them Arachne high did lifte Her cunning web, and spred her subtile nett, Enwrapped in fowle smoke and clouds more black than Jett. Both roofe, and floore, and walls, were all of gold!, But overgrowne with dust and old decay, And hid in darkenes, that none could behold The hew thereof; for vew of cherefull day Did never in that house it selfe display, But a faint shadow of uncertein light : Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away, Or as the Moone, cloathed with clowdy night, Does show to him that walkes in feare and sad affright. In all that rowme was nothing to be scene But huge great yron chests, and coffers strong, All bard with double bends, that none could weene Them to efforce by violence or wrong: On every side they placed were along; But all the grownd with sculs was scattered, And dead mens bones, which round about were flong ; Whose lives, it seemed, whilome there were shed, And their vile carcases now left unburied. SPENSER. 313 THE BOWER OF BLISS. Thence passing forth, they shortly doe arryve Whereas the Bowre of Blisse was situate ; A place pickt out by choyce of best alyve, That natures worke by art can imitate : In which whatever in this worldly state Is sweete and pleasing unto living sense, Or that may dayntest fantasy aggrate *, Was poured forth with plentifull dispence, And made there to abound with lavish affluence. Goodly it was enclosed rownd about, As well their entred guestes to keep within, As those unruly beasts to hold without ; Yet was the fence thereof but weake and thin : Nought feard theyr force that fortilage to win, But wisedomes powre, and temperaunces might, By which the mightiest things efforced bin : And eke the gate was wrought of substaunce light, Rather for pleasure then for battery or fight. Yt framed was of precious yvory, That seemd a worke of admirable witt ; And therein all the famous history Of Jason and Medea was ywritt ; Her mighty charmes, her furious loving fitt ; His goodly conquest of the golden fleece, His falsed fayth, and love too lightly flitt ; The wondred Argo, which in venturous peece First through the Euxine seas bore all the flowr of Greece ****** Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound, Of all that mote delight a daintie eare, Such as attonce might not on living ground, Save in this Paradise, be heard elsewhere : Right hard it was for wight which did it heare, 1 please. 3M THE ENGLISH POETS. To read what manner musicke that mote bee ; For all that pleasing is to living eare Was there consorted in one harmonee ; Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree The joyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet ; Th' Angelicall soft trembling voyces made To th' instruments divine respondence meet ; The silver sounding instruments did meet With the base murmure of the waters fall ; The waters fall with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ; The gentle warbling wind low answered to all There, whence that Musick seemed heard to bee, Was the faire Witch her selfe now solacing With a new Lover, whom, through sorceree And witchcraft, she from farre did thither bring : There she had him now laid aslombering In secret shade after long wanton joyes ; Whilst round about them pleasauntly did sing Many faire Ladies and lascivious boyes, That ever mixt their song with light licentious toyes. ****** The whiles some one did chaunt this lovely lay: Ah ! see, whoso fayre thing doest faine to see, In springing flowre the image of thy day. Ah ! see the Virgin Rose, how sweetly shee Doth first peepe foorth with bashfull modestee, That fairer seemes the lesse ye see her may. Lo ! see soone after how more bold and free Her bared bosome she doth broad display; Lo ! see soone after how she fades and falls away. So passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortall life the leafe, the bud, the flowre ; Ne more doth florish after first decay, That earst was sought to deck both bed and bowre Of many a lady', and many a Paramo wre. SPENSER. 315 Gather therefore the Rose whilest yet is prime, For soone comes age that will her pride deflowre ; Gather the Rose of love whilest yet is time, Whilest loving thou mayst loved be with equall crime. He ceast ; and then gan all the quire of birdes Their diverse notes t' attune unto his lay, As in approvaunce of his pleasing wordes. The constant payre heard all that he did say, Yet swarved not, but kept their forward way Through many covert groves and thickets close, In which they creeping did at last display That wanton Lady with her Lover lose, Whose sleepie head she in her lap did soft dispose. [From Book iv. 1595-6.] GARDENS OF VENUS. 'Thus having past all perill, I was come Within the compasse of that Islands space ; The which did seeme, unto my simple doome, The onely pleasant and delightful! place That ever troden was of footings trace : For all that nature by her mother-wit Could frame in earth, and forme of substance base, Was there ; and all that nature did omit, Art, playing second natures part, supplyed it. ' No tree, that is of count, in greenewood growes, From lowest Juniper to Ceder tall, No flowre in field, that daintie odour throwes, And deckes his branch with blossomes over all, But there was planted, or grew naturall : Nor sense of man so coy and curious nice, But there mote find to please it selfe withall ; Nor hart could wish for any queint device, But there it present was, and did fraile sense entice. 3 i6 THE ENGLISH POETS. ' In such luxurious plentie of all pleasure, It secm'd a second paradise to ghesse, So lavishly enricht with Natures threasure, That if the happie soules, which doe possesse Th' Elysian fields and live in lasting blesse, Should happen this with living eye to see, They soone would loath their lesser happinesse, And wish to life return'd againe to bee, That in this joyous place they mote have joyance free. ' Fresh shadowes, fit to shroud from sunny ray ; Faire lawnds, to take the sunne in season dew ; Sweet springs, in which a thousand Nymphs did play ; Soft rombling brookes, that gentle slomber drew ; High reared mounts, the lands about to view ; Low looking dales, disloignd from common gaze ; Delightfull bowres, to solace lovers trew ; False Labyrinthes, fond runners eyes to daze ; All which by nature made did nature selfe amaze. ' And all without were walkes and alleyes dight With divers trees enrang'd in even rankes ; And here and there were pleasant arbors pight, And shadie scales, and sundry flowring bankes, To sit and rest the walkers wearie shankes : And therein thousand payres of lovers walkt, Praysing their god, and yeelding him great thankes, Ne ever ought but of their true loves talkt, Ne ever for rebuke or blame of any balkt - 'All these together by themselves did sport Their spotlesse pleasures and sweet loves content But, farre away from these, another sort Of lovers lincked in true harts consent, Which loved not as these for like intent, But on chast vertue grounded their desire, Farre from all fraud or fayned blandishment ; Which, in their spirits kindling zealous fire, Brave thoughts and noble deedes did evermore aspire. SPENSEK. 317 'Such were great Hercules and Hyllus deare Trew Jonathan and David trustie tryde Stout Theseus and Pirithous his feare 1 Pylades and Orestes by his syde ; Myld Titus and Gesippus without pryde ; Damon and Pythias, whom death could not sever : All these, and all that ever had bene tyde In bands of friendship, there did live for ever ; Whose lives although decayM, yet loves decayed never. 'Which when as I, that never tasted blis Nor happie howre, beheld with gazefull eye, I thought there was none other heaven then this ; And gan their endlesse happinesse envye, That being free from feare and gealosye Might frankely there their loves desire possesse ; Whilest I, through paines and perlous jeopardie, Was forst to seeke my lifes deare patronnesse : Much dearer be the things which come through hard distresse. 'Yet all those sights, and all that else I saw, Might not my steps withhold, but that forthright Unto that purposd place I did me draw, Where as my love was lodged day and night, The temple of great Venus, that is hight The Queene of beautie, and of love the mother, There worshipped of every living wight ; Whose goodly workmanship farre past all other That ever were on earth, all were they set together. 1 WOOING OF AMORET. ' Into the inmost Temple thus I came, Which fuming all with frankensence I found And odours rising from the altars flame. Upon an hundred marble pillors round The roofe up high was reared from the ground, All deckt with crownes, and chaynes, and girlands gay, And thousand pretious gifts worth many a pound, The which sad lovers for their vowes did pay ; And all the ground was strow'd with flowres as fresh as May. 1 companion. 318 THE ENGLISH POETS. 'An hundred Altars round about were set, AH flaming with their sacrifices fire, That with the steme thereof the Temple swet, Which rould in clouds to heaven did aspire, And in them bore true lovers vowes entire : And eke an hundred brasen caudrons bright, To bath in joy and amorous desire, Every of which was to a damzell hight ; For all the Priests were damzels in soft linnen dight. 'Right in the midst the Goddesse selfe did stand Upon an altar of some costly masse, Whose substance was uneath to understand : For neither pretious stone, nor durefull brasse, Nor shining gold, nor mouldring clay it was ; But much more rare and pretious to esteeme, Pure in aspect, and like to christall glasse, Yet glasse was not, if one did rightly deeme ; But, being faire and brickie, likest glasse did seeme, ****** 'And all about her necke and shoulders flew A flocke of litle loves, and sports, and joyes, With nimble wings of gold and purple hew ; Whose shapes seem'd not like to terrestriall boyes, But like to Angels playing heavenly toyes, The whilest their eldest brother was away, Cupid their eldest brother ; he enjoyes The wide kingdome of love with lordly sway, And to his law compels all creatures to obay. 'And all about her altar scattered lay Great sorts of lovers piteously complayning, Some of their losse, some of their loves delay, Some of their pride, some paragons disdayning, Some fearing fraud, some fraudulently fayning, As every one had cause of good or ill Amongst the rest some one, through Loves constrayning Tormented sore, could not containe it still, But thus brake forth, that all the temple it did fill SPENSER. 319 4 " Great Venus ! Queene of beautie and of grace, The joy of Gods and men, that under skie Doest fayrest shine, and most adorne thy place ; That with thy smyling looke doest pacific The raging seas, and makst the stormcs to flie ; Thee, goddesse, thee the winds, the clouds doe feare, And, when thou spredst thy mantle forth on hie, The waters play, and pleasant lands appeare, And heavens laugh, and al the world shews joyous cheare. ***** ' " So all the world by thee at first was made, And dayly yet thou doest the same repayre ; Ne ought on earth that merry is and glad, Ne ought on earth that lovely is and fayre, But thou the same for pleasure didst prepayre : Thou art the root of all that joyous is : Great God of men and women, queene of th' ayre, Mother of laughter, and welspring of blisse, graunt that of my love at last I may not misse ! " ' So did he say : but I with murmure soft, That none might heare the sorrow of my har{, Yet inly groning deepe and sighing oft, Besought her to graunt ease unto my smart, And to my wound her gratious help impart. Whitest thus I spake, behold ! with happy eye 1 spyde where at the I doles feet apart A bevie of fayre damzels close did lye, Wayting when as the Antheme should be sung on bye. ' The first of them did seeme of ryper yeares And graver countenance then ail the rest : Yet all the rest were eke her equall peares, Yet unto her obayed all the best. Her name was Womanhood ; that she exprest By her sad semblant and demeanure wyse : For stedfast still her eyes did fixed rest, Ne rov'd at random, after gazers guyse, Whose luring baytes oftimes doe heedlesse harts entyse. 320 THE ENGLISH POETS. 'And next to her sate goodly Shamefastnesse, Ne ever durst her eyes from ground upreare, Ne ever once did looke up from her dessc 1 , As if some blame of evill she did feare, That in her cheekes made roses oft appeare : And her against sweet Cherefulnesse was placed, Whose eyes, like twinkling stars in evening cleare, Were deckt with smyles that all sad humors chaced, And darted forth delights the which her goodly graced. 'And next to her sate sober Modestie, Holding her hand upon her gentle hart ; And her against sate comely Curtesie, That unto every person knew her part ; And her before was seated overthwart Soft Silence, and submisse Obedience, Both linckt together never to dispart ; Both gifts of God, not gotten but from thence, Both girlonds of his Saints against their foes offence. ' Thus sate they all around in seemely rate : And in the midst of them a goodly mayd Even in the lap of Womanhood there sate, The which was all in lilly white arayd, With silver streames amongst the linnen stray'd ; Like to the Morne, when first her shyning face Hath to the gloomy world itselfe bewray'd : That same was fayrest Amoret in place, Shyning with beauties light and heavenly vertues grace 'Whom soone as I beheld, my hart gan throb And wade in doubt what best were to be donne ; For sacrilege me seem'd the Church to rob, And folly seem'd to leave the thing undonne Which with so strong attempt I had begonne. Tho, shaking off all doubt and shamefast feare Which Ladies love, I heard, had never wonne Mongst men of worth, I to her stepped neare, And by the lilly hand her labour'd up to reare. 1 dais. SPENSER. 321 'Thereat that formost matrone me did blame, And sharpe rebuke for being over bold ; Saying, it was to Knight unseemely shame Upon a recluse Virgin to lay hold, That unto Venus services was sold. To whom I thus : " Nay, but it fitteth best For Cupids man with Venus mayd to hold, For ill your goddesse services are drest By virgins, and her sacrifices let to rest." ' With that my shield I forth to her did show, Which all that while I closely had conceld On which when Cupid, with his killing bow And cruell shafts, emblazond she beheld, At sight thereof she was with terror queld, And said no more : but I, which all that while The pledge of faith, her hand, engaged held, Like wane Hynd within the weedie soyle, For no intreatie would forgoe so glorious spoyle. 'And evermore upon the Goddesse face Mine eye was fixt, for feare of her offence ; Whom when I saw with amiable grace To laugh at me, and favour my pretence, I was emboldned with more confidence ; And nought for nicenesse nor for envy sparing, In presence of them all forth led her thence All looking on, and like astonisht staring, Yet to lay hand on her not one of all them daring. ' She often prayd, and often me besought, Sometime with tender teares to let her goe, Sometime with witching smyles ; but yet, for nought That ever she to me could say or doe, Could she her wished freedome fro me wooe : But forth I led her through the Temple gate, By which I hardly past with much adoe : But that same Ladie, which me friended late In entrance, did me also friend in my retrate. VOL. I. Y THE ENGLfSff POETS. 'No lesse did Daunger threaten me with dread, Whenas he saw me, maugre all his powre, That glorious spoyle of beautie with me lead, Then l Cerberus, when Orpheus did recoure His Leman from the Stygian Princes boure : But evermore my shield did me defend Against the storme of every dreadfull stoure : Thus safely with my love I thence did wend.' So ended he his tale, where I this Canto end. [From The Faerie Qtieene, Bk. vi.] THE QUELLING OF THE BLATANT BEAST. Through all estates he found that he had past, In which he many massacres had left, And to the Clergy now was come at last ; In which such spoile, such havocke, and such theft He wrought, that thence all goodnesse he bereft, That endlesse were to tell. The Elfin Knight, Who now no place besides unsought had left, At length into a Monastere did light, Where he him found despoyling all with maine and might. Into their cloysters now he broken had, Through which the Monckes he chaced here and there, And them pursu'd into their dortours 2 sad, And searched all their eels and secrets neare : In which what filth and ordure did appeare, Were yrkesome to report ; yet that foule Beast, Nought sparing them, the more did tosse and teare, And ransacke all their dennes from most to least, Regarding nought religion, nor their holy heast 8 . From thence into the sacred Church he broke, And robd the Chancell, and the deskes downe threw, And Altars fouled, and blasphemy spoke, And th' Images, for all their goodly hew, Did cast to ground, whilest none was them to rew ; * Than. * dormitories. * behest. SPENSER. 323 So all confounded and disordered there : But, seeing Calidore, away he flew, Knowing his fatall hand by former feare ; But he him fast pursuing soone approched neare. Him in a narrow place he overtooke, And fierce assailing forst him turne againe : Sternely he turnd againe, when he him strooke With his sharpe steele, and ran at him amaine With open mouth, that seemed to containe A full good pecke within the utmost brim, All set with yron teeth in raunges twaine, That terrifide his foes, and armed him, Appearing like the mouth of Orcus griesly grim : And therein were a thousand tongs empight Of sundry kindes and sundry quality ; Some were of dogs, that barked day and night ; And some of cats, that wrawling still did cry ; And some of Beares, that groynd continually; And some of Tygres, that did seeme to gren And snar at all that ever passed by : But most of them were tongues of mortall men, Which spake reprochfully, not caring where nor when. And them amongst were mingled here and there The tongues of Serpents, with three forked stings, That spat out poyson, and gore-bloudy gere, At all that came within his ravenings ; And spake licentious words and hatefull things Of good and bad alike, of low and hie, Ne Kesars spared he a whit, nor Kings ; But either blotted them with infamie, Or bit them with his banefull teeth of injury. ****** Full cruelly the Beast did rage and rore To be downe held, and maystred so with might, That he gan fret and fome out bloudy gore, Striving in vaine to rere him selfe upright : For still, the more he strove, the more the Knight y 2 324 THE ENGLISH POETS. Did him suppresse, and forcibly subclew, That made him almost mad for fell despight : He grind, hee bit, he scratcht, he venim threw, And fared like a feend right horrible in hew : Or like the hell-borne Hydra, which they faine That great Alcides whilome overthrew, After that he had labourd long in vaine To crop his thousand heads, the which still new Forth budded, and in greater number grew. Such was the fury of this hellish Beast, Whilest Calidore him under him downe threw ; Who nathemore his heavy load releast, But aye, the more he rag'd, the more his powre increast Tho, when the Beast saw he mote nought availe By force, he gan his hundred tongues apply, And sharpely at him to revile and raile With bitter termes of shamefull infamy ; Oft interlacing many a forged lie, Whose like he never once did speake, nor hcare, Nor ever thought thing so unworthily : Yet did he nought, for all that, him forbeare, But strained him so streightly that he chokt him neare. At last, when as he found his force to shrincke And rage to quaile, he tooke a muzzel strong Of surest yron, made with many a lincke : Therewith he mured up his mouth along, And therein shut up his blasphemous tong, For never more defaming gentle Knight, Or unto lovely Lady doing wrong ; And thereunto a great long chaine he tight, With which he drew him forth, even in his own despight. Like as whylome that strong Tirynthian swaine Brought forth with him the dreadfull dog of hell, Against his will fast bound in yron chaine, And, roring horribly, did him compell To see the hatefull sunne, that he might tell 325 To griesly Pluto what on earth was donne, And to the other damned ghosts which dwell For aye in darkenesse, which day-light doth shonne : So led this Knight his captyve with like conquest wonne. Yet greatly did the Beast repine at those Straunge bands, whose like till then he never bore, Ne ever any durst till then impose ; And chauffed inly, seeing now no more Him liberty was left aloud to rore : Yet durst he not draw backe, nor once withstand The proved powre of noble Calidore, But trembled underneath his mighty hand, And like a fearefull dog him followed through the land. Him through all Faery land he follow'd so, As if he learned had obedience long, That all the people, where so he did go, Out of their townes did round about him throng, To see him leade that Beast in bondage strong ; And seeing it much wondred at the sight : And all such persons as he earst did wrong Rejoyced much to see his captive plight, And much admyr'd the Beast, but more admyr'd the Knight Thus was this Monster, by the maystring might Of doughty Calidore, supprest and tamed, That never more he mote endammadge wight With his vile tongue, which many had defamed, And many causelesse caused to be blamed. So did he eeke long after this remaine, Until that, (whether wicked fate so framed Or fault of men,) he broke his yron chaine, And got into the world at liberty againe. ****** So now he raungeth through the world againe, And rageth sore in each degree and state ; Ne any is that may him now restraine, He growen is so great and strong of late, Barking and biting all that him doe bate 326 THE ENGLISH POETS. Albe they worthy blame, or cleare of crime : Ne spareth he most learned wits to rate, Ne spareth he the gentle Poets rime ; But rends without regard of person or of time. Ne may this homely verse, of many meanest, Hope to escape his venemous despite, More then my former writs, all were they cleanest From blamefull blot, and free from all that wite With which some wicked tongues did it backebite, And bring into a mighty Peres displeasure, That never so deserved to endite. Therefore do you, my rimes, keep better measure, And seeke to please ; that now is counted wise mens threasure. [From Bk. vii. (posthumous).] CLAIMS OF MUTABILITY PLEADED BEFORE NATURE. ' Yet mauger Jove, and all his gods beside, I do possesse the worlds most regiment ; As if ye please it into parts divide, And every parts inholders to convent, Shall to your eyes appeare incontinent And, first, the Earth (great mother of us all) That only seemes unmov'd and permanent, And unto Mutabilitie not thrall, Yet is she chang'd in part, and eeke in generall : ' For all that from her springs, and is ybredde, How-ever faire it flourish for a time, Yet see we soone decay; and, being dead, To turne againe unto their earthly slime : Yet, out of their decay and mortall crime, We daily see new creatures to arize, And of their Winter spring another Prime, Unlike in forme, and chang'd by strange disguise : So turne they still about, and change in restlesse wise, 'As for her tenants, that is, man and beasts, The beasts we daily see massacred dy As thralls and vassals unto mens beheasts : SPENSER. 327 And men themselves do change continually, From youth to eld, from wealth to poverty, From good to bad, from bad to worst of all : Ne doe their bodies only flit and fly, But eeke their minds (which they immortall call) Still change and vary thought, as new occasions fall' [The Seasons and the Months pass by, and after them the Hours.] And after these there came the Day and Night, Riding together both with equall pase, Th' one on a Palfrey blacke, the other white ; But Night had covered her uncomely face With a blacke veile, and held in hand a mace, On top whereof the moon and stars were pight ; And sleep and darknesse round about did trace : But Day did beare upon his scepters hight The goodly Sun encompast all with beames bright. Then came the Howres, faire daughters of high Jove And timely Night ; the which were all endewed With wondrous beauty fit to kindle love ; But they were virgins all, and love eschewed That might forslack the charge to them foreshewed By mighty Jove ; who did them porters make Of heavens gate (whence all the gods issued) Which they did daily watch, and nightly wake By even turnes, ne ever did their charge forsake; And after all came Life, and lastly Death ; Death with most grim and griesly visage scene, Yet is he nought but parting of the breath ; Ne ought to see, but like a shade to weene, Unbodied, unsoul'd, unheard, unseene : But Life was like a faire young lusty boy, Such as they faine Dan Cupid to have beene, Full of delightfull health and lively joy, Deckt all with flowres, and wings of gold fit to employ. 328 THE ENGLISH POETS. When these were past, thus gan the Titanesse : 4 Lo ! mighty mother, now be judge, and say Whether in all thy creatures more or lesse CHANGE doth not raign and bear the greatest sway; For who sees not that Time on all doth pray? But Times do change and move continually: So nothing heere long standeth in one stay: Wherefore this lower world who can deny But to be subject still to Mutability?' ****** ' Then, since within this wide great Universe Nothing doth firme and permanent appeare, But all things tost and turned by transverse, What then should let, but I aloft should reare My Trophee, and from all the triumph beare? Now judge then, (O thou greatest goddesse trew) According as thy selfe doest see and heare, And unto me addoom that is my dew ; That is, the rule of all, all being rul'd by you.' So having ended, silence long ensewed ; Ne Nature to or fro spake for a space, But with firme eyes affixt the ground still viewed. Meane-while all creatures, looking in her face, Expecting th' end of this so doubtfull case, Did hang in long suspence what would ensew, To whether side should fall the soveraine place : At length she, looking up with chearefull view, The silence brake, and gave her doome in speeches few. ' I well consider all that ye have said, And find that all things stedfastnesse do hate And changed be ; yet, being rightly wayd, They are not changed from their first estate ; But by their change their being do dilate, And turning to themselves at length againe, Do worke their owne perfection so by fate : Then over them Change doth not rule and raigne, But they raigne over Change, and do their states maintains SPENSER. 329 ' Cease therefore, daughter, further to aspire, And thee content thus to be rul'd by mee, For thy decay thou seekst by thy desire ; But time shall come that all shall changed bee, And from thenceforth none no more change shal see.' So was the Titanesse put downe and whist 1 , And Jove confirm'd in his imperiall see. Then was that whole assembly quite dismist, And Natur's selfe did vanish, whither no man wist [Fragment of the last Canto.] When I bethinke me on that speech whyleare Of Mutabilitie, and well it way! Me seemes, that though she all unworthy were Of the Heav'ns Rule : yet, very sooth to say, In all things else she beares the greatest sway: Which makes me loath this state of life so tickle, And love of things so vaine to cast away ; Whose flowring pride, so fading and so fickle, Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming sickle. Then gin I thinke on that which Nature sayd, Of that same time when no more Change shall be, But stedfast rest of all things, firmely stayd Upon the pillours of Eternity, That is contrayr to Mutabilitie ; For all that moveth doth in Change delight : But thence-forth all shall rest eternally With Him that is the God of Sabaoth hight : O 1 that great Sabaoth God, grant me that Sabaoths sight ! 1 silenced. 330 THE ENGLISH POETS. COMPLAINT OF THALIA (COMEDY). [From Tkt Ttartt oftht Muut (1591).] Where be the sweete delights of learnings treasure That wont with Comick sock to beautefic The painted Theaters, and fill with pleasure The listners eyes and eares with melodic ; In which I late was wont to raine as Queene, And maske in mirth with Graces well beseene ? O 1 all is gone ; and all that goodly glee, Which wont to be the glorie of gay wits, Is layd abed, and no where now to see ; And in her roome unseemly Sorrow sits, With hollow browes and greisly countenaunce, Marring my joyous gentle dalliaunce. And him beside sits ugly Barbarisme, And brutish Ignorance, ycrept of late Out of dredd darknes of the deepe Abysme, Where being bredd, he light and heaven does hate : They in the mindes of men now tyrannize, And the faire Scene with rudenes foule disguize. All places they with follie have possest, And with vaine toyes the vulgare entertaine ; But me have banished, with all the rest That whilome wont to wait upon my traine, Fine Counterfesaunce, and unhurtfull Sport, Delight, and Laughter, deckt in seemly sort. All these, and all that els the Comick Stage With seasoned wit and goodly pleasance graced, By which mans life in his likest image Was limned forth, are wholly now defaced ; And those swete wits, which wont the like to frame, Are now despizd, and made a laughing game. SPENSER. 331 And he, the man whom Nature selfe had made To mock her selfe, and Truth to imitate, With kindly counter under Mimick shade, Our pleasant Willy, ah ! is dead of late : With whom all joy and jolly meriment Is also deaded, and in dolour drent In stead thereof scoffing Scurrilitie, And scornfull Follie with Contempt is crept, Rolling in rymes of shameles ribaudrie Without regard, or due Decorum kept ; Each idle wit at will presumes to make ', And doth the Learneds taske upon him take. But that same gentle Spirit, from whose pen Large streames of honnie and sweete Nectar flowe, Scorning the boldnes of such bas-borne men, Which dare their follies forth so rashlie throwe, Doth rather choose to sit in idle Cell, Than so himselfe to mockerie to sell. So am I made the servant of the manie, And laughing stocke of all that list to scorne ; Not honored nor cared for of anie, But loath'd of losels as a thing forlorne : Therefore I mourne andsorrow with the rest, Untill my cause of sorrow be redrest. SONNETS. [I595-] Lyke as a ship, that through the Ocean wyde, By conduct of some star, doth make her way ; Whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde, Out of her course doth wander far astray ! So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray Me to direct, with cloudes is over-cast, Doe wander now, in darknesse and dismay, Through hidden perils round about me plast ; 1 write poetry 33* THE ENGLISH POETS. Yet hope I well that, when this storme is past, My Helice, the lodestar of my lyfe, Will shine again, and looke on me at last, With lovely light to cleare my cloudy griefj Till then I wander carefull, comfortlesse, In secret sorow, and sad pensivenesse. What guyle is this, that those her golden tresses She doth attyre under a net of gold ; And with sly skill so cunningly them dresses, That which is gold, or heare, may scarse be told ? Is it that mens frayle eyes, which gaze too bold, She may entangle in that golden snare ; And, being caught, may craftily enfold Theyr weaker harts, which are not wel aware ? Take heed, therefore, myne eyes, how ye doe stare Henceforth too rashly on that guilefull net, In which, if ever ye entrapped are, Out of her bands ye by no meanes shall get Fondnesse it were for any, being free, To covet fetters, though they golden bee ! Sweet Smile ! the daughter of .the Queene of Love, Expressing all thy mothers powrefull art, With which she wants to temper angry Jove, When all the gods he threats with thundring dart : Sweet is thy vertue, as thy selfe sweet art. For, when on me thou shinedst late in sadnesse, A melting pleasance ran through every part, And me revived with hart-robbing gladnesse. Whylest rapt with joy resembling heavenly madnes, My soule was ravisht quite as in a traunce ; And feeling thence, no more her sorowes sadnesse, Fed on the fulnesse of that chearefull glaunce, More sweet than Nectar, or Ambrosiall meat, Seemd every bit which thenceforth I did eat. SPENSER. 333 Joy of my life ! full oft for loving you I blesse my lot, that was so lucky placed : But then the more your owne mishap I rew, That are so much by so meane love embased. For, had the equall hevens so much you graced In this as in the rest, ye mote invent Som hevenly wit, whose verse could have enchased Your glorious name in golden moniment. But since ye deignd so goodly to relent To me your thrall, in whom is little worth ; That little, that I am, shall all be spent In setting your immortall prayses forth : Whose lofty argument, uplifting me, Shall lift you up unto an high degree. EPITHALAMION. Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes Beene to me ayding, others to adorne, Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes, That even the greatest did not greatly scorne To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes, But joyed in theyr praise ; And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne, Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse, Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne, And teach the woods and waters to lament Your dolefull dreriment : Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside ; And, having all your heads with girlands crownd, Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound ; Ne let the same of any be envide : So Orpheus did for his owne bride ! So I unto my selfe alone will sing ; The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring. .134 THE ENGLISH POETS. Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe His golden beame upon the hils doth spred, Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe, Doe ye awake ; and, with fresh lusty-hed, Go to the bowre of my beloved love, My truest turtle dove ; Bid her awake ; for Hymen is awake, And long since ready forth his maske to move, With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake, And many a bachelor to waite on him, In theyr fresh garments trim. Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight, For lo ! the wished day is come at last, That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes past, Pay to her usury of long delight : And, whylest she doth her dight, Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing, That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare Both of the rivers and the forrests greene, And of the sea that neighbours to her neare : Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene. And let them also with them bring in hand Another gay girland, For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses, Bound truelove wize, with a blew silke riband. And let them make great store of bridale poses, And let them eeke bring store of other flowers, To deck the bridale bowers. And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong, Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, And diapred lyke the discolored mead. Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt, For she will waken strayt ; The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing, The woods shall to you answer, and your Eccho ring. ******* SPENSER. 335 Wake now, my love, awake ! for it is time ; The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed, All ready to her silver coche to clyme ; And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed. Hark ! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies And carroll of Loves praise. The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft ; The Thrush replyes ; the Mavis descant playes ; The Ouzell shrills ; the Ruddock warbles soft ; So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, To this dayes merriment. Ah ! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long, When meeter were that ye should now awake, T' awayt the comming of your joyous make, And hearken to the birds love-learned song, The deawy leaves among ! For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring. My love is now awake out of her dreames, And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmed were With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams More bright than Hesperus his head doth rere. Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight, Helpe quickly her to dight : But first come ye fayre houres, which were begot, In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night ; Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot, And al, that ever in this world is fayre, Doe make and still repayre : And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene, The which doe still adorne her beauties pride, Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride : And, as ye her array, still throw betweene Some graces to be scene ; And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho ring. 336 THE ENGLISH POETS. Now is my love all ready forth to come : Let all the virgins therefore well awayt : And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome, Prepare your selves ; for he is comming strayu Set all your things in seemely good aray, Fit for so joyfull day : The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see, Faire Sun ! shew forth thy favourable ray, And let thy lifull heat not fervent be, For feare of burning her sunshyny face, Her beauty to disgrace. O fayrest Phoebus ! father of the Muse 1 If ever I did honour thee aright, Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight, Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse ; But let this day, let this one day, be myne ; Let all the rest be thine. Then I thy soyerayne prayses loud wil sing, That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring. Loe ! where she comes along with portly pace, Lyke Phcebe, from her chamber of the East, Arysing forth to run her mighty race, Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best So well it her beseemes, that ye would weene Some angell she had beene. Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre, Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene, Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre ; And, being crowned with a girland greene, Seeme lyke some mayden Queene. Her modest eyes, abashed to behold So many gazers as on her do stare, Upon the lowly ground affixed are; Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud, So farre from being proud. SPENSER. 337 Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing, That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, The inward beauty of her lively spright, Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree, Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, And stand astonisht lyke to those which red Medusaes mazeful hed. There dwels sweet love, and constant chastity, Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood, Regard of honour, and mild modesty ; There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne, And giveth lawes alone, The which the base affections doe obay, And yeeld theyr services unto her will ; Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill. Had ye once scene these her celestial threasures, And unrevealed pleasures, Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing, That al the woods should answer, and your echo ring. Open the temple gates unto my love, Open them wide that she may enter in, And all the postes adorne as doth behove, And all the pillours deck with girlands trim, For to receyve this Saynt with honour dew, That commeth in to you. With trembling steps, and humble reverence, She commeth in, before th' Almighties view ; Of her ye virgins learne obedience, When so ye come into those holy places, To humble your proud faces : Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may The sacred ceremonies there partake, The which do endlesse matrimony make ; And let the roring Organs loudly play VOL. I. Z 338 THE ENGLTSH POETS. The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; The whiles, with hollow throates, The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing, That al the woods may answcre, and their eccho ring. Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes, And blesseth her with his two happy hands, How the red roses flush up in her cheekes, And the pure snow, -with goodly vermill stayne Like crimsin dyde in grayne : That even th' Angels, which continually About the sacred Altare doe remaine, Forget their service and about her fly, Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre, The more they on it stare. But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry, Which may let in a little thought unsownd. Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band ! Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing, That all the woods may answere, and your eccho ring. Now al is done : bring home the bride againe ; Bring home the triumph of our victory : Bring home with you the glory of her gain*; With joyance bring her and with jollity. Never had man more joyfull day then this, Whom heaven would heape with blis, Make feast therefore now all this live-long day; This day for ever to me holy is. Poure out the wine without restraint or stay, Poure not by cups, but by the belly full, Poure out to all that wull, And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine, That they may sweat, and drunken be withalL Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall, And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine ; SPENSER. 339 And let the Graces daunce unto the rest, For they can doo it best : The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing, To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho rin^. Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne, And leave your wonted labors for this day: This day is holy; doe ye write it downe, That ye for ever it remember may. This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight, With Barnaby the bright, From whence declining daily by degrees, He somewhat loseth of his heat and light, When once the Crab behind his back he sees. But for this time it ill ordained was, To chose the longest day in all the yeare, And shortest night, when longest fitter weare : Yet never day so long, but late would passe. Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away, And bonefiers make all day ; And daunce about them, and about them sing, That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. Ah ! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love ? How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend ? How slowly does sad Time his feathers move? Hast thee, O fayrest Planet, to thy home, Within the Westerns fome : Thy tyred steedes long since have need of rest. Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, And the bright evening-star with golden creast Appeare out of the East. Fayre childe of beauty ! glorious lampe of love ! That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead, And guydest lovers through the nights sad dread, How chearefully thou lookest from above, And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light, As joying in the sight Z2 340 THE ENGLISH POETS. Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring! And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods, In which a thousand torches flaming bright Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods In dreadful darknesse lend desired light ; And all ye powers which in the same remayne, More then we men can fayne ! Poure out your blessing on us plentiously, And happy influence upon us raine, That we may raise a large posterity, Which from the earth, which they may long possesse With lasting happinesse, Up to your haughty pallaces may mount ; And, for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit, May heavenly tabernacles there inherit, Of blessed Saints for to increase the count So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this, And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing : The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring! SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. [PHILIP SIDNEY was the eldest son of the well-known Sir Henry Sidney, President of Wales and Lord Deputy of Ireland under Elizabeth, and through his mother, Lady Mary Dudley, grandson of the Duke of Nor- thumberland executed in 1553, and nephew of Lord Leicester. He was born at Penshurst Nov. 29, 1554; he entered Shrewsbury School Oct. 17, 1 564, on the same day as his friend and biographer Fulke Greville, after- wards Lord Brooke; and in 1568 he was sent to Christ Church, Oxford From May 1572 to May 1575 Sidney was abroad, in France, Germany, and Italy ; sheltered in Sir Francis Walsingham's house in Paris on the night of St. Bartholomew, and spending a considerable time at Frankfort with Hubert Languet the reformer, afterwards his constant correspondent. In 1575 he appeared at Elizabeth's Court, and took part in the Kenilworth progress. In 1577 he was sent as English ambassador to Rodolph II at Prague, returning the same year. He seems to have made acquaintance with Harvey and Spenser in 1578, and in 1580, while he was in retirement at Penshurst, after his letter of remonstrance to the Queen on the Anjou match, he and his sister, the well-known Countess of Pembroke, produced a joint poetical version of the Psalms, and the Arcadia was begun (pub- lished 1590). He returned to Court in the autumn of 1580, and the Astro- phel and Stella sonnets (published 1591) probably date from the following year. TheApologieforPoetrie\f&s written in er about 1581 (the first known edition is that of London 1595). Sidney was knighted in the same year. In 1583 he married Frances, daughter of Sir Francis Walsingham, and was for the second time a member of Parliament. In Nov. 1 584 he was appointed governor of Flushing, and nearly two years later, on Sept. 22, 1586, received his fatal wound at the battle of Zutphen. A complete edition of Sidney's poems was published by the Rev. A. B. Grosart, London, 1877.] The extraordinary effect produced by Sidney's personality upon English imagination has been in many respects very little weakened by time. His name is almost as suggestive now as it was to his own generation of a typical brilliancy and charm, clouded by pre- mature death and scarcely to be matched again. This unique impression however with which the figure of 'Astrophel' is still charged, is to a large extent independent of the causes for it which influenced his contemporaries. We are for the most part moved by Sidney's life, by the romance of it or its political and histo- rical interest. His youth, his love-story, his death, these are what 34 a THE ENGLISH POETS. affect us far more than his books ; what he did and was, infinitely beyond what he wrote. ' Death, courage, honour, make thy soul to live ; Thy soul to live in heaven, thy name in tongues of menl ' His own time approached him somewhat differently. Browne's praise of him, which puts the 'deep quintessence* of his wit in the forefront of his merits, before it turns to dwell upon his 'honour, virtue, valour, excellence,' represents the general Elizabethan feeling about him better than the fine lines from Constable just quoted. His literary influence, coming as he did in the early Elizabethan days, while his great rivals to be were still for the most part undiscovered, was no doubt heightened by his personal story, but was at bottom a distinct and independent force. So much is clear from that astonishing mass of elegiac prose and verse heaped upon his grave, in itself a phenomenon in English literary history ; and as the Elizabethan time unfolds, the effect of Sidney's writing and of his special qualities of thought and style become more and more evident. Upon the generation which grew up after him, and during the first half of the seventeenth century, his influence remained undiminished. From Constable, Ben Jonson, Browne, Wither, Crashaw, Waller, out of a much wider circle, a string of passages could be quoted to prove the extraordinary spell of Sidney as a poet, above all as the poet of Stella, upon his successors. The mere name of Astrophel seems to have thrilled the literary circle around him, and that immediately following him, as no other name had power to thrill them. A reputation so romantic, and so^ dependent on the exceptional correspondence between Sidney's personality and powers and the young, quick-witted, passionate, Elizabethan spirit speaking through them, could scarcely hope to pass through Puritanism and the eighteenth century unchallenged. Milton's well-known protest against the use made by Charles I. on the scaffold of 'that vain amatorious poem of Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia? 'not to be read at any time without good caution,' is significant of decline in one direction, while in another we are brought up against some curious eighteenth-century judgments which show not only the complete distaste of a classical age for Sidney's literary performance, and the oblivion into which his best work had fallen, but even impatience of his romantic personal fame. ' When we come to enquire into the why and the wherefore of this astonishing effect upon his contemporaries,' writes Horace SIDNEY. 343 Walpole, who had never read a line of Astrophel and Stella, and had to be reminded by a friend of the existence of The Apology for Poetry, ' what do we find ? Great valour ? But it was an age of heroes ! In full of all other talents, we have a tedious, lamentable, pedantic, pastoral romance which the patience of a young virgin in love cannot now wade through ; and some absurd attempts to fetter English verse in Roman chains.' There could scarcely be a better specimen of the jugement saugrenu. Happily the antiquarian revival of the present century has so far affected Sidney among others, that such pure ignorance of his plaee in literary history is no longer possible. But it may well be questioned whether Sidney has yet regained that currency among us as a poet which he deseives. Thanks to the labour which has been spent upon him since 1800, his prose is better known and more truly classed than it used to be ; but not even the best of his poems can be said to have recovered any real hold upon English feeling. The truth is, perhaps, that the general air of Sidney's verse, so to speak, does it injustice. Even the Astrophel and Stella sonnets have at first sight, as one turns over the pages, a barren, over-elaborate look, which is apt to lead to the classing of some of the most genuine and passionate of English poems with the unde- niably dry and artificial verse of the Arcadia. Then again, his main subject is forbidding, his range is limited, and his note, to modern thinking, monotonous. We are some time in discovering in Sidney that sensitiveness to the great human problems, to the wider ques- tions of life and thought in which the best English poetry is invariably steeped, and it is easy to put his work down as ranking with all the other second-rate love poetry of the time, neither much better nor worse than the verse of Constable or Thomas Watson. His own time, however, judged rightly in separating it widely from such performances. Sidney died at thirty-two, and his poetry is throughout the poetry of a young man, in love with art, with beauty, with ingenuity in all shapes, a courtier in the days when the court was a reality, a lover at a time when love was still bound to speak a conventional tongue and to express itself by certain outward conventional signs. The marring influence upon much of it of the theories of Gabriel Harvey's ' Areopagus ' marks the difference in circumstance between himself and Spenser, his friend and temporary colleague in that whimsical scheme for bending English verse to classical shapes. In a few years Spenser was ridiculing the ' Areopagus,' and the ' passing singular odd ' 344 THE ENGLISH POETS. poems produced under its rules. Time sobered down the mo- mentary extravagance, and the familiar ways of English verse reclaimed their master. Spenser's hexameters are mere literary curiosities, buried in the shadow of The Fairy Queen. Sidney's ' Roman feet ' are one of the most prominent features of his best- known work, and were regarded as characteristic of him in days when the poems to Stella were forgotten. The freaks of the 'Areopagus' had no more real relation to his genius than they had to Spenser's ; but life left him no time to undo mistakes. Into what final mould his powers might have run is matter for speculation. The important point to notice is that death stepped in between him and that slow-coming maturity which belongs to all such rich and complex natures. His youth asserts itself in all he wrote. His best work is liable to youth's unripeness and inequality. But the greatness of his gift is not to be doubted. As a series of sonnets the Astrophel and Stella, poems are second only to Shakespeare's ; as a series of love-poems they are perhaps unsur- passed. Other writers are sweeter, more sonorous ; no other love- poet of the time is so real. The poems to Stella are steeped throughout in a certain keen and pungent individuality which leaves a haunting impression behind it. They represent, not a mere isolated mood, whether half-real like Daniel's passion for Delia, or wholly artificial like the mood of Thomas Watson's Passions, but a whole passage in a genuine life. Here is no question of the pastoral landscape with its conventional pair of figures. Sidney's every-day life as a courtier and politician, mingling with the pageantries and touching the great interests of his time, his personal character with its serious and Puritan bias, his hopes and fears for his own prospects and career, these are the facts of solid and human reality which deepen and vary the music of his passion for Stella, like rocks in the current of a stream. Not that Astrophel and Stella is without its make- believes. It has its ' conceits,' its pieces of pure word-play, in the common Elizabethan manner. No writer in the full tide of literary fashion like Sidney could afford to neglect these. But it would be scarcely fanciful to say that even in the most clearly marked of what one may call his conceited sonnets, the true Sidneian note to a reader who has learnt to catch it is almost always discernible, a note of youth and eagerness easily felt but hard to be described. As is well known, Astrophel and Stella contains the records of Sidney's love for Penelope Devereux, daughter of the first Earl SIDNEY. 345 of Essex and sister to Elizabeth's favourite. They first met at Chartley in 1575, during the Kenilworth progress, when Sidney was twenty-one and Penelope a child of twelve, and in the years between 1576 and 1580 were commonly supposed to be destined for one another. Sidney however does not appear to have pro- secuted his suit with much ardour there are several allusions to this early blindness of his in Astrophel and Stella and in 1 580 his prospects had suddenly become so clouded by his own and Leicester's temporary disgrace, that it seems to have been thought prudent that Stella should look elsewhere. At any rate, when Sidney returned to court in the autumn of 1580, he found Penelope Devereux either married (there is a doubt about the date of the marriage) or pledged to Lord Rich. Disappointment and a sharp sense of injury, expressed with plain bitterness in one of his mis- cellaneous poems (see p. 362), shook his former liking into love, and during the following year, as far as dates can now be re- covered, after Stella's marriage at any rate, as well as possibly before it, the Astrophel and Stella sonnets were written. The chronology of these sonnets is now scarcely to be deter- mined. They were not published till after Sidney's death, when they were either printed from completed MSS., in which the order had been slightly disarranged by Sidney himself, for the purpose of masking to some extent their autobiographical character, or were put together by his friends in carelessness or ignorance of the dates of many among them. The main thread however is still discernible, and a close sifting of the allusions to contemporary history in them, as well as a comparison of them with the correspondence between Languet and Sidney of 1580-81, might enable a more clear-headed editor than has yet arisen to handle Sidney, to explain much that is now obscure. There are three distinct stages in the series : the first representing a period of impetuous passion, when Sidney is wooing in hot eagerness, bend- ing all the power of his genius to the glorification of Stella and the scorning of his supplanter Lord Rich, and yet dogged perpetually by returns upon himself, by outbursts of moral sensitiveness eminently characteristic ; the second a period of partial relenting on Stella's part and of joy on Sidney's : ' Gone is the winter of my misery 1 My spring appears : O see what here doth grow, For Stella hath, with words where faith doth shine, Of her high heart given me the monarchy.' 346 THE ENGLISH POETS. And the third, a period of widening separation, when the lover, ' forced by Stella's laws of duty to depart,' sinks deeper and deeper into depression and discouragement. Joy, hope, delight, even tears, have forgotten him : 'Only true sighs you do not go away: Thank may you have for Mich, a thankful part ; Thankworthiest yet when you shall break my heart I* Last of all, we may imagine, comes a sudden call to action, perhaps connected with the schemes of colonisation which we know to have been occupying his mind in 1582, and Sidney writes the 107th sonnet, the last but one in the scries as printed, probably the true conclusion of the whole according to Sidney's plan. 'Sweet for a while give respite to my heart, Which pants as though it still should leap to thcc, And on my thorghts give thy lieutenancy To thit great cause, which needs both use and art. And as a queen who from her presence sends Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit. Till it have wrought what thy own will attends O let not fools in me thy works reprove, And scorning say, 'See what it is to love!' Scattered up and down these three divisions as the sonnets stand now, are sonnets which have no special fitness to one or other division, and others again that are clearly misplaced. Still, in the main, the story of the poems runs on unbroken, a living continuous whole growing step by step more real and more tragic. With very few exceptions, the Astrophel and Stella sonnets cannot be fairly judged apart from their context. Each sonnet depends upon those before and after it, and it is in the cumulative effect of the whole that Sidney's genius is most clearly felt. Other contemporary series of sonnets will bear unstringing without injury. A stray sonnet taken at random from Delia or Lodge's Phillis or from Drummond's love-sonnets will often compare favourably with one taken at random from Astrophel and Stella. But the weak sonnets in Sidney are like the weak places in some of Wordsworth's finest work, descents to commonplace which taken alone would be intolerable, but which in their proper context rather heighten than detract from the realistic and passionate effect of the whole. In order to preserve this general effect as much as possible, the plan of the present selection has been to take from each period a certain SIDNEY. 347 number of representative sonnets, which reproduce the original whole at least in outline, adding to these two specimens from the Astrophel and Stella songs, eleven in number, which were originally printed after the sonnets, but were interspersed among them in the Arcadia of 1598. The two sonnets beginning 'Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,' and ' Leave me, O Love which reachest but to dust,' which a recent editor has arbitrarily placed for the first time at the end of Astrophel and Stella, have been here carefully distinguished from that series. In some ways, in spite of their grand flow of verse and phrase, they are inferior to the majority of the Astrophel and Stella sonnets in workmanship, and also slightly different from them in plan. Sidney was probably not inclined to assign to them finally so conspicuous a place, and they were first published with other miscellaneous sonnets in the Arcadia of 1598. But that they were written towards the close of the Stella episode, perhaps about the time of the poet's marriage with Frances Walsingham, is certainly very likely, and their conson- ance with all that we know of that philosophical and high-minded Sidney in whom Elizabeth found an unwelcome counsellor, and Languet saw the hope of the Protestant cause in Europe, makes it justifiable to regard them as fit successors to any selection from Astrophel and Stella, and especially as closely connected with the io7th sonnet. Of the rest of Sidney's poetry it is not necessary to say very much. The Stella poems brought him his contemporary fame, and upon them and the Apology for Poetry his claim to live in English letters must always rest. His other poems have the youthful faults which mar even Astrophel and Stella, only in far greater abundance. Mere ' thin diet of dainty words,' ingenuity unrelieved by a single touch of true feeling, the stock phrases and themes common to the hundred-and-one second-rate rhymers of the day, this is all that the voluminous verse of the Arcadia, with the exception of a few passages here and there, has to offer. The two songs quoted below from the ' Certain Sonnets never before printed,' of 1595, belong to the great lyrical growth of the time, and are specimens of Sidney's freest and most spontaneous manner. One of them, the passionate dirge beginning ' Ring out ye bells, let mourning shews be spread,' has a swing and force which ought long ago to have rescued it from oblivion. MARY A. WARD. 348 THE ENGLISH POETS. ASTROPHEL AND STELLA. Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain, Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain, I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe ; Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain, Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burn'd brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay ; Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows ; And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite ; Fool, said my Muse to me, look in thy heart, and write. It is most true that eyes are form'd to serve The inward light, and that the heavenly part Ought to be King, from whose rules who do swerve, Rebels to nature, strive for their own smart. It is most true, what we call Cupid's dart An image is, which for ourselves we carve, And, fools, adore in temple of our heart, Till that good god make church and churchmen starve True, that true beauty virtue is indeed, Whereof this beauty can be but a shade, Which, elements with mortal mixture breed : True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made, And should in soul up to our country move : True, and yet true that I must Stella love. SIDNEY. 349 18. With what sharp checks I in myself am shent * When into Reason's audit I do go, And by just 'counts myself a bankrupt know Of all those goods which heaven to me hath lent ; Unable quite to pay even Nature's rent, Which unto it by birthright I do owe ; And, which is worse, no good excuse can show, But that my wealth I have most idly spent ! My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toys ; My wit doth strive those passions to defend, Which, for reward, spoil it with vain annoys. I see, my course to lose myself doth bend ; I see and yet no greater sorrow take Than that I lose no more for Stella's sake. 23. V The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness Bewray itself in my long-settled eyes, Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise, r With idle pains and missing aim, do guess. ** Some, that know how my spring I did address, - Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies ; Ir Others, because the prince my service tries, -& Think that I think State errors to redress : But harder judges judge ambition's rage Scourge of itself, still climbing slippery place Holds my young brain captived in golden cage. O fools, or over-wise : alas, the race Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart. 1 blamed. 350 THE ENGLISH POETS. 26. Though dusty wits dare scorn Astrology, And fools can think those lamps of purest light Whose numbers, ways, greatness, eternity, Promising wonders, wonder do invite To have for no cause birthright in the sky But for to spangle the black weeds of Night ; Or for some brawl l , which in that chamber high, They should still dance to please a gazer's sight. For me, I do Nature unidle know, And know great causes great effects procure ; And know those bodies high reign on the low. And if these rules did fail, proof makes me sure, Who oft foresee my after-following race, By only those two stars in Stella's face. 30- Whether the Turkish new moon minded be To fill her horns this year on Christian coast ? How Poland's king means without leave of host To warm with ill-made fire cold Muscovy? If French can yet three parts in one agree? What now the Dutch in their full diets boast ? How Holland hearts, now so good towns be lost, Trust in the shade of pleasant Orange-tree ? How Ulster likes of that same golden bit Wherewith my father once made it half tame? If in the Scotch Court be no weltering yet? These questions busy wits to me do frame : I, cumbered with good manners, answer do, But know not how ; for still I think of you. 1 For branle, a kind ot dance (Fr.). SIDNEY. 351 31- With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ! How silently, and with how wan a face ! What, may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ! Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, I read it in thy looks ; thy languish! grace, To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? 32. Morpheus, the lively son of deadly Sleep, Witness of life to them that living die, A prophet oft, and oft an history, A poet eke, as humours fly or creep ; Since thou in me so sure a power dost keep, That never I with clos'd-up sense do lie, But by thy work my Stella I descry, Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weep ; Vouchsafe, of all acquaintance, this to tell, Whence hast thou ivory, rubies, pearl, and gold, To show her skin, lips, teeth, and head so well? Fool ! answers he ; no Indes such treasures hold ; But from thy heart, while my sire charmeth thee, Sweet Stella's image I do steal to me. 352 THE ENGLISH POETS. 33- I might ! unhappy word O me, I might, And then would not, or could not, see my bliss ; Till now wrapt in a most infernal night, I find how heavenly day, wretch ! I did miss. Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right ; No lovely Paris made thy Helen his : No force, no fraud robb'd thee of thy delight, Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is ; But to myself myself did give the blow, While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me, That I respects for both our sakes must show : And yet could not, by rising morn foresee How fair a day was near : O punisht eyes, That I had been more foolish, or more wise ! 37- This night, while sleep begins with heavy wings To hatch mine eyes, and that unbilled thought Doth fall to stray, and my chief powers are brought To leave the sceptre of all subject things ; The first that straight my fancy's error brings Unto my mind is Stella's image, wrought By Love's own self, but with so curious draught That she, methinks, not only shines but sings. I start, look, hark ; but what in closed-up sense Was held, in opened sense it flies away, Leaving me nought but wailing eloquence. I, seeing better sights in sight's decay, Call'd it anew, and wooed Sleep again ; But him, her host, that unkind guest had slain. SIDNEY. 353 39- Come, Sleep ! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, " 4* The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, v Th' indifferent judge between the high and low ; With shield of proof shield rrie from out the press Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw : make in me those civil wars to cease ; 1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, i/ A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland and a weary head : And if these things, as being thine in right, Mbve not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 48. Soul's joy, bend not those morning stars from me, Where Virtue is made strong by Beauty's might ; Where Love is chastness, Pain doth learn delight, And Humbleness grows one with Majesty. Whatever may ensue, O let me be Co-partner of the riches of that sight ; Let not mine eyes be hell-driven from that light ; O look, O shine, O let me die, and see. For though I oft myself of them bemoan That through my heart their beamy darts be gone, Whose cureless wounds even now most freshly bleed, Yet since my death-wound is already got, Dear killer, spare not thy sweet-cruel shot ; A kind of grace it is to slay with speed. VOL. i. A a 354 THE ENGLISH POETS. 61. Oft with true sighs, oft with uncalled tears, Now with slow words, now with dumb eloquence, I Stella's eyes assayed, invade her ears ; But this, at last, is her sweet-breath'd defence : That who indeed in-felt affection bears, So captives to his saint both soul and sense, That, wholly hers, all selfness he forbears, Then his desires he learns, his life's course thence. Now, since her chaste mind hates this love in me, With chastened mind I straight must show that she Shall quickly me from what she hates remove. O Doctor Cupid, thou for me reply ; Driven else to grant, by angel's sophistry, That I love not without I leave to love. 64. No more, my dear, no more these counsels try ; give my passions leave to run their race ; Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace ; Let folk o'ercharged with brain against me cry ; Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye ; Let me no steps but of lost labour trace ; Let all the earth with scorn recount my case, But do not will me from my love to fly. 1 do not envy Aristotle's wit, Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame ; Nor aught do care though some above me sit ; Nor hope nor wish another course to frame, But that which once may win thy cruel heart : Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art srDNEY. 355 66. And do I see some cause a hope to feed, Or doth the tedious burden of long woe In weakened minds quick apprehending breed Of every image which may comfort show? I cannot brag of word, much less of deed, Fortune wheels still with me in one sort slow ; My wealth no more, and no whit less my need ; Desire still on stilts of Fear doth go. And yet amid all fears a hope there is, Stolen to my heart since last fair night, nay day, Stella's eyes sent to me the beams of bliss, Looking on me while I look'd other way : But when mine eyes back to their heaven did move, They fled with blush which guilty seemed of love. 69. O joy too high for my low style to show ! O bliss fit for a nobler state than me ! Envy, put out thine eyes, lest thou do see What oceans of delight in me do flow ! My friend, that oft saw through all masks my woe, Come, come, and let me pour myself on thee. Gone is the Winter of my misery ! My Spring appears ; O see what here doth grow : For Stella hath, with words where faith doth shine, Of her high heart given me the monarchy : I, I, O I, may say that she is mine ! And though she give but thus conditionly, This realm of bliss while virtuous course I take. No kings be crown'd but they some covenants make. A a 2 356 THE ENGLISH POETS. 74- I never drank of Aganippe well, Nor ever did in shade of Tempe sit, And Muses scorn with vulgar brains to dwell ; Poor layman I, for sacred rites unfit. Some do I hear of poets' fury tell, But, God wot, wot not what they mean by it ; And this I swear by blackest brook of hell, I am no pick-purse of another's wit. How falls it then, that with so smooth an ease My thoughts I speak ; and what I speak doth flow In verse, and that my verse best wits doth please ? Guess we the cause ! What, is it thus ? Fie, no. Or so ? Much less. How then ? Sure thus it is, My lips are sweet, inspired with Stella's kiss. 84. High way, since you my chief Parnassus be, And that my Muse, to some ears not unswcet, Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet More oft than to a chamber-melody. Now, blessed you bear onward blessed me To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet ; My Muse and I must you of duty greet With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully. Be you still fair, honoured by public heed ; By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot ; Nor blam'd for blood, nor sham'd for sinful deed ; And that you know I envy you no lot Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss, Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss. SIDNEY. 357 87. When I was forced from Stella ever dear Stella, food of my thoughts, heart of my heart Stella, whose eyes make all my tempests clear By Stella's laws of duty to depart ; Alas, I found that she with me did smart ; I saw that tears did in her eyes appear ; I saw that sighs her sweetest lips did part, And her sad words my sadded sense did hear. For me, I wept to see pearls scattered so ; I sighed her sighs, and wailed for her woe ; Yet swam in joy, such love in her was seen. Thus, while th' effect most bitter was to me, And nothing then the cause more sweet could be, I had been vexed, if vexed I had not been. 90- Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame, Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee ; Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history : If thou praise not r all other praise is shame. Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame A nest for my young praise in laurel tree : In truth, I swear I wish not there should be Graved in my epitaph a Poet's name. Nor, if I would, could I just title make, That any laud thereof to me should grow, Without my plumes from others' wings I take : For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, Since all my words thy beauty doth endite, And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write. 358 THE ENGLISH POETS. 9*- Be your words made, good Sir, of Indian ware, That you allow me them by so small rate? Or do you curted Spartans imitate? Or do you mean my tender ears to spare, That to my questions you so total are? When I demand of Phoenix-Stella's state, You say, forsooth, you left her well of late : God, think you that satisfies my care? 1 would know whether she did sit or walk ; How clothed ; how waited on ; sighed she, or smiled Whereof, with whom, how often did she talk ; With what pastimes Time's journey she beguiled ; If her lips deigned to sweeten my poor name : Say all; and all well said, still say the same. 92. fate, O fault, O curse, child of my bliss ! What sobs can give words grace my grief to show? What ink is black enough to paint my woe ? Through me wretch me even Stella vexed is. Yet, truth if caitif's breath may call thee this Witness with me, that my foul stumbling so, From carelessness did in no manner grow ; But wit, confused with too much care, did miss. And do I, then, myself this vain 'scuse give ? 1 have live I, and know this harmed thee : Though worlds 'quit me, shall I myself forgive ? Only with pains my pains thus eased be, That all thy hurts in my heart's wrack I read ; I cry thy sighs, my dear, thy tears I bleed. SIDNEY. 359 107. Stella, since thou so right a princess art Of all the powers which life bestows on me, That ere by them ought undertaken be, They first resort unto that sovereign part ; Sweet, for a while give respite to my heart, Which pants as though it still should leap to thee : And on my thoughts give thy lieutenancy To this great cause, which needs both use and art And as a queen, who from her presence sends Whom she employs, dismiss from thee my wit, Till it have wrought what thy own will attends, On servants' shame oft masters' blame doth sit : O let not fools in me thy works reprove, And scorning say, ' See what it is to love ! ' SONGS FROM ASTROPHEL AND STELLA. Seventh Song. Stella singing. Whose senses in so ill consort their step-dame Nature lays, That ravishing delight in them most sweet tunes do not raise ; Or if they do delight therein, yet are so closed with wit, As with sententious lips to set a title vain on it ; O let them hear these sacred tunes, and learn in Wonder's schools, To be, in things past bounds of wit, fools if they be not fools ! Who have so leaden eyes, as not to see sweet Beauty's show, Or, seeing, have so wooden wits, as not that worth to know, Or, knowing, have so muddy minds, as not to be in love, Or, loving, have so frothy thoughts, as eas'ly thence to move ; O let them see these heavenly beams, and in fair letters read A lesson fit, both sight and skill, love and firm love to breed. 360 THE ENGLISH POETS. Hear then, but then with wonder hear, see, but adoring, see, No mortal gifts, no earthly fruits, now here descended be : See, do you see this face ? a face, nay, image of the skies, Of which, the two life-giving lights are figured in her eyes : Hear you this soul-invading voice, and count it but a voice? The very essence of their tunes, when angels do rejoice ! Tenth Song. Absence. O dear life, when shall it be That mine eyes thine eyes shall see, And in them thy mind discover Whether absence have had force Thy remembrance to divorce From the image of thy lover ? Or if I myself find not, After parting, aught forgot, Nor debarred from Beauty's treasure, Let not tongue aspire to tell In what high joys I shall dwell ; Only thought aims at the pleasure. Thought, therefore, I will send thee To take up the place for me: Long I will not after tarry, There, unseen, thou mayst be bold, Those fair wonders to behold, Which in them my hopes do carry. Thought, see thou no place forbear, Enter bravely everywhere, Seize on all to her belonging; But if thou wouldst guarded be, Fearing her beams, take with thee Strength of liking, rage of longing. Think of that most grateful time When my leaping heart will climb, SIDNEY. , 361 In my lips to have his biding, There those roses for to kiss, Which do breathe a sugared bliss, Opening rubies, pearls dividing. Think, think of those dallyings, When with dove-like murmurings, With glad moaning, passed anguish, We change eyes, and heart for heart, Each to other do depart 1 , Joying till joy makes us languish. O my thought, my thoughts surcease, Thy delights my woes increase, My life melts with too much thinking ; Think no more, but die in me, Till thou shalt revived be, At her lips my nectar drinking. [From the collection of Miscellaneous Poems first published in the Arcadia of 1 595, under the heading of Certain Sonnets of Sir Philip Sidney never before printed.'] PHILOMELA. The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making, And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness : Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth ; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. 1 share, exchange (Spanish departir). 36 a THE ENGLISH POETS. A DIRGE. Ring out your bells, let mourning shews be spread ; For Love is dead : All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain : Worth, as nought worth, rejected, And Faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us ! Weep, neighbours, weep ; do you not hear it said That Love is dead? His death -bed, peacock's folly ; His winding-sheet is shame ; His will, false-seeming wholly ; His sole executor, blame. From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us ! Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead ; Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart ; Which epitaph containeth, ' Her eyes were once his dart' From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female frenzy, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us ! Alas, I lie : rage hath this error bred ; Love is not dead ; SIDNEY. 363 Love is not dead, but sleepeth In her unmatched mind, Where she his counsel keepeth, Till due deserts she find. Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a frenzy, Who Love can temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us I Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare, Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought : Band of all evils ; cradle of causeless care ; Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought : Desire ! Desire ! I have too dearly bought, With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware ; Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought, Who should my mind to higher things prepare. But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought ; In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire ; In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire ; For Virtue hath this better lesson taught, Within myself to seek my only hire, Desiring nought but how to kill Desire. 2. Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust ; And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things ; Grow rich in that which never taketh rust ; Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings. Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be ; Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light, That doth both shine, and give us sight to see. 364 THE ENGLISH POETS. O take fast hold ; let that light be thy guide In this small course which birth draws out to death, And think how ill becometh him to slide, Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. Then farewell, world ; thy uttermost I see : Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me I FROM THE 'ARCADIA.' Dorus to Pamela. My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve ; Their pasture is fair hills of fruitless love, On barren sweets they feed, and feeding starve. 1 wail their lot, but will not other prove ; My sheephook is wan hope, which all upholds ; My weeds Desire, cut out in endless folds ; What wool my sheep shall bear, whilst thus they live, In you it is, you must the judgment give. Night. O Night, the ease of care, the pledge of pleasure, Desire's best mean, harvest of hearts affected, The seat of peace, the throne which is erected Of human life to be the quiet measure ; Be victor still of Phoebus' golden treasure, Who hath our sight with too much sight infected ; Whose light is cause we have our lives neglected, Turning all Nature's course to self displeasure. These stately stars in their now shining faces, With sinless sleep, and silence wisdom's mother, Witness his wrong which by thy help is eased : Thou art, therefore, of these our desert places The sure refuge ; by thee and by no other My soul is blest, sense joy'd, and fortune raised. FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE. [FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE, born 1554, was the school-fellow and friend of Sidney. He held two important offices under Elizabeth's government, that of Secretary to the Principality of Wales (1583), and that of Treasurer of Marine Causes (1597). He seems to have spent the early years of James' reign in retirement, returning to Court about 1614, in which year he was made Chancellor of the Exchequer and Privy Councillor. In 1620 he was created Baron Brooke of Beauchamp's Court, and died in 1628 from the effects of a wound given him by a servant. The only works published in his lifetime were an elegiac poem on Sidney in Phoenix Nest (1593), a poem in Bodenham's Belvedere (1600), three poems in England 's Helicon, and the Tragedy of Mustapha in 1609. An edition of his works, excluding the Poems of Monarchy and Religion (published 1670) appeared in 1633. In 1870 his complete works, prose and verse, were edited in the Fuller Worthies Library by the Rev. A. B. Grosart.] The poems of Lord Brooke, written for the most part 'in his youth and familiar exercise with Sir Philip Sidney,' according to the title page of the 1633 editions, have a real and permanent value, though they can never hope to appeal to any other than a limited and so to speak professional audience. They are the work of a man of great thinking power, and of singular nobility and upright- ness of character. The .sheer power of mind shewn in these strange plays and treatises and so-called sonnets is undeniable. Every now and then it leads their author to a genuine success, to a fine chorus, a speech of weird and concentrated passion as impressive as a speech of Ford's, though even less human, a shorter poem of real and fanciful beauty. But generally we find this inborn power strug- gling with a medium of expression so cumbrous and intricate and stumbling, that neither thought nor fancy can find their way through it. Words are taxed beyond what they can bear ; all thoughts, whether great or trivial, are tortured into the same over-laboured dress ; there is no ease, no flow, no joy. More than this ; not only is the manner far removed from the true manner of poetry, but in 3 66 THE ENGLISH POETS. large tracts of it the matter handled has nothing to do with poetry, 'The Declination of Monarchy,' 'Of Weak-minded Tyrants,' 'Of Laws,' 'Of Nobility,' 'Of Commerce,' 'Of Crown Revenue,' these are not the subjects of the poet. In the seventeenth century they were the subjects of the pamphleteer, and no one could have treated them in prose with greater ability and a more Miltonic swing and pregnancy of phrase than Lord Brooke. Buried in pages of weari- some verse, his discussions of these and such-like topics, in spite of acuteness, in spite of a wide and modern political view, are intoler- able as poetry and unreadable as political and philosophical argu- ment. His theory as it was the theory of so many of his later contemporaries, of Sir John Davies, of Christopher Brooke, and Sir William Alexander seems to have been that all subjects of serious human interest were equally within the sphere of poetry, or could be turned into poetry by a sort of coup de main. On the other hand, he not only attempted to treat scientific matter poetically, but also to treat genuinely poetical matter, such as natural beauty or human passion, or religious emotion, scientifically, making analysis and comparison play the part of feeling, and preserving the same stiffness and pedantry of movement in the most passionate or graceful situations. Yet at bottom Lord Brooke had many of the poet's gifts. His worst things contain a scant measure of fine lines and passages, such as perhaps few other Elizabethan writers below the first circle could have written, expressed with admirable re- sonance and terseness. At his best he rises very high, as we hope to show in the following extracts. But of the exquisite Elizabethan fluency and archness, the transparent sweetness of Spenser, the spontaneity and brilliancy of Sidney, Lord Brooke had little or nothing. His poetry bears witness in an extraordinary degree to the mental energy and acuteness of the time ; it is wholly lacking in the Elizabethan charm. Sir William Davenant is reported to have said of him, that he had written good poetry in his youth and had then spoilt it by keeping it by him till old age. Lord Brooke's own explanation of the peculiar quality of his work however goes deeper than this. In the so-called Life of Sidney, after making a half apology for the romance and fancifulness of Sidney's Arcadia, and justifying the book as after all not lacking in 'images and examples (as directing threads) to guide every man through the confused Labyrinth of his own desires and life,' he continues : ' For my own part I found my creeping genius more fixed upon the images of life than the images of wit, and therefore chose not LORD BROOKE. 367 to write to them on whose foot the black ox had not already trod, as the proverb is, but to those only that are weatherbeaten in the sea of this world, such as having lost the sight of their gardens and groves, study to sail on a right course among rocks and quicksands.' Thus beside the young unpruned imagination of his friend, quenched before time had stolen from it a particle of its joyousness and luxuriance, he places his own elder and way-worn muse the poetry of 'Life' beside the poetry of 'Wit.' Such a distinction breathes the spirit of a new world ; and in parting Lord Brooke from the writer of Astrophel and Stella places him mentally beside Milton and Bacon. The folio edition of his works, of 1633, the materials for which had been revised and collected for publication by the author, contains three treatises, on ' Human Learning,' on 'Wars,' and 'An Inquisi- tion upon Fame and Honour,' the tragedies of Alaham and Mustapha, and the hundred and ten sonnets of Caelica. The Poems of Monarchy and Religion were published later in 1670. Mustapha had also appeared earlier in 1609. To these Mr. Grosart, in a recent complete edition has added a few miscellaneous poems, the lament for Sidney, published in The Phoenix' Nest of 1593, two or three poems from England's Helicon, and a doubtful one from The Paradise of Dainty Devices. Of these we are not now concerned with the treatises. They were originally meant to serve as choruses between the acts of Alaham and Mustapha a whimsical instance of the impracticability of Lord Brooke's genius and, as we have already said, they are not without lines and passages of poetry. But in the main they .are either matter for the biographer, or for the student of seventeenth-century spe- culation. The collection of shorter poems under the name of Caelica contains a number of love-poems, some perhaps genuine, others mocking and cynical, which, as in Habington's Castara, lead up to a concluding group of religious and philosophical pieces. With sonnets, properly so called, they have nothing more in com- mon than the name. Some of them are undoubtedly echoes of Astrophel and Stella, harsh fantastic echoes which but rarely recall the music of the earlier strain. Sonnet 46, ' Patience, weak- fortun'd and weak-minded wit,' is an ' exercise ' on the same theme as Sonnet 56 of Astrophel and Stella. The end of Sonnet 45 is a reminiscence of the tenth song in the same collection, and two better illustrations of poetical failure on the one hand, and such poetical success as the kind of theme admits of on the other, 368 THE ENGLISH POETS. could scarcely be brought together than the thirteenth sonnet of Catlica, 'Cupid his boy's play many times forbidden,' as com- pared with the well-known ' His mother dear Cupid offended late' of Astrophel and Stella. This list might be largely extended with ever-increasing profit to Sidney's reputation. Still, when all deductions are made, Caelica brings its own peculiar reward to the reader. There are veins of poetry in it of a remote and fanciful kind, and what is not poetry will often affect us with the old-world charm, which is the true explanation of Cultismo wherever it appears in literary history, the charm of ingenuity as such, of mind-play pure and simple. To which may be added that among the religious poems of Caelica there is perhaps simpler and sincerer work than Lord Brooke produced anywhere else. With regard to the poem-plays of Alaham and Mustapha, which may be compared with the much inferior ' Monarchical tragedies' of Sir William Alexander, nothing can be added to the well-known criticism of Charles Lamb, which describes them as ' political treatises, not plays,' in which ' all is made frozen and rigid with intellect,' or to Lord Brooke's own account of them as intended to illustrate the ' high ways of ambitious governours,' and the public and private ruin to which such ways tend. In spite oi tragical situations, in spite of the injured youth of Mustapha, and the maiden heroism of Caelica, they are not tragical, and for all their high intellectual interest they are very seldom poetical In those rare instances however, where the poet succeeds in mastering and transforming the philosopher, there we have a very noble and perfect effect, such an effect as is reached in The Chorus of Tartars quoted below, where the plea of the world against the claims and promises of religion is put with a passion and directness which lifts it far above its surroundings. The outer facts of Lord Brooke's prolonged literary career bring the world of Spenser and the world of Milton together in a striking way. He, with Spenser, Dyer, and Sidney, was a mem- ber of Harvey's 'Areopagus,' and there is other evidence of intercourse between him and Spenser. His friendship with Sidney is one of the classical stories in the history of English letters. On the other hand Davenant, the founder of the Restoration theatre, was the protege" of his old age, and he died the year before the composition of the Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity. MARY A. WARD. LORD BROOKE. 369 CHORUS OF TARTARS. [From the Tragedy of Musiapha.] Vast Superstition ! Glorious style of weakness ! Sprung from the deep disquiet of man's passion, To dissolution and despair of Nature : Thy texts bring princes' titles into question : Thy prophets set on work the sword of tyrants : They manacle sweet Truth with their distinctions : Let Virtue blood : teach Cruelty for God's sake ; Fashioning one God ; yet Him of many fashions, Like many-headed Error, in their passions. Mankind ! Trust not these superstitious dreams, Fear's idols, Pleasure's relics, Sorrow's pleasures : They make the wilful hearts their holy temples, The rebels unto government their martyrs. No : Thou child of false miracles begotten ! False miracles, which are but ignorance of cause, Lift up the hopes of thy abjected prophets : Courage and Worth abjure thy painted heavens. Sickness, thy blessings are ; Misery thy trial ; Nothing, thy way unto eternal being ; Death, to salvation ; and the grave to heaven. So blest be they, so angel'd, so eterniz'd That tie their senses to thy senseless glories, And die, to cloy the after-age with stories. Man should make much of Life, as Nature's table, Wherein she writes the cypher of her glory. Forsake not Nature, nor misunderstand her : Her mysteries are read without Faith's eye-sight : She speaketh in our flesh ; and from our senses Delivers down her wisdoms to our reason. If any man would break her laws to kill, Nature doth for defence allow offences. VOL. I. B b 370 THE ENGLISH POETS. She neither taught the father to destroy : Nor promis'd any man, by dying, joy. 1 CHORUS OF PRIESTS. [From Muttapka.] Oh wearisome condition of Humanity ! Born under one law, to another bound, Vainly begot and yet forbidden vanity, Created sick, commanded to be sound : What meaneth Nature by these diverse laws? Passion and reason self-division cause. Is it the mask or majesty of Power To make offences that it may forgive ? Nature herself doth her own self deflowei To hate those errors she herself doth give. For how should man think that he may not do If Nature did not fail and punish too? Tyrant to others, to herself unjust, Only commands things difficult and hard ; Forbids us all things which it knows we lust ; Makes easy pains, impossible reward. If Nature did not take delight in blood, She would have made more easy ways to good. We that are bound by vows and by promotion, With pomp of holy sacrifice and rites, To preach belief in God and stir devotion, To preach of Heaven's wonders and delights, Yet when each of us in his own heart looks He finds the God there far unlike his books. 1 These last four lines are in allusion to the plot of Mustafka, which turns upon the murder of the unresisting and innocent Mustapha by his father Solyman, in consequence of cei tain unjust suspicions. LORD BROOKE. 371 CHORUS OF GOOD AND EVIL SPIRITS. [From AIaham.~\ Evil Spirits. Why did you not defend that which was once your own ? Between us two, the odds of worth, by odds of power is known Besides map clearly out your infinite extent, Even in the infancy of Time, when man was innocent ' ; Could this world then yield aught to envy or desire, Where pride of courage made men fall, and baseness rais'd them higher ? Where they that would be great, to "be o must be least, And where to bear and suffer wrong, was Virtue's native crest. Man's skin was then his silk ; the world's wild fruit his food ; His wisdom, poor simplicity; his trophies inward good. No majesty for power ; nor glories for man's worth ; Nor any end, but as the plants to bring each other forth. Temples and vessels fit for outward sacrifice, As they came in, so they go out with that which you call vice. The priesthood few and poor j no throne but open air ; For that which you call good, allows of nothing that is fair. No Pyramids rais'd up above the force of thunder, No Babel-walls by greatness built, for littleness a wonder, No conquest testifying wit, with [dauntless] courage mixt ; As wheels whereon the world must run, and never can be fixt. No arts or characters to read the great God in, Nor stories of acts done ; for these all entered with the sin. A lazy calm, wherein each fool a pilot is ! The glory of the skilful shines, where men may go amiss. Till we came in there was no trial of your might, And since we were in men, yourselves presume of little right. Then cease to blast the Earth with your abstracted dreams, And strive no more to carry men against Affection's streams. ******* Keep therefore where you are ; descend not but ascend : For, underneath the sun, be sure no brave state is your friend. ' consider the boundless power you enjoyed in the golden age.' B b 2 37 a THE ENGLISH POETS. Good Spirits. What have you won by this, but that curst under Sin, You make and mar ; .throw down and raise ; as ever to begin ; Like meteors in the air, you blaze but to burn out ; And change your shapes like phantom'd clouds to leave weak eyes in doubt. Not Truth but truth-like grounds you work upon, Varying in all but this, that you can never long be one : Then play here with your art, false miracle devise ; Deceive, and be deceived still, be foolish and seem wise ; In Peace erect your thrones, your delicacy spread ; The flowers of time corrupt, soon spring, and are as quickly dead: Let War, which tempest-likeall with itself o'erthrows, Make of this diverse world a stage of blood-enamelled shows : Successively both these yet this fate follow will, That all their glories be no more than change from ill to ilL SEED-TIME AND HARVEST. [From Caelica, Sonnet XL.] The nurse-life wheat within his green husk growing Flatters our hopes and tickles our desire ; Nature's true riches in sweet beauties shewing, Which set all hearts with labour's love on fire. No less fair is the wheat when golden ear Shews unto hope the joys of near enjoying : Fair and sweet is the bud ; more sweet and fair The rose, which proves that Time is not destroying. Caelica, your youth, the morning of delight, Knamel'd o'er with beauties white and red, All sense and thoughts did to belief invite, That love and glory there are brought to bed ; And your ripe years, Love, now they grow no higher, Turn all the spirits of man into desire '. 1 The reading of these last two lines is conjectural. LORD BROOKE. 373 ELIZABETHA REGINA. [From Caeliea, Sonnet LXXXII.] Under a throne I saw a virgin sit, The red and white rose quartered in her face, Star of the North! and for true guards to it, Princes, church, states, all pointing out her grace. The homage done her was not born of Wit ; Wisdom admir'd, Zeal took Ambition's place, State in her eyes taught Order how to fit And fix Confusion's unobserving race Fortune can here claim nothing truly great, But that this princely creature is her seat. SONNET. [From Caeliea, Sonnet CX.] Sion lies waste, and Thy Jerusalem, O Lord, is fall'n to utter desolation ; Against Thy prophets and Thy holy men, There sin hath wrought a fatal combination : Profan'd Thy name, Thy worship overthrown, And made Thee, living Lord, a God unknown. Thy powerful laws, Thy wonders of creation, Thy word incarnate, glorious heaven, dark hell, Lie shadowed under man's degeneration ; Thy Christ still crucified for doing well ; Impiety, O Lord, sits on Thy throne, Which makes Thee living Lord, a God unknown. Man's superstition hath Thy truth entombed, His atheism again her pomps defaceth ; That sensual, insatiable vast womb, Of thy seen Church, Thy unseen Church disgraceth ; There lives no truth with them that seem Thine own, Which makes Thee, living Lord, a God unknown. 374 THE ENGLISH POETS. Yet unto Thee, Lord mirror of transgression We who for earthly idols have forsaken, Thy heavenly image sinless, pure impression And so in nets of vanity lie taken, All desolate implore that to Thine own, Lord, Thou no longer live a God unknown. Yea, Lord, let Israel's plagues not be eternal, Nor sin for ever cloud Thy sacred mountains, Nor with false flames spiritual but infernal, Dry up Thy Mercy's ever springing fountains: Rather, sweet Jesus, fill up time and come, To yield to sin her everlasting doom. AN ELEGY ON SIR PHILIP SIDNEY*. Silence augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage, Staled are my thoughts, which loved and lost the wonder of our age ; Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, Enraged I write, I know not what ; dead quick I know not how. Hard-hearted minds relent and Rigour's tears abound, And Envy strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found. Knowledge her light hath lost, Valour hath slain her knight, Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight. Place pensive wails his fall, whose presence was her pride, Time crieth out, my ebb is come ; his life was my spring-tide ! Fame mourns in that she lost the ground of her reports, Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts. He was (woe worth that word !) to each well-thinking mind A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined, Declaring in his thoughts, his life and that he writ, Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit. 1 The authorship of this poem is by no means certain. Lamb however believed it to be by Lord Brooke. LORD BROOKE. 375 Farewell to you my hopes, my wonted waking dreams, Farewell sometimes enjoyed joy, eclipsed are thy beams, Farewell self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth, And farewell friendship's sacred league, uniting minds of worth. And farewell merry heart, the gift of guiltless minds, And all sports, which for life's restore, variety assigns : Let all that sweet is void ; in me no mirth may dwell : Philip the cause of all this woe, my life's content, farewell ! Now rhyme, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill, And endless grief, which deads my life yet knows not how to kill, Go, seek that hapless tomb, which if ye hap to find, Salute the stones that keep the limbs, that held so good a mind. SIR EDWARD DYER. [Born about 1550 at Sharpham near Glastonbnry; educated at Balliol College, Oxford ; ambassador to Denmark 1589 ; knighted 1596 ; died 1607.] Sir Edward Dyer, ' for Elegy most sweete, solempne and of high conceit,' according to a contemporary judgment, makes the last in importance, though the first in date, of that trio of poet-friends celebrated in Sidney's well-known Pastoral : 'Join hearts and hands, so -let it be: Make but one mind in bodies three.' Very little authentic verse of his is now extant, nor is it probable that he produced much. On the other hand he has been freely credited with verses that do not belong to him, especially with cer- tain poems that are now known to be by Lodge. Mr. Grosart has collected twelve pieces which may be attributed to him with a fair amount of certainty. Of these 'A Fancy' is interesting as having provoked a much better poem on the same model by Lord Brooke, and a later imitation by Robert Southwell It is however too rambling and unequal for quotation. Dyer is now remembered by one poem only, the well-known ' My mind to me a kingdom is,' which though fluent and spirited verse, probably owes most of its reputation to the happiness of its opening. The little poem ' To Phillis the Fair Shepherdess' is in the lighter, less hackneyed Elizabethan vein, and makes a welcome interlude among the 'woe- ful ballads' which immediately surround it in England's Helicon^ where it first appeared. Still, when all is said, Dyer, a man of action and affairs rather than of letters, is chiefly interesting for his connection with Sidney and Greville ; and that stiff pathetic engraving of Sidney's funeral, which represents him as pall-bearer side by side with Lord Brooke, throws a light upon his memory that none of his poems have power to shed. The last two extracts given below are taken from a book of which an apparently unique copy (dated 1 588) is preserved in the Bodleian Library, under the title of Sire Idillia (from Theocritus) 1 . Mr. Collier attributes this book to Dyer, on the ground of the initials E. D. given on the back of the title-page. This is weak evidence, but the fluency and sweetness of the translations make us loth to reject it MARY A. WARD. 1 A small edition of this book has just (1883) been issued from the private press of the Rev. Henry Daniel, of Oxford. DYER. 377 MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM is. My mind to me a kingdom is, Such present joys therein I find, That it excels all other bliss That earth affords or grows by kind : Though much I want which most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. No princely pomp, no wealthy store, No force to win the victory, No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to feed a loving eye ; To none of these I yield as thrall : For why? My mind doth serve for all. I see how plenty [surfeits] oft, And hasty climbers soon do fall ; I see that those which are aloft Mishap doth threaten most of all ; They get with toil, they keep with fear ; Such cares my mind could never bear. Content to 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 do crave ; I little have, and 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 ; They lack, I leave ; they pine, I live. 378 THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 laugh not at another's loss ; I grudge not at another's pain ; No worldly waves my mind can toss ; My state at one doth still remain : I fear no foe, I fawn no friend ; 1 loathe not life, nor dread my end. Some weigh their pleasure by their lust, Their wisdom by their rage of will ; Their treasure is their only trust ; A cloaked craft their store of skill : But all the pleasure that I find Is to maintain a quiet mind. My wealth is health and perfect ease : My conscience clear my chief defence : I neither seek by bribes to please, Nor by deceit to breed offence : Thus do I live ; thus will I die ; Would all did so as well as I ! To PHILLIS THE FAIR SHEPHERDESS. My Phiilis hath the morning Sun, At first to look upon her : And Phiilis hath morn-waking birds, Her rising still to honour. My Phiilis hath prime feathered flowers, That smile when she treads on them : And Phiilis hath a gallant flock That leaps since she doth own them. But Phiilis hath too hard a heart, Alas, that she should have it I It yields no mercy to desert Nor grace to those that crave it. DYER. 379 Sweet Sun, when thou look'st on, Pray her regard my moan ! Sweet birds when you sing to her To yield some pity woo her ! Sweet flowers that she treads on, Tell her, her beauty dreads one. And if in life her love she nill agree me, Pray her before I die, she will come see me. HELEN'S EPITHALAMION. [From the Sixe Idillia.] Like as the rising morning shows a grateful lightening, When sacred night is past and winter now lets loose the spring, So glittering Helen shined among the maids, lusty and tall. As is the furrow in a field that far outstretcheth all, Or in a garden is a Cypress tree, or in a trace A steed of Thessaly, so she to Sparta was a grace. No damsel with such works as she her baskets used to fill, Nor in a diverse coloured web a woof of greater skill Doth cut from off the loom : nor any hath such songs and lays Unto her dainty harp, in Dian's and Minerva's praise, As Helen hath, in whose bright eyes all Loves and Graces be. O fair, O lovely maid, a matron now is made of thee ; But we will every spring unto the leaves in meadows go To gather garlands sweet, and there not with a little woe, Will often think of thee, O Helen, as the sucking lambs Desire the strouting bags and presence of their tender dams, We all betimes for thee a wreath of Melitoe will knit, And on a shady plane for thee will safely fasten it, And all betimes for thee, under a shady plane below, Out of a silver box the sweetest ointment will bestow ; And letters shall be written in the bark that men may see And read, Do humble reverence, for I am Helen's tree. 380 THE ENGLISH POETS. THE PRAYER OF THEOCRITUS FOR SYRACUSE. (Idyll 1 6.) O Jupiter, and thou Minerva fierce in fight, And thou Proserpina, who with thy mother hast renown By Lysimelia streams, in Ephyra that wealthy town, Out of our island drive our enemies, our bitter fate, Along the Sardine sea, that death of friends they may relate Unto their children and their wives, and that the towns opprest By enemies, of th' old inhabitants may be possest : That they may till the fields, and sheep upon the downs may bleat By thousands infinite and fat, and that the herd of neat As to their stalls they go may press the lingering traveller. Let grounds be broken up for seed, what time the grasshopper Watching the shepherds by their flocks, in boughs close sing- ing lies, And let the spiders spread their slender webs in armories, So that of war the very name may not be heard again. But let the Poets strive, King Hiero's glory for to strain Beyond the Scythian sea, and far beyond those places where Semiramis did build those stately walls and rule did bear. 'Mongst whom I will be one : for many other men beside Jove's daughters love, whose study still shall be both far and wide, Sicilian Arethusa with the people to advance And warlike Hiero. Ye Graces who keep resiance In the Thessalian mount Orchomenus, to Thebes of old So hateful, though of you beloved, to stay I will be bold Where I am bid to come, and I with them will still remain, That shall invite me to their house with all my Muses' train. Nor you will I forsake : for what to men can lovely be Without your company? The Graces always be with me. HENRY CONSTABLE. [Born about 1555 : died before 1616. His Diana was first published in 1592. An edition by Mr. W. C. Hazlitt was published by Pickering in 1859.] Almost nothing is known of the life of Henry Constable. He belonged to a Yorkshire family ; he was educated at Cambridge ; he was acquainted with the Earl of Essex, with Anthony Bacon, with the Earl of Shrewsbury and his wife, with the Countess of Pembroke and Lady Rich. His sonnets to the soul of Sir Philip Sidney seem to prove that he was honoured with the friendship of the author of the Defence of Poesie. As ' a Catholic and an honest man,' as he calls himself, Constable could not escape suspicion in the suspicious England of his time. He passed much of his life in exile, wandering in France, Scotland, Italy, and Poland, and was acquainted with prisons and courts. The slight but graceful genius of Constable is best defined by some of the epithets which his contemporary critics employed. They spoke of his ' pure, quick, and high delivery of conceit.' Ben Jonson alludes to his 'ambrosiac muse.' His secular poems are ' Certaine sweete sonnets in the praise of his mistress, Diana,' conceived in the style of Ronsard and the Italians. The verses of his later days, when he had learned, as he says, ' to live alone with God,' are also sonnets in honour of the saints, and chiefly of Mary Magdalene. They are ingenious, and sometimes too cleverly confuse the passions of divine and earthly love. In addition to the sonnets we have four pleasant lyrics which Con- stable contributed to England's Helicon. We select two of these pastorals, one being an idyllic dialogue between two shepherdesses ; the other, ' The Shepherd's Song of Venus and Adonis.' These things have at once the freshness of a young, and the trivial grace of a decadent literature, so curiously varied were the influences of the Renaissance in England. Shakespeare and Constable begin where Bion leaves off. Constable was neither more nor less than a fair example of a poet who followed rather than set the fashion. His sonnets were charged and overladen with in- genious conceits, but the freshness, the music, of his more free and flowing lyrics remain, and keep their charm. A. LANG. 382 THE ENGLISH POETS. A PASTORAL SONG BETWEEN PHILLIS AND AMARILLIS, TWO NYMPHS, EACH ANSWERING OTHER LINE FOR LINE. Phillis. Fie on the sleights that men devise, Heigh ho silly sleights : When simple maids they would entice, Maids are young men's chief delights. Amarillis. Nay, women they witch with their eyes> Eyes like beams of burning sun : And men once caught, they soon despise ; So are shepherds oft undone. Phillis. If any young man win a maid, Happy man is he : By trusting him she is betrayed ; Fie upon such treachery. Amarillis. If Maids win young men with their guiles, Heigh ho guileful grief; They deal like weeping crocodiles, That murder men without relief. Phillis. I know a simple country hind, Heigh ho silly swain : To whom fair Daphne proved kind, Was he not kind to her again ? He vowed by Pan with many an oath, Heigh ho shepherds God is he : Yet since hath changed, and broke his troth, Troth-plight broke will plagued be. CONSTABLE. 383 Amarillis. She hath deceived many a swain, Fie on false deceit : And plighted troth to them in vain, There can be no grief more great. Her measure was with measure paid, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho equal meed : She was beguil'd that had betrayed, " So shall all deceivers speed. Phillis. If every maid were like to me, Heigh-ho hard of heart : Both love and lovers scorn'd should be, S corners shall be sure of smart. Amarillis. If every maid were of my mind Heigh-ho, heigh-ho lovely sweet : They to their lovers should prove kind, Kindness is for maidens meet. Phillis. Methinks, love is an idle toy, Heigh-ho busy pain : Both wit and sense it doth annoy, Both sense and wit thereby we gain. Amarillis. Tush ! Phillis, cease, be not so coy, Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, coy disdain : I know you love a shepherd's boy, Fie ! that maidens so should feign ! Phillis. Well, Amarillis, now I yield, Shepherds, pipe aloud : Love conquers both in town and field, Like a tyrant, fierce and proud. 384 THE ENGLISH POETS. The evening star is up, ye see ; Vesper shines ; we must away ; Would every lover might agree, So we end our roundelay. THE SHEPHERD'S SONG OF VENUS AND ADONIS. Venus fair did ride, Silver doves they drew her, By the pleasant launds, Ere the sun did rise : Vesta's beauty rich Opened wide to view her, Philomel records Pleasing harmonies. Every bird of spring Cheerfully did sing, Paphos' goddess they salute ; Now Love's Queen so fair Had of mirth no care : For her son had made her mute. In her breast so tender, He a shaft did enter, When her eyes beheld a boy : Adonis was he named, By his mother shamed ' : Yet he now is Venus' joy. Him alone she met Ready bound for hunting; Him she kindly greets, And his journey stays ; Him she seeks to kiss, No devises wanting; Him her eyes still woo ; Him her tongue still prays. He with blushing red Hangeth down the head, 1 See the story of Myrrha in Ovid. CONSTABLE. 3 8 5 Not a kiss can he afford ; His face is turned away, Silence said her nay, Still she woo'd him for a word. ' Speak,' she said, ' thou fairest ; Beauty thou impairest, See me, I am pale and wan : Lovers all adore me, I for love implore thee ; ; Crystal tears with that down ran. Him herewith she forced To come sit down by her, She his neck embraced, Gazing in his face : He, like one transformed, Stirred no look to eye her ; Every herb did woo him, Growing in that place, Each bird with a ditty Prayed him for pity In behalf of Beauty's Queen : Water's gentle murmur Craved him to love her : Yet no liking could be seen ; ' Boy,' she said, ' look on me, Still I gaze upon thee, Speak, I pray thee, my delight. 1 Coldly he replied, And in brief denied To bestow on her a sight 1 1 am now too young To be won by beauty, Tender are my years I am yet a bud.' 'Fair thou art,' she said, 'Then it is thy duty, Wert thou but a blossom, To effect my good. VOL. I. C c ,j86 THE ENGLISH POETS. Every beauteous flower Boastcth in my power, Birds and beasts my laws effect : Myrrha thy fair mother, Most of any other, Did my lovely hests respect. Be with me delighted, Thou shalt be requited, Every Nymph on thee shall tend : All the Gods shall love thee, Man shall not reprove thee : Love himself shall be thy friend,' ' Wend thee from me, Venus, I am not disposed ; Thou wring'st me too hard, Prithee let me go ; Fie ! what a pain it is Thus to be enclosed, If love begin in labour, It will end in woe.' ' Kiss me, I will leave.' ' Here a kiss receive.' 1 A short kiss I do it find : Wilt thou leave me so ? Yet thou shalt not go ; Breathe once more thy balmy wind. It smelleth of the myrrh-tree, That to the world did bring thee, Never was perfume so sweet' When she had thus spoken, She gave him a token, And their naked bosoms meet 'Now,' he said, 'let's go, Hark, the hounds are crying, Grisly Boar is up, Huntsmen follow fast' At the name of Boar, Venus seemed dying, CONSTABLE, 387 Deadly coloured pale, Roses overcast. ' Speak,' said she, ' no more, Of following the Boar, Thou unfit for such a chase : Course the fearful Hare, Venison do not spare, If thou wilt yield Venus grace. Shun the Boar, I pray thee, Else I still will stay thee.' Herein he vowed to please her mind ; Then her arms enlarged, Loth she him discharged ; Forth he went as swift as wind, Thetis Phoebus' steeds In the West retained, Hunting sport was past ; Love her love did seek : Sight of him too soon, Gentle Queen she gained, On the ground he lay, Blood hath left his cheek. For an orped 1 swine Smit him in the groin, Deadly wound his death did bring : Which when Venus found, She fell in a swound, And awaked, her hands did wring. Nymphs and Satyrs skipping, Came together tripping, Echo every cry expressed : Venus by her power Turn'd him to a flower, Which she weareth in her crest 1 bristly CC 2 388 THE ENGLISH POETS. SONNET PREFIXED TO SIDNEY'S APOLOGY FOR POETRY, 1595. Give pardon, blessed soul ! to my bold cries, If they, importune, interrupt thy song, Which now with joyful notes thou sing's! among The angel-quiristers of th' heavenly skies. Give pardon eke, sweet soul ! to my slow cries, That since I saw thee now it is so long ; And yet the tears that unto thee belong, To thee as yet they did not sacrifice ; 1 did not know that thou wert dead before, I did not feel the grief I did sustain ; The greater stroke astonisheth the more, Astonishment takes from us sense of pain : I stood amaz'd when others' tears begun, And now begin to weep when they have done. THOMAS WATSON. [THOMAS WATSON was born about 1557 in London; was educated at Oxford; became a student of law, and died in London, probably hi 1592. His principal writings are a translation into Latin of Sophocles' Antigone, 1581; The 'EKa.TOfjiira6ia, or Passionate Centurie of Love, 1582; Amyntat Gaitdia (in Latin), 1585; Italian Madrigals Englished, 1590; The Teares of Fancy, or Love Disdained, posthumously printed in 1593. Many of his poems were printed in the Miscellanies of the time.] Thomas Watson is one of the best of the Elizabethan 'amo- rettists,' or writers of wholly artificial love-poetry, and his Heca- tompathia, which Mr. Arber's reprint has put within the reach of every one, may be taken as a type and summary of the whole class. It consists of a hundred so-called sonnets or 'passions,' each of three six-lined stanzas, and each headed with a prose introduction describing the purport and often the literary origin of the poem. A series so furnished tells its own story ; and we do not require to go back to Watson's epistle To the frendly Reader to appreciate his ' trauaile in penning these louepassions,' or to learn that his ' paines in suffering them' were 'but supposed.' Watson, in fact, was a purely literary poet. At Oxford, says Antony Wood, he spent his time 'not in logic and philosophy, as he ought to have done, but in the smooth and pleasant studies of poetry and romance.' To these studies, however, his devo- tion was serious ; for he mastered four languages, so that he writes as familiarly of Sophocles and Apollonius Rhodius as of Ovid, of Petrarch and Ariosto as of Ronsard. He translated the Antigone into Latin, and it was one of his Latin poems that gave him the fancy name of Amyntas, under which the poets of the time ranked him with Colin Clout and with AstropheL But the literature that he affected most was the love-poetry of the Italians- of Petrarch and his followers, of Seraphine and Fiorenzuola, and many others that are quite forgotten now. Sometimes translating, 390 THE ENGLISH POETS. sometimes paraphrasing, sometimes combining them, he tells the story of his imaginary love, its doubts and fears and hopes, its torments and disappointment and final death, in that melodious Elizabethan English which not even monotony a.nd make-believe can wholly deprive of charm. But still, Watson and his kindred poets have little more than an historical interest. They are but the posthumous children of the Courts of Love ; their occupation is to use the scholarship and the ingenuity of the Renascence to dress up the sentiment of the Middle Age a sentiment no more real to them than it is to ourselves. They make no appeal to us ; their note has nothing of the note of passion and of truth that rings in the verse of Sidney and of Shakespeare, EDITOR. WATSON. 391 FROM THE ' HECATOMPATHIA.' PASSION II. In this passion the Author describeth in how piteous a case the heart of a lover is, being (as he feigneth here) separated from his own body, and removed into a darksome and solitary wilderness of woes. The conveyance of his invention is plain and pleasant enough of itself, and therefore needeth the less annotation before it. My heart is set him down twixt hope and fears Upon the stony bank of high Desire, To view his own made flood of blubbering tears, Whose waves are bitter salt, and hot as fire : There blows no blast of wind but ghostly groans Nor waves make other noise than piteous moans. As life were spent he waiteth Charon's boat, And thinks he dwells on side of Stygian lake : But black Despair sometimes with open throat, Or spiteful Jealousy doth cause him quake, With howling shrieks on him they call and cry That he as yet shall neither live nor die : Thus void of help he sits in heavy case, And wanteth voice to make his just complaint. No flower but Hyacinth in all the place, No sun comes there, nor any heav'nly saint, But only she, which in himself remains, And joys her ease though he abound in pains. 392 THE ENGLISH POETS. PASSION XL. The sense contained in this Sonnet will seem strange to such as never have acquainted themselves with Love and his Laws, because of the con- traieties mentioned therein. But to such, as Love at any time hath had under his banner, all and every part of it will appear to be a familiar truth. It is almost word for word taken out of Petrarch (where he beginncth, Pace non truouo, e non ho da far guerra ; Parti prima . _,. Soitft. 105. temo, espero, etc.1') AH, except three verses, which this Author hath necessarily added, for perfecting the number, which he hath determined to use in every one of these his passions. I joy not peace, where yet no war is found ; I fear, and hope ; I burn, yet freeze withal ; I mount to heav'n, yet lie but on the ground ; I compass nought, and yet I compass all : I live her bond, which neither is my foe, Nor friend ; nor holds me fast, nor lets me go ; Love will not that I live, nor lets me die ; Nor locks me fast, nor suffers me to scape ; I want both eyes and tongue, yet see and cry ; I wish for death, yet after help I gape ; I hate myself, but love another wight ; And feed on grief, in lieu of sweet delight ; At selfsame time I both lament and joy ; I still am pleas'd, and yet displeased still ; Love sometimes seems a God, sometimes a Boy; Sometimes I sink, sometimes I swim at will ; Twixt death and life, small difference I make ; All this dear Dame befalls me for thy sake. WATSON. 393 PASSION LXV. In the first and second part of this passion, the Author proveth by exam- ples, or rather by manner of argument, A majori ad minus, that he may with good reason yield himself to the empery of Love, whom the gods themselves obey ; as Jupiter in heaven, Neptune in the seas, and Pluto in hell. In the last staff he imitateth certain Italian verses of M. Giro- lamo Parabosco ; which are as followeth : ' Occki tuoi, anzi stelle alme, et fatali, Selua Sicottd*. Oue ha prescritto il del mio mal, mio bene: Mie lagrime, e sospir, mio riso, e canto; Mia speme, mio timor; mio foco e giaccio; Mia noia mio placer; mia vita e morte' Who knoweth not, how often Venus' son Hath forced Jupiter to leave his seat? Or else, how often Neptune he hath won From seas to sands, to play some wanton feat? Or, how he hath constrained the Lord of Styx To come on earth, to practise loving tricks ? If heav'n, if seas, if hell must needs obey, And all therein be subject unto Love ; What shall it then avail, if I gainsay, And to my double hurt his pow'r do prove ? No, no, I yield myself, as is but meet: For hitherto with sour he yields me sweet. From out my mistress' eyes, two lightsome stars, He destinates estate of double kind, My tears, my smiling cheer ; my peace, my wars ; My sighs, my songs ; my fear, my hoping mind ; My fire, my frost ; my joy, my sorrow's gall ; My curse, my praise ; my death, but life with all. JOHN LYLY. [LITTLE is known of Lyly's life. He was born in Kent in 1554, studied at Magdalen College, Oxford, was patronised by Lord Burghley, and wrote plays for the Child players at the Chapel Royal, the ' aery of children,' alluded to in Hamlet, 'little eyases, that cry out on the top of the question and are most tyrannically clapped for't.' He died in 1606. His Euphuf, was published, first part in 1579, second part in 1580.] The airy mirthful plays and pretty little songs of the ' witty, comical, facetiously quick and unparalleled John Lyly,' as his publisher described him, are a standing refutation of M. Taine's picture of England in the Elizabethan age as a sort of den of wild beasts. No Frenchman in any age was ever more light and gay than Queen Elizabeth's favourite writer of comedies, and the inventor or perfecter of a fashionable style of sentimental speech among her courtiers. The epithet 'unparalleled' applied to Lyly was more exact than puffs generally are. Though he is said to have set a fashion of talk among the ladies of the Court and their admirers, he found no imitator in letters ; his peculiar style perished from literature with himself. Scott's Sir Percie Shafton is called a Euphuist, and is supposed to be an attempt at historical reproduction, but the caricature has hardly any point of likeness with the supposed original as we see it in the language which Lyly puts into the mouth of Euphues himself. Shafton is much more like Sidney's Rhom- bus or Shakespeare's Holofernes, a fantastic pedant at whom the real Euphuists would have mocked with as genuine contempt as plain people of the present time. The dainty courtier Boyet, in Love's Labour's Lost, who, according to the sarcastic Biron, ' picks up wit as pigeons pease,' is perhaps the nearest approach to a Euphuist such as was modelled upon Lyly that we have in literature. The essence of Lyly's Euphuism is its avoidance of LYLY. 395 cumbrous and clumsy circumlocution ; his style is neat, precise, quick, balanced ; full of puns and pretty conceits ' Talking of stones, stars, plants, of fishes, flies, Playing with words and idle similes/ as a satirist of the time describes it but never verbose and heavy as the Euphuists' style is sometimes represented. Lyly wrote more comedies than any writer that preceded him, but he had no influence that can be traced upon our literature. We seem to find the key to their character in the fact that they were written to be played by children and heard and seen by ladies. Their pretty love-scenes, joyous pranks, and fantastically worded moralisings, were too light and insubstantial as fare for the common stage, and they were superseded as Court entertain- ments after Elizabeth's death by masques in which ingenious scenic effects were the chief attraction, and plays with an ampler allowance of blood and muscle. Lyly's childlike comedies, with their pigmy fun and pretty sentiment, were brushed aside by plays that appealed more seriously to the senses and the imagination ; but it seems almost a pity that the example of his neatness and finish in construction did not take root. Perhaps the daintiness in his manipulation of his materials would have been impossible if the materials had been coarser or more solid. Only one of Lyly's undoubted comedies, The Woman in the Moon, was written in verse, and the verse differs little from his prose. It shows the same neat, ingenious workmanship. The reader is not conscious of any inward pressure of heightened feeling upon Lyly's verse ; he probably chose this instrument in preference to prose because it had become fashionable. W. MINTO. 396 THE ENGLISH POETS. SAPPHO'S SONG. [From Sappho and Phao.] O cruel Love! on thee I lay My curse, which shall strike blind the day; Never may sleep with velvet hand Charm thine eyes with sacred wand ; Thy jailors still be hopes and fears ; Thy prison-mates groans, sighs, and tears ; Thy play to wear out weary times, Fantastic passions, vows, and rhymes ; Thy bread be frowns ; thy drink be gall ; Such as when you Phao call The bed thou liest on be despair ; Thy sleep, fond dreams ; thy dreams, long care ; Hope (like thy fool) at thy bed's head, Mock thee, till madness strikes thee dead, As Phao, thou dost me, with thy proud eyes. In thee poor Sappho lives, in thee she dies, -y \P_ ' APELLES' SONG. {From Alexandtr and Campaspe.] Cupid and my Campaspe played At cards for kisses Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bows 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 of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin All these did my Campaspe win. LYLY. 397 At last he set her both his eyes. She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love, has she doge this to thee ? What shall, alas ! become of me ? PAN'S SONG. [From Midas.] Pan's Syrinx was a girl indeed, Though now she's turned into a reed. From that dear reed Pan's pipe doth come, A pipe that strikes Apollo dumb ; Nor flute, nor lute, nor gittern can So chant it, as the pipe of Pan. Cross-gartered swains, and dairy girls, With faces smug and round as pearls, When Pan's shrill pipe begins to play, With dancing wear out night and day; The bag-pipe drone his hum lays by When Pan sounds up his minstrelsy. His minstrelsy ! O base ! This quill Which at my mouth with wind I fill Puts me in mind though her I miss That still my Syrinx' lips I kiss. GEORGE PEELE. [GEORGE PEELE was probably bom in 1558. He was a most noted poet in the University ' of Oxford, and taking up his residence in London became one of the band of University writers for the stage, with whom the ' player' Shakespeare's first efforts as a dramatist brought him into conflict. His first published play was a pastoral,' The Arraignment of Paris, which had been performed before Queen Elizabeth in 1584. It is supposed that he wrote more plays for the public stage than have been preserved. He also composed pageants for the great city festivals, making a precarious living by his wits. Occasional verses of Peek's appear in the poetic collections of the period. He died before Peele was one of the singers before the great Elizabethan sunrise, and his notes contain no anticipatory vibration of the burst of song that was to follow him. His University friends, even after Marlowe had made his voice heard, spoke of him as the Atlas of poetry, inferior to none, and in some respects supe- rior to all ; but this partial verdict Can now be recorded only as an example of how contemporary criticism is sometimes mis- taken. In reading his plays now one is more astonished that Greene and Nash should have considered him worthy to be named in the same breath with Marlowe, than that the theatrical managers of the time, so much to their indignation, should have rejected his plays in favour of the productions of non-academic workmen. Peek's blank verse, which was so much admired by his academic contemporaries, gives us a fair idea of the environment out of which Marlowe emerged, and increases our admiration of that mighty genius. It deserves the praise of 'smoothness' which it received from Campbell ; it is graceful and elegant, but it has neither sinew nor majesty. I have quoted what seems to me to be the most favourable example of his use of this instrument, an address prefixed to one of his plays, The Tale of Troy, published in 1599, two years after the production of Tamburlaine. The PEELE. 399 inspiration of the subject seems to have contributed a fire and a freedom of movement which is generally lacking in Peek's blank verse. In using this form at all, Peele essayed an instrument which was beyond his powers and unsuited to his bent of feeling. His was an adroit, subtle, versatile mind, without massiveness or passionate intensity, and he is seen at his best in the expression of graceful and humorous fancies. He was not however a follower of Marlowe in the application of blank verse to tragic purposes. In the Arraignment of Part's, the prologue spoken by Ate is in that metre, and it is also adopted by Paris in his speech before the council of the Gods, and by Diana in her description of the nymph Eliza, a ' figure ' of Queen Elizabeth. This seems to show that among the University poets, from whose circle Marlowe burst to reform the common stage, blank verse was considered the appropriate instrument for tragic and stately speeches. But it was not apparently till after the production of Tamburlaine that Peele wrote whole plays in blank verse. David and Bethsabe is the best of these, and is full of happy touches in the tender scenes, but the firmness of a masterly hand is wanting. The verse seldom moves far without having recourse to the crutch of weak and superfluous epithets. In the Battle of Alcazar Peele tried, perhaps at the instigation of his hard taskmasters the theatrical managers, to make up by sound and fury for his want of natural strength in the expression of passion, and thereby furnished Shakespeare with the model for some of the best-known extravagances of Pistol. Peele has also left us in Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes an example of the jigging measure of fourteen syllables, from which Marlowe aspired to redeem the stage. It cannot be said that Peele helped forward the great literary movement of his time ; he is perhaps the best illustration of the utmost that could be done by a cultured man of facile talent and poetic temperament before the advent of the great Elizabethans. W. MINTO. 400 THE ENGLISH POETS. A FAREWELL TO SIR JOHN NORRIS AND SIR FRANCIS DRAKE. Have done with care, my hearts ! aboard amain, With stretching sails to plough the swelling waves ; Kid England's shore and Albion's chalky cliffs Farewell ; bid stately Troynovant adieu, Where pleasant Thames from Isis silver head Begins her quiet glide, and runs along To that brave bridge, the bar that thwarts her course, Near neighbour to the ancient stony tower, The glorious hold that Julius Caesar built. Change love for arms ; girt to your blades, my boys ! Your rests and muskets take, take helm and targe, And let God Mars his consort make you mirth The roaring cannon, and the brazen trump, The angry-sounding drum, the whistling fife, The shrieks of men, the princely courser's neigh. Now vail your bonnets to your friends at home ; Bid all the lovely British dames adieu, That under many a standard well-advanced Have hid the sweet alarms and braves of love ; Bid theatres and proud tragedians, Bid Mahomet, Scipio, and mighty Tamburlaine, King Charlemagne, Tom Stukely, and the rest, Adieu. To arms, to arms, to glorious arms ! With noble Norris, and victorious Drake, Under the sanguine cross, brave England's badge, To propagate religious piety And hew a passage with your conquering swords By land and sea, wherever Phoebus' eye, Th' eternal lamp of Heaven, lends us light ; By golden Tagus, or the western Ind, Or through the spacious bay of Portugal, The wealthy ocean-main, the Tyrrhene sea, From great Alcides' pillars branching forth, Even to the gulf that leads to lofty Rome ; There to deface the pride of Antichrist, And pull his paper walls and popery down A famous enterprise for England's strength, PEELE. 401 To steel your swords on Avarice' triple crown, And cleanse Augeas' stalls in Italy. To arms, my fellow-soldiers ! Sea and land Lie open to the voyage you intend ; And sea or land, bold Britons, far or near, Whatever course your matchless virtue shapes, Whether to Europe's bounds or Asian plains, To Afric's shore, or rich America, Down to the shades of deep Avernus' crags, Sail on, pursue your honours to your graves. Heaven is a sacred covering for your heads, And every climate virtue's tabernacle. To arms, to arms, to honourable arms ! Hoist sails, weigh anchors up, plough up the seas With flying keels, plough up the land with swords. In God's name venture on ; and let me say To you, my mates, as Caesar said to his, Striving with Neptune's hills; 'You bear,' quoth he, ' Caesar and Caesar's fortune in your ships.' You follow them, whose swords successful are ; You follow Drake, by sea the scourge of Spain, The dreadful dragon, terror to your foec, Victorious in his return from Ind, In all his high attempts unvanquished. You follow noble N orris, whose renown, Won in the fertile fields of Belgia, Spreads by the gates of Europe to the courts Of Christian kings and heathen potentates. You fight for Christ, and England's peerless Queen, Elizabeth, the wonder of the world, Over whose throne the enemies of God Have thundered erst their vain successless braves. O ten times treble happy men, that fight Under the cross of Christ and England's Queen, And follow such as Drake and Norris arei All honours do this cause accompany, All glory on these endless honours waits. These honours and this glory shall He send Whose honour and whose glory you defend. VOL. I. D d ROBERT GREENE. [ROBERT GRFENE was born at Norwich, probably in 1560. He was a graduate of St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1578, but took his degree of M.A. five years later at Clare Hall. After this he travelled in Italy and Spain, and, returning to London, gained his living as a playwright and pamphleteer. He died in Dowgate, Sept. 3, 1593. His first work was the novel of Mamillia, 1580, which was followed by a rapid succession of tales, poems, plays, and pamphlets. His most remarkable lyrics appeared in Menaphoti, 1589; Never Too Late, 1590; and The Mourning Garment, '590-] It has been well said that the lyrical brightness of Greene's smaller poems compared with the tame versification of his plays, is as surprising as 'when an indifferent walker proves a light and graceful runner.' Yet the reason is perhaps not very far to find ; personally a lover of riotous companions and outrageous surfeiting, this hopeless reprobate was imaginatively one of the purest of idyllic dreamers. There was an absolute chasm between the foulness of his life and the serenity of his intellect, and, at least until he became a repentant character, no literary theme interested him very much, unless it was interpenetrated with sentimental beauty. This element inspired what little was glowing and eloquent in his plays ; it tinctured the whole of his pastoral romances with a rosy Euphuism, and it turned the best of his lyrics to the pure fire and air of poetry. From his long sojourn in Italy and Spain he brought back a strong sense of the physical beauty of men and women, of fruits, flowers, and trees, of the coloured atmosphere and radiant compass of a southern heaven. All these things passed into his prose and into his verse, so that in many of the softer graces and innocent volup- tuous indiscretions of the Elizabethan age he is as much a forerunner as Marlowe is in audacity of thought and the thunders of a massive line. For the outward part of his prose style he GREENE, 403 was obviously indebted to Lyly ; for the inward character of his poetical matter less obviously, but more essentially, to Spenser, whose antiquated idioms, even, he affected to cherish. The pub- lication of Euphues just preceded his apprenticeship in letters, and without question stimulated him to the production of his first work. He never reached the sententious force and per- suasive morality of Lyly's extraordinary master-piece, but he made this form of literature acceptable to a less exacting taste. His own pastorals enjoyed a very wide success, and were imitated with more or less talent by Lodge, Dickenson, and other writers of less note. They were delicate blossoms of exotic growth, appealing wholly to a literary taste, and, being unable to hold their ground after the close of the sixteenth century, they were com- pletely swept away by the tide of realistic pamphlets, coarse comedies, and sensational tragedies. It is impossible to regret this, because, although these tales of Arcadia and Silistria were full of sweetness and tender beauty, they were foreign to our native habit of mind, and their prevalence might have doomed us to some such tradition of artificial poetry as the example of Petrarch so long inflicted on Italian literature. The lyrics of Greene show a sense of colour that recalls the masters of Italian painting in the century that preceded him, and it was certainly in the art of the south of Europe that he formed his favourite conception of the brown shepherd and rosy nymph re- clining in a whispering boscage of green shadow, to whom appears in vision ' the God that hateth sleep, Clad in armour all of fire, Hand in hand with Queen Desire.* His employment of metre and rhythm were in unison with this golden style of imagery. His metres are very various, and are usually in direct analogy with the theme in hand. Doron glori- fies Samela in a stanza that sounds like the tramp of a conquering army, while Menaphon laments the precarious and volatile nature of love in lines that rise and fall with the rush of a swallow's flight. Towards the end of his life Greene lost something of this metrical elasticity, and adopted for most of his ideas a sober six- line stanza ; his only long poem, A Maiden's Dream, is written in rime-royal. It is not easy to say much of the shorter pieces of Greene which is not also true of all the best verses of the early Elizabethan D d 2 404 THE ENGLISH POETS. period He is the type of that warm brood of poetic youth that still sings in chorus from the dells of England's Helicon, or the Paradise of Princely Pleasures. Life and the whole world of youthful pleasures attract him with their delight, and he hastens to clothe himself in a gay silken doublet, and to throw away his forefather's Puritan coat of hodden gray. But anything more specific and definite than this it would scarcely be safe to say. Greene has not Lodge's individuality of style, nor does he ap- proach his finest flights, but he is more nearly allied to him than to any other of his contemporaries. It will probably seem to a careful reader that his ordinary level of writing was sustained at a higher point than Lodge's. In his rapid passages of octosyllabic verse Greene sometimes comes very close to Barnfield, and, through that mysterious and exquisite poet, to the juvenile manner of Shakespeare, with whom, as is well known, he cultivated a lively spirit of rivalry. But the most curious and notable thing, after all, about Greene's poetry is that, in all its sylvan sweetness, it should have proceeded from the lawless bully, whose ruffled hair and long red beard became a beacon and terror to all good citizens, till in the midst of his ' villainous cogging and foisting,' and all his rascally sleights, he was carried off in the thirty-second year of his life by a surfeit of Rhenish wine and pickled herrings. Upon the poor dishonoured head of this strange genius, the wretched woman who was with him when he died set a garland of bay-leaves, in a happy prescience of the tenderness with which posterity would pardon all his sins for the sake of his pure and beautiful verses. EDMUND W. GOSSE. GREENE. 405 SEPHESTIA'S SONG TO HER CHILD. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Mother's wag, pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy ; When thy father first did see Such a boy by him and me, He was glad, I was woe, Fortune changed made him so, When he left his pretty boy Last his sorrow, first his joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Streaming tears that never stint, Like pearl drops from a flint, Fell by course from his eyes, That one another's place supplies ; Thus he grieved in every part, Tears of blood fell from his heart, When he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. The wanton smiled, father wept, Mother cried, baby leapt ; More he crowed, more we cried, Nature could not sorrow hide : He must go, he must kiss Child and mother, baby bless, For he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 406 THE ENGLISH POETS. SAMELA. Like to Diana in her summer weed, Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, Goes fair Samela ; Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed, When washed by Arethusa faint they lie, Is fair Samela; As fair Aurora in her morning grey, Decked with the ruddy glister of her love, Is fair Samela ; Like lovely Thetis on a calmed day, When as her brightness Neptune's fancy move, Shines fair Samela ; Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory Of fair Samela ; Her cheeks, like rose and lily yield forth gleams, Her brow's bright arches framed of ebony ; Thus fair Samela Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, And Juno in the show of majesty, For she's Samela, Pallas in wit ; all three, if you well view, For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity Yield to Samela. FAWNIA. Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe. Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand, That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land, Under wide hoavens, but yet [I know] not such. GREENE. 407 So as she shows, she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows, Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower, Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn. Ah, when she sings, all musir else be still, For none must be compared to her note ; Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill, Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat Ah, when she riseth from her blissful bed, She comforts all the world, as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapour's fled ; When she is set, the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun, imagine me the west, Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast ! THE PALMER'S ODE IN 'NEVER TOO LATE.' Old Menalcas, on a day, As in field this shepherd lay, Tuning of his oaten pipe, Which he hit with many a stripe, Said to Coridon that he Once was young and full of glee. ' Blithe and wanton was I then : Such desires follow men. As I lay and kept my sheep, Came the God that hateth sleep, Clad in armour all of fire, Hand in hand with queen Desire, And with a dart that wounded nigh, Pierced my heart as I did lie ; That when I woke I 'gan swear Phillis beauty's palm did bear. Up I start, forth went I, . With her face to feed mine eye ; 408 THE ENGLISH POETS. There I saw Desire sit, That my heart with love had hit, Laying forth bright beauty's hooks To entrap my gazing looks. Love I did, and 'gan to woo, Pray and sigh ; all would not do : Women, when they take the toy, Covet to be counted coy. Coy she was, and I 'gan court ; She thought love was but a sport ; Profound hell was in my thought ; Such a pain desire had wrought, That I sued with sighs and tears ; Still ingrate she stopped her ears, Till my youth I had spent Last a passion of repent Told me flat, that Desire Was a brond of love's fire, W T hich consumeth men in thrall, Virtue, youth, wit, and all. At this saw, back I start, Beat Desire from my heart, Shook off Love, and made an oath To be enemy to both. Old I was when thus I fled Such fond toys as cloyed my head, But this I learned at Virtue's gate, The way to good is never late.' SONG. Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content ; The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent ; The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown : Such sweef content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. GREENE. 409 The homely house that harbours quiet rest ; The cottage that affords no pride nor care ; The mean that 'grees with country music best ; The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare ; Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : A mind content both crown and kingdom is. PHILOMELA'S ODE. Sitting by a river's side, Where a silent stream did glide, Muse I did of many things, That the mind in quiet brings. I 'gan think how some men deem Gold their god ; and some esteem Honour is the chief content, That to man in life is lent And some others do contend, Quiet none, like to a friend. Others hold, there is no wealth Compared to a perfect health. Some man's mind in quiet stands, When he is lord of many lands : But I did sigh, and said all this Was but a shade of perfect bliss ; And in my thoughts I did approve, Nought s6 sweet as is true love. Love 'twixt lovers passeth these, When mouth kisseth and heart 'grees, With folded arms and lips meeting, Each soul another sweetly greeting ; For by the breath the soul fleetetn, And soul with soul in kissing meeteth. If love be so sweet a thing, That such happy bliss doth bring, Happy is love's sugared thrall, But unhappy maidens all, 410 THE ENGLISH POETS. Who esteem your virgin blisses, Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses. No such quiet to the mind, As true Love with kisses kind : But if a kiss prove unchaste, Then is true love quite disgraced. Though love be sweet, learn this of me, No sweet love but honesty. ORPHEUS' SONG. He that did sing the motions of the stars, Pale-coloured Phoebe's borrowing of her light, Aspects of planets oft opposed in jars, Of Hesper, henchman to the day and night ; Sings now of love, as taught by proof to sing, Women are false, and love a bitter thing. I loved Eurydice, the brightest lass, More fond to like so fair a nymph as she ; In Thessaly so bright none ever was, But fair and constant hardly may agree : False-hearted wife to him that loved thee well, To leave thy love, and choose the prince of hell ! Theseus did help, and I in haste did hie To Pluto, for the lass I loved so : The god made grant, and who so glad as I ? I tuned my harp, and she and I 'gan go ; Glad that my love was left to me alone, I looked back, Eurydice was gone : She slipped aside, back to her latest love, Unkind, she wronged her first and truest feere 1 Thus women's loves delight, as trial proves By false Eurydice I loved so dear, To change and fleet, and every way to shrink, To take in love, and lose it with a wink. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. [CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE was born at Canterbury in February, 1564, and educated at the King's fthool in his birth-place, and at Benet (Corpus Christi) College, Cambridge. He was killed in a tavern brawl, and was buried at Deptford, June i, 1593. The dates and order of his works are somewhat uncertain. Of his plays, the first, Tamburlaine the Great, a tragedy in two parts, must have been acted in public by 1587. It was followed by The Tragical History of Dr. Faustiis, The Jew of Malta (pro- bably in 1589 or 1590), The Massacre at Paris (not earlier than the end of 1589), Edward II, and The Tragedy of Queen Dido, which was probably left unfinished at Marlowe's death, and completed by Nash. Another play, Lust's Dominion, was for some time wrongly attributed to Marlowe ; but, in return for this injustice, the probability that he may have had at least a share in Shakespeare's 2 and 3 Henry VI, or in the plays on which those dramas were based, is now rather widely admitted. Of his poems, the translations of Ovid's Amores and the first book of Lucan's Pharsalia are of uncertain date. The Passionate Shepherd to his Love was first printed complete in England's Helicon, 1600, but is quoted in The Jew of Malta. Hero arid Leander was left unfinished at Marlowe's death ; Chapman completed it, dividing Marlowe's fragment into two parts, which now form the first two Sestiads of the poem.] Marlowe has one claim on our affection which everyone is ready to acknowledge ; he died young. We think of him along with Chatterton and Burns, with Byron, Shelley, and Keats. And this is a fact of some importance for the estimate of his life and genius. His poetical career lasted only six .or seven years, and he did not outlive his 'hot days, when the mad blood's stirring.' An old ballad tells us that he acted at the Curtain theatre in Shoreditch and 'brake his leg in one rude scene, When in his early age.' If there is any truth in the last statement, we may suppose that Marlowe gave up acting and confined himself to authorship. He seems to have depended for his livelihood on his connection with the stage ; and probably, like many of his fellows and friends, he lived in a free and even reckless way. A more unusual characteristic of Marlowe's was his ' atheism.' No reliance can be placed on the 413 THE ENGLISH POETS. details recorded on this subject ; but it was apparently only his death that prevented judicial proceedings being taken against him on account of his opinions. The note on which these proceedings would have been founded was the work of one Bame, who thought that 'all men in christianitei ought to endeavour that the mouth of so dangerous a member may be stopped,' and was hanged at Tyburn about eighteen months afterwards. But other testimony points in the same direction ; and a celebrated passage in Greene's Groats-worth of Wit would lead us to suppose that Marlowe was given to blatant profanities. Whatever his offences may have been and there is nothing to make us think he was a bad-hearted man he had no time to make men forget them. He was not thirty when he met his death. The plan of the present volumes excludes selections from Mar- lowe's plays ; but as his purely poetical works give but a one-sided idea of his genius, and as his importance in the history of literature depends mainly on his dramatic writings, some general reference must be made to them. Even if they had no enduring merits of their own, their effect upon Shakespeare an effect which, to say nothing of Henry F7, is most clearly visible in Richard III and their influence op the drama would preserve them from neglect. The nature of this influence may be seen by a glance at Marlowe's first play. On the one hand it stands at the opposite pole to the classic form of the drama as it is found in Seneca, a form which had been adopted in Gorboduc, and which some of the more learned writers attempted to nationalise. There is no Chorus in Tamburlaine or in any of Marlowe's plays except Dr. Faustus ; and the action takes place on the stage instead of being merely reported. On the other hand, in this, the first play in blank verse which was publicly acted, he called the audience * From jigging veins of rhyming mother-wits. And such conceits as cJownage keeps in pay,* and fixed the metre of his drama for ever as the metre of English tragedy. And, though neither here nor in Dr. Faustus could he yet afford to cast off all the conceits of clownage, he was in effect beginning to substitute works of art for the formless popular re- presentations of the day. Doubtless it was only a beginning. The two parts of Tamburlaine are not great tragedies. They are full of mere horror and glare. Of the essence of drama, a sustained and developed action, there is as yet very little ; and what action there MARLOWE. 413 is proceeds almost entirely from the rising passion of a single character. Nor in the conception of this character has Marlowe quite freed himself from the defect of the popular plays, in which, naturally enough, personified virtues and vices often took the place of men. Still, if there is a touch of this defect in Tamburlaine, as in the Jew of Malta, it is no more than a touch. The ruling passion is conceived with an intensity, and portrayed with a sweep of imagination unknown before ; a requisite for the drama hardly less important than the faculty of construction is attained, and the way is opened for those creations which are lifted above the common and yet are living flesh and blood. It is the same with the language. For the buffoonery he partly displaced Marlowe substitutes a swelling diction, ' high astounding terms,' and some outrageous bombast, such as that which Shakespeare reproduced and put into the mouth of Pistol. But, laugh as we will, in this first of Marlowe's plays there is that incommunicable gift which means almost everything, style ; a manner perfectly individual, and yet, at its best, free from eccentricity. The ' mighty line ' of which Jonson spoke, and a pleasure, equal to Milton's, in resounding proper names, meet us in the very first scene ; and in not a few passages passion, instead of vociferating, finds its natural expression, and we hear the fully-formed style, which in Marlowe's best writing is, to use his own words, ' Like his desire, lift upward and divine.' ' Lift upward' Marlowe's style was at first, and so it remained. It degenerates into violence, but never into softness. If it falters, the cause is not doubt or languor, but haste and want of care. It has the energy of youth ; and a living poet has described this among its other qualities when he speaks of Marlowe as singing 'With mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes.' As a dramatic instrument it developed with his growth and acquired variety. The stately monotone of Tamburlaine, in which the pause falls almost regularly at the end of the lines, gives place in Edward II to rhythms less suited to pure poetry, but far more rapid and flexible. In Dr. Faustus the great address to Helen is as different in metrical effect as it is in spirit from the last scene, where the words seem, like Faustus' heart, to ' pant and quiver.' Even in the Massacre at Parts, the worst of his plays, the style becomes unmistakeable in such passages as this : 414 THE ENGLISH POETS. ' Give me a look, that, when I bend the brows, Pale Death may walk in furrows of my face; A hand that with a grasp may gripe the world; An ear to hear what my detractors say ; A royal seat, a sceptre, and a crown ; That those that do behold them may become As men that stand and gaze against the sun.' The expression ' lift upward' applies also, in a sense, to most of the chief characters in the plays. Whatever else they may lack, they know nothing of half-heartedness or irresolution. A volcanic self-assertion, a complete absorption in some one desire, is their characteristic. That in creating such characters Marlowe was working in dark places, and that he developes them with all his energy, is certain. But that in so doing he shows (to refer to a current notion of him) a ' hunger and thirst after unrighteousness,' a desire, that is, which never has produced or could produce true poetry, is an idea which Hazlitt could not have really intended to convey. Marlowe's works are tragedies. Their greatness lies not merely in the conception of an unhallowed lust, however gigantic, but in an insight into its tragic significance and tragic results : and there is as little food for a hunger after unrighteousness (if there be such a thing) in the appalling final scene of Dr. Faustus, or, indeed, in the melancholy of Mephistopheles, so grandly touched by Marlowe, as in the catastrophe of Richard HI or of Goethe's Faust. It is true, again, that in the later acts of the Jew of Malta Barabas has become a mere monster ; but for that very reason the character ceases to show Marlowe's peculiar genius, and Shakespeare himself has not portrayed the sensual lust after gold, and the touch of imagination which redeems it from in- significance, with such splendour as the opening speech of Mar- lowe's play. Whatever faults however the earlier plays have, it is clear, if Edward II "be one of his latest works, that Marlowe was rapidly outgrowing them. For in that play, to say nothing of the two great scenes to which Lamb gave such high praise, the interest is no longer confined to a single character, and there is the most decided advance both in construction and in the dialogue. Of the weightier qualities of Marlowe's genius the extracts from his purely poetical works give but little idea ; but just for that reason they testify to the variety of his powers. Everyone knows the verses ' Come live with me, and be my love,' with their pretty mixture of gold buckles and a belt of straw. This was a very MARLOWE. 415 popular song ; Raleigh wrote an answer to it ; and its flowing music has run in many a head beside Sir Hugh Evans's. But the shepherd would hardly be called ' passionate' outside the Arcadia to which the lyric really belongs. Of the beautiful fragment in ottava rima nothing is known, except that it was first printed with Marlowe's name in England's Parnassus, 1600. The translations of Lucan and Ovid (the former in blank verse) were perhaps early studies. It is curious that Marlowe should have set himself so thankless a task as a version of Lucan which literally gives line for line ; but the choice of the author is characteristic. The translation of Ovid's Amores was burnt on account of its indecency m J 599> and it would have been no loss to the world if all the copies had perished. The interest of these translations is mainly historical. They testify to the passion for classical poetry, and in particular to that special fondness for Ovid of which the literature of the time affords many other proofs. The study of Virgil and Ovid was a far less mixed good for poetry than that of Seneca and Plautus ; and it is perhaps worth noticing that Marlowe, who felt the charm of classical amatory verse, and whose knowledge of Virgil is shown in his Queen Dido, should have been the man who, more than any other, secured the theatre from the dominion of inferior classical dramas. How fully he caught the inspiration, not indeed of the best classical poetry, but of that world of beauty which ancient literature seemed to disclose to the men of the Renascence, we can see in many parts of his writings, in Faust's address to Helen, in Gaveston's description of the sports at Court, in the opening of Queen Dido ; but the fullest proof of it is the fragment of Hero and Leander. Beaumont wrote a Salmacis and Hermaphroditus, Shakespeare a Venus and Adonis, but both found their true vehicle in the drama. Marlowe's poem not only stands far above one of these tales, and perhaps above both, but it stands on a level with his plays ; and it is hard to say what excellence he might not have reached in the field of narrative verse. The defect of his fragment, the intrusion of ingenious reflections and of those conceits with one of which our selection unhappily terminates, was the fault of his time ; its merit is Marlowe's own. It was suggested indeed by the short poem of the Pseudo-Musaeus, an Alexandrian grammarian who probably wrote about the end of the fifth century after Christ, and appears to have been translated into English shortly before 1 589 ; but it is in essence original. Written in the 4 ! 6 THE ENGLISH POETS. so-called heroic verse, it bears no resemblance to any other poem in that metre composed before, nor, perhaps, is there any written since which decidedly recalls it, unless it be Endymion. ' Pagan ' it is in a sense, with the Paganism of the Renascence : the more pagan the better, considering the subject. Nothing of the deeper thought of the time, no ' looking before and after,' no worship of a Gloriana or hostility to an Acrasia, interferes with its frank acceptance of sensuous beauty and joy. In this, in spite of much resemblance, it differs from Endymion, the spirit of which is not fruition but unsatisfied longing, and in which the vision of a vague and lovelier ideal is always turning the enjoyment of the moment into gloom. On the other hand, a further likeness to Keats may perhaps be traced in the pictorial quality of Mar- lowe's descriptions. His power does not lie in catching in the aspect of objects or scenes those deeper suggestions which appeal to an imagination stored with human experience as well as sensitive to colour and form ; for this power does not necessarily result in what we call pictorial writing ; but his soul seems to be in his eyes, and he renders the beauty which appeals directly to sense as vividly as he apprehends it. Nor is this the case with the description of objects alone. The same complete absorption of imagination in sense appears in Marlowe's account of the visit to Hero's tower. This passage is in a high degree voluptuous, but it is not prurient. For prurience is the sign of an unsatisfied imagination, which, being unable to present its object adequately, appeals to extraneous and unpoetic feelings. But Marlowe's imagination is completely satisfied ; and therefore, though he has not a high theme (for it is a mere sensuous joy that is described, and there is next to no real emotion in the matter), he is able to make fine poetry of it. Of the metrical qualities of the poem there can be but one opinion. Shakespeare himself, who quoted a line of it 1 , never reached in his own narrative verse a music so spontaneous and rich, a music to which Marlowe might have applied his own words ' That calls my soul from forth his living seat To move unto the measures of delight/ ' Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might : "Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?"' As you Like It, iii. 5. MARLOWE. 417 Marlowe had many of the makings of a great poet : a capacity for Titanic conceptions which might with time have become Olympian ; an imaginative vision which was already intense and must have deepened and widened ; the gift of style and of making words sing ; and a time to live in such as no other generation of English poets has known. It is easy to reckon his failings. His range of perception into life and character was contracted : of comic power he shows hardly a trace, and it is incredible that he should have written the Jack Cade scenes of Henry VI \ no humour or tenderness relieves his pathos ; there is not any female character in his plays whom we remember with much interest ; and it is not clear that he could have produced songs of the first order. But it is only Shakespeare who can do everything ; and Shakespeare did not die at twenty-nine. That Marlowe must have stood nearer to him than any other dramatic poet of that time, or perhaps of any later time, is probably the verdict of nearly all students of the drama. His immediate successors knew well what was lost in him ; and from the days of Peele, Jonson, Drayton, and Chapman, to our own, the poets have done more than common honour to his memory. A C. BRADLEY. VOL i. E e 4 i8 THE ENGLISH POETS. ^JL^^JL^J (^ THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. Come live with me, and be my love ; I y And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And 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 ; 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 : An if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning : If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love. FRAGMENT. [From England's Parnassvs, 1600.] I walk'd along a stream, for pureness rare, Brighter than sun-shine ; for it did acquaint The dullest sight with all the glorious prey That in the pebble-paved channel lay. MARLOWE. 419 No molten crystal, but a richer mine, Even Nature's rarest alchymy ran there, Diamonds resolv'd, and substance more divine, Through whose bright-gliding current might appe