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 SPECIMENS 
 
 ■WITH MEMOIRS OF THE 
 
 1ESS-EN0¥N BRITISH POETS.
 
 EDIN"BUEGH : 
 
 PRlNTEIi BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY 
 
 PAVL'S WORK.
 
 SPECIMENS 
 
 "WITH MEMOIRS OF THE 
 
 LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. 
 
 eiltti) an I-ntrotiuctorp Csjsaj), 
 
 BY THE 
 
 EEV. GEORGE GILFILLAN. 
 
 IN THREE VOLS. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 EDINBURGH: JAMES NICHOL. 
 LONDON : JAMES NISBET & CO. DUBLIN : W. ROBERTSON. 
 
 M.DCCC.LX.
 
 
 :::>
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 We propose to introduce our ' Specimens ' by a short Essay on 
 the Origin and Progress of English Poetry on to the days of 
 Chaucer and of Gower. Having called, in conjunction with 
 many other critics, Chaucer ' the Father of English Poetry/ to 
 seek to go back further may seem like pursuing antenatal 
 researches. But while Chaucer was the sun, a certain glimmer- 
 ing dawn had gone before him, and to reflect that, is the object 
 of the following pages. 
 
 Britain, when the Romans invaded it, was a barbarous 
 country; and although subjugated and long held by that 
 people, they seem to have left it nearly as uncultivated and 
 illiterate as they found it. 'No magnificent remains,' says 
 Macaulay, ' of Latian porches and aqueducts are to be found in 
 Britain. No writer of British birth is to be reckoned among 
 the masters of Latin poetry and eloquence. It is not probable 
 that the islanders were, at any time, generally familiar with the 
 tongue of their Italian rulers. From the Atlantic to the vicinity 
 of the Rhine the Latin has, during many centuries, been pre- 
 dominant. It drove out the Celtic — it was not driven out by 
 the Teutonic — and it is at this day the basis of the French, 
 Spanish, and Portuguese languages. In our island the Latin 
 appears never to have superseded the old Gaelic speech, and 
 could not stand its ground before the German,' It was in the 
 fifth century that that modification of the German or Teutonic 
 speech called the Anglo-Saxon was introduced into this country. 
 It soon asserted its superiority over the British tongue, Mdiich 
 seemed to retreat before it, reluctantly and proudly, like a lion, 
 into the mountain-fastnesses of Wales or to the rocky sea-beach 
 
 V
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 of Cornwall. The triumph was not completed all at once, but 
 from the beginning it was secure. The bards of Wales con- 
 tinued to sing, but their strains resembled the mutterings of 
 thunder among their own hills, only half heard in the distant 
 valleys, and exciting neither curiosity nor awe. For five cen- 
 turies, with the exception of some Latin words added by the 
 preachers of Christianity, the Anglo-Saxon language continued 
 much as it was when first introduced. Barbarous as the man- 
 ners of the people were, literature was by no means left without 
 a witness. Its chief cultivators were the monks and other reli- 
 gious persons, who spent their leisure in multiplying books, 
 either by original composition or by transcription, including 
 treatises on theology, historical chronicles, and a great abun- 
 dance and variety of poetical productions. Tliese were written at 
 first exclusively in Latin, but occasionally, in process of time, in 
 the Anglo-Saxon tongue. The theology taught in them was, 
 no doubt, crude and corrupted, the history was stufied with 
 fables, and the poetry was rough and bald in the extreme ; but 
 still they furnished a food fitted for the awakening mind of the 
 aire. When the Christian reli2,ion reached Great Britain, it 
 brought necessarily with it an impulse to intellect as well as to 
 morality. So startling are the facts it relates, so broad and 
 deep the principles it lays down, so humane the spirit it incul- 
 cates, and so ravishing the hopes it awakens, that, however dis- 
 guised in superstition and clouded by imperfect representation, 
 it never fails to produce, in all countries to which it comes, a 
 resurrection of the nation's virtue, and a revival, for a time at 
 least, of the nation's political and intellectual energy and genius. 
 Hence we find the very earliest literary names in our early annals 
 are those of Christian missionaries. Such is said to have been 
 Gildas, a Briton, who lived in the first part of the sixth century, 
 and is the reputed author of a short history of Britain in Latin. 
 Such was the still more apocryphal Nennius, also called, till of 
 late, the writer of a small Latin historical work. Such was St 
 Columbanus, who was born in L'eland in 560 ; became a monk 
 in the Irish monastery of Benchor ; and afterwards, at the head 
 of twelve disciples, preached Christianity, in its most ascetic 
 form, in England and in France ; founded in the latter country 
 vi
 
 IXTRODrCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 various monasteries ; and, when banished by Queen Brnnehaiit 
 on account of his stern inflexibility of character, went to Swit- 
 zerland, and then to Lombardy, proselytising the heathen, 
 and defending, by his letters and other writings, the peculiar 
 tenets of the Irish Church in reference to the time of the cele- 
 bration of Easter and to the popular heresies of the day. He 
 died October 2, 615, in the monastery of Bobbio ; and his reli- 
 gious treatises and Latin poetry gave an undoubted impulse to 
 the age's progress in letters. 
 
 About this period the better sort of Saxons, both clergy and 
 laity, got into the habit of visiting Rome ; while Rome, in her 
 turn, sent emissaries to England. Thus, while the one insen- 
 sibly imbibed new knowledge as well as devotion from the great 
 centre, the other brought with them to our shores importations 
 of books, including copies of such religious classics as Josephus 
 and Chrysostom, and of such literary classics as Homer. About 
 680, died Caedmon, a monk of Whitby, one of the first who 
 composed in Anglo-Saxon, and some of whose compositions are 
 preserved. Strange and myth-like stories are told by Bede 
 about this remarkable natural genius. He was originally a cow- 
 herd. Partly from want of training, and partly from bashfulness, 
 when the harp was given him in the hall, and he was asked, as 
 all others were, to raise the voice of song, Caedmon had often to 
 abscond in confusion. On one occasion he had retired to the 
 stable, where he fell into a sound sleep. He dreamed that a 
 stranger appeared to him, and said, ' Caedmon, sing me some- 
 thing.' Caedmon replied that it was his incapacity to sing 
 which had brought him to take refuge in the stable. ' ^ay,' 
 said the stranger, 'but thou hast something to sing.' ' What 
 shall I sing?' rejoined Caedmon. 'Sing the Creation,' and 
 thereupon he began to pour out verses, which, when he awoke, 
 he remembered, repeated, and to which he added others as good. 
 The first lines are, as translated into English, the following : — 
 
 * Now let us praise 
 The Guardian of heaven, 
 The might of the Creator 
 And his counsel — 
 The Gloi-y ! — Father of men ! 
 
 vil
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 He first created, 
 
 For the children of men, 
 
 Heaven as a roof — 
 
 The holy Creator ! 
 
 Then the world — • 
 
 The Guardian of mankind ! 
 
 The Eternal Lord ! 
 
 Produced afterwards 
 
 The Earth for men — 
 
 The Almighty Master !' • 
 
 Our readers all remember tlie well-known story of Coleridge 
 falling asleep over Purchas's ' ' Pilgrims ;' how the poem of 
 ' Kubla Khan ' came rushing from dreamland upon his soul ; 
 and how, when awakened, he wrote it down, and found it to be, 
 if not sense, something better — a glorious piece of fantastic 
 imagination. We knew a gentleman who, slumbering while in 
 a state of bad health, produced, in the course of a few hours, 
 one or two thousand rhymed lines, some of which he repeated 
 in our hearing afterwards, and which were full of point and 
 poetry. We cannot see that Caedmon's lines betray any weird 
 inspiration ; but when rehearsed the next day to the Abbess 
 Hilda, to whom the town-bailiff of Whitby conducted him, she 
 and a circle of learned men pronounced that he had received the 
 gift of song direct from heaven ! They, after one or two other 
 trials of his powers, persuaded him to become a monk in the 
 house of the Abbess, who commanded him to ti-ansfer to verse 
 the whole of the Scripture history. It is said that he was con- 
 stantly employed in repeating to himself what he had heard ; or, 
 as one of his old biographers has it, ' like a clean animal rumi- 
 nating it, he turned it into most sweet verse.' In this way he 
 wrote or rather improvised a vast quantity of poetry, chiefly on 
 religious subjects. Thorpe, in his edition of this author, has 
 preserved a speech of Satan, bearing a striking resemblance 
 to some parts of Milton : — 
 
 * Boiled within him 
 His thought about his heart, 
 Hot was without him, 
 His due punishment. 
 " This narrow place is most unlike 
 That other that we formerly knew 
 
 viii
 
 INTRODUCTORT ESSAY. 
 
 High in heaven's kingdom, 
 Which my master bestowed on me, 
 Though we it, for the All-Powerful, 
 May not possess. 
 
 * * * # * 
 
 That is to me of sorrows the greatest, 
 
 That Adam, 
 
 Who was wrought of earth, 
 
 Shall possess 
 
 My strong seat ; 
 
 That it shall be to him in delight. 
 
 And we endure this torment, 
 
 Misery in this hell. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Here is a vast fire. 
 
 Above and underneath. 
 
 Never did I see 
 
 A loathlier landscape. 
 
 The flame abateth not 
 
 Hot over hell. 
 
 Me hath the clasping of these rings, 
 
 This hard-polished band, 
 
 Impeded in my course. 
 
 Debarred me from my way. 
 
 My feet are bound, 
 
 My hands manacled ; 
 
 Of these hell-doors are 
 
 The ways obstructed, 
 
 So that with aught I cannot 
 
 From these limb-bonds escape. 
 
 About me lie 
 
 Huge gratings 
 
 Of hard iron. 
 
 Forged with heat, 
 
 With which me God 
 
 Hath fastened by the neck. 
 
 Thus perceive I that he knoweth my mind, 
 
 And that he knew also, 
 
 The Lord of hosts. 
 
 That should us through Adam 
 
 Evil befall. 
 
 About the realm of heaven. 
 
 Where I had power of my hands." ' 
 
 Through these rude lines there flashes forth, like fire through a 
 
 ix
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 thick dull grating, a powerful conception — one whicli Milton 
 has borrowed and developed — that of the Evil One feeling in 
 his dark bosom jealousy at young Man, almost overpowering his 
 hatred to God ; and another conception still more striking, that 
 of the devil's thorough conviction that all his plans and thoughts 
 are entirely known by his great Adversary, and are counteracted 
 before they are formed — 
 
 ' Thus perceive I that he knoweth my mind.' 
 
 Compare this with Milton's lines — 
 
 ' So should I purchase dear 
 Short intermission, bought with double smart. 
 This knows my Punisher ; therefore as far 
 From gi'anting he, as I from begging peace.' 
 
 Caedmon saw, without being able fully to express, the complex 
 idea of Satan, as distracted between a thousand thoughts, all 
 miserable — tossed between a thousand winds, all hot as hell — 
 ^ pale ire, envy, and despair ' struggling within him — fury at 
 man overlapping anger at God — remorse and reckless desper- 
 ation wringing each other's miserable hands — a sense of guilt 
 which will not confess, a fear that will not quake^a sorrow that 
 will not weep, a respect for God which will not worship ; and 
 yet, springing out of all these elements, a strange, proud joy, as 
 though the torrid soil of Pandemonium should flower, which 
 makes ' the hell he suffers seem a heaven,' compared to what his 
 destiny might be were he either plunged into a deeper abyss, or 
 taken up unchanged to his former abode of glory. This, in part 
 at least, the monk of Whitby discerned ; but it was reserved for 
 jlllilton to embody it in that tremendous figure which has since 
 continued to dwindle all the efforts of art, and to haunt, like a 
 reality, the human imagination. 
 
 Passing over some interesting but subordinate Saxon writers, 
 such as Ceolfrid, Abbot of Wearmouth ; Aldhelm, Abbot of 
 Malmesbury ; Felix of Croyland ; and Alcuine, King Egbert's 
 librarian at York, we come to one who himself formed an era in 
 the history of our early literature — the venerable Bed©. This 
 famous man was educated in the monastery of Wearmouth, and 
 there appears to have spent the whole of his quiet, innocent, and 
 studious life. He was the very sublimation of a book- worm. 
 X
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 One miglit fancy liim iDecoming at last, as In tlie ' Metamor- 
 phoses ' of Ovid, one of the books, or rolls of vellum and parch- 
 ment, over which he constantly pored. That he did not marry, 
 or was given in marriage, we are certain ; but there is little 
 evidence that he even ate or drank, walked or slept. To read 
 and to write seemed the ' be all and the end all' of his existence. 
 Important as well as numerous were his contributions to literature. 
 He translated from the Scriptures. He wrote religious treatises, 
 biographies, and commentaries upon portions of Holy Writ. 
 Besides his very valuable Ecclesiastical History, he composed 
 various pieces of Latin poetry. His works in all Avere forty-four 
 in number : and it is said that on the very day of his death (it took 
 place in 735) he was dictating to his amanuensis, and had just 
 completed a book. His works are wonderful for his time, and 
 not the less interesting for a fine cobweb of fable which is wover 
 over parts of them, and which seems in keeping with their 
 venerable character. Thus, in speaking of the Magi who visited 
 tlie infant Redeemer, he is very particular in describing their 
 age, appearance, and offerings, Melchior, the first, was old, had 
 gray hair, and a long beard ; and offered ' gold ' to Christ, in 
 acknowledgment of His sovereignty. Caspar, the second, was 
 young, and had no beard ; and he offered ' frankincense,' in re- 
 cognition of our Lord's divinity. Balthasar, the third, was of a 
 dark complexion, had a large beard, and offered ^ myrrh ' to oui 
 Saviour's humanity. We should, we confess, miss such pleasant 
 little myths in other old books besides Bede's Histories. They 
 seem appropriate to ancient works, as the beard is to the goat or 
 the hermit ; and the truth that lies in them is not difficult to 
 eliminate. The next name of note in our literary annals is that of 
 the great Alfred. Surely if ever man was not only before his age, 
 but before ' all ages,' it was he, A palm of the tropics growing 
 on a naked Highland mountain-side, or an English oak bending 
 over one of the hot springs of Hecla, were not a stranger or more 
 preternatural sight than a man like Alfred appearing in a cen- 
 tury like the ninth, A thousand theories about men being the 
 creatures of their age, the products of circumstances, &c., sink 
 into abeyance beside the facts of his life ; and we are driven to 
 the good old belief that to some men the ' inspiration of the
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 Almighty givetli understanding;' and that their wisdom, their 
 genius, and their excellency do not proceed from themselves. On 
 his deeds of valour and patriotism it is not necessary to dwell. 
 These form the popular and bepraised side of his character, but 
 they give a very inadequate idea of the whole. On one occasion 
 he visited the Danish camp — a king disguised as a harper ; but 
 he was, all his life long, a harper disguised as a king. He was 
 at once a warrior, a legislator, an architect, a shipbuilder, a 
 philosopher, a scholar, and a poet. His great object, as avowed 
 in his last will, was to leave his people 'free as their own 
 thoughts.' Hence he bent the whole force of his mind, first, 
 to defend them from foreign foes, by encouraging the new 
 naval strength he had himself established ; and then to culti- 
 vate their intellects, and make them, as well as their country, 
 worth defending. Let us quote the glowing words of Burke : — 
 ' He was indefatigable in his endeavours to bring into England 
 men of learning in all branches from every part of Europe, and 
 unbounded in his liberality to them. He enacted by a law that 
 every person possessed of two hides of land should send their 
 children to school until sixteen. He enterprised even a greater 
 design than that of forming the growing generation — to instruct 
 even the grown, enjoining all his sheriffs and other officers 
 immediately to apply themselves to learning, or to quit their 
 offices. Whatever trouble he took to extend the benefits of 
 learning among his subjects, he shewed the example himself, 
 and applied to the cultivation of his mind with unparalleled 
 diligence and success. He could neither read nor write at 
 twelve years old, but he improved his time in such a manner, 
 that he became one of the most knowing men of his age, in 
 geometry, in philosophy, in architecture, and in music. He 
 applied himself to the improvement of his native language ; he 
 translated several valuable works from Latin, and wrote a vast 
 number of poems in the Saxon tongue with a wonderful facility 
 and happiness. He not only excelled in the theory of the arts 
 and sciences, but possessed a great mechanical genius for the 
 executive part. He improved the manner of shipbuilding, in- 
 troduced a more beautiful and commodious architecture, and even 
 taught his countrymen the art of making bricks, most of the 
 xii
 
 rXTRODUCTORT ESSAY. 
 
 buildings having been of wood before bis time — in a word, be 
 comprehended in the greatness of his mind the whole of govern- 
 ment, and all its parts at once ; and what is most difficult to 
 human frailtj was at the same time sublime and minute.' 
 
 Some exaggeration must be allowed for in all this account of 
 Alfred the Great. But tlie fact that he left a stamp in his 
 age so deep, — that nothing except what was good and great has 
 been ascribed to him, — that the very fictions told of him are of 
 such vraisemblance and magnitude as to FIT IN to nothing less 
 than an extraordinary man, — and that, as Burke says, ' whatever 
 dark spots of human frailty may have adhered to such a charac- 
 ter, are entirely hid in the splendour of many shining qualities 
 and grand virtues, that throw a glory over the obscure period in 
 which he lived, and which is for no other reason worthy of our 
 knowledge,' — all proclaim his supremacy. Like many great 
 men, — like Julius Cajsar, with his epilepsy — or Sir Walter 
 Scott and Byron, with their lameness — or Schleiermacher, with 
 his deformed appearance, — a physical infirmity beset Alfred 
 most of his life, and at last carried him oflf at a comparatively 
 early age. This was a disease in his bowels, which had long 
 afilicted him, 'without interrupting his designs, or souring his 
 temper.' Nay, who can say that the constant presence of such 
 a memento of weakness and mortality did not operate as a 
 strong, quiet stimulus to do with his might what his hand found 
 to do — to lower pride, and to prompt to labom-? If Saladin 
 had had for his companion some such faithful hound of son*ow, 
 it would have saved him the ostentatious flag stretched over his 
 head, in the hour of wassail, with the inscription, ' Saladin, 
 Saladin, king of kings ! Saladin must die ! ' 
 
 Alfred wrote little that was original, but he was a copious 
 translator. He rendered into the Anglo-Saxon tongue — which 
 he souQ;ht to enrich with the fatness of other soils — the historical 
 works of Orosius and of Bede ; nay, it is said the Fables of 
 ^sop, and the Psalms of David — desirous, it would seem, to 
 teach his people morality and religion, through the fine medium 
 of fiction and poetry. 
 
 Alfric, Archbishop of Canterbury, is the name of another im- 
 portant contributor to Saxon literature. He wrote a grammar 
 
 xiii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 of liis native language, wliich pvocnvecl him the name of the 
 ' Gram.marian,' besides a collection of homilies, some theological 
 treatises, and a translation of the first seven books of the Old 
 Testament. In imitation of Alfred, he devoted all his energies 
 to the instruction of the common people, constantly writing in 
 Anglo-Saxon, and avoiding as much as possible the use of com- 
 pound or obscure words. After him appeared CynewuJf, Bishop 
 of Winchester, Wulfstan, Archbishop of York, and others of 
 some note. There was also slowly piled up in the course of 
 ages, and by a succession of authors, that remarkable production, 
 * The Ano;lo-Saxon Chronicle.' This is thouQ-ht to have com- 
 menced soon after the reign of Alfred, and continued till the 
 times of Henry II. Previous, however, to the Norman invasion, 
 there had been a decided falling off in the learning of the Saxons. 
 This arose from various causes. Incessant wars tended to con- 
 serve and increase the barbarism of the people. Various libra- 
 ries of value were destroyed by the incursions of the Danes. 
 And not a few bishops, and other ecclesiastical dignitaries, began 
 to consider learning as prejudicial to piety — and grammar and 
 ungodliness were thought akin. The effect of tliis upon the 
 subordinate clergy was most pernicious. In the tenth century,. 
 Oswald, Archbishop of Canterbury, found the monks of his pro- 
 vince so grossly ignorant, not only of letters, but even of the 
 canonical rules of their respective orders, that he required to send 
 to France for competent masters to give them instruction. 
 
 At length came the Conqueror, William, and one battle gave 
 England to the Normans, which had cost the Romans, the 
 Saxons, and the Danes so much time and blood to acquire. The 
 people were not only conquered, but cowed and crushed. Eng- 
 land was as easily and effectually subdued as was Ireland, some- 
 time after, by Henry 11. But while the Conquest was for a 
 season fatal to liberty, it was from the first favourable to every 
 species of literature, art, and poetry. ' The influence,' says 
 Campbell, ^ of the Norman Conquest upon the language of Eng- 
 land was like that of a great inundation, which at first buries 
 the face of the landscape under its waters, but which, at last sub- 
 siding, leaves behind it the elements of new beauty and fertility. 
 Its first effect was to degrade the Anglo-Saxon tongue to the
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 exclusive use of the inferior orders, and by tlie transference of 
 estates, ecclesiastical benefices, and civil dignities to Norman 
 possessors, to give the French language, which had begun to 
 prevail at court from the time of Edward the Confessor, a more 
 complete predominance among the higher classes of society. 
 The native gentry of England were either driven into exile, or 
 depressed into a state of dependence on their conqueror, which 
 habituated them to speak his language. On the other hand, we 
 received from the Normans the first germs of romantic poetry; 
 and our language was ultimately indebted to them for a wealth 
 and compass of expression which it probably would not have 
 otherwise possessed.' 
 
 The Anglo-Saxon, however, held its place long among the 
 lower orders, and specimens of it, both in prose and verse, are 
 found a century after the Conquest. Gradually the Norman 
 tongue began to amalgamate with it, and the result was, the 
 English. At what precise year our language might be said to 
 begin, it is impossible to determine. Throughout the whole of 
 the twelfth century, great changes were taking place in the 
 grammatical construction, as well as in the substance of the 
 Anglo-Saxon. Some new words were imported from the Nor- 
 man, but, as Dr Johnson remarks, ' the language was still more 
 materially altered by the change of its sounds, the cutting short 
 of its syllables, and the softening down of its terminations, and 
 inflections of words.' Somewhere between 1180 and 1216, the 
 majestic speech in which Shakspeare was to write ']\Iacbeth' and 
 '■ King Lear,' Lord Bacon his 'Advancement of Learning,' Milton 
 his 'Paradise Lost' and 'Areopagitica,' Burke his ' Eeflections,' 
 and Sir Walter Scott the Waverley Novels, and whose rough, 
 but manly accents were to be spoken by at least a hundred mil- 
 lion tongues, commenced its career, and not since Homer, 
 
 " on the Chian straud, 
 Beheld the Ihad and the Odyssee 
 Rise to the swelHng of the voiceful sea," 
 
 had a nobler era been marked in the history of literature. For 
 here was a tongue born which Avas destined to mate even with 
 that of Greece in richness and flexibility, to make the language 
 
 XV
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 of Cicero and Virgil seem stiff and stilted in comparison, and, if 
 not to vie with the French in airy grace, or with the Italian in 
 liquid music, to excel them far in teeming resources and robust 
 energy. Memorable and hallowed for ever be the hour when 
 the ' well of English undefiled' first sparkled to the day! 
 
 Previous to this the chief of the poets, after the Concp.est, 
 were Normans. The country whence that people came had for 
 some time been celebrated for poetry. France was, as to its 
 poetic literature, divided into two great sections — the Provencal 
 and the Northern. The first was like the country where it 
 flourished — gay, flowery, and exuberant ; it swam in romance, 
 and its rhymers delighted, when addressing large audiences 
 under the open skies of their delightful climate, to indulge in 
 compliment and fanfaronade, to sing of war, wine, and love. 
 The Normans produced a race of simpler poets. That some of 
 them were men as well as singers, is proved by the fact that it 
 was a bard named Taillefer who first broke the English ranks 
 at the battle of Hastings. After him came Philippe de Thaun, 
 who tried to set to song the science of his day ; Thorold, the 
 author of a romance entitled ' Roland;' Samson de-Nauteuil, the 
 translator of Solomon's Proverbs into French verse ; Geoffrey 
 Gaimar, who wrote a Chronicle of the Saxon kings ; and one 
 David, a minstrel of no little note and power in his day. But 
 a more remarkable writer succeeded, and his work, like Aaron's 
 rod, swallowed up all the productions of these clever but petty 
 poets. This was Wace, commonly called Maistre Wace, a 
 native of Jersey. In 1160, or as some say 1155, Wace finished 
 his ^ Brut d'Angleterre,' which is in reality a translation into 
 French of Geoffrey of Monmouth, who wrote a History of Britain 
 from the imaginary Brutus of Troy down to Cadwallader in 
 689. Literature owes not a little to Wace's poem. He collected 
 into a permanent shape a number of traditions and legends — 
 many of them interesting — which had been floating through 
 Europe, just as Macpherson preserved in Ossian not a few real 
 fragments of the songs of Selma. And, as we shall see imme- 
 diately, Wace's production became the basis of the earliest of- 
 English poems. 
 
 Maistre Wace is the author also of a History of the Normans, 
 xvi
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 which he calls ' Eoman de Eou;' or, 'The Eomance of Eollo.' 
 He was a great favourite with Henry II., who bestowed on him 
 a canonry in the Cathedral of Bayeux. Besides Wace, there 
 flourished about the same time Benoit, who wrote a History of 
 the Dukes of ISTormandy ; and Guernes, a churchman of Pont St 
 Maxence in Picardy, who wrote in verse a Life of St Thomas a 
 Becket. 
 
 At the beginning of the century following the Conquest, the 
 chief authors, such as Peter of Blois, John of Salisbury, Joseph 
 of Exeter, and Geoffrey of Monmouth, all wrote in Latin. 
 Layamon, however, a priest of Ernesley-upon-Severn, used the 
 vernacular in a poem which, as we have already hinted, was 
 essentially a translation of Wace's ' Brut d'Angleterre.' The 
 most remarkable thing about Layamon's poem is the language 
 in which it is written — language in which you catch English 
 in the very act of chipping the Saxon shell, or, as Campbell 
 happily remarks, ' the style of Layamon is as nearly the inter- 
 mediate state of the old and new langunges as can be found in 
 any ancient specimen — something like the new insect stirring it3 
 wings before it has shaken off the aurelia state.' 
 
 Between Layamon and Eobert of Gloucester a good many 
 miscellaneous strains — some of a satirical, others of an amatory, 
 and others again of a legendary and devout style — were pro- 
 duced. It was customary then for minstrels, at the instance of 
 the clergy, to sing on Sundays devotional strains on the harp 
 to the assembled multitudes. At public entertainments, during 
 week-days, gay ditties were common. One of these is extant, 
 but is too coarse for quotation. It is entitled ' The Land of 
 Cokayne,' an allegorical satire on the luxury and vice of the 
 Church, given under the description of an imaginary paradise, 
 in which the nuns are represented as houris, and the black and 
 grey monks as their paramours. ' Eichard of Alemaine' is a 
 ballad, composed by an adherent of Simon de Montfort, Earl of 
 Leicester, after the defeat of the Eoyal party at the battle of 
 Lewes in 1264, In the year after that battle the Eoyal 
 cause rallied, and the Earl of Warren and Sir Hugh Bigod 
 returned from exile, and helped the King in his victory. In the 
 battle of Lewes, Eichard, King of the Eomans, his brother 
 
 VOL. I. h • xvii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 Henry III., and Prince Edward, with many others of the Royal 
 party, were taken prisoners.^ 
 
 The spirit and the allusions of this song shew that it was 
 composed by Leicester's party in the moment of their victory, 
 and not after the reaction which took place against their cause, 
 and it must therefore belong to the thirteenth century. To this 
 period, too, probably belongs a political satire, published by 
 Bitson, and which Campbell thus characterises : — ' It is a ballad 
 on the execution of the Scottish patriots, Sir AVilliam Wallace 
 and Sir Simon Frazer. The diction is as barbarous as we should 
 expect from a song of triumph on such a subject. It relates the 
 death and treatment of Wallace very minutely. The circum- 
 stance of his being covered with a mock crown of laurel in West- 
 minster Hall, which Stow repeats, is there mentioned, and that 
 of his legs being fastened with iron fetters " under Ms horse's 
 uombe,'^ is told with savage exultation. The piece was probably 
 indited in the very year of the political murders which it cele- 
 brates, certainly before 1314, as it mentions the skulking of 
 Robert Bruce, which, after the battle of Bannockburn, must have 
 become a jest out of season.' 
 
 Campbell quotes a love-ditty of this period, which is not de- 
 void of merit : — 
 
 * For her love I cark and care, 
 For lier love I droop and dare, 
 For her love my bliss is bare, 
 
 And all I wax wan. 
 
 * For her love in sleep I slake,^ 
 For her love all night I wake, 
 For her love mourning I make 
 
 More than any man.' 
 
 And another of a pastoral vein : — 
 
 ' When the nightingale singes the woods waxen green, 
 Leaf, grass, and blossom springs in Avril I ween, 
 And love is to my heart gone, with one spear so keen, 
 Night and day my blood it drinks, my heart doth me teen.' 
 
 About a hundred years after Layamon (in 1280) appeared a 
 
 ^ See 'Richard of Alemaine,' Percy's Reliques, vol. ii., p. 2. 
 ^ 'In sleep I slake;' am deprived of sleep. 
 
 xviii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 poet not dissimilar to him, named Robert of Gloucester. His 
 surname is unknown, and so are the particulars of his history. 
 We know only that he was a monk of Gloucester Abbey, that 
 he lived in the reigns of Henry III, and Edward I., and that 
 he translated tlie Legends of Geoffrey of Monmouth, and con- 
 tinued the History of England down to the time of Edward 
 I. This work is wonderfully minute, and, generally speaking, 
 accurate in its topography as well as narrative, and was of ser- 
 vice to Selden when he wrote his Notes to Drayton's ' Poly- 
 olbion.' It is more valuable in this respect than as a piece of 
 imagination. 
 
 He narrates the grandest events — such as the first crusaders 
 bursting into Asia, with a sword of fire hung in the firmament 
 before them, and beckoning them on their way— as coolly as he 
 might the emigration of a colony of ants. Yet, although there 
 is little animation or poetry in his general manner, he usually 
 succeeds in riveting the reader's attention ; and the speeches he 
 puts into the mouths of his heroes glow with at least rhetorical 
 fire. And as a critic truly remarks — ' In justice to the ancient 
 versifier, we should remember that he had still only a rude 
 language to employ, the speech of boors and burghers, which, 
 though it might possess a few songs and satires, could afford 
 him no models of heroic narration. In such an ae;e the first 
 occupant passes uninspired over subjects which might kindle 
 the highest enthusiasm in the poet of a riper period, as the savage 
 treads unconsciously in his deserts over mines of incalculable 
 value, without sagacity to discover or inplements to explore 
 them.' We give the following extracts from Robert of 
 Gloucester's poem : — 
 
 THE SPORTS AND SOLEMNITIES WHICH FOLLOWED KING ARTHUR'S CORONATION. 
 
 The king was to his palace, tho the service was ydo,^ 
 Y led with his meinie,^ and the queen to her also. 
 For they held the old usages, that men with men were 
 By themselve, and w^omen by themselve also there. 
 When they were each one yset, as it to their state become, 
 Kay, king of Anjou, a thousand knightes nome ^ 
 Of noble men, yclothed in ermine each one 
 
 1 ' Tlio the service was ydo:' when the service was done. — ^ 'Meiuie:' attend- 
 ants. — ^ 'Nome:' brought. 
 
 xix
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 Of one suit, and served at this noble feast anon. 
 
 Bedwer the botyler, king of Normandy, 
 
 Nome also in his half a fair company 
 
 Of one suit for to serve of the botelery. 
 
 Before the queen it was also of all such courtesy, 
 
 For to tell all the nobley that there was ydo, 
 
 Though my tongue were of steel, me should nought dure thereto. 
 
 Women ne kejit of no knight in druery,^ 
 
 But he were in arms well yproved, and atte least thrye.^ 
 
 That made, lo, the women the chaster life lead, 
 
 And the knights the stalwarder, and the better in their deed. 
 
 Soon after this noble meat, as right was of such tide, 
 
 The knights atyled them about in cache side, 
 
 In fields and in meadows to prove their bachlery,^ 
 
 Some with lance, some with sword, without villany, 
 
 With playing at tables, other atte chekei-e,* 
 
 With casting, other with setting,^ other in some other maunere. 
 
 And which so of any game had the mastery, 
 
 The king them of his giftes did large courtesy. 
 
 Up the alurs^ of the castle the ladies then stood, 
 
 And beheld this noble game, and which knights were good. 
 
 All the three exte dayes '^ ylaste this nobley, 
 
 In halles and in fieldes, of meat and eke of play. 
 
 These men come the fourth day before the kinge there. 
 
 And he gave them large gifts, ever as they worthy were. 
 
 Bishoprics and churches' clerks he gave some, 
 
 And castles and townes knights that were ycome. 
 
 AN OLD TRADITION. 
 
 It was a tradition invented by the old fablers that giants brought the 
 stones of Stonehenge from the most sequestered deserts of Africa, and 
 placed them in Ireland ; that every stone was washed with juices of hei-bs, 
 and contained a medical power ; and that Merlin, the magician, at the re- 
 quest of King Arthur, transported them from Ireland, and ei'ected them in 
 circles on tlie plain of Amesbury, as a sepulchral nionument for the Britons 
 treacherously slain by Hengist. This fable is thus delivered, without deco- 
 ration, by llobert of Glocester : — 
 
 ' Sir king,' quoth Merlin then, ' such thinges ywis 
 
 Ke be for to shew nought, but when great need is. 
 
 For if I said in bismare, other but it need were. 
 
 Soon from me he woidd wend, the ghost that doth me lere.'* 
 
 ^ 'Druery:' modesty, decorum. — " 'Thrye:' thrice. — ^ 'Bachlery:' chivalry, 
 courage, or youth. — * 'Chekere:' chess. — ® 'With casting, other with setting:' 
 different ways of phxying at chess. — " ' Alurs:' walks made witliin the battlements 
 of the castle. — '^ ' Exte dayes :' high, or chief daj'S. — * If I should say anj' thing out 
 of wantonness or vanity, the spirit which teaches me would immediately leave me. 
 XX
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 The king, then none other n'as, bid him some quaintise 
 
 Bethink about thilk cors that so noble were and wise.^ 
 
 ' Sir king,' quoth MerUn then, ' if thou wilt here cast 
 
 In the honour of men, a work that ever shall ylast, 
 
 To the hill of Kylar^ send in to Ireland, 
 
 After the noble stones that there habbet^ long ystand ; 
 
 That was the treche of giants,* for a quaiute work there is 
 
 Of stones all with art ymade, in the world such none is. 
 
 Ne there n'is nothing that me should myd° strength adowne cast. 
 
 Stood they here, as they doth there, ever a woulde last.' 
 
 The king somdeal to-lygh,^ when he hearde this tale : 
 
 ' How might,' he said, ' such stones, so great and so fale,'' 
 
 Be ybrought of so far land ? And yet mist of were, 
 
 Me would ween that in this lande no stone to wonke n'ere.' 
 
 ' Sir king,' quoth Merlin, * ue make nought an idle such laughing ; 
 
 For it n'is an idle nought that I tell this tiding. 
 
 For in the farrest stude of Afric giants while fet^ 
 
 These stones for medicine and in Ireland them set. 
 
 While they wonenden in Ireland to make their bathes there, 
 
 There under for to bathe when they sick were. 
 
 For they would the stones wash and therein bathe ywis ; 
 
 For is no stone there among that of great virtue n'is.' 
 
 The king and his counsel rode the stones for to fet. 
 
 And with great power of battle if any more them let. 
 
 Uther, the kinge's brother, that Ambrose hett ^ also, 
 
 In another name ychose was thereto. 
 
 And fifteen thousand men, this deede for to do, 
 
 And Merlin for his quaintise thither went also. 
 
 Arthur's intrigue with tgerne. 
 
 At the feast of Easter the king sent his sond,^*' 
 
 That they comen all to London the high men of this lond, 
 
 And the ladies all so good, to his noble feast wide, 
 
 For he shoulde crown here, for the high tide. 
 
 All the noble men of this land to the noble feast come, 
 
 And their wives and their daughtren with them many nome,^^ 
 
 This feast was noble enow, and nobliche ydo ; 
 
 For many was the fair lady that ycome was thereto. 
 
 Ygerne, Gorloys' wife, was fairest of each one, 
 
 That was Countess of Cornewall, for so fair n'as there none. 
 
 I Bade him use his cunning, for the sake of the bodies of those noble and wise 
 Britons.— ^ 'KyUir:' Kildare.— ^ 'Habbet:' have.— *' The treche of giants :' 'The 
 dance of giants.' The name of this collection of immense stones. — ^ ' Myd : ' with. — 
 « ' Somdeal to-lygh :' somewhat laughed. — '' ' Fale:' many.— » Giants once brought 
 them from the furthest part of Africa.—^ 'Hett:' was called.— i" ' Sond:' mes- 
 sage. — " 'Nome:' took. 
 
 xxi
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 The king beheld her fast enow, and his heart on her cast, 
 
 And thoughte, though he were wise, to do follj at last. 
 
 He made her semblant fair enow, to none other so great. 
 
 The earl n'as not therewith ypayed,'^ when he it under get. 
 
 After meat he nome his wife myd ^ sturdy med enow, 
 
 And, without leave of the king, to his country drow. 
 
 The king sente to him then, to byleve ^ all night. 
 
 For he must of great counsel have some insight. 
 
 That was for nought. Would he not, the king sent yet his sond, 
 
 That he byleved at his parlement, for need of the lond. 
 
 The king was, when he n'olde not, anguyssous and wroth. 
 
 For despite he would a-wreak be he swore his oath, 
 
 But he come to amendemeut. His power attti last 
 
 He garked, and went forth to Cornewall fast. 
 
 Gorloys his castles a store all about. 
 
 In a strong castle he did his wife, for of her was all his doubt. 
 
 In another himself he was, for he n'olde nought. 
 
 If cas * come, that they were both to death ybrought. 
 
 The castle, that the earl in was, the king besieged fast, 
 
 For he might not his gins for shame to the other cast. 
 
 Then he was there seen not, and he spedde nought, 
 
 Ygerne, the countesse, so much was in his thought, 
 
 That he nuste none other wit, ne he ne might for shame 
 
 Tell it but a privy knight, Ulfyn was his name, 
 
 That he truste most to. And when the knight heard this, 
 
 ' Sii',' he said, ' I ne can wit, what rede hereof is, 
 
 For the castle is so strong, that the lady is in, 
 
 For I ween all the land ne should it myd strengthe win. 
 
 For the sea goeth all about, but entry one there n'is. 
 
 And that is up on harde rocks, and so narrow way it is, 
 
 That there may go but one and one, that three men within 
 
 Might slay all the land, ere they come therein. 
 
 And nought for then, if Merlin at the counsel were, 
 
 If any might, he couthe the best rede thee lere.'^ 
 
 Merlin was soon of sent, pled it was him soon. 
 
 That he should the best rede say, what were to don. 
 
 JMerlin was sorry enow for the kinge's folly. 
 
 And natheless, ' Sir king,' he said, ' there may to mast'iy, 
 
 The earl hath two men him near, Brithoel and Jordan. 
 
 I will make thyself, if thou wilt, through art that I can. 
 
 Have all the forme of the earl, as thou were right he, 
 
 And Olfyn as Jordan, and as Brithoel me.' 
 
 This art was all clean ydo, that all changed they were, 
 
 1 'Ypayed:' satisfied.— ^ 'Myd:' with.— -^ 'Byleve:' stay.—* 'Cas:' chance.- 
 'Lere:' teach. 
 
 xxii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 They three in the others' form, the selve as it were. 
 
 Against even he went forth, nuste ^ no man that cas ; 
 
 To the castle they come right as it even was. 
 
 The porter ysaw his lord come, and his most privy twei, 
 
 With good heart he let his lord in, and his men bey. 
 
 The countess was glad enow, when her lord to her come 
 
 And either other in their arms myd great joy nome. 
 
 When they to bedde come, that so long a-two were. 
 
 With them was so great delight, that between them there 
 
 Begot was the best body, that ever was in this land, 
 
 King Arthur the noble man, that ever worthy understand. 
 
 When the king's men nuste amorrow, where he was become, 
 
 They fared as wodemen, and wend^ he were ynome.^ 
 
 They assaileden the castle, as it should adown anon, 
 
 They that within were, garked them each one, 
 
 And smote out in a full will, and fought myd there fone : 
 
 So that the earl was yslaw, and of his men many one, 
 
 And the castle was ynome, and the folk to-sprad there, 
 
 Yet, though they hadde all ydo, they ne found not the king there. 
 
 The tiding to the countess soon was ycome, 
 
 That her lord was yslaw, and the castle ynome. 
 
 And when the messenger him saw the earl, as him thought, 
 
 That he had so foul plow, full sore him of thought, 
 
 The countess made somedeal deol,* for no sothness they nuste. 
 
 The king, for to glad her, beclipt her and cust. 
 
 'Dame,' he said, ' no sixt thou well, that les it is all this : 
 
 Ne wo'st thou well I am alive. I will thee say how it is. 
 
 Out of the castle stillelich I went all in privity. 
 
 That none of mine men it nuste, for to speak with thee. 
 
 And when they mist me to-day, and nuste where I was, 
 
 They fareden right as giddy men, myd whom no rede n'as, 
 
 And foughte with the folk without, and have in this mannere 
 
 Ylore the castle and themselve, and well thou wo'st I am here. 
 
 And for my castle, that is ylore, sorry I am enow, 
 
 And for my men, that the king and his power slew. 
 
 And my power is to lute, therefore I dreade sore, 
 
 Leste the king us nyme^ here, and sorrow that we were more. 
 
 Therefore I will, how so it be, wend against the king, 
 
 And make my peace with him, ere he us to shame bring.' 
 
 Forth he went, and het^ his men if the king come, 
 
 That they shoulde him the castle yield, ere he with strength it nome. 
 
 So he come toward his men, his own form he nome, 
 
 And leaved the earl's form, and the king Uther become. 
 
 1 'Nuste:' knew.— ^ 'Wend:' thought.— =^ 'Ynome:' taken.— ■» 'Deol:' grief. 
 -5 'Nyme:' take.— "^ 'Het:' bade. 
 
 xxiii
 
 INTRODUCTORT ESSAY. 
 
 Sore him of thought the earle's death, and in other half he found 
 
 Joy in his heart, for the countess of spousehed was unbound, 
 
 When he had that he would, and paysed^ with his son, 
 
 To the countess he went again, me let him in anon. 
 
 What halt^ it to tale longe? but they were set at one. 
 
 In great love long enow, when it n'olde other gon ; 
 
 And had together this noble son, that in the world his pere n'as, 
 
 The king Arthm-, and a daughter, Anne her name was. 
 
 The next name of note is Robert, commonly called De Brunne. 
 His real name was Robert Manning. He was born at Maltoa 
 in York sli ire; for some time belonged to the house of Sixhill, 
 a Gilbertine monastery in Yorkshire ; and afterwards became a 
 member of Brunne or Browne, a priory of black canons in the 
 same county. When monastical writers became famous, they 
 were usually designated from the religious houses to which they 
 belonged. Thus it was with Matthew of Westminster, William 
 of Malmesbury, and John of Glastonbury — all received their 
 appellations from their respective monasteries. De Brunne's 
 principal work is a Chronicle of the History of England, 
 in rhyrne. It can in no way be considered an original produc- 
 tion, but is partly translated, and partly compiled from the 
 writings of Maistre Wace and Peter de Langtoft, which latter 
 was a canon of Bridlington in Yorksliire, of Norman origin, 
 but born in England, and the author of an entire History of his 
 country in French verse, down to the end of the reign of Edward 
 I. Brunne's Chronicle seems to have been written about the 
 year 1303. We extract the Prologue, and two other pas- 
 
 sages 
 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 ' Lordlinges that be now here, 
 If ye wille listen and lere. 
 All the story of England, 
 As Robert Mannyng written it fand, 
 And in English has it shewed, 
 Not for the leared but for the lowed ;^ 
 For those that on this land wonn 
 That the Latin ue Frankys conn,* 
 For to have solace and gamen 
 
 ■^ 'Paysed:' made peace. — " 'Halt:' holdeth. — ^ 'Lewed:' ignorant. — ■* 'Conn:' 
 know. 
 
 xxiv
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 In fellowship when they sit sanien, 
 
 And it is wisdom for to witteu 
 
 The state of the land, and have it written, 
 
 What manner of folk first it wan. 
 
 And of what kind it first began. 
 
 And good it is for many things, 
 
 For to hear the deeds of kings, 
 
 Whilk were fools, and whilk were wise. 
 
 And whilk of them couth ^ most quaintise ; 
 
 And whilk did wrong, and whilk right, 
 
 And whilk maintained peace and fight. 
 
 Of their deedes shall be ray saw. 
 
 In what time, and of what law, 
 
 I shall you from gre to gre,^ 
 
 Since the time of Sir Noe : 
 
 From Xoe unto Eneas, 
 
 And what betwixt them was. 
 
 And from Eneas till Brutus' time, 
 
 That kind he tells in this rhyme. 
 
 For Brutus to Cadwallader's, 
 
 The last Briton that this land lees. 
 
 All that kind and all the fruit 
 
 That come of Brutus that is the Brute ; 
 
 And the right Brute is told no more 
 
 Than the Britons' time wore. 
 
 After the Britons the English camen, 
 
 The lordshijj of this land they numen ; 
 
 South and north, west and east. 
 
 That call men now the English gest. 
 
 When they first among the Britons, 
 
 That now are English then were Saxons, 
 
 Saxons English bight all oliche. 
 
 They arrived up at Sandwiche, 
 
 In the kings since Vortogerne - 
 
 That the land would them not weme, &c. 
 
 One Master Wace the Frankes tells 
 
 The Brute all that the Latin spells, 
 
 From Eneas to Cadwallader, &g. 
 
 And right as Master Wace says, 
 
 I tell mine English the same ways,' &c. 
 
 Kixa vortigern's meeting with princess rouwen. 
 
 Hengist that day did his might, 
 That all were glad, king and knight, 
 
 1 'Couth:' knew.— 2 'Gre:' step. 
 
 XXV
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 And as they were best in glading, 
 And wele cop schotin ^ knight and king, 
 Of chamber Rouewen so gent, 
 Before the king in hall she went. 
 A cuj) with wine she had in hand, 
 And her attire was well-farand.^ 
 Before the king on knee set, 
 And in her language she him gret. 
 
 ' Lauerid^ king, Wassail,' said she. 
 The king asked, what should be. 
 In that language the king ne couth.* 
 A knight the language lered^ in youth. 
 Breg hight that knight, born Bretoun, 
 That lered the language of Sessoun.^ 
 This Breg was the latimer,'' 
 What she said told Vortager. 
 ' Sir,' Breg said, ' Rowen you greets, 
 And king calls and lord you leets.* 
 This is their custom and their gest, 
 When they are at the ale or feast. 
 Ilk man that louis quare him think. 
 Shall say Wosseil, and to him drink. 
 He that bidis shall say, Wassail, 
 The other shall say again, Drinkhail. 
 That says Wosseil drinks of the cup, 
 Kissing his fellow he gives it up. 
 Drinkheil, he says, and drinks thereof. 
 Kissing him in bourd and skof.' ^ 
 The king said, as the knight 'gan ken,^** 
 Drinkheil, smiling on Rouewen. 
 Rouwen drank as her list. 
 And gave the king, sine ^^ him kist. 
 There was the first wassail in deed, 
 And that first of fame gede.^^ 
 Of that wassail men told great tale, 
 And wassail when they were at ale, 
 And drinkheil to them that drank, 
 Thus was wassail tane ^^ to thank. 
 
 Fele sithes^* that maiden ying,^^ 
 Wassailed and kist the kina;. 
 
 1 'Schotin:' sending about the cups briskly. — ^ ' Well-farand : ' very rich. — 
 3 'Laucrid:' lord. — * ' Ne couth:' knew not. — ^ 'Lered:' learned. — ® 'Sessoun:' 
 Saxons. — ' ' Latimer :' /or Latiner, or Latinier, an interpreter. — ^ ' Leets:' esteems. 
 —9 'Skof:' sport, joke.— 1" 'Ken:' to signify.—" 'Sine:' then.— ^^ 'Gede:' went. 
 — " 'Tane:' taken. — ^* 'Sithes:' many times. — ^^ 'Ying:' young. 
 
 xxvi
 
 INTRODrCTORT ESSAY. 
 
 Of body slie was right avenant,^ 
 
 Of fair colour, -with sweet semblant.^ 
 
 Her attire full well it seemed, 
 
 Mervelik^ the king she quemid.* 
 
 Out of measure was lie glad, 
 
 For of that maiden he were all mad. 
 
 Drunkenness the fiend wrought. 
 
 Of that paen^ was all his thought. 
 
 A mischance that time him led. 
 
 He asked that paen for to wed. 
 
 Hengist wild not draw a lite,^ 
 
 But granted him, alle so tite.'' 
 
 And Ilors his brother consented soon. 
 
 Her friendis said, it were to don. 
 
 They asked the king to give her Kent, 
 
 In douery to take of rent. 
 
 Upon that maiden his heart so cast, 
 
 That they asked the king made fast. 
 
 I ween the king took her that day. 
 
 And wedded her on paieu's lay.* 
 
 Of priest was there no benison 
 
 No mass sungen, no orison. 
 
 In seisine he had her that night. 
 
 Of Kent he gave Hengist the right. 
 
 The earl that time, that Kent all held, 
 
 Sir Goragon, that had the sheld, 
 
 Of that gift no thing ne wist 
 
 To^ he was cast out tvithi" Hengist. 
 
 THE ATTACK OF RICHARB I. OX A CASTLE HELD BT THE SARACENS. 
 
 The dikes were fuUe wide that closed the castle about, 
 And deep on ilka side, with bankis high without. 
 Was there none entry that to the castle 'gau ligg,^"- 
 But a strait kauce ;^'^ at the end a draw-brig. 
 With great double chaines drawen over the gate, 
 And fifty armed swaines porters at that gate. 
 With slinges and mangonels they cast to king Eichard, 
 Our Christians by parcels casted againward. 
 Ten sergeants of the best his targe 'gan him bear 
 That eager were and prest^^ to cover him and to were.^* 
 
 1 'Avenant:' handsome. — '^ 'Semblant:' countenance. — ^ 'Jlervelik:' marvel- 
 lously. — * 'Quemid:' pleased. — ^ 'Paen:' pagan, heathen. — ^ 'Wild not draw a 
 lite:' would not fly off a bit. — ^'Tite:' happeneth. — * ' On paien's lay : ' in pagan's 
 law; accordingto the heathenish custom.—"' To:' till.— i"' With:' by.— "'Ligg:' 
 lying. — !■- 'Kauce:' causey. — ^^ 'Prest:' ready. — " 'Were:' defend. 
 
 xxvii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 Himself as a giant the chaines in two hew, 
 The targe was his warant/ that none till him threw. 
 Right unto the gate with the targe they yede, 
 Fighting on a gate, under him they slew his steed. 
 Therefore ne would he cease, alone into the castele 
 Through them all would press ; on foot fought he full wele. 
 And when he was within, and fought as a wild lion, 
 He fondred the Sarazins otuynne,''^ and fought as a dragon. 
 Without the Christians 'gan cry, ' Alas ! Richard is taken ;' 
 Then Normans were sorry, of countenance 'gan blaken, 
 To slay down and to 'stroy never would they stint. 
 They left fordied^ no noye,* ne for no wound no dint. 
 That in went all their press, maugre the Sarazins all, 
 And found Richard on dais fighting, and won the hall. 
 
 Of De Brunne, Warton judiciously remarks — ' Our author also 
 translated into English rhymes the treatise of Cardinal Bona- 
 ventura, his contemporary, De ccena et passione Domini, et pcenis 
 S. Marice Virginis. But I forbear to give more extracts from 
 this writer, who appears to have possessed much more industry 
 than genius, and cannot at present be read with much pleasure. 
 Yet it should be remembered that even such a writer as Robert 
 de Brunne, uncouth and unpleasing as he naturally seems, and 
 chiefly employed in turning the theology of his age into rhyme, 
 contributed to form a style, to teach expression, and to polish 
 his native tongue. In the infancy of language and composition, 
 nothing is wanted but writers ; — at that period even the most 
 artless have their use.' 
 
 Here we may allude to the introduction of romantic fiction 
 into English poetry. This had, as we have seen, reigned in 
 France. There troubadours in Provence, and men more worthy 
 of the name of poets in Normandy, had long sung of Brutus, of 
 Charlemagne, and of Rollo. And thence a class, called some- 
 times Joculators, sometimes Jongleurs, and sometimes Minstrels, 
 issued, harp in liand, wandering to and fro, and singing tales of 
 chivalry and love, composed either by themselves, or by other 
 poets living or dead. (We refer our readers to our first volume 
 of Percy's ' Eeliques,' for a full account of this class, and of the 
 poetry they produced.) These wanderers reached England in due 
 
 ^ ' Warant : ' guard. — ^ ' He fondred the Sarazins otuj'nne : ' he formed the 
 Saracens into two parties. — ^ 'Fordied:' undone. — ■* 'Nonoye:' annoy, 
 
 xxviii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 time, a,ncl Lrouglit witli tliem compositions wliicli found favour 
 and excited emulation, or at least imitation, in our vernacular 
 genius. Hence came a great swarm of romances, all more or 
 less derived from tlie French, even when Saxon in subject and 
 style; such as SSir Tristrem,' (which Sir Walter Scott tried in 
 vain to prove to be written by the famous Thomas the Rhymer, of 
 Ercildoun, or Earlston, in Berwickshire, who died before 1299 ;) 
 ' The Life of Alexander the Great,' said to be written by Adam 
 Davie, Marshall of Stratford-le-Bow, who lived about 1312 ; 
 ' King Horn,' which certainly belongs to the latter part of the 
 thirteenth century ; ' The Squire of Low Degree ; ' ' Sir Guy ; ' 
 ' Sir Degore ; ' ' The King of Tars ; ' ' King Robert of Sicily ; ' 
 ' La Mort d' Arthur ; ' ' Impodemon ; ' and, more lately, ' Sir 
 Libius; ' 'Sir Thopas; ' ' Sir Isenbras;' ' Gawan and Gologras ; ' 
 and ' Sir Bevis.' Pilchard I. also formed the subject of a 
 very popular romance. We give extracts from it : — 
 
 THE SOLDAN SALADIN SENDS KING BICHARD A HORSE. 
 
 ' Thou sayst thy God is full of might : 
 AVilt thou grant with spear and shield, 
 To detryve the right in the field, 
 With helm, hauberk, and brandes bright. 
 On stronge steedes good and light, 
 Whether be of more power. 
 Thy God almight, or Jupiter ? 
 And he sent me to saye this 
 If thou wilt have an horse of his. 
 In all the lands that thou hast gone 
 Such ne thou sawest never none : 
 Favel of Cyprus, ne Lyard of Prys,^ 
 Be not at need as he is ; 
 And if thou wilt, this same day. 
 He shall be brought thee to assay.' 
 Richard answered, ' Thou sayest well 
 Such a horse, by Saint Michael, 
 
 I would have to ride upon. 
 
 Bid him send that horse to me, 
 And I shall assay what he be, 
 If he be trusty, withoute fail, 
 I keep none other to me in battail.' 
 
 ^ ' Favel of Cyprus, ne Lyard of Prys : ' Favel of Cyprus, and Lyard of Paris, 
 horses of Eichard's. 
 
 xxix
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 The messengers then home went, 
 
 And told the Soldan in present, 
 
 That Eichard in the field would come him unto : 
 
 The rich Soldan bade to come him unto 
 
 A noble clerk that coulde well conjure, 
 
 That was a master necromansour : 
 
 He commanded, as I you tell, 
 
 Thorough the fiende's might of hell. 
 
 Two strong fiende's of the air. 
 
 In likeness of two steedes fair, 
 
 Both^ike in hue and hair, 
 
 As men said that there were : 
 
 No man saw never none sich ; 
 
 That one was a mare iliche, 
 
 That other a colt, a noble steed, 
 
 Where that he were in any mead, 
 
 (^Vere the knight never so bold.) 
 
 When the mare neigh wold, 
 
 (That him should hold against his will,) 
 
 But soon he woulde go her till. 
 
 And kneel down and suck his dame. 
 
 Therewith the Soldan with shame 
 
 Shoulde king Richard quell. 
 
 All this an angel 'gan him tell. 
 
 That to him came about midnight. 
 
 * Awake,' he said, ' Goddis knight : 
 
 My Lord doth thee to understand 
 
 That thee shalt come an horse to land, 
 
 Fair it is, of body ypight, 
 
 To betray thee if the Soldan might ; 
 
 On him to ride have thou no drede 
 
 For he thee helpe shall at need.' 
 
 The angel gives king Richard several directions about managing this 
 infernal horse, and a general engagement ensuing, between the Christian 
 and Saracen armies, 
 
 He leapt on horse when it was light ; 
 Ere he in his saddle did leap 
 Of many thinges he took keej). — • 
 His men brought them that he bade, 
 A square tree of forty feet. 
 Before his saddle anon he it set, 
 Fast that they should it brase, &c. 
 Himself was richely begone. 
 From the crest right to the tone,^ 
 
 ''■ 'Tone:' toes. 
 XXX
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 He was covered wondrously wele 
 All with splentes of good steel, 
 And there above an hauberk. 
 A shaft he had of trusty werk, 
 Upon his shoulders a shield of steel, 
 With the libards^ painted wele; 
 And helm he had of rich entaile, 
 Trusty and true was his ventaile : 
 Upon his crest a dove white, 
 Significant of the Holy Sprite, 
 Upon a cross the dove stood 
 Of gold ywrought rich and good, 
 God ^ himself, Mary and John, 
 As he was done the rood upon,^ 
 In significance for whom he fought, 
 The spear-head forgat he nought. 
 Upon his shaft he would it have 
 Goddis name thereon was grave ; 
 Now hearken what oath he sware. 
 Ere they to the battaile went there: 
 ' If it were so, that Richard might 
 Slay the Soldan in field with fight. 
 At our wille evereachone 
 He and his should gone 
 Into the city of Babylon ; 
 And the king of Macedon 
 He should have under his hand ; 
 And if the Soldan of that land 
 Might slay Richard in the field 
 With sword or speare under shield. 
 That Christian men shoulde go 
 Out of that land for evermo, 
 And the Saracens their will in wold.' 
 Quoth king Richard, ' Thereto I hold. 
 Thereto my glove, as I am knight.' 
 They be armed and ready dight : 
 King Richard to his saddle did leap, 
 Certes, who that would take keep 
 To see that sight it were sair ; 
 Their steedes ranne with great ayre,* 
 All so hard as they might dyre,^ 
 After their feete sprang out fire : 
 Tabors and trumpettes 'gan blow : 
 
 ' 'Libards:' leopards. — ^ 'God:' our Saviour. — ^ 'As he was done the rood 
 upon:' as he died upau the cross. — * 'Ayre:' ire. — ^ 'Dyre:' dare. 
 
 xxxi
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 There men might see in a throw 
 
 How king Richard, that noble man, 
 
 Encountered with the Soldan, 
 
 The chief was tolde of Damas, 
 
 His trust upon his mare was, 
 
 And therefor, as the book^ us tells, 
 
 His crupper hunge full of bells, 
 
 And his peytrel ^ and his arsowne ^ 
 
 Three mile men might hear the soun. 
 
 His mare neighed, his bells did ring. 
 
 For greate pride, without lesing, 
 
 A falcon brode * in hand he bare, 
 
 For he thought he woulde there 
 
 Have slain Richard with treasoun 
 
 When his colt should kneele down. 
 
 As a colt shouldi? suck his dame. 
 
 And he was 'ware of that shame. 
 
 His ears with wax were stopped fast, 
 
 Therefore Richard was not aghast, 
 
 He struck the steed that under him went, 
 
 And gave the Soldan his death with a dent 
 
 In his shielde verament 
 
 Was painted a serpent. 
 
 With the spear that Richard held " 
 
 He bare him thorough under his sheld, 
 
 None of his armour might him last, 
 
 Bridle and peytrel all to-brast. 
 
 His giithes and his stirrups also, 
 
 His mare to grounde wenti? tho ; 
 
 Maugre her head, he made her seech 
 
 The ground, withoute more speech. 
 
 His feet toward the firmament, 
 
 Behinde him the spear outwent 
 
 There he fell dead on the green, 
 
 Richard smote the fiend with spurres keen, 
 
 And in the name of the Holy Ghost 
 
 He driveth into the heathen host, 
 
 And as soon as he was come. 
 
 Asunder he brake the sheltron,^ 
 
 And all that ever afore him stode, 
 
 Horse and man to the grounde yode, 
 
 Twenty foot on either side. ^ ^ 
 
 ^ ' The book :' the French romance. — ^ ' Peytrel :' the breast-plate or breast-band 
 of ahorse. — ^ 'Arsowne:' saddle-bow. — * 'Falcon brode:' F. hird.— ^ 'Sheltron:' 
 ' schiltron : ' soldiers drawn up in a circle. 
 
 xxxii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 When the king of France and his men wist 
 That the mast'iy had the Christian, 
 They waxed bold, and good heart took, 
 Steedes bestrode, and shaftes shook. 
 
 From ' Sir Degore ' we quote the descn'ptlou of a dragon, 
 which Warton thinks drawn by a master: — 
 
 DEGORE AXD THE DRAGON. 
 
 Degore went forth his way. 
 
 Through a forest lialf a day : 
 
 He heard no man, nor sawe none, 
 
 Till it past the high none. 
 
 Then heard he great strokes fall, 
 
 That it made greate noise withal. 
 
 Full soone he thought that to see, 
 
 To weete what the strokes miglit be : 
 
 There was an earl, both stout and gay, 
 
 He was come there that same day, 
 
 For to hunt for a deer or a doe, 
 
 But his houndes were gone him fro. 
 
 Then was there a dragon great and grim. 
 
 Full of fire and also venim. 
 
 With a wide throat and tuskcs great, 
 
 Upon that knight fast 'gan he beat. 
 
 And as a lion then was his feet. 
 
 His tail was long, and full unmeet : 
 
 Between his head and his tail 
 
 Was twenty-two foot withouten fail ; 
 
 His body was like a wine tun. 
 
 He shone full bright against the sun : 
 
 His eyes were bright as any glass. 
 
 His scales were hard as any brass ; 
 
 And thereto he was necked like a horse, 
 
 He bare his head up with great force : 
 
 The breath of his mouth that did out blow 
 
 As it had been a fire on lowe.^ 
 
 He was to look on, as I you tell, 
 
 As it had been a fiend of helL 
 
 Many a man he had shent. 
 
 And many a horse he had rent. 
 
 From Davie's supposed ' Life of Alexander ' we extract a 
 description of a battle, which shews some energy of genius : — 
 
 ^ 'Onlowe:' inflame. 
 
 VOL. I. c xxxiii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 A BATTLE. 
 
 Alisander before is ryde, 
 
 And many gentle a knight him myde ;^ 
 
 As for to gather his meinie free, 
 
 He abideth under a tree : 
 
 Forty thousand of chivahy 
 
 He taketh in his company, 
 
 He dasheth him then fast forthward, 
 
 And the other cometh afterward. 
 
 He seeth his knightes in mischief, 
 
 He taketh it greatly a grief, 
 
 He takes BultyphaP by the side, 
 
 So as a swallow he 'ginneth forth glide. 
 
 A duke of Persia soon he met, 
 
 And with his lance he him grett. 
 
 He pierceth his breny, cleaveth his shielde, 
 
 The heartij tokeneth the yrne ; 
 
 The duke fell downe to the ground, 
 
 And starf^ quickly in that stound: 
 
 Alisander aloud then said. 
 
 Other toll never I ne paid, 
 
 Yet ye shallen of mine pay. 
 
 Ere I go more assay. 
 
 Another lance in hand he hent, 
 
 Against the prince of Tyre he went 
 
 He .... him thorough the breast and thare 
 
 And out of saddle and crouthe him bare, 
 
 And I say for soothe thing 
 
 He brake his neck in the falling. 
 
 with muchel wonder, 
 
 Antiochus hadde him under, 
 And with sword would his heved* 
 From his body have yreaved : 
 He saw Alisander the goode gome, 
 Towards him swithe come, 
 He lete^ his prey, and flew on horse, 
 For to save his owen corse : 
 Antiochus on steed leap. 
 Of none woundes ne took he keep, 
 And eke he had foure forde 
 All ymade with speares' ord.^ 
 Tholomeus and all his felawen'' 
 Of this succour so weren welfawen, 
 
 1 'Myde:' with.— ^ 'Bultyphal:' Bucephalus.— ^ 'Starf:' died.—* 'Heved: 
 head. — ^ 'Lete:' left. — * 'Ord:' point.— ^ 'Felawen:' fellows. 
 
 xxxiv
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 Alysander made a cry bardy, 
 ' Ore tost aby aby.' 
 Then the kiiightes of Achay 
 Jousted with thein of Ai'aby, 
 They of Eome with them of Mede, 
 
 Many land 
 
 Egypt jousted with them of Tyre, 
 Simple knights with riche sire : 
 There n'as foregift ne forbearing 
 Betweene vavasour^ ne king ; 
 Before men mighten and behind 
 Cunteck^ seek and cunteck find. 
 With Persians foughteu the Gregeys,^ 
 There was cry and great honteys.* 
 They hidden^ that they weren mice, 
 They broken speares all to slice. 
 Thei'e might knight find his peie. 
 There lost many his distrei^e :** 
 There was quick in little thraw,^ 
 Many gentle knight yslaw : 
 Many arme, many heved* 
 Some from the body reaved : 
 Many gentle lavedy^ 
 There lost quick her amy.^** 
 There was many maim yled,^^ 
 Many fair pensel bebled:^^ 
 There was swordes liklaking,i^ 
 There was speai'es bathing, 
 Both kinges there sans doute 
 Be in dash'd with all their route, &;c. 
 
 Davie was also the aiitlior of an original poem, entitled, 
 * Visions in Verse,' and of the ' Battle of Jerusalem,' in which 
 he versifies a French romance. In this production Pilate is re- 
 presented as challenging our Lord to single combat ! 
 
 In 1349, died Eichard Eollo, a hermit, and a verse-writer. 
 He lived a secluded life near the nunnery of Ilampole in York- 
 shire, and wrote a number of devotional pieces, most of them 
 very dull. In 1350, Lawrence Minot produced some short nar- 
 
 ^ ' Vavasour : ' subject. — ^ ' Cunteck : ' strife. — ^ ' Gregeys : ' Greeks. — * ' Honteys ; ' 
 shame. — '^ 'Kidden:' thought. — ^ 'Distrere:' horse. — " 'Little thraw:' short time. 
 —8 'Heved:' head.—" 'Lavedy:' lady.—'" 'Amy:' paramour.—" 'Yled:' led 
 along, maimed. — ^^ ' Jlany fair pensel beliled:' many a banner sprinkled with 
 blood. — '^ 'Liklaking:' clashing. 
 
 XXXV
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAT. 
 
 rative ballads on the victories of Edward III., beginning with 
 Halidon Hill, and ending with the siege of Guisnes Castle. 
 His works lay till the end of the last century obscure in a MS. 
 of the Cotton Collection, which was supposed to be a transcript 
 of the Works of Chaucer. On a spare leaf of the MS. there had 
 been accidentally written a name, probably that of its original 
 possessor, ' Richard Chawsir.' This the getter-up of the Cotton 
 catalogue imagined to be the name of Geoffrey Chaucer. Mr 
 Tyrwhitt, while foraging for materials to his edition of ' The Can- 
 terbury Tales,' accidentally found out who the real writer was ; 
 and Eitson afterwards published Minot's ballads, which are ten 
 in number, written in the northern dialect, and in an alliterative 
 style, and with considerable spirit and liveliness. He has been 
 called the Tyrta^us of his age. 
 
 We come now to the immediate predecessor of Chaucer — • 
 Robert Laiiglande. He was a secular priest, born at Mortimer's 
 Cleobury, in Shropshire, and educated at Oriel College, Oxford. 
 He wrote, towards the end of the fourteenth century, a very re- 
 markable work, entitled, ' Visions of William concerning Piers 
 Plowman.' The general object of this poerh is to denounce 
 the abuses of society, and to inculcate, upon both clergy and 
 laity, their respective duties. One William is represented as 
 falling asleep among the ]\Ialvern Hills, and sees in his dream a 
 succession of visions, in which great ingenuity, great boldness, 
 and here and there a powerful vein of poetry, are displayed. 
 Truth is described as a magnificent tower, and Falsehood 
 as a deep dungeon. In one canto Religion descends, and 
 gives a long harangue about what should be the conduct of 
 society and of individuals. Bribery and Falsehood, in another 
 part of the poem, seek a marriage with each other, and make 
 their way to the courts of justice, where they find many friends. 
 Some very whimsical passages are introduced. Tlie Power of 
 Grace confers upon Piers Plowman, who stands for the Chris- 
 tian Life, four stout oxen, to cultivate the field of Truth. These 
 are Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, the last of whom is described 
 as the gentlest of the team. She afterwards assigns him the 
 like number of stots or bullocks, to harrow what the evan- 
 gelists had ploughed, and this new horned team consists of 
 xxxvi
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 Saint or Stot Ambrose^ Slot Austin, Stot Gregory, and Stot 
 Jerome. 
 
 Apart from its fantastic structure, ' Piers Plowman ' was not 
 only a sign of the times, but did great service in its day. His 
 voice rings like that of Israel's minor prophets — like Nahum or 
 Hosea — in a dark and corrupt age. He proclaims liberal and 
 independent sentiments, he attacks slavery and superstition, and 
 he predicts the doom of the Papacy as with a thunder-knell. 
 Chaucer must have felt roused to his share of the reformatory 
 work by the success of ' Piers Plowman; ' Spenser is suspected 
 to have read and borrowed from him j and even Milton, in his 
 description of a lazar-house in '■ Paradise Lost,' had him probably 
 in his eye. (See our last extract from ' Piers.') 
 
 On account of the great merit and peculiarity of this work vre 
 proceed to make rather copious extracts. 
 
 HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 Then 'gan I to meten^ a marvellous sweven,^ 
 That I was in wilderness, I wist never where : 
 As I beheld into the east, on high to the sun, 
 I saw a tower on a loft, richly 3'maked, 
 A deep dale beneath, a dungeon therein, 
 With deep ditches and dark, and dreadful of sight : 
 A fair field full of folk found I there between. 
 Of all manner men, the mean aud the rich. 
 Working aud wand'ring, as the world asketh ; 
 Some put them to the plough, playeden full seld, 
 In setting and sowing swonken •^ full haz'd : 
 And some put them to pride, &c. 
 
 ALLEGORICAL PICTURES. 
 
 Thus robed in russet, I roamed about 
 
 All a summer season, for to seek Dowell 
 
 And freyned * full oft, of folk that I met 
 
 If any wight wist where Dowell was at inn. 
 
 And what man he might be, of many man I asked ; 
 
 Was never wight as I went, that me wysh '' could 
 
 Where this lad lenged,^ lesse or more, 
 
 Till it befell on a Friday, two friars I met 
 
 Masters of the Minors,^ men of greate wit. 
 
 ^ 'Meten:' dream. — * 'Sweven:' dream. — ^ 'Swonken:' toiled. — ■* 'Freyned:' 
 inquired. — ' 'Wysh:' inform. — ® 'Lenged:' Uved. — ^ 'Minors:' the friars minors. 
 
 xxxvii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 I halsed them hendely,^ as I had learned, 
 
 And prayed them for charity, ere they passed further, 
 
 If they knew any coiirt or country as they went 
 
 Where that Dowell dwelleth, do me to wit,^ 
 
 For they be men on this moidd, that most wide walk 
 
 And know countries and courts, and many kinnes^ places, 
 
 Both princes' palaces, and poor menne's cotes. 
 
 And Dowell, and Doevil, where they dwell both. 
 
 ' Amongst us,' quoth the Minors, ' that man is dwelling 
 
 And ever hath as I hope, and ever shall hereafter.' 
 
 Contra, quod I, as a clerk, and cumsed to disputen, 
 
 And said them soothly, Septies in die cadit Justus, 
 
 Seven sythes,* sayeth the book, sinneth the rightful, 
 
 And whoso sinneth, I say, doth evil as methinketh, 
 
 And Dowell and Doevil may not dwell together, 
 
 Ergo he is not alway among you friars ; 
 
 He is other while elsewhere, to wyshen^ the people. 
 
 ' I shall say thee, my son,' said the friar then, 
 
 'How seven sithes the sadde^ man on a day sinneth, 
 
 By a forvisne' '' quod the friar, ' I shall thee fair shew ; 
 
 Let bring a man in a boat, amid the broad water, 
 
 The wind and the water, and the boate wagging, 
 
 Make a man many time, to fall and to stand, 
 
 For stand he never so stiff, he stambleth if he fiiove, 
 
 And yet is he safe and sound, and so him behoveth, 
 
 For if he ne arise the rather, and raght ^ to the steer. 
 
 The wind would with the water the boat overthi'ow, 
 
 And then were his life lost through latches^ of himself. 
 
 And thus it falleth,' quod the friar, ' by folk here on earth, 
 
 The water is lik'ned to the world, that waneth and waxeth, 
 
 The goods of this world are likened to the great waves 
 
 That as winds and weathers, walken about. 
 
 The boat is liken'd to our body, that brittle is of kind, 
 
 That through the flesh, and the fraile world 
 
 Sinnelh the sadde man, a day seven times. 
 
 And deadly sin doeth he not, for Dowell him keepeth, 
 
 And that is Chaidty the champion, chief help against sin, 
 
 For he strengtheth man to stand, and stirreth man's soul, 
 
 And though thy body bow, as boate doth in water, 
 
 Aye is thy soule safe, but if thou wilt thyself 
 
 Do a deadly sin, and drenche^** so thy soul, 
 
 ^ 'Halsed them heiidely:' saluted them kindly. — " 'Dome to wit:' make me to 
 know. — ^ 'Kinnes:' sorts of. — * 'Sythes:' times. — ' 'Wyshen:' inform, teach. — 
 ^'Sadde:' sober,good. — '''Forvisne:' similitude. — ^'Raght:' reach. — ^'Latches:' 
 laziness. — ^" 'Drenche:' drown. 
 
 xxxviii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 God will suffer well tliy sloth, if thyself liketh, 
 
 For he gave thee two years' gifts, to teme well thyself, 
 
 And that is wit and free-will, to every wight a portion, 
 
 To flying fowles, to fishes, and to beasts. 
 
 And man hath most thereof, and most is to blame 
 
 But if he work well therewith, as Dowell him teacheth.' 
 
 ' 1 have no kind knowing,' quoth I, ' to conceive all your wordes 
 
 And if I may live and look, I shall go learne better ; 
 
 I beken ^ the Christ, that on the crosse died ; ' 
 
 And I said, ' The same save you from mischance, 
 
 And give you grace on this ground good me to worth.' 
 
 And thus I went wide where, walking mine one 
 
 By a wide wilderness, and by a woode's side. 
 
 Bliss of the birdes brought me on sleep. 
 
 And imder a lind^ on a laud, leaned I a stound^ 
 
 To lyth * the layes, those lovely fowles made, 
 
 Mirth of thfir mouthes made me there to sleep. 
 
 The marvellousest metelles mette^ me then 
 
 That ever dreamed wight, in world as I went. 
 
 A much man as me thought, and like to myself, 
 
 Came and called me, by my kinde'' name. 
 
 ' What art thou,' quod I then, ' thou that my name knowest V 
 
 'That thou wottest well,' quod he, 'and no wight better.' 
 
 ' Wot I what thou art ?' Thought said he then, 
 
 •I have sued'' thee this seven years, see ye me no rather ?' 
 
 'Art thou Thought V quoth I then, 'thou couldest me wyssh^ 
 
 Where that Dowell dwelleth, and do me that to know.' 
 
 ' Dowell, and Dobetter, and Dobest the third,' quod he, 
 
 ' Are three fair virtues, and be not far to find, 
 
 Whoso is true of his tongue, and of his two handes, 
 
 And through his labour or his lod, his livelod winneth, 
 
 And is trusty of his tayling,^ taketh but his own, 
 
 And is no drunkelow ne dedigious, Dowell him foUoweth ; 
 
 Dobet doth right thus, and he doth much more, 
 
 He is as low as a lamb, and lovely of speech, 
 
 And helpeth all men, after that them needeth ; 
 
 The bagges and the bigirdles, he hath to-broke them all, 
 
 That the earl avarous helde and his heires, 
 
 And thus to mammons many he hath made him friends, 
 
 And is run to religion, and hath rend'red i'' the Bible 
 
 And preached to the people Saint Panic's wordes, 
 
 Libenter stiffertis insipientes, cum sitis ipsi sapicntes. 
 
 1 'Beken:' confess. — " 'Lind:' lime-tree.— ^ 'Astound:' awhile. — * 'Lyth:' 
 listen.— 5 'Mette:' dreamed. — ** 'Kinde:' own. — '' 'Sued:' sought.—'* 'Wyssh:' 
 inform. — * 'Tayling:' dealing. — ^" 'Eeud'red:' translated. 
 
 xxxix
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 And suflfereth the unwise with you for to Hve, 
 And with glad will doth he good, for so God you hoteth.^ 
 Dobest is above both, and beareth a bishop's cross 
 • Is hooked on that one end to halye^ men from hell ; 
 A pike is on the potent^ to pull down the wicked 
 That waiten any wickedness, Dowell to tene ; ■* 
 And Dowell and Dobet amongst them have ordained 
 To crown one to be king, to rule them boeth, 
 That if Dowell and Dobet are against Dobest, 
 Then shall the king come, and cast them in irons, 
 And but if Dobest bid for them, they be there for ever. 
 Thus Dowell and Dobet, and Dobeste the third. 
 Crowned one to be king, to keepen them all. 
 And to rule the realme by their three wittes, 
 And none otherwise but as they three assented.' 
 I thanked Thought then, that he me thus taught, 
 And yet favoureth me not thy suging, I covet to learn 
 How Dowell, Dobest, and Dobetter do among the people. 
 * But Wit can wish^ thee,' quoth Thought, ' where they three dwell, 
 Else wot I none that can tell that now is alive.' 
 Thought and I thus, three dayes we yeden'' 
 Disputing u2)on Dowell, daye after other. 
 And ere we were 'ware, with Wit 'gan we meet. 
 He was long and leane, like to none other, 
 Was no pride on his apparel, nor poverty neither ; 
 Sad of his semblance, and of soft cheer ; 
 I durst not move no matter, to make him to laugh, 
 But as I bade Thought then be mean between. 
 And put forth some purpose to prevent his wits. 
 What was Dowell from Dobet, and Dobest from them both ? 
 Then Thought in that time said these wordes ; 
 ' Whether Dowell, Dobet, and Dobest be in land, 
 Here is well would wit, if W^it could teach him. 
 And whether he be man or woman, this man fain would espy. 
 And work as they thi'ee would, this is his intent.' 
 ' Here Dowell dwelleth,' quod Wit, ' not a day hence, 
 In a castle that kind^ made, of four kinds things ; 
 Of earth and air is it made, mingled together 
 With wind and with water, witterly ^ enjoined ; 
 Kinde hath closed therein, craftily withal, 
 A leman ^ that he loveth, like to himself, 
 Anima she hight, and Envy her hateth, 
 
 1 'Hoteth:' biddeth.— « 'Halye:' draw.— ^ 'Potent:' staff.—* 'Tene:' grieve. 
 — ^ 'Wish:' inform. — ^ 'Yeden:' went. — ^ 'Kind:' nature. — ^ 'Witterly:' cun- 
 ningly. — * 'Leman:' paramour. 
 
 x\
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 A proud pricker of France, princeps hvjiis immdi. 
 
 And would win her away with wiles and he might ; 
 
 And Kind knoweth this well, and keepeth her the better. 
 
 And doth her with Sir Dowell is duke of these marches ; 
 
 Dobet is her damosel. Sir Dowell's daughter, 
 
 To serve this lady lelly,i both late and rathe.^ 
 
 Dobest is above both, a bishop's pere ; 
 
 That he bids must be done ; he rideth them all. 
 
 Anima, that lady, is led by his learning, 
 
 And the constable of the castle, that keepeth all the watch, 
 
 Is a wise knight withal, Sir Inwit he hight. 
 
 And hath five fair souiies by his first wife. 
 
 Sir See well and Saywell, and Hearwell-t he-end, 
 
 Sir Workwell-with-thy-hand, a wight man of strength, 
 
 And Sir Godfray Gowell, great lordes forsooth. 
 
 These five be set to save this lady Anima, 
 
 Till Kind come or send, to save her for ever.' 
 
 ' What kind thing is Kind,' quod I, ' canst thou me tell ?' — 
 
 ' Kind,' quod Wit, ' is a creator of all kinds things. 
 
 Father and former of all that ever was maked. 
 
 And th.*t is the great God that 'ginning had never, 
 
 Lord of life and of light, of bliss and of pain, 
 
 Angels and all thing are at his will, 
 
 And man is him most like, of mark and of shape, 
 
 For thi'ough the word that he spake, wexen forth beasts, 
 
 And made Adam, likest to himself one. 
 
 And Eve of his ribbe bone, without any mean. 
 
 For he was singular himself, and said Faciamus, 
 
 As who say more must hereto, than my worde one. 
 
 My might must helpe now with my speech. 
 
 Even as a lord should make letters, and he lacked parchment, 
 
 Though he could write never so well, if he had no pen, 
 
 The letters, for all his lordship, I 'lieve were never ymarked ; 
 
 And so it seemeth by him, as the Bible telleth, 
 
 There he saide. Dixit et facta sunt. 
 
 He must work with his word, and his wit shew ; 
 
 And in this manner was man made, by might of God Almighty, 
 
 With his word and his workmanship, and with life to last. 
 
 And thus God gave him a ghost ^ of the Godhead of heaven, 
 
 And of his great grace granted him bliss, 
 
 And that is life that aye shall last, to all our lineage after ; 
 
 And that is the castle that Kinde made, Caro it hight. 
 
 And is as much to meane as man with a soul, 
 
 And that he wrought with work and with word both ; 
 
 1 'Lelly:' fair.— ^ 'Rathe:' early.— ^ 'Ghost:' spirit. 
 
 Xli
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 Through might of the majesty, man was ymaked. 
 
 Inwit and AUwits closed been therein, 
 
 Por love of the lady Anima, that life is nempned.^ 
 
 Over all in man's body, she walketh and wand'reth, 
 
 And in the heart is her home, and her most rest, 
 
 And Inwit is in the head, and to the hearte looketh, 
 
 What Anima is lief or loth,^ he leadeth her at his will. 
 
 Then had Wit a wife, was hotij Dame Study, 
 
 That leve was of lere, and of liche boeth. 
 
 She was wonderly wrought, Wit me so teached, 
 
 And all staring. Dame Study sternely said ; 
 
 ' Well art thou wise,' quoth she to Wit, ' any wisdoms to tell 
 
 To flatterers or to fooles, that frantic be of wits ;' 
 
 And blamed him and banned him, and bade him be still, 
 
 With such wise wordes, to wysh any sots, 
 
 And said, ^ Noli mittere, man, margaritce, pearls, 
 
 Amonge hogges, that have hawes at will. 
 
 They do but drivel thereon, draff were them lever ,^ 
 
 Than all precious pearls that in paradise vraxeth.^ 
 
 I say it, by such,' quod she, ' that shew it by their works, 
 That them were lever ^ land and lordship on earth, 
 
 Or riches or rentes, and rest at their will. 
 Than all the sooth sawes that Solomon said ever. 
 
 Wisdom and wit now is not worth a kerse," 
 
 But if it be carded with covetise, as clothers kemb their wool ; 
 
 Whoso can contrive deceits, and conspire wrongs, 
 
 And lead forth a loveday,'' to let with truth. 
 
 He that such craftes can is oft cleped to counsel. 
 
 They lead lords with lesings, and belieth truth. 
 
 Job the gentle in his gests greatly witnesseth 
 
 That wicked men wielden the wealth of this world ; 
 
 The Psalter sayeth the same, by such as do evil ; 
 
 Ecce ipsi peccatores abundantes in seculo ohtinuerunt divitias. 
 
 Lo, saith holy lecture, which lords be these shrewes ? 
 
 Thilke that God giveth most, least good they dealeth, 
 
 And most unkind be to that comen, that most chattel wieldeth.^ 
 
 Quce perfecisti destruxerunt, jitstus autem, &c. 
 
 Harlots for their harlotry may have of their goodes, 
 
 And japers and juggelers, and janglers of jestes, 
 
 And he that hath holy writ aye in his mouth, 
 
 Aiid can tell of Tobie, and of the twelve apostles, 
 
 Or preach of the penance that Pilate falsely wrought 
 
 ^ 'Nempncd:' named. — " 'Loth:' willing. — ^ 'Lever:' rather. — * 'Waxeth: 
 grow. — ' 'Them were lever:' they had rather. — ^ 'Kerse:' curse. — ^ 'Loveday: 
 lady. — ^ 'Wieldeth:' commands. 
 
 xlii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 To Jesu the gentle, that Jewes toclraw : 
 
 Little is he loved that such a lesson sheweth ; 
 
 Or daunten or draw forth, I do it on God himself, 
 
 But they that feign they fooles, and with fayting ^ liveth. 
 
 Against the lawe of our Lord, and lien on themself, 
 
 Spitten and spewen, and speak foule wordes, 
 
 Drinken and drivellen, and do men for to gape. 
 
 Liken men, and lie on them, and lendeth them no giftes. 
 
 They can ^ no more minstrelsy nor music men to glad, 
 
 Than Mundie, the miller, of multa fecit Deus. 
 
 Ne were their vile harlotry, have God my truth, 
 
 Shoulde never king nor knight, nor canon of Paul's 
 
 Give them to their yeare's gift, nor gift of a groat, 
 
 And mirth and minstrelsy amongst men is nought ; 
 
 Lechery, losencher}^,^ and loscls' tales. 
 
 Gluttony and great oaths, this mirth they loveth. 
 
 And if they carpen* of Christ, these clerkes and these lowed, 
 
 And they meet in their mirth, when minstrels be still, 
 
 When telleth they of the Trinity a tale or twain. 
 
 And bringeth forth a blade reason, and take Bernard to witness, 
 
 And put forth a presumption to prove the sooth, 
 
 Thus they drivel at their dais^ the Deity to scorn, 
 
 And gnawen God to their gorge** when their guts fallen ; 
 
 And the careful' may cry, and carpen at the gate. 
 
 Both a-hunger'd and a-thirst, and for chilP quake. 
 
 Is none to nymen^ them near, his noye^° to amend. 
 
 But hunten him as a hound, and hoten-'^ him go hence. 
 
 Little loveth he that Lord that lent him all tliat bliss, 
 
 That thus parteth with the poor ; a parcel when him needeth 
 
 Ne were mercy in mean men, more than in rich ; 
 
 Mendyuauntes meatless^- might go to bed. 
 
 God is much in the gorge of these gi*eate masters, 
 
 And amonges mean men, his mercy and his workes. 
 
 And so sayeth the Psalter, I have seen it oft. 
 
 .Clerks and other kinnes men carpeu of God fast. 
 
 And have him much in the mouth, and meane men in heart ; 
 
 Friars and faitours^'^ have founden such questions 
 
 To please with the proud men, sith the pestilence time. 
 
 And preachen at St Panic's, for pure envy of clerks, 
 
 That folk is not firmed in the faith, nor free of their goods. 
 
 Nor sorry for their sinnes, so is pride waxen, 
 
 ^ 'Fayting:' deceiving. — ^'Can:' know. — ^ ' Losenchery : ' lying. — '''Carpen:' 
 speak.—' 'Dais:' table.— « 'Gorge:' throat.—'' 'Careful:' poor.— ^ 'Chill:' cold. 
 — " 'Nymen:' take.— ^^ 'Xoye:' trouble. — " 'Hoten:' order.— ^^ 'Meudynauntes 
 meatless:' beggars supperless. — ^^ 'Faitours:' idle fellows. 
 
 xliii
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 In religion, and in all the realm, amongst ricli and poor ; 
 
 That prayers have no power the pestilence to let, 
 
 And yet the wretches of this world are none 'ware by other, 
 
 Nor for dread of the death, withdraw not their pride. 
 
 Nor be plenteous to the poor, as pure charity would. 
 
 But in gains and in gluttony, foi-glote goods themself, 
 
 And breaketh not to the beggar, as the book teacheth. 
 
 And the more he winneth, and waxeth wealthy in riches, 
 
 And lordeth in landes, the less good he dealeth. 
 
 Tobie telleth ye not so, take heed, ye rich, 
 
 How the bible book of him beareth witness ; 
 
 Whoso hath much, spend manly, so meaneth Tobit, 
 
 And whoso little wieldeth, rule him thereafter ; 
 
 For we have no letter of our life, how long it shall endure. 
 
 Suche lessons lordes shoulde love to hear, 
 
 And how he might most meinie, manhch find ; 
 
 Not to fare as a fiddeler, or a friar to seek feasts, 
 
 Homely at other men's houses, and haten their own. 
 
 Elenge^ is the hall every day in the week ; 
 
 There the lord nor the lady liketh not to sit. 
 
 Now hath each rich a rule ^ to eaten by themself 
 
 In a privy parlour, for poore men's sake. 
 
 Or in a chamber with a chimney, and leave the chief haU 
 
 That was made for meales men to eat in.' — 
 
 And when that Wit was 'ware what Dame Study told, 
 
 He became so confuse he cunneth not look, 
 
 And as dumb as death, and drew him arear, 
 
 And for no carping I could after, nor kneeling to the eai'th 
 
 I might get no grain of his greate wits. 
 
 But all laughing he louted, and looked upon Study, 
 
 In sign that I shoulde beseechcn her of grace, 
 
 And when I was 'ware of his will, to his wife I louted 
 
 And said, ' Mercie, madam, your man shall I worth 
 
 As long as I live both late and early. 
 
 For to worken your will, the while my life endureth, 
 
 With this that ye ken me kindly, to know to what is Dowell.' 
 
 * For thy meekness, man,' quoth she, ' and for thy mild speech, 
 
 I shall ken thee to my cousin, that Clergy is hoten.^ 
 
 He hath wedded a wife within these six moneths, 
 
 Is syb* to the seven arts. Scripture is her name ; 
 
 Tliey two as I hope, after my teaching. 
 
 Shall wishen thee Dowell, I dare undertake.' 
 
 Then was I as fain as fowl of fair morrow, 
 
 1 'Elenge:' strange, desei ted. — - 'Rule:' custom. — ^ 'Hoten:' named. — ^ 'Syb:' 
 mother. 
 
 xliv
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 And gladder than the gleeman that gold hath to gift, 
 And asked her the highway where that Clergy^ dwelt. 
 ' And tell me some token,' quoth I, ' for time is that I wend.' 
 ' Ask the highway,' quoth she, ' hence to suffer 
 Both well and woe, if that thou wilt learn ; 
 And ride forth by riches, and rest thou not therein, 
 For if thou couplest ye therewith, to Clergy comest thou never, 
 And also the likorous land that Lechery hight. 
 Leave it on thy left half, a large mile and more. 
 Till thou come to a court, keep well thy tongue 
 From leasings and lyther- speech, and likorous drinkijs, 
 Then shalt thou see Sobriety, and Simplicity of speech, 
 That each might be in his will, his wit to shew. 
 And thus shall ye come to Clergy that can many things ; 
 Say him this sign, I set him to school, 
 
 And that I greet well his wife, for I wrote her many books, 
 And set her to Sapience, and to the Psalter glose ; 
 Lo2;ic I learned her, and manv other laws. 
 And all the unisons to music 1 made her to know ; 
 Plato the poet, I put them first to book, 
 Aristotle and other more, to argue I taught, 
 Grammer for girles, I gard ^ first to write, 
 And beat them with a bales but if they would learn ; 
 Of all kindes craftes I contrived tooles. 
 Of carpentry, of carvers, and compassed masons, 
 And learned them level and line, though 1 look dim ; 
 ' And Theology hath tened* me seven score times ; 
 The more I muse therein, the mistier it seemeth, 
 And the deeper I divine, the darker me it thinketh. 
 
 COVETOUSNESS. 
 
 And then came Covetise ; can I him no descrive, 
 
 So huugerly and hollow, so sternely he looked, 
 
 He was bittle-browed and baberlipped also ; 
 
 With two bleared eyen as a blinde hag. 
 
 And as a leathern purse lolled his cheeke's, 
 
 "Well sider than his chin they shivered for cold : 
 
 And as a bondman of his bacon his beard was bidrauled, 
 
 With a hood on his head, and a lousy hat above. 
 
 And in a tawny tabard,^ of twelve winter age, 
 
 Alle torn and bandy, and full of lice creeping ; 
 
 But that if a louse could have leapen the better, 
 
 ^ 'Clergy:' learning. — - 'Lyther:' wanton.—^ 'Gard:' made. — ^"^ 'Tened: 
 grieved. — ^ 'Tabard:' a coat. 
 
 xlv
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 She had not walked on the welt, so was it threadbare. 
 
 ' I have been Covetise,' quoth this caitifl', 
 
 'For sometime I served Symme at style, 
 
 And was his prentice plight, his profit to wait. 
 
 First I learned to lie, a leef other twain 
 
 Wickedly to weigh, was my first lesson : 
 
 To Wye and to Winchester I went to the fair 
 
 With many manner merchandise, as my master me hight. — 
 
 Then drave I me among drapers my donet ^ to learn. 
 
 To draw the lyfer along, the longer it seemed 
 
 Among the rich rays,' &c. 
 
 THE PRELATES. 
 
 And now is religion a rider, a roamer by the street, 
 
 A leader of lovedays,- and a loude ^ beggar, 
 
 A pricker on a palfrey from manor to manor, 
 
 An heap of houndes at his arse as he a lord were.^ 
 
 And if but his knave kneel, that shall his cope bring, 
 
 He loured on him, and asked who taught him courtesy. 
 
 MERCY AND TRUTH. 
 
 Out of the west coast, a wench, as methought, 
 
 Came walking in the way, to heavenward she looked ; 
 
 Mercy hight that maide, a meek thing withal, - 
 
 A full benign birde, and buxom of speech ; 
 
 Her sister, as it seemed, cam* worthily walking, 
 
 Even out of the east, and westward she looked, 
 
 A full comely creatvu-e, Truth she hight, 
 
 For the virtue that her followed afeared was she never. 
 
 When these maidens met, Mercy and Truth, 
 
 Either asked other of tliis great marvel, 
 
 Of the din and of the darkness, &c. 
 
 NATURE, OR KIND, SENDING FORTH HIS DISEASES FROM THE PLANETS, AT THE 
 COMMAND OF CONSCIENCE, AND OF HIS ATTENDANTS, AGE AND DEATH. 
 
 Kind Conscience then heard, and came out of the planets, 
 
 And sent forth his forriours. Fevers and Fkixes, 
 
 Coughes and Cardiacles, Crampes and Toothaches, 
 
 Rheumes, and Radgondes, and raynous Scalles, 
 
 Boiles, and Botches, and burning Agues, 
 
 Phreneses and foul Evil, foragers of Kind ! 
 
 There was ' Harow ! and Help ! here cometh Kind, 
 
 With Death that is dreadful, to undo us all ! ' 
 
 The lord that liveth after lust then aloud cried. 
 
 ^ 'Donet:' lesson. — * 'Lovedays:' ladies.—^ 'Loude;' lewd. 
 
 xlvi
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 Age the hoar, he u-as in the va-ward, 
 
 And bare the banner before Death : by right he it claimed. 
 
 Kinds came after, with many keeno sores, 
 
 As Pocks and Pestilences, and much people shent. 
 
 So Kind through corruptions, killed full many : 
 
 Death came driving after, and all to dust pashed 
 
 Kings and Kaisers, knightes and popes. 
 
 Many a lovely lady, and leman of knights, 
 
 Swooned and swelted for sorrow of Death's dints. 
 
 Conscience, of his courtesy, to Kind he besought 
 
 To cease and sufire, and see where they would 
 
 Leave Pride privily, and be perfect Christian, 
 
 And Kind ceased then, to see the people amend. 
 
 ' Piers Plowman ' found many imitators. One Avrote ' Piers 
 the Plowman's Crede;' another, 'The Plowman's Tale;' another, 
 a poem on ' Alexander the Great ; ' another, on the • Wars of 
 the Jews ;' and another, 'A Vision of Death and Life,' extracts 
 from all which may he found in Warton's ' History of English 
 Poetry.' 
 
 We close this preliminary essay by giving a very ancient 
 hymn to the Virgin, as a specimen of the once universally-pre- 
 valent alliterative poetry. 
 
 L 
 
 Hail be you, ]\Iary, mother and may, 
 
 ]\Iild, and meek, and merciable ; 
 
 Hail, folliche fruit of soothfast fay. 
 
 Against each strife steadfast and stable ; 
 
 Hail, soothfast soul in each, a say, 
 
 Under the sun is none so able ; 
 
 Hail, lodge that our Lord in lay. 
 
 The foremost that never was founden in fable ; 
 
 Hail, true, trutlif ul, and tretable, 
 
 Hail, chief ychosen of chastity, 
 
 Hail, homely, bendy, and amiable : 
 
 To pray for us to thy iSone so free ! Ave. 
 
 II. 
 Hail, star that never stinteth light ; 
 Hail, bush bui-ning that never was brent ; 
 Hail, rightful ruler of every right. 
 Shadow to shield that should be shent ; 
 Hail, blessed be you blossom bright. 
 To truth and trust was thine intent ; 
 
 xlvii
 
 xlviii 
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 Hail, maiden and mother, most of might, 
 
 Of all mischiefs an amendement ; 
 
 Hail, spice sprung that never was spent ; 
 
 Hail, throne of the Trinity ; 
 
 Hail, scion that God us soon to sent, 
 
 You 'praij for us tluj Sonefrce ! Ave. 
 
 III. 
 
 Hail, heartily in holiness ; 
 
 Hail, hope of help to high and low ; 
 
 Hail, strength and stel of stableuess ; 
 
 Hail, window of heaven wowe ; 
 
 Hail, reason of righteousness, 
 
 To each a caitiff comfort to know ; 
 
 Hail, innocent of angerness, 
 
 Our takel, our tol, that we on trow ; 
 
 Hail, friend to all that beoth forth tlow ; 
 
 Hail, light of love, and of beauty, 
 
 Hail, brighter than the blood on snow : 
 
 You fray for us thy Sone free! Ave. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hail, maiden; hail, mother; hail, mai-tyr trew; 
 
 Hail, kindly yknow confessour ; 
 
 Hail, evenere of old law and new ; 
 
 Hail, builder bold of Christe's bower ; 
 
 Hail, rose highest of hyde and hue ; 
 
 Of all fruites fairest flower ; 
 
 Hail, turtle trustiest and true, 
 
 Of all truth thou art treasour ; 
 
 Hail, pured princess of paramour ; 
 
 Hail, bloom of brere brightest of ble ; 
 
 Hail, owner of earthly honour : 
 
 You fray for us thy Sane so free! Ave, &c. 
 
 Hail, hendy ; hail, holy emperess ; 
 
 Hail, queen courteous, comely, and kind ; 
 
 Hail, destroyer of every strife ; 
 
 Hail, mender of every man's mind ; 
 
 Hail, body that we ought to bless. 
 
 So faithful friend may never man find ; 
 
 Hail, lever and lover of lai'geness. 
 
 Sweet and sweetest that never may swynde ;
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 Hail, botenere^ of every body blind; 
 Hail, borgun brightest of all bounty, 
 Hail, trewore then the wode bynd : 
 Tou pray for us thy Sone so free! A^'E. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Hail, mother ; hail, maiden ; hail, heaven queen ; 
 
 Hail, gatus of paradise ; 
 
 Hail, star of the sea that ever is seen ; 
 
 Hail, rich, royal, and righteous ; 
 
 Hail, burde yblessed may you bene ; 
 
 Hail, pearl of all jjerrie the pi'is ; 
 
 Hail, shadow in each a shower shene ; 
 
 Hail, fairer than that fleiu'-de-lis, 
 
 Hail, chere chosen that never n'as chis ; 
 
 Hail, chief chamber of charity ; 
 
 Hail, in woe that ever was wis : 
 
 You pray for us thy Sone so free ! Ave, &c. &c. 
 
 ^ 'Botenere:' helper. 
 
 VOL. I. d xlix
 
 ADVEETISEMENT. 
 
 It will be observed that, in the specimens given of the earlier 
 poets, the spelling has been modernised on the principle 
 which has been so generally approved in its application to the 
 text of Chaucer and of Spenser. 
 
 On a further examination of the material for ' Specimens 
 and Memoirs of the less-known British Poets,' it has been 
 deemed advisable to devote three volumes to this resume^ and 
 merely to give extracts from Cowley, instead of following out 
 the arrangement proposed when the issue for this year was 
 announced. In this space it has been found possible to present 
 the reader with specimens of almost all those authors whose 
 writings were at any period esteemed. The series will thus 
 be rendered more perfect, and will include the complete works 
 of the authors whose entire writings are by a general verdict 
 regarded as worthy of preservation ; together with representa- 
 tions of the style, and brief notices of the poets who have, during 
 the progress of our literature, occupied a certain rank, but whose 
 popularity and importance have in a great measure passed. 
 
 It is confidently hoped that the arrangements now made will 
 give a completeness to the First Division of the Library Edition 
 of the British Poets — from Chaucer to Cowper — which will be 
 acceptable and satisfactory to the general reader. 
 
 Edinburgh, July 1860,
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FIEST PERIOD. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 John Gower 1 
 
 The Chariot of the Sun 6 
 
 The Tale of the Coffers or Caskets, &c. 9 
 
 Of the Gratification which the Lover's Passion receives from the Sense 
 
 of Hearing 12 
 
 John Barbour 14 
 
 Apostrophe to Freedom 20 
 
 Death of Sir Henry de Bohun 20 
 
 Andrew Wyntoun . . 23 
 
 Blind Harry 24 
 
 Battle of Black-Earnside 27 
 
 The Death of Wallace 32 
 
 James I. of Scotland 34 
 
 Description of the King's Mistress 41 
 
 John the Chaplain — Thomas Occleve 45 
 
 John Lydgate 46 
 
 Canace, condemned to Death by her Father ^olus, sends to her guilty 
 
 Brother Macareus the last Testimony of her unhappy Passion . 47 
 
 The London Lyckpenny 49 
 
 Harding, Kay, &c 51 
 
 Robert Henryson 52 
 
 Dinner given by the Town Mouse to the Country Mouse ... 53 
 
 The Garment of Good Ladies 57 
 
 WiLLLVM Ddnbar 59 
 
 The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through Hell .... 61 
 
 The Merle and Nightingale 66 
 
 Gavin Douglas 70 
 
 Morning in May 72 
 
 Hawes, Barclay, &c 76 
 
 Skelton 77 
 
 To Miss Margaret Hussey 78 
 
 liii
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOE 
 
 Sir David Ltndsat 79 
 
 Meldrum's Duel with the Englisli Champion Talbart . . . .85 
 
 Supplication in Contemption of Side Tails 87 
 
 Thomas Tdsser 89 
 
 Directions for Cultivating a Hop-garden 90 
 
 Housewifely Phj^sic 91 
 
 Moral Reflections on the Wind 91 
 
 Vaux, Edwaeds, &c 92 
 
 Geoege Gascoigne 94 
 
 Good-morrow . . . . . . . . . ... 95 
 
 Good-night 97 
 
 Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhuest and Earl of Dorset . . .100 
 
 Allegorical Characters from ' The Mirror of Magistrates' . . . 101 
 
 Henry Duke of Buckingham in the Infernal Regions .... 108 
 
 John Harrington 108 
 
 Sonnet on Isabella Markham 109 
 
 Verses on a most stony-hearted Maiden 109 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney Ill 
 
 To Sleep 113 
 
 Sonnets 113 
 
 RoBEET Southwell 116 
 
 Look Home 118 
 
 The Image of Death " . . .119 
 
 Love's Servile Lot 120 
 
 Times go by Turns 121 
 
 Thomas Watson 122 
 
 The Nymphs to their May-Queen 122 
 
 Sonnet 123 
 
 Thomas Turbeeville 124 
 
 In praise of the renowned Lady Anne, Countess of Warwick . .124 
 
 Unknown 127 
 
 Harpalus' Complaint of Phillida's Love bestowed on Corin, who loved 
 
 her not, and denied him that loved her 128 
 
 A Praise of his Lady 132 
 
 That all things sometime find Ease of their Pain, save only the Lover 134 
 
 From 'The Phffinix' Nest' 135 
 
 From the same 136 
 
 The Soul's Errand 137 
 
 SECOND PERIOD. 
 FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN. 
 
 Feancis Beaumont 141 
 
 To Ben Jonson 141 
 
 On the Tombs in Westminster 144 
 
 An Epitaph ... 144 
 
 liv
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sir Walter Kaleigh 145 
 
 The Country's Recreations 153 
 
 The Silent Lover 154 
 
 A Vision upon ' The Fairy Queen ' 155 
 
 Love admits no Rival 156 
 
 Joshua Sylvester 157 
 
 To Religion 158 
 
 On Man's Resemblance to God 159 
 
 The Chariot of the Sun 160 
 
 Richard Barnfield 162 
 
 Address to the Nightingale 162 
 
 Alexander Hume 164 
 
 Thanks for a Sirmmer's Day 165 
 
 Other Scottish Poets 171 
 
 Samuel Daniel 172 
 
 Richard II., the morning before his Murder in Pomf ret Castle . . 173 
 
 Early Love 175 
 
 Selections from Sonnets 175 
 
 Sir John Davies 177 
 
 Introduction to the Poem on the Soul of Man 178 
 
 The Self-subsistence of the Soul 182 
 
 Spirituality of the Soul 186 
 
 Giles Fletcher 190 
 
 The Nativity 191 
 
 Song of Sorceress seeking to tempt Christ 193 
 
 Close of ' Christ's Victory and Triumph ' 194 
 
 John Donne 201 
 
 Holy Sonnets 204 
 
 The" Progress of the Soul 212 
 
 Michael Drayton 229 
 
 Description of Morning 230 
 
 Edward Fairfax 234 
 
 Rinaldo at Mount Olivet . , 235 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton 243 
 
 Farewell to the Vanities of the World 243 
 
 A Meditation 245 
 
 Richard Corbet - 246 
 
 Dr Corbet's Journey into France 247 
 
 Ben Jonson 253 
 
 Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke 254 
 
 The Picture of the Body 254 
 
 To Penshurst 255 
 
 To the Memory of my beloved Master, William Shakspeare, and what 
 
 he hath left us 258 
 
 On the Portrait of Shakspeare 261 
 
 Vere, Storrer, &c 261 
 
 Iv
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Thomas Eandolph 262 
 
 The Praise of Woman 263 
 
 To my Picture 264 
 
 To a Lady admiring herself in a Looking-glass 265 
 
 Egbert Burton 266 
 
 On Melancholy 268 
 
 Thomas Carew 269 
 
 Persuasions to Love 270 
 
 Song ^ 271 
 
 To my Mistress sitting by a Elver's Side 272 
 
 Song .273 
 
 A Pastoral Dialogue 273 
 
 Song 275 
 
 Sir John Suckling 275 
 
 Song 27-6 
 
 A Ballad upon a Wedding 277 
 
 Song 281 
 
 William Cartwright 282 
 
 Love's Darts 283 
 
 On the Death of Sir Bevil Grenville 285 
 
 A Valediction 287 
 
 William Browne 287 
 
 Song . 288 
 
 Song ^ ... 288 
 
 Power of Genius over Envy 289 
 
 Evening 290 
 
 From ' Britannia's Pastorals ' 290 
 
 A Descriptive Sketch 292 
 
 William Alexander, Earl of Stirling 294 
 
 Sonnet 295 
 
 William Drummond 296 
 
 The Eiver of Forth Feasting 297 
 
 Sonnets .310 
 
 Spiritual Poems .313 
 
 Phineas Fletcher 315 
 
 Desci'iption of Parthenia 316 
 
 Instability of Human Greatness 318 
 
 Happiness of the Shepherd's Life 319 
 
 Marriage of Christ and the Church 320 
 
 Ivi
 
 SPECIMENS, A¥ITH MEMOIRS, 
 OF THE LESS-KNOWN BEITISH POETS. 
 
 JOHN GOWER. 
 
 Veey little is told us (as usual in the beginnings of a litera- 
 ture) of the life and private history of Gower, and that little is 
 not specially authentic or clearly consistent with itself. His 
 life consists mainly of a series of suppositions, with one or two 
 firm facts between — like a few stepping-stones insulated in 
 wide spaces of water. He is said to have been born about the 
 year 1325, and if so must have been a few years older than 
 Chaucer ; whom he, however, outlived. He was a friend as well 
 as contemporary of that great poet, who, in the fifth book of his 
 ' Troilus and Cresseide,' thus addresses him : — 
 
 ' moral Gower, this booke I direct, 
 To thee and the philosophical Strood, 
 To vouchsafe where need is to correct, 
 Of your benignities and zeales good.' 
 
 Gower, on the other hand, in his ' Confessio Amantis/ through 
 the mouth of Venus, speaks as follows of Chaucer : — 
 
 * And greet well Chaucer when ye meet, 
 As my disciple and my poet ; 
 For in the flower of his youth, 
 In sundry wise, as he well couth, 
 Of ditties and of songes glad, 
 The whiche for my sake he made, 
 The laud fulfiU'd is over all,' &c. 
 VOL. I. A 1
 
 GOWER.] SPECIMENS AYITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 The place of Gower's birtli lias been tlie subject of much con- 
 troversy. Caxton asserts that he was a native of Wales. Leland, 
 Bales, Pits, Hollingshed, and Edmondson contend, on the other 
 hand, that he belonged to the Statenham family, in Yorkshire. 
 In proof of this, a deed is appealed to, which is preserved 
 among the ancient records of the Marquis of Stafford. To this 
 deed, of which the local date is Statenham, and the chrono- 
 logical 1346, one of the subscribing witnesses is John Gower^ 
 who on the back of the deed is stated, in the handwriting 
 of at least a century later, to be ' Sr John Goicer the Poet.'' 
 Whatever may be thought of this piece of evidence, ' the 
 proud tradition,' adds Todd, who had produced it, '■ in the 
 Marquis of Stafford's family has been, and still is, that the 
 poet was of Statenham ; and who would not consider the 
 dignity of his genealogy augmented by enrolling among its 
 worthies the moral Gower?' 
 
 From his will we know that he possessed the manor of 
 Southwell, in the county of Nottingham, and that of j\Iulton, in 
 the county of Suffolk. He was thus a rich man, a.s well as pro- 
 bably a knight. The latter fact is inferred from the circum- 
 stance of his effigies in the church of St Mary Overies wear- 
 ing a chaplet of roses, such as, says Francis Thynne, ^ the 
 knyghtes in old time used, eitlier of gold or other embroiderye, 
 made after the fashion of roses, one of the peculiar ornamentes 
 of a knighte, as well as his collar of S.S.S., his guilte sword 
 and spurres. Which chaplett or circle of roses was as well attri- 
 buted to knyghtes, the lowest degree of honor, as to the higher 
 degrees of duke, erle, <S:c., being knyghtes, for so I have seen 
 John of Gaunte pictured in his chajjlett of roses ; and King 
 Edwarde the Thirde gave his chaplett to Eustace Rybamonte ; 
 only the difference was, that as they were of lower degree, so 
 had they fewer roses placed on their chaplett or cyrcle of golde, 
 one ornament deduced from the dukes crowne, which had the 
 roses upon the top of the cyrcle, when the knights had them 
 only upon the cyrcle or garlande itself.' 
 
 It lias been said that Gower as well as Chaucer studied in 
 the Temple. Tliis, however, Thynne doubts, on the ground 
 tliat ' it is most certevn to be gathered by cyrcumstances of 
 2
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [gOWER. 
 
 recorcles that the lawyers were not in the Temple until toAvardes 
 the latter parte of the reygne of Kinge Edwarde the Thirde^ at 
 whiche tyrae Chancer was a grave manne, holden in greate 
 credyt and employed in embassye ;' and when, of course, Gower, 
 being his senior, must have been ' graver' still. 
 
 There is scarcely anything more to relate of the personal 
 career of our poet. In his elder days he became attached to 
 the House of Lancaster, under Thomas of Woodstock, as Chaucer 
 did under John of Gaunt. It is said that the two poets, who 
 had been warm friends, at last quarrelled, but obscurity rests 
 on the cause, the circumstances, the duration, and the conse- 
 quences of the dispute. Gower, like some far greater bards, — 
 Milton for instance, and those whom ]\Iilton has commemorated, 
 
 * Blind Thamji'is and blind Mocouides, 
 And Tiresias and Phiueus, prophets old,' — 
 
 was sometime ere his death deprived of his sight, as we know 
 on his own authority. It appears from his will that he was 
 still living in 1408, having outlived Chaucer eight years. This 
 will is a curious document. It is that of a very rich and very 
 superstitious Catholic, who leaves bequests to churches, hospitals, 
 to priors, sub-priors, and priests, with the significant request 
 ^ ut orent p-o me'' — a request which, for the sake of the poor 
 soul of the ' moral Gower,' was we trust devoutly obeyed, 
 although we are irresistibly reminded of the old rhyme, 
 
 ' Pray for the soul of Gabriel John, 
 Who died in the year one thousand and one ; 
 You may if you please, or let it alone, 
 
 For it's 'all one 
 
 To Gabriel John, 
 Who died in the year one thousand and one.' 
 
 There is no mention of children in the will, and hence the 
 assertion of Edmondson, who, in his genealogical table of the 
 Statenham family, says that Thomas Gower, the governor of 
 the castle of Mans in the times of the Fifth and Sixth Henrys, 
 was the only son of the poet, and that of Glover, who, in his 
 * Visitation of Yorkshire,' describes Gower as married to a lady 
 named Elizabeth, daughter of Sir Edward Sadbowrughe, Baron 
 
 3
 
 GOWER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 of the Excliequer, by whom he had five sons and three daughters, 
 must both fall to the ground. Accordhig to the will, Gower's 
 wife's name was Agnes, and he leaves to her £100 in legacy, 
 besides his valuable goods and the rents accruing from his 
 aforesaid manors of Multon, in Suffolk, and Southwell, in 
 Nottinghamshire. His body was, according to his own direc- 
 tion, buried in the monastery of St Mary Overies, in South- 
 wark, (afterwards the church of St Saviour,) wdiere a monu- 
 ment, and an effigies, too, were erected, with the roses of a 
 knight girdling the brow of one who was unquestionably a true, 
 if not a great poet. 
 
 In Warton's ' History of English Poetry,' and in the ' Illus- 
 trations of the Lives and AVritings of Gower and Chaucer ' by 
 Mr Todd, there will be found ample and curious details about 
 MS. poems by Gower, such as fifty sonnets in French ; a 
 '■ Panegyrick on Henry IV.,' half in Latin and half in English, 
 a short elegiac poem on the same subject, &c. ] besides a large 
 work, entitled ' Speculum Meditantis,' a poem in French of a 
 moral cast; and ' Vox Clamantis,' consisting of seven books of 
 Latin elegiacs, and chiefly filled with a metrical account of the 
 insurrections of the Commons in the reign of Pichard II, 
 In the dedication of this latter work to Arundel, Archbishop of 
 Canterbury, Gower speaks of his blindness and his age. He 
 says, ' Hanc epistolam subscriptam corde devoto misit senex et 
 cecus Johannes Gower reverendissimo in Christo patri ac domino 
 suo precipuo domino Thome de Arundell, Cantuar. Archiepo.' 
 &c, Warton proves that the ^ Vox Clamantis ' was written in 
 the year 1397, by a line in the Bodleian manuscript of the 
 poem, ^ Hos ego bis dcno Picardo regis in anno.' Pichard II. 
 began, it is well known, to reign in the year 1377, when ten 
 years of age, and, of course, the year 1397 was the twentieth of 
 his reign. It follows from this, that for eleven years at least 
 before his death Gower had been senex et cecus, helpless through 
 old age and blindness. 
 
 The ' Confessio Amantis ' is the only work of Gower's which 
 
 is printed and in English. The rest are still slumbering in 
 
 MS.; and even although the 'Vox Clamantis' should put in 
 
 a sleepy plea for the resurrection of print, on the whole we are 
 
 4
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [gOWER. 
 
 disposed to saj, better for all parties that it and the rest should 
 slumber on. But the ' Confessio Amantis ' is altogether a 
 remarkable production. It is said to have been written at the 
 command of Richard II., who, meeting our poet rowing 
 on the Thames, near London, took him on board the royal 
 barge, and requested him to hooh some new thing. It is an 
 English poem, in eight books, and was first printed by Caston 
 in the year 1483. The ' Speculum Meditantis,' ' Vox Cla- 
 mantis,' and ' Confessio Amantis,' are, properly speaking, parts 
 of one great work, and are represented by three volumes upon 
 Gower's curious tomb in the old conventual church of St j\lary 
 Overies already alluded to — a church, by the way, which the 
 poet himself assisted in rebuilding in the elegant shape which 
 it retains to this day. 
 
 The ' Confessio ' is a large unwieldy collection of poetry and 
 prose, superstition and science, love and religion, allegory and 
 historical facts. It is crammed with all varieties of learning;, and 
 a perverse but infinite ingenuity is shewn in the arrangement of 
 its heterogeneous materials. In one book the whole mysteries 
 of the Hermetic philosophy are expounded, and tlie wonders of 
 alchymy dazzle us in every page. In another, the poet scales 
 the heights and sounds the depths of Aristotelianism. From 
 this we have extracted in the ' Specimens ' a glowing account 
 of ' The Chariot of the Sun.' Throughout the work, tales and 
 stories of every description and degree of merit are interspersed. 
 These are principally derived from an old book called ' Pantheon ; 
 or, Memorias Seculorum,' — a kind of universal history, more 
 studious of eifect than accuracy, in which the author ranges over 
 the whole history of the world, from the creation down to the year 
 1186. This was a specimen of a kind of writing in which the 
 Middle Ages abounded — namely, chronicles, which gradually su- 
 perseded the monkish legends, and for a time eclipsed the classics 
 themselves ; a kind of writing hovering between history and 
 fiction, embracing the widest sweep, written in a barbarous style, 
 and swarming with falsehoods ; but exciting, interesting, and 
 often instructive, and tending to kindle cui-iosity, and create in 
 the minds of their readers a love for literature. 
 
 Besides chronicles, Gower had read many romances, and 
 
 5
 
 GOWER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 alludes to them in various parts of his works. His ' Confessio 
 Amantis ' was apparently written after Chaucer's ' Troilus and 
 Cresseide,' and after ' The Flower and the Leaf,' inasmuch as he 
 speaks of the one and imitates the other in that poem. That 
 Chaucer had not, however, yet composed his ' Testament of 
 Love,' appears from the epilogue to the ' Confessio,' where Gower 
 is ordered by Venus, who expresses admiration of Chaucer for 
 the early devotion of his muse to her service, to say to him at 
 the close — 
 
 * Forthy, now in Lis daies old, 
 Thou slialt him tell this message. 
 That he upon his later age 
 To set an end of all his work, 
 As he which is mine owen clerk^ 
 Do make his Testament of Love, 
 As thou hast done thy shrift above. 
 So that my court it may record' — 
 
 the ' shrift ^ being of course the ' Confessio Amantis.' In ' The 
 Canterbury Tales ' there are several indications that Chaucer 
 was indebted to Gower — ' The Man of Law's Tale ' being bor- 
 rowed from Gower's ' Constantia,' and ' The Wife of Bath's 
 Tale ' being founded on Gower's ' Florent.* 
 
 After all, Gower cannot be classed with the greater bards. 
 He sparkles brightly chiefly from the depth of the darkness 
 through which he shines. He is more remarkable for extent 
 than for depth, for solidity than for splendour, for fuel than for 
 fire, for learning than for genius* 
 
 THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN. 
 
 Of golde glist'ring spoke and wheel 
 The Sun liis cart hath fair and w^ele. 
 In which he sitteth, and is eroned^ 
 With bright stones environed: 
 Of which if that I speake shall , 
 There be before in special 
 
 1 'Croned:' crowned.
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [gOWER. 
 
 Set in the front of liis corone 
 
 Three stones, whiche no person 
 
 Hath upon earth; and the first is 
 
 By name cleped Lencachatis. 
 
 That other two cleped thus 
 
 Astroites and Ceraunus ; 
 
 In his corone, and also behind. 
 
 By olde bookes as I find. 
 
 There be of worthy stones three. 
 
 Set each of them in his degree. 
 
 Whereof a crystal is that one, 
 
 Which that corone is set upon : 
 
 The second is an adamant: 
 
 The third is noble and evenant. 
 
 Which cleped is Idriades. 
 
 And over this yet natheless, 
 
 Upon the sides of the werk. 
 
 After the writing of the clerk. 
 
 There sitten five stones mo.^ 
 
 The Smaragdine is one of tho,^ 
 
 Jaspis, and Eltropiiis, 
 
 And Vendides, and Jacinctus. 
 
 Lo thus the corone is beset, 
 
 Whereof it shineth well the bet.^ 
 
 And in such wise his light to spread. 
 
 Sits with his diadem on head. 
 
 The Sunne shinino- in his cart : 
 
 And for to lead him swith * and smart. 
 
 After the bright daye's law. 
 
 There be ordained for to draw, 
 
 Four horse his chare, and him w^itlial. 
 
 Whereof the names tell I shall. 
 
 1 'Mo:' more.— = 'Tho:' those— ^ 'Bet:' better.—'* 'Swith:' swift.
 
 GOWER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Eritlieiis the first is liote,^ 
 The which is red, and shineth hot ; 
 The second Acteos the bright; 
 Lampes the thirde courser hight; 
 And Philogens is the forth, 
 That brino;en liirht unto this earth. 
 And go so swift upon the heaven. 
 In four and twenty houres even. 
 The carte with the bridite sun 
 They drawen, so that over run 
 They have under the circles high, 
 All midde earth in such an hie.^ 
 
 And thus the sun is over all 
 The chief planet imperial. 
 Above him and beneath him three. 
 And thus between them runneth he. 
 As he that hath the middle place 
 Amono" the seven : and of his face 
 Be glad all earthly creatures. 
 And taken after the natures 
 Their ease and recreation. 
 And in his constellation 
 Who that is born in special. 
 Of good- will and of liberal 
 Tie shall be found in alle place, 
 And also stand in muchel grace 
 Toward the lordes for to serve, 
 And great profit and thank deserve. 
 
 And over that it causeth yet 
 A man to be subtil of wit, 
 To work in gold, and to be wise 
 In everything, which is of prise.^ 
 But for to speaken in what coast 
 
 ^ 'Hot:' named. — ^ 'Hie:' haste. — ^ 'Prise:' value. 
 
 8
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [gOWER. 
 
 Of all this earth he reigneth most. 
 As for wisdom it is in Greece, 
 Where is appropred thilk spece.^ 
 
 THE TALE OF THE COFFERS OR CASKETS, &C. 
 
 In a chronique thus I read: 
 About a kiiiffe, as must need. 
 There was of kniglites and squiers 
 Great rout, and eke officers : 
 Some of long time him had served, 
 And thoughten that they have deserved 
 Advancement, and gone without : 
 And some also been of the rout. 
 That comen but a while agon. 
 And they advanced were anon. 
 
 These olde men upon this thing, 
 So as they durst, against the king 
 Among themselves complainen oft : 
 But there is nothing said so soft. 
 That it ne cometh out at last : 
 The king it wist, anon as fast. 
 As he which was of high prudence : 
 He shope ^ therefore an evidence 
 Of them that 'plainen in the case 
 To know in whose default it was : 
 And all within his own intent. 
 That none more wiste what it meant. 
 Anon he let two coffers make, 
 Of one semblance, and of one make. 
 So like, that no life thilke throw,^ 
 The one may from that other know : 
 They were into his chamber brought, 
 
 ^ 'Thilk spece:' that kind.— ^ 'Shope:' contrived.— ^ ' Thilke throw:' at 
 that time.
 
 GOWER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 But no man wot wliy tliey be wrouglit, 
 And natheless the king hath becle 
 That they be set in privy stede,''- 
 As he that was of wisdom sly ; 
 When he thereto his time sih,^ 
 All privily that none it wist, 
 His owne handes that one chest 
 Of fine gold, and of fine perrie,^ 
 The which out of his treasury 
 Was take, anon he filled full ; 
 That other coffer of straw and mull,^ 
 W^itli stones meynd^ he fill'd also : 
 Thus be thev full bothe two. 
 So that erlich ^ upon a day 
 He bade within, where he lay, 
 There should be before his bed 
 A board up set and faire spread : 
 And then he let the coffers fef 
 Upon the board, and did them set. 
 He knew the names well of tho,^ 
 The which au'ainst him o-rutched^ so. 
 Both of his chamber, and of his hall. 
 Anon and sent for them all; 
 And saide to them in this wise : 
 
 ' There shall no man his hap despise : 
 I wot well ye have longe served, 
 And God wot what ye have deserved; 
 But if it is along ^^ on me 
 Of that ye unadvanced be. 
 Or else if it be long on yow. 
 The soothe shall be proved now : 
 To stoppe with your evil word. 
 
 1 'Stede:' place. - 
 
 -- 'Sih:' saiv. — ^ 'Perrie:' precious stones. — * 'Mull:' 
 
 rubbish. — ^ 'Meynd: 
 
 mingled.— « 'Erlich:' early.— ^ ' Fet:' fetched.— « 'Tho:' 
 
 those. — ^ 'Grutched: 
 
 murmured. — ^° ' Along : ' because of. 
 
 10 

 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [gOWER. 
 
 Lo ! liere two coffers on the board ; 
 
 Clioose wliicli you list of bothe two ; 
 
 And witteth well that one of tho 
 
 Is with treasure so full beo-on. 
 
 That if he happe thereupon 
 
 Ye shall be riche men for ever : 
 
 Now clioose and take which you is lever,^ 
 
 But be well 'ware ere that ye take. 
 
 For of that one I undertake 
 
 There is no manner good therein, 
 
 Whereof ye mighten profit win. 
 
 Now go together of one assent, 
 
 And taketli your advisement; 
 
 For but I you this day advance, 
 
 It stands upon your owne chance. 
 
 All only in default of grace ; 
 
 So shall be shewed in this place 
 
 Upon you all well afine,^ 
 
 That no defaulte shall be mine.' 
 
 They kneelen all, and with one voice 
 The king tliey thankeii of this choice : 
 And after that they up arise. 
 And go aside and them advise. 
 And at laste they accord 
 (Whereof their tale to record 
 To what issue they be fall) 
 A knight shall speake for them all: 
 Fie kneeleth down unto the kin 2:, 
 And saith tliat they upon this thing. 
 Or for to win, or for to lose. 
 Be all advised for to clioose. 
 
 Then took this knight a yard^ in hand. 
 And go'tli there as the colters stand, 
 
 ^ 'Lever:' preferable, — ^ 'Afine:' at last. — ^ 'Yard:' rod. 
 
 11
 
 GOWER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER, 
 
 And witli assent of every one 
 
 He lay'tli his yarde upon one, 
 
 And saitli the kmg ^ how thilke same 
 
 They chose m reguerdon ^ by name. 
 
 And pray'th him that they might it have. 
 
 The king, which would his honour save, 
 When he had heard the common voice, 
 Hath granted them their owne choice, 
 And took them thereupon the key; 
 But for he woukle it were see 
 What good they have as they suppose. 
 He bade anon the coffer unclose. 
 Which was fulfiU'd with straw and stones : 
 Thus be they served all at ones. 
 
 This king then in the same stede. 
 Anon that other cofier undede, 
 Where as they sawen great riches, 
 Well more than they couthen ^ guess. 
 
 ' Lo ! ' saith the king, ' now may ye see 
 That there is no default in me ; 
 Forth y^ myself I will acquite, 
 And beareth ye your owne wite ^ 
 Of that fortune hath you refused.' 
 
 Thus was this wise kino' excused : 
 And they left off their evil speech, 
 And mercy of their king beseech. 
 
 OF THE GRATIFICATION WHICH THE LOVER's PASSION RECEIVES 
 FROM THE SENSE OF HEARING. 
 
 Plight as mine eye with his look 
 Is to mine heart a lusty cook 
 Of love's foode delicate ; 
 
 ^ 'Saith the king:' saith to the king. — ^ 'Reguerdon:' as their reward. — 
 3 'Couthen:' could.— ^ 'Forthy:' therefore.— ^ ' Wite:' blame. 
 
 12
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [gOWER. 
 
 Ptidit SO mine ear in his estate, 
 Where as mine eye may nought serve, 
 Can well mine hearte's thank deserve; 
 And feeden him, from day to day. 
 With such dainties as he may. 
 For thus it is that, over all 
 AVhere as I come in special, 
 I may hear of my lady price : ^ 
 I hear one say that she is wise ; 
 Another saith that she is good ; 
 And some men say of worthy blood 
 That she is come; and is also 
 So fair that nowhere is none so : 
 And some men praise her goodly chere.^ 
 Thus everything that I may hear. 
 Which soundeth to my lady good. 
 Is to mine ear a lusty food. 
 And eke mine ear hath, over this, 
 A dainty feaste when so is 
 That I may hear herselve speak ; 
 For then anon my fast I break 
 On suche wordes as she saith, 
 That full of truth and full of faith 
 They be, and of so good disport, 
 That to mine eare great comfort 
 They do, as they that be delices 
 For all the meats, and all the spices. 
 That any Lombard couthe ^ make. 
 Nor be so lusty for to take. 
 Nor so far forth restoratif, 
 (I say as for mine owne life,) 
 As be the wordes of her mouth 
 For as the windes of the south 
 
 1 'Price:' praise. — ^ ' Chare:' mien. — ^ 'Couthe:' knows to. 
 
 13
 
 BARBOUR,] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Be most of alle deboiiaire ; ^ 
 So, wlien her list to spcake fair, 
 The virtue of her goodly speech 
 Is verily mine hearte's leech. 
 
 And if it so befall among, 
 That she carol upon a song, 
 AVhen I it hear, I am so fed. 
 That I am from myself so led 
 As though I were in Paradise; 
 For, certes, as to mine avis,^ 
 When I hear of her voice the steven,^ 
 Methink'th it is a bliss of heaven. 
 
 And eke in other wise also. 
 Full ofte time it falleth so. 
 Mine eare with a good pitance* 
 Is fed of readino- of romance 
 Of Ydoine and of Amadas, 
 That whilom weren in mv case: 
 And eke of other many a score. 
 That loveden long ere I was bore. 
 For when I of their loves read. 
 Mine eare with the tale I feed. 
 And with the lust of their histoire 
 Sometime I draw into memoire. 
 How sorrow mav not ever last; 
 And so hoDe cometli in at last. 
 
 JOHN BARBOUR. 
 
 The facts known about this Scottish poet are only the fol- 
 lowing, lie seems to have been born about the year 1316, 
 
 ^ 'Debonaire:' gentle. — ^ 'Avis:' opinion. — ^ 'Steven:' sound. — * 'I'itance:' 
 allowance. 
 
 14
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KXOWX BRITISH POETS. [bARBOUR. 
 
 in, probably, the city of Aberdeen. This is stated by Hume 
 of Godscroft, by Dr Mackenzie, and others, but is not 
 thoroughly authenticated. Some think he was the son of one 
 Andrew Barbour, who possessed a tenement in Castle Street, 
 Aberdeen ; and others, that he was related to one Eobert 
 Barbour, who, in 1309, received a charter of the lands of 
 Craigie, in Forfarshire, from King Robert the Bruce. These, 
 however, are mere conjectures, founded upon a similarity of 
 name. It is clear, from Barbour's after rank in the Church, 
 that he had received a learned education, but whether in 
 Arbroath or Aberdeen is uncertain. We know, however, that 
 a school of divinity and canon law had existed at Aberdeen 
 since the reign of Alexander 11. , and it is conjectured that 
 Barbour first studied there, and then at Oxford. In the year 
 1357, he was undoubtedly Archdeacon of Aberdeen, since we 
 find him, under this title, nominated by the Bishop of that 
 diocese, one of the Commissioners appointed to meet in Edin- 
 burgh to take measures to liberate King David, who had been 
 captured at the battle of Nevil's Cross, and detained from that 
 date in England. It seems evident, from the customs of the 
 E,oman Catholic Church, that he must have been at least forty 
 when he was created Archdeacon, and this is a good reason for 
 fixing his birth in the year 1316. 
 
 In the same year, Barbour obtained permission from Edward 
 III., at the request of the Scottish King, to travel through Eng- 
 land with three scholars who were to study at Oxford, probably 
 at Balliol College, which had, a hundred years nearly before, 
 been founded and endowed by the wife of the famous John 
 Balliol of Scotland. Some years afterwards, in November 1364, 
 he got permission to pass, accompanied by four horsemen, through 
 England, to pursue his studies at the same renowned university. 
 In the year 1365, we find another casual notice of our Scottish 
 bard. A passport has been found giving him permission from 
 the King of England to travel, in company with six horse- 
 men, through that country on their way to St Denis', and 
 other sacred places. It is evident that this was a religious 
 pilgrimage on the part of Barbour and his companions. 
 
 A most peripatetic poet, verily, he must have been ; for we 
 
 15
 
 BARBOUR.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 find another safe-conduct, dated November 1368, granted by- 
 Edward to Barbour, permitting him to pass through Eng- 
 land, with two servants and their horses, on his way to France, 
 for the purpose of pursuing his studies there. Dr Jamieson (see 
 his 'Life of Barbour') discovers the poet's name in the list of 
 Auditors of the Exchequer. 
 
 Barbour has himself told us that he commenced his poem 
 in the ' yer of grace, a tliousand thre hundyr sevynty and five/ 
 when, of course, he was in his sixtieth year, or, as he says, 
 ' off hys eld sexty.' It is supposed that David II. — who died 
 in 1370 — had urged Barbour to engage in the work, which was 
 not, however, completed till the fifth year of his successor, 
 Robert II., who gave our poet a pension on account of it. 
 This consisted of a sum of ten pounds Scots from the revenues 
 of the city of Aberdeen, and twenty shillings from the burgh 
 mails. Mr James Bruce, to whose interesting Life of Barbour, 
 in his ' Eminent Men of Aberdeen,' we are indebted for many 
 of the facts in this narrative, says, ' The latter of these sums 
 was granted to him, not merely during his own life, but to his 
 assignees ; and the Archdeacon bequeathed it to the dean, 
 canons, the chapter, and other ministers of the Cathedral of 
 Aberdeen, on condition that they should for ever celebrate a 
 yearly mass for his soul. At the Reformation, when it came to 
 be discovered that masses did no good to souls in the other 
 world, it is probable that this endowment reverted to the 
 Crown.' 
 
 Barbour also wrote a poem under what seems now the strange 
 title, ' The Brute.' This was in reality a metrical history of 
 Scotland, commencing with the fables concerning Brutus, or 
 ' Brute,' who, according to ancient legends, was the great-grand- 
 son of jEneas — came over from Italy, the land of his birth — 
 landed at Totness, in Devonshire — destroyed the giants who 
 then inhabited Albion — called the island 'Britain' from his 
 own name, and became its first monarch. From this original 
 fable, Barbour is supposed to have wandered on through a hun- 
 dred succeeding stories of similar value, till he came down to 
 his own day. There can be little regret felt, therefore, that the 
 book is totally lost. Wynton, in his ' Chronicle,' refers to it in 
 16
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [baRBOUR. 
 
 coramendatoiy terms ; but it cannot be ascertained from liis 
 notices whether it was composed in Scotch or in Latin. 
 
 Barbour died about the beginning of the year 1396, eighty 
 years of age. Lord Hailes ascertained the time of his death 
 from the Chartulary of Aberdeen, where, under the date of 10th 
 August 1398, mention is made of 'quondam Joh. Barber, Archi- 
 diaconus, Aberd., and where it is said that he had died two 
 years and a half before, namely, in 1396.' 
 
 His great work, ' The Bruce,' or more fully, ' The History of 
 Robert Bruce, King of the Scots,' does not appear to have been 
 printed till 1616 in Edinburgh. Between that date and the 
 year 1790, when Pinkerton's edition appeared, no less than 
 twenty impressions were published, (the principal being those 
 of Edinburgh in 1620 and 1648; Glasgow, 1665; and Edin- 
 burgh, 1670 — all in black letter,) so popular immediately 
 became the poem. Pinkerton's edition is in three volumes, and 
 has a preface, notes, and a glossary, all of considerable value. 
 The MS. was copied from a volume in the Advocates' Library, 
 of the date of 1489, which was in the handwriting of one John 
 Eamsay, believed to have been the prior of a Carthusian mon- 
 astery near Perth. Pinkerton first divided ' The Bruce ' into 
 books. It had previously, like the long works of Kterius and 
 Ennius, the earliest Roman poets, consisted of one entire piece, 
 woven ' from the top to the bottom without seam,' like the 
 ancient simple garments in Jewry. The late respectable and 
 very learned Dr Jamieson, of Nicolson Street United Secession 
 Church, Edinburgh, well known as the author of the ' Scottish 
 Dictionary/ ' Hermes Scythicus,' &c., published, in 1820, a 
 more accurate edition of ' The Bruce,' along with Blind Harry's 
 ' Wallace,' in two quarto volumes. 
 
 In strict chronology Barbour belongs to an earlier date than 
 Chaucer, having been born and having died a few years before 
 him. But as the first Scotch poet who has written anything 
 of length, with the exception of the author of the ' Eomance of 
 Sir Tristrem,' he claims a conspicuous place in our ' Specimens.' 
 He was singularly fortunate in the choice of a subject. With 
 the exception of Wallace, there is no name in Scottish history 
 that even yet calls up prouder associations than that of Robert 
 
 TOL. I. B 17
 
 BARBOUR.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Bruce. The incidents in his history, — the escape he made from 
 English bondage to rescue his country from the same yoke ; his 
 rise refulgent from the stroke which, in the cloisters of the Gray 
 Friars, Dumfries, laid the Red Comyn low ; his daring to be 
 crowned at Scone ; his frequent defeats ; his lion-like retreat to 
 the Hebrides, accompanied by one or two friends, his wife 
 meanwhile having been carried captive, three of his brothers 
 hanged, and himself supposed to be dead ; the romantic perils 
 he survived, and the victories he gained amidst the mountains 
 where the deep waters of the river Awe are still telling of his 
 name, and the echoes of Ben Cruachan repeating the immortal 
 sound ; his sudden reappearance on the west coast of Scotland, 
 where, as he ' shook his Carrick spear,' his country rose, kind- 
 ling around him like heather ©n flame ; the awful suspense of 
 the hour when it was announced tliat Edward I., the tyrant 
 of the Ragman's Boll, the murderer of Wallace, was approach- 
 ing with a mighty army to crush the revolt ; the electrifying 
 news that he had died at Sark, as if struck by the breath 
 of the fatal Border, which he had reached, but could not over- 
 pass ; the bloody summer's day of Bannockburn, in which 
 Edward II. was repelled, and the gallant array of his father 
 annihilated ; the energy and wisdom of the Bruce's civil 
 administration after the victory ; the less famous, but noble 
 battle of Byland, nine years after Bannockburn, in whicli 
 he again smote the foes of his country; and the recognition 
 which at last he procured, on the accession of Edward III., of 
 the independence of Scotland in 1329, himself dying the same 
 year, his work done and his glory for ever secured, — not to 
 speak of the beautiful legends which have clustered round his 
 history like ivy round an ancestral tower — of the spider on the 
 wall, teaching him the lesson of perseverance, as he lay in the 
 barn sad and desponding in lieart — of the strange signal-light 
 upon the shore near his maternal castle of Turnberry, which led 
 him to land, while 
 
 ' Dark red the heaven above it glow'd, 
 Dark red the sea beneath it flow'd, 
 Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim, 
 In blood-red light her islets swim, 
 
 18,
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [bARBOUR. 
 
 Wild screams the dazzled sea-fowl gave, 
 Dropp'd fi'om their crags a plashing wave, 
 Tlie deer to distant covert drew, 
 The blackcock deem'd it day, and crew ;' 
 
 and last, not least, the adventures of his gallant, unquenchable 
 heart, when, in the hand of Douglas, — meet casket for such a 
 gem ! — it marched onwards, as it was wont to do, in conquering 
 power, toward the Holy Land ; — all this has woven a garland 
 round the brow of Bruce which every civilised nation has 
 delighted to honour, and given him besides a share in the affec- 
 tions and the pride of his own land, with the joy of which ' no 
 strano;er can intermeddle.' 
 
 Bruce has been fortunate in his laureates, consisting of three 
 of Scotland's greatest poets, — Barbour, Scott, and Burns. The 
 last of these has given us a glimpse of the patriot-king, reveal- 
 ing him on the brow of Bannockburn as by a single flash of 
 lightning. The second has, in ' The Lord of the Isles,' seized 
 and sung a few of the more romantic passages of his history. 
 But Barbour has, with unwearied fidelity and no small force, 
 described the whole incidents of Bruce's career, and reared to 
 his memory, not an insulated column, but a broad and deep-set 
 temple of poetry. 
 
 Barbour's poem has always been admired for its strict accu- 
 racy of statement, to which Bower, Wynton, Hailes, Pinkerton, 
 Jamieson, and Sir Walter Scott all bear testimony ; for the pictu- 
 resque force of its natural descriptions ; for its insight into char- 
 acter, and the lifelike spirit of its individual sketches ; for the 
 martial vigour of its battle-pictures ; for the enthusiasm which 
 he feels, and makes his reader feel, for the valiant and wise, 
 the sagacious and persevering, the bold, merciful, and reli- 
 gious character of its hero, and for the piety which pervades 
 it, and proves that the author was not merely a churchman in 
 profession, but a Christian at heart. Its defects of rude rhythm^ 
 irregular constructions, and obsolete phraseology, are tiiose of 
 its age ; but its beauties, its unflagging interest, and its flue 
 poetic spirit, are characteristic of the writer's own genius. 
 
 19
 
 BARBOUR.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO FREEDOM. 
 
 All! freedom is a noble thing! 
 Freedom makes man to have liking! 
 Freedom all solace to man gives: 
 He lives at ease that freely lives! 
 A noble heart may have none ease. 
 Nor nought else that may him please. 
 If freedom fail; for free liking 
 Is yearned o'er all other thing. 
 Nay, he that aye has lived free, 
 May not know well the property. 
 The anger, nor the wretched doom, 
 That is coupled to foul thuidom. 
 But if he had assayed it. 
 Then all perquier^ he should it wit: 
 And should think freedom more to_prize 
 Than all the gold in world that is. 
 
 DEATH OF SIR HENRY DE BOHUN. 
 
 And when the king wist that they were 
 In hale^ battle, coming so near, 
 His battle o'art^ he well arrav. 
 He rode upon a little palfrey, 
 Laughed and jolly, array and 
 His battle, with an axe in hand. 
 And on his bassinet he bare 
 A hat of tyre above aye where; 
 And, thereupon, into tok'ning. 
 An high crown, that he was king. 
 And when Gloster and Hereford were 
 With their battle approaching near, 
 
 ^ 'Perquier:' perfectly. — - 'Hale:' whole. — ^ 'Gart:' caused. 
 
 20
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [bARBOUR. 
 
 Before them all there came ricland, 
 With helm on head and spear in hand, 
 Sir Henry the Bohim, the worthy, 
 That was a wight knight, and a hardy. 
 And to the Earl of Hereford cousin; 
 Armed in armis good and fine ; 
 Came on a steed a bowshot near. 
 Before all other that there were : 
 And knew the king, for that he saw 
 Him so range his men on raw,i 
 And by the crown that was set 
 Also upon his bassinet. 
 And toward him he went in hy.^ 
 And the king so apertly^ 
 Saw him come, forouth^ all his feres,^ 
 In hy till him the liorse he steers. 
 And when Sir Henry saw the king 
 Come on, forouten^ abasing. 
 To him he rode in full great hy. 
 He thought that he should well liglitly 
 Win him, and have him at his will, 
 Since he him horsed saw so ill. 
 Sprent they samen into a l^nig;'^ 
 Sir Henry miss'd the noble king ; 
 And he that in his stirrups stood. 
 With the axe, that was hard and good, 
 With so great main, rauclit^ him a dint, 
 That neither hat nor helm might stint 
 The heavy dush tliat he him gave. 
 The head near to the harns^ he clave. 
 The hand-axe shaft frushit^^ in two; 
 
 ^ 'Raw:' row. — ^ 'Hy:' haste. — ^ 'Apertly:' openly, clearly.— * Forouth:' be- 
 yond, — * ' Feres :' companions. — ^ ' Forouten :' without. — ' ' Sprent they samen into 
 a lyng:' they sprang forward at once, against each other, in a line. — ® 'Raucht;' 
 reached. — ^ 'Harns:' brains. — ■'•* 'Frushit:' broke. 
 
 21
 
 EARBOUR.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 And he down to the yird^ 'gan go 
 All flatlino-s, for him failed midit. 
 This was the first stroke of the fight, 
 That was performed doughtily. 
 And when the king's men so stoutly 
 Saw him, right at the first meeting, 
 Forouten doubt or abasing. 
 Have slain a knight so at a straik, 
 Such hardment thereat 'gan they take, 
 Tliat they come on right hardily. 
 When Englishmen saw them so stoutly 
 Come on, they had great abasing; 
 And specially for that the king 
 So smartly that good knight has slain. 
 That they withdrew them everilk ane. 
 And durst not one abide to fight : 
 So dread they for the king his might. 
 When that the king repaired was. 
 That gart his men all leave the chase, 
 The lordis of his company 
 Blamed him, as they durst, greatumly, 
 That he him put in aventure. 
 To meet so stith^ a knight, and stour. 
 In such point as he then was seen. 
 For they said, well it might have been 
 Cause of their tynsaP everilk ane. 
 The kinti' answer has made them nane, 
 But mainit* his hand-axe shaft so 
 Was with the stroke broken in two. 
 
 1 'Yird:' earth.— ^ 'Stitli:' strong.— ^ 'Tynsal:' destruction.—" 'Maini :' 
 lamented. 
 
 22
 
 *B00-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [WYNTOUN. 
 
 ANDREW WYNTOUN. 
 
 This author, who was prior of St Serf's monastery in Loch 
 Leven, is the author of what he calls ' An Orjgynale Cronykil of 
 Scotland,' It appeared about the year 1420. It is much infe- 
 rior to the work of Barbour in poetry, but is full of historical 
 information, anecdote^ and legend. The language is often suffi- 
 ciently prosaic. Thus the poet begins to describe the return of 
 King David II. from his captivity, referred to above. 
 
 ' Yet in prison was king Davy, 
 And when a lang time was gane bye, 
 Frae prison and perplexitie 
 To Berwick castle brought was he. 
 With the Earl of Northamptoun, 
 For to treat there of his ransouu ; 
 Some lords of Scotland come there, 
 And als prelates that wisest were,' &c. 
 
 Contemporary, or nearly so, with Wyntoun were several other 
 Scottish writers, such as one Hutcheon, of whom we know only 
 that he is designated of the ^ Awle Ryall,' or of the Royal 
 Hall or Palace, and that he wrote a metrical romance, of which 
 two cantos remain, called 'The Gest of Arthur;' and another, 
 named Clerk of Tranent, the author of a romance, entitled 
 * The Adventures of Sir Gawain.' Of this latter also two can- 
 tos only are extant. Although not perhaps deserving to have 
 even portions of them extracted, they contain a good deal of 
 poetry. A person, too, of the name of Holland, about whose 
 history we have no information, produced a satirical poem, called 
 ' The Howlate,' written in the allegorical form, and bearing some 
 resemblance to ' Pierce Plowman's Vision.' 
 
 23
 
 BLIND HARRY.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PEHi 
 
 BLIND HAPtEY. 
 
 Although there are diversities of opinion as to the exact time 
 when this blind minstrel flourished, we prefer alluding to him 
 at this point, where he stands in close proximity to Barbour, the 
 author of a poem on a subject so cognate to ' Wallace ' as 
 ' Bruce.' Nothing is known of Harry but that he was blind 
 from infancy, that he composed this poem, and gained a subsist- 
 ence by reciting or singing portions of it through the country. 
 Another Wandering Willie, (see ' Redgauntlet,') he ' passed like 
 night from land to land,' led by his own instincts, and wherever 
 he met with a congenial audience, he proceeded to chant por- 
 tions of the noble knight's achievements, his eyes the while 
 twinkling, through their sad setting of darkness, with entliu- 
 siasm, and often suffused with tears. In some minds the con- 
 ception of this blind wandering bard may awaken ludicrous 
 emotions, but to us it suggests a certain sublimity. Blind 
 Harry has powerfully described Wallace standing in the light 
 and shrinking from the ghost of Fawdoun, (see the ' Battle of 
 Black-Earnside,' in the ' Specimens,') but Harry himself seems 
 walking in the light of the ghost of Wallace, and it ministers to 
 him, not terror, but inspiration. Entering a cot at night, and 
 asked for a tale, he begins, in low tones, to recite that frightful 
 apparition at Gaskhall, and the aged men and the crones vie 
 with the children in drawing near the 4ngle bleeze,' as if in 
 fire alone lay the refuge from 
 
 ' Fawdoun, that ugly sire, 
 That haill hall he had set into a fire, 
 As to his sight, his OWN head in his hand.' 
 
 Arriving in a village at the hour of morning rest and refresh- 
 ment, he charms the swains by such words as 
 
 ' The merry day sprang from the orient 
 With beams bright illuminate the Occident, 
 After Titan Phoebus upriseth fair, 
 High in the sphere the signs he made declare. 
 
 24
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [bLIND HARRY. 
 
 Zephyrus then began his morning course, 
 
 The sweet vapour thus from the ground resourse,' &c. — 
 
 and the simple villagers wonder at hearing these images from 
 one who is blind, not seeing the sun. As the leaves are rust- 
 ling down from the ruddy trees of late autumn, he sings to a 
 little circle of wayside wanderers — 
 
 ' The dark region appearing wonder fast, 
 In 2^ovember, when October was past, 
 
 • • * • ■ 
 
 Good AVallace saw the night's messenger, 
 Phoebus had lost his fiery beams so clear ; 
 Out of that wood they durst not turn that side 
 For adversours that in their way would hide,' 
 
 And while on the verge of the December sky, the wintry sun is 
 trembling and about to set as if for ever, then is the Minstrel's . 
 voice heard sobbinir amidst the sobs of his hearers, as he tells ' 
 how his hero's sun went down while it was yet day. 
 
 * On Wednesday the false Southron furth brocht 
 To mart3'r him as they before had wrocht, 
 Of men in arms led him a full great rout. 
 With a bauld sprite guid Wallace blent about.' 
 
 There can be little doubt that Blind Harry, during his lifetime, 
 became a favourite, nay, a power in the realm. Wherever he 
 circulated, there cn-culated the fame of Wallace ; there, his deeds 
 were recounted ; there, hatred of a foreign foe, and love to their 
 native land, were inculcated as first principles; and long after the 
 Homer of Scotland had breathed his last, and been consigned 
 perhaps to some little kirkyard among the uplands, his lays 
 continued to live ; and we know that such a man as Burns (who 
 read them in the modern paraphrase of W^illiam Hamilton of 
 Gilbertfield, a book which was, till within a somewhat recent 
 period, a household god in the libraries of the Scotch) derived 
 from the old singer much of ' that national prejudice which 
 boiled in his breast till the floodgates of life shut in eternal rest.' 
 If Barbour, as we. said, was fortunate in his subject, still 
 
 25
 
 BLIND HARRY.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 more was Blind Harry in his. The interest felt in Wallace is 
 of a deeper and warmer kind than that which we feel in Bruce. 
 Bruce was of royal blood ; Wallace was from an ancient but 
 not Avealthy family. Bruce stained his career by one great 
 crime — great in itself, but greater from the peculiar notions of 
 the age — the murder of Comyn in the sanctuary of Dumfries ; 
 on the character of Wallace no similar imputation rests. Wal- 
 lace initiated that plan of guerilla warfare, — that fighting now on 
 foot and now on the Aving, now with beak and now with talons, 
 now with, horns and now with hoofs, — which Bruce had only to 
 perfect. Wallace was unsuccessful, and was besides treated by 
 the King of England Avith revolting barbarity; while Bruce 
 became victorious : and, as we saw in our remarks on Chaucei*, 
 it is the unfortunate brave who stamp themselves most forcibly 
 on a nation's heart, and it is the red letters, Avhich tell of suf- 
 fering and death, which are with most difficulty erased from a 
 nation's tablets. On Bruce we look somewhat as we regard 
 Washington, — a great, serene man, who, after long reverses, 
 nobly sustained, gained a notable national triuujph ; to Wallace 
 we feel, as the Italians do to Garibaldi, as a demon of warlike 
 power, — blending courage and clemency, enthusiasm and skill, 
 daring and determination, in proportions almost superhuman, — 
 and we cry Avith the poet, 
 
 ' The sword that seem'd fit for archangel to wield. 
 Was light in his terrible hand.' 
 
 We have often regretted that Sir Walter Scott, Avlio, after all, 
 has not done full justice to Bruce in that very imequal and 
 incondite poem ' The Lord of the Isles,' had not bent his 
 strength upon the Ulysses boAv of Wallace, and filled up that 
 splendid sketch of a part of his history to be found near the 
 beginning of ' The Fair ]\Iaid of Perth.' As it is, after all that 
 a number of respectable Avriters, such as Miss Porter, Mrs He- 
 mans, Findlay, the late Mr Macpherson of Glasgow, and others, 
 have done — in prose or ATrse, in the novel, the poem, or the 
 drama — to illustrate the character and career of the Scottish 
 hero, Blind Harry remains his poet. 
 
 It is necessary to notice that Harry derived, by his OAvn 
 
 ■ 26
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-K^'OWN BRITISH POETS. [bLIND HARRY. 
 
 account, ma,nj of the facts of his narrative from a work by 
 John Blair, a Benedictine monk from Dundee, wlio acted as 
 Wallace's chaplain, and seems to have composed a life of him 
 in Latin, which is lost. Besides these, he doubtless mingled 
 in the story a number of traditions — some true, and some false 
 — which he found floating through the country. His authority 
 in reference to certain disputed matters, such as Wallace's jour- 
 ney to France, and his capture of the Red Rover, Thomas de 
 Longueville, who became his fast friend and fellow-soldier, Avas 
 not long ago entirely established by certain important documents 
 brought to light by the Maitland Club. It is probable that some 
 other of his supposed misstatements — always excepting his ghost- 
 stories — may yet receive from future researches the confirmation 
 they as yet want. Blind Harry, living about a century and 
 a half after the era of Wallace, and at a time when tradition 
 was the chief literature, was not likely to be able to test the 
 evidence of many of the circumstances which he narrated ; but 
 he seems to speak in good faith : and, after all, what Paley 
 says is unquestionably true as a general principle — ' ]\Ien tell 
 lies about minute circumstantials, but they rarely invent.' 
 
 BATTLE OF BLACK-EARNSIDE. 
 
 Kcrlie beheld unto the bold Heroiiii, 
 Upon Fawdoun as lie was looking down, 
 A subtil stroke upward him took that tide, 
 Under the clieeks the grounden sword garf glide. 
 By the mail good, both halse- and his craig-bane^ 
 In sunder strake ; thus ended that chieftain, 
 To ground he fell, feil^ folk about him throng, 
 * Treason,' they cried, ' traitors are us among.' 
 Kerlie, with that, fled out soon at a side. 
 His fellow Steven then thought no time to bide. 
 The fray was great, and fast away they yeed,^ 
 
 1 'Gart:' caused.— ^ 'Halse:' throat.— ^ ' Craig-bane:' neck-lone.— ■» 'Foil:' 
 many. — ^ 'Yeed;' went. 
 
 27
 
 BLIND IIARRT.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Both toward Earn ; thus 'scaped they that dread. 
 Butler for woe of weeping might not stint. 
 Thus recklessly this good kniglit have they tint.^ 
 They deemed all that it was AVallace' men, 
 Or else himself, though they could not him ken; 
 *He is right near, w^e shall him have but^ fail. 
 This feeble w^ood may little him avail.' 
 Forty there pass'd again to Saint Johnstoun, 
 With this dead corpse, to burying made it boune.^ 
 Parted their men, syne* divers ways they rode, 
 A great power at Dupplin still there 'bode. 
 To Dalwryeth the Butler pass'd but let,^ 
 At sundry fords the gate^ they unbeset,'^ 
 To keep the wood while it was day they thought. 
 As Wallace thus in the thick forest sought. 
 For his two men in mind he had great pain, 
 He wist not well if they were ta'en or slain. 
 Or 'scaped haill^ by any jeopardy. 
 Thirteen were left with him, no more had he; 
 In the Gaskhall their lodging have they ta'en. 
 Fire got they soon, but meat then had they nane; 
 Two sheep they took beside them of a fold, 
 Ordain'd to sup into that seemly hold : 
 Graithed^ in haste some food for them to didit:^^ 
 So heard they blow rude horns upon height. 
 Two sent he forth to look what it mio-ht be: 
 They 'bode right long, and no tidings heard he, 
 But bousteous^^ noise so bryvely blowing fast; 
 So other two into the wood forth pass'd. 
 None came again, but bousteously can blaw, 
 Into great ire he sent them forth on raw.^^ 
 
 1 'Tint:' lost.— ^ ' But:' without.— » 'Boune:' ready.— *' Syne : ' then. -' 'But 
 let:' without impediment. — « 'Gate:' way. — ^ 'Unbeset:' surround. — « 'Haill:' 
 wliolly. — * 'Graithed:' prepared.— i" 'Dight:' Make ready.— " 'Bousteous:' bois- 
 terous. — ^^ * On raw:' one after another. 
 
 28
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [bLIND HARRY. 
 
 When that alone Walhicc was leaved there, 
 
 The awful blast abounded meikle mare;^ 
 
 Then trow'd he well they had his lodging seen ; 
 
 His sword he drew of noble metal keen, 
 
 Syne forth lie went whereat he heard the horn. 
 
 Without the door Fawdoun was him beforn, 
 
 As to his sight, his own head in his hand; 
 
 A cross he made when he saw him so stand. 
 
 At Wallace in the head he sw^akked^ there, 
 
 And he in haste soon hint^ it by the hair, 
 
 Syne out again at him he could it cast. 
 
 Into his heart he greatly was aghast. 
 
 E-ight well he trow'd that was no sprite of man, 
 
 It was some devil, that sic^ malice bea'an. 
 
 He wist no wale^ there longer for to bide. 
 
 Up through the hall thus wight Wallace can glide, 
 
 To a close stair, the boards they rave^ in twin,'' 
 
 Fifteen foot large he lap out of that inn. 
 
 Up the water he suddenly could fare. 
 
 Again he blink'd what 'pearance he saw there. 
 
 He thought he saw Fawdoun, that ugly sire. 
 
 That liaill^ hall he had set into a fire; 
 
 A great rafter he had into his hand. 
 
 Wallace as then no longer would he stand. 
 
 Of his good men full great marvel had he, 
 
 How they were tint through his feil^ fantasy. 
 
 Trust right well that all this was sooth indeed. 
 
 Suppose that it no point be of the creed. 
 
 Power they had with Lucifer that fell. 
 
 The time when he parted from heaven to hell. 
 
 By sic mischief if his men might be lost, 
 
 1 'Meikle mare:' much more. — ^ 'Swakked:' pitched. — ^ 'Hint:' took. — * 'Sic:' 
 such.— s 'Wale:' advantage.— « 'Eave:' split.—'' 'Twin:' twain.— ** 'Huill:' 
 whole. — ' Teil:' great. 
 
 29
 
 BLIND HARTIY.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Drowned or slain among the English host ; 
 
 Or what it was in likeness of Fawdoun, 
 
 Which brought his men to sudden confusion; 
 
 Or if the man ended in ill intent, 
 
 Some wicked sprite again for him present 
 
 I cannot speak of sic divinity, 
 
 To clerks I will let all sic matters be : 
 
 But of Wallace, now forth I will you telh 
 
 When he was won out of that peril fell. 
 
 Bight glad was he that he had 'scaped sa,^ 
 
 But for his men great mourning can he ma.^ 
 
 Flait^ by himself to the Maker above 
 
 Why he sufFor'd he should sic paining prove. 
 
 He wist not well if that it was God's will; 
 
 liioht or wrono- his fortune to fulfil. 
 
 Had he pleas'd God, he trow'd it might not bo 
 
 He should him thole^ in sic perplexity. 
 
 But great courage in his mind ever drave. 
 
 Of Englishmen thinking amends to have. 
 
 As he was thus walking by him alone 
 
 Upon Earnside, making a piteous moan, 
 
 Sir John Butler, to watch the fords riglit, 
 
 Out from his men of Wallace had a sight; 
 
 The mist again to the mountains was gone. 
 
 To him he rode, where that he made his moan. 
 
 On loud he speir'd,^ ' What art thou walks that gate?' 
 
 * A true man, Sir, though my voyage be late ; 
 
 Errands I pass from Down unto my lord. 
 
 Sir John Stewart, the right for to record. 
 
 In Down is now, newly come from the King.' 
 
 Then Butler said, 'This is a selcouth^ thing, 
 
 You lied all out, you have been with Wallace, 
 
 ' 'Sa:' 80.— 2 'Ma:' make.— 3 'Flait:' eluded.— *' Thole : ' suffer.— '"Speir'd:' 
 asked.—* 'Selcouth:' strange. 
 
 30
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [bLIND HARRY. 
 
 I shall thee know, ere you come off this place;' 
 
 To him he start the courser wonder wight, 
 
 Drew out a sword, so made him for to light. 
 
 Above the knee good Wallace has him ta'en, 
 
 Through thi^'h and brawn in sunder strake the bane.^ 
 
 Derfly^ to dead the knight fell on the land. 
 
 AVallace the horse soon seized in his hand. 
 
 An ackward stroke syne took him in that stead, 
 
 His craig in two ; thus was the Butler dead. 
 
 An Englishman saw their chieftain was slain, 
 
 A spear in rest he cast with all his main, 
 
 On Wallace drave, from the horse him to l^ear; 
 
 Warily he wrought, as worthy man in weir.^ 
 
 The spear he wan withouten more abode, 
 
 On horse he lap,^ and through a great rout rode ; 
 
 To Dalwryeth he knew the ford full well : 
 
 Before him came feil^ stuffed^ in line steel. 
 
 He strake the first, but bade,'^ on the blasoun,^ 
 
 Till horse and man both fleet ^ the water down. 
 
 Another soon down from his horse he bare. 
 
 Stamped to ground, and drown'd withouten mair.^^ 
 
 The third he hit in his harness of steel. 
 
 Throughout the cost,^^ the spear it brake some deal. 
 
 The great power then after him can ride. 
 
 He saw no wailP^ there longer for to bide. 
 
 His burnish'd brand braithly^^ in hand he bare, 
 
 Whom he hit right they follow'd him na mair.^^ 
 
 To stuff the chase feil freiks^^ follow'd fast, 
 
 But Wallace made the gayest aye aghast. 
 
 The muir he took, and through their power ycde, 
 
 1 'Bane:' bone.— ^ 'Dcrfly:' Quickly.— ^ 'Weir:' war.— ■« ' Lap : ' leaped.— 
 5 ' Feil:' many.— ^ 'Stuffed:' armed. — ^ ' But bade:' -without delay.—* ' Blasoun:' 
 dress over armour. — * 'Fleet:' float. — ^" 'Mair:' more. — ^^ 'Cost:' side.— 
 ^^ 'Waill:' advantage. — ^^ 'Braitlily:' violently. — "'Ifa mair:' no more. — 
 ^ 'Feil freiks:' many fierce fellows. 
 
 31
 
 BLIND HARRY.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 The liorse was good, but yet lie had great dread 
 
 For failing ere he wan unto a strength, 
 
 The chase was great, skail'd^ over breadth and length, 
 
 Through strong danger they had him aye in sight. 
 
 At the Blackford there Wallace down can light, 
 
 His horse stuffed,^ for way was deep and lang, 
 
 A large great mile wightly on foot could gang.^ 
 
 Ere he was hors'd riders about him cast, 
 
 He saw full well loni>' so he mio-ht not last. 
 
 Sad^ men indeed upon him can renew, 
 
 With returning that night twenty he slew. 
 
 The fiercest aye rudely rebutted he, 
 
 Iveeped his horse, and right wisely can flee. 
 
 Till that he came the mirkest^ muir aman^-. 
 
 His horse gave over, and would no further gang. 
 
 THE DEATH OF WALLACE. " 
 
 On Wednesday the false Southron forth him brought 
 To martyr him, as they before had wrought.^ 
 Of men in arms led him a full great rout. 
 With a bold sprite good Wallace blink'd about : 
 A priest lie ask'd, for God that died on tree. 
 King Edward then commanded his clergy. 
 And said, ' I charge you, upon loss of life, 
 None be so bold yon tyrant for to shrive. 
 He has reign 'd long in contrare my highness.* 
 A blithe bishop soon, present in that place ; 
 Of Canterbury he then was righteous lord ; 
 Against the king he made this right record. 
 And said, 'Myself shall hear his confessioun, 
 If I have might, in contrare of thy crown. 
 
 1 'Skaird:' spread. -^ 'Stuffed:' Uown.— ^ 'Gang:' go.—* 'Sad:' steady.— 
 ^ 'Mirkest:' darkest. — '' ' Wi-ought;' coatrivcd. V 
 
 32
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [blIND HARRY. 
 
 An^ thou tlirougli force will stop me of this thing, 
 
 I vow to God, w4io is my righteous king, 
 
 That all England I shall her interdict. 
 
 And make it known thou art a heretic. 
 
 The sacrament of kirk I shall him giv^e : 
 
 Syne^ take thy choice, to starve^ or let him live. 
 
 It were more 'vail, in worship of thy crown. 
 
 To keep such one in life in thy bandoun,* 
 
 Than all the land and c'ood that thou hast reft. 
 
 But cowardice thee aye from honour dreft.^ 
 
 Thou hast thy life rougin^ in w^'ongous deed; 
 
 That shall be seen on thee, or on thy seed.' 
 
 The king gart '' charge they should the bishop tac,^ 
 
 But sad^ lords counselled to let him gae. 
 
 All Eno'lishmen said that his desire was ri2;ht. 
 
 To Wallace then he raiked^^ in tlieir sight, 
 
 And sadly heard his confession till an end: 
 
 Humbly to God his sprite he there commend. 
 
 Lowly him serv^ed with hearty devotion 
 
 Upon his knees, and said an orison. 
 
 A psalter-book Wallace had on him ever. 
 
 From his childhood from it would not dissever; 
 
 Better he trow'd in voyage ^^ for to speed. 
 
 But then he was despoiled of his w^eed.^- 
 
 This grace he ask'd at Lord Clifford, that knight, 
 
 To let liim have his psalter-book in sight. 
 
 He gart a priest it open before him hold. 
 
 While they till him had done all that they w^ould. 
 
 Steadfast he read for ought they did him there ; 
 
 FeiP^ Southrons said that Wallace felt no sair.^* 
 
 Good devotion so w^as his beginning, 
 
 1 'An:' if. — - 'Syne:' then. — ^ 'Starve:' perish. — * 'Bandoun:' disposal. — 
 5 'Draft:' drove.—'' 'Rougin:' spent—' 'Oart:' caused.— ^ 'Tae:' take. — » ' Sad:' 
 grave. — ^" 'Raiked:' walked. — ^^ 'Voyage:' journey to heaven. — ^^ 'Weed:' clothes. 
 12 'Fell:' many.—" 'Sair:' sore. 
 
 VOL. L C 33
 
 JAMES I.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Continued therewith, and fair was his ending ; 
 Till speech and spirit at once all can fare 
 To lasting bliss, we trow, for evermair. 
 
 JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Here we have a great ascent from our former subject of bio- 
 graphy — from Blind Harry to James I. — from a beggar to a 
 king. But in the Palace of Poetry there are ' many mansions/ 
 and men of all ranks, climes, characters, professions, and we had 
 almost added talents^ have been welcome to inhabit there. For, 
 even as in the House Beautiful, the weak Ready-to-halt and 
 the timid Much-afraid were as cheerfully received as the strong- 
 Honest and the bold Valiant-for-trath ; so Poetry has insj)ired 
 children, and seeming fools, and maniacs, and mendicants with 
 the finest breath of her spirit. The ' Fahle-tree ' Fontaine is 
 as immortal as Corneille ; Christopher Smart's ' David ' shall 
 live as long as Milton's ' Paradise Lost ;' and the rude epic of a 
 blind wanderer, whose birth, parentage, and period of death are 
 all alike unknown, shall continue to rank in interest with the 
 productions of one who inherited that kingdom of Scotland, the 
 independence of which was bought by the successive efforts and 
 the blended blood of Wallace and Bruce. 
 
 Let us now look for a moment at the history and the writings 
 of this ' Poyal Poet.' The name will suggest to all intelligent 
 readers the title of one of the most pleasing papers in Washing- 
 ton Irving's '■ Sketch-book.' James I. was the son of Robert 
 in. of Scotland, — a character familiar to all from the admir- 
 able ' Fair Maid of Perth,' — and of Annabella Stewart. He was 
 created Earl of Carrick ; and after the miserable death of the 
 Duke of Rothesay, his elder brother, his father, apprehensive of 
 the further designs of Albany, determined to send James to 
 France, to find an asylum and receive his education in that 
 friendly Court. On his way, the vessel was captured off" Flam- 
 borough Head by an English cruiser, (the 13th of March 1405,) 
 and the young prince, with his attendants, was conveyed to 
 34
 
 1300-1556,] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [jAMES I. 
 
 London, and committed to the Tower. As tliere was a truce 
 between the two nations at the time, this was a flagrant outrage 
 on the law of nations, and has indelibly disgraced the memory 
 of Henry IV., who, when some one remonstrated with him on 
 the injustice of the detention, replied, with cool brutality, ' Had 
 the Scots been grateful, they ought to have sent the youth to 
 me, for 1 understand French well.' Here for nineteen years, — 
 during the remainder of the life of Henry IV,, and the whole of 
 the reign of Henry V., — James continued. He was educated, 
 however, highly, according to the fashion of these times, — in- 
 structed in the languages, as well as in music, painting, archi- 
 tecture, horticulture, dancing, fencing, poetry, and other accom- 
 plishments. Still it must have fretted his high spirit to be 
 passing his young life in prison, while without horses were 
 stamping, plumes glistening, trumpets sounding, tournaments 
 waging, and echoes from the great victories of Henry V. in 
 France ringing around. One sweetener of his solitude, however, 
 he at length enjoyed. Having been transferred from the Tower 
 to Windsor Castle, he beheld one day from its windows that 
 beautiful vision he has described in ' The King's Quhair,' (see 
 ' Specimens.') This was Lady Jane or Joanna Beaufort, daugh- 
 ter of the Earl of Somerset, niece of Richard H., and grand- 
 daughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. She was a 
 lady of great beauty and accomplishments as well as of high 
 rank, and James, even before he knew her name, became deeply 
 enamoured. The passion was returned, and their mutual at- 
 tachment had by and by an important bearing upon his pro- 
 spects. 
 
 In 1423, the Duke of Bedford being now the English Eegent, 
 the friends of James renewed negotiations — often attempted be- 
 fore in vain — for his return to his native land, where his father 
 had been long dead, and which, torn by factions and steeped in 
 blood, was sorely needing his presence. Commissioners from 
 the two kingdoms met at Pontefract on the 12th of May 1423, 
 when, in presence of the young King, and with his consent, 
 matters were arranged. The English coolly demanded £40,000 
 to defray the expense of James's nurture and education, (as 
 though a bill were handed in to a man who had been unjustly 
 
 35
 
 JAMES I.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 detained in prison on a false charge, ere lie left its walls,) insisted 
 on the immediate departure of the Scots from France, where a 
 portion of them were fighting in the French army, and procured 
 the assent of the Scottish Privy Council to the marriage of 
 James with his beloved Jane Beaufort. A truce, too, with 
 Scotland Avas concluded for seven years. All this Avas settled ; 
 and soon after, in the Church of St Mary Overies, Southwark, 
 so often alluded to in the ' Life of Gower,' the happy pair were 
 wed. It seemed a most auspicious event for both countries, and 
 to augur the substitution of permanent peace for casual and tem- 
 porary truces. To Lady Jane Beaufort it gave a crown, and a 
 noble, gallant, and gifted prince to share it withal. On James 
 it bestowed a lady of great beauty, who was regarded, too, with 
 gratitude as having lightened the load of his captivity, and been 
 a sunshine in his shady place, and — least consideration — who 
 brought him a dowry of £10,000, which was, in fact, a re- 
 mission of the fourth part of his ransom. 
 
 Attended by a magnificent retinue, the royal pair set out for 
 Scotland. They were met at Durham by three hundred of the 
 principal nobility and gentry, twenty-eight of whom were re- 
 tained by the English as hostages for the national faith. Arrived 
 on his native soil, James, at Melrose Abbey, gave his solemn 
 assent on the Holy Gospels to the treaty ; and seldom have the 
 Eildon Hills returned a louder and more joyous shout of accla- 
 mation than now welcomed back to the kingdom of his fathers 
 the '■ Eoyal Poet.' He proceeded to Edinburgh, where he cele- 
 brated Easter with great pomp, and a month later, he and his 
 queen were solemnly crowned in the Abbey Church at Scone. 
 This was in 1424. He lived after this only thirteen years ; but 
 the period of his reign has always been thought a glorious inter- 
 lude in the dark early history of Scotland. He set himself, 
 with considerable success, to curb the exorbitant power of the 
 nobles, sacrificing some of them, such as Albany, to his just 
 indignation. He passed many useful regulations in reference to 
 the coinage, the constitution, and the commerce of the country. 
 He suppressed with a strong hand some of the gangs of robbers 
 and ' sorners ' which abounded, founding instead the order of 
 Bedesmen or King's Beggars, immortalised since in the char- 
 
 o 
 
 6
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [jAMES I. 
 
 acter of Edie Ochiltree. He stretched a strong hand over the 
 refractory Highland chieftains. While keeping at first on 
 good terms with the English Court, he turned with a fonder eye 
 to tlie French as the ancient allies of Scotland, and in 1436 
 gave his daughter Margaret in marriage to the Dauphin. This 
 step roused the jealousy of his southern neighbours, who tried 
 even to intercept the fleet that was conveying the bride across 
 the Channel, whereupon James, stung to fury, proclaimed Avar 
 against England, and in August commenced the siege of Rox- 
 burgh Castle. The castle, after being environed for fifteen 
 days, was about to fall into his hands, when the Queen suddenly 
 arrived in the camp, and communicated some information, pro- 
 bably referring to a threatened conspiracy of the nobles, which 
 induced him to throw up the siege, disband his army, and 
 return northward in haste. This unexpected step probably 
 retarded, but could not prevent the dreadful purpose of death 
 which had already been formed against the King. 
 
 In October 1436, he held his last Parliament in Edinburgh, in 
 which, amidst many other enactments, we find, curiously enough, 
 a prefiguration of the Forbes Mackenzie Act, in a decree that all 
 taverns should be shut at nine o'clock. In the end of the year 
 he determined on retiring to Perth, where (in the language of 
 Gibbon, applied to Timour) '■ he was expected by the Angel of 
 Death.' It is said that, when about to cross the Frith of Forth, 
 then called the Scottish Sea, a Highland woman, who claimed 
 the character of a prophetess, like Meg Merrilees in fiction, 
 met the cavalcade, and cried out, with a loud voice, ' My Lord 
 the King, if you pass this water you shall never return again 
 alive;' but as she was concluded to be mad or drunk, her 
 warning was scorned. He betook himself to the convent of the 
 Black Friars, where Christmas was being celebrated with great 
 pomp and splendour. Meanwhile Robert Graharae, and Walter, 
 Earl of Athole, the King's own uncle, actuated, the former by 
 revenge on account of the resumption of some lands improperly 
 granted to his family, and the latter by a desire to succeed to 
 the Crown, had formed a plot against James's life. Several 
 warnings, besides that of the Highland seeress, the King 
 received^ but he heeded them not, and, like most of the doomed, 
 
 37
 
 JAMES I.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 was in unnaturally high spirits, as if the winding-sheet far up 
 his breast had been a Avedding-robe. 
 
 It is the evening of the 20th of February 1437. James and 
 his nobles and ladies are seated at table till deep into the night, 
 engaged in chess, music, and song. Athole, like another Judas, 
 has supped with them, and gone out at a late hour. A tremen- 
 dous knocking is heard at the gate. It is the Highland pro- 
 phetess, who, having followed the monarch to Perth, is seeking 
 to force her way into the room. The King tells her, through 
 his usher, that he cannot receive her to-night, but will hear her 
 tidings to-morrow. She retires reluctantly, murmuring that 
 they will for ever rue their refusal to admit her into the royal 
 presence. About an hour after this, James calls for the Voidee, 
 or parting-cup, and the company disperse. Sir Robert Stewart, 
 the chamberlain, who is in the confidence of the conspirators, 
 is the last to retire, having previously destroyed the locks and 
 removed the bars of the doors of the royal bed-chamber and the 
 outer room adjoining. The King is standing before the fire, in 
 his night-gown and slippers, and talking gaily with the Queen 
 and her ladies, when torches are seen flashing up from the 
 garden, and the clash of arms and the sound of angry voices is 
 heard from below. A sense of the dread reality bursts on them 
 in an instant. The Queen and the ladies run to secure the door 
 of the chamber, while James, seizing the tongs, wrenches up 
 one of the boards of the floor and takes refuge in a vault 
 beneath. This was wont to have an opening to the outer court, 
 but it had unfortunately been built up of late by his own 
 orders. There, under the replaced boards, cowers the King, 
 while the Queen and her women seek to barricade the door. 
 One brave young lady, Catherine Douglas, thrusts her beautiful 
 arm into the staple from which the bolt had been removed. It 
 is broken in a moment, and she sinks back, to bear, with her 
 descendants — a family well known in Scotland — the name of 
 Barlass ever since. The murderers, who had previously killed 
 in the passage one Walter Straiten, a page, rush in, with 
 naked swords, wounding the ladies, striking, and well-nigh 
 killing the Queen, and crying, with frantic imprecations, ' This 
 is but a woman ! Where is James ? ' Finding him not in the 
 38
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [ JAMES I. 
 
 chamber, tliey leave it, and disperse tliroiigli the neighbouring 
 apartments in search. 
 
 James, who had become wearied of his immm-ement, and 
 thought the assassins were gone, calls now on one of the ladies 
 to aid him in coming out of his place of concealment. But 
 while this is being effected, one of the murderers returns. The 
 cry, ' Found, found,' rings through the halls; and after a violent 
 but unarmed resistance, the King is, with circumstances of 
 horrible barbarity, first mangled, tlien run through the body, and 
 then desj)atched with daggers. In vain he offers half his king- 
 dom for his life ; and when he seeks a confessor from Grahame, 
 the rufhan replies, '■ Thou shalt have no confessor but this 
 sword,' It is satisfactory to know that the Queen made her 
 escape, and that the criminals were punished, although the tor- 
 tures they endured are such as human nature shrinks from con- 
 ceiving, and history with a shudder records. 
 
 We turn with pleasure from King James's life and death to 
 his poetry, although there is so little of it that a sentence or two 
 will suffice. * The King's Quhair ' is a poem conceived very 
 much in the spirit, and Avritten in the style of Chaucer, wliose 
 works were favourites with James. There is the same sympathy 
 wdth nature, and the same jDcrceptiou of its relation to and un- 
 conscious sympathy with human feelings, and the same luscious 
 richness in the description, alike of the early beauties of spring 
 and of youthful feminine loveliness, although this seems more 
 natural in the young poet James than in the sexagenarian 
 author of ' The Canterbury Tales.' There is nothing even in 
 Chaucer we think finer than the picture of Lady Jane Beau- 
 fort in the garden, particularly in the lines — 
 
 * Or are ye god Cupidis ovtn princess, 
 And comeu are ye to loose me out of band ? 
 Or are ye very Nature the goddess, 
 That have depainted with your heavenly hand 
 This garden full of flowers as they stand % ' 
 
 Or where, picturing his mistress, he cries — 
 
 * And above all this there was, well I wot. 
 Beauty enough to make a world to dote.' 
 
 39
 
 JAMES I.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Or where, describing a rubj on her bosom, he says — 
 
 ' That as a spark of low i so wantonly 
 Seemed burning upon her white throat.' 
 
 Besides this precious little poem, King James is believed by 
 some to have written several poems on Scottish subjects, such as 
 ' Christis Kirk on the Green,' '■ Peblis to the Play,' &c., but his 
 claim to these is uncertain. The first describes the mingled 
 merrymaking and contest common in the old rude marriages of 
 Scotland, and, whether by James or not, is full of burly, pic- 
 turesque force. 
 
 Take the Miller— 
 
 ' The Miller was of manly make, 
 To meet him was no mowes.2 
 There durst not tensome there him take, 
 
 So cowed he their powes.^ 
 The bushment whole about him brake, 
 
 And bicker'd him with bows. 
 Then traitorously behind his back 
 They hack'd him on the houghs 
 Behind that day.' 
 
 Or look at the following ill-paired pair — 
 
 ' Of all these maidens mild as mead, 
 Was none so jimp as Gillie. 
 As any rose her rude * was red — 
 
 Her lire 5 like any lillie. 
 But yellow, yellow was her head. 
 
 And she of love so silly ; 
 Though all her kin had sworn her dead, 
 She would have none but Willie, 
 Alone that day. 
 
 ' She scom'd Jock, and scripj^ed at him. 
 And murgeon'd him with mocks — 
 He would have loved her — she would not let him, 
 
 For all his yellow locks. 
 He cherisht her — she bade go chat him — • 
 
 She counted him not two clocks. 
 So shamefully his short jack 6 set him, 
 His legs were like two rocks, 
 Or rungs that day.' 
 
 ^ 'Low:' fire. — - 'Mowes:' joke. — ^ 'Powes:' heads. — ■* 'Rude:' complexion. 
 —•5 'Lire:' flesh, skin.—'' 'Jack:' jacket. 
 
 40
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BUITISII POETS. [JAMES I. 
 
 Our readers will perceive the resemblance, Loth in spirit and in 
 form of verse, between this old poem and the ' Holy Fair,' and 
 other productions of Burns. 
 
 James, cut off in the prime of life, may almost be called the 
 abortive Alfred of Scotland. Had he lived, he might have made 
 im.portant contributions to her literature as well as laws, and 
 given her a standing among the nations of Europe, which it 
 took long ages, and even an incorporation with England, to 
 secure. As it is, he stands high on the list of royal authors, 
 and of those kings who, whether authors or not, have felt that 
 nations cannot live on bread alone, and who have sought their 
 intellectual culture as an object not inferior to their physical 
 comfort. It is not, perhaps, too much to say, that no man or 
 woman of genius has sate either on the Scotch or English throne 
 since, except Cromwell, to whom, however, the term ' genius,' 
 in its common sense, seems ludicrously inadequate. James Y. 
 had some of the erratic qualities of the poetic tribe, but his claim 
 to the songs — such as the ' Gaberlunzie j\[an' — which go under 
 his name, is exceedingly doubtful. James \L was a pedant, 
 without being a scholar — a rhymester, not a poet. Of the rest 
 we need not speak. .Seldom has the sceptre become an Aaron's 
 rod, and flourished with the buds and blossoms of song. In 
 our annals there has been one, and but one ' Royal Poet.' 
 
 THE KING THUS DESCRIBES THE APPEARANCE OF HIS MISTRESS, 
 WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER FROM A WINDOW OF HIS PRISON 
 AT WINDSOR. 
 
 X. 
 
 The longe dayes and the niglites eke, 
 I would bewail my fortune in this wise, 
 For which, against distress comfort to seek. 
 My custom was, on mornes, for to rise 
 Early as day : happy exercise ! 
 
 41
 
 JAMES I.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 B}'' tlice came I to joy out of torment ; 
 But now to purpose of my first intent. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Bewailing in my chamber, thus alone, 
 Despaired of all joy and remedy, 
 For-tired of my thought, and woe begone ; 
 And to the window 'gan I walk in hye,^ 
 To see the world and folk that went forby; 
 As for the time (though I of mirthis food 
 Might have no more) to look it did me good. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Now was there made fast by the toweris w^all 
 A garden fair ; and in the corners set 
 An herbere ^ green ; with wandis long and small 
 Piailed about, and so with trees set 
 Was all the place, and hawthorn- hedges knot, 
 That life was none [a] walking there forby 
 That might within scarce any wight espy. 
 ***** 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And on the smalle greene twistis ^ sat 
 The little sweete nightingale, and sung, 
 So loud and clear the hymnis consecrate 
 Of love's use, now soft, now loud among,* 
 That all the gardens and the wallis rung 
 Ptight of their song ; and on the couple next 
 Of their sweet harmony, and lo the text. 
 
 ^ 'Hye:' haste. — ^ 'Herbere:' herbary, or garden of simples. — ^ 'Twistis:' twigs. 
 -* 'Among:' promiscuously. 
 
 42
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [jAMES I. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Worship, ye that lovers be, this May ! 
 For of your bliss the calends are begun ; 
 And sing- with us, ' Away ! winter, away ! 
 Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun; 
 Awake for shame that have your heavens won; 
 And amorously lift up your heades all, 
 Thank love that list you to his mercy call. 
 
 -it * » * 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And therewith cast I down mine eye again, 
 AVhere as I saw walking under the tower, 
 Full secretly new comen to her pleyne,^ 
 The fairest and the freshest younge flower 
 That e'er I saw (methought) before that hour: 
 For which sudden abate ^ anon astert ^ 
 The blood of all my body to my heart. 
 * * ft * * 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Of her array the form if I shall write, 
 Toward her golden hair, and rich attire, 
 ■ In fret-wise couched with pearlis white, 
 And greate balas ^ lemyng ^ as the fire ; 
 With many an emerald and fair sapphire. 
 And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue. 
 Of plumes parted red, and white, and blue. 
 
 ' 'Plcyne:' sport. — ^ 'Sudden abate:' unexpected accident. — ^ 'Astert:' started 
 back. — * 'Balas:' rubies.—® 'Lemyng:' burning. 
 
 43
 
 JAMES I.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 About her neck, white as the fair amaille,"^ 
 A goodly chain of small orfeverie,- 
 AVhereby there hang a ruby without fail 
 Like to a heart yshapen verily, 
 That as a spark of lowe ^ so w^antonly 
 Seemed burning upon her white throat ; 
 Kow if there was good, pcrdie God it wrote. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And for to walk that freshe Slave's morrow, 
 A hook she had upon her tissue white. 
 That o'oodlior had not been seen toforrow,^ 
 As I suppose, and girt she was a lite ^ 
 Thus halliing ^ loose for haste ; to such delight 
 It was to see her youth in goodlihead, 
 That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 In her was youth, beauty with humble port, 
 Bounty, richess, and womanly feature : 
 (God better wot than my pen can report) 
 Wisdom, largess, estate, and cunning " sure, 
 « * » « * 
 
 In word, in deed, in shape and countenance. 
 That nature midit no more her child advance. 
 
 o 
 
 1 'Amaille:' enamel. — " 'Orfeverie:' goldsmith's -n'ork. — ^ 'Lowe:' fire. — 
 * 'Toforrow:' heretofore. — ® 'Lite:' a little. — ® 'Halfling:' half. — ' 'Cunning:' 
 knowledge. 
 
 44
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [oCCLEVE. 
 
 JOHN THE CHAPLAIN— THOMAS OCCLEYE. 
 
 The first of these is the only versifier that can be assigned to 
 England in the reign of Henry IV. His name was John 
 Walton, though he was generally known as Johannes Capel- 
 lanuSj or ' John the Chaplain.' He was canon of Oseney, and 
 died sub-dean of York. He, in the year 1410, translated 
 Boethius' famous treatise, ' De Consolatione Philosophic,' into 
 English verse. He is not known to have written anything 
 original. — Thomas 03cleve appeared in the reign of Henry V., 
 about 1420. Like Chaucer and Gower, he was a student of 
 municipal law, having attended Chester's Inn, which stood on 
 the site of the present Somerset House ; but although he trod 
 in the footsteps of his celebrated predecessors, it was with far 
 feebler powers. His original pieces are contemptible, both in 
 subject and in execution. His best production is a translation 
 of 'Egidius De Kegimine Principum.' AYarton, alluding to the 
 period at which these writers appeared, has the following oft- 
 quoted observations : — ' 1 consider Chaucer as a genial day in 
 an English spring. A brilliant sun enlivens the lace of nature 
 with an unusual lustre ; the sudden appearance of cloudless 
 skies, and the unexpected warmth of a tepid atmosphere, after 
 the gloom and the inclemencies of a tedious winter, fill our 
 hearts with the visionary prospect of a speedy summer, and we 
 fondly anticipate a long continuance of gentle gales and vernal 
 serenity. But winter returns with redoubled hori-ors ; the 
 clouds condense more formidably than before, and those tender 
 buds and early blossoms which were called forth by the tran- 
 sient gleam of a temporary sunshine, are nipped by frosts and 
 torn by tempests.' These sentences are, after all, rather pomp- 
 ous, and express, in the most verbose style of the liambler, 
 the simple fact, that after Chaucer's death the ground lay fal- 
 low, and that for a while in England (in Scotland it was other- 
 wise) there were few poets, and little poetry. 
 
 45
 
 LYDGATE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 JOHN LYDGATE. 
 
 This copious and versatile writer flourished in the reign of 
 Henry VI. Warton affirms that he reached his highest point 
 of eminence in 1430, although some of his poems had appeared 
 before. He was a monk of the Benedictine Abbey at Bury, in 
 Suffolk. He received his education at Oxford ; and when it 
 was finished, he travelled through France and Italy, mastering 
 the languages and literature of both countries, and studying 
 their poets, particularly Dante, Boccaccio, and Alain Chartier. 
 When he returned, he opened a school in his monastery for 
 teaching the sons of the nobility composition and the art of 
 versification. His acquirements were, for the age, universal. 
 He was a poet, a rhetorician, an astronomer, a mathematician, 
 a public disputant, and a theologian. He was born in 1370, 
 ordained sub-deacon in 1389, deacon in 1393, and priest in 
 1397. The time of his death is uncertain. His great patron 
 was Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, to whom he complains 
 sometimes of necessitous circumstances, which were, perhaps, 
 produced by indulgence, since he confesses himself to be ' a 
 lover of wine.' 
 
 The great merit of Lydgate is his versatility. This Warton 
 has happily expressed in a few sentences, which we shall 
 quote : — 
 
 '■ He moves with equal ease in every form of composition. 
 His hymns and his ballads have the same degree of merit ; and 
 whether his subject be the life of a hermit or a hero, of Saint 
 Austin or Guy, Earl of Warwick, ludicrous or legendary, reli- 
 gious or romantic, a history or an allegory, he writes with 
 facility. His transitions were rapid, from works of the most 
 serious and laborious kind, to sallies of levity and pieces of 
 popular entertainment. His muse was of universal access ; and 
 he was not only the poet of his monastery, but of the world in 
 general. If a disguising was intended by the Company of 
 Goldsmiths, a mask before His Majesty at Eltham, a May game 
 for the sheriffs and aldermen of London, a mumming before the 
 Lord Mayor, a procession of pageants, from the " Creation," for 
 46
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [lYDGATE. 
 
 the Festival of Corpus Christi, or a carol for the coronation, 
 Lydgate was consulted, and gave the poetry.' 
 
 Lydgate is, so far as we know, the first British bard who 
 wrote for hire. At the request of Whetharastede, the Abbot of 
 St Alban's, he translated a ^Life of St Alban' from Latin into 
 English rhymes, and received for the whole work one hundred 
 shillings. His principal poems, all founded on the works of 
 other authors, are the ' Fall of Princes,' the ' Siege of Thebes,' 
 and the ' Destruction of Troy.' They are written in a diffuse 
 and verbose style, but are generally clear in sense, and often 
 very luxuriant in description. ' The London Lyckpenny' is a 
 fugitive poem, in which the author describes himself coming up 
 to town in search of legal redress for a wrong, and gives some 
 curious particulars of the condition of that city in the early part 
 of the fifteenth century. 
 
 CANACE, condemned to death by her father iEOLUS, SENDS 
 TO HER GUILTY BROTHER MACAREUS THE LAST TESTIMONY 
 OF HER UNHAPPY PASSION. 
 
 Out of iier swoone when slie did abraid,^ 
 Knowing no mean but death in her distress, 
 To her brother full piteouslj she said, 
 ' Cause of my sowow, root of my heaviness. 
 That whilom were the source of my gladness, 
 When both our joys by will were so disposed. 
 Under one key our hearts to be enclosed. — 
 
 This is mine end, I may it not astart;^ 
 
 O brother mine, there is no more to say ; 
 
 Lowly beseeching with mine whole heart 
 
 For to remember specially, I pray, 
 
 If it befall my little son to dey^ 
 
 That thou mayst after some mind on us have, 
 
 Sutler us both be buried in one grave. 
 
 ^ 'Abraid:' awake.— ^ 'Astart:' escape. — ^ 'Dey:' die. 
 
 47
 
 LYDGATE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 I hold him strictly 'tween my armes twain, 
 Thou and Natiire laid on me this charge ; 
 He, guiltless, muste with me suffer pain, 
 And, since thou ai't at freedom and at large. 
 Let kindness oure love not so discharge, 
 But have a mind, wherever that thou be, 
 Once on a day upon my child and me. 
 On thee and me dependctli the trespace 
 .Touching our guilt and our great ofleiice. 
 But, welaway! most angelic of face 
 Our childe, young in his pure innocence, 
 Shall against I'ight suffer death's violence, 
 Tender of limbs, God w^ot, full guilteless 
 The goodly fair, that lieth here speechless. 
 
 A mouth he has, but wordes hath he none ; 
 Cannot complain, alas! for none outrage: 
 Nor grutcheth^ not, but lies here all alone 
 Still as a lamb, most meek of his visage. 
 What heart of steel could do to him damage, 
 Or suffer him die, beholding the mannere 
 And look benign of his twain eyen clear.' — 
 
 ^ *<-' "i^ *sr 7C 
 
 Writing her letter, awhapped^ all in drede. 
 In her right hand her pen began to quake. 
 And a sharp sword to make her hearte bleed, 
 In her left hand her father hath her take. 
 And most her sorrow was for her childe's sake. 
 Upon whose face in her barme^ sleeping 
 Bull many a tear she wept in complaining. 
 After all this so as she stood and quoke. 
 Her child beholding mid of her paines' smart. 
 Without abode the sharpe sword she took, 
 
 ^ 'Grutcbeth;' murmuretli. — ^ ' A whapped : ' confounded.—^ 'Barme;' Lap. 
 
 48
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [lYDGATE. 
 
 And rove lierselfe even to the heart; 
 Her child fell down, which mighte not astart. 
 Having no help to succour him nor save, 
 But in her blood theself beo-an to bathe. 
 
 THE LONDON LTCKPENNY. 
 
 Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor 
 
 Would do for me ouo-ht, althoudi I should die: 
 
 Which seeing, I gat me out of the door, 
 W^here Flemings began on me for to cry, 
 'Master, what will you copen^ or buyl 
 
 Fine felt hats "? or spectacles to read 1 
 
 Lay down your silver, and here you may speed. 
 
 Then to Westminster gate I presently went, 
 
 When the sun was at high prime : 
 Cooks to me they took good intent,^ 
 
 And proffered me bread, with ale and wine, 
 
 Kibs of beef, both fat and full fine; 
 A fair cloth they ^gan for to spread, 
 But, w^anting money, I might not be sped. 
 
 Then unto London I did me hie. 
 Of all the land it beareth the price ; 
 
 *Hot peascodsl' one began to cry, 
 
 'Strawberry ripe, and cherries in the rise!'^ 
 One bade me come near and buy some spice; 
 
 Pepper, and saffron they 'gan me beed;* 
 
 But, for lack of money, I might not speed. 
 
 Then to the Cheap I 'gan me drawn, 
 Where much people I saw for to stand ; 
 
 ^ 'Copen:' kooinn, (Flem.) to buy. — - 'Took good intent:' took notice; paid 
 attention. — ^ 'In tlie rise:' on the branch. — ■* 'Beed:' oiler. 
 
 VOL. I, D 49
 
 LYDGATE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn, 
 Another he taketh me by the hand, 
 'Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!' 
 
 I never was used to such things, indeed; 
 
 And, wanting money, I might not speed. 
 
 Then went I forth by London Stone,. 
 Throughout all Canwick Street : 
 
 Drapers much clotli me offered anon ; 
 
 Then comes me one cried 'Hot sheep's feet;' 
 
 One cried mackerel, rushes green, another 'gan greet,^ 
 
 One bade me buy a hood to cover my head ; 
 
 But, for want of money, I might not be sped. 
 
 Then I hied me unto East-Cheap, 
 
 One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie ; 
 
 Pewter pots they clattered on a heap;- 
 There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsy ; 
 Yea by cock ! nay by cock ! some began cry ; 
 
 Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed; 
 
 But, for lack of money, I might not speed. 
 
 Then into Cornhill anon I yode,^ 
 
 Where was much stolen gear among; 
 I saw where hung mine owne hood. 
 
 That I had lost among the throng; 
 
 To buy my own hood I thought it wrong: 
 I knew it well, as I did my creed ; 
 But, for lack of money, I could not speed. 
 
 The taverner took me by the sleeve, 
 
 'Sir,' saith he, 'will you our wine assay 'f 
 
 1 'Greet:' en'.— ^ Tode:' went. 
 
 50
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KXOWN BRITISH POETS. [hARDIXG, ETC. 
 
 I answered, 'That can not miicli me grieve, 
 A penny can do no more than it may;' 
 I drank a pint, and for it did pay; 
 Yet, sore a-liungered from tlience I yede,^ 
 And, wanting money, I could not speed. 
 
 HAEDING, KAY, &c. 
 
 John Harding flourished about the year 1403. He fought at 
 the battle of Shrewsbury on the Percy side. He is the author 
 of a poem entitled ' The Chronicle of England unto the Reign of 
 King Edward the Fourth, in Verse.' It has no poetic merit, 
 and little interest, except to the antiquary. In the reign of the 
 above king we find the first mention of a Poet Laureate. John 
 Kay was appointed by Edward, when he returned from Italy, 
 Poet Laureate to the king, but has, perhaps fortunately for the 
 world, left behind him no poems. Would that the saiue had 
 been the case with some of his successors in the office ! There 
 is reason to believe, that for nearly two centuries ere this date, 
 there had existed in the court a personage, entitled the King's 
 Versifier, (versificator,) to w^hom one liundred shillings a-year 
 was the salary, and that the title was, by and by, changed to 
 that of Poet Laureate, i.e.^ Laurelled Poet. It had long been 
 customary in the universities to crown scholars when they gra- 
 duated with laurel, and Warton thinks that from these the first 
 poet laureates were selected, less for their general genius than 
 for their skill in Latin verse. Certainly the earliest of the 
 Laureate poems, such as those by Baston and Gulielmus, who 
 acted as royal poets to Eicbard I. and Edward IL, and wrote, 
 the one on Eichard's Crusade, and the other on Edward's Siege 
 of Stirling Castle, are in Latin. So too are the productions of 
 Andrew Bernard, who was the Poet Laureate successively to 
 Henry VII. and Henry VIII. It was not till after the Eeforma- 
 tion had lessened the superstitious veneration for the Latin tongue 
 
 * 'Yede:' went. 
 
 51
 
 HENRYSON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 tliat tlie laureates began to write in English. It is almost a 
 pitj, we are sometimes disposed to think, that, in reference to 
 such odes as those of Pye, Whitehead, Collej Gibber, and even 
 some of Southey's, the old practice had not continued ; since 
 thus, in the first place, we might have had a chance of elegant 
 Latinity, in the absence of poetry and sense ; and since, secondly, 
 the deficiencies of the laureate poems would have been disguised, 
 from the general eye at least, under the veil of an unknown 
 tongue. It is curious to notice about this period the uprise of 
 two didactic poets, both writing on alchymy, the chemistry of 
 that day, and neither displaying a spark of genius. These are 
 John Norton and George Ripley, both renowned for learning and 
 knowledge of their beloved occult sciences. Their poems, that 
 by Norton, entitled ' The Ordinal,' and that by Ripley, entitled 
 '■ The Compound of Alchemic,' are dry and rugged treatises, 
 done into indifferent verse. One rather fine fancy occurs in the 
 first of these. It is that of an alchymist who projected a bridge 
 of gold over the Thames, near London, crowned with pinnacles 
 of gold, which, being studded with carbuncles, should diffuse a 
 bLize of light in the dark ! Alchymy has had other and nobler 
 singers than Ripley and Norton. It has, as Warton remarks, ' en- 
 riched the storehouse of Arabian romance with many magnificent 
 imageries.' It is the inspiration of two of the noblest romances 
 in this or any language — ' St Leon ' and ' Zanoni.' And its 
 idea, transfigured into a transcendental form, gave light and 
 life and fire, and the loftiest poetry, to the eloquence of the 
 lamented Samuel Brown, whose tongue, as he talked on his 
 favourite theme, seemed transmuted into gold ; nay, whose lips, 
 like the touch of Midas, seemed to create the effects of alchymy 
 upon every subject they approached, and upon every heart over 
 which they wielded their sorcery. 
 
 We pass now from this comparatively barren age in the his- 
 tory of English poetry to a cluster of Scottish bards. The first 
 of these is Robert Henryson. He was sclioolmaster at Dun- 
 fermline, and died some time before 1508. He is supposed by 
 Lord Hailes to have been preceptor of youth in the Benedictine 
 convent in that place. He is the author of ^Robene and 
 52
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [heNRTSON. 
 
 Makyne,' a pastoral ballad of veiy considerable merit, and 
 of wliich Campbell sajs, somewhat too warmlj, ' It is the 
 first known pastoral,' (he means in the Scottish language of 
 course,) 'and one of the best, in a dialect rich with the favours 
 of the pastoral muse.' He wrote also a sequel to Chaucer's 
 
 * Troilus and Cresseide,' entitled ' The Testament of Cresseide,' 
 and thirteen Fables, of which copies, in MS., are preserved in 
 the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh. One of these, ' The Town 
 and Country Mouse,' tells that old story with considerable 
 spirit and humour. '■ The Garment of Good Ladies ' is an 
 ingenious and beautiful strain, written in that quaint style of 
 allegorising which continued popular as far down as the days 
 of Cowley, and even later. 
 
 DINNER GIVEN BY THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE. 
 
 * * * Their harbouiy was ta'en 
 Into a spence,^ v/liere victual was plent}', 
 
 Both cheese and butter on Ions; shelves ridit hidi. 
 With fish and flesh enough, both fresh and salt. 
 And pockis full of groats, both meal and malt. 
 
 A iter, when they disposed were to dine, 
 AVithouten grace they wuish^ and went to meat. 
 On every disli that cookmeii can divine. 
 Mutton and beef stricken out in telyies grit;^ 
 A lorde's fare thus can they counterfeit, 
 Except one thing — they di'ank the water clear 
 Instead of wine, but yet they made good cheer. 
 
 With blithe upcast and merry countenance. 
 The elder sister then spier'd^ at her guest. 
 If that she thought by reason difference 
 Betwixt that chamber and her sairy^ nest. 
 
 ^ 'Spence:' pantry. — " 'Wuish:' washed. — ^ 'Telyies grit:' great pieces. — 
 
 * 'Spier'd:' asked. — ^ 'Sairy:' sorry. 
 
 53
 
 HENRYSON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 'Yec% clamo/ qiiotli slie, 'but how long wall this lastT 
 *For evermore, I w^ait,^ and longer too;' 
 *If that be true, ye are at ease,' quoth sho. 
 
 To eke the cheer, in plenty forth they brought 
 
 A plate of groatis and a dish of meal, 
 
 A threif^ of cakes, I trow she spared them nought. 
 
 Abundantly about her for to deal. 
 
 Furmage full fine she brought instead of jeil, 
 
 A white candle out of a cofter staw,^ 
 
 Instead of spice, to creisli^ their teeth witha'. 
 
 Thus made they merry, till they might nae mair. 
 
 And, 'Hail, Yule, hail!' they cryit up on high; 
 
 But after joy oftentimes comes care. 
 
 And trouble after great prosperity. 
 
 Thus as they sat in all their jollity, 
 
 The spencer came with keyis in his hand, 
 
 Opcn'd the door, and them at dinner fand. 
 
 They tarried not to wash, as I suppose. 
 But on to go, who might the foremost win: 
 The burgess had a hole, and in she goes. 
 Her sister had no place to hide her in ; 
 To see that silly mouse it was great sin. 
 So desolate and wild of all good rede,^ 
 For very fear she fell in swoon, near dead. 
 
 Then as God would it fell in happy case. 
 The spencer had no leisure for to bide, 
 Neither to force, to seek, nor scare, nor chase. 
 But on he went and cast the door up-wide. 
 
 1 'Wait:' expect.— = 'Tln-eif:' aset of twenty-four.— 3/ Staw:' stole.—'* 'Creish: 
 grease. — * 'Piede:' counsel. 
 
 54
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWX BRITISH POETS. [hENRYSON. 
 
 This burgess mouse his passage well has spied. 
 Out of her hole she came and cried on high, 
 'How, fair sister, ciy peep, where'er thou be.' 
 
 The rural mouse lay flatlings on the ground, 
 
 And for the death she was full dreadand. 
 
 For to her heart struck many woful stound, 
 
 As in a fever trembling foot and hand ; 
 
 And when her sister in such plight her fand, 
 
 For very pity she began to greet, 
 
 Syne'^ comfort gave, with words as honey sweet. 
 
 'Why lie ye thus? Bise up, my sister dear, 
 
 Come to your meat, this peril is o'erpast.' 
 
 The other answer'd with a heavy cheer, 
 
 'I may nought eat, so sore I am aghast. 
 
 Lever ^ I had this forty day is fast, 
 
 With water kail, and green beans and peas, 
 
 Than all your feast with this dread and disease.' 
 
 With fair 'treaty, yet gart she her arise ; 
 To board they went, and on together sat. 
 But scantly had they drunken once or twice, 
 When in came Gib Hunter, our jolly cat. 
 And bade God speed. The burgess up then gat, 
 And to her hole she fled as fire of flint ; 
 Bawdrons^ the other by the back has hent.^ 
 
 From foot to foot he cast her to and frae. 
 Whiles up, whiles down, as cant^ as any kid; 
 Whiles would he let her run under the strae,^ 
 Whiles would he wink and play with her buik-hid;''' 
 
 1 'Syne:' then. — " 'Lever:' rather. — ^ 'Bawdrons:' the cat. — * 'Hent:' seized. 
 — 5 'Cant:' lively.—*^ 'Strae:' straw.—' 'Buik-hid:' body. 
 
 55
 
 liENRYSON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Thus to tlio silly mouse great harm he did; 
 Till at the last, through fair fortune and hap, 
 Betwixt the dresser and the wall she crap.^ 
 
 Syne up in haste behind the panelling, 
 
 So high she clamb, that Gilbert might not get her, 
 
 And by the cluiks^ craftily can hing, 
 
 Till ho was gone, her cheer w^as all the better : 
 
 Syne down she lap, wdien there was none to let her; 
 
 Tlien on the burgess mouse loud could she cry, 
 
 'Farewell, sister, here I thy feast defy. 
 
 Thy mangery is minget^ all wdth care. 
 
 Thy guise is good, thy gane-fuU* sour as gall; 
 
 The fashion of thy feris is but fair. 
 
 So shall thou find hereafter ward may fall. 
 
 I thank yon curtain, and yon parpane^_.wall. 
 
 Of my defence now from yon cruel beast : 
 
 Almighty God, keep me from such a feast! 
 
 Were I into the place that I came frae, 
 
 For w^eal nor w^oe I should ne'er come a^ain.' 
 
 With that she took her leave, and forth can gae. 
 
 Till tln-ough the corn, till through the plain. 
 
 When she was forth and free she was right fain, 
 
 And merrily linkit unto the muir, 
 
 I cannot tell how afterward she fure.^ 
 
 But I heard syne she passed to her den, 
 
 As warm as wool, suppose it was not grit. 
 
 Full beinly'^ stuffed was both butt and ben, 
 
 With peas and nuts, and beans, and rye and wdieat; 
 
 ^ 'Crap:' crept. — " 'Cluiks:' claws. — ' 'Minget:' mixed.— ^ 'Gane-full:' mouth- 
 ful. — ^ 'Parpane:' partition. — ^ 'f'ure:' went. — ^ 'Beinly;' snugly. 
 
 56
 
 13O0-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [hENRYSON. 
 
 "Whene'er she liked, she had enough of meat. 
 In quiet and ease, withouten [any] dread, 
 But to her sister's feast no more she gaed. 
 
 [from the moral.] 
 
 Blessed be simple life, withouten dreid; 
 
 Blessed be sober feast in quiete ; 
 
 Who has enoudi, of no more has he need. 
 
 Though it be little into quantity. 
 
 Great abundance, and blind prosperity, 
 
 Ofttimes make an evil conclusion; 
 
 The sweetest life, therefore, in this country, 
 
 Is of sickerness,^ with small possession. 
 
 THE garment of GOOD LADIES. 
 
 Would my good lady love me best. 
 
 And work after my will, 
 I should a garment goodliest 
 
 Gar^ make her body till.^ 
 
 Of high honour should be her hood. 
 
 Upon her head to wear, 
 Garnish'd with governance, so good 
 
 No deeming^ should her deir,^ 
 
 Her sark^ should be her body next. 
 
 Of chastity so white : 
 AVith shame and dread together mixt. 
 
 The same should be perfite.'^ 
 
 Her kirtle should be of clean Constance, 
 Laced with lesum^ love; 
 
 1 'Sickerness:' security.— ^ ' Gar:' cause.— =* 'Till :' to.— ^ 'Deeming:' opinion. 
 5 'Deir-' injure. — •* 'Sark:' shift. — ' 'Perfite:' perfect. — ^ 'Lcsuin:' lawful.
 
 HENRYSON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Tlie mailies^ of continuance, 
 For never to remove. 
 
 Her gown should be of goodliness, 
 
 Well ribbon'd with renown ; 
 Purfiird^ with pleasure in ilk^ place. 
 
 Furred with fine fashioim. 
 
 Her belt should be of benignit}'', 
 
 About her middle meet ; 
 Her mantle of humility, 
 
 To thole ^ both wind and weet.^ 
 
 Her hat should be of fair having?, 
 
 And her tippet of truth ; 
 Her patelet of good pausing,^ 
 
 Her hals-ribbon of ruth.'^ 
 
 Her sleeves should be of esperance. 
 
 To keep her from despair; 
 Her gloves of good governance. 
 
 To hide her fingers fair. 
 
 Her shoes should be of sickerness,^ 
 
 In sign that she not slide ; 
 Her hose of honesty, I guess, 
 
 I should for her provide. 
 
 Would she put on this garment gay, 
 
 I durst swear by my seill,^ 
 That she wore never green nor gray 
 
 That set^^ her half so week 
 
 1 'Mailies:' eyelet-holes.—'^ 'Purfill'd:' fringed.— » 'Ilk:' eacli.— ^ 'Thole 
 endure. — ^ 'Weet:' wet. — ^ 'Pansing:' thinking. — "^ 'Her hals-ribbon of ruth 
 her neck-ribbon of pity. — ^ ' Sickerness : ' firmness. — * ' Seill : ' salvation. — ^" ' Set 
 became. 
 
 58
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dUNBAR. 
 
 WILLIAM DUNBAE. 
 
 This was a man of the true and sovereign seed of genius. Sir 
 Walter Scott calls Dunbar ' a poet unrivalled by any that 
 Scotland has ever produced.' We venture to call him the 
 Dante of Scotland ; nay, we question if any English poet has 
 surpassed ' The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins through 
 Hell ' in its peculiarly Dantesque qualities of severe and purged 
 grandeur, of deep sincerity, and in that air of moral disappoint- 
 ment and sorrow, approaching despair, which distinguished the 
 sad-hearted lover of Beatrice, who might almost have ex- 
 claimed, with one yet mightier than he in his misery and more 
 miserable in his might, 
 
 ' "Where'er I am is Hell — myself am Hell.' 
 
 Foster, In an entry in his journal, (we quote from memory,) 
 says, ' I have just seen the moon rising, and wish the impression 
 to be eternal. What a look she casts upon earth, like that of a 
 celestial being who loves our planet still, but has given up all 
 hope of ever doing her any good or seeing her become any 
 better — so serene she seems in her settled and unutterable sad- 
 ness.' Such, we have often fancied, was the feeling of the great 
 Florentine toward the world, and which — pained, pitying, yearn- 
 ing enthusiast that he was ! — escaped irresistibly from those 
 deep-set eyes, that adamantine jaw, and that brow, Avearing 
 the laurel, proudly yet painfully, as if it were a crown of ever- 
 lasting fire ! Dunbar Avas not altogether a Dante, either in 
 melancholy or in power, but his ' Dance ' reveals kindred 
 moods, operating at times on a kindred genius. 
 
 In Dante humour existed too, but ere it could come up from 
 his deep nature to the surface, it must freeze and stiffen into 
 monumental scorn — a laughter that seemed, while mocking 
 at all things else, to mock at its own mockery most of all. 
 Aird speaksj in his ' Demoniac,' of a smile upon his hero's 
 brow, 
 
 ' Like the lightning of a hope about to die 
 For ever from the fmTOw'd brows of Hell's Eternity.' 
 
 Dante's smile may rather be compared to the rising of a false 
 
 59
 
 DUNBAR.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 and self- detected hope upon the lost Lrows where it is never to 
 come to dawn, and where, nevertheless, it remains for ever, like 
 a smile carved upon a sepulchre. Dunbar has a more joyous 
 disposition than his Italian prototype and master, and he in- 
 dulges himself to the top of his bent, but in a style (particu- 
 larly in his 'Twa Married Women and the Widow,' and in ' The 
 Friars of Berwick,' which is not, however, quite certainly his) 
 too coarse and prurient for the taste of this age. 
 
 ' The Merle and the Nightingale ' is one of the finest of 
 Moelibean poems. Beautiful is the contest between the two 
 sweet singers as to whether the love of man or the love of 
 God be the nobler, and more beautiful still their reconciliation, 
 when 
 
 < Then sang they both with voices loud and clear, 
 The Merle sang, " Man, love God that has thee wrought." 
 The Nightingale sang, " Man, love the Lord most dear, 
 That thee and all this world made of nought." 
 The Merle said, " Love him that thy love has sought 
 From heaven to earth, and here took tlesh and bone." 
 The Nightingale sang, " And with his death thee bought : 
 All love is lost, but upon hini alone." 
 
 * Then flew these birds over the houghis sheen, 
 Singing of love among the leaves small! 
 
 William Dunbar is said to have been born about the year 
 1465. He received his education at St Andrews, and took 
 there the degree of M.A. in 1479. He became then a friar of 
 the Franciscan order, (Grey Friars,) and in the exercise of his 
 profession seems to have rambled over all Scotland, England, 
 and France, preaching, begging, and, according to his OAvn 
 confession, cheating, lying, and cajoling. Yet if this kind of 
 life was not propitious, in his case, to morality, it must have 
 been to the development of the poetic faculty. It enabled him 
 to see all varieties of life and of scenery, although here and 
 there, in his verses, you find symptoms of that bitterness which 
 is apt to arise in the heart of a wanderer. He was subse- 
 quently employed by James IV. in some official work connected 
 with various foreign embassies, which led him to Spain, Italy, 
 and Germany, as well as England and France. This proves 
 that he was no less a man of business-capacity and habits than 
 60
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dUNBAR. 
 
 a poet. For these services he, in 1500, received from the King 
 a pension of ten pounds, afterwards increased to twenty, and, 
 in fine, to eighty. He is said to have been employed in the 
 negotiations preparatory to the marriage of James Avith Mar- 
 garet Tudor, daughter of Henry VII., which took place in 1503, 
 and which our poet celebrated in his verses, 'The Thistle and 
 the Rose.' He continued ever afterwards in the Court, hover- 
 ing in position between a laureate and a court-fool, charming 
 James with his witty conversation as well as his verses, but 
 refused the benefices for which he petitioned, and gradually 
 devoured by chagrin and disappointment. Seldom has genius 
 so great been placed in a falser position, and this has given a 
 querulous tinge to many of his poems. He seems to have died 
 about 1520. Even after his death, misfortune pursued him. 
 His works were, with the exception of two or three pieces, 
 locked up in an obscure MS. till the middle of last century. 
 Since then, however, their fame has been still increasing. In 
 1834, Mr David Laing, so favourably known as one of our first 
 antiquarians, published a complete and elaborate edition of 
 Dunbar's works ; and in a newspaper this very day (May 23) 
 we see another edition announced, in a popular and modernised 
 shape, of the poetry of this great old Scottish Mahkar. 
 
 THE DANCE OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS THROUGH HELL. 
 
 I. 
 
 Of Februar' the fifteenth niglit. 
 Full long before the dayis light, 
 
 I lay into a trance ; 
 And then I saw both Heaven and Hell; 
 Metliought among the fiendis fell, 
 
 Mahoun^ gart^ cry a Dance, 
 Of shrewis ^ that were never shrevin,* 
 Against the feast of Fastern's even. 
 
 To make their observance : 
 
 ^ 'Mahoun:' the devil. — - 'Gart:' caused. — ^ 'Shrewis:' sinners. — ■* 'Shrevia:' 
 confessed. 
 
 61
 
 DUNBAR.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 He bade gallants go graitli^ a guise,^ 
 And cast up gamounts ^ in the skies, 
 As vaiiets do in France. 
 
 TL 
 
 * * % "«■ -Si- 
 
 Holy liarlottis in liautane* wise. 
 Came in with many sundry guise. 
 But yet laugh'd never Mahoun, 
 Till priests came in with bare sliaven necks, 
 Then all the fiends laugh'd and made gecks,^ 
 Black-Belly and Bawsy-Broun.*^ 
 * * -'i * * 
 
 III. 
 
 'Let's see,' quoth he, 'now who begins :' 
 With that the foul Seven Deadly Sins 
 
 Began to leap at anis.'^ 
 And first of all in dance was Pride, 
 With hair wyld ^ back, and bonnet on side, 
 
 Like to make wasty weanis ; ^ 
 And round about him, as a wheel. 
 Hang all in rumples to the heel. 
 
 His kethat^^ for the nanis.^^ 
 Many proud trompour"^^ with him tripped. 
 Through scalding fire aye as they skipped^ 
 
 They girn'd^^ with hideous granis.^* 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then Ire came in \\\i\\ sturt "^^ and strife. 
 His hand was aye upon his knife, 
 
 1 'Graith:' prepare.—" 'Guise:' masque.— => 'Gamounts:' dances.—^ 'Hautane:' 
 haughty.— 5 'Geeks:' mocks.— « ' Black-Belly and Bawsy-Broun:' names of spirits. 
 — ^ 'Anis:' once.— « 'Wyld:' combed.—" ' Wasty weanis:' wasteful children.— 
 1" 'Kethat:' cassock.—" 'Nanis:' nonce.— ^^ 'Trompour:' impostor.— ^^ 'Giru'd:' 
 grinned.—" 'Granis:' groans.— ^^ 'Sturt:' violence. 
 
 62
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KXOWN BRITISH POETS. [dUNBAR. 
 
 He brandisli'd like a beir ; 
 Boasters, braggers, and barganeris,^ 
 After him passed into pairis,^ 
 
 All bodin in feir of weir.^ 
 In jaclvis, scripis, and bonnets of steel,. 
 Their legs were clienyiet * to. the heel,. 
 
 Fro ward was. their affeir,^ 
 Some upon other with brands bef t,^ 
 Some jaggit '*' others to the heft ^ 
 
 With knives that sharp could shear- 
 
 Next in the dance follow'd Envy,. 
 Fiird full of feud and felonv. 
 
 Hid malice and despite. 
 For privy hatred that traitor trembled ; 
 Him follow'd many freik ^ dissembled, 
 
 Witli feio-ned wordis white. 
 
 O 
 
 And flatterers into men's faces> 
 And backbiters in secret places^ 
 
 To lie that had delight, 
 And rowneris^*^ of false lesings ; ^^ 
 Alas, that courts of noble kings 
 
 Of them can never be quite 1^^ 
 
 VI. 
 
 Next him in dance came Covetico, 
 Pv-oot of all evil and ground of vice. 
 
 That never could be content, 
 Caitiffs, wretches, and ockerars,^^ 
 
 1 ' Bargancris : ' bullies. — ^ 'Into pairis:' in pairs.- — ^ 'Bodin in feir of weir:' 
 arrayed in trappings of war. — * 'Chenyiet:' covered with chain-mail. — ^ 'AfFeir:' 
 aspect.— « 'Beft:' struck.—'' 'Jaggit:' stabbed.— « 'Heft:' hilt.— » 'Freik:' fellows. 
 — ^^ 'Rowneris:' whisperers. — " 'Lesings:' lies. — ^" 'Quite:' quit. — ^^ 'Ockerars:' 
 usurers. 
 
 63
 
 DUNBAR.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Hood-pikes/ hoarders, and gatherers. 
 
 All with that warlock went. 
 Out of then- throats tliev shot on other 
 Hot molten gold, methonght, a fotlier,^ 
 
 As fire-flaucht ^ most fervent ; 
 Aye as they tmiiit^ them of shot, 
 Fiends fill'd them new up to the throat 
 
 With gold of all kind prent.^ 
 
 VII. 
 
 Syne ^ Sweirness '' at the second bidding 
 Came like a sow out of a midding,^ 
 
 Full sleepy was his grunyie.^ 
 Many sweir bumbard^** belly-huddroun," 
 Many slute daw ^^ and sleepy duddroun,^'^ 
 
 Him served aye wdth sounyie.^* 
 He drew them forth into a chenyie/^ 
 And Belial with a bridle-rennyie,^^ 
 
 Ever lash'd them on the lunyie.-^^ 
 In dance they were so slow of feet 
 They gave them in the fire a heat, 
 
 And made them quicker of counyie. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then Lechery, that loathly corse, 
 Came bearing like a bagged horse,^® 
 
 And Idleness did him lead; 
 There was with him an ugly sort ^^ 
 And many stinking foul tramort, 
 
 18 
 
 21 
 
 1 'Hood-pikes:' misers.— ^ 'Fother:' quantity.— ^ 'Flauclit:' flake.— « 'Tumit:" 
 emptied. — ^ 'Prent:' stamp. — ^ 'Syne:' then. — ^ 'Sweirness:' laziness. — ^ 'Mid- 
 ding:' dunghill. — " 'Grunyie:' grunt. — ^^ 'Bumbard:' indolent. — " ' Belly- 
 huddroun:' gluttonous sloven. — ^^ 'Slute daw:' slovenly drab. — ^^ 'Duddroun:' 
 sloven. — ^* 'Sounyie:' care. — ^^ 'Chenyie:' chain. — ^^ 'Rennyie:' rein.— ^'' 'Lunyie:' 
 back. — ^* 'Counyie:' apprehension. — ^^ 'Bagged horse:' stallion. — -" 'Sort:' 
 number. — ^^ 'Tramort:' corpse. 
 
 64
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dUNBAR. 
 
 That had in sin been dead. 
 
 When they were enter'd in the dance, 
 
 They were full strange of countenance. 
 
 Like torches burning reid. 
 * * * * 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then the foul monster Gluttony, 
 Of wame ^ insatiable and greedy, 
 
 To dance he did him dress ; 
 Him followed many a foul drunkart 
 With can and collep, cop and quart,'^ 
 
 In surfeit and excess. 
 Full many a w^aistless wally-drag ^ 
 With wames unw^ieldable did forth di*ag, 
 
 In creish * that did incress ; 
 Drink, aye they cried, with many a gape, 
 The fiends gave them hot lead to laip,^ 
 
 Their leveray^ was no less. 
 
 * * « * * 
 
 No minstrels play'd to them but ^ doubt, 
 
 For gleemen there w^ere holden out. 
 
 By day and eke by night, 
 
 Except a minstrel that slew a man; 
 
 So till his heritage he wan,^ 
 
 And enter'd by brief of right. 
 ***** 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then cried ]\Iahoun for a Highland padyane,^ 
 Syne ran a fiend to fetch Mac radyane,^^ 
 
 1 'Wame:' belly. — " ' Can and collep, cop and quart:' different names of drink- 
 ing-vessels.— 3 ' Wally-drag:' sot.— *' Creish :' grease.— ^ 'Laip:' lap.— « 'Leveray:' 
 desire to drink.—'' 'But:' without.— ^ 'Wan:' got.— » 'Padyane:' pageant.— 
 1" 'Mac Fadyane:' name of some Highland laird. 
 
 \0L. I. E G5
 
 DUNBAR.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Far northward in a nook, 
 By lie the Correnoch had done shoiit,^ 
 Ersch-men^ so gather'd him about 
 
 In hell great room they took : 
 These termagants, with tag and tatter. 
 Full loud in Ersch began to clatter, 
 
 And roup ^ like raven and rook. 
 The devil so deaved * was with their yell, 
 That in the deepest pot of hell 
 
 He smored ^ them with smoke. 
 
 THE MERLE AND NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 In May, as that Aurora did upspring, 
 With crystal een^ chasing the cluddes sable, 
 I heard a Merle''' with meny notes sing 
 A song of love, with voice right comfortable, 
 Against the orient beamis, amiable, 
 Upon a blissful branch of laurel green ; 
 This was her sentence, sweet and delectable, 
 'A lusty life in Love's service been.' 
 
 Under this branch ran down a river bright, 
 Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue. 
 Against the heavenly azure skyis light, 
 AVhere did upon the other side pursue 
 A Nightingale, with sugar'd notes new. 
 Whose angel feathers as the peacock shone; 
 This was her song, and of a sentence true, 
 'All love is lost but upon God alone.' 
 
 1 'By he the Correnoch had done shout:' hy the time that he had raised the 
 Correnoch, or cry of help.— ^ 'Ersch-men:' Highlanders. — '^ 'Roup:' croak. — 
 4 'Deaved:' deafened.— s. 'Smored:' smothered.— « 'Een:' eyes.— ' 'Merle:* 
 blackbird. 
 
 66
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dUNBAR. 
 
 With notes glad, .and glorious harmony, 
 This joyful merle, so salust^ she the day. 
 While rung the woodis of her melody, 
 Saying, 'Awake, ye lovers of this May; 
 Lo, fresh Flora has flourish'd every spray, 
 As nature has her taught, the noble queen, 
 The fields be clothed in a new array ; 
 A lusty life in Love's ser\ice been.' 
 
 Ne'er sweeter noise was heard with living man, 
 Than made this merry gentle nightingale ; 
 Her sound went with the river as it ran. 
 Out through the fresh and flourish'd lusty vale; 
 
 * Merle!' quoth she, *0 fool! stint of thy tale. 
 For in thy song good sentence is there none, 
 For both is tint,^ the time and the travail. 
 
 Of every love but upon God alone.' 
 
 * Cease,' quoth the Merle, 'thy preaching, Nightingale: 
 Shall folk their youth spend into holiness'? 
 
 Of young saintis, grow old fiendis, but^ fable; 
 Fy, hypocrite, in yearis' tenderness, 
 Against the law of kind^ thou goes express, 
 That crooked age makes one with youth serene. 
 Whom nature of conditions made diverse : 
 A lusty life in Love's service been.' 
 
 The Nightingale said, * Fool, remember thee. 
 That both in youth and eild,^ and every hour, 
 The love of God most dear to man should be ; 
 That him, of nought, wrought hke his own figour. 
 And died himself, from death him to succour ; 
 
 1 'Salust:' saluted.— 2 'Tint:' lost.— ^ 'But:' without.—'* 'Kind:' nature.— 
 5 'Eild;' age. 
 
 67
 
 DUNBAR.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Oh, wliether was kytliit^ tliere true love or none"? 
 He is most true and steadfast paramour, 
 And love is lost but upon him alone/ 
 
 The Merle said, ' Why put God so great beauty 
 In ladies, with such womanly having, 
 But if he would that they should loved be 1 
 To love eke nature gave them inclining. 
 And He of nature that worker was and king, 
 Would nothing frustir"-^ put, nor let be seen, 
 Into his creature of his own making; 
 A lusty life in Love's service been/ 
 
 The Nightingale said, 'Not to that behoof 
 Put God such beauty in a lady's face, 
 That she should have the tliank therefor or love. 
 But He, the worker, that put in her such grace ; 
 Of beauty, bounty, riches, time, or space. 
 And every goodness that been to come or gone 
 The thank redounds to him in every place : 
 All love is lost but upon God alone.' 
 
 * Nightingale ! it were a story nice, 
 
 That love should not depend on charity; 
 
 And, if that virtue contrar' be to vice. 
 
 Then love must be a virtue, as thinks me; 
 
 For, aye, to love envy must contrar' be : 
 
 God bade eke love thy neighbour from the spleen ; ^ 
 
 And who than ladies sweeter neighbours be"? 
 
 A lusty life in Love's service been/ 
 
 The Nightingale said, 'Bird, wliy does thou rave"? 
 Man may take in his lady such delight, 
 
 ^ 'Kythit:' shewn. — - 'Frustir:' in vain. — ^ 'Spleen;' from the heart. 
 
 68
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KXOWX BRITISH POETS. [dUXBAR. 
 
 Him to forgot that lier siicli virtue gave. 
 And for liis heaven receive her colour white : 
 Her golden tressed hairis redomite,^ 
 Like to Apollo's beamis though they shone, 
 Should not him blind from love that is perfite ; 
 All love is lost but upon God alone/ 
 
 The Merle said, 'Love is cause of honour aye. 
 Love makis cowards manhood to purchase, 
 Love makis knightis hardy at essay. 
 Love makis wretches full of largeness. 
 Love makis sweir^ folks full of business. 
 Love makis sluo'a'ards fresh and well beseen,^ 
 Love chancres vice in virtuous nobleness: 
 A lustv hfe m Love's service been/ 
 
 The Nightingale said, 'True is the contrary; 
 
 Such frustis love it blindis men so far. 
 
 Into their minds it makis them to vary ; 
 
 In false vain-glory they so drunken are. 
 
 Their wit is went, of woe they are not 'ware, 
 
 Till that all vrorship away be from them gone. 
 
 Fame, goods, and strength ; wherefore well say I dare. 
 
 All love is lost but upon God alone/ 
 
 Then said the Merle, ' Mine error I confess : 
 This frustis love is all but vanity : 
 Bhnd ignorance me gave such hardiness, 
 To argue so against the verity ; 
 Wherefore I counsel every man that he 
 "With love not in the fiendis net be tone,* 
 But love the love that did for his love die : 
 All love is lost but upon God alone/ 
 
 1 'Redomite:' bound, encircled. — ^'Sweir:' slothful. — ^ ' Well beseen : ' of good 
 appearance. — ^ 'Tone;' taken. 
 
 69
 
 DOUGLAS.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [iST PER. 
 
 Then sang they both with voices loud and clear, 
 
 The Merle sang, ' Man, love God that has thee wrought.' 
 
 The Nightingale sang, ' Man, love the Lord most dear. 
 
 That thee and all this world made of noudit.' 
 
 The Merle said, ' Love him that thy love has sought 
 
 From heaven to earth, and here took flesh and bone.' 
 
 The Nightingale sang, ' And w4th his death thee bought : 
 
 All love is lost but upon him alone.' 
 
 Then flew these birds over the boughis sheen. 
 
 Singing of love among the leaves small; 
 
 Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis gTein,"^ 
 
 Both sleeping, waking, in rest and in travail : 
 
 Me to recomfort most it does avail, 
 
 Again for love, when love I can find none. 
 
 To think how sung this Merle and Nightingale ; 
 
 * All love is lost but upon God alone.' 
 
 GAVIN DOUGLAS. 
 
 This eminent prelate was a younger son of Archibald, the fifth 
 Earl of Angus, He was born in Brechin about the year 1474. 
 He studied at the University of Paris. He became a church- 
 man, and yet united with attention to the duties of his calling 
 great proficiency in polite learning. In 1513 he finished a trans- 
 lation, into Scottish verse, of Virgil's ' ^Eneid,' which, consid- 
 ering the age, is an extraordinary performance. It occupied 
 him only sixteen months. The multitude of obsolete terms, 
 however, in which it abounds, renders it now, as a whole, ille- 
 gible. After passing through various subordinate offices, such 
 as the ' Provostship ' of St Giles's, Edinburgh, and the ' Abbot- 
 ship ' of Arbroath, he was at length appointed Bishop of Dun- 
 
 1 ' Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein:' whose close disputation 
 made my thoughts yearn. 
 
 70
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dOUGLAS. 
 
 keld. Dunkeld was not then the paradise it has become, hut 
 Birnam hill and the other mountains then, as now, stood round 
 about it, the old Cathedral rose up in media3val majesty, and 
 the broad, smooth Tay flowed onward to the ocean. And, 
 doubtless, Douglas felt the poetic inspiration from it quite as 
 warmly as did Thomas Brown, when, three centuries afterwards, 
 he set up the staff of his summer rest at the beautiful Invar 
 inn, and thence delighted to diverge to the hundred scenes of 
 enchantment which stretch around. The good Bishop was an 
 ardent politician as well as a poet, and was driven, by his share 
 in the troubles of the times, to flee from his native land, and 
 take refuge in the Court of Henry VIII. The King received 
 him kindly, and treated him with much liberality. In 1522 he 
 died at London of the plague, and was interred in the Savoy 
 Church. He was, according to Buchanan, about to proceed to 
 Eome to vindicate himself before the Pope against certain 
 charges brought by his enemies. Besides the translation of the 
 '^Eneid,' Douglas is the author of a long poem entitled the 
 ' Palace of Honour ; ' it is an allegory, describing a large com- 
 pany making a pilgrimage to Honour's Palace. It bears con- 
 siderable resemblance to -the ' Pilgrim's Progress,' and some 
 suppose that Bunyan had seen it before composing his allegory. 
 ' King Hart ' is another production of our poet's, of considerable 
 length and merit. It gives, metaphorically, a view of human 
 life. Perhaps his best pieces are his ' Prologues,' affixed to 
 each book of the ' ^neid.' From them we have selected 
 ' Morning in May ' as a specimen. The closing lines are fine. 
 
 * Welcome the lord of liglit, and lamp of day, 
 Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green, 
 Welcome quickener of tiom-ish'd flowers sheen, 
 Welcome support of every root and vein. 
 Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain,' &c. 
 
 Douglas must not be named with Dunbar in strength and 
 grandeur of genius. His power is more in expression than in 
 conception, and hence he has shone so much in translation. His 
 version of the 'JEneid^ is the first made of any classic into a 
 British tongue, and is the worthy progenitor of such minor 
 miracles of poetical talent — all somewhat more mechanical than 
 
 71
 
 DOUGLAS.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 inspired, and yet giving a real, though subordinate glory to our 
 literature — as Fairfax's ' Tasso,' Dryden's ' Virgil,' and Pope's, 
 Cowper's, and Sotheby's ' Homer.' The fire in Douglas' 
 original verses is occasionally lost in smoke, and the meaning 
 buried in flowery verbiage. Still he was an honour alike to 
 the Episcopal bench and the Muse of Scotland. He was of 
 amiable manners, gentle temperament, and a noble and com- 
 manding appearance. 
 
 MORNING IN MAY. 
 
 As fresh Aurore, to mighty Titlion spouse, 
 
 Ished of ^ her saffron bed and ivor' house. 
 
 In cram'sy clad and grained violate. 
 
 With sanguine cape, and selvage purpurate, 
 
 Unshet^ the windows of her large hall. 
 
 Spread all with roses, and full of balm royal. 
 
 And eke the heavenly portis crystalline 
 
 Unwarps broad, the world to illumine ; - 
 
 The twinkling streamers of the orient 
 
 Shed purpour spraings,^ with gold and azure ment ;* 
 
 Eous, the steed, with ruby harness red, 
 
 Above the seas liftis forth his lien.d. 
 
 Of colour s^re,^ and somedeal brown as berry, 
 
 For to alighten and glad our hemispery ; 
 
 The flame out-bursten at the neisthirls,^ 
 
 So fast Phaeton w^ith the whip him whirls. * * 
 
 While shortly, with the blazing torch of day, 
 
 Abulyit'^ in his lemand^ fresh array. 
 
 Forth of his palace royal ished Phoebus, 
 
 With golden crown and visage glorious. 
 
 Crisp hairs, bright as chrysolite or topaz ; 
 
 For wdiose hue misht none behold his face. * * 
 
 1 'Ished of:' issued from. — ^ 'Unshet:' opened. — ^ 'Spraings:' streaks. — 
 ■* 'Ment:' mingled. — •' 'Sore:' yellowish brown. — ^ 'Neisthirls:' nostrils. — 
 ^ 'Abulyit:' attired. — ^ 'Lemand:' glittering. 
 
 72
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dOUGLAS. 
 
 The aureate vanes of liis throne soverain 
 
 With ditterino- o-lance o'erspread the oceane ; 
 
 The large floodes, lemand all of light, 
 
 But with one blink of his supernal sight. 
 
 For to behold, it was a glore to see 
 
 The stabled windis, and the calmed sea, 
 
 The soft season, the firmament serene, 
 
 The loune ^ illuminate air and firth amene. ''' ^' 
 
 And lusty Flora did her bloomis spread 
 
 Under the feet of Phoebus' sulyart^ steed; 
 
 The swarded soil embrode with selcouth^ hues. 
 
 Wood and forest, obumbrate with bews.* '"* * 
 
 Towers, turrets, kirnals,^ and pinnacles high, 
 
 Of kirks, castles, and ilk fair city, 
 
 Stood painted, every fane, phiol,^ and stage,'' 
 
 Upon the plain ground by their own umbrage. 
 
 Of Coins' north blasts having no dreid, 
 
 The soil spread her broad bosom on-breid; 
 
 The corn crops and the beir new-braird 
 
 With gladsome garment revesting the yerd.^ '"" '"■ 
 
 The prai^ besprent w4th springing sprouts disperse 
 
 For caller humours ^° on the dewy night 
 
 Eendering some place the gerse-piles^^ their light; 
 
 As far as cattle the lang summer's day 
 
 Had in their pasture eat and nip away; 
 
 And blissful blossoms in the bloomed yerd. 
 
 Submit their beads to the young sun's safeguard. 
 
 Ivy-leaves rank o'erspread the barmkin wall; 
 
 The bloomed hawthorn clad his pikis all ; 
 
 Forth of fresh bourgeons^' the wine grapes ying^^ 
 
 ^ 'Loune:' calm. — ® 'Sulyart:' sultry. — ^ 'Selcouth:' uncommon. — ■* 'Bews:' 
 boughs. — ® 'Kirnals:' battlements. — " 'Phiol:' cupola. — '' 'Stage:' storey. — 
 s 'Yerd:' earth. — ^ 'Prai:' meadow.— ^" 'Caller humours:' cool vapours. — 
 " 'Gerse:' grass. — ^^ 'Bourgeons:' sprouts. — ^^ 'Ying:' young.
 
 DOUGLAS.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Endlong the trellis did on twistis liing; 
 
 The loukit buttons on the gemmed trees 
 
 O'erspreading leaves of nature's tapestries ; 
 
 Soft grassy verdure after balmy showers, 
 
 On curling stalkis smiling to their flowers. * * 
 
 The daisy did on-breid her crownal small, 
 
 And every flower unlapped in the dale. ^'' * 
 
 Sere downis small on dentilion sprang. 
 
 The young green bloomed strawberry leaves amang ; 
 
 Jimp jeryflowers thereon leaves unshet, 
 
 Fresh primrose and the purpour violet; ^'' '"' 
 
 Heavenly lilies, with lockerand toppis white, 
 
 Open'd and shew their crestis redemite. ''' * 
 
 A paradise it seemed to draw near 
 
 These galyard gardens and each green herbere. 
 
 Most amiable wax the emerald meads; 
 
 Swarmis soughis throughout the respand reeds. 
 
 Over the lochis and the floodis gray, 
 
 Searching by kind a place where they should lay. 
 
 Phoebus' red fowl,^ his cural crest can steer, 
 
 Oft stretching forth his heckle, crowing clear. 
 
 Amid the wortis and the rootis gent 
 
 Picking his meat in alleys where he went. 
 
 His wives Toppa and Partolet him by — 
 
 A bird all-time that hauntis bigamy. 
 
 The painted powne^ pacing with plumes gym, 
 
 Cast up his tail a proud pleasand wdieel-rim, 
 
 Yshrouded in his feathering bright and sheen. 
 
 Shaping the print of Argus' hundred een. 
 
 Among the bowis of the olive twists, 
 
 Sere^ small fowls, working crafty nests. 
 
 Endlong the hedges thick, and on rank aiks* 
 
 ^ 'Red fowl:' the cock. — ^ 'Powne:' the peacock. — ^ 'Sere:' many. — ■* 'Aiks:' 
 oaks. 
 
 74
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dOUGLAS. 
 
 Ilk bird rejoicing with their mirthful makes. 
 In corners and clear fenestres^ of glass. 
 Full busily Arachne weaving was, 
 To knit her nettis and her webbis sly. 
 Therewith to catch the little midge or fly. 
 So dusty powder upstours^ m every street. 
 While corby gasped for the fervent heat. 
 Under the boughis bene^ in lovely vales, 
 Within fermance and parlds close of pales, 
 The busteous buckis rakis forth on raw, 
 Herdis of hartis through the thick wood-shaw. 
 The young fawns following the dun does. 
 Kids, skipping through, runnis after roes. 
 In leisurs and on leais, little lambs 
 Full tait and trig sought bleating to their dams. 
 On salt streams wolk* Dorida and Thetis, 
 By running strandis, Nymph is and Naiadis, 
 Such as we clepe wenches and damasels. 
 In gersy^ groves wandering by spring wells; 
 Of bloomed branches and flowers white and red, 
 Platting their lusty chaplets for their head. 
 Some sang ring-songes, dances, leids,^ and rounds. 
 AVith voices shrill, while all the dale resounds. 
 Whereso they walk into their carolling, 
 For amorous lays does all the rockis ring. 
 One sang, ' The ship sails over the salt faem. 
 Will bring the merchants and my Ionian hame.' 
 Some other sings, ' I will be blithe and light, 
 My heart is lent upon so goodly wight.' '^ 
 And thoughtful lovers rounis^ to and fro, 
 To leis^ their pain, and plain their jolly woe; 
 
 ^ Tenestres:' windows. — ^ 'TTpstours:' rises in clouds. — ^ 'Bene:' snug. — 
 * 'Wolk:' walked. — ^ 'Gersy:' grassy. — ^ 'Leids:' lays. — ^ Songs then popular. 
 — 8 'Eounis:' whisper. — ^ 'Leis:' relieve. 
 
 75
 
 HAWES, ETC.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 After their guise, now singing, now in sorrow, 
 With heartis pensive the long summer's morrow. 
 Some ballads list indite of his ladv: 
 Some lives in hope ; and some all utterly 
 Despaired is, and so quite out of grace, 
 His purgatory he finds in every place. * * 
 Dame Nature's minstrels, on that other part, 
 Their blissful lay mtoning every art, * * 
 And all small fowlis singis on the spray, 
 Welcome the lord of light, and lamp of day, 
 Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green, 
 Welcome quickener of flourished flowers sheen, 
 Welcome support of every root and vein. 
 Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain. 
 Welcome the birdis' biekU upon the brier, 
 W^elcome master and ruler of the year, 
 Welcome welfare of husbands at the p)loughs. 
 Welcome repairer of woods, trees, and boughs, 
 Welcome depainter of the bloomed meads. 
 Welcome the life of eveiy thing that spreads, 
 Welcome storer of all kind bestial. 
 Welcome be thy bright beamis, gladdmg all. * '- 
 
 HAWES, BAECLAY, &c. 
 
 Stephen Hawes, a native of Suffolk, wrote about the close of 
 the fifteenth century. He studied at Oxford, and travelled 
 much in France, where he became a master of French and 
 Italian poetry. King Henry VH., struck with his conversation 
 and the readiness with which he repeated old English poets, 
 especially Lydgate, created him groom of the privy chamber. 
 Hawes has written a number of poems, such as ' The Temple of 
 
 1 'Bield:' shelter. 
 
 76
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [SKELTON. 
 
 Glasse/ ' The Conversion of Swearers,' ' The Consolation of 
 Lovers/ ' The Pastime of Pleasure,' &c. Those who wish to 
 see specimens of the strange allegories and curious devices of 
 thought in which it abounds, may find them in Warton's 
 '■ History of English Poetry.' 
 
 In that same valuable work we find an account of Alexander 
 Barclav, author of '■ The Ship of Fools.' He was educated at 
 Oriel College in Oxford, and after travelling abroad, was ap- 
 pointed one of the priests or prebendaries of the College of St 
 \ldiXj Ottery, in Devonshire — a parish famous in later days for 
 the birth of Coleridge. Barclay became afterwards a Benedic- 
 tine monk of Ely monastery ; and at length a brother of the 
 Order of St Francis, at Canterbury. He died, a very old man, 
 at Croydon, in Surrey, in the year 1552. His principal work, 
 ' The Ship of Fools,' is a satire upon the vices and absurdities 
 of his age, and shews considerable wit and power of sarcasm. 
 
 SKELTON. 
 
 John Skelton is the name of the next poet. He flourished in 
 the earlier part of the reign of Henry VIH. Having studied 
 both at Oxford and Cambridge, and been laureated at the former 
 university in 1489, he was promoted to the rectory of Diss or 
 Dysse, in Norfolk. Some say he had acted previously as tutor 
 to Henry VIIL At Dysse he attracted attention by satirical 
 ballads against the mendicants, as well as by licences of buffoon- 
 ery in the pulpit. For these he was censured, and even, it is 
 said, suspended, by Nykke, Bishop of Norwich. Undaunted by 
 this, he flew at higher game — ventured to ridicule Cardinal 
 Wolsey, then in his power, and had to take refuge from the 
 myrmidons of tlie prelate in Westminster Abbey. There Abbot 
 Islip kindly entertained and protected him till his dying day. 
 He breathed his last in the year 1529, and was buried in the 
 adjacent church of St Margaret's. 
 
 Skelton as well as Barclay enjoyed considerable popularity in 
 his own age. Erasmus calls him ' Britannicarum literarura 
 
 17
 
 SKELTON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 lumen et decus ! ' How dark must have been the night in which 
 such a Will-o'-wisp was mistaken for a star! He has wit, 
 indeed, and satirical observation ; but his wit is wilder than it is 
 strong, and his satire is dashed with personality and obscenity. 
 His style, Campbell observes, is ' almost a texture of slang 
 phrases, patched with shreds of French and Latin.' His verses 
 on Margaret Hussey, which we have quoted, are in his happiest 
 vein. The following lines, too, on Cardinal Wolsey, are as true 
 as they are terse : — 
 
 * Then in the Chamber of Stars 
 All matter there he mars. 
 Clapping his rod on the board, 
 No man dare speak a word. 
 For he hath all the saying, 
 Without any renaying. 
 He rolleth in his records ; 
 He sayeth, How say ye, my Lords 1 
 Is not my reason good ? 
 Good even, good Kobin Hood. 
 Some say, Yes ; and some 
 Sit still, as they were dumb.' 
 
 It is curious that Wolsey's enemies, in one of their charges 
 against him in the Parliament of 1529, have repeated, almost in 
 the words of Skelton, the same accusation. 
 
 TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY. 
 
 Merry Margaret, 
 As midsummer flower, 
 Gentle as falcon, 
 Or hawk of the tower; 
 With solace and gladness, 
 Much mirth and no madness. 
 All good and no badness ; 
 So joyously, 
 So maidenly, 
 So womanly. 
 Her demeaning, 
 78
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [lTNDSAY. 
 
 In everything, 
 
 Far, far passing. 
 
 That I can indite. 
 
 Or suffice to write. 
 
 Of merry Margaret, 
 
 As midsummer flower. 
 
 Gentle as falcon, 
 
 Or hawk of tlie tower; 
 
 As patient and as still, 
 
 And as full of good-will. 
 
 As fair Isiphil, 
 
 Coliander, 
 
 Sweet Pomander, 
 
 Good Cassander; 
 
 Steadfast of thought. 
 
 Well made, well wrought. 
 
 Far may be sought. 
 
 Ere you can find 
 
 So courteous, so kind. 
 
 As merry Margaret, 
 
 This midsummer flower. 
 
 Gentle as falcon. 
 
 Or hawk of the tower. 
 
 SIR DAVID LYNDSAY. 
 
 Returning to Scotland, we find a Skelton of a higher order and 
 a brawnier make in Sir David Lyndsay, or, as our forefathers 
 were wont familiarly to denominate him, * Davie Lyndsay.' 
 Lyndsay was descended from a noble family, a younger branch 
 of Lyndsay of the Byres, and born in 1490, probably at the 
 Mount, the family-seat, near Cupar-Fife. He entered the Uni- 
 versity of St Andrews in the year 1505, and four years later left 
 
 79
 
 LYNDSAY.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 it to travel in Italy. He iimst, however, have returned to Scot- 
 land before the 12th of October 1511, since we learn from the 
 records of the Lord Treasurer that he was presented with a 
 quantity of ' blue and yellow taffety to be a playcoat for the play 
 performed in the King and Queen's presence in the Abbey of 
 Holyrood.' On the 12th of April 1512, Lyndsay, then twenty- 
 two years of age, was appointed gentleman-usher to James V., 
 who had been born that very day. In his poem called ' The 
 Dream,' he reminds the King of his having borne him in his arms 
 ere he could walk ; of having wrapped him up warmly in his 
 little bed ; of having sung to him with his lute, danced before 
 him to make him laugh, and having carried him on his shoulders 
 like a ' pedlar his pack.' He continued to be page and companion 
 to the King till 1524, when, in consequence of the unprincipled 
 machinations of the Queen-mother — who was acting as Regent — 
 he, as well as Bellenden, the learned translator of Livy and 
 Boece, w^as ejected from his office. When, however, in 1528, the 
 young King, by a noble effort, emancipated himself from the 
 thraldom of his mother and tlie Douglasses, Lyndsay wrote his 
 ' Dream,' in which, amidst much poetic or fantastic matter, he 
 congratulates James on his deliverance; reminds him, as afore- 
 said, of his early services ; and takes occasion to paint the evils 
 the country had endured during his minority, and to give him 
 some bold and salutary advice as to his future conduct. The 
 next year (1529) he produced ' The Complaint,' a poem in which 
 he recurs to former themes, and remonstrates with great freedom 
 and severity against the treatment he had undergone. Here, 
 too, the religious reformer peeps out. He exhorts the King to 
 compel the clergy to attend to the duties of their office; to preach 
 more earnestly; to administer the sacraments according to the 
 institution of Christ; and not to deceive their people with super- 
 stitious pilgrimages, vain traditions, and prayers to graven 
 images, contrary to the w^ritten command of God. He with 
 quaint irony says, that if his Grace will lend him 
 
 * Of gold ane thousand pound or tway,' 
 
 he will give him a sealed bond, obliging himself to repay the 
 loan when the Bass and the Isle of May are set upon Mount 
 80
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOYfN BRITISH POETS. [lTNDSAY. 
 
 Sinai ; or the Lomond liills, near Falkland, are removed to Nor- 
 thumberland j or 
 
 ' When kirkmen jairnis [desire] na dignity, 
 Nor wives na soveranitie.' 
 
 Still finer the last lines of the poem. ' If not,' he says, ' my God 
 
 * Shall cause me stand content 
 "With quiet life and sober rent, 
 And take me, in mj latter age. 
 Unto my simple hermitage, 
 To spend the gear my elders won, 
 As did Diogenes in his tun.' 
 
 This ' Complaint ' proved successful, and in the next year (1530) 
 Lyndsay was appointed Lion Iving-at-Arms — an office of great 
 dignity in these days. The Lion was the chief judge of all 
 matters connected with heraldry in the realm; was also the 
 official ambassador from his sovereign to foreign countries ; and 
 was inaugurated in his office with a pomp and circumstance 
 little inferior to those of a royal coronation, the King crownmg 
 him with his own hands, anointing him with wine instead 
 of oil, and putting on his head the Royal Crown of Scotland, 
 which he continued to wear till the close of the feast. It is of 
 Lyndsay in the full accoutrements of this office that Sir Walter 
 Scott speaks in his ' Marmion,' although he antedates by sixteen 
 years the time when he assumed it : — 
 
 ' He was a man of middle age. 
 In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 
 
 As on king's errand come ; 
 But in the glances of his eye, 
 A penetrating, keen, and sly 
 
 Expression found its home — 
 The flash of that satiric rao;e 
 Which, bursting on the early stage. 
 Branded the vices of the age. 
 
 And broke the keys of Rome. 
 On milk-white palfrey forth he paced ; 
 His cap of maintenance was graced 
 
 With the proud heron-plume ; 
 From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast 
 
 Silk housings swept the ground. 
 With Scotland's arms, device, and crest 
 
 Embroider'd round and round. 
 VOL. I. F 81
 
 LYNDSAY.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 The double tressure might you see. 
 
 First by Achaius borne, 
 The thistle and the fleur-de-lis, 
 
 And gallant unicorn. 
 So bright the king's armorial coat, 
 That scarce the dazzled eye could note ; 
 In living colours, blazon'd brave, 
 The lion, which his title gave. 
 A train which well beseem'd his state, 
 But all unarm'd, arouiad him wait ; 
 Still is thy name in high account, 
 
 And still thy verse has charms, 
 Sir David Lyndsay of the Mount, 
 
 Lord Lion King-at-Arms.' 
 
 Soon after this appointment, Lyndsay wrote ' The Complaint of 
 the King's Papingo/ in which, through the mouth of a dying 
 parrot, he gives some sharp counsel to the king, his courtiers 
 and nobles, and administers severe satirical chastisement to the 
 corruptions of the clergy. It is an exceedingly clever produc- 
 tion, and has some beautiful poetry as well as stinging sarcasm. 
 Take the following address to Edinburgh, Stirling, Linlithgow, 
 and Falkland : — 
 
 Adieu, Edinburgh ! thou high triumphant town, 
 
 Within whose bounds right blitheful have I been ; 
 
 Of true merchandis, the rule of this region. 
 
 Most ready to receive court, king, and queen ; 
 
 Thy policy and justice may be seen ; 
 
 Were devotion, wisdom, and honesty, 
 
 And credence tint, they micht be found in thee. 
 
 Adieu, fair Snawdoun ! [Stirling] with thy towers hie, 
 
 Thy chapel-royal, park, and table round ; 
 
 May, June, and July would I dwell in thee, 
 
 Were I a man to hear the birdis sound, 
 
 Which doth against the royal rock rebound. 
 
 Adieu, Lithgow ! whose palace of pleasance 
 
 Meets not its peer in Portingale or France. 
 
 Farewell, Falkland ! the forteress of Fife, 
 Thy velvet park under the Lomond Law ; 
 Sometime in thee I led a lusty life. 
 The fallow deer to see them raik on raw [walk in a row], 
 Caust men to come to thee, they have great awe, &c. 
 82
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [lYNDSAY. 
 
 In the year 1535, Lyndsay wrote his remarkable drama, ' The 
 Satire of the Three Estates' — ]\Ionarch, namely, Barons, and 
 Clergy. It is made up in nearly three equal parts of ingenuity, 
 wit, and grossness. It is a drama, and was acted several times 
 ■ — first, in 1535, at Cupar-Fife, on a large green mound called 
 Moot-hill ; then, in 1539, in an open park near Linlithgow, by 
 the express desire of the king, who with all the ladies of the 
 Court attended the representation ; then in the amphitheatre of 
 St Johnston in Perth; and in 1554, at Edinburgh, in the village 
 of Greenside, which skirted the northern base of the Calton Hill, 
 in the presence of the Queen Regent and an enormous concourse 
 of spectators. Its exhibition appears to have occupied nearly the 
 whole day. In the ' Pictorial History of Scotland,' chapter 
 xxiv., our readers will find a full and able analysis with extracts 
 of this extraordinary performance. It is said to have done much 
 good in opening the eyes of the people to the evils of the Papacy, 
 and in paving the way for the Reformation. 
 
 In 1536 Sir David, in company with Sir John Campbell of 
 Lundie, was sent to the Court of France to demand in marriage 
 for James V. a daughter of the House of Yendome; but the 
 King chose rather to take the matter in his own hands, and, 
 going over in person, wedded Magdalene, daughter of Francis. 
 She died two months after her arrival in Scotland, universally 
 regretted; and Lyndsay made the sad event the subject of a 
 poem, entitled ' Deploration of the Death of Queen Magdalene,' 
 whom he designates 
 
 ' The flower of France, and comfort of Scotland.' 
 
 When James subsequently married Mary of Guise, Sir 
 David's ingenuity was strained to the utmost in providing 
 pageants, masques, and shows to welcome her Majesty. For 
 forty days in St Andrews, festivities continued; and it was 
 during this prolonged festival that the Lion King, as if sick and 
 satiated with vanities, wrote two poems, one entitled ' The 
 Justing between James Watson and John Barbour,' a dull 
 satire on tournaments, &c., and the other a somewhat cleverer 
 piece, entitled ' Supplication directed to the King's Grace in 
 Contemptioun of Side Tails,' the long trains then worn by the 
 ladies. It met, we presume, with the fate of Punclis sarcasms 
 
 83
 
 LYNDSAY.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 against crinoline, — the 'phylacteries ' would for a season, instead 
 of being lessened, be enlarged, till Fashion lifted up her omnipo- 
 tent rod, and told it to be otherwise. 
 
 King James died prematurely on the 14th of December 1542, 
 
 and Lyndsay closed his eyes at Falkland, and mourned for him 
 
 as a brother. From that day forth he probably felt that there 
 
 was ' less sunshine in the sky for him,' In the troublous times 
 
 which succeeded this, he had to retire for a season from the 
 
 Court, having become obnoxious to the rigid Papists on account 
 
 of his writings. After the death of Cardinal Beatoun he wrote 
 
 the tragedy of '■ The Cardinal,' a poem in which the spectre of the 
 
 Cardinal is the spokesman, and which teems with good advice to 
 
 all and sundry. The execution, however, is not so felicitous as 
 
 the plan. In 1548 Lyndsay went to Denmark to negotiate a 
 
 free trade with Scotland, On his return in 1550 he wrote his 
 
 very pleasing and chivalric ' History of Squire Meldrum,' 
 
 founded on the actual adventures of William Meldrum, the Laird 
 
 of Cleish and Binns, a distinguished friend of the poet, who 
 
 had gained laurels as a warrior both in Scotland and in France. 
 
 This poem is, in a measure, an anticipation of the rhymed 
 
 romances of Scott, and is full of picturesque description and 
 
 spirit-stirring adventure. In 1553 he completed his last and 
 
 most elaborate work, which had occupied him for years, entitled 
 
 ' The Monarchic,' containing an account of the most famous 
 
 monarchies which have existed on earth, and carrying on the 
 
 history to the general judgment. From this date we almost 
 
 entirely lose sight of our poet. He seems to have retired into 
 
 private life, and is supposed to have died about the close of 
 
 1557. He was probably buried in the family vault at Ceres, 
 
 but no stone marks the spot. Dying without issue, his estates 
 
 passed to his brother Alexander, and were continued in the 
 
 possession of his descendants till the middle of last century. 
 
 They now belong to the Hopes of Eankeillour. The office of 
 
 Lord Lion was held by two of the poet's relatives successively — 
 
 Sir David, his nephew, who became Lion King in 1591, and 
 
 his son-in-law, Sir Jerome Lyndsay, who succeeded to it in 1621. 
 
 Sir David Lyndsay, unlike most satirists, was a good, a 
 
 blameless, and a religious man. The occasional loftiness of his 
 
 84
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [lYNDSAY. 
 
 poetic vein, the breadth of his humour, the purity of his purpose, 
 and his strong reforming zeal combined to make his poetry 
 exceedingly popular in Scotland for a number of ages, particu- 
 larly among the lower orders. Scott introduces Andrew Fair- 
 service, in ' Eob Roy,' saying, in reference to Francis Osbal- 
 distone's poetical efforts, ' Gude help him ! twa lines o' Davie 
 Lyndsay wad ding a' he ever clerkit,' and even still there are 
 districts of the country where his name is a household word. 
 
 MELDRUm's duel with the ENGLISH CHAMPION TALBART. 
 
 Then clarions and trumpets blew, 
 And warriors many hither drew; 
 On every side came many man 
 To behold who the battle wan. 
 The field was in the meadow green, 
 Where every man might well be seen: 
 The heralds put them so in order, 
 That no man pass'd within the border, 
 Nor press'd to come within the green. 
 But heralds and the champions keen; 
 The order and the circumstance 
 Were long to put in remembrance. 
 When these two noble men of weir 
 Were well accoutred in their geir. 
 And in their handis strong burdouns,^ 
 Then trumpets blew and clariouns, 
 And heralds cried high on height, 
 ' Now let them go— God show the right.' 
 
 -A 'A ^i -<r -A 'A "sc 
 
 Then trumpets blew^ triumphantly, 
 
 And these two champions eagerly. 
 
 They spurr'd their horse with spear on breast. 
 
 Pertly^ to prove their pith they press'd. 
 
 ^ 'Burdouns:' spears. — - 'Pertly:' boldly. 
 
 85
 
 LYNDSAY.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [iST PER. 
 
 That roimd rink-room ^ was at utterance, 
 But Talbart's horse with a mischance 
 He outterit,"^ and to run was loth ; 
 AVhereof Talbart was wonder wroth. 
 The Squier forth his rink ^ he ran, 
 Commended well with every man. 
 And him discharged of his spear 
 Honestly, like a man of weir. 
 
 * -j's- •SS' 4ir -SC- 45- 
 
 The trenchour^ of the Squier's speai 
 
 Stuck still into Sir Talbart's geir; 
 
 Then every man into that stead ^ 
 
 Did all believe that he was dead. 
 
 The Squier leap'd right hastily 
 
 From liis courser deliverly,^ 
 
 And to Sir Talbart made support. 
 
 And humillie '^ did him comfort. 
 
 When Talbart saw into his shield 
 
 An otter in a silver field, 
 
 ' This race,' said he, ' I sore may rue, 
 
 For I see well my dream was true ; 
 
 Methought yon otter gart^ me bleed. 
 
 And bore me backward from my steed; 
 
 But here I vow to God soverain, 
 
 That I shall never joust again.' 
 
 And sweetly to the Squier said, 
 
 ' Thou know'st the cunning ^ that we made. 
 
 Which of us two should tyne^'' the field, 
 
 He should both horse and armour yield 
 
 To him that won, wherefore I will 
 
 My horse and harness give thee till.' 
 
 ^ 'Eink-room:' course-room. — ^ 'Outterit:' swerved. — ^ 'Rink:' course. — 
 ^ 'Trenehour:' head. — ^ 'Stead:' place. — ^ 'Deliverly:' actively. — '' 'Humillie:' 
 humbly. — ^ 'Gart:' made. — ^ 'Cunning:' agreement. — ^^ 'Tyne:' lose. 
 
 '86
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [lYNDSAT. 
 
 Then said the Squier, courteously, 
 * Brother, I thank you heartf ully ; 
 Of you, forsooth, nothing I crave, 
 For I have gotten that I would have/ 
 
 SUPPLICATION IN CONTEMPTION OF SIDE TAILS,^ (l533.) 
 
 Sovereign, I mene^ of these side tails, 
 Whilk through the dust and dubbes trails, 
 Three quarters lang behind their heels, 
 Express against all commonweals. 
 Though bishops, in their pontificals. 
 Have men for to bear up their tails. 
 For dignity of their office ; 
 Ptight so a queen or an emprice ; 
 Howbeit they use such gravity. 
 Conforming to their majesty. 
 Though their robe-royals be upborne, 
 I think it is a very scorn. 
 That every lady of the land 
 Should have her tail so side trailand; 
 Howbeit they be of high estate, 
 The queen they should not counterfeit. 
 
 Wherever they go it may be seen 
 
 How kirk and causey they sweep clean. 
 
 The images into the kirk 
 
 May think of their side tailes irk ;^ 
 
 For when the weather be most fair. 
 
 The dust flies highest into the air. 
 
 And all their faces does begary. 
 
 If they could speak, they would them wary. '"' '''' 
 
 But I have most into despite 
 
 1 'Side tails:' long skirts.— ^ 'Meue:' complain.— ^ 'Irk:' May feel annoyed. 
 
 87
 
 LYNDSAT.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Poor claggocks^ clad in raplocli^ white, 
 
 Whilk has scant two merks for their fees, 
 
 Will have two ells beneath their knees. 
 
 Kittock that cleckit^ was yestreen, 
 
 The morn will connterfeit the qneen. * * 
 
 In barn nor byre she will not bide. 
 
 Without her kirtle tail be side. 
 
 In burghs, wanton burgess wives 
 
 AVho may have sidest tailes strives. 
 
 Well bordered with velvet fine. 
 
 But following them it is a pine : 
 
 In summer, when the streetes dries, 
 
 They raise the dust above the skies; 
 
 None may go near them at their ease. 
 
 Without they cover mouth and neese. * * 
 
 I think most pain after a rain. 
 
 To see them tucked up again ; 
 
 Then when they step forth through the street. 
 
 Their faldings flaps about their feet; 
 
 They waste more cloth, within few years. 
 
 Nor wo'Jild cleid^ fifty score of freirs. * * 
 
 Of tails I will no more indite, 
 
 For dread some duddron-^ me despite: 
 
 Notwithstanding, I will conclude. 
 
 That of side tails can come no good, 
 
 Sider nor^ may their ankles hide. 
 
 The remanent proceeds of pride. 
 
 And pride proceedis of the devil; 
 
 Thus alway they proceed of evil. 
 
 Another fault. Sir, may be seen. 
 They hide their face all but the een; 
 
 1 'Claggocks:' draggle-tails. — ^'Eaploch:' homespun. — ^ 'Clcckit:' born.— 
 4 'Cleid:' clothe.— ^ 'Duddron:' slut.— « 'Nor:' than. 
 
 88
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [tUSSER. 
 
 When gentlemen bid them good-day, 
 Without reverence they slide away. * *- 
 Without their faults be soon amended, 
 My flyting,^ Sir, shall never be ended ; 
 But would your grace my counsel take, 
 A proclamation ye should make. 
 Both through the land and burro wstowns. 
 To sliow their face and cut their gowns. 
 Women will say. This is no bourds,'-^ 
 To write such vile and filthy words; 
 But would they cleanse their filthy tails, 
 AVhilk over the mires and middings^ trails. 
 Then should mv waiting: cleansed be. 
 None other 'mends they get of me. 
 
 Quotli Lyndsay, in contemjit of the side tails, 
 ) duddr 
 trails. 
 
 That duddrons^ and duntibours^ through the dubbes 
 
 THOMAS TUSSER 
 
 Of Tusser we know only that he was born in the year 152.3, 
 was well educated, commenced life as a courtier under the 
 patronage of Lord Paget, but became a farmer, pursuing agri- 
 culture at Katwood in Sussex, Ipswich, Fairsted in Essex, Nor- 
 wich, and other places; that he was not successful, and had to 
 betake himself to other occupations, such as those of a chorister, 
 fiddler, &c. ; and that, finally, he died a poor man in London 
 in the year 1580. Tusser has left only one work, published in 
 1557, entitled ' A Hundred Good Points of Husbandrie,' written 
 in simple but sometimes strong verse. It is our first, and not 
 our worst didactic poem. 
 
 1 'Flyting:' scolding. — " 'Boiirds:' jest. — ^ 'Middings:' dunghills. — * ' Dud- 
 drons:' sluts. — ^ 'Duntibours:' harlots. 
 
 89
 
 TUSSER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 DIRECTIONS FOR CULTIVATING A HOP-GARDEN. 
 
 AVhom fancy persuadctli, among otlier crops, 
 To have for his spending sufficient of hops, 
 Must wilUngiy follow, of choices to choose, 
 Such lessons approved as sldlful do use. 
 
 Ground gravelly, sandy, and mixed with clay, 
 Is naughty for hops, any manner of way. 
 Or if it be mingled with rubbish and stone, 
 For dryness and barrenness let it alone. 
 
 Choose soil for the hop of the rottenest mould, 
 Well dunged and wrought, as a garden-plot should; 
 Not far from the water, but not overflown. 
 This lesson, well noted, is meet to be known. 
 
 The sun in the south, or else southly and west. 
 Is joy to the hop, as a welcomed guest; 
 But wind in the north, or else northerly east. 
 To the hop is as ill as a fray in a feast. 
 
 Meet plot for a hop-yard once found as is told, 
 Make thereof account, as of jewel of gold; 
 Now dig it, and leave it, the sun for to burn, 
 And afterwards fence it, to serve for that turn. 
 
 The hop for his profit I thus do exalt. 
 
 It strengtheneth drink, and it favoureth malt; 
 
 And being well brew'd, long kept it will last. 
 
 And drawing abide — if ye draw not too fast. 
 
 90
 
 1300-1 55G.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [tUSSER. 
 
 HOUSEWIFELY PHYSIC. 
 
 Good housewife provides, ere a sickness do come, 
 Of sundry good things in her house to have some. 
 Good aqua composita, and vinegar tart, 
 Rose-water, and treacle, to comfort thine heart. 
 Cold herbs in her garden, for agues that burn. 
 That over-strong heat to good temper may turn. 
 White endive, and succory, with spinach enow; 
 All such with good pot-herbs, should follow the plough. 
 Get water of fumitory, liver to cool. 
 And others the like, or else lie like a fool. 
 Conserves of barbary, quinces, and such, 
 With sirops, that easeth the sickly so much. 
 Ask MedicKS counsel, ere medicine ye take, 
 And honour that man for necessity's sake. 
 Though thousands hate physic, because of the cost. 
 Yet thousands it helpeth, that else should be lost. 
 Good broth, and good keeping, do much now and than: 
 Good diet, with wisdom, best comforteth man. 
 In health, to be stirring shall profit thee best; 
 In sickness, hate trouble; seek quiet and rest. 
 Kemember thy soul ; let no fancy prevail ; 
 Make ready to God- ward ; let faith never quail : 
 The sooner thyself thou submittest to God, 
 The sooner he ceaseth to scourge with his rod. 
 
 MORAL REFLEOTIONS ON THE WIND. 
 
 Though winds do rage, as winds were wood,^ 
 And cause spring-tides to raise great flood; 
 And lofty sliips leave anchor in mud, 
 Bereaving many of life and of blood : 
 
 1 'Wood:' mad. 
 
 91
 
 VAUX, ETC.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [iST PER. 
 
 Yet, true it is, as cow chews cud. 
 And trees, at sprino-, doth yield forth bud. 
 Except wind stands as never it stood. 
 It is an ill wind turns none to good. 
 
 YAUX, EDWAEDS, &c. 
 
 In Tottell's ' j\Iiscellany/ the first of the sort in the English 
 language, published in 1557, although the names of many of the 
 authors are not given, tlie following writers are understood to 
 have contributed : — Sir Francis Bryan, a friend of Wyatt's, one 
 of tlie principal ornaments of the Court of Henry VIII., and 
 who died, in 1548, Chief Justiciary of Ireland; George Boleyn, 
 Earl of Eochford, the amiable brother of the famous Anne Bo- 
 leyn, and who fell a victim to the insane jealousy of Henry, 
 being beheaded in 153G; and Lord Thomas Yaux, son of 
 Nicholas Yaux, who died in the latter end af Queen Mary's 
 reign. In the same Miscellany is found ' Phillide and Ilar- 
 palus,' the ' first true pastoral,' says Warton, ' in the English 
 language,' (see ' Specimens.') To it are annexed, too, a collection 
 of ' Songes, written by N. G.,' which means Nicholas Grimoald, 
 an Oxford man, renowned for his rhetorical lectures in Christ 
 Church, and for being, after Surrey, our first writer of blank 
 verse, in the modulation of which he excelled even Surrey. 
 Henry himself, who was an expert musician, is said also to have 
 composed a book of sonnets and one madrigal in praise of Anne 
 Boleyn. In the same reign occur the names of Borde, Bale, 
 Bryan, Annesley, John Kastell, Wilfred Holme, and Charles 
 Bansley, all writers of minor and forgotten poems. John Hey- 
 wood, called the Epigrammatist, was of a somewhat higher 
 order. He was the favourite of Sir Thomas More and the pen- 
 sioner of Henry VIII. He gained favour partly through his 
 conversational humour, and partly through his writings. He is 
 the author of various comedies ; of six hundred epigrams, most 
 of them very poor ; of a dialogue, in verse, containing all the 
 proverbs then afloat in the language ; of an apologue, entitled 
 92
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [eDWARDS. 
 
 ' The Spider and the Fly,' &c. Heywood, who was a rigid 
 Papist, left the kingdom after the decease of Queen JMary, and 
 died at ilechlin, in Brabant, in 1565. Warton has preserved 
 some specimens of Sir Thomas More's poetry, which do not add 
 much to our conception of his genius. In 1542, one Robert 
 Vaughan wrote an alliterative poem, entitled ' The Falcon and 
 the Pie.' In 1521, 'The Not-browne Maid,' (given by us in 
 'Percy's Eeliques,')- appeared in a curious collection, called 
 ' Arnolde's Chronicle, or Customs of London.' In the same year 
 Wynkyn de Worde printed a set of ' Christmas Carols,' and in 
 1529 ' A Treatise of Merlin, or his Prophecies in Verse.' In 
 Henry's days, too, there commences the long line of translators 
 of the Psalms into English metre, commencing with Thomas 
 Sternhold, groom of the robes to the King, who versified fifty- 
 one psalms, which were published in 1549, and with John Hop- 
 kins, a clergyman and schoolmaster in Suffolk, who added 
 fifty-eight more, and progressing with Whyttingham, Thomas 
 Norton, (the joint author, along with Lord Buckhurst, of the 
 curious old tragedy of ' Gorboduc,') Robert Wisdome, William 
 Hunnis, William Baldwyn, Parker, the scholarly and celebrated 
 Archbishop of Canterbury, &c. &c. Parker translated all the 
 Psalms himself; and John Day published in 1562, and 
 attached to the Book of Common Prayer, the whole of Stern- 
 hold and Hopkins' ' Psalms, with apt notes to sing them 
 withall.' In Edward's reign appeared a very different strain — 
 the first drinking-song of merit in the language, ' Back and 
 sides go bare ' — (see ' Specimens,' vol. 2.) This song occurs at 
 the opening of the- second act of ' Gammer Gurton's Keedle,' a 
 comedy written (by a '■ My S.') and printed in 1551, and after- 
 wards acted at Christ's College in Cambridge. 
 
 In the reign of Mary, flourished Richard Edwards, a man of 
 no small versatility of genius. He was a native of Somerset- 
 shire, was born about 1523, and died in 1566. He wrote two 
 comedies, one entitled ' Damon and Pythias,' and the other 
 ' Palamon and Arcite,' both of which were acted before Queen 
 Elizabeth. He also contrived masques and wrote verses for 
 pageants, and is said to have been the first fiddler, the most 
 elegant sonnetteer, and the most amusing mimic of the Court. 
 
 93
 
 GASCOIGNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 He is the author of a pleasing poem, entitled ' Amantium ira3,' 
 and of some lines under the title, ^ He requesteth some friendly- 
 comfort, affirming his constancy.' We quote a few of them : — 
 
 ' The mountains high, whose lofty tops do meet the haughty sky, 
 The craggy rock, that to the sea free passage doth deny, 
 The aged oak, that doth resist the force of blust'ring blast. 
 The pleasant herb, that everywhere a pleasant smell doth cast, 
 The lion's force, whose courage stout declares a prince-like might, 
 The eagle, that for worthiness is borne of kings in fight — 
 Then these, I say, and thousands more, by tract of time decay. 
 And, like to time, do quite consume and fade from form to clay ; 
 But my true heart and service vow'd shall last time out of mind, 
 And still remain, as thine by doom, as Cupid hath assigned.' 
 
 Edwards also contributed some beautiful tilings to the well- 
 known old collection, ' The Paradise of Dainty Devices.' 
 
 GEOHGE GASCOIGNE. 
 
 Gascoigne was born in 1540, in Essex, of an ancient family. 
 He was educated at Cambridge, and entered at Gray's Inn, but 
 was disinherited by his father for extravagance, and betook 
 himself to Holland, where he obtained a commission from the 
 Prince of Orange. After various vicissitudes of fortune, being 
 at one time taken prisoner by the Spaniards, and at another 
 receiving a reward from the Prince of three hundred guilders 
 above his pay for his brave conduct at the siege of Middleburg, 
 he returned to England. In 1575, he accompanied Queen Eliza- 
 beth in one of her progresses, and wrote for her a mask, entitled 
 ' The Princely Pleasures of Kenil worth.' He is said to have 
 died at Stamford in 1578. He is the author of two or three 
 translated dramas, such as ' The Supposes,' a comedy from 
 Ariosto, and ' Jocasta,' a tragedy from Euripides, besides some 
 graceful and lively minor pieces, one or two of which we 
 append. 
 94
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [gASCOIGNE. 
 
 GOOD-MORROW. 
 
 You that have spent the silent night 
 
 In sleep and quiet rest, 
 And joy to see the cheerful light 
 
 That riseth in the east ; 
 Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart, 
 
 Come help me now to sing : 
 Each willing wight come, bear a part. 
 
 To praise the heavenly King. 
 
 And you whom care in prison keeps. 
 
 Or sickness doth suppress. 
 Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps. 
 
 Or dolours do distress; 
 Yet bear a part in doleful wise. 
 
 Yea, think it good accord. 
 And acceptable sacrifice, 
 
 Each sprite to praise the Lord. 
 
 The dreadful night with darksomeness 
 
 Had overspread the light ; 
 And sluggish sleep with drowsiness 
 
 Had overpress'd our might : 
 A glass wherem you may behold 
 
 Each storm that stops our breath. 
 Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould, 
 
 And sleep like dreadful death. 
 
 Yet as this deadly night did last 
 
 But for a little space, 
 And heavenly day, now night is past, 
 
 Doth show his pleasant face : 
 
 95
 
 GASCOIGNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 So must we hope to see God's face. 
 
 At last in heaven on high, 
 When we have changed this mortal placG 
 
 For immortality. 
 
 And of such haps and heavenly joys 
 
 As then we hope to hold, 
 All earthly sights, and worldly toys. 
 
 Are tokens to behold. 
 The day is like the day of doom. 
 
 The sun, the Son of man; 
 The skies, the heavens; the earth, the tomb. 
 
 Wherein we rest till than. 
 
 The rainbow bending in the sky, 
 
 Bedeck'd with sundry hues, 
 Is like the seat of God on high. 
 
 And seems to tell these news : 
 That as thereby He promised 
 
 To drown the world no more, 
 So by the blood which Christ hath shed, 
 
 He will our health restore. 
 
 The misty clouds that fall sometime. 
 
 And overcast the skies, 
 Are like to troubles of our time, 
 
 Which do but dim our eyes. 
 But as such dews are dried up quite. 
 
 When Phojbus shows his face. 
 So are such fancies put to flight. 
 
 Where God doth guide by grace. 
 
 The carrion crow, that loathsome beast, 
 Which cries against the rain, 
 96
 
 r 
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [gASCOIGNE. 
 
 Both for her hue, and for the rest, 
 
 The devil resembleth plain : 
 And as with guns we kill the crow, 
 
 For spoiling our relief. 
 The devil so must we o'erthrow. 
 
 With gunshot of belief. 
 
 The little birds which sing so sweet. 
 
 Are like the angels' voice, 
 Which renders God His praises meet, 
 
 And teach 1 us to rejoice: 
 And as they more esteem that mirth, 
 
 Than dread the night's annoy. 
 So much we deem our days on earth 
 
 But hell to heavenly joy. 
 
 Unto which joys for to attain, 
 
 God grant us all His grace, 
 And send us, after worldly pain. 
 
 In heaven to have a place, 
 When we may still enjoy that light, 
 
 Which never shall decay : 
 Lord, for thy mercy lend us might, 
 
 To see that joyful day. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 When thou hast spent the ling'ring day 
 
 In pleasure and delight. 
 Or after toil and weary way, 
 
 Dost seek to rest at night; 
 Unto thy pains or pleasures past, 
 
 Add this one labour yet, 
 
 ^ 'Teach:' for teach eth, 
 VOL. L G 97
 
 GASCOIGNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Ere sleep close up thine eyes too fast, 
 Do not thy God forget, 
 
 But search within thy secret thoughts. 
 
 What deeds did thee befall. 
 And if thou find amiss in aught. 
 
 To God for mercy call. 
 Yea, though thou findest nought amiss 
 
 Which thou canst call to mind, 
 Yet evermore remember this. 
 
 There is the more behind : 
 
 And think how well soe'er it be 
 
 That thou hast spent the day. 
 It came of God, and not of thee. 
 
 So to direct thy way. 
 Thus if thou try thy daily deeds. 
 
 And pleasure in this pain. 
 Thy life shall cleanse thy corn from weeds. 
 
 And thine shall be the gain : 
 
 But if thy sinful, sluggish eye. 
 
 Will venture for to wink, 
 Before thy wading will may try 
 
 How far thy soul may sink. 
 Beware and wake,^ for else thy bed. 
 
 Which soft and smooth is made. 
 May heap more harm upon thy head 
 
 Than blows of en'my's blade. 
 
 Thus iif this pain procure thine ease. 
 
 In bed as thou dost lie. 
 Perhaps it shall not God displease. 
 
 To sing thus soberly: 
 *I see that sleep is lent me here. 
 
 To ease my weary bones, 
 
 ^ ' Wake : ' watch, 
 
 98
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KXOWN BRITISH POETS. [gASCOIGNE. 
 
 As death at last shall eke appear, 
 To ease my grievous groans. 
 
 ' My daily sports, my paunch full fed. 
 
 Have caused my drowsy eye. 
 As careless life, in quiet led. 
 
 Might cause my soul to die : 
 The stretching arms, the yawning breath. 
 
 Which I to bedward use, 
 Are patterns of the pangs of death, 
 
 When life will me refuse; 
 
 ' And of my bed each sundry part. 
 
 In shadows, doth resemble 
 The sundry shapes of death, whose dart 
 
 Shall make my flesh to tremble. 
 My hed it safe is, like the grave. 
 
 My sheets the winding-sheet, 
 My clothes the mould which I must have. 
 
 To cover me most meet. 
 
 ' The hungry ile^s, which frisk so fresh. 
 
 To worms I can compare. 
 Which greedily shall gnaw my flesh. 
 
 And leave the bones full bare : 
 The waking cock that early crows. 
 
 To wear the night away. 
 Puts in my mind the trump that blows 
 
 Before the latter day. 
 
 ' And as I rise up lustily, 
 
 When sluggish sleep is past, 
 So hope I to rise joyfully. 
 
 To judgment at the last. 
 Thus will I wake, thus will I sleep. 
 
 Thus will I hope to rise, 
 
 99
 
 SACKVILLE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Thus will I neither wail nor weep, 
 But sing in godly wise, 
 
 ' My bones shall in this bed remain 
 
 My soul in God shall trust, 
 By whom I hope to rise again 
 
 From death and earthly dust/ 
 
 THOMAS SACKVILLE, LOED BUCKHURST 
 AND EAEL OF DORSET. 
 
 This was a man of remarkable powers. He was the son of Sir 
 Bichard Sackville, and born at Witliyam, in Sussex, in 1527. 
 He was educated and became distinguished at both the univer- 
 sities. While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote, some 
 say in conjunction with Thomas Norton, the tragedy of ' Gor- 
 boduc,' which is probably the earliest original tragedy in the 
 English language. It was first played as part of a Christmas 
 entertainment by the young students, and subsequently before 
 Queen Elizabeth at AVhitehall in 156L Sackville was elected 
 to Parliament when thirty years of age. In the same year 
 (1557) he formed the plan of a magnificent poem, which, had he 
 fully accomplished it, would have ranked his name with Dante, 
 Spenser, and Bunyan. This was his ' jMirrour for Magistrates,' 
 a poem intended to celebrate the chief of the illustrious unfortu- 
 nates in British history, such as King Richard II., Owen Glen- 
 dower, James I. of Scotland, Henry VL, Jack Cade, the Duke 
 of Buckingham, &c., in a series of legends, supposed to be 
 spoken by the characters themselves, and with epilogues inter- 
 spersed to connect the stories. The work aspired to be the 
 English ' Decameron ' of doom, and the part of it extant is 
 truly called by Campbell ' a bold and gloomy landscape, on 
 which the sun never shines.' Sackville had coadjutors in the 
 work, all men of considerable mark, such as Skelton, Baldwyn, 
 a learned ecclesiastic, and Ferrers, a man of rank. The first 
 edition of the ' Mirrour for JMagistrates ' appeared in 1559, and 
 was wliolly composed by Baldwyn and Ferrers. In the second, 
 100
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [sACKVILLE. 
 
 •which was issued in 1563, appeared the ^ Induction and Legend 
 of Henry Duke of Buckingham/ from Sackville's own pen. He 
 lays the scene in hell, and descends there under the guidance 
 of Sorrow. His pictures are more condensed than those of 
 Spenser, although less so than those of Dante, and are often 
 startling in their power, and deep, desolate grandeur. Take this, 
 for instance, of ' Old Age : ' — 
 
 ' Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed, 
 Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four, 
 With old lame bones, that rattled by his side ; 
 His scalp all piled, and he with eld forelore, 
 His withered Jist still knocking at Death's door; 
 Fumbling and drivelling, as he draws his breath ; 
 For brief — the shaj^e and messenger of Death.' 
 
 Politics diverted Sackville from poetry. This is deeply to be 
 regretted, as his poetic gift was of a very rare order. In 1566, 
 on the death of his father, he was promoted to the title of Lord 
 Buckhurst. In the fourteenth year of Elizabeth's reign he was 
 employed by her in an embassy to Charles IX. of France. In 
 1587 he went as an ambassador to the United Provinces. He 
 was subsequently made Knight of the Garter and Chancellor of 
 Oxford. On the death of Lord Burleigh he became Lord High 
 Treasurer of En^-land. In March 1604 he was created Earl of 
 Dorset by James I., but died suddenly soon after, at the council 
 table, of a disease of the brain. He was, as a statesman, almost 
 immaculate in reputation. Like Burke and Canning, in later 
 days, he carried taste and literary exactitude into his political 
 functions, and, on account of his eloquence, was called ' the Bell 
 of the Star-Chamber.' Even in that Augustan age of our his- 
 tory, and in that most brilliantly intellectual Court, it may be 
 doubted if, with the sole exception of Lord Bacon, there was a 
 man to be compared to Thomas Sackville for genius. 
 
 ALLEGORICAL CHARACTERS FROM THE MIRROR FOR MAGISTRATES. 
 
 And first, within the porch and jaws of hell, 
 Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent 
 AYith tears ; and to herself oft would she tell 
 Her wretchedness, and, cursing, never stent 
 
 To sob and sigh, but ever thus lament 
 
 101
 
 SACKVILLE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 With thouglitfiil care ; as she that, all in vain, 
 Would wear and waste continually in pain : 
 
 Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there, 
 
 Whirl'd on each place, as place that vengeance brought. 
 
 So was her mind continually in fear, 
 
 Toss'd and tormented with the tedious thought 
 
 Of those detested crimes which she had wrought ; 
 
 With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, 
 
 Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. 
 
 Next saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook, 
 AVith foot uncertain, proffer'd here and there; 
 Benumb'd with speech ; and, with a ghastly look, 
 Search'd every place, all pale and dead for fear. 
 His cap borne up with staring of his hair ; 
 'Stoin'd and amaz'd at his own shade for dread. 
 And fearing greater dangers than was need. 
 
 And next, within the entry of this lake. 
 Sat fell Eevenge, gnashing her teeth for ire ; 
 Devising means how she may vengeance take; 
 Never in rest, till she have her desire ; 
 But frets within so far forth with the fire 
 Of wreaking flames, that now determines she 
 To die by death, or Veng'd by death to be. 
 
 When fell Hevenge, with bloody foul pretence. 
 Had show'd herself, as next in order set, 
 With trembling limbs we softly parted thence. 
 Till in our eyes another set we met ; 
 When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet, 
 Kuing, alas ! upon the woeful plight 
 Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight : 
 102
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [SACKVILLE. 
 
 His face \Yas lean, and some deal pined away 
 And eke his hands consumed to the bone ; 
 But what his body was I cannot say, 
 For on his carcase raiment had he none. 
 Save clouts and patches pieced one b}^ one; 
 AVith staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, 
 His chief defence against the winter's blast : 
 
 His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree. 
 Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share. 
 Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he, 
 As on the which full daint'ly would he fare; 
 His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare 
 Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground: 
 To this poor life was Misery ybound. 
 
 Whose wretched state when w^e had well beheld. 
 
 With tender ruth on him, and on his feres. 
 
 In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held ; 
 
 And, by and b}^, another shape appears 
 
 Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers; 
 
 His knuckles knob'd, his flesh deep dinted in 
 
 With tawed hands, and hard ytanned sldn : 
 
 The morrow gTay no sooner hath begun 
 To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes, 
 But he is up, and to his work yrun ; 
 But let the night's black misty mantles rise. 
 And with foul dark never so much disguise 
 The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while. 
 But hath his candles to prolong his toil. 
 
 By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death, 
 Flat on the ground, and still as any stone, 
 
 103
 
 SACKVILLE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 A very corpse, save ^delding forth a breath ; 
 Small keep took he, whom Fortune frowned on, 
 Or whom she lifted up mto 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 travel's ease, tlie still night's fere was he. 
 And of our life in earth the better part ; 
 E-iever of sight, and yet in whom we see 
 Things oft that [tyde] and oft that never be ; 
 Without respect, esteeming equally 
 King Croesus' pomp and Irus' poverty. 
 
 And next in order sad. Old Age we found: 
 His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind; 
 With drooping cheer still poring on the ground, 
 As on the place where nature him assign'd 
 To rest, when that the sisters had untwined 
 His vital thread, and ended with their knife 
 The fleetins; course of fast declininii; life : 
 
 There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint. 
 Rue with himself his end approaching fast, 
 And all for nought his wretched mind torment 
 With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past. 
 And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste ; 
 Eecountino- which, how would he sob and 
 
 shriek, 
 And to be young again of Jove beseek! 
 
 But, an the cruel fates so fixed be 
 That time forepast cannot return again. 
 This one request of Jove yet prayed he 
 104
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWX BRITISH POETS. [SACKVILLE. 
 
 That in such wither'd plight, and wretched pain, 
 As eld, accompanied with her loathsome train. 
 Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief, 
 He might a while yet linger forth his life. 
 
 And not so soon descend into the pit ; 
 
 AVhere Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain, 
 
 With reckless hand in grave doth cover it : 
 
 Thereafter never to enjoy again 
 
 The gladsome light, but, in the gTound ylain. 
 
 In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought. 
 
 As he had ne'er into the world been brought : 
 
 But who had seen him sobbing how he stood 
 Unto himself, and how he would bemoan 
 His youth forepast — as though it wrought him good 
 To talk of youth, all were his youth foregone — 
 He would have mused, and marvell'd much whereon 
 This wretched Age should life desii-e so fain. 
 And knows full well life doth but length his pain : 
 
 Crook-back'd he was, tooth-shaken, and blear-eyed; 
 Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four; 
 With old lame bones, that rattled by his side; 
 His scalp all piled,i and he with eld forelore. 
 His wither d fist still knocking at death's door; 
 Fumblino- and drivellina*, as he draws his breath ; 
 For brief, the shape and messenger of Death. 
 
 And fast by him pale Malady was placed : 
 Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone ; 
 Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste, 
 Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone ; 
 Her breath corrupt ; her keepers every one 
 
 1 'Piled:' bare. 
 
 105
 
 SACKVILLE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Abhorring lier; her sickness past recure. 
 Detesting physic, and all physic's cure. 
 
 But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see ! 
 
 We turn'd our look, and on the other side 
 
 A grisly shape of Famine might we see : 
 
 With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried 
 
 And roar'd for meat, as she should there have died; 
 
 Her body thin and bare as any bone. 
 
 Whereto was left nou2;ht but the case alone. 
 
 And that, alas ! was gnawen everywhere. 
 All full of holes; that I ne might refrain 
 From tears, to see how she her arms could tear, 
 And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain. 
 When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain 
 Her starven corpse, that rather seem'd a shade 
 Than any substance of a creature madej 
 
 Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay: 
 
 Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw; 
 
 With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay 
 
 Be satisfied from hunger of her maw. 
 
 But eats herself as she that hath no law ; 
 
 Gnawing, alas ! her carcase all in vain. 
 
 Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein. 
 
 On her while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes. 
 That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight, 
 Lo, suddenly she shriek'd in so huge wise 
 As made hell-gates to shiver with the might ; 
 Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light 
 Bight on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death 
 Enthirling^ it, to rieve her of her breath: 
 
 ^ 'Entliirling:' piercing, 
 
 106
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [SACKVILLE. 
 
 And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw. 
 Heavy and cold, the shape of Death aright. 
 That daunts all eartlily creatures to his law, 
 Against whose force in vain it is to fight ; 
 No peers, nor princes, nor no mortal wight, 
 No towns, nor realms, cities, nor strongest tower, 
 But all, perforce, must yield unto his power : 
 
 His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took. 
 And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see) 
 With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook. 
 That most of all my fears afFrayed me ; 
 His body dight with nought but bones, pardy; 
 The naked shape of man there saw I plain, 
 All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein. 
 
 Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad, 
 
 AVith visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued : 
 
 In his right hand a naked sword he had. 
 
 That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued ; 
 
 And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) 
 
 Famine and fire he held, and therewithal 
 
 He razed towns, and threw down towers and all : 
 
 Cities he sack'd, and realms (that whilom flower'd 
 In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest) 
 He overwhelm'd, and all then* fame devour'd. 
 Consumed, destroy 'd, wasted, and never ceased. 
 Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd : 
 His face forhew'd with wounds; and by his side 
 There hung his targe, wdth gashes deep and wdde. 
 
 107
 
 HARRINGTON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 HENRY DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM IN THE INFERNAL REGIONS. 
 
 Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham, 
 His cloak of black all piled,'" and quite forlorn. 
 Wringing liis hands, and Fortune oft doth blame, 
 Which of a duke had made him now her scorn; 
 With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn. 
 Oft spread his arms, stretch'd hands he joins as fast 
 With rueful cheer, and vapour'd eyes upcast. 
 
 His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat ; 
 His hair all torn, about the place it lain : 
 My heart so molt to see his grief so great, 
 As feehngly, methought, it dropp'd away: 
 His eyes they whirl'd about withouten stay: 
 With stormy sighs the place did so complain, 
 As if his heart at each had burst in twain. 
 
 Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale. 
 And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice ; 
 At each of which he shrieked so withal. 
 As though the heavens rived with the noise ; 
 Till at the last, recovering of his voice. 
 Supping the tears that all his breast berain'd. 
 On cruel Fortune weepmg thus he plain'd. 
 
 JOHN HAKPJNGTON. 
 
 Of Harrington we know only that he was born in 1534 and 
 died in 1582 ; that he was imprisoned in the Tower by Queen 
 Mary for holding correspondence with Elizabeth ; and after 
 the accession of the latter to the throne, was favoured and 
 
 ^ 'Piled:' bare. 
 
 108
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [HARRINGTON. 
 
 promoted by her ; and that he has written some pretty verses 
 of an amatory kind. 
 
 SONNET ON ISABELLA MARKHAM, 
 
 WHEN I FIRST THOUGHT HER FAIR, AS SHE STOOD AT THE PRINCESS'S WINDOW, IN 
 GOODLY ATTIRE, AND TALKED TO DIVERS IN THE COURT-TARD. 
 
 Whence comes m}^ love'? heart, disclose; 
 It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, 
 From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, 
 From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze : 
 Whence comes my woel as freely own; 
 All me ! 'twas from a heart like stone. 
 
 The blushing cheek speaks modest mind, 
 The lips befitting words most kind. 
 The eye does tempt to love's desire. 
 And seems to say, ''Tis Cupid's fire;* 
 Yet all so fair but speak my moan. 
 Since nought doth say the heart of stone. 
 
 Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak 
 Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek 
 Yet not a heart to save my pain ; 
 O Yenus, take thy gifts again; 
 Make not so fair to cause our moan. 
 Or make a heart that 's like our own. 
 
 VERSES ON A MOST STONY-HEARTED MAIDEN WHO DID SORELY 
 BEGUILE THE NOBLE KNIGHT, MY TRUE FRIEND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Why didst thou raise such woeful w^ail. 
 And waste in briny tears thy days'? 
 'Cause she that wont to flout and rail, 
 At last gave proof of w^oman's ways ; 
 She did, in sooth, display the heart 
 
 That might have wrought thee greater smart. 
 
 109
 
 HARRINGTON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 II. 
 
 Why, thank her then, not weep or moan; 
 Let others guard their careless heart. 
 And praise the day that thus made known 
 The faithless hold on woman's art; 
 Their lips can gloze and gain such root, 
 That gentle youth hath hope of fruit. 
 
 III. 
 
 But, ere the blossom fair doth rise. 
 To shoot its sweetness o'er the taste, 
 Creepeth disdain in canker- wise, 
 And chilling scorn the fruit doth blast: 
 There is no hope of all our toil ; 
 There is no fruit from such a soil. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Give o'er thy plaint, the danger 's o'er ; 
 She might have poison'd all thy life ; 
 Such wayward mind had bred thee more 
 Of sorrow, had she proved thy wife : 
 Leave her to meet all hopekss meed. 
 And bless thyself that so art freed. 
 
 V. 
 
 No youth shall sue such one to win, 
 Unmark'd by all the shining fair. 
 Save for her pride and scorn, such sin 
 As heart of love can never bear ; 
 Like leafless plant in blasted shade. 
 So livctli she — a barren maid. 
 
 110
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [siDNEY. 
 
 SIE PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 All hall to Sidney ! — the pink of cliivahy — the hero of Zutphen 
 — the author of the ' Arcadia,' — the gifted, courteous, genial 
 and noble-minded man! He was horn November 29, 1554, 
 at Penshurst, Kent. His father's name was Henry. He 
 studied at Shrewsbury, at Trinity College, Cambridge, and at 
 Christ Church, Oxford. At the age of eighteen he set out on 
 his travels, and, in the course of three years, visited France, 
 Flanders, Germany, Hungary, and Italy. On his return he 
 was introduced at Court, and became a favourite witli Queen 
 Elizabeth, who sent him on an embassy to Germany. He 
 returned home, and shortly after had a quarrel at a tournament 
 with Lord Oxford. But for the interference of the Queen, a duel 
 would have taken place. Sidney was displeased at the issue of 
 the affair, and retired, in 15S0, to Wilton, in Wiltshire, where- 
 he wrote his famous ' Arcadia,' — that true prose-poem, and 
 a work which, with all its faults, no mere sulky and spoiled 
 child (as some have called him in the matter of this retreat) 
 could ever have produced. This production, written as an out- 
 flow of his mind in its self-sought solitude, was never meant 
 for publication, and did not appear till after its author's death. 
 As it was written partly for his sister's amusement, he entitled it 
 ' The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia.' In 1581, Sidney re- 
 appeared in Court, and distinguished himself in the jousts and 
 tournaments celebrated in honour of the Duke of Anjouj and on 
 the return of that prince to the Continent, he accompanied him 
 to Antwerp. In 1583 he received the honour of knighthood. He 
 published about this time a tract entitled ' The Defence of 
 Poesy,' which abounds in the element the praise of which it 
 celebrates, and which is, besides, distinguished by acuteness of 
 argument and felicity of expression. In 1585 he was named 
 one of the candidates for the crown of Poland ; but Queen Eliza- 
 beth, afraid of ' losing the jewel of her times,' prevented him 
 from accepting this honour, and prevented him also from accom- 
 panying Sir Francis Drake on an expedition against the Spanish 
 settlements in America. In the same year, however, she made 
 
 111
 
 SIDNEY.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 him Governor of Flushing, and suLsequently General of the 
 Cavalry, under his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, who commanded 
 the troops sent to assist the oppressed Dutch Protestants against 
 the Spaniards. Here our hero greatly distinguished himself, 
 particularly when capturing, in 1586, the town of Axel. His 
 career, however, was destined to he short. On the 22d of Sep- 
 tember of the same year he accidentally encountered a convoy 
 of the enemy marching toward Zutphen. In the engagement 
 which followed, his party triumphed; but their brave commander 
 received a shot in the thigh, which shattered the bone. As he 
 was carried from the field, overcome with thirst, he called for 
 water, but while aboat to apply it to his lips, he saw a wounded 
 soldier carried by who was eagerly eyeing the cup. Sidney, 
 perceiving this, instantly delivered to him the water, saying, in 
 words which would have made an ordinary man immortal, but 
 which give Sir Philip a twofold immortality, ^ Thy necessity is 
 greater than mine.' He was carried to Arnheim, and lingered 
 on till October 17, when he died. He was only thirty-two 
 years of age. His death was an earthquake at home. All Eng- 
 land wore mourning for him. Queen Elizabeth ordered his re- 
 mains to be carried to London, and to receive a public funeral in 
 St Paul's. He was identified with the land's Poetry, Politeness, 
 and Protestantism ; and all who admired any of the three, sor- 
 rowed for Sidney. 
 
 Sidney's ' Sonnets and other Poems ' contain much that is 
 quaint, but also much that is beautiful and true ; yet they are 
 the least poetical of his works. His ' Arcadia ' is a glorious 
 unfinished and unpolished wilderness of fancy. It is a vineyard, 
 the scattered clusters of which are so heavy, that, like the grapes 
 of Eshcol of old, they must be carried on a staff. Here is one 
 of those rich clusters : — 
 
 'There were hills, which garnished their proud heights with stately- 
 trees ; humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the 
 refreshing of silver rivers ; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eye- 
 pleasing flowers ; thickets, which, being lined with most pleasant shade, 
 were witnessed so, too, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned 
 birds ; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security ; while 
 the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dams' comfort ; here a 
 shepherd's boi/, pi^iing as though he should never he old; there a young 
 
 112
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [siDNEY. 
 
 shepherdess, knitting and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice 
 comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voice- 
 music' 
 
 From ' The Defence of Poesy ' we could cull, did space per- 
 mit, a hundred passages even superior to the above, full of 
 dexterous reasoning, splendid rhetoric, and subtle fancy, and 
 substantiating all that has been said in favour of Sir Philip 
 Sidney's accomplishments, chivalric earnestness, and richly- 
 endowed genius. 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 FROM THE ' ARCADIA.' 
 
 Come, Sleep, Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
 The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe ; 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. 
 The mdifferent judge between the high and low. 
 
 With shield of proof shield me from out the prease^ 
 Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw : 
 Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease ! 
 I will good tribute pay if thou do so. 
 
 Take thou of me smooth pillows, sw^eetest bed, 
 A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 
 A rosy garland and a weary head; 
 And if these things, as being thine by right. 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me 
 Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Because I oft in dark abstracted guise 
 Seem most alone in greatest company. 
 With dearth of words, or answers quite awry 
 To them that would make speech of speech arise, 
 
 ^ 'Prease:' press, throng. 
 VOL. I. H 113
 
 SIDNEY.]| SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies. 
 That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie 
 So in my swelling breast, that only I 
 Fawn on myself, and others do despise. 
 Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess, 
 Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass ; 
 But one worse fault. Ambition, I confess, 
 That makes me oft my best friends overpass. 
 Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place 
 Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace. 
 
 IL 
 
 With how sad steps, 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'd grace, 
 
 To me that feel the like, thy state descries. 
 
 Then, even of fellowship, Moon, tell me. 
 
 Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ? 
 
 Are beauties there as proud as here they hel 
 
 Do they above love to be loved, and yet 
 
 Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? 
 
 Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? 
 
 III. 
 
 Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance 
 Guided so well, that I obtain'd the prize, 
 Both by the judgment of the English eyes, 
 And of some sent from that sweet enemy France; 
 Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance ; 
 Townfolks my strength; a damtier judge applies 
 114
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [siDNEY. 
 
 His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise; 
 Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ; 
 Others, because of both sides I do take 
 My blood from them who did excel in this, 
 Think nature me a man of arms did make. 
 How far they shot aw^ry ! the true cause is, 
 Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face 
 Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In martial sports I had my cunning tried, 
 
 And yet to break more staves did me address ; 
 
 While with the people's shouts, I must confess. 
 
 Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins wdth pride. 
 
 When Cupid, having me (his slave) descried 
 
 In Mars's livery, prancing in the press, 
 
 * What now, Sir Fool,' said he, ' I would no less. 
 
 Look here, I say.' I look'd, and Stella spied, 
 
 Who hard by made a window send forth light. 
 
 My heart then quaked, then dazzled w^ere mine eyes; 
 
 One hand forgot to rule, th' other to fight ; 
 
 Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries ; 
 
 My foe came on, and beat the air for me. 
 
 Till that her blush taught me my shame to see. 
 
 V. 
 
 Of all the kings that ever here did reign, 
 Edward named Fourth as first in praise I name; 
 Not for his fair outside, nor well-hned brain, 
 Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame : 
 Nor that he could, young-wise, wise-valiant, frame 
 His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain, 
 And, gain'd by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame. 
 That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain : 
 
 11.5
 
 SOUTHWELL.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 Nor that he made the Flower-de-luce so 'fraid, 
 Though strongly hedged of bloody Lion's paws. 
 That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid. 
 Nor this, nor that, nor any such small cause — 
 But only for this worthy knight durst prove 
 To lose his crown, rather than fail his love. 
 
 VI. 
 
 happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear! 
 
 1 saw thee with full many a smiling line 
 Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear. 
 
 While those fair planets on thy streams did shine. 
 The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; 
 While w^anton winds, with beauties so divine 
 Ptavisli'd, stay'd not, till in her golden hair 
 They did themselves (0 sweetest prison !) twine : 
 And fain those QEors youth there would their stay 
 Have made ; but, forced by Nature still to fly, 
 First did with puffing kiss those locks display. 
 She, so disheveird, blush'd. From window I, 
 With sight thereof, cried out, ' fair disgrace ; 
 Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place.' 
 
 EGBERT SOUTHWELL. 
 
 Egbert Southwell was horn in 1560, at St Faith's, Norfolk. 
 His parents were Eoman Catholics, and sent him when very 
 young to he educated at the English College of Douay, in 
 Flanders. Thence he went to Rome, and when sixteen years 
 of age he joined the Society of the Jesuits — a strange bed for 
 the rearing of a poet. In 1585, he was appointed Prefect of 
 Studies, and was soon after despatched as a missionary of his 
 order to England. There, notwithstanding a law condemning 
 to death all members of his profession found in this country, he 
 laboured on for eight years^, residing chiefly with Anne, Countess 
 116
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [sOUTHWELL. 
 
 of Arundel, who died afterwards in the Tower. In July 1592, 
 Southwell was arrested in a gentleman's house at Uxendon in 
 Middlesex. He was thrust into a dungeon so filthy that when 
 he was brought out to be examined his clothes were covered 
 with vermin. This made his father — a man of good family — 
 petition Queen Elizabeth that if his son was guilty of anything 
 deserving death he might suffer it, but that, meanwhile, being a 
 gentleman, he should be treated as a gentleman. In consequence 
 of this he was somewhat better lodged, but continued for nearly 
 three years strictly confined to prison ; and as the Queen's agents 
 imagined that he was in the secret of some conspiracies against 
 the Government, he was put to the torture ten times. In despair, 
 he entreated to be brought to trial, whereupon Cecil coolly re- 
 marked, ' that if he was in such haste to be hanged, he should 
 quickly have his desire.' On the 20th of February 1595, he 
 was brought to trial at King's Bench, and having confessed 
 himself a Papist and a Jesuit, he was condemned to death, and 
 executed at Tyburn next day, with all the nameless barbarities 
 enjoined by the treason laws of these unhappy times. He is 
 believed to have borne all his sufferings with unalterable se- 
 renity of mind and sweetness of temper. '■ It is fitting,' says 
 Burke, 'that those made to suffer should suffer well.' And 
 suffer well throughout all his short life of sorrow, Southwell did. 
 He was, undoubtedly, although in a false position, a true man, 
 and a true poet. To hope all things and believe all things, in 
 reference to a Jesuit, is a difficult task for Protestant charity. 
 Yet what system so vile but it has sometimes been gloriously 
 misrepresented by its votaries? Who that ever read Edward 
 Irving' s ' Preface to Ben Ezra' — that modern Areopagitica — com- 
 binino- the essence of a hundred theological treatises with the 
 spirit and grandeur of a Pindaric or Homeric ode — has forgot 
 the pictures of Ben Ezra, or Lacunza the Jesuit? His work, 
 ' The Coming of the Messiah in Glory and Majesty,' Irving 
 translated from Spanish into his own noble English prose, and 
 he describes the author as a man of primitive manners, ardent 
 piety, and enormous erudition, and expresses a hope, long since 
 we trust fulfilled, of meeting with the '■ good old Jesuit' in a 
 better world. To this probably small class of exceptions to a 
 
 117
 
 SOUTHWELL.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 general rule (it surely is no uncharitj to say this, since the 
 annals of Jesuitism have confessedly been so stained with false- 
 hood, treachery, every insidious art, and every detestable crime) 
 seems to have belonged our poet. No proof was produced that 
 he had any connexion with the treacherous and bloody designs 
 of his party, although he had plied his priestly labours with un- 
 wearied assiduity. He was too sincere-minded a man to have 
 ever been admitted to the darker secrets of the Jesuits. 
 
 His verses are ingenious, simpler in style than was common 
 in his time — distinguished here by homely picturesqueness, and 
 there by solemn moralising. A shade of deep but serene and 
 imrepining sadness, connected partly with his position and partly 
 with his foreseen destiny, (his larger works were written in 
 prison,) rests on the most of his poems. 
 
 LOOK HOME. 
 
 He tired thoughts enjoy their own delights. 
 
 As beauty doth in self-beholding eye : 
 Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights, 
 
 A brief wherein all miracles summ'd lie; 
 Of fairest forms, and sweetest shapes the store, 
 Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them more. 
 
 The mind a creature is, yet can create. 
 To nature's patterns adding higher skill 
 
 Of finest works ; wit better could the state, 
 H force of wit had equal power of will. 
 
 Device of man in working hath no end; 
 
 What thoui>dit can think, another thouo-ht can mend. 
 
 Man's soul of endless beauties image is, 
 
 Drawn by the work of endless skill and might : 
 
 This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss, 
 And, to discern this bliss, a native light. 
 
 To frame God's image as his worth required ; 
 
 His might, his skill, his word and will conspired. 
 118
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [SOUTIIWELL. 
 
 All that he had, his image should present; 
 
 All that it should present, he could afford; 
 To that he could afford his will was bent; 
 
 His will was follow'd with performing word. 
 Let this suffice, bv this conceive the rest. 
 He should, he could, he would, he did the best. 
 
 THE IMAGE OF DEATH. 
 
 Before my face the picture hangs. 
 That daily should p)ut me in mind 
 
 Of those cold names and bitter pangs 
 That shortly I am like to find; 
 
 But yet, alas ! full little I 
 
 Do think hereon, that I must die. 
 
 I often look upon a face 
 
 Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin; 
 
 I often view the hollow place 
 
 Where eyes and nose had sometime been; 
 
 I see the bones across that lie. 
 
 Yet little think that I must die. 
 
 I read the label underneath. 
 
 That telleth me whereto I must; 
 
 I see the sentence too, that saith, 
 ' Remember, man, thou art but dust.' 
 
 But yet, alas! how seldom I 
 
 Do think, indeed, that I must die! 
 
 Continually at my bed's head 
 
 A hearse doth hanii- which doth me tell 
 
 That I ere morning may be dead. 
 
 Though now I feel myself full well; 
 
 119
 
 SOUTHWELL.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 But yet, alas! for all this, I 
 Have little mind that I must die! 
 
 The gown which I am used to wear, 
 The knife wherewith I cut my meat; 
 
 And eke that old and ancient chair, 
 Which is my only usual seat; 
 
 All these do tell me I must die. 
 
 And yet my life amend not I. 
 
 My ancestors are turn'd to clay. 
 And many of my mates are gone; 
 
 My youngers daily drop away, 
 And can I think to 'scape alone? 
 
 No, no; I know that I must die. 
 
 And yet my life amend not I. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart; 
 
 If rich and poor his beck obey ; 
 If strong, if wise, if all do smart, 
 
 Then I to 'scape shall have no way : 
 Then grant me grace, God ! that I 
 My life may mend, since I must die. 
 
 love's SERVILE LOT. 
 
 Love mistress is of many minds. 
 Yet few know whom they serve; 
 
 They reckon least how little hope 
 Their service doth deserve. 
 
 The will she robbeth from the wit. 
 
 The sense from reason's lore; 
 She is delightful in the rind. 
 
 Corrupted in the core. 
 120
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [sOUTHWELL. 
 
 « * * * 
 
 May never was the month of love ; 
 
 For May is full of flowers : 
 But rather April, wet by kind; 
 
 For love is full of showers. 
 
 With soothing w^ords, inthralled souls 
 
 She chains in servile bands ! 
 Her eye in silence hath a speech 
 
 Which eye best understands. 
 
 Her little sweet hath many sours. 
 
 Short hap, immortal harms ; 
 Her loving looks are murdering darts, 
 
 Her songs bewitching charms. 
 
 Like winter rose, and summer ice. 
 
 Her joys are still untimely; 
 Before her hope, behind remorse. 
 
 Fair first, in fine^ unseemly. 
 
 Plough not the seas, sow not the sands. 
 
 Leave off your idle pain ; 
 Seek other mistress for your minds. 
 
 Love's service is in vain. 
 
 TIMES GO BY TURNS. 
 
 The lopped tree in time may grow again. 
 
 Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; 
 
 The sorriest wight may find release of pain, 
 
 The driest soil suck in some moistening shower : 
 
 Time goes by turns, and chances change by course. 
 
 From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 
 
 ^ 'Fine:' end. 
 
 121
 
 WATSON.] SPECIMEXS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 The sea of Fortune dotli not ever flow; 
 
 She draws her favours to the lowest ebb : 
 Her tides have equal times to come and go ; 
 
 Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web : 
 No joy so great but runneth to an end. 
 No hap so hard but may in fine amend. 
 
 Not alwa3^s fall of leaf, nor ever spring, 
 Not endless night, yet not eternal day : 
 
 The saddest birds a season find to sins;. 
 
 The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. 
 
 Tlius, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, 
 
 That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. 
 
 A chance may win that by mischance was lost; 
 
 That net that holds no great, takes little fish ; 
 In some things all, in all things none are cross'd ; 
 
 Few all they need, but none have all tliey wish. 
 Unmingled joys here to no man befall; 
 Who least, hath some ; who most, hath never all. 
 
 THOMAS WATSON. 
 
 He was bom in 1560, and died about 1592. All besides known 
 certainly of him is, that he was a native of London, and studied 
 the common law, but seems to have spent mucli of his time in 
 the practice of rhyme. His sonnets — one or two of which we 
 subjoin — have considerable merit; but we agree with Campbell 
 in thinking tliat Stevens has surely overrated them when he 
 prefers them to Sliaksj)eare's. 
 
 THE NYMPHS TO THEIR MAT-QUEEN. 
 
 With fragrant flowers we strew the way, 
 And make this our chief holiday: 
 122
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [wATSON. 
 
 For tlioiigli this clime was blest of jore, 
 Yet was it never proud before. 
 beauteous queen of second Troy, 
 Accept of our unfeigned joy. 
 
 Now the air is sweeter than sweet balm, 
 And satyrs dance about the palm ; 
 Now earth with verdure newly dight, 
 Gives perfect signs of her delight: 
 beauteous queen ! 
 
 Now birds record new harmony, 
 And trees do whistle melody: 
 And everything that nature breeds 
 Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ActcGon lost, in middle of his sport, 
 Both shape and life for looking but awry : 
 Diana was afraid he w^ould report 
 What secrets he had seen in passing by. 
 To tell the truth, the self-same hurt have I, 
 By viewing her for whom I daily die ; 
 I lose my wonted shape, in that my mind 
 Doth sufter wreck upon the stony rock 
 Of her disdain, who, contrary to kind, 
 Does bear a breast more hard than any stock; 
 And former form of limbs is changed quite 
 By cares in love, and want of due delight. 
 I leave ray life, in that each secret thought 
 AVhich I conceive throudi wanton fond rea'ard. 
 Doth make me say that life availeth nought. 
 Where service cannot have a due reward. 
 I dare not name the nymph that works my smart, 
 Though love hath graven her name within my heart. 
 
 123
 
 TDRBERVILLE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 THOMAS TUEBERVILLE. 
 
 Of this author — Thomas Turberville — once famous in the reign 
 of Queen Elizabeth, but now ahnost totally forgotten, and whose 
 works are altogether omitted in most selections, we have pre- 
 served a little. He was a voluminous author, having produced, 
 besides many original pieces, a translation of Ovid's Heroical 
 Epistles, from which Warton has selected a short specimen. 
 
 IN PRAISE OF THE RENOWNED LADY ANNE, COUNTESS OF 
 
 WARWICK. 
 
 When Nature first in liand did take 
 The clay to frame this Countess' corse, 
 
 The earth a while she did forsake. 
 And was compell'd of very force. 
 
 With mould in hand, to flee to skies. 
 
 To end the work she did devise. 
 
 The gods that then in council sate. 
 Were half-amazed, against their kind,^ 
 
 To see so near the stool of state 
 
 Dame Nature stand, that was assign'd 
 
 Among her worldly imps^ to woime,^ 
 
 As she until that day had done. 
 
 First Jove began : ' What, daughter dear. 
 Hath made thee scorn thy father's will ? 
 
 Why do I see thee, Nature, here, 
 That ought'st of duty to fulfil 
 
 Thy undertaken charge at home "? 
 
 What makes thee thus abroad to roam "? 
 
 ^ 'Kind:' nature. — ^ 'Imps:' children. — ^ 'Wonne:' dwelL 
 
 124
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [tURBERVILLE. 
 
 * Disdainful dame, how didst tlioii dare. 
 
 So reckless to depart the ground 
 That is allotted to thy share 1 ' 
 
 And therewithal his godhead frown'd. 
 
 * I will/ quoth Nature, ' out of hand, 
 Declare the cause I fled the land. 
 
 * I undertook of late a piece 
 
 Of clay a featured face to frame, 
 To match the courtly dames of Greece, 
 
 That for their beauty bear the name ; 
 But, good father, now I see 
 This work of mine it will not be. 
 
 * Vicegerent, since you me assign'd 
 
 Below in earth, and gave me laws 
 On mortal wights, and will'd that kind 
 
 Should make and mar, as she saw cause : 
 Of right, I think, I may appeal. 
 And crave your help in this to deal.^ 
 
 When Jove saw how the case did stand. 
 
 And that the work was well beo-un. 
 He pray'd to have the helping hand 
 
 Of other gods till he had done : 
 With willing minds they all agreed. 
 And set upon the clay with speed. 
 
 First Jove each limb did well dispose, 
 And makes a creature of the clay ; 
 
 Next, Lady Venus she bestows 
 Her gallant gifts as best she may ; 
 
 From face to foot, from top to toe, 
 
 She let no whit untouch 'd to go. 
 
 125
 
 TURBERVILLE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 When Venus had done wliat she could 
 
 In making- of her carcase brave, 
 Then Pallas thought she niioht be bold 
 
 Among the rest a share to have ; 
 A passing wit she did convey 
 Into this passing piece of clay. 
 
 Of Bacchus she no member had, 
 Save fingers fine and feat ^ to see ; 
 
 Her head with hair Apollo clad, 
 
 That gods had thought it gold to be : 
 
 So glist'ring was the tress in sight 
 
 Of this new form'd and featured wight. 
 
 Diana held her peace a space, 
 
 Until those other gods had done ; 
 
 * At last,' quoth she, ' in Dian's chase 
 
 With bow in hand this nymph sliall run ; 
 
 And chief of all mv noble train 
 
 I will this virghi entertain/ 
 
 Then joyful Juno came and said, 
 ' Since you to her so friendly are, 
 
 I do appoint this noble maid 
 
 To match with Mars his peer for war ; 
 
 She shall the Countess Warwick be, 
 
 And yield Diana's bow to me.' 
 
 When to so good effect it came. 
 And every member had his grace. 
 
 There wanted nothing but a name : 
 By hap was Mercury then in place. 
 
 That said, ' I pray you all agree, 
 
 Pandora grant her name to be. 
 
 ^ 'Peat:' neat. 
 
 126
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [tURBERVILLE. 
 
 * For since your godheads forged liavo 
 With one assent this noble dame, 
 
 And each to her a virtue gave, 
 This term ao-reeth to the same.' 
 
 The gods that heard Mercurius tell 
 
 This tale, did like it passing well. 
 
 Report was summon'd then in haste, 
 And will'd to bring his trump in hand. 
 
 To blow therewith a sounding blast, 
 
 That might be heard through Brutus' land. 
 
 Pandora straight the trumpet blew. 
 
 That each this Countess Warwick knew. 
 
 seely^ Nature, born to pain, 
 
 woful, wretched kind (I say). 
 That to forsake the soil were fain 
 
 To make this Countess out of clay : 
 But, most friendly gods, that wold. 
 Vouchsafe to set your hands to mould. 
 
 In reference to the Miscellaneous Pieces which close this 
 period, we need only say that the best of them is ' The Soul's 
 Errand,' and that its authorship is uncertain. It has, with very 
 little evidence in any of the cases, been ascribed to Sir Walter 
 Ealeigh, to Francis Davison, (author of a compilation entitled 
 ' A Poetical Rhapsody,' published in 1593, and where ' The 
 Soul's Errand' first appeared,) and to Joshua Sylvester, who 
 prints it in his volume of verses, with vile interpolations of his 
 own. Its outspoken energy and 'pithy language render it worthy 
 of any of our poets. 
 
 ^ 'Seely:' simple. 
 
 127
 
 UNKNOWN.] SPECDIENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 HARPALUS' COMPLAINT OF PHILLIDA's LOVE BESTOWED ON 
 CORIN, WHO LOVED HER NOT, AND DENIED HIM THAT LOVED 
 HER. 
 
 1 Phillida was a fair maid, 
 
 As f resli as any flower ; 
 Whom Harpalus the herdman pray'd 
 To be his paramour. 
 
 2 Harpalus, and eke Corin, 
 
 Were herdmeii both yf ere: ^ 
 And Phillida would twist and spin. 
 And thereto sing full clear. 
 
 3 But Phillida was all too coy 
 
 For Harpalus to win ; 
 Tor Corin was her only joy, 
 Who forced^ her not a pin. 
 
 4 How^ often would she flowers twine. 
 
 How often garlands make 
 Of cowslips and of columbine, • 
 And all for Corin's sake ! 
 
 5 But Corin lie had hawks to lure, 
 
 And forced more the field: 
 Of lovers' law he took no cure; 
 For once he was beguiled. 
 
 6 Harpalus prevailed nought, 
 
 His labour all w^as lost; 
 For he was furthest from her thought, 
 And yet he loved her most. 
 
 128 
 
 1 ' Yfere : ' togetlier.— '^ ' Forced : ' cared for.
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [uNKNOWN. 
 
 7 Therefore was he both pale and lean, 
 
 And dry as clod of clay : 
 His flesh it was consumed clean; 
 His colour gone away. 
 
 8 His beard it not long be shave ; 
 
 His hair hung all unkempt : 
 A man most fit even for the grave. 
 Whom spiteful love had shent.^ 
 
 9 His eyes were red, and all forwacht;^ 
 
 His face besprent with tears: 
 It seem'd unhap had him long hatcht, 
 In midst of his despairs. 
 
 1 His clothes were black, and also bare ; 
 
 As one forlorn was he ; 
 Upon his head always he ware 
 A wreath of willow tree. 
 
 11 His beasts he kept upon the hiU, 
 
 And he sat in the dale ; 
 And thus witli sighs and sorrows shrill 
 He 'gan to tell his tale. 
 
 12 '0 Hari^alus!' thus would he say; 
 
 * Unhappiest under sun ! 
 The cause of thine unhappy day 
 By love was first begun. 
 
 13 ' For thou went'st first by suit to seek 
 
 A tiger to make tame, 
 That sets not by thy love a leek. 
 But makes thy grief a game. 
 
 ^ 'Shent:' spoiled.— ^ 'Forwaclit:' from much watching. 
 VOL. L I 129
 
 UNKNOWN.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 1 4 ' As easy it were for to convert 
 
 The frost into the flame ; 
 As for to turn a fro ward hert, 
 
 Whom thou so fain wouldst frame. 
 
 15 ' Ccrin he liveth careless: 
 
 He leaps among the leaves : 
 He eats the fruits of thy redress : 
 Thou reap'st, he takes the sheaves. 
 
 16 'My beasts, a while your food refrain, 
 
 And hark your herdman's sound ; 
 Whom spiteful love, alas! hath slain, 
 Through girt with many a wound, 
 
 1 7 ' happy be ye, beastes wild. 
 
 That here your pasture takes : 
 I see that ye be not beguiled 
 Of these your faithful makes. ^ 
 
 18 'The hart he feedeth by the hind: 
 
 The buck hard by the doe : 
 The turtle-dove is not unkind 
 To him that loves her so. 
 
 19 'The ewe she hath by her the ram: 
 
 The young cow hath the bull : 
 The calf witli many a lusty lamb 
 Do feed their humrcr full. 
 
 20 'But, well-a-way! that nature wrought 
 
 Thee, Phillida, so fair: 
 For I may say that I have bought 
 Thy beauty all too dear. 
 
 ^ 'Makes:' mates. 
 
 130
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [uXKXOWX. 
 
 21 'What reason is tliat cruelty 
 
 Witli beauty should have part? 
 Or else that such great tyranny 
 Should dwell m woman's heart 1 
 
 22 * I see therefore to shape my death 
 
 She cruelly is prest,^ 
 To. the end that I may want my breath : 
 My days be at the best. 
 
 23 ' O Cupid, grant this my request, 
 
 And do not stop thine ears : 
 That she may feel within her breast 
 The pains of my despairs : 
 
 24 ' Of Corin that is careless, 
 
 That she may crave her fee : 
 As I have done in great distress, 
 That loved her faithfully. 
 
 25 * But since that I shall die her slave. 
 
 Her slave, and eke her thrall, 
 Write you, my friends, upon my gTave 
 This chance that is befall : 
 
 26 * " Here lieth unhappy Harpalus, 
 
 By cruel love now^ slain : 
 Whom Phillida unjustly thus 
 Hath murder'd with disdam." ' 
 
 1 'Prest:' ready. 
 
 131
 
 UNKNOWN.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 A PRAISE OP HIS LADY. 
 
 1 Give place, you ladies, and begone. 
 
 Boast not yourselves at all. 
 For here at hand approacheth one 
 Whose face will stain you all. 
 
 2 The virtue of her lively looks 
 
 Excels the precious stone ; 
 I wish to have none other books 
 To read or look upon. 
 
 3 In each of her two crystal eyes 
 
 Smileth a naked boy ; 
 It would you all in heart suffice 
 To see that lamp of joy. 
 
 4 I think Nature hath lost the mould 
 
 Where she her shape did take ; 
 Or else I doubt if Nature could 
 So fair a creature make. 
 
 5 She may be well compared 
 
 Unto the phcenix kind. 
 Whose like was never seen nor heard. 
 That any man can find. 
 
 6 In hfe she is Diana chaste, 
 
 In truth Penelope ; 
 In word, and eke in deed, steadfast; 
 What will you more we say 1 
 
 7 If all the world were sought so far, 
 
 Who could find such a wight ? 
 Her beauty twinkleth like a star 
 Within the frosty night. 
 132
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [UNKNOWN. 
 
 8 Her rosial colour comes and goes 
 
 Witli such a comel^^ grace, 
 More ruddier, too, than doth the rose, 
 Within her lively face. 
 
 9 At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet. 
 
 Nor at no wanton play. 
 
 Nor gazing in an open street. 
 
 Nor gadding, as astray. 
 
 10 The modest mirth that she doth use. 
 
 Is mix'd with shamefastness ; 
 All vice she doth wholly refuse, 
 And hateth idleness. 
 
 11 Lord, it is a world to see 
 
 How virtue can repair, 
 And deck in her such honesty. 
 Whom Nature made so fair. 
 
 12 Truly she doth as far exceed 
 
 Our women now-a-davs, 
 As doth the gilliflower a weed. 
 And more a thousand ways. 
 
 13 How might I do to get a graff 
 
 Of this unspotted tree % 
 For all the rest are plain but chafF 
 Which seem good corn to be. 
 
 14 This gift alone I shall her give, 
 
 When death doth what he can : 
 
 Her honest fame shall ever live 
 
 Within the mouth of man. 
 
 133
 
 UNKNOWN.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 THAT ALL THINGS SOMETIME FIND EASE OF THEIR PAIN, SAVE 
 
 ONLY THE LOVER. 
 
 1 I see there is no sort 
 
 Of things that live in grief, 
 Which at sometime may not resort 
 Where as they have relief. 
 
 2 The stricken deer by kind 
 
 Of death that stands in awe, 
 For his recure an herb can find 
 The arrow to withdraw. 
 
 3 The chased deer hath soil 
 
 To cool him in his heat ; 
 The ass, after his weary toil. 
 In stable is up set. 
 
 4 The coney hath its cave, 
 
 The little bird his nest, 
 From heat and cold themselves to save 
 At all times as they list. 
 
 5 The owl, with feeble sight. 
 
 Lies lurking in the leaves, 
 The sparrow in the frosty night 
 May shroud her in the eaves. 
 
 6 But woe to me, alas ! 
 
 In sun nor yet in shade, 
 I cannot find a resting-place. 
 My burden to unlade. 
 134
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [UNKNOTVN. 
 
 7 But day by day still bears 
 
 The burden on my back, 
 With weeping eyes and wat'ry tears, 
 To hold my hope aback. 
 
 8 All things I see have place 
 
 Wherein they bow or bend, 
 
 Save this, alas ! my woful case, 
 
 Wliich nowhere iindeth end. 
 
 FROM ' THE phoenix' NEST.' 
 
 Night, jealous Night, repugnant to my pleasure, 
 
 Night so long desired, yet cross to my content, 
 There 's none but only thou can guide me to my treasure. 
 Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent. 
 
 Sweet Night, withhold thy beams, withhold them till 
 
 to-morrow, 
 Whose joy, in lack so long, a hell of torment breeds. 
 Sweet Night, sweet gentle Night, do not prolong my 
 
 sorrow, 
 Desire is guide to me, and love no loadstar needs. 
 
 Let sailors gaze on stars and moon so freshly shining. 
 Let them that miss the way be guided by the light, 
 
 1 know my lady's bower, there needs no more divining. 
 Affection sees in dark, and love hath eyes by night. 
 
 Dame Cynthia, couch a while ; hold in thy horns for 
 
 shining. 
 And glad not low'ring Night with thy too glorious rays ; 
 But be she dim and dark, teir.pestuous and repining. 
 That in her spite mv sport may work thy endless praise. 
 
 135
 
 UNKNOWN.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 And when my will is done, then, Cynthia, shine, good lady. 
 All other nights and days in honour of that night. 
 That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and shady. 
 Wherein my love had eyes that lighted my delight. 
 
 FROM THE SAME. 
 
 The gentle season of the year 
 
 Hath made my blooming branch appear. 
 
 And beautified the land with flowers; 
 
 The air doth savour with delight. 
 
 The heavens do smile to see the sight. 
 
 And yet mine eyes augment their showers. 
 
 The meads are mantled all with green. 
 The trembling leaves have clothed the treen. 
 The birds with feathers new do sing; 
 But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack, 
 Attire myself in mourning black. 
 Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring. 
 
 And as you see the scarlet rose 
 In his sweet prime his buds disclose, 
 Whose hue is with the sun revived; 
 So, in the April of mine age. 
 My lively colours do assuage. 
 Because my sunshine is deprived. 
 
 My heart, that wonted was of yore. 
 Light as the winds, abroad to soar 
 Amongst the buds, when beauty springs. 
 Now only hovers over you, 
 As doth the bird that 's taken new, 
 
 136 
 
 And mourns when all her neighbours sings.
 
 1300-155G.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [UNKNOWN. 
 
 5 When every man is bent to sport. 
 Then, pensive, I alone resort 
 Into some solitary walk. 
 
 As doth the doleful turtle-dove, 
 Who, having lost her faithful love, 
 Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk. 
 
 6 There to mvself I do recount 
 
 How far my woes my joys surmount, 
 How love requiteth me with hate, 
 How all my pleasures end in pain. 
 How hate doth say my hope is vain. 
 How fortune frowns upon my state. 
 
 7 And in this mood, charged with despair, 
 With vapour'd sighs I dim the air. 
 And to the gods make this request, 
 That by the ending of my life, 
 
 I may have truce with this strange strife. 
 And bring my soul to better rest. 
 
 THE soul's errand. 
 
 1 Go, Soul, the body's guest. 
 
 Upon a thankless errand. 
 Fear not to touch the best. 
 
 The truth shall be thy warrant; 
 Go, since I needs must die. 
 And give the world the lie. 
 
 2 Go tell the Court it glows. 
 
 And shines like rotten wood; 
 Go, tell the Church it shows 
 What 's good and doth no good ; 
 
 137
 
 UNKNOWN.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [iST PER. 
 
 If Cliiircli and Court reply, 
 Then give them both the lie. 
 
 3 Tell potentates they live, 
 
 Acting by others' actions, 
 Not loved, unless they give, 
 
 Not strong, but by their factions ; 
 If potentates reply. 
 Give potentates the lie. 
 
 4 Tell men of high condition. 
 
 That rule affairs of state, 
 Their purpose is ambition. 
 
 Their practice only hate; 
 And if they once reply. 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 5 Tell them that brave it most, - 
 
 They beg for more by spending. 
 Who, in their greatest cost. 
 
 Seek nothing but commending ; 
 And if they make reply. 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 6 Tell Zeal it lacks devotion. 
 
 Tell Love it is but lust. 
 Tell Time it is but motion. 
 
 Tell Flesh it is but dust; 
 And wish them not reply, 
 For thou must give the lie. 
 
 7 Tell Age it daily wasteth. 
 
 Tell Honour how it alters. 
 Tell Beauty how she blasteth. 
 Tell Favour how she falters; 
 138
 
 1300-1556.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [uNKNOWN. 
 
 And as they sliall reply, 
 Give every one the lie. 
 
 8 Tell AYit how much it wrangles 
 
 In treble points of niceness, 
 Tell Wisdom she entano-les 
 
 Herself in overwiseness ; 
 And when they do reply, 
 Straight Q;ive them both the lie. 
 
 9 Tell Phj'sic of her boldness, 
 
 Tell Skill it is pretension. 
 Tell Charity of coldness. 
 
 Tell Law it is contention; 
 And as they do reply, 
 So give them still the lie. 
 
 10 Tell Fortune of her blindness, 
 
 Tell Nature of deca}^ 
 Tell Friendship of unkindness, 
 
 Tell Justice of delay; 
 And if they will reply. 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 1 1 Tell Arts they have no soimdness. 
 
 But vary by esteeming, 
 Tell Schools they want profoundness. 
 
 And stand too much on seeming; 
 If Arts and Schools reply. 
 Give Arts and Schools the lie. 
 
 12 Tell Faith it's fled the citv. 
 
 Tell how the country erreth. 
 Tell jManhood shakes off pity. 
 Tell Virtue least pref erreth ; 
 
 139
 
 UNKNOWN.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS, ETC. [iST PER. 
 
 And if they do reply, 
 Spare not to give the lie. 
 
 13 And when thou hast, as I 
 
 Commanded thee, done blabbing, 
 
 Althoudi to o;ive the lie 
 
 Deserves no less than stabbing; 
 
 Yet stab at thee who will. 
 
 No stab the Soul can kill. 
 
 140
 
 SECOND PEEIOD. 
 
 FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN. 
 
 FRANCIS BEAUMONT. 
 
 This remarkable man, from his intimate connexion with 
 Fletcher, is better known as a dramatist than as a poet. He 
 was the son of Judge Beaumont, and descended from an ancient 
 family, which was settled at Grace Dieu in Leicestershire. He 
 was born in 1585-86, and educated at Cambridge. Thence he 
 passed to study in the Inner Temple, but seems to have preferred 
 poetry and the drama to law. He was married to the daughter 
 of Sir Henry Isley of Kent, who bore him two daughters. He 
 died in his 30th year, and was buried March 9, 1615-16, in St 
 Benedict's Chapel, Westminster Abbey. More of his connexion 
 with Fletcher afterwards. 
 
 After his death, his brother published a collection of his mis- 
 cellaneous pieces. We extract a few, of no little merit. His 
 verses to Ben Jonson, written before their author came to 
 London, and first appended to a play entitled ' Nice Valour,' 
 are picturesque and interesting, as illustrating the period. 
 
 TO BEN JONSON. 
 
 The sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring 
 
 To absent friends, because the selfsame thing 
 
 They know, they see, however absent) is 
 
 Here, our best haymaker (forgive me this, 
 
 141
 
 BEAUMONT.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [2D PER. 
 
 It is our country's style) in this warm shine 
 I lie, and dream of your full IMcrmaid wine. 
 Oh, we have water mix'd with claret lees. 
 Drink apt to bring in drier heresies 
 Than beer, good only for the sonnet's strain, 
 With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain. 
 So mix'd, that, given to the thirstiest one, 
 'Twill not prove alms, unless he have the stone. 
 I think, with one draught man's invention fades : 
 Two cups had quite spoil'd Homer's Iliades. 
 'Tis liquor that will find out Sutclilf 's wit. 
 Lie where he will, and make him write w^orse yet ; 
 Fill'd w^ith such moisture in most grievous qualms, 
 Did Robert Wisdom write his singing psalms ; 
 And so must I do this : And yet I think 
 It is a potion sent us down to drinlv. 
 By special Providence, keeps us from fights, 
 Makes us not laugh when we make legs to knights. 
 'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states, 
 A medicine to obey our magistrates : 
 For we do live mOre free than you ; no hate, 
 No envy at one another's happy state. 
 Moves us ; we are all equal : every whit 
 Of land that God gives men here is their wit. 
 If we consider fully, for our best 
 And gravest men will with his main house-jest 
 Scarce please you ; we want subtilty to do 
 The city tricks, lie, hate, and flatter too : 
 Here are none that can bear a painted show, 
 Strike when you wink, and then lament the blow ; 
 Who, like mills, set the right way for to grind. 
 Can make their gains alike with every wind ; 
 Only some fellows with the subtlest pate, 
 Amongst us, may perchance equivocate 
 142
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BHITISH POETS. [bEAUMONT. 
 
 At scllinir of a horse, and that 's the most. 
 
 Methinks the little wit I had is lost 
 
 Since I saw you ; for wit is like a rest 
 
 Held up at tennis, which men do the best, 
 
 With the best gamesters : wliat things have we seen 
 
 Done at the Mermaid ; heard words that have been 
 
 So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 
 
 As if that every one from whence they came 
 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest. 
 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 
 Of his dull life : then when there had been thrown 
 
 Wit able enough to justify the town 
 
 For three days past ; wit that might warrant be 
 
 For the whole city to talk foolishly 
 
 Till that were cancell'd ; and when that was gone. 
 
 We left an air behind us, which alone 
 
 AVas able to make the two next companies 
 
 Bight witty ; though but downright fools were wise. 
 
 When I remember this, % * % 
 
 * * * I needs must cry 
 
 I see my days of ballading grow nigh ; 
 
 I can already riddle, and can sing 
 
 Catches, sell bargains, and I fear shall bring 
 
 Myself to speak the hardest words I find 
 
 Over as oft as any with one wind. 
 
 That takes no medicines, but thought of thee 
 
 Makes me remember all these things to be 
 
 The wit of our young men, fellows that show 
 
 No part of good, yet utter all they know, 
 
 Who, like trees of the garden, have growing souls. 
 
 Only strong Destiny, which all controls, 
 
 I hope hath left a better fate in store 
 
 For me, thy friend, than to live ever poor. 
 
 Banish'd unto this home : Fate once again 
 
 143
 
 BEAUMONT.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [2D PER. 
 
 Bring me to tliee, who canst make smooth and plain 
 
 The way of knowledge for me ; and then I, 
 
 AVho have no good but in thy company, 
 
 Protest it will my greatest comfort be, 
 
 To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee, 
 
 Ben ; when these scenes are perfect, we '11 taste wine ; 
 
 I '11 druik thy muse's health, thou shalt quaff mine. 
 
 ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER. 
 
 Mortality, behold and fear. 
 
 What a charo-e of flesh is here ! 
 
 Think how many royal bones 
 
 Sleep within these heap of stones : 
 
 Here they lie, had realms and lands, 
 
 Who now want strength to stir their hands ; 
 
 Where, from their pulpits seal'd with dust. 
 
 They preach — in greatness is no trust. 
 
 Here 's an acre sown indeed 
 
 With the richest, royal'st seed. 
 
 That the earth did e'er suck in 
 
 Since the first man died for sin : 
 
 Here the bones of birth have cried. 
 
 Though gods they were, as men they died : 
 
 Here are wands, ignoble things, 
 
 Dropp'd from the ruin'd sides of kings. 
 
 Here 's a world of pomp and state 
 
 Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 
 
 AN EPITAPH. 
 
 Here she lies, whose spotless fame 
 Invites a stone to learn her name : 
 The rigid Spartan that denied 
 An epitaph to all that died, 
 144
 
 1550-1 6 40. J THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [rALEIGH. 
 
 Unless for war, in charity 
 
 AYonld here vouchsafe an elegy. 
 
 She died a wife, but yet her mind, 
 
 Beyond virginity refined. 
 
 From lawless fire remain'd as free 
 
 As now from heat her ashes be : 
 
 Keep well this pawn, thou marble chest ; 
 
 Till it be call'd for, let it rest ; 
 
 For while this jewel here is set, 
 
 The grave is like a cabinet. 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 The verses attributed to this illustrious man are few, and the 
 authenticity of some of them is doubtful. No one, however, 
 who has studied his career, or read his ' History of the World,' 
 can deny him the title of a great poet. 
 
 We cannot be expected, in a work of the present kind, to en- 
 large on a career so well known as that of Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 He was born in 1552, at Hayes Farm, in Devonshire, and de- 
 scended from an old family there. He went early to Oxford, 
 but finding its pursuits too tame for his active and enterprising 
 spirit, he left it, and became a soldier at seventeen. For six 
 years he fought on the Protestant side in France, besides serving 
 a campaign in the Netherlands. In 1579, he went a voyage, 
 which proved disastrous, to Newfoundland, in company with his 
 half-brother. Sir Humphrey Gilbert. There can be no doubt 
 that this early apprenticeship to Avar and navigation was of 
 material service to the future explorer and historian. In 1580, 
 he fought in Ireland against the Earl of Desmond, who had 
 raised a rebellion there, and on one occasion is said to have de- 
 fended a ford of Shannon against a whole band of wild Irish 
 rebels, till the stream ran purj)le with their blood and his own. 
 With the Lord-Deputy, Lord Grey de Wilton, he got into a 
 dispute, and to settle it came over to England. Plere high 
 
 VOL. I. K 145
 
 EALEIGIl] specimens with memoirs of [2D PER. 
 
 favour awaited him. His handsome appearance, his graceful 
 address, his ready wit and chivah'ic courtesy, dashed Avith a fine 
 poetic enthusiasm, (see them admirably pictured in ' Kenihvorth,') 
 combined to exalt him in the estimation of Queen Elizabeth. 
 On one occasion he flung his rich plush cloak over a miry part 
 of the way, that she might pass on unsoiled. By this delicate 
 piece of enacted flattery he ' spoiled a cloak and made a fortune.' 
 The Queen sent him, along with some other courtiers, to attend 
 the Duke of Anjou, who had in vain solicited her hand, back to 
 the Netherlands. In 1584, he fitted two ships, and sent them 
 out for the discovery and settlement of tliose parts of North 
 America not already appropriated by Christian states, and the 
 next year there followed a fleet of seven ships under the com- 
 mand of Sir Richard Grenville, Kaleigh's kinsman. The at- 
 tempt to colonise America at that time failed, but two important 
 things were transplanted through means of the expedition from 
 Virginia to Britain, namely, tobacco and the potato, — the former 
 of which has ever since been offered up in smoky sacrifice to 
 Raleigh's memory throughout the whole world, and the latter of 
 which has become the most valuable of all our vegetable escu- 
 lents. Raleigh first planted the potato in Ireland, a country of 
 which it has long been the principal food. A ludicrous story is 
 told about this. It is said that he had invited a number of his 
 neighbours to an entertainment, in which the new root was to 
 form a prominent part, but when the feast began Raleigh found, 
 to his horror, that the servants had boiled the plums, a most 
 unsavoury mess, and immediately, we suppose, 'tabulffi soi- 
 vuntur risu.' In 1584 the Queen had knighted him, and shortly 
 after she granted him certain lucrative monopolies, and an estate 
 in Ireland, in addition to one he had possessed for some years. 
 In 1588, he was of material service as one of Her Majesty's 
 Council of War, formed to resist the Spanish Armada, and as one 
 of the volunteers who joined the English fleet with ships of their 
 own. Next year he accompanied a number of his countrymen 
 in an expedition, which had it in view to restore Don Antonio 
 to the throne of Portugal, of which the Spaniards had deprived 
 him. On his return he lost caste considerably, both with the 
 Queen and country, by taking bribes, and otherwise abusing the 
 146
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [rALEIGH. 
 
 influence he had acquired at Court. Yet, about this time, his 
 active mind was projecting what he called an ' Office of Ad- 
 dress/ — a plan for facilitating the designs of literary and scientific 
 men, promoting intercourse between them, gaining, in short, all 
 those objects which are now secured by our literary associations 
 and philosophical societies. Ealeigh was eminently a man be- 
 fore his age, but, alas ! his age was too far behind him. 
 
 While visiting Ireland, after his expedition to Portugal, he con- 
 tracted an intimacy with Spenser, (See our 'Life of Spenser,' vol. 
 ii.) In 1592, he commanded a large naval expedition, destined 
 to attack Panama and intercept the Spanish Plate-fleet, but was 
 recalled by the Queen, not, however, till he had seized on an im- 
 portant prize, and, in common parlance, had ' feathered his nest.' 
 On his return he excited Her J\Iajesty's wrath, by an intrigue 
 with Elizabeth Throgmorton, one of the maids of honour, and, 
 although Ealeigh afterwards married her, the Queen imprisoned 
 both the offending parties for some months in the Tower. 
 Spenser is believed to allude to this in the 4th Book of his 
 great poem. (See vol. iii. of our edition, p. 88.) Even after 
 he was released from the Tower, Ealeigh had to leave the Com-t 
 in disgrace j instead, however, of wasting time in vain regrets, 
 he undertook, at his own expense, an expedition against Guiana, 
 where he captured the city of San Joseph, and which he occu- 
 pied in the Queen's name. After his return he published an 
 account of his expedition, more distinguished by glowing elo- 
 quence than by rigid regard to truth. In 1596, having in some 
 measure regained the Queen's favour, he was appointed to a 
 command in the expedition against Cadiz, under the Earl of 
 Essex. In this, as well as in the expedition against the Spanish 
 Plate-fleet the next year, he won laurels, but was unfortunate 
 enough to excite the jealousy of his Commander-in-Chief. When 
 the favourite got into trouble, Ealeigh eagerly joined in the 
 hunt, wrote a letter to Cecil urging him to the destruction of 
 Essex, and witnessed his execution from a window in the 
 Armoury. This is undoubtedly a deep blot on the escutcheon 
 of our hero. 
 
 Cecil had been glad of Ealeigh's aid in ruining Essex, but 
 he bore him no good- will otherwise, and is said to have poisoned 
 
 147
 
 RALEIGH.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [2D PER. 
 
 James, who now succeeded to tlie English throne, against him. 
 Assm-edly the new King was no friend of Raleigh's. Stimulated 
 bj Cecil, after first depriving him of his office of Captain of the 
 Guards, he brought him to trial for high treason. He was 
 accused of conspiring to establish Popery, to dethrone the King, 
 and to put the crown on the head of Arabella Stewart. Sir 
 Edward Coke, the Attorney-General, led the accusation, and 
 disgraced himself by heaping on E-aleigh's head every foul 
 epithet, calling him ' viper,' ' damnable atheist,' ' monster,' 
 ' traitor,' ' spider of hell,' &c., and by his violence, although to 
 his own surprise, as he never expected to gain his cause in full, 
 he browbeat the jury to bring in a verdict of high treason. 
 
 Raleigh's defence was a masterpiece of temper, dignity, 
 strength of reasoning, and eloquence, and his enemies were 
 ashamed of the decision to which they had driven the jury. He 
 was therefore reprieved, and committed to the Tower, where 
 his wife was allowed to bear him company, and where his 
 youngest son was born. His estates were, in general, pre- 
 served to him, but Carr, the infamous minion of the King, 
 under some pretext of a flaw in the conveyance of it by Raleigh 
 to his son, seized upon his manor of Sherborne, In the Tower 
 he continued for twelve years. These years his industry and 
 genius rendered the happiest probably of his life. Immured 
 in the 
 
 ' towers of Julius, London's lasting slaame, 
 By many a foul and midnight murder fed,' 
 
 his winged soul soared away, like the dove of the Deluge, over 
 the wild ocean of the past. The Tower confined his body, but 
 this great globe the world seemed too little for the sweep of his 
 spirit. To fill up the vast void which a long imprisonment created 
 around him, and to shew that his powers retained all their elas- 
 ticity, he projected a work on the largest scale, and with the 
 noblest purpose — ' The History of the World.' In this under- 
 taking he found literary men ready to lend him their aid. A 
 hundred hands were generously stretched out to gather mate- 
 rials, and to bring them to the captive in the Tower. Cart-loads 
 of books were sent. One Burrell, formerly his chaplain, assisted 
 him in much of the critical and chronological drudgery. 
 148
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BPJTISH POETS. [rALEIGIL 
 
 Rugged Ben Jonson sent in a piece of rugged writing on the 
 Punic War, which Ealeigh polished and set as a carved stone 
 in his magnificent temple. Some have, on this account, sought 
 to detract from the merit of the author. As if ever an architect 
 could rear a building without hodmen ! But in Raleigh's case 
 the hodmen were Titans. '■ The best wits in England assisted 
 him in his undertaking;' and what a compliment was this to the 
 stremrth and stature of the master-builder ! 
 
 This great work was never finished. The part completed 
 comprehended onlj the period from the Creation to the Down- 
 fall of the IMacedonian Empire — one hundred and seventy years 
 before Christ. He tarries too long amidst the misty and 
 mythical ages which precede the dawn of history ; his specula- 
 tions on the site of the original Paradise, on the Flood, &c., are 
 more ingenious than instructive ; but his descriptions of the 
 Greek battles— his account of the rise of Rome — the extensive 
 erudition on all subjects displayed in the book — the many acute, 
 profound, and eloquently-expressed observations which are 
 sprinkled throughout — and the style, massive, dignified, rich, 
 and less involved in structure than that of almost any of his 
 contemporaries — shall always rank it amongst the great literary 
 treasures of the language. It was published in 1614. Besides 
 it, Raleigh was the author of various works, all full of sagacious 
 thought and brilliant imagery, such as ' The Advice to a Son on 
 the Choice of a Wife,' ' The Sceptic,' ' Maxims of State,' &c. 
 
 At last he was released by the advance of a large sum of 
 money to Yilliers, Duke of Buckingham, James's favourite; and, 
 to retrieve his fortunes, projected another expedition to America. 
 James granted him a patent, under the Great Seal, for making 
 a settlement in Guiana, but ungenerously did not grant him a 
 pardon for the sentence which had been passed on him for 
 treason. He set sail, 1617, in a ship built by himself, called 
 the Destiny^ with eleven other vessels. Having reached the 
 Orinoco, he despatched a portion of his forces to attack the new 
 Spanish settlement of St Thomas. This was captured, with the 
 loss of Raleigh's eldest son. The expected plunder, however, 
 proved of little value ; and Sir Walter having in vain attempted 
 to induce his captains to attack other settlements of the Span- 
 
 149
 
 RALEIGH.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [2D PER. 
 
 iards, was compelled to return home — liis golden dreams dis- 
 solved, and his prophetic soul forewarning him of the doom 
 that awaited him on his native shores. In July 1618, he landed 
 at Plymouth ; ' whence/ says Howell, in his ' Familiar Let- 
 ters,' ' he thought to make an escape, and some say he tampered 
 with his body by physic to make him look sickly, that he might 
 be the more pitied, and permitted to lie in his own house.' 
 James was at this time seeking the hand of the Infanta for his 
 son Charles, and was naturally disposed to side with the Spanish 
 cause. He was, besides, stirred up by the Spanish ambassador, 
 Count Gondomar, who sent to desire an audience with His Ma- 
 jesty, and said, that he had only one word to say to him. 'The 
 King wondered what could be delivered in one word, where- 
 upon, when he came before him, he said only, " Pirates ! pirates! 
 pirates!" and so departed.' 
 
 Kaleigh consequently was arrested and sent back to his old 
 lodgings in the Tower. He was not tried, as might have been 
 expected, for the new offence of waging war against a power 
 then at amity with England, but James, with consummate 
 meanness and cruelty, determined to revive liis former sentence. 
 He was brought before the King's Bench, where his old enemy, 
 Sir Edward Coke, now sat as Chief Justice, and officially con- 
 demned him to death. His language, however, was consider- 
 ably modified to the prisoner. He said, ' I know you have 
 been valiant and wise, and I doubt not but you retain both these 
 virtues, for now you shall have occasion to use them. Your 
 faith hath heretofore been questioned, but I am resolved you 
 are a good Christian ; for your book, which is an admirable 
 work, doth testify as much. I would give you counsel, but I 
 know you can apply unto yourself far better than I can give 
 you. Yet will I (with the good neighbour in the Gospel, who, 
 finding one in the way wounded and distressed, poured oil into 
 his wounds and refreshed him) give unto you the oil of comfort, 
 though, in respect that I am a minister of the law, mixed with 
 vinegar.' Such was Coke's comfort to the brave and gifted man 
 who stood untrembling before his bar. 
 
 On the 26th of October 1618, the day after his condemnation, 
 Ealeigh was beheaded. He met his fate with dignity and com- 
 150
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [rALEIGH. 
 
 posure. Having addressed the multitude in vindication of his 
 conduct, he took up the axe, and said to the sheriff, ' This is a 
 sharp medicine, but a sound cure for all diseases.' He told the 
 executioner tliat he would give the signal by lifting up his hand, 
 and ' then,' he said, ' fear not, but strike home.' He next 
 laid himself down, but was asked by the executioner to alter 
 the position of the head. ' So the heart be right,' he replied, 
 'it is no matter which way the head lies.' The headsman 
 became uncertain and tremulous ' when the signal was given, 
 whereupon Raleigh exclaimed, 'Why dost thou not strike"? 
 Strike, man ! ' and by two blows that gallant, witty, and richly- 
 stored head was severed from the body. He was in his sixty- 
 fifth year. He had the night before composed the following 
 
 verse ; 
 
 Even such is Time, that takes on trust 
 
 Our youth, our joys, our all we have, 
 And pays us but with age and dust ; 
 
 Who in the dark and silent grave, 
 When we have wander'd all our ways, 
 Shuts up the story of our days.' 
 
 Thus perished Sir Walter Ealeigh, There lias been ever one 
 opinion as to the breadth and brilliance of his genius. His 
 powers were almost universal in their range. He commented 
 on Scripture with the ingenuity of a Talmudist, and wrote love 
 verses (see the lines in Campbell's ' Specimens,' entitled 
 ' Dulcina ') with the animus and graceful levity of a Thomas 
 Moore. He was deep at once in ' all the learning of the Egyp- 
 tians,' and in that of the Greeks and Romans. In his large 
 mind lay dreams of golden lands, which even Australia has not 
 yet fully verified, alongside of maxims of the most practical 
 wisdom. He was learned in all that had been ; well-informed 
 as to all tliat was; and speculative and hopeful as to all that 
 mio-ht be and was yet to be. Disgust at the scholastic methods, 
 blended with the adventurous character of his mind, and perhaps 
 also with some looseness of moral principle, led him at one time 
 to the brink of universal scepticism ; but disappointment, sorrow, 
 and the solitude of the Tower, made him a sadder and wiser 
 man, and he returned to the verities of the Christian religion. 
 
 151
 
 RALEIGH.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 The stains on his character seem to have arisen chiefly from 
 his position. He was, like some greater and some smaller men 
 of eminence, undoubtedly, to a certain extent, a brilliant adven- 
 turer — a class to whom justice is seldom done, and against 
 whom every calumny is believed. He Avas a novus Jiomo, in an 
 age of more than common aristocratic pretence ; sprung, indeed, 
 from an ancient family, but possessing nothing himself, save his 
 cloak, his sword, his tact, and his genius. We all know how, 
 in later times, such spirits, kindred in many points to Raleigh, 
 in some superior, and in others inferior— as Burke, Sheridan, 
 and Canning — -were used, less for their errors of temper or of 
 life, than because they had gained immense influence, not by 
 birth or favom-, but by the force of extraordinary talent and no 
 less remarkable address. Raleigh, however, was undoubtedly 
 imprudent in a high degree. He had once or twice outraged 
 common morality ; his enemies were constantly accusing him of 
 gasconading and of ' pride.' His success at first was too early 
 and too easy, and hence a reverse might have been anticipated 
 as certain and as remarkable as his rise had been. His fall 
 ultimately is understood to have been precipftated by the base 
 complicity of James with the Spaniards, who were informed by 
 the King of Raleigh's motions in America, and prepared to coun- 
 teract them, as well as by the loud-sounding invectives and legal 
 lies of the unscrupulous instruments of his tyrannical power. 
 
 With all his faults and follies, (of ' crimes,' it has been justly 
 said, Raleigh can hardly be accused,) he stood high in that 
 crowd of giants who illustrated the reign of the Amazonian 
 Queen. What an age it was ! Bacon, with still brighter powers, 
 and far darker and meaner faults than Raleigh, was sitting on 
 the woolsack in body, while his spirit was presiding over the 
 half-born philosophies of the future, and beholding the cold rod 
 of Induction blossom in an after-day into the Aaronic flowers 
 and fruits of a macrnificent science : Cecil was noddino- out wis- 
 
 O 7 O 
 
 dom or transcendental craft in the Cabinet; Sir Philip Sidney 
 was carrying the spirit of ' Arcadia ' into the field of battle ; 
 Spenser was dreaming his one beautiful lifelong Dream ; and 
 Shakspeare was holding up his calm mirror to the heart of man 
 and the universe of nature ; while, on the prow of the British 
 152
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWX BRITISH POETS. [rALEIGH. 
 
 vessel, caviying on those lofty spirits and enterprises, there 
 appeared a daring mariner, tlie Poet and ' Shepherd of the 
 Ocean,' with bright eye, sanguine countenance, step treading 
 the deck like a throne, and look contemplating the sunset, as if 
 it were the dawning, and the Evening, as if it were the Morning 
 Star. It was the hopeful and the brilliant Raleigh, who, while 
 he ' opened np to Europe the New World, Avas the histo- 
 rian of the Old.' Alas that this illustrious ' Marinere ' was 
 doomed to a life so troubled and a death so dreadful, and that 
 the glory of one of England's prodigies is for ever bound up with 
 the disgrace of one of England's and Scotland's princes ! 
 
 THE country's RECREATIONS. 
 
 1 Heart-tearing cares and qiiiv'ring fears, 
 Anxious sighs, untimely tears. 
 
 Fly, fly to courts, 
 
 Fly to fond worldling's sports ; 
 Where strain'd sardonic smiles are glozing still, 
 And Grief is forced to laugh against her will ; 
 
 Where mirth 's but mummery. 
 
 And sorrows only real be. 
 
 2 Fly from our country pastimes, fly. 
 Sad troop of human misery! 
 
 Come, serene looks. 
 
 Clear as the ciystal brooks, 
 Or the pure azured heaven, that smiles to see 
 The rich attendance of our poverty. 
 
 Peace and a secure mind, 
 
 Which all men seek, we only find. 
 
 3 Abused mortals, did you know 
 
 Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow. 
 You 'd scorn proud towers. 
 
 And seek them in these bowers; 
 
 153
 
 RALEIGH.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 AVhere winds perhaps our woods may sometimes shake. 
 But blustering care could never tempest make. 
 Nor murmurs e'er come niiih us. 
 Saving of fountains that glide bj us. 
 
 ***** 
 
 4 Blest silent groves ! oh, may ye be 
 •For ever mirth's best nursery! 
 May pure contents, 
 For ever pitch their tents 
 Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these 
 
 mountains. 
 And peace still slumber by these purling fountains. 
 Which we may every year 
 Find when we come a-fishino- here. 
 
 THE SILENT LOVER. 
 
 1 Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams, 
 
 The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb ; 
 So when affection yields discourse, it seems 
 
 The bottom is but shallow whence they come ; 
 They that are rich in words must needs discover 
 They are but poor in that which makes a lover. 
 
 2 Wrong not, sweet mistress of my heart, 
 
 The merit of true passion, 
 With thinking that he feels no smart 
 That sues for no compassion. 
 
 3 Since if my plaints were not t' approve 
 
 The conquest of thy beauty. 
 It comes not from defect of love. 
 But fear t' exceed my duty. 
 154
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, [rALEIGH. 
 
 4 For not knowing that I sue to serve 
 
 A saint of such perfection 
 As all desire, but none deserve 
 A place in her affection, 
 
 5 I rather choose to want relief 
 
 Than venture the revealing; 
 Where glory recommends the grief. 
 Despair disdains the healing. 
 
 6 Silence in love betravs more woe 
 
 Than words, though ne'er so witty; 
 A beo'o-ar that is dumb, vou know, 
 May challenge double pity. 
 
 7 Then wrong not, dearest to my heart. 
 
 My love for secret passion ; 
 He smarteth most who hides his smart. 
 And sues for no compassion. 
 
 A VISION UPON 'the FAIRY QUEEN.' 
 
 Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay. 
 Within that temple where the vestal flame 
 Was wont to burn : and passing by that way 
 To see that buried dust of living fame, 
 Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept. 
 All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen, 
 At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept; 
 And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen. 
 For they this Queen attended; in whose stead 
 Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse. 
 Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed. 
 And groans of bui'ied ghosts the heavens did pierce. 
 Where Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief. 
 And cursed the access of that celestial thief. 
 
 155
 
 RALEIGH.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL. 
 
 1 Shall I, like a hermit, dwell, 
 On a rock, or in a cell. 
 Calling home the smallest part 
 That is missing of my heart, 
 To bestow it where I may 
 Meet a rival every day? 
 
 If she undervalue me. 
 
 What care I how fair she be? 
 
 2 Were her tresses angel gold. 
 If a stranger may be bold, 
 Unrebuked, unafraid, 
 
 To convert them to a braid, 
 And with little more ado 
 Work them into bracelets, too; 
 If the mine be grown so free, 
 What care I how rich it be ? 
 
 3 Were her hand as rich a prize 
 As her hairs, or precious eyes, 
 If she lay them out to take 
 Kisses, for good manners' sake. 
 And let every lover skip 
 From her hand unto her lip ; 
 If she seem not chaste to me. 
 What care I how chaste she be ? 
 
 4 No ; she must be perfect snow. 
 In effect as well as show; 
 Warming but as snow-balls do. 
 Not like fire, by burning too; 
 
 156
 
 1550-1640.] TPIE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [sYLVESTER. 
 
 But when she by change hath got 
 To her heart a second lot. 
 Then if others share with me, 
 Farew^ell her, whate'er she be! 
 
 JOSHUA SYLVESTER 
 
 Joshua Sylvester is the next in the hst of our imperfectly- 
 known, but real poets. Very little is known of his history. He 
 was a merchant-adventurer, and died at Middleburg, aged fifty- 
 five, in 1618. He is said to have applied, in 1597, for the 
 office of secretary to a trading company in Stade, and to have 
 been, on this occasion, patronised by the Earl of Essex. He 
 was at one time attached to the English Court as a pensioner 
 of Prince Henry. He is said to have been driven abroad by 
 the severity of his satires. He seems to have had a sweet flow 
 of conversational eloquence, and hence w^as called ' The Silver- 
 tongued.' He was an eminent linguist, and wrote his dedica- 
 tions in various languages. He published a large volume of 
 poems, very unequal in their value, and inserted in it ' The 
 Soul's Errand,' with interpolations, as we have seen, which 
 prove it not to be his own. His great work is the translation 
 of the ' Divine Weeks and Works ' of the French poet, Du 
 Bartas, which is a marvellous medley of flatness and force — of 
 childish weakness and soaring genius — with more seed poetry in 
 it than any poem we remember, except ' Festus,' the chaos of a 
 hundred poetic worlds. There can be little doubt that Milton 
 was familiar with this work in boyhood, and many remarkable 
 coincidences have been pointed out between it and ' Paradise 
 Lost.' Sylvester was a Puritan, and his publisher, Humphrey 
 Lownes, who lived in the same street with Milton's father, 
 belonged to the same sect ; and, as Campbell remarks, ' it is 
 easily to be conceived that Milton often repaired to the shop of 
 Lownes, and there met with the pious didactic poem.' The 
 w^ork, therefore, some specimens of which we subjoin, is inter- 
 
 157
 
 SYLVESTER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 esting, both in itself, and as liaving been the prima stamina of 
 the great masterpiece of English poetry. 
 
 TO RELIGION. 
 
 1 Religion, thou lifo of life, 
 
 How worldlings, that profane thee rife. 
 Can wrest thee to their appetites! 
 
 How princes, M^ho thy power deny, 
 
 Pretend thee for their tyranny, 
 
 And people for their false delights! 
 
 2 Under thy sacred name, all over, 
 The vicious all their vices cover; 
 
 The insolent their insolence. 
 The proud their pride, the false their fraud. 
 The thief his theft, her filth the bawd, 
 
 The impudent, their impudence. 
 
 3 Ambition under thee aspires. 
 And Avarice under thee desires ; 
 
 Sloth under thee her ease assumes. 
 Lux under thee all overflows, 
 Wrath under thee outrageous grows, 
 
 All evil under thee presumes. 
 
 4 Religion, erst so venerable, 
 
 What art thou now but made a fable, 
 
 A holy mask on folly's brow. 
 Where under lies Dissimulation, 
 Lined with all abomination. 
 
 Sacred Reliaion, where art thou? 
 
 5 Not in the church with Simony, 
 Not on the bench with Bribery, 
 158
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dU BARTAS. 
 
 Nor in tlie court with Macliiavel, 
 Nor in the city with deceits, 
 Nor in the country with debates ; 
 
 For what hath Heaven to do with Hein 
 
 ON man's RESEMBLANCE TO GOD. 
 
 (from DU BAETAS.) 
 
 complete creature! who the starry spheres 
 
 Canst make to move, w^ho 'bove the heavenly bears 
 
 Extend'st thy power, who guidest with thy hand 
 
 The day's bright chariot, and the nightly brand: 
 
 This curious lust to imitate the best 
 
 And fairest works of the Almightiest, 
 
 By rare efiects bears record of thy lineage 
 
 And hi<rh descent : and that his sacred imao-e 
 
 Was in thy soul engraven, when first his Spirit, 
 
 The sj^ring of life, did in thy hmbs inspire it. 
 
 For, as his beauties are past all compare. 
 
 So is thy soul all beautiful and fair: 
 
 As he 's immortal, and is never idle. 
 
 Thy soul 's immortal, and can brook no bridle 
 
 Of sloth, to curb her busy intellect: 
 
 He ponders all; thou peizest^ each effect: 
 
 And thy mature and settled sapience 
 
 Hath some alliance with his providence : 
 
 He works by reason, thou by rule : he 's glory 
 
 Of the heavenly stages, thou of th' earthly story: 
 
 He 's great High Priest, thou his great vicar here : 
 
 He 's sovereign Prmce, and thou his viceroy dear. 
 
 For soon as ever he had framed thee, 
 Into thy hands he put this monarchy : 
 
 ^ 'Peizest:' weigliest. 
 
 159
 
 DU BARTAS.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIUS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Made all the creatures know thee for their lord, 
 And come before thee of then' own accord: 
 And gave thee power as master, to impose 
 Fit sense-full names unto the host that rows 
 In watery regions; and tlie wand'ring herds 
 Of forest people ; and the painted birds : 
 Oh, too, too happy! had that fall of thine 
 Not cancell'd so the character divine. 
 
 But, since our souls' now sin-obscured light 
 Shines through the lanthorn of our flesh so bright; 
 What sacred splendour will this star send forth, 
 When it shall shine without this vail of earth ? 
 The Soul here lodged is like a man that dwells 
 In an ill air, annoy'd with noisome smells; 
 In an old house, open to wind and weather; 
 Never in health not half an hour together: 
 Or, almost, like a spider who, confined 
 In her web's centre, shakes with every wind ; 
 Moves in an instant, if the buzzing fly 
 Stir but a string of her lawn canopy. 
 
 THE CHARIOT OF THE SUN. 
 
 Thou radiant coachman, running endless course. 
 Fountain of heat, of light the lively source. 
 Life of the world, lamp of this universe. 
 Heaven's richest gem : oh, teach me v.diere my verse 
 May but begin thy praise : Alas ! I fare 
 Much like to one that in the clouds doth stare 
 To count the quails, that with their shadow cover 
 The Italian sea, when soaring hither over. 
 Fain of a milder and more fruitful clime. 
 They come with us to pass the summer time : 
 160
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dU BARTAS. 
 
 No sooney lie begins one sliOcal to sum, 
 
 But, more and more, still greater slioals do come, 
 
 Swarm upon swarm, that with their countless 
 
 number 
 Break off his purpose, and his sense encumber. 
 
 Day's glorious eye! even as a mighty king 
 About his country stately progressing. 
 Is compass'd round with dukes, earls, lords, and 
 
 knights, 
 (Orderly marshall'd in their noble rites,) 
 Esquires and gentlemen, in courtly kind, 
 And then his guard before him and behind. 
 And there is nought in all his royal muster. 
 But to his OTeatness addeth 2;race and lustre : 
 So, while about the world thou ridest aye. 
 Which only lives through virtue of thy ray, 
 Six heavenly princes, mounted evermore. 
 Wait on thy coach, three behind, three before; 
 Besides the host of tli' upper twinklers bright. 
 To whom, for pay, thou givest only light. 
 And, even as man (the little world of cares) 
 Within the middle of the body bears 
 His heart, the spring of life, which with proportion 
 Supplieth spirits to all, and every portion; 
 Even so, Sun, thy golden chariot marches 
 Amid the six lamps of the six low arches 
 Which seele the world, that equall}" it might 
 Bichly impart them beauty, force, and light. 
 
 Praising thy heat, which subtilly doth pierce 
 The solid thickness of our universe : 
 Which in the earth's kidneys mercury doth burn, 
 And pallid sulphur to bright metal turn ; 
 I do digress, to praise that light of thine, 
 AVhich if it should but one day cease to shine, 
 VOL. I. L 161
 
 BARNFIELD.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Th' iinpurged air to water would resolve, 
 And water would the mountain tops involve. 
 Scarce I begin to measure thy bright face 
 Whose greatness doth so oft earth's greatness pass, 
 And which still running the celestial ring, 
 Is seen and felt of every living thing; 
 But that fantastic'ly I change my theme 
 To sing the swiftness of thy tireless team. 
 To sing how, rising from the Indian wave, 
 Thou seem'st (0 Titan) like a bridegroom brave. 
 Who, from his chamber early issuing out 
 In rich array, with rarest gems about. 
 With pleasant countenance and lovely face. 
 With golden tresses and attractive grace. 
 Cheers at his coming all the youthful throng 
 That for his presence earnestly did long. 
 Blessing the day, and with delightful g'lee, 
 Singing aloud his epithalamie. 
 
 EICHARD BARNFIELD. 
 
 Of him we only know that he published several poetical volumes 
 between 1594 and 1598. We give one beautiful piece, ' To a 
 Nightingale/ which used to be attributed to Shakspeare. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 As it fell upon a day. 
 
 In the merry month of May, 
 
 Sitting in a pleasant shade 
 
 Which a grove of myrtles made; 
 
 Beasts did leap, and birds did sing. 
 
 Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; 
 162
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [bARNFIELD. 
 
 Eveiything- did banish moan, 
 
 Save the nightingale alone. 
 
 She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 
 
 Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn ; 
 
 And there sun;]!- the dolefuU'st ditty, 
 
 That to hear it was great pity. 
 
 'Fie, fie, fie,' now would she cry; 
 
 ' Teru, teru,' by and by ; 
 
 That, to hear her so complain, 
 
 Scarce I could from tears refrain; 
 
 For her griefs, so lively shown. 
 
 Made me think upon mine own. 
 
 Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain; 
 
 None takes pity on thy pain : 
 
 Senseless trees, thev cannot hear thee, 
 
 Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee : 
 
 King Pandion he is dead ; 
 
 All thy friends are lapp'd m lead; 
 
 All thy fellow-birds do sing, 
 
 Careless of thy sorrowing! 
 
 Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled. 
 
 Thou and I were both be2;uiled. 
 
 Every one that flatters thee 
 
 Is no friend in misery. 
 
 AVords are easy, like the wind; 
 
 Faithful friends are hard to find. 
 
 Every man will be thy friend 
 
 Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend : 
 
 But, if store of crowns be scant. 
 
 No man will supply thy want. 
 
 If that one be prodigal, 
 
 Bountiful they will him call; 
 
 And with such-like flatterina', 
 
 ' Pity but he were a king.' 
 
 163
 
 HUME,] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 If he be addict to vice, 
 Quickly him they will entice; 
 But if Foi'tune once do frown. 
 Then farewell his great renown : 
 They that fawn'd on him before 
 Use his company no more. 
 He that is thv friend indeed. 
 He will help thee in thy need; 
 If thou sorrow, he will weep, 
 If thou wake, he cannot sleep : 
 Thus, of every grief in heart 
 He with thee doth bear a part. 
 These are certain signs to know 
 Faithful friend from flatterinii" foe. 
 
 ALEXANDER HUME. 
 
 This Scottish poet was the second son of Patrick, fifth Baron 
 of Polwarth. He was born about the middle of the sixteenth 
 century, and died in 1609. He resided for some years, in the 
 early part of his life, in France, Returning home, he studied 
 law, and then tried his fortune at Court, Here he was eclipsed 
 by a rival, named Montgomery ; and after assailing his rival, 
 who rejoined, in verse, he became a clergyman in disgust, and 
 was settled in the parish of Logic. Here he darkened into a 
 sour and savage Calvinist, and uttered an exhortation to the 
 youth of Scotland to forego the admiration of classical heroes, 
 and to read no love-poetry save the ^ Song of Solomon.' In 
 another poetic walk, however, that of natural description, Hume 
 excelled, and we print with pleasure some parts of his '■ Summer's 
 Day,' wliich our readers may compare with Mr Aird's fine poem 
 under the same title, and be convinced that the sky of Scotland 
 was as blue, and the grass as green, and Scottish eyes as quick 
 to perceive their beauty, in the sixteenth century as now. 
 164
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [hUME. 
 
 THANKS FOR A SUMMER S DAT. 
 
 1 perfect light which shade ^ away 
 
 The darkness from the light, 
 And set a ruler o'er the dav. 
 Another o'er the night. 
 
 2 Thy glory, when the day forth flics. 
 
 More vively does appear, 
 Nor^ at mid-day unto our eyes 
 The shining sun is clear. 
 
 3 The shadow of the earth anon 
 
 Removes and drawls by, 
 Syne^ in the east, when it is gone, 
 Appears a clearer sky. 
 
 4 Which soon perceive the little larks. 
 
 The lapwing, and the snipe. 
 And tune their song like Nature's clerks, 
 O'er meadow, muir, and stripe. 
 
 5 But every bold nocturnal beast 
 
 No longer may abide. 
 They hie away both maist and least,* 
 Themselves in house to hide. 
 % % ■& s 
 
 6 Tlie golden globe incontinent 
 
 Sets up his shining head, 
 And o'er the earth and firmament 
 Displays his beams abroad.^ 
 
 1 'Shade:' /«»* shaded.— 2 'Nor:' than.— ^ 'Syne:' then— ■* ' Maist and least : 
 largest and smallest. — ' 'Abread:' abroad. 
 
 165
 
 HUME.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 7 For joy the birds with boulden^ throats. 
 
 Against his visage sheen,^ 
 Take up their kindly music notes 
 In woods and gardens green. 
 
 8 Upbraids 3 the careful husbandman, 
 
 His corn and vines to see, 
 And every timeous^ artisan 
 In booths works busily. 
 
 9 The pastor quits the slothful sleep. 
 
 And passes forth with speed, 
 His little camow-nosed^ sheep. 
 And rowting kye^ to feed. 
 
 10 The passenger, from perils sure. 
 
 Goes gladly forth the way. 
 Brief, every living creature 
 Takes comfort of the day. 
 
 11 The misty reek,"^ the clouds of rain 
 
 From tops of mountain skails,^ 
 Clear are the highest hills and plain. 
 The vapours take the vales. 
 
 12 Begaired^ is the sapphire pend^*^ 
 
 With spraings^^ of scarlet hue; 
 And preciously from end to end. 
 Damasked white and blue. 
 
 13 The ample heaven, of fabric sure, 
 
 In clearness does surpass 
 
 >■ 'Boulden:' emboldened. — ^ 'Sheen:' shining.— ^ 'Upbraids:' uprises.— 
 * 'Timeous:' early.— ^ 'Camow-nosed:' flat-nosed.—" 'Rowting kye:' lowing 
 kine.— '' 'Reek:' fog.— ^ 'Skails:' dissipates.—" 'Begaired:' dressed out.— 
 1" 'Pend:' arch. — ^^ 'Sprainge:' streaks. 
 
 166
 
 1550-1G40.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [hUME. 
 
 The crystal and tlie sih'er, pure 
 As clearest polisli'd glass. 
 
 14 The time so tranquil is and clear, 
 
 That nowliere shall ye find, 
 Save on a high and barren hill. 
 The air of passing wind. 
 
 15 All trees and simples, great and small, 
 
 That balmy leaf do bear, 
 Than they were painted on a wall, 
 Xo more they move or steir.^ 
 
 16 The rivers fresh, the caller- streams. 
 
 O'er rocks can swiftly rin,^ 
 The water clear like crystal beams, 
 And makes a pleasant din. 
 % % % ^ 
 
 17 Calm is the deep and purple sea. 
 
 Yea, smoother than the sand; 
 The waves, that weltering^ wont to be, 
 Are stable like the land. 
 
 18 So silent is the cessile air. 
 
 That every cry and call. 
 The hills and dales, and forest fair. 
 Again repeats them all. 
 
 19 The clogged busy humming bees. 
 
 That never think to drown,^ 
 On flowers and flourishes of trees. 
 Collect their liquor brown. 
 
 I 'Steir:' stir.—- 'Caller:' cool.— =^ 'Ein:' run.— ^ 'Woltering:' tumbling.— 
 ^ 'Drowu:' drone, be idle. 
 
 167
 
 HUME.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 20 The sun most like a speedy post 
 
 With ardent course ascends; 
 The beauty of our heavenly host 
 Up to our zenith tends. 
 
 ■)i '.i -.i ^ 
 
 21 The breathless flocks di-aw to the shade 
 
 And f reshure ^ of their f auld ; ^ 
 The startling nolt, as they w^ere mad, 
 Kun to the rivers cauld. 
 
 22 The herds beneath some leafy trees, 
 
 Amidst the flowers they lie ; 
 The stable ships upon the seas 
 Tend up their sails to dry. 
 
 23 The hart, the hind, the fallo^v-deer, 
 
 Are tapish'd^ at their rest; 
 The fowls and birds that made thee beare,* 
 Prepare their pretty nest. 
 
 24 The rayons dure^ descending down, 
 
 All kindle in a sfleid;^ 
 In city, nor in burrough town, 
 May none set forth their head. 
 
 25 Back from the blue pavemented whun. 
 
 And from ilk plaster wall, 
 The hot reflexing of the sun 
 Inflames the air and all. 
 
 26 The labourers that timely rose, 
 
 All weary, faint, and weak, 
 
 1 'Freshure:' freshness.— 2 'Fauld:' fold.-* 'Tapish'd:' stretched as on a 
 carpet.—* ' Beare : ' sound, music.—' ' Rayons dure : ' hard or keen rays— ^ • Gleid : ' 
 fire. — ^ MVhun:' whinstone. 
 
 168
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [hUME. 
 
 For heat down to their houses goes, 
 Noon-meat and sleep to take. 
 
 27 The caller^ wine in cave is sought, 
 
 Men's bro thing" Ijreasts to cool; 
 The water cold and clear is brought, 
 And sallads steeped in ule.^ 
 
 28 With gilded eyes and open wings. 
 
 The cock his courage shows ; 
 Witli claps of joy his breast he dings,* 
 And twenty times he crows. 
 
 29 The dove with whistling wings so blue. 
 
 The winds can fast collect. 
 Her jDurple pens turn many a hue 
 Against the sun direct. 
 
 30 Now noon is gone — gone is mid-day. 
 
 The heat does slake at last. 
 The sun descends down west awav. 
 For three o'clock is past. 
 * % % * 
 
 31 The rayons of the sun we see 
 
 Diminish in their strength. 
 The shade of every tower and tree 
 Extended is in lensjth. 
 
 32 Great is the calm, for everywhere 
 
 The wind is setting down. 
 The reek^ throws up right in the air. 
 From every tower and town. 
 
 ^ 'Caller:' cool.—* 'Brothing:' burning. — ^ 'Ule:' oil.—'' 'Dings:' beats. - 
 ^ ' Keek:' smoke. 
 
 169
 
 HUME.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [iD TER. 
 
 % * * « 
 
 33 The mavis and the philomeen,"^ 
 
 The starling whistles loud, 
 The cushats- on the branches gTeen, 
 Full quietly they crood.^ 
 
 34 The gloamin^ comes, the day is spent, 
 
 The sun goes out of sight, 
 And painted is the Occident 
 AVith purple sanguine bright. 
 
 35 The scarlet nor the golden thread. 
 
 Who would their beauty try. 
 Are nothing like the colour red 
 And beauty of the sky. 
 
 36 What pleasure then to walk and see, 
 
 Endlong^ a river clear. 
 The perfect form of every tree 
 Within the deep appear. 
 
 37 The salmon out of cruives^ and creels,^ 
 
 Uphauled into scouts;^ 
 The bells and circles on the weills,^ 
 Through leaping of the trouts. 
 
 38 sure it were a seemly thing, 
 
 While all is still and calm. 
 The praise of God to play and sing 
 With trumpet and with shalm. 
 
 1 'The mavis and the philomeen : ' thrush and nightingale. — * 'Cushats:' 
 wood-pigeons.— =* 'Crood:' coo.— * ' C4Ioamin : ' evening.- ^ 'Endlong:' along.— 
 « ' Cruives:' cages for catching fish.— ^ ' Creels:' baskets.— ^ ' Scouts:' small boats 
 or yawls.— " 'Weills:' eddies. 
 
 170
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [sCOTT, ETC. 
 
 39 Through all the land great is the gikU 
 
 Of rustic folks that cry ; 
 Of bleating sheep, from they be fUl'd, 
 Of calves and rowting kye. 
 
 40 All labourers draw home at even. 
 
 And can to others say, 
 Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, 
 Who sent this summer day. 
 
 OTHEH SCOTTISH POETS. 
 
 About the same time with Hume flourished two or three poets 
 in Scotland of considerable merit, such as Alexander Scott, 
 author of satires and amatory poems, and called sometimes 
 the ' Scottish Anacreonj' Sir Richard Maitland of Lethington, 
 father of the famous Secretary Lethington, who, in his advanced 
 years, composed and dictated to his daughter a few moral and 
 conversational pieces, and who collected, besides, into a MS. 
 which bears his name, the productions of some of his contempo- 
 raries ; and Alexander Montgomery, author of an allegorical 
 poem, entitled ' The Cherry and the Slae.' 
 
 The allegory is not well managed, but some of the natural 
 descriptions are sweet and striking. Take the two following 
 stanzas as a specimen : — 
 
 ' The cushat croods, the corbie cries, 
 The cuckoo couks, the prattling pies 
 
 To geek there they begiu ; 
 The jargon of the janghng jays, 
 The cracking craws and keckliug kays, 
 
 They deav'd me with their din ; 
 The painted pawn, with Ai'gits eyes, 
 
 Can on his May-cock call, 
 The turtle wails, on wither'd trees, 
 
 And Echo answers alL 
 
 1 'Gild:' thronsr. 
 
 a- 
 
 171
 
 DANIEL.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Repeating, with greeting, 
 
 How fair Narcissus fell. 
 By lying, and spying 
 
 His shadow in the well. 
 
 * The air was sober, saft, and sweet, 
 Nae misty vapours, wind, nor weet, 
 
 But quiet, calm, and clear: 
 To foster Flora's fragrant flowers, 
 Whereon Apollo's paramours 
 Had trinkled mony a tear ; 
 The which, like silver shakers, shined, 
 
 Embroidering Beauty's bed, 
 "Wherewith their heavy heads declined, 
 In Maye's colom's clad ; 
 
 Some knopping, some dropping 
 
 Of balmy liquor sweet, 
 Excelling and smelling 
 Through Phoebus' M-holesome heat.' 
 
 The ^ Cheny and the Slae ' was familiar to Burns, who often, 
 our readers will ob.serve, copied its form of verse. 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 This ingenious person was born in 1562, near Taunton, in 
 Somersetshire. His father was a music-master. He was pat- 
 ronised by the noble family of Pembroke, who j)i'obably also 
 maintained him at college. He went to Magdalene Hall, 
 Oxford, in 1579 ; and after studying there, chiefly history and 
 poetry, for seven years, he left without a degree. When twenty- 
 three years of age, he translated Paulus Jovius' ' Discourse of 
 Rare Inventions.' He became tutor to Lady Anne Clifford, the 
 elegant and accomplished daughter of the Earl of Cumberland. 
 She, at his death, raised a monument to his memory, and 
 recorded on it, with pride, that she had been his pupil. After 
 Spenser died, Daniel became a ' voluntary laureat ' to the Court, 
 producing masques and pageants, but was soon supplanted by 
 ' rare Ben Jonson.' In 1603 he was appointed Master of the 
 Queen's Revels and Inspector of the Plays to be enacted by 
 172
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dANIEL. 
 
 juvenile performers. He was also promoted to be Gentleman 
 Extraordinary and Groom of the Chambers to the Queen. He 
 was a varied and voluminous writer, composing plays, miscel- 
 laneous poems, and prose compositions, including a ' Defence of 
 Ehyme ' and a ' History of England,' — an honest, but somewhat 
 dry and dull production. While composing his works he resided 
 in Old Street, St Luke's, which was then thought a suburban 
 residence; but he was often in town, and mingled on intimate 
 terms with Selden and Shakspeare. When approaching sixty, 
 he took a farm at Beckington, in Somersetshire — his native 
 shire — and died there in 1619, 
 
 Daniel's Plays and History are now, as wholes, forgotten, 
 although the former contained some vigorous passages, such as 
 Richard II.'s soliloquy on the morning of his murder in Pom- 
 fret Castle. His smaller pieces and his Sonnets shew no ordi- 
 nary poetic powers. 
 
 RICHARD II., THE MORNING BEFORE HIS MURDER IN POMFRET 
 
 CASTLE. 
 
 Whether the soul receives intelligence, 
 By her near genius, of the body's end. 
 And so imparts a sadness to the sense. 
 Foregoing ruin, whereto it doth tend; 
 Or whether nature else liath conference 
 With profound sleep, and so doth warning send, 
 By proplietising dreams, what hurt is neai', 
 And gives the heavy careful heart to fear : — 
 
 However, so it is, the now sad king, 
 Toss'd here and there his quiet to confound. 
 Feels a strange weight of sorrows gathering 
 Upon his trembling heart, and sees no ground ; 
 Feels sudden terror brins; cold shiverino-; 
 Lists not to eat, still muses, sleeps unsound ; 
 His senses droop, his steady eyes unquick. 
 And much he ails, and yet he is not sick. 
 
 173
 
 DANIEL.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 The morning of that day which was his last, 
 
 After a weary rest, rising to pain, 
 
 Out at a little grate his eyes he cast 
 
 Upon those bordering hills and open plain, 
 
 "Where others' liberty makes him complain 
 
 The more his owi., and grieves his soul the more, 
 
 Conferring captive crowns with freedom poor. 
 
 ' happy man,' saith he, 'that lo I see. 
 Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields. 
 If he but knew his good. How blessed he 
 That feels not what affliction o-reatness yields! 
 Other than what he is he would not be. 
 Nor change his state with him that sceptre wields. 
 Thine, thine is that true life : that is to live, 
 To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve. 
 
 * Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire. 
 And hear'st of others' harms, but fearest none : 
 And there thou tell'st of kings, and who aspire, 
 AVho fall, who rise, who triumph, who do moan. 
 Perhaps thou talk'st of me, and dost inquire 
 Of my restraint, why here I live alone, 
 And pitiest this my miserable fall ; 
 For pity must have part — envy not all. 
 
 ' Thrice happy you that look as from the shore, 
 
 And have no venture in the wreck you see ; 
 
 No interest, no occasion to deplore 
 
 Other men's travails, while yourselves sit free. 
 
 How much doth your sweet rest make us the more 
 
 To see our misery and what we be : 
 
 Whose blinded greatness, ever in turmoil. 
 
 Still seeking happy life, makes life a toil.' 
 
 174
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-liNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dANIEL. 
 
 EARLY LOVE. 
 
 Ah, I remember well (and how can I 
 
 But evermore remember welH) when first 
 
 Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was 
 
 The flame we felt ; when as we sat and sigli'd 
 
 And look'd upon each other, and conceived 
 
 Not what we ail'd, yet somethmg we did ail. 
 
 And yet were well, and yet we were not well, 
 
 And what was our disease we could not tell. 
 
 Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look : and thus 
 
 In that first garden of om' simpleness 
 
 We spent our childhood. But when years began 
 
 To reap the fruit of knowledge ; ah, how^ then 
 
 Would she with sterner looks, with graver brow. 
 
 Check my presumption and my forwardness ! 
 
 Yet still would aive me flowers, still would show 
 
 What she would have me, yet not have me know. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM SONNETS. 
 
 I must not grieve, my love, whose eyes would read 
 Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile ; 
 Flowers have time before they come to seed. 
 And she is young, and now must sport the while. 
 And sport, sw^eet maid, in season of these years. 
 And learn to gather flowers before they wither ; 
 And where the sweetest blossom first appears, 
 Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither, 
 Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, 
 And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise : 
 Pity and smiles do best become the fair; 
 Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. 
 Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, 
 Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one. 
 
 175
 
 DANIEL.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Fair is my love, and cruel as slie's fair; 
 
 Her brow shades frown, altliougli lier eyes are 
 
 sunny ; 
 Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair ; 
 And her disdains are gall, her favours honey. 
 A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour, 
 Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love ; 
 The wonder of all eyes that look upon her: 
 Sacred on earth ; design'd a saint above ; 
 Chastity and Beauty, which are deadly foes, 
 Live reconciled friends within her brow; 
 And had she Pity to conjoin with those, 
 Then who had heard the plaints I utter now'? 
 For had she not been fair, and thus unkind. 
 My muse had slept, and none had known my mind. 
 
 Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, 
 Brother to Death, in silent darkness born. 
 Believe my anguish, and restore the light. 
 With dark forgetting of my care, return. 
 And let the day be time enough to mourn 
 The shipwreck of my ill-advised youth ; 
 Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn. 
 Without the torments of the night's untruth. 
 Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. 
 To model forth the passions of to-morrow ; 
 Never let the rising sun prove you liars, 
 To add more grief, to aggravate my sorrow. 
 Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain. 
 And never wake to feel the day's disdain. 
 
 176
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dAVIES. 
 
 SIR JOHN DAVIES. 
 
 This kniglit, says Campbell, 'wrote, at twenty-five years of 
 age, a poera on the " Immortality of the Soul," and at fifty-two, 
 when he was a judge and a statesman, another on the " Art of 
 DancinQy Well might the teacher of that noble accomplish- 
 ment, in Moli^re's comedy, exclaim, "ia pMlosojtMe est quelque 
 chose — mais la danse!^''^ This, however, is more pointed than 
 correct, since the first of these poems was written in 1592, when 
 the author was only twenty-two years of age, and the latter 
 appeared in 1599, when he was only twenty-nine. 
 
 Tisbury, in Wiltshire, was the birthplace of this poet, and 
 1570 the date of his birth. His father w^as a practising lawyer. 
 John was expelled from the Temple for beating one Richard 
 Martyn, afterwards Recorder, but was restored, and subsequently 
 elected for Parliament. In 1592, as aforesaid, appeared his 
 poem, 'Nosce Teipsum; or, The Immortality of the Soul.' Its 
 fame soon travelled to Scotland ; and when Davies, along with 
 Lord Hunsdon, visited that country, James received him most 
 graciously as the author of ' Nosce Teipsum.' His history 
 became, for some time, a list of promotions. He was appointed, 
 in 1603, first Solicitor and then Attorney-General in Ireland, 
 was next made Sergeant, was then knighted, then appointed 
 King's Sergeant, next elected representative of the county of 
 Fermanagh, and, in fine, after a violent contest between the 
 Roman Catholic and Protestant parties, was chosen Speaker of 
 the Plouse of Commons in the Protestant interest. While in 
 Ireland he married Eleanor, a daughter of Lord Audley, who 
 turned out a raving prophetess, and was sent, in 1649, to the 
 Tower, and then to Bethlehem Hospital, by the Revolutionary 
 Government. In 1616, Sir John returned to England, continued 
 to practise as a barrister, sat in Parliament for Newcastle-under- 
 Lyne, and received a promise of being made Chiaf-Justice of 
 England; but was suddenly cut off by apoplexy in 1626. 
 
 His poem on dancing, which was written in fifteen days, 
 and left a fragment, is a piece of beautiful, though somewhat 
 extravagant fancy. His ' Nosce Teipsum,' if it casts little new 
 light, and rears no demonstrative argument on the grand and 
 
 VOL. I. M 177
 
 DA VIES.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 diiScult problem of immortality, is full of ingenuity, and has 
 many apt and memorable similes. Feeling he happily likens 
 to the 
 
 * subtle spider, which doth sit 
 In middle of her web, which spreadeth wide ; 
 If aught do touch the utmost thread of it, 
 She feels it instantly on every side.' 
 
 In answering an objection, ' Why, if souls continue to exist, 
 do they not return and bring us news of that strange world?' he 
 replies — 
 
 * But as Noah's pigeon, which return'd no more, 
 Did show she footing found, for all the flood, 
 So when good souls, departed through death's door, 
 Come not again, it shows their dwelling good.' 
 
 The poem is interesting from the musical use he makes of the 
 quatrain, a form of verse in which Dryden afterwards wrote his 
 ' Annus Mirabilis,' and as one of the earliest philosophical 
 poems in the language. It is proverbially difficult to reason in 
 verse, but Davies reasons, if not always with conclusive result, 
 always with energy and skill. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE POEM ON THE SOUL OF MAN. 
 
 1 The lights of heaven, which are the world's fair eyes. 
 
 Look down into the world, the world to see ; 
 And as they turn or wander in the skies, 
 Survey all things that on this centre be. 
 
 2 And yet the lights which in my tower do shine, 
 
 Mine eyes, which view all objects nigh and far, 
 Look not into this little world of mine, 
 Nor see my face, wherein they fixed are. 
 
 3 Since Nature fails us in no needful thing, 
 
 Why want I means my inward self to see? 
 "Wliich sight the knowledge of myself might bring, 
 W-'hich to true wisdom is the first degree. 
 178
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dAVIES. 
 
 4 That Power, which gave me eyes the world to view, 
 
 To view myself, infused an inward light. 
 Whereby my soul, as by a mirror true. 
 Of her own form may take a perfect sight. 
 
 5 But as the sharpest eye discerneth nought. 
 
 Except the sunbeams in the air do shine ; 
 So the best soul, with her reflecting thought. 
 Sees not herself without some lidit divine. 
 
 6 light, which mak'st the light which makes the day ! 
 
 Which sett'st the eye without, and mind within, 
 Lighten my spirit with one clear heavenly ray, 
 Which now to view itself doth first beuin. 
 
 7 For her true form how can my spark discern. 
 
 Which, dim by nature, art did never clear, 
 
 When the great wits, of whom all skill we learn, 
 
 Are ignorant both what she is, and where ? 
 
 8 One thinks the soul is air ; another fire ; 
 
 Another blood, diffused about the heart ; 
 Another saith, the elements conspire, 
 And to her essence each doth give a part. 
 
 9 Musicians think our souls are harmonies ; 
 
 Physicians hold that they complexions be; 
 Epicures make them swarms of atomies. 
 Which do by chance into our bodies flee. 
 
 10 Some think one general soul fills every brain, 
 As the bright sun sheds light in every star; 
 And others think the name of soul is vain, 
 And that we only well-mix'd bodies are. 
 
 179
 
 DAVIES.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 1 1 In judgment of her substance thus they vary ; 
 
 And thus they vary in judgment of her seat; 
 For some her chair up to the brain do carry, 
 Some thrust it down into the stomach's heat. 
 
 12 Some place it in the root of life, the heart; 
 
 Some in the liver, fountain of the veins ; 
 Some say, she 's all in all, and all in every part ; 
 Some say, she 's not contain'd, but all contains. 
 
 13 Thus these great clerks their little wisdom show. 
 
 While with their doctrines they at hazard play; 
 Tossing their light opinions to and fro. 
 
 To mock the lewd, as learn'd in this as they. 
 
 1 4 For no crazed brain could ever yet propound, 
 
 Touching the soul, so vain and fond a thought ; 
 But some among these masters have been found. 
 Which in their schools the selfsame thing have 
 taught. 
 
 15 God only wise, to punish pride of wit. 
 
 Among men's w^its hath this confusion wrought. 
 As the proud tower whose points the clouds did hit, 
 By tongues' confusion was to ruin brought, 
 
 1 6 But thou which didst man's soul of nothing make. 
 
 And when to nothing it was fallen again, 
 ' To make it new, the form of man didst take ; 
 And, God with God, becam'st a man with men.' 
 
 17 Thou that hast fashion'd twice this soul of ours, 
 
 So that she is by double title thine. 
 Thou only know'st her nature and her powers. 
 
 Her subtle form thou only canst define. 
 180
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dAYIES. 
 
 18 To judge herself, she must herself transcend. 
 
 As greater circles comprehend the less ; 
 But she wants power her own powers to extend, 
 As fetter'd men cannot then- strength express. 
 
 19 But thou bright morning Star, thou rising Sun, 
 
 Which in these later times hast brought to light 
 Those mysteries that, since the world begun. 
 Lay hid in darkness and eternal night: 
 
 20 Thou, like the sun, dost with an equal ray 
 
 Into the palace and the cottage shine, 
 And show'st the soul, both to the clerk and lay, 
 By the clear lamp of oracle divine. 
 
 21 This lamp, through all the regions of my brain. 
 
 Where my soul sits, doth spread such beams of 
 grace. 
 As now, methinks, I do distinguish plain 
 Each subtle line of her immortal face. 
 
 22 The soul a substance and a spirit is, 
 
 Which God himself doth in the body make. 
 Which makes the man ; for eveiy man from this 
 The nature of a man and name doth take. 
 
 23 And though this spirit be to the body knit, 
 
 As an apt means her powers to exercise. 
 Which are life, motion, sense, and will, and wit, 
 Yet she survives, although the body dies. 
 
 181
 
 DAVIES.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 THE SELF-SUBSISTENCE OF THE SOUL. 
 
 1 She is a substance, and a real thing, 
 
 Which hath itself an actual working might, 
 Which neither from the senses' power doth spring, 
 Nor from the body's humours temper'd right. 
 
 2 She is a vine, which doth no propping need, 
 
 To make her spread herself, or spring upright ; 
 She is a star, whose beams do not proceed 
 From any sun, but from a native light. 
 
 3 Tor when she sorts things present with things past,' 
 
 And thereby things to come doth oft foresee ; 
 When she doth doubt at first, and clioose at last, 
 These acts her own,'"" without her body be. 
 
 4 When of the dew, which the eye and ear do take. 
 
 From flowers abroad, and bring into the brain. 
 She doth within both wax and honey make : 
 This work is hers, this is her proper pain. 
 
 5 When she from sundry acts, one skill doth draw; 
 
 Gathering from divers fights one art of war ; 
 From many cases like, one rule of law ; 
 These her collections, not the senses' are. 
 
 6 When in the effects she doth the causes know ; 
 
 And seeing the stream, thinks where the spring 
 doth rise ; 
 And seeing the branch, conceives the root below : 
 These things she views without the body's eyes. 
 
 * That the soul hath a proper operation without the body. 
 
 182
 
 1550-1640,] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dAVIES. 
 
 7 When she, without a Pegasus, doth fly 
 
 Swifter than hghtning's fire from east to west ; 
 About the centre, and above the sky, 
 She travels then, although the body rest. 
 
 8 When all her works she formeth first within, 
 
 Proportions them, and sees their perfect end ; 
 Ere she in act doth any part begin. 
 
 What instruments doth then the body lend ? 
 
 9 When without hands she doth thus castles build. 
 
 Sees without eyes, and without feet doth run ; 
 When she digests the world, yet is not fill'd : 
 By her own powers these miracles are done. 
 
 10 A\hen she defines, argues, divides, compounds. 
 
 Considers virtue, vice, and general things ; 
 And marrying divers principles and grounds, 
 Out of their match a true conclusion brings. 
 
 11 These actions in her closet, all alone, 
 
 • Petned within herself, she doth fulfil ; 
 Use of her body's organs she hath none. 
 
 When she doth use the powers of wdt and will. 
 
 12 Yet in the body's prison so she lies. 
 
 As through the body's window^s she must look. 
 Her divers powers of sense to exercise. 
 
 By gathering notes out of the world's great book. 
 
 13 Nor can herself discourse or judge of ought. 
 
 But what the sense collects, and home doth brinff : 
 And yet the powers of her discoursing thought, 
 Prom these collections is a diverse thing. 
 
 183
 
 DAVIES.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 14 For thouo-li our eyes can noualit but colours see, 
 
 Yet colours give them not their power of sight ; 
 So, though these fruits of sense her objects be, 
 Yet she discerns them by her proper light. 
 
 15 The workman on his stuff his skill doth show, 
 
 And yet the stuff gives not the man his skill; 
 Kings their affairs do by their servants know, 
 But order them by their own royal will. 
 
 16 So, though this cunning mistress, and this queen. 
 
 Doth, as her instruments, the senses use. 
 To know all things that are felt, heard, or seen ; 
 Yet she herself doth only judge and choose. 
 
 1 7 Even as a prudent emperor, that reigns 
 
 By sovereign title over sundry lands. 
 Borrows, in mean affairs, his subjects' pains. 
 Sees by their eyes, and writeth by their hands : 
 
 18 But things of weight and consequence indeed, 
 
 Himself doth in his chamber then debate ; 
 Where all his counsellors he doth exceed. 
 As far in judgment, as he doth in state. 
 
 19 Or as the man whom princes do advance. 
 
 Upon their gracious mercy-seat to sit. 
 Doth common things of course and circumstance. 
 To the reports of common men commit : 
 
 20 But when the cause itself must be decreed, 
 
 Himself in person in his proper court. 
 To grave and solemn hearing doth proceed. 
 Of every proof, and every by-report. 
 184
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dAYIES. 
 
 21 Then, like God's angel, he pronoimceth right, 
 
 And milk and honey from his tongue doth flow : 
 Happy are they that still are in his sight, 
 To reap the wisdom wdiich his lips doth sow. 
 
 22 Eight so the soul, which is a lady free. 
 
 And doth the justice of her state maintain: 
 Because the senses ready servants be, 
 
 Attending nigh about her court, the brain : 
 
 23 By them the forms of outward things slie learns. 
 
 For they return unto the fantasy. 
 Whatever each of them abroad discerns, 
 And there enrol it for the mind to see. 
 
 24 But when she sits to judge the good and ill. 
 
 And to discern betwixt the false and true. 
 She is not guided by the senses' skill. 
 
 But doth each thing in her own mirror view. 
 
 25 Then she the senses checks, which oft do err. 
 
 And even against their false reports decrees ; 
 And oft she doth condemn what they prefer ; 
 For with a power above the sense she sees. 
 
 26 Therefore no sense the precious joys conceives, 
 
 AVhich in her private contemplations be; 
 For then the ravish'd spirit the senses leaves, 
 ■ Hath her own powers, and proper actions free. 
 
 27 Her harmonies are sweet, and full of skill. 
 
 When on the body's instruments she plays; 
 But the proportions of the wit and will. 
 
 Those sweet accords are even the angels' lays. 
 
 185 
 
 4
 
 DAVIES.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 28 These tunes of reason are Ampliion's lyre, 
 
 Wherewith he did the Theban city found : 
 These are the notes wherewith the heavenly choir, 
 The praise of Him which made the heaven doth 
 sound. 
 
 29 Then her self-being nature shines in this, 
 
 That she performs her noblest works alone : 
 * The work, the touchstone of the nature is ; 
 And by their operations things are known.' 
 
 SPIRITUALITY OF THE SOUL. 
 
 1 But though this substance be the root of sense, 
 
 Sense knows her not, which doth but bodies know : 
 She is a spirit, and heavenly influence, ' 
 
 Which from the fountain of God's Spirit doth flow. 
 
 2 She is a spirit, yet not like air or wind ; 
 
 Nor like the spirits about the heart or brain ; 
 Nor like those spirits which alchymists do find, 
 When they in everything seek gold in vain. 
 
 3 For she all natures under heaven doth pass, 
 
 Being like those spirits, which God's bright face do 
 see. 
 Or like Himself, whose image once she was, 
 Tliough now, alas ! she scarce his shadow be. 
 
 4 For of all forms, she holds the first degree. 
 
 That are to gross, material bodies knit; 
 Yet she herself is bodiless and free ; 
 And, though confuied, is almost infinite. 
 186
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dAVIES. 
 
 5 Were she a body * how could she remain 
 
 Within this body, which is less than shel 
 Or how could she the world's great shape contain, 
 And in our narrow breasts contained be 1 
 
 6 All bodies are confined within some place, 
 
 But she all place within herself confines: 
 All bodies have their measure and their space ; 
 But who can draw the soul's dimensive lines 1 
 
 7 No body can at once two forms admit. 
 
 Except the one the other do deface; 
 But in the soul ten thousand forms do fit, 
 And none intrudes into her neighbour's place. 
 
 8 All bodies are with other bodies fill'd, 
 
 But she receives both heaven and earth together : 
 Nor are their forms by rash encounter spill'd, 
 
 For there they stand, and neither toucheth either. 
 
 9 Nor can her wide embracements filled be ; 
 
 For they that most and greatest things embrace, 
 Enlarge thereby their mind's capacity. 
 
 As streams enlarged, enlarge the channel's space. 
 
 10 All things received, do such proportion take, 
 
 As those things have, wherein they are received: 
 So little glasses little faces make. 
 
 And narrow webs on narrow frames are weaved. 
 
 1 1 Then what vast body must we make the mind, 
 
 Wherein are men, beasts, trees, towns, seas, and 
 lands ; 
 And yet each thing a proper place doth find. 
 And each thing in the true proportion stands? 
 
 * That it caunot be a body. 
 
 187
 
 DAVIES.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 12 Doubtless, this could not be, but that she turns 
 
 Bodies to spirits, by sublimation strange; 
 As fire converts to fire the thino-s it burns : 
 As we our meats into our nature change. 
 
 13 From their gross matter she abstracts the forms, 
 
 And draws a kind of quintessence from things. 
 Which to her jDroper nature she transforms. 
 To bear them light on her celestial wmgs 
 
 14 This doth she, when, from things particular. 
 
 She doth abstract the universal kinds. 
 Which bodiless and immaterial are. 
 
 And can be only lodged within our minds. 
 
 15 And thus from divers accidents and acts. 
 
 Which do within her observation fall; 
 
 She goddesses and powers divine abstracts; 
 
 As nature, fortune, and the virtues all. 
 
 1 6 Again ; how can she several bodies know. 
 
 If in herself a body's form she bear'? 
 How can a mirror sundry faces show. 
 
 If from all shapes and forms it be not clear 1 
 
 1 7 Nor could we by our eyes all colours learn, 
 
 Except our eyes were of all colours void; 
 Nor sundry tastes can any tongue discern. 
 
 Which is with gross and bitter humours cloy'd. 
 
 18 Nor can a man of passions judge aright. 
 
 Except his mind be from all passions free : 
 Nor can a judge his office well acquit. 
 If he possess'd of either party be. 
 188
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dAVIES. 
 
 19 If, lastly, this quick 250wer a body were, 
 
 Were it as swift as in the wind or fire. 
 Whose atoms do the one down sideways bear. 
 And the other make in pyramids aspire ; 
 
 20 Her nimble body yet in time must move. 
 
 And not in instants through all places slide : 
 But she is nigh and far, beneath, above. 
 
 In point of time, which thought cannot divide : 
 
 21 She 's sent as soon to China as to Spain; 
 
 And thence returns as soon as she is sent : 
 She measures with one time, and with one pain. 
 An ell of silk, and heaven's wide-spreading tent. 
 
 22 As then the soul a substance hath alone. 
 
 Besides the body in which she 's confined ; 
 So hath she not a body of her own. 
 But is a spirit, and immaterial mind. 
 
 23 Since bodv and soul have such diversities. 
 
 Well might we muse how first their match began : 
 But that we learn, that He that spread the skies. 
 And fix'd the earth, first form'd the soul in man. 
 
 24 This true Prometheus first made man of earth, 
 
 And shed in him a beam of heavenly fire; 
 
 Now in their mothers' wombs, before their birth. 
 
 Doth in all sons of men their souls inspire. 
 
 25 And as Minerva is in fables said, 
 
 From Jove, without a mother, to proceed; 
 So our true Jove, without a mother's aid. 
 Doth daily millions of Minervas breed. 
 
 189
 
 G. FLETCHER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 Giles Fletcher was the younger lirother of Phineas, and died 
 twenty-three years before him. He was a cousin of Fletcher 
 the dramatist, and the son of Dr Giles Fletcher, who was em- 
 ployed in many important missions in the reign of Queen Eliza- 
 beth, and, among others, negotiated a commercial treaty with 
 Eussia greatly in the favour of his own country. Giles is supposed 
 to have been bom in 1588. He studied at Cambridge ; pub- 
 lished his noble poem, ' Christ's Victory and Triumph,' in 1610, 
 when he was twenty-three years of age ; was appointed to the 
 living of Alderston, in Suffolk, where he died, in 1623, at the 
 early age of thirty-five, * equally loved,' says old Wood, ' of the 
 Muses and the Graces.' 
 
 The poem, in four cantos, entitled ' Christ's Victory and Tri- 
 umph,' is one of almost Miltonic magnificence. With a wing 
 as easy as it is strong, he soars to heaven, and fills the austere 
 mouth of Justice and the golden lips of Mercy with language 
 worthy of both. He then stoops down on the Wilderness of the 
 Temptation, and paints the Saviour and Satan in colours 
 admirably contrasted, and which in their brightness and black- 
 ness can never decay. Nor does he fear, in fine, to pierce 
 the gloom of Calvary, and to mingle his note with the 
 harps of angels, saluting the Piedeemer, as He sprang from 
 the grave, with the song, ' He is risen, He is risen — and 
 shall die no more.' The style is steeped in Spenser — 
 equally mellifluous, figurative, and majestic. In allegory the 
 author of the ' Fairy Queen ' is hardly superior, and in the 
 enthusiasm of devotion Fletcher surpasses him far. From 
 the great light, thus early kindled and early quenched, Milton 
 did not disdain to draw with his ' golden urn.' ' Paradise 
 Eegained ' owes much more than the suggestion of its subject 
 to 'Christ's Victory;' and is it too much to say that, had 
 Fletcher lived, he might have shone in the same constellation 
 with the bard of the ' Paradise Lost?' The plan of our ' Speci- 
 mens ' permits only a few extracts. Let those who wish more, 
 along with a lengthened and glowing tribute to the author's 
 1.90
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNO^'N BRITISH POETS, [g. FLETCHER. 
 
 genius, consult Blachicood for XovemlDer 1835. The reading of 
 a single sentence will convince them that the author of the paper 
 "Nvas Christopher North. 
 
 THE NATIVITY. 
 I. 
 
 Who can forget, never to be forgot, 
 The time, that all the world in slumber lies : 
 When, like the stars, the singing angels shot 
 To earth, and heaven awaked all his eyes. 
 To see another sun at midniii'ht rise 
 
 On earth 1 was never sight of pareil fame : 
 For God before, man like himself did frame. 
 But God himself now like a mortal man became. 
 
 II. 
 A child he was, and had not learned to speak. 
 That with his word the world before did make : 
 His mother's arms him bore, he was so weak, 
 That with one hand the vaults of heaven could shake. 
 See how small room my infant Lord doth take, 
 AVhom all the world is not enoudi to hold. 
 Who of his years, or of his age hath told? 
 Never such age so young, never a child so old. 
 
 III. 
 And yet but newly he was infanted. 
 And 3'et already he was sought to die ; 
 Yet scarcely born, already banished; 
 Not able yet to go, and forced to fly : 
 But scarcely fled away, when by and by, 
 The tvrant's sword with blood is all defiled, 
 And Bachel, for her sons with fury wild. 
 Cries, thou crael king, and my sweetest child! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Egypt his nurse became, where Nilus springs. 
 Who straight, to entertain the rising sun, 
 
 191
 
 G. FLETCHER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 The hasty harvest in his bosom brings ; 
 
 But now for drought the fields were all undone, 
 
 And now with waters all is overrun : 
 
 So fast the Cynthian mountains poured their snow, 
 AVhen once they felt the sun so near them glow, 
 
 That Nilus Egypt lost, and to a sea did grow. 
 
 V. 
 
 The angels carolled loud their song of peace, 
 The cursed oracles were stricken dumb. 
 To see their shepherd, the poor shepherds press, 
 To see their king, the kingly sophies come, 
 And them to guide unto his Master's home, 
 A star comes dancing up the orient. 
 That springs for joy over the strawy tent, 
 Where gold, to make their prince a crown, they all present. 
 
 Young John, glad child, before he could be born. 
 
 Leapt in the womb, his joy to prophesy: 
 
 Old Anna, though with age all spent and worn. 
 
 Proclaims her Saviour to posterity: 
 
 And Simeon fast his dying notes doth ply. 
 
 Oh, how the blessed souls about him trace! 
 
 It is the fire of heaven thou dost embrace : - 
 Sing, Simeon, sing; sing, Simeon, sing apace. 
 
 VII. 
 
 With that the mighty thunder dropt away 
 From God's unwary arm, now milder grown. 
 And melted into tears ; as if to pray 
 For pardon, and for pity, it had known. 
 That should have been for sacred vengeance thrown: 
 There too the armies angelic devowed 
 Their former rage, and all to mercy bowed, 
 Their broken weapons at her feet they gladly strewed. 
 192
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, [g. FLETCHER. 
 
 VIIL 
 
 Bring, bring, ye Graces, all your silver flaskets. 
 Painted with every choicest flower that grows, 
 That I may soon iinflower your fragrant baslvots, 
 To strow the fields M'ith odours where he goes, 
 Let whatsoe'er he treads on be a rose. 
 
 So down she let her eyelids fall, to shine 
 
 Upon the rivers of bright Palestine, 
 Whose woods drop honey, and her rivers skip with wine. 
 
 SONG OF SORCERESS SEEKING TO TEMPT CHRIST. 
 
 Love is the blossom where there blows 
 
 Everything that lives or grows : 
 
 Love doth make the heavens to move. 
 
 And the sun dotli burn in love : 
 
 Love the stron^* and weak doth voke. 
 
 And makes the ivy climb the oak ; 
 
 Under whose shadows lions wild. 
 
 Softened by love, gTow tame and mild : 
 
 Love no medicine can appease. 
 
 He burns the fishes in the seas; 
 
 Not all the skill his wounds can stencli, 
 
 Not all the sea his fire can quench : 
 
 Love did make the bloody spear 
 
 Once a leafy coat to wear. 
 
 While in his leaves there shrouded lay 
 
 Sweet birds, for love, that sing and play : 
 
 And of all love's joyful flame, 
 
 I the bud, and blossom am. 
 Only bend thy knee to me, 
 The wooing shall thy winning be. 
 
 See, see the flowers that below. 
 Now as fresh as morning blow, 
 VOL. I. N - V:
 
 G. FLETCHER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 And of all, the virgin rose, 
 
 That as bright Aurora shows : 
 
 How they all unleaved die. 
 
 Losing their virginity ; 
 
 Like unto a summer-shade. 
 
 But now born, and now they fade. 
 
 Everything doth pass away, 
 
 There is danger in delay: 
 
 Come, come gather then the rose, 
 
 Gather it, ere it you lose. 
 
 All the sand of Tagus' shore 
 
 Into my bosom casts his ore ; 
 
 All the valley's swimming corn 
 
 To my house is yearly borne : 
 
 Every grape of every vine 
 
 Is gladly bruised to make me wine. 
 
 While ten thousand kings, as-proud. 
 
 To carry up my train have bowed. 
 
 And a world of ladies send me 
 
 In my chambers to attend me. 
 
 All the stars in heaven that shine. 
 
 And ten thousand more, are mine : 
 Only bend thy knee to me, 
 Thy wooing shall thy winning be. 
 
 CLOSE OF ' Christ's victory and triumph.' 
 
 Here let my Lord hang up his conquering lance, 
 And bloody armour with late slaughter warm, 
 And looking down on his weak militants. 
 Behold his saints, midst of their hot alarm. 
 Hang all their golden hopes upon his arm. 
 194
 
 1550-1610.] THE LESS-KXOWN BRITISH POETS, [g. FLETCHER. 
 
 And ill this lower field dispacing Avide, 
 Tliroiigli windy thoughts, that would their sails misguide, 
 Anchor their fleshly ships fast in his wounded side. 
 
 II. 
 
 Here may the band, that now in triumph shines, 
 
 And that (before they were invested thus) 
 
 In earthly bodies carried heavenly minds, 
 
 Pitched round about in order glorious. 
 
 Their sunny tents, and houses luminous, 
 All their eternal day in songs employing. 
 Joying their end, without end of their joying. 
 
 While their Almighty Prince destruction is destroying. 
 
 III. 
 
 Full, yet without satiety, of that 
 
 Which whets and quiets greedy appetite, 
 
 Where never sun did rise, nor ever sat. 
 
 But one eternal day, and endless light 
 
 Gives time to those, whose time is infinite. 
 
 Speaking without thought, obtaining without fee. 
 Beholding him, whom never eye could see. 
 
 Magnifying him, that cannot greater be. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How can such joy as this want words to speak ? 
 And yet what words can speak such joy as this ? 
 Far from the world, that might their quiet break. 
 Here the dad souls the face of beautv kiss. 
 Poured out in pleasure, on their beds of bliss. 
 And drunk with nectar torrents, ever hold 
 Their eyes on him, whose graces manifold 
 The more they do behold, the more they would behold. 
 
 V. 
 
 Their sight drinks lovely fires in at their eyes. 
 Their brain sweet incense with fine breath accloys, 
 
 "^195
 
 G. FLETCHER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 That on God's sweating altar burning lies; 
 Their hungry ears feed on the heavenly noise 
 That angels sing, to tell their untold joys; 
 
 Their understanding naked truth, their wills 
 
 The all, and self-sufficient goodness fills, 
 That nothino- here is wanting;, but the want of ills. 
 
 VI. 
 
 No sorrow now hangs clouding on their brow. 
 No bloodless malady empales their face, 
 No age drops on their hairs his silver snow, 
 No nakedness their bodies doth embase. 
 No poverty themselves, and theirs disgrace, 
 No fear of death the joy of life devours. 
 No unchaste sleep their precious time deflowers. 
 No loss, no grief, no change wait on their winged hours. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But now their naked bodies scorn the cold. 
 
 And from their eyes joy looks, and laughs at pain; 
 
 The infant wonders how he came so old, 
 
 And old man how he came so young again; 
 
 Still resting, though from sleep they still restrain; 
 
 Where all are rich, and yet no gold they owe ; 
 
 And all are kings, and yet no subjects know; 
 All full, and yet no time on food they do bestow. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For things that pass are past, and in this field 
 
 The indeficient spring no winter fears; 
 
 The trees together fruit and blossom yield, 
 
 The unfading lily leaves of silver bears. 
 
 And crimson rose a scarlet garment wears : 
 And all of these on the saints' bodies grow. 
 Not, as they wont, on baser earth below ; 
 
 Three rivers here of milk, and wine, and honey flow. 
 196
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, [g. FLETCHER. 
 
 IX. 
 
 About tlic holy city rolls a flood 
 
 Of molten crystal, like a sea of glass, 
 
 On which weak stream a strong foundation stood. 
 
 Of living diamonds the building was 
 
 That all things else, besides itself, did pass : 
 
 Her streets, instead of stones, the stars did pave, 
 And little pearls, for dust, it seemed to have, 
 On which soft-streaming manna, like pure snow, did wave. 
 
 X. 
 
 In midst of this city celestial. 
 
 Where the eternal temple should have rose, 
 
 Lio'htened the idea beatifical : 
 
 End and beginning of each thing that grows, 
 
 Whose self no end, nor yet beginning knows, 
 
 That hath no eyes to see, nor ears to hear; 
 
 Yet sees, and hears, and is all eye, all ear; 
 That nowhere is contained, and yet is *everywhere. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Changer of all things, yet immutable ; 
 
 Before, and after all, the first, and last: 
 
 That moving all is yet immoveable ; 
 
 Great without quantity, in whose forecast. 
 
 Things past are present, things to come are past; 
 Swift without motion, to whose open eye 
 The hearts of wicked men unbreasted lie ; 
 
 At once absent, and present to them, far, and nigh. 
 
 XII. 
 
 It is no flaming lustre, made of light ; 
 No sweet consent, or well-timed harmony; 
 Ambrosia, for to feast the appetite : 
 Or flowery odour, mixed with spicery; 
 No soft embrace, or pleasure bodily : 
 
 197
 
 G. FLETCHER,] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 And yet it is a kind of inward feast ; 
 A harmony that sounds within the breast ; 
 An odour; light, embrace, in which the soul doth rest. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A heavenly feast no huna;er can consume: 
 A hgiit unseen, yet shines in every place; 
 A sound no time can steal; a sweet jDcrfume 
 No winds can scatter; an entire embrace. 
 That no satiety can e'er unlace: 
 
 Ingi-aced into so higli a favour, there 
 
 The saints, with their beau-peers, whole worlds outwear; 
 And things unseen do see, and things unheard do hear. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Ye blessed souls, grown richer by your spoil. 
 Whose loss, though great, is cause of greater gains; 
 Here may your weary spirits rest fi"om toil. 
 Spending your endless evening that remains. 
 Amongst those white flocks, and celestial trains, 
 That feed upon their Shepherd's eyes; and frame 
 That heavenly music of so wondrous fame, 
 Psalming aloud the holy honours of his name! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Had I a voice of steel to tune my song; 
 
 Were every verse as smooth as smoothest glass; 
 
 And every member turned to a tongue; 
 
 And everv tono'ue were made of soundino; brass : 
 
 Yet all that skill, and all tliis strength, alas! 
 Should it presume to adorn (were misadvised) 
 The place, Avhere David hath new songs devised. 
 
 As in his burning throne he sits emparadised. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Most happy prince, whose eyes those stars behold, 
 Treading ours underfeet, now mayst thou pour 
 198
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, [g. FLETCHER. 
 
 That overflowing skill, wherewith of old 
 
 Thou wont'st to smooth rough speech; now nicayst thou 
 
 shower 
 Fresh streams of praise upon that holy bower, 
 
 Which well we heaven call, not that it rolls. 
 
 But that it is the heaven of our souls : 
 Most happy prince, whose sight so heavenly sight beholds ! 
 
 xvii. 
 
 Ah, foolish shepherds! who were wont to esteem 
 Your God all rouoh, and shaa'o-v-haired to be: 
 And yet far wiser shepherds than ye deem. 
 For who so poor (though Mdio so rich) as he, 
 When sojourning with us in low degree. 
 
 He washed his flocks in Jordan's spotless tide; 
 
 And that his dear remembrance might abide. 
 Did to us come, and with us lived, and for us died? 
 
 XVIIL 
 
 But now^ such lively colours did embeam 
 ♦His sparkling forehead; and such shining rays 
 Kindled his flaming locks, that down did stream 
 In curls along his neck, where sweetly plays 
 (Singing his wounds of love in sacred lays) 
 
 His dearest Spouse, Spouse of the dearest Lover, 
 Knitting a thousand knots over and over. 
 And dying still for love, but they her still recover. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Fairest of fairs, that at his eyes doth dress 
 
 Her glorious face ; those eyes, from whence are shed 
 
 Attractions infinite ; where to express 
 
 His love, high God all heaven as captive leads, 
 
 And all the banners of his grace dispreads, 
 
 199
 
 G. FLETCHER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 And in tliose windows doth his arms englaze, 
 And on those eyes, the angels all do gaze, 
 And from those eyes, the lights of heaven obtain their 
 blaze. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But let the Kentish lad,* that lately taught 
 His oaten reed the trumpet's silver sound, 
 Young Thyrsilis ; and for his music brought 
 The willing spheres from heaven, to lead ^around 
 The dancing n^aiiphs and swains, that sung, and crowned 
 Eclecta's Hymen with ten thousand flow^ers 
 Of choicest praise; and hung her heavenly bowers 
 With saffron garlands, dressed for nuptial paramours. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Let his shrill trumpet, with her silver blast. 
 Of fair Eclecta, and her spousal bed. 
 Be the sweet pipe, and smooth encomiast: 
 But my green muse, hiding her j^ounger head. 
 Under old Camus' flaggy banks, that spread 
 Their willow locks abroad, and all the day 
 With their own w^atery shadow^s w^anton play; 
 Dares not those high amours, and love-sick songs assay. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Impotent words, weak lines, that strive in vain ; 
 
 In vain, alas, to tell so heavenly sight! 
 So heavenly sight, as none can greater feign. 
 
 Feign wdiat he can, that seems of greatest might: 
 Could any yet compare wdth Infinite 1 
 Infinite sure those joys; my w^ords but light; 
 Light is the palace where she dw^ells ; oh, then, how bright! 
 
 * The author of ' The Purple Island.' 
 
 200
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dONNE. 
 
 JOHN DONNE. 
 
 John Donne was Lorn in London, in the year 1573. He sprung 
 from a Catholic family, and his mother was related to Sir 
 Thomas More and to Heywood the epigrammatist. He was 
 very early distinguished as a prodigy of boyish acquirement, and 
 was entered, when only eleven, of Harthall, now Hertford College. 
 He was designed for the law, but relinquished the study when 
 he reached nineteen. About the same time, having studied the 
 controversies between the Papists and Protestants, he delibe- 
 rately went over to the latter. He next accompanied the Earl 
 of Essex to Cadiz, and looked wistfully over the gulf dividing 
 him from Jerusalem, with all its holy memories, to which his 
 heart had been translated from very boyhood. He even medi- 
 tated a journey to the Holy Land, but was discouraged by 
 reports as to the dangers of the way. On his return he was 
 received by the Lord Chancellor Ellesmere into his own house 
 as his secretary. Here he fell in love with Miss More, the 
 daughter of Sir George More, Lord-Lieutenant of the Tower, 
 and the niece of the Chancellor. His passion was returned, and 
 the pair were imprudent enough to marry privately. When the 
 matter became known, the father-in-law became infuriated. He 
 prevailed on Lord Ellesmere to drive Donne out of his service, 
 and had him even for a short time imprisoned. Even when 
 released he continued in a pitiable plight, and but for the kind- 
 ness of Sir Francis Wooley, a son of Lady Ellesmere by a for- 
 mer marriage, who received the young couple into his family 
 and entertained them for years, they would have perished. 
 
 When Donne reached the age of thirty-four, Dr Merton, after- 
 wards Bishop of Durham, urged him to take orders, and oflered 
 him a benefice, which he was generously to relinquish in his 
 favour. Donne declined, on account, he said, of some past errors 
 of life, which, ' though repented of and pardoned by God, might 
 not be forgotten by men, and might cast dishonour on the sacred 
 office.' 
 
 When Sir F. Wooley died. Sir Eobert Drury became his next 
 23rotector. Donne attended him on an embassy to France, and 
 
 201
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [2D PER. 
 
 liis wife formed the romantic purpose of accompanying her hus- 
 band in the disguise of a page. Here was a wife fit for a poet ! 
 In order to restrain her from her purpose, he had to address to 
 her some verses, commencing, 
 
 * By our strange and fatal interview.' 
 
 Isaak Walton relates how the poet, one evening, as he sat 
 alone in Paris, saw his wife appearing to him in vision, with a 
 dead infant in her arms — a proof at once of the strength of his 
 love and of his imagination. This beloved and admirable wo- 
 man died in 1617, a few days after giving birth to her twelfth 
 child, and Donne's grief approached distraction. 
 
 When he had reached the forty-second year of his age, our 
 poet, at the instance of King James, became a clergyman, and 
 was successively appointed Chaplain to the King, Lecturer to 
 Lincoln's Inn, Dean of St Dunstan's in the West, and Dean of 
 St Paul's. In the pulpit he attracted great attention, particu- 
 larly from the more thoughtful and intelligent of his auditors. 
 He continued Dean of St Paul's till his death, which took place 
 in 1631, when he Avas approaching sixty. He died of consump- 
 tion, a disease which seldom cuts down a man so near his grand 
 climacteric. 
 
 ' He was buried,' says Campbell, ' in St Paul's, where his 
 figure yet remains in the vault of St Faith's, carved from a 
 painting, for which he sat a few days ' (it should be weeks) 
 ^ before his death, dressed in his winding-sheet.' He kept this 
 portrait constantly by his bedside to remind him of his mor- 
 tality. 
 
 Donne's Sermons fill a large folio, with which we were 
 familiar in boyhood, but have not seen since. De Quincey says, 
 alluding partly to them, and partly to his poetry, — ' Few writers 
 have shewn a more extraordinary compass of powers than 
 Donne, for he combined — what no other man has ever done — 
 the last sublimation of dialectical subtlety and address with the 
 most impassioned majesty. Massy diamonds compose the very 
 substance of his poem on the ' Metempsychosis,' — thoughts and 
 descriptions which have the fervent and gloomy sublimity of 
 Ezekiel or iEschylus ; while a diamond-dust of rhetorical bril- 
 liances is strewed over the whole of his occasional verses and 
 202
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dONNE. 
 
 Ins prose.' We beg leave to differ, in some degree, from De 
 Quincej in his estimate of the '■ Metempsychosis,' or '■ The Pro- 
 gress of the Soul,' although we have given it entire. It has 
 too many far-fetched conceits and obscure allegories, although 
 redeemed, we admit, by some very precious thoughts, such as 
 
 ' This soul, to whom Luther and Mahomet were 
 Prisons of flesh.' 
 
 Or the following quaint picture of the apple in Eden — 
 
 ' Prince of the orchard, fair as dawning morn, 
 Fenced with the law, and ripe as soon as born.' 
 
 Or this — 
 
 ' Nature hath no jail, though she hath law.' 
 
 If our readers, however, can admire the account the poet gives 
 of Abel and his bitch, or see any resemblance to the severe 
 and simple grandeur of iEschylus and Ezekiel in the description 
 of the soul informing a body, made of a 'female Jislis sanchj 
 roe ' ' neivly leavened with the male's jelly ^ we shall say no more. 
 
 Donne, altogether, gives us the impression of a great genius 
 ruined by a false system. He is a charioteer run away with by 
 his own pampered steeds. He begins generally well, but long 
 ere the close, quibbles, conceits, and the temptation of shewing 
 off recondite learning, prove too strong for him, and he who 
 commenced following a serene star, ends pursuing a will-o'-wisp 
 into a bottomless morass. Compare, for instance, the ingenious 
 nonsense which abounds in the middle and the close of his 
 ' Progress of the Soul ' with the dark, but magnificent stanzas 
 which are the first in the poem. 
 
 In no writings in the language is there more spilt treasure — a 
 more lavish loss of beautiful, original, and striking things than 
 in the poems of Donne. Every second line, indeed, is either bad, 
 or unintelligible, or twisted into unnatural distortion, but even 
 the worst passages discover a great, though trammelled and 
 tasteless mind ; and we question if Dr Johnson himself, who has, 
 in his ' Life of Cowley,' criticised the school of poets to which 
 Donne belonged so severely, and in some points so justly, pos- 
 sessed a tithe of the rich fancy, the sublime intuition, and the 
 lofty spirituality of Donne. How characteristic of the difierence 
 
 203
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PEIi. 
 
 between these two great men, that, while the one shrank from 
 the slightest footprint of death, Donne deliberately placed the 
 image of his dead self before his eyes, and became familiar with 
 the shadow ere the grim reality arrived ! 
 
 Donne's Satires shew, in addition to the high ideal qualities, 
 the rugged versification, the fantastic paradox, and the perverted 
 taste of their author, great strength and clearness of judgment, 
 and a deep, although somewhat jaundiced, view of human nature. 
 That there must have been something morbid in the structure of 
 his mind is proved by the fact that he wrote an elaborate trea- 
 tise, which was not published till after his death, entitled, ' Bia- 
 thanatos,' to prove that suicide was not necessarily sinful. 
 
 HOLY SONNETS. 
 I. 
 
 Thou hast made mo, and shall thy work decay 1 
 Kepair me now, for now mine end doth haste ; 
 I rim to death, and death meets me as fast. 
 And all my pleasures are like yesterday. 
 I dare not move my dim eyes any way; 
 Despair behind, and death before, doth cast 
 Such terror, and mv feeble flesh doth waste 
 By sin in it, wliicli it towards hell doth weigh. 
 Only thou art above, and when towards thee 
 Ba'^ thv leave I can look, I rise ao-ain: 
 But our old subtle foe so tempteth me. 
 That not one hour myself I can sustain: 
 Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art, 
 And tliou, like adamant, draw mine iron heart. 
 
 II. 
 As due by many titles, I resign 
 Myself to thee, God! First I M^as made 
 By thee, and for thee ; and when I was decayed 
 Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine. 
 204
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dONNE, 
 
 I am thy son, made Avitli thyself to shine, 
 
 Thy servant, whose pains thou hast still repaid. 
 
 Thy sheep, thine image ; and, till I betrayed 
 
 Myself, a temj)le of thy Spirit divine. 
 
 AVhy doth the devil then iism-p on mel 
 
 Why doth he steal, nay, ravish, that's thy right? 
 
 Except thou rise, and for thine own w^ork fight. 
 
 Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall see 
 
 That thou lov'st mankind well, yet w^ilt not choose me. 
 
 And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me. 
 
 III. 
 Oh! might these sighs and tears return ao-ain 
 Into my breast and eyes which I have spent. 
 That I might, in this holy discontent. 
 Mourn M'ith some fruit, as I have mourned in vain! 
 In mine idolatry what showers of rain 
 Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent! 
 That sufferance was my sin I now repent; 
 'Cause I did suffer, I must suffer pain. 
 The hydroptic drunkard, and night-scouting thief. 
 The itchy lecher, and self-ticlding proud. 
 Have tlr remembrance of past joys for relief 
 Of coming ills. To poor me is allow'd 
 No ease ; for long yet vehement giief hath been 
 The effect and cause, the punishment and sin. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! my black soul ! now thou art summoned 
 By sickness, death's herald and champion. 
 Thou 'rt like a pilgrim which abroad hath done 
 Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled ; 
 Or like a thief, which, till death's doom be read, 
 Wisheth himself delivered from prison ; 
 
 205
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 But damn'd, and haul'd to execution, 
 
 Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned : 
 
 Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack ; 
 
 But who shall i?ive thee that oTace to beoin 1 
 
 Oh! make thyself with holy mourning black. 
 
 And red with blushing, as thou art with sin ; 
 
 Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might, 
 
 That, being red, it dyes red souls to white. 
 
 V. 
 
 I am a little world, made cunningly 
 
 Of elements and an angelic spi-ite ; 
 
 But black sin hath betrayed to endless night 
 
 My world's both parts, and oh ! both parts must die. 
 
 You, which beyond that heaven, which was most high. 
 
 Have found new spheres, and of new land can write. 
 
 Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might 
 
 Drown my world with my weeping earnestly, 
 
 Or wash it, if it must be drowned no more : 
 
 But oh ! it must be burnt ; alas ! the fire 
 
 Of lust and envy burnt it heretofore. 
 
 And made it fouler; let their flames retire. 
 
 And burn me, Lord! with a fiery zeal 
 
 Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal. 
 
 VI, 
 
 This is my play's last scene ; here Heavens appoint 
 My pilgrimage's last mile ; and my race, 
 Idly yet quickly run, hath this last pace, 
 My span's last inch, my minute's latest point, 
 And gluttonous Death will instantly unjoint 
 My body and soul, and I shall sleep a space : 
 But my ever-waking part shall see that face 
 Whose fear already shakes my every joint. 
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 Then as my soul to heaven, her first seat, takes flight, 
 
 And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell. 
 
 So fall my sins, that all may have their right. 
 
 To where they 're bred, and would press me to hell. 
 
 Impute me righteous; thus purged of evil, 
 
 For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil. 
 
 VII. 
 
 At the round earth's imagined corners blow 
 
 Your trumpets, angels! and arise, arise 
 
 From death, you numberless infinities 
 
 Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go, 
 
 All whom the flood did, and fire shall, overthrow ; 
 
 All whom war, death, a^'e, ague's tvrannies. 
 
 Despair, law, chance, hath slain; and you whose eyes 
 
 Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. 
 
 But let them sleep. Lord ! and me mourn a space ; 
 
 For if above all these my sins abound, 
 
 ^Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace 
 
 When we are there. Here on this holy ground 
 
 Teach me how to repent, for that 's as good 
 
 As if thou hadst sealed my pardon with thy blood. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 If faithful souls be alike glorified 
 
 As angels, then my father's soul doth see. 
 
 And adds this even to full felicity. 
 
 That valiantlv I hell's wide mouth o'erstride ; 
 
 But if our minds to these souls be descried 
 
 By cu'cumstances and by signs that be 
 
 Apparent in us not immediately. 
 
 How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried? 
 
 They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn, 
 
 And style blasphemous conjurors to call 
 
 207
 
 DO^'^'E.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER, 
 
 On Jesus' name, and pharisaical 
 Dissemblers feii>-n devotion. Then turn, 
 pensive soul ! to God, for he knows best 
 Thy grief, for he put it into my breast. 
 
 IX. 
 
 If poisonous minerals^ and if that tree 
 Whose fruit threw death on (else immortal) us ; 
 If lecherous goats, if serpents envious, 
 Cannot be damn'd, alas ! why should I be ? 
 Why should intent or reason, born in me. 
 Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous? 
 And mercy being easy and glorious 
 To God, in his stern wrath why tlireatens he \ 
 But who am I that dare dispute with thee! 
 
 God! oh, of thine only worthy blood. 
 
 And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood, 
 And drown in it my sins' black memory : 
 That thou remember them some claim as debt, 
 
 1 think it mercy if thou wilt forget ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Death! be not proud, though some have called thee 
 Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ; 
 For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow 
 Die not, poor Death! nor yet canst thou kill me. 
 From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be. 
 Much pleasure, then, from thee much more must flow; 
 And soonest our best men with thee do go, 
 Kest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 
 Thou 'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 
 And dost with poison, war, and sickness, dwell. 
 And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, 
 And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou, then? 
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 One short sleep past we wake eternally ; 
 
 And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Spit in my face, you Jews, and pierce my side. 
 Buffet and scoff, scourge and crucify me, 
 for I have sinned, and sinned, and only he 
 Who could do no iniquity hath died, 
 But by my death cannot be satisfied 
 My sins, which pass the Jews' impiety: 
 They killed once an inglorious man, but I 
 Crucify him daily, being now glorified. 
 let me then his strange love still admire. 
 Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment; 
 And Jacob came, clothed in vile harsh attire. 
 But to supplant, and with gainful intent : 
 God clothed himself in vile man's flesh, that so 
 He might be weak enough to suffer woe. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Why are we by all creatures waited on"? 
 
 Why do the prodigal elements supply 
 
 Life and food to me, being more pure than I, 
 
 Simpler, and further from corruption'? 
 
 Why brook'st thou, ignorant horse, subjection'? 
 
 Why do you, bull and boar, so sillily 
 
 Dissemble weakness, and by one man's stroke die. 
 
 Whose whole kind you might swallow and feed upon ? 
 
 Weaker I am, woe's me! and worse than you: 
 
 You have not sinned, nor need be timorous. 
 
 But wonder at a greater, for to us 
 
 Created nature doth these things subdue; 
 
 But theu Creator, whom sin nor nature tied, 
 
 For us, his creatures and his foes, hath died. 
 
 VOL. L 209 

 
 DONNE,] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 What if this present were the world's last night ? 
 
 Mark in my heart, Soul! where thou dost dwell. 
 
 The picture of Christ crucified, and tell 
 
 Whether his countenance can thee affright; 
 
 Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light ; 
 
 Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell. 
 
 And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell 
 
 Which prayed forgiveness for his foes' fierce spited 
 
 No, no ; but as in my idolatry 
 
 I said to all my profane mistresses, 
 
 Beauty of pity, foulness only is 
 
 A sign of rigour, so I say to thee : 
 
 To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned ; 
 
 This beauteous form assumes a piteous mmd. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you 
 
 As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend, 
 
 That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend 
 
 Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. 
 
 I, like an usurped town, to another due. 
 
 Labour to admit you, but oh ! to no end : 
 
 Beason, your viceroy in me, we should defend. 
 
 But is captived, and proves weak or untrue; 
 
 Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, 
 
 But am betrothed unto your enemy. 
 
 Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again; 
 
 Take me to you, imprison me ; for I, 
 
 Except you enthral me, never shall be free. 
 
 Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Wilt thou love God as he thee? then digest, 
 My Soul! this wholesome meditation, 
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 How God tlie Spirit, by angels waited on 
 
 In heaven, doth make his temple in thy breast. 
 
 The Father having begot a Son most blest, 
 
 And still bogettmg, (for he ne'er begun,) 
 
 Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption. 
 
 Co-heir to his glory, and Sabbath's endless rest : 
 
 And as a robbed man, which by search doth find 
 
 His stol'n stuff sold, must lose or buy 't again ; 
 
 The Sun of glory came down and was slain, 
 
 Us, whom he had made, and Satan stole, to unbind. 
 
 Twas much that man was made like God before. 
 
 But that God should be made like man much more. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Father, part of his double interest 
 
 Unto thy kingdom thy Son gives to me; 
 
 His jointure in the knotty Trinity 
 
 He keeps, and gives to me his death's conquest. 
 
 This Lamb, whose death with life the world hath blest, 
 
 Was from the world's beainnin£>' slain, and he 
 
 Hath made two wills, which, with the le^racv 
 
 Of his and thy kingdom, thy sons invest : 
 
 Yet such are these laws, that men argue yet 
 
 Whether a man those statutes can fulfil : 
 
 None doth ; but thy all-healing grace and Spirit 
 
 Revive again what law and letter kill: 
 
 Thy law's abridgment and thy last command 
 
 Is all but love; oh, let this last will stand! 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL. 
 I. 
 
 I sing the progress of a deathless Soul, 
 Whom Fate, which God made, but doth not control, 
 
 211
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Placed in most shapes. All times, before the law 
 Yoked us, and when, and since, in this I sing, 
 And the great World to his aged evening, 
 From infant morn through manly noon I draw: 
 What the gold Chaldee or silver Persian saw, 
 Greek brass, or Koman iron, 'tis in this one, 
 A w^ork to outwear Setli's pillars, brick and stone. 
 And, Holy Writ excepted, made to yield to none. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thee, Eye of Heaven, this great Soul envies not ; 
 By thy male force is all we have begot. 
 In the first east thou now beginn'st to shine, 
 Suck'st early balm, and island spices there. 
 And wilt anon in thy loose-reined career 
 At Tagus, Po, Seine, Thames, and Danow, dine. 
 And see at night this western land of mine ; 
 Yet hast thou not more nations seen than she 
 That before thee one day began to be, 
 And, thy frail light being quench'd, shall long, long outlive 
 thee. 
 
 III. 
 
 Nor holy Janus, in whose sovereign boat 
 
 The church and all the monarchies did float; 
 
 That swimming college and free hospital 
 
 Of all mankind, that cage and vivary 
 
 Of fowls and beasts, in whose womb Destiny 
 
 CJs and our latest nephews did install, 
 
 (From thence are all derived that fill this all,) 
 
 Didst thou in that great stewardship embark 
 
 So diverse shapes into that floating park, 
 
 As have been moved and inform'd by this heavenly 
 
 spark. 
 
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 IV. 
 
 Great Destiny! tlie commissaiy of God! 
 
 Thou hast marked out a path and period 
 
 For everything; who, where we oftspring took. 
 
 Our ways and ends seest at one instant : thou 
 
 Knot of all causes ; thou whose changeless brow 
 
 Ne'er smiles nor frowns, oh! vouchsafe thou to look, 
 
 And shew my stoiy in thy eternal book, 
 
 That (if my prayer be fit) I may understand 
 
 So much myself as to know with what hand. 
 
 How scant pr liberal, this my life's race is spann'd. 
 
 V. 
 
 To my six lustres, almost now outwore, 
 
 Except thy book owe me so many more; 
 
 Except my legend be free from the lets 
 
 Of steep ambition, sleepy poverty. 
 
 Spirit-quenching sickness, dull captivity. 
 
 Distracting business, and from beauty's nets. 
 
 And all that calls from this and t' other's whets ; 
 
 Oh! let me not launch out, but let me save 
 
 The expense of brain and spirit, that my grave 
 
 His riglit and due, a whole unwasted man, may have. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But if my days be long and good enough, 
 In vain this sea shall enlaro-e or enrouo'h 
 Itself; for I will through the wave and foam. 
 And hold, in sad lone ways, a lively sprite, 
 Make my dark heavy poem light, and light : 
 For though through many straits and lands I roam, 
 I launch at Paradise, and sail towards home: 
 The course I there began shall here be stayed; 
 Sails hoisted there struck here, and anchors laid 
 In Thames which were at Tigris and Euphrates weighed. 
 
 213
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 VII. 
 
 For the great Soul wliicli here amongst us now 
 
 Doth dwell, and moves that hand, and tongue, and brow. 
 
 Which, as the moon the sea, moves us, to hear 
 
 Whose story with long patience you will long, 
 
 (For 'tis the crown and last strain of my song ;) 
 
 This Soul, to whom Luther and Mohammed were 
 
 Prisons of flesh ; this Soul, which oft did tear 
 
 And mend the wrecks of the empire, and late Rome, 
 
 And lived when every great change did come, 
 
 Had first in Paradise a low but fatal room. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet no low room, nor then the greatest, less 
 
 If, as devout and sharp men fitly guess, 
 
 That cross, our joy and grief, (where nails did tie 
 
 That All, which always was all everywhere. 
 
 Which could not sin, and yet all sins did bear. 
 
 Which could not die, yet could not choose but die,) 
 
 Stood in the self-same room in Calvary 
 
 AVhere first grew the forbidden learned tree; 
 
 For on that tree hung in security 
 
 This Soul, made by the Maker's will from pulling free. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Prince of the orchard, fair as dawning morn. 
 Fenced with the law, and ripe as soon as born, 
 That apple grew which this soul did enlive, 
 Till the then climbing serpent, that now creeps 
 For that oflence for which all mankind weeps. 
 Took it, and t' her, whom the first man did wive, 
 (Whom and her race only forbiddings drive,) 
 He gave it, she to her husband ; both did eat : 
 So perished the eaters and the meat, 
 And we, for treason taints the blood, thence die and sweat. 
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 X. 
 
 Man all at once was there by woman slain, 
 
 And one by one we 're here slain o'er again 
 
 By them. The mother poison'd the well-head; 
 
 The daughters here corrupt us rivulets ; 
 
 No smallness 'scapes, no greatness breaks, their nets: 
 
 She thrust us out, and by them we are led 
 
 Astray from turning to w^hence we are fled. 
 
 Were prisoners judges 'twould seem rigorous; 
 
 She sinned, we bear : part of our pain is thus 
 
 To love them whose fault to this painful love yoked us. 
 
 XL 
 
 So fast in us doth this corruption grow, 
 That now we dare ask why we should be so. 
 Would God (disputes the curious rebel) make 
 A law, and w^ould not have it kept ? or can 
 His creatures' will cross his '? Of every man 
 For one will God (and be just) vengeance take 1 
 Who sinned "i 'twas not forbidden to the snake. 
 Nor her, wdio was not then made ; nor is 't writ 
 That Adam crept or knew the apple ; yet 
 The w^orm, and she, and he, and we, endure for it. 
 
 XII. 
 
 But snatch me, heavenly Spirit ! from this vain 
 Eeck'ning their vanity ; less is their gain 
 Than hazard still to meditate on ill. 
 Though wnth good mind; their reasons like those toys 
 Of glassy bubbles which the gamesome boys 
 Stretch to so nice a tliinness through a quill, 
 That they themselves break, and do themselves spill. 
 Aro-uino: is heretics' aame, and exercise. 
 As w^restlers, perfects them. Not liberties 
 Of speech, but silence ; hands, not tongues, and heresies. 
 
 215
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 xiir. 
 
 Just in tliat instant, when the serpent's gripe 
 Broke the slight veins and tender conduit-pipe 
 Through which this Soul from the tree's root did draw 
 Life and grovvth to this apple, fled away 
 This loose Soul, old, one and another day. 
 As lightning, wdiich one scarce dare say he saw, 
 Tis so soon gone (and better proof the law 
 Of sense than faith requires) swiftly she flew 
 To a dark and foggy plot ; her her fates threw 
 There through the earth's pores, and in a plant housed 
 her anew. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The plant, thus abled, to itself did force 
 
 A place where no place w^as by Nature's course. 
 
 As air from water, water fleets away 
 
 From thicker bodies ; by this root thronged so 
 
 His spungy confines gave him place to grow : 
 
 Just as in our streets, when the people stay 
 
 To see the prince, and so fill up the way 
 
 That weasels scarce could pass; when he comes near 
 
 They throng and cleave up, and a passage clear, 
 
 As if for that time their round bodies flatten'd were. 
 
 XV. 
 
 His right arm he thrust out towards the east, 
 
 Westward his left; the ends did themselves digest 
 
 Into ten lesser strings, these fingers were : 
 
 And, as a slumberer, stretching on his bed, 
 
 This way he this, and that way scattered 
 
 His other leg, which feet with toes upbear ; 
 
 Grew on his middle part, the first day, hair. 
 
 To shew that in love's business he should still 
 
 A dealer be, and be used, well or ill : 
 
 His apples kindle, his leaves force of conception kill. 
 216
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dONNE. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 A moutli, but dumb, he hath; blind eyes, deaf ears, 
 
 And to his shoulders dangle subtle hairs; 
 
 A young Colossus there he stands upright; 
 
 And, as that ground by him were conquered, 
 
 A lazy garland w^ears he on his head 
 
 Enchased with little fruits so red and bright. 
 
 That for them ye would call your love's lips white ; 
 
 So of a lone unhaunted place possess'd. 
 
 Did this Soul's second inn, built by the guest. 
 
 This living buried man, this quiet mandrake, rest. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 No lustful woman came this plant to grieve, 
 
 But 'tw^as because there was none yet but Eve, 
 
 And she (w^ith other purpose) killed it quite: 
 
 Her sin had now brought in infirmities, 
 
 And so her cradled child the moist-red eyes 
 
 Had never shut, nor slept, since it saw light : 
 
 Poppy she knew, she knew the mandrake's might, 
 
 And tore up both, and so ccoled her child's blood. 
 
 Unvirtuous weeds might long uiivexed have stood. 
 
 But he 's short-lived that with his death can do most ffood. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 To an nnfettered Soul's quick nimble haste 
 Are falling stars and heart's thouglits but slow-paced, 
 Thinner than burnt air flies this Soul, and she, 
 Whom four new-coming and four parting suns 
 Had found, and left the mandrake's tenant, runs. 
 Thoughtless of change, when her firm destiny 
 Confined and enj ailed her that seemed so free 
 Into a small blue shell, the which a poor 
 Warm bird o'erspread, and sat still evermore, 
 Till her enclosed child kicked, and picked itself a door. 
 
 217
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS "WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Out crept a sparrow, this Soul's moving inn, 
 
 On whose raw arms stiff" feathers now begin, 
 
 As cliildren's teeth through gums, to break with pain : 
 
 His flesh is jellj yet, and his bones threads; 
 
 All a new downy mantle overspreads: 
 
 A mouth he opes, which would as much contain 
 
 As his late house, and the first hour speaks plain. 
 
 And chirps aloud for meat : meat fit for men 
 
 His fixther steals for him, and so feeds then 
 
 One that within a month will beat him from his hen. 
 
 XX. 
 
 In this world's youth wise Nature did make haste. 
 
 Things ripened sooner, and did longer last : 
 
 Already this hot cock in bush and tree, 
 
 In field and tent, o'erflutters his next hen-: 
 
 Ho asks her not who did so taste, nor when; 
 
 Nor if his sister or his niece she be. 
 
 Nor doth she pule for his inconstancy 
 
 If in her sight he change ; nor doth refuse 
 
 The next that calls ; both liberty do use. 
 
 AVhere store is of both kinds, both kinds may freely choose. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Men, till they took laws, which made freedom less, 
 Their daughters and their sisters did ingress; 
 Till now unlawful, therefore ill, 'twas not; 
 So jolly, that it can move this Soul. Is 
 The body so free of his kindnesses. 
 That self-preserving it hath now forgot, 
 And slack'neth not the Soul's and body's knot, 
 Which temp'rance straitens? Freely on his she-friends 
 He blood and spirit, pith and marrow, spends ; 
 111 steward of himself, himself in three years ends. 
 218
 
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 XXII. 
 
 Else might he long have lived; man did not know 
 Of gummy blood which doth in holly grow, 
 How to make bird-lime, nor how to deceive, 
 With feigned calls, his nets, or enwrapping snare, 
 The free inhabitants of the pliant air. 
 Man to beget, and woman to conceive, 
 Asked not of roots, nor of cock-sparrows, leave; 
 Yet chooseth he, though none of these he fears. 
 Pleasantly three ; then straitened twenty years 
 To live, and to increase his race himself outwears. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 This coal with over-blowing quenched and dead, 
 
 The Soul from her too active organs fled 
 
 To a brook. A female fish's sandy roe 
 
 With the male's jelly newly leavened was; 
 
 For they had intertouched as they did pass. 
 
 And one of those small bodies, fitted so, 
 
 This Soul informed, and able it to row 
 
 Itself with finny oars, which she did fit, 
 
 Her scales seemed yet of parchment, and as yet 
 
 Perchance a fish, but by no name you could call it. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 When goodly, like a ship in her full trim, 
 A swan so white, that you may unto him 
 Compare all whiteness, but himself to none. 
 Glided along, and as he glided watched. 
 And with his arched neck this poor fish catched : 
 It moved with state, as if to look upon 
 Low things it scorned ; and yet before that one 
 Could think he sought it, he had swallowed clear 
 This and much such, and unblamed, devoured there 
 All but who too swift, too great, or well-armed, were. 
 
 219
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Now swam a prison in a prison put, 
 
 And now this Soul in double walls was shut, 
 
 Till melted with the swan's digestive fire 
 
 She left her house, the fish, and vapoured forth : 
 
 Fate not affording bodies of more worth 
 
 For her as yet, bids her again retire 
 
 To another fish, to any new desire 
 
 Made a new prey; for he that can to none 
 
 Eesistance make, nor complaint, is sure gone ; 
 
 Weakness invites, but silence feasts oppression. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Pace with the native stream this fish doth keep, 
 
 And journeys with her towards the glassy deep, 
 
 But oft retarded ; once with a hidden net, 
 
 Though with great windows, (for when need first taught 
 
 These tricks to catch food, then they were not wrought 
 
 As now, with curious greediness, to let 
 
 None 'scape, but few and fit for use to get,) 
 
 As in this trap a ravenous pike was ta'en, 
 
 Who, though himself distress'd, would fain have slain 
 
 This wretch ; so hardly are ill habits left again. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Here by her smallness she two deaths o'erpast, 
 Once innocence 'scaped, and left the oppressor fast; 
 The net through swam, she keeps the liquid path, 
 And whether she leap up sometimes to breathe 
 And suck in air, or find it underneath. 
 Or working parts like mills or limbecs hath, 
 To make the water thin, and air like faith. 
 Cares not, but safe the place she 's come unto. 
 Where fresh with salt waves meet, and what to do 
 She knows not, but between both makes a board or two. 
 220
 
 1550-1640.J THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dONNE. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 So far from hiding her guests water is, 
 
 That she shews them in bigger quantities 
 
 Than they are. Thus her, doubtful of her way, 
 
 For game, and not for hunger, a sea-pie 
 
 Spied tlirough his traitorous spectacle from high 
 
 The silly fish, where it disputing lay. 
 
 And to end her doubts and her, bears her away; 
 
 Exalted, she 's but to the exalter's good, 
 
 (As are by great ones men which lowly stood ;) 
 
 It 's raised to be the raiser's instrument and food. 
 
 xxix. 
 Is any kind subject to rape like fish ? 
 Ill unto man they neither do nor wish; 
 Fishers they kill not, nor wdth noise awake ; 
 They do not hunt, nor strive to make a prey 
 Of beasts, nor their young sons to bear away; 
 Fowls they pursue not, nor do undertake 
 To spoil the nests industrious birds do make; 
 Yet them all these unkind kinds feed upon; 
 To kill them is an occupation. 
 And laws make fasts and lents for their destruction, 
 
 XXX. 
 
 A sudden stiff land-wind in that self hour 
 
 To sea-ward forced this bird that did devour 
 
 The fish ; he cares not, for with ease he flies, 
 
 Fat gluttony's best orator: at last, 
 
 So long he hath flown, and hath flown so fast. 
 
 That, leagues o'erpast at sea, now tired he lies, 
 
 And with his prey, that till then languished, dies: 
 
 The souls, no longer foes, two ways did err. 
 
 The fish I follow, and keep no calender 
 
 Of the other : he Uves yet in some great officer. 
 
 221
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Into an embryo fish our Soul is thrown, 
 
 And in due time thrown out again, and grown 
 
 To such vastness, as if unmanacled 
 
 From Greece Morea were, and that, by some 
 
 Earthquake unrooted, loose Morea swam; 
 
 Or seas from Afric's body had severed 
 
 And torn the Hopeful promontory's head: 
 
 This fish would seem these, and, when all hopes fail, 
 
 A great ship overset, or without sail. 
 
 Hulling, might (when this w^as a whelp) be like this whale. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 At every stroke his brazen fins do take 
 More circles in the broken sea they make 
 Than cannons' voices when the air they tear: 
 His ribs are pillars, and his high-arched roof 
 Of bark, that blunts best steel, is thunder-proof: 
 Swim m him swallowed dolphins without fear, 
 And feel no sides, as if his vast womb were 
 Some inland sea; and ever, as he went, 
 He spouted rivers up, as if he meant 
 To join our seas with seas above the firmament. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He hunts not fish, but, as an officer 
 Stays in his court, at his own net, and there 
 All suitors of all sorts themselves enthral ; 
 So on his back lies this wliale wantoning, 
 And in his gulf-like throat sucks every thing. 
 That passeth near. Fish chaseth fish, and all, 
 Flier and follower, in this whirlpool fall : 
 Oh ! might not states of more equality 
 Consist? and is it of necessity 
 
 That thousand guiltless smalls to make one great must die ? 
 
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 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dONNE. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Now drinks he up seas, and he eats up flocks ; 
 He jostles islands, and he shakes firm rocks: 
 Now in a roomful house this Soul doth lloat. 
 And, like a prince, she sends her faculties 
 To all her limbs, distant as provinces. 
 The sun hath twenty times both Crab and Goat 
 Parched, since first launched forth this living boat : 
 'Tis greatest now, and to destruction 
 Nearest ; there 's no pause at perfection ; 
 Greatness a period hath, but hath no station. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Two little fishes, whom he never harmed, 
 
 Nor fed on their kind, two, not th'roughly armed 
 
 With hope that they could kill him, nor could do 
 
 Good to themselves by his death, (they did not eat 
 
 His flesh, nor suck those oils which thence outstreat,) 
 
 Conspired against him; and it might undo 
 
 The plot of all that the plotters were two, 
 
 But that they fishes were, and could not speak. 
 
 How shall a tyrant wise strong projects break. 
 
 If wretches can on them the common anger v/reak ? 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 The flail-finned thresher and steel-beaked sword-fish 
 Only attempt to do what all do wish : 
 The thresher backs him, and to beat begins; 
 The sluggard whale leads to oppression, 
 And t' hide himself from shame and danger, down 
 Begins to sink : the sword-fish upwards spins. 
 And gores him with his beak; his staft-like fins 
 So well the one, his sword the other, plies, 
 That, now a scoff and prey, this tyrant dies. 
 And (his own dole) feeds with himself all companies. 
 
 223
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Who will reven2;e his death '? or who will call 
 
 Those to account that thought and wi'ought his fall 1 
 
 The heirs of slain kings we see are often so 
 
 Transported with the joy of what they get, 
 
 That they revenge and obsequies forget ; 
 
 Nor will against such men the people go, 
 
 Because he 's now dead to Mdiom they should show 
 
 Love in that act. Some kings, by vice, being grown 
 
 So needy of subjects' love, that of their own 
 
 They think they lose if love be to the dead prince shown. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 This soul, now free from prison and passion, 
 
 Hath yet a little indignation 
 
 That so small hammers should so soon down beat 
 
 So great a castle ; and having for her house 
 
 Got the strait cloister of a wretched mouse, 
 
 (As basest men, that have not what to eat, 
 
 Nor enjoy ought, do far more hate the great 
 
 Than they who good reposed estates possess,) 
 
 This Soul, late taught that great things might by less 
 
 Be slain, to gallant mischief doth herself address. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Nature's great masterpiece, an elephant, 
 (The only harmless great thing,) the giant 
 Of beasts, who thought none had to make him wise. 
 But to be just and thankful, loth to ofiend, 
 (Yet Nature hath given him no knees to bend,) 
 Himself he up-props, on himself relies, 
 And, foe to none, suspects no enemies. 
 Still sleeping stood; vexed not his fantasy 
 Black dreams ; like an unbent bow carelessly 
 His sinewy proboscis did remissly lie. 
 224
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dONNE. 
 
 XL. 
 
 In which, as in a gallery, this mouse 
 Walked, and surveyed the rooms of this vast house. 
 And to the brain, the Soul's bed-chamber, went. 
 And gnawed the life-cords there : like a whole town 
 Clean undermined, the slain beast tumbled down : 
 With him the murderer dies, whom envy sent 
 To kill, not 'scape, (for only he that meant 
 To die did ever kill a man of better room,) 
 And thus he made his foe his prey and tomb : 
 Who cares not to turn back may any whither come. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Next housed this Soul a wolf's yet unborn whelp, 
 
 Till the best midwife. Nature, gave it help 
 
 To issue : it could kill as soon as go. 
 
 Abel, as white and mild as his sheep were, 
 
 (Who, in that trade, of church and kingdoms there 
 
 Was the first type,) was still infested so 
 
 With this wolf, that it bred his loss and woe ; 
 
 And vet his bitch, his sentinel, attends 
 
 The flock so near, so well warns and defends, 
 
 That the wolf, hopeless else, to corrupt her intends. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 He took a course, which since successfully 
 Great men have often taken, to espy 
 The counsels, or to break the plots, of foes ; 
 To Abel's tent he stealeth in the dark, 
 On whose skirts the bitch slept : ere she could bark. 
 Attached her with strait gripes, yet he called those 
 Embracements of love : to love's work he goes. 
 Where deeds move more than words ; nor doth she show. 
 Nor much resist, no needs he straiten so 
 His prey, for were she loose she would not bark nor go. 
 VOL. I. P 225
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 He hath engaged her ; his she wholly bides ; 
 Who not her own, none other's secrets hides. 
 If to the flock he come, and Abel there, 
 She feigns hoarse barkings, but she biteth not ! 
 Her faith is quite, but not her love forgot. 
 At last a trap, of which some everywhere 
 Abel had placed, ends all his loss and fear 
 By the wolf's death ; and now just time it was 
 That a quick Soul should give life to that mass 
 Of blood in. Abel's bitch, and thither this did pass. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Some have their wives, their sisters some begot, 
 
 But in the lives of emperors you shall not 
 
 Bead of a lust the which may equal this : 
 
 This wolf begot himself, and finished 
 
 What he began alive when he was dead. 
 
 Son to himself, and father too, he is 
 
 A riding lust, for wliicli schoolmen would miss 
 
 A proper name. The whelp of both these lay 
 
 In Abel's tent, and with soft Moaba, 
 
 His sister, being young, it used to sport and play. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 He soon for her too harsh and churlish grew, 
 And Abel (the dam dead) would use this new 
 For the field ; being of two kinds thus made, 
 He, as his dam, from sheep drove wolves away. 
 And, as his sire, he made tliem his own prey. 
 Five years he lived, and cozened with his trade, 
 Then, hopeless that his faults were hid, betrayed 
 Himself by flight, and by all followed, 
 I'rom dogs a wolf, from wolves a dog, he fled. 
 And, like a spy, to both sides false, he perished. 
 226
 
 1550-1640.'] THE LESS-KNOWX BRITISH POETS. [dOXNE. 
 
 XLYI. 
 
 It quickened next a toyful ape, and so 
 Gamesome it was, that it might freely go 
 From tent to tent, and with the children play : 
 His organs now so like theirs he doth find. 
 That why he cannot laugh and speak his mind 
 He wonders. Much with all, most he doth stay 
 With Adam's fifth daughter, Siphatecia ; 
 Doth gaze on her, and where she passeth pass. 
 Gathers her fruits, and tumbles on the grass ; 
 And, wisest of that kind, the first true lover was. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 He was the first that more desired to have 
 One than another ; first that e'er did crave 
 Love by mute signs, and had no power to speak; 
 First that could make love-faces, or could do 
 The vaulter's somersalts, or used to woo 
 With hoiting gambols, his own bones to break. 
 To make his mistress merry, or to wreak 
 Her anger on himself. Sins against kind 
 They easily do that can let feed their mind 
 AYith outward beauty ; beauty they in boys and beasts 
 do find. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 By this misled too low things men have proved. 
 And too high ; beasts and angels have been loved : 
 This ape, though else th'rough vain, in this was wise ; 
 He reached at things too high, but open way 
 There was, and he knew not she would say Nay. 
 His toys prevail not ; likelier means he tries ; 
 He gazeth on her face with tear-shot eyes, 
 And uplifts subtlely, with his russet paw, 
 Her kid-skin apron without fear or awe 
 Of Nature ; Nature hath no jail, though she hath law. 
 
 227
 
 DONNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 First she was silly, and knew not what he meant : 
 
 That virtue, by his touches chafed and spent, 
 
 Succeeds an itchy warmth, that melts her quite ; 
 
 She knew not first, nor cares not what he doth; 
 
 And willing half and more, more than half wrath. 
 
 She neither pulls nor pushes, but outright 
 
 Now cries, and now repents ; when Thelemite, 
 
 Her brother, entered, and a great stone threw 
 
 After the ape, who thus prevented flew. 
 
 This house, thus battered down, the Soul possessed anew. 
 
 L. 
 
 And whether by this change she lose or win. 
 
 She comes out next where the ape would have gone in. 
 
 Adam and Eve had mingled bloods, and now. 
 
 Like chemic's equal fires, her temperate womb 
 
 Had stewed and formed it ; and part did become 
 
 A spungy liver, that did richly allow. 
 
 Like a free conduit on a high hill's brow, 
 
 Life -keeping moisture unto every part ; 
 
 Part hardened itself to a thicker heart. 
 
 Whose busy furnaces life's spirits do impart. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Another part became the well of sense. 
 The tender, well-armed feeling brain, from whence 
 Those sinew strings which do our bodies tie 
 Are ravelled out ; and fast there by one end 
 Did this Soul limbs, these limbs a Soul attend; 
 And now they joined, keeping some quality 
 Of every past shape ; she knew treachery. 
 Rapine, deceit, and lust, and ills enough 
 To be a woman : Themech she is now. 
 Sister and wife to Cain, Cain that first did plough. 
 228
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KXOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRAYTON. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Wlioc'er tliou beest that reacl'st tliis sullen writ, 
 
 Whicli just so much courts thee as thou dost it. 
 
 Let mo arrest thy thoughts ; wonder with me 
 
 Why ploughing, building, ruling, and the rest. 
 
 Or most of those arts whence our lives are blest, 
 
 By cursed Cain's race invented be, 
 
 And blest Seth vexed us with astronomy. 
 
 There 's nothing simply good nor ill alone ; 
 
 Of every quality Comparison 
 
 The only measure is, and judge Opinion. 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON, 
 
 The author of ' Polyolbion/ was bom in the parish of Athers- 
 ton, in "Warwickshire, about the year 1563. He was the son of 
 a butcher, but displayed such precocity that several persons of 
 quality, such as Sir Walter Aston and the Countess of Bedford, 
 patronised him. In his childhood he was eager to know what 
 strange kind of beings poets were ; and on coming to Oxford, (if, 
 indeed, he did study there,) is said to have importuned his 
 tutor to make him, if possible, a poet. He was supported chiefly, 
 through his life, by the Lady Bedford. He paid court, without 
 success, to King James. In 1593 (having long ere this become 
 that ' strange thing a poet') he published a collection of his 
 Pastorals, and afterwards his ' Barons' W^ars ' and ' England's 
 Heroical Epistles,' which are both rhymed histories. In 1612-13 
 he published the first part of '■ Polyolbion,' and in 1622 com- 
 pleted the work. In 1626 we hear of him being styled Poet 
 Laureate, but the title then implied neither royal appointment, 
 nor fee, nor, we presume, duty. In 1627 he published ' The 
 Battle of Agincourt,' ' The Court of Faerie,' and other poems ; 
 and, three years later, a book called ' The Muses' Elysium.' 
 He had at last found an asylum in the family of the Earl of 
 
 229
 
 DRAYTON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Dorset ; whose noble lady, Lady Anne Clifford, sulisequently 
 Countess of Pembroke, and wlio had been, we saw, Daniel's 
 pupil, after Drayton's death in 1631, erected him a monument, 
 with a gold-lettered inscription, in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 The main pillar of Drayton's fame is ' Polyolbion,' which 
 forms a poetical description of England, in thirty songs or books, 
 to which the learned Camden appended notes. The learning 
 and knowledge of this poem are extensive, and many of the 
 descriptions are true and spirited, but the space of ground tra- 
 versed is too large, and the form of versification is too heavy, for 
 so long a flight. Campbell justly remarks, — ' On a general 
 survey, the mass of his poetry has no strength or sustaining 
 spirit equal to its bulk. There is a perpetual play of fancy on 
 its surface ; but the impulses of passion, and the guidance of 
 judgment, give it no strong movements or consistent course.' 
 
 Drayton eminently suits a ' Selection ' such as ours, since his 
 parts are better than his whole. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF MORNING. 
 
 When Phoebus lifts bis head out of the winter's wave, 
 No sooner doth the earth her flowery bosom brave, 
 At such time as the year brings on the pleasant spring, 
 But hunts-up to the morn the feather'd sylvans sing: 
 And in the lower grove, as on the rising knoll, 
 Upon the highest spray of every mounting pole. 
 Those choristers are perch'd with many a speckled 
 
 breast. 
 Then from her burnish'd gate the goodly glitt'ring east 
 Gilds every lofty top, which late the humorous night 
 Bespangled had with pearl, to please the morning's sight : 
 On which the mirthful choii's, with theii' clear open 
 
 throats. 
 Unto the joyful morn so strain their w^arbling notes. 
 That hnis and valleys ring, and even the echoing air 
 Seems all composed of sounds, about them everywhere. 
 
 230
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KXOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRAYTON. 
 
 The throstle, with shrill sharps ; as purposely he sung 
 T' awake the lustless sun, or chiding, that so long- 
 He w^as in coming forth, that should the thickets thrill ; 
 The woosel near at hand, that hath a golden bill; 
 As nature him had mark'd of purpose, t' let us see 
 That from all other birds his tunes should different be: 
 For, with their vocal sounds, they sing to pleasant May; 
 Upon his dulcet pipe the merle doth only play. 
 When in the lower brake, the nightingale hard by, 
 In such lamenting strains the joyful hours doth ply. 
 As though the other birds she to her tunes would draw, 
 And, but that nature (by her all-constraining law) 
 Each bird to her own kind this season doth invite, 
 They else, alone to hear that charmer of the night, 
 (The more to use their ears,) their voices sure would 
 
 spare. 
 That moduleth her tunes so admirably rare, 
 As man to set in parts at first had learn'd of her. 
 
 To Philomel the next, the linnet we prefer; 
 And by that warbling bird, the wood-lark place we then, 
 The red-sparrow, the nope, the redbreast, and the wren. 
 The yellow-pate ; which though she hurt the blooming 
 
 tree. 
 Yet scarce hath any bird a finer pipe than she. 
 And of these chanting fowls, the goldfinch not behind, 
 That hath so many sorts descending from her kind. 
 The tydy for her notes as delicate as they. 
 The laughing hecco, then the counterfeiting jay. 
 The softer with the shrill (some hid among the leaves, 
 Some in the taller trees, some in the lower greaves) 
 Thus sing away the morn, until the mounting sun 
 Through thick exhaled fogs his golden head hath run, 
 And through the twisted tops of our close covert creeps 
 To kiss the gentle shade, this while that sweetly sleeps. 
 
 231
 
 DRAYTON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 And near to tliese our thicks, the wild and frightful 
 
 herds, 
 Not hearing other noise but this of chattering- birds. 
 Feed fairly on the lawns ; both sorts of season'd deer : 
 Here walk the stately red, the freckled fallow there : 
 The bucks and lusty stags amongst the rascals strew'd. 
 As sometime gallant spirits amongst the multitude. 
 
 Of all the beasts which we for our venerial name, 
 The hart among the rest, the hunter's noblest game : 
 Of which most princely chase since none did e'er report. 
 Or by description touch, to express that wondrous sport, 
 (Yet might have well beseem'd the ancients' nobler songs) 
 To our old Arden here, most fitly it belongs : 
 Yet shall she not invoke the muses to her aid ; 
 But thee, Diana bright, a goddess and a maid : 
 In many a huge-grown wood, and many a shady grove. 
 Which oft hast borne thy bow (great huntress, used to 
 
 rove) 
 At many a cruel beast, and with thy darts to pierce 
 The lion, panther, ounce, the bear, and tiger fierce ; 
 And following thy fleet game, chaste mighty forest's 
 
 queen. 
 With thy dishevell'd nymphs attired in youthful green. 
 About the lawns hast scour'd, and wastes both far and 
 
 near. 
 Brave huntress ; but no beast shall prove thy quarries here; 
 Save those the best of chase, the tall and lusty red. 
 The stag for goodly shape, and stateliness of head. 
 Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom, when with his 
 
 hounds 
 The labouring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed grounds 
 Where harbour'd is the hart; there often from his feed 
 The dogs of him do find ; or thorough skilful heed. 
 The huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, perceives, 
 
 232
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KXOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRAYTOX. 
 
 On entering of the thick by pressing of the greaves. 
 Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the hart doth 
 
 hear 
 The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret leir. 
 He rousing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth 
 
 drive, 
 As though up bj the roots the bushes he would rive. 
 And through the cumbrous thicks, as fearfully he makes. 
 He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes, 
 That sprinkling then* moist pearl do seem for him to weep ; 
 When after goes the cr}^ with yellings loud and deep. 
 That all the forest rings, and every neighbouring place : 
 And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase ; 
 Bechating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers. 
 Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palm'd head upbears. 
 His body showing state, with unbent knees upright. 
 Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight. 
 But when the approaching foes still following he perceives. 
 That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves : 
 And o'er the champam flies : which when the assembly 
 
 find. 
 Each follows, as his horse were footed with the wind. 
 But being then imbost, the noble stately deer 
 When he hath gotten ground (the kennel cast arrear) 
 Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refreshing soil : 
 That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foil, 
 And makes amongst the herds, and flocks of shag-wooled 
 
 sheep. 
 Them frighting from the guard of those who had their 
 
 keep. 
 But when as all his shifts his safety still denies. 
 Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fallows tries. 
 Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he letteth 
 
 stand 
 
 233
 
 FAIRFAX.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 To assail him witli liis goad : so with his hook in hand, 
 The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hollo : 
 When, with tempestuous speed, the liounds and huntsmen 
 
 follow ; 
 Until the noble deer through toil bereaved of strength. 
 His long and sinewy legs then faiUng him at length, 
 The villages attempts, enraged, not giving way 
 To anything he meets now at his sad decay. 
 The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunters near. 
 This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear, 
 Some bank or quickset finds : to which his haunch opposed. 
 He turns upon his foes, that soon have him enclosed. 
 The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay. 
 And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay, 
 AVith his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds. 
 
 The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds. 
 He desperately assails ; until oppress'd by force. 
 He who the mourner is to his own dying corse. 
 Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall. 
 
 EDWARD FAIRFAX. 
 
 Edward Fairfax was the second, some say the natural, son of 
 Sir Thomas Fairfax of Denton, in Yorkshire. The dates of his 
 birth and of his death are unknown, although he was living in 
 1631. While his brothers were pursuing military glory in the 
 field, Edward married early, and settled in Fuystone, a place 
 near Knaresborough Forest. Here he spent part of his time in 
 managing his elder brother. Lord Fairfax's property, and partly 
 in literary pursuits. He wrote a strange treatise on Demon- 
 ology, a History of Edward the Black Prince, which has 
 never been printed, some poor Eclogues, and a most beautiful 
 translation of Tasso, which stamps him a true poet as well as 
 234
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [fAIRFAX. 
 
 a benefactor to the English language, and on account of which 
 Collins calls him — 
 
 * Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind 
 
 Believed the magic wonders which he sung.' 
 
 RINALDO AT MOUNT OLIVET. 
 
 1 It was the time, when 'gainst the breaking day 
 Kebellious night yet strove, and still repined; 
 For in the east appear'd the morning gray, 
 
 And 3"et some lamps in Jove's high palace shined, 
 When to Mount Olivet he took his way, 
 And saw, as round about his eyes he twined, 
 
 Night's shadows hence, from thence the morning's 
 shine ; 
 
 This bright, that dark; that earthly, this divine: 
 
 2 Thus to himself he thought : ' How many bright 
 And splendent lamps shine in heaven's temple high ! 
 Day hath his golden sun, her moon the night, 
 
 Her fix'd and wandering stars the azure sky; 
 So framed all by their Creator's might. 
 That still they live and shine, and ne'er shall die. 
 Till, in a moment, with the last day's brand 
 They burn, and with them burn sea, air, and land.' 
 
 3 Thus as he mused, to the top he went. 
 
 And there kneel'd down with reverence and fear; 
 
 His eyes upon heaven's eastern face he bent; 
 
 His thoughts above all heavens uplifted were — 
 
 * The sins and errors, which I now repent. 
 
 Of my unbridled youth, Father dear. 
 Remember not, but let thy mercy fall, 
 And purge my faults and my offences all.' 
 
 235
 
 FAIRFAX.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 4 Thus prayed he; with purple wings up-flcw 
 In golden weed the morning's lusty queen, 
 Begilding, with the radiant beams she threw. 
 His helm, his harness, and the mountain green : 
 Upon his breast and forehead gently blew 
 
 The air, that balm and nardus breathed unseen ; 
 And o'er his head, let down from clearest skies, 
 A cloud of pure and precious dew there flies : 
 
 5 The heavenly dew was on his garments spread. 
 To which compared, his clothes pale ashes seem, 
 And sprinkled so, that all that paleness fled, 
 And thence of purest white bright rays outstream : 
 So cheered are the flowers, late withered. 
 
 With the sweet comfort of the morning beam ; 
 And so, return'd to youth, a serpent old 
 Adorns herself in new and native gold. 
 
 6 The lovely whiteness of his changed weed 
 The prince perceived well and long admired; 
 Toward the forest march'd he on with speed. 
 Resolved, as such adventures great required : 
 Thither he came, whence, shrinking back for dread 
 Of that strange desert's sight, the first retired ; 
 
 But not to him fearful or loathsome made 
 That forest was, but sweet with pleasant shade. 
 
 7 Forward he pass'd, and in the grove before 
 
 He heard a sound, that strange, sweet, pleasing was ; 
 There roll'd a crystal brook w^ith gentle roar. 
 There sigh'd the winds, as through the leaves they 
 
 pass; 
 TheTc did the nightingale her wrongs deplore. 
 There sung the swan, and singing died, alas ! 
 236
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [FAIRFAX* 
 
 There lute, harp, cittern, human voice, he heard, 
 And all these sounds one sound right well declared. 
 
 8 A dreadful thunder-clap at last he heard. 
 The aged trees and plants w^ell-nigh that rent, 
 Yet heard the nymphs and sirens afterward. 
 Birds, winds, and waters, sing mth sweet consent; 
 Whereat amazed, he stay'd, and w^ell prepared 
 For his defence, heedful and slow forth-went; 
 
 Nor in his M^ay his passage ought withstood. 
 Except a quiet, still, transparent flood : 
 
 9 On the green banks, which that fan stream inbound. 
 Flowers and odours sweetly smiled and smell'd, 
 Which reaching out his stretched arms around, 
 
 All the large desert in his bosom held, 
 
 And through the grove one channel passage found ; 
 
 This in the wood, in that the forest dwell'd: 
 
 Trees clad the streams, streams green those trees 
 aye made. 
 
 And so exchanged their moisture and their shade. 
 
 10 The knight some way sought out the flood to pass. 
 And as he sought, a wondrous bridge appear'd; 
 
 A bridge of gold, a huge and mighty mass. 
 On arches great of that rich metal rear'd : 
 AVhen through that golden way he enter'd was, 
 Down fell the bridge ; swelled the stream, and wear'd 
 
 The work away, nor sign left, wdiere it stood. 
 
 And of a river calm became a flood. 
 
 11 He turn'd, amazed to see it troubled so. 
 
 Like sudden brooks, increased with molten snow ; 
 The billows fierce, that tossed to and fro, 
 
 237
 
 FAIRFAX.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 The wliirlpools suck'd down to their bosoms low ; 
 But on he went to search for wonders mo,^ 
 Through the thick trees, there high and broad which 
 grow ; 
 And in that forest huge, and desert wide. 
 The more he sought, more wonders still he spied : 
 
 12 Where'er he stepp'd, it seem'd the joyful ground 
 Renew'd the verdure of her flowery weed; 
 
 A fountain here, a well-spring there he found; 
 Here bud the roses, there the lilies spread : 
 The ajxed wood o'er and about him round 
 Flourish'd with blossoms new, new leaves, new seed; 
 And on the boughs and branches of those treen 
 The bark was soften'd, and renew'd the green. 
 
 13 The manna on each leaf did pearled lie; 
 The honey stilled^ from the tender rind: 
 Again he heard that wonderful harmony 
 
 Of songs and sweet complaints of lovers kind; 
 The human voices sung a treble high, 
 To which respond the birds, the streams, the wind ; 
 But yet unseen those nymphs, those singers were, 
 Unseen the lutes, harps, viols which they bear. 
 
 1 4 He look'd, he listen'd, yet his thoughts denied 
 To think that true which he did hear and see : 
 A myrtle in an ample plain he spied, 
 
 And thither by a beaten path went he; 
 The myrtle spread her mighty branches wide. 
 Higher than pine, or palm, or cypress tree, 
 And far above all other plants was seen 
 That forest's lady, and that desert's queen. 
 
 ^ 'Uo-: more.—- 'Stilled:' dropped. 
 
 238
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, [FAIRFAX. 
 
 15 Upon tlie tree his eyes PJnaldo bent, 
 
 And there a marvel great and strange began ; 
 An aged oak beside him cleft and rent, 
 And from his fertile, hollow womb, forth ran. 
 Clad in rare weeds and strange habiliment, 
 A nymph, for age able to go to man ; 
 
 An hundred plants beside, even in his sight, 
 Childed an hundred nymphs, so great, so diglit.^ 
 
 16 Such as on stages play, such as we see 
 The dryads painted, whom wild satyrs love. 
 Whose arms half naked, locks untrussed be, 
 With buskins laced on their legs above, 
 
 And silken robes tuck'd short above their knee, 
 Such seem'd the sylvan daughters of this grove ; 
 Save, that instead of shafts and bows of tree. 
 She bore a lute, a harp or cittern she ; 
 
 17 And wantonly they cast them in a ring. 
 
 And sung and danced to move his weaker sense, 
 
 Einaldo round about envii'oning. 
 
 As does its centre the circumference; 
 
 The tree they compass'd eke, and 'gan to sing. 
 
 That woods and streams admired their excellence — 
 * Welcome, dear Lord, welcome to this sweet grove. 
 Welcome, our lady's hope, welcome, her love ! 
 
 18 ' Thou com'st to cure our princess, faint and sick 
 For love, for love of thee, faint, sick, distress'd ; 
 Late black, late dreadful was this forest thick. 
 Fit dwelling for sad folk, with grief oppress'd ; 
 See, with thy coming how the branches quick 
 Bevived are, and in new blossoms dress'd!' 
 
 ^ 'Dight:' apparelled. 
 
 239
 
 FAIRFAX.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 This was their song; and after from it went 
 First a sweet sound, and then the myrtle rent. 
 
 19 If antique times admired Silenus old, 
 Who oft appear'd set on his lazy ass, 
 
 How would they w^onder, if they had behold 
 Such sights, as from the myrtle high did pass! 
 Thence came a lady fair with locks of gold, 
 Tliat like in shape, in face, and beauty was 
 To fair Armida; Rinald thinks he spies 
 Her gestures, smiles, and glances of her eyes : 
 
 20 On him a sad and smiling look she cast. 
 Which twenty passions strange at once bewrays ; 
 ' And art thou come,' quoth she, ' return'd at last 
 To her, from whom but late thou ran'st thy ways'? 
 Com'st thou to comfort me for sorrwvs past. 
 
 To ease my widow nights, and careful days'? 
 Or comest thou to work me grief and harm? 
 Why nilt thou speak, why not thy face disarm'? 
 
 21 ' Com'st thou a friend or foe 1 I did not frame 
 That golden bridge to entertain my foe ; 
 
 Nor open'd flowers and fountains, as you came. 
 To welcome him with joy who brings me woe: 
 Put ofl' thy helm: rejoice me with the flame 
 Of thy bright eyes, M'hence first my fires did grow; 
 Kiss me, embrace me ; if you further venture. 
 Love keeps the gate, the fort is eath^ to enter.' 
 
 22 Thus as she woos, she rolls her rueful eyes 
 W^ith piteous look, and changeth oft her chere,^ 
 An hundred sighs from her false heart up -flies; 
 
 ^ 'Eath:' easy. — - 'Chere:' expression. 
 
 240
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [FAIRFAX. 
 
 She sobs, she mourns, it is great ruth to hear: 
 The hardest breast sweet pity mollifies; 
 What stony heart resists a woman's tear'? 
 But yet the knight, wise, wary, not unkind, 
 Drew forth his sword, and from her careless 
 twined : ^ 
 
 23 Towards the tree he march'd; she thither start, 
 Before him stepp'd, embraced the plant, and cried — 
 *Ah! never do me such a spiteful part. 
 
 To cut my tree, this forest's joy and pride; 
 
 Put up thy sword, else pierce therewith the heart 
 
 Of thy forsaken and despised Armide ; 
 
 For through this breast, and through this heart, un- 
 kind. 
 
 To this fair tree thy sword shall passage find.' 
 
 24 He lift his brand, nor cared, though oft she pray'd, 
 And she her form to other shape did change ; 
 Such monsters huge, when men in dreams are laid, 
 Oft in their idle fancies roam and rano'e : 
 
 Her body swell'd, her face obscure was made ; 
 
 Vanish'd her garments rich, and vestures strange ; 
 A giantess before him high she stands, 
 Arm'd, like Briareus, with an hundred hands, 
 
 25 With fifty swords, and fifty targets bright. 
 
 She threaten'd death, she roar'd, she cried and fought; 
 Each other nymph, in armour likewise dight, 
 A Cyclops great became ; he fear'd them nought. 
 But on the myrtle smote with all his might. 
 Which groan'd, like living souls, to death nigh brought ; 
 The sky seem'd Pluto's court, the air seem'd hell, 
 Therein such monsters roar, such spirits yell: 
 
 ^ 'Twined:' separated. 
 VOL. I. Q 241
 
 FAIRFAX.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 26 Ligliten'd the heaven above, the earth below 
 Roared aloud ; that thunder'd, and this shook : 
 Bluster'd the tempests strong; the whirlwinds blow; 
 The bitter storm drove hailstones in his look; 
 But yet his arm grew neither weak nor slow. 
 Nor of that fury heed or care he took, 
 
 Till low to earth the wounded tree down bended ; 
 
 Then fled the spirits all, the charms all ended. 
 
 2 7 The heavens grew clear, the air wax'd calm and still, 
 The wood returned to its wonted state. 
 Of witchcrafts free, quite void of spirits ill, 
 Of horror full, but horror there innate : 
 He further tried, if oudit withstood his will 
 To cut those trees, as did the charms of late. 
 
 And finding nought to stop him, smiled and said — 
 '0 shadows vain! fools, of shades afraid!' 
 
 28 From thence home to the camp-ward turn'd the knight ; 
 The hermit cried, upstarting from his seat, 
 
 * Now of the wood the charms have lost tlieir might ; 
 
 The sprites are conquer'd, ended is the feat ; 
 
 See where he comes!' — Array 'd in glittering white 
 
 Appear'd the man, bold, stately, high, and great ; 
 His eagle's silver wings to shine begun 
 With wondrous splendour 'gainst the golden sun. 
 
 29 The camp received him with a joyful cry, — 
 A cry, the hills and dales about that fill'd ; 
 Then Godfrey welcomed him with honours high ; 
 His glory quench'd all spite, all em^ kilFd : 
 
 ' To yonder dreadful grove,' quoth he, * went I, 
 And from the fearful wood, as me you will'd, 
 Have driven the sprites away; thither let be 
 Your people sent, the way is safe and free.' 
 242
 
 550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [wOTTON. 
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON 
 
 Was born in Kent, in 1568; educated at Winchester and Ox- 
 ford ; and, after travelling on the Continent, became the Secre- 
 tary of Essex, but had the sagacity to foresee his downfall, and 
 withdrew from the kingdom in time. On his return he became 
 a favourite of James I., w^ho employed him to be ambassador to 
 Venice, — a post he held long, and occupied with great skill and 
 adroitness. Toward the end of his days, in order to gain the 
 Provostship of Eton, he took orders, and died in that situation, 
 in 1639, in the 72d year of his age. His writings were pub- 
 lished in 1651, under the title of '■ Reliquise W^ottonianae,' and 
 Izaak Walton has written an entertaining account of his life. 
 His poetry has a few pleasing and smooth-flowing passages; but 
 perhaps the best thing recorded of him is his viva voce account 
 of an English ambassador, as ' an honest gentleman sent to lie 
 abroad for the good of his country.' 
 
 FAEEWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD. 
 
 1 Farewell, ye gilded follies ! pleasing troubles ; 
 Farewell, ye honoiir'd rags, ye glorious bubbles; 
 Fame 's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay, 
 Honour the darling but of one short day, 
 Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damask'd skin. 
 State but a golden prison to live in 
 
 And torture free-born minds; embroider'd trains 
 Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins; 
 And blood, allied to greatness, is alone 
 Inherited, not purchased, nor our own. 
 Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth, 
 Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. 
 
 2 I would be great, but that the sun doth still 
 Level his rays against the rising hill; 
 
 243
 
 WOTTON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 I would be high, but see the proudest oak 
 
 Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke; 
 
 I would be rich, but see men too unkind 
 
 Dig in the bowels of the richest mind; 
 
 I would be wise, but that I often see 
 
 The fox suspected while the ass goes free; 
 
 I would be fair, but see the fair and proud. 
 
 Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud ; 
 
 I would be poor, but know the humble grass 
 
 Still trampled on by each unworthy ass; 
 
 Bich, hated ; wise, suspected ; scorn'd, if poor ; 
 
 Great, fear'd ; fair, tempted ; high, still envied more. 
 
 I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither 
 
 Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair — poor 1 11 be rather. 
 
 3 Would the world now adopt me for her heir. 
 Would beauty's queen entitle me 'the fair,' 
 Fame speak me Fortune's minion, could I vie 
 Angels^ with India; with a speaking eye 
 Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike Justice dumb 
 As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue 
 
 To stones by epitaphs ; be call'd great master 
 In the loose rhymes of every poetaster; 
 Could I be more than any man that lives. 
 Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives : 
 Yet I more freely would these gifts resign, 
 Than ever fortune would have made them mine; 
 And hold one minute of this holy leisure 
 Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure. 
 
 4 Welcome, pure thoughts ! welcome, ye silent groves ! 
 These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves. 
 Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing 
 
 ^ ' Angels:' a species of coin. 
 
 244
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [WOTTOX. 
 
 My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring; 
 A prayer-book now shall be my lookmg-glass, 
 In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face ; 
 Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares. 
 No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears : 
 Then here 1 11 sit, and sigh my hot love's folly, 
 And learn to affect a holy melancholy ; 
 And if Contentment be a stranger then, 
 I '11 ne'er look for it but in heaven again. 
 
 A MEDITATION. 
 
 thou great Power ! in whom we move, 
 By whom we live, to whom we die, 
 
 Behold me through thy beams of love, 
 Whilst on this couch of tears I lie. 
 
 And cleanse my sordid soul within 
 
 By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin. 
 
 No hallow'd oils, no gums I need, 
 No new-born drams of purging fire; 
 
 One rosy drop from David's seed 
 
 Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire : 
 
 precious ransom ! which once paid, 
 
 That Consummatum est was said. 
 
 And said by him, that said no more, 
 But seal'd it wdth his sacred breath : 
 
 Thou then, that has dispurged our score. 
 And dying wert the death of death. 
 
 Be now, whilst on thy name we call. 
 
 Our life, oiu* strengih, our joy, our all ! 
 
 245
 
 CORBET.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [2D PER. 
 
 EICHAED CORBET. 
 
 This witty and good-natured bisliop was Lorn in 1582. He 
 was the son of a gardener, who, however, had the honour to be 
 known to and sung by Ben Jonson. He was educated at West- 
 minster and Oxford ; and having received orders, was made 
 successively Bishop of Oxford and of Norwich. He was a 
 most facetious and rather too convivial person ; and a collection 
 of anecdotes about him might be made, little inferior, in point of 
 wit and coarseness, to that famous one, once so popular in Scot- 
 land, relating to the sayings and doings of George Buchanan. 
 He is said, on one occasion, to have aided an unfortunate ballad- 
 singer in his professional duty by arraying himself in his leathern 
 jacket and vending the stock, being possessed of a fine presence 
 and a clear, full, ringing voice. Occasionally doffing his clerical 
 costume he adjourned with his chaplain, Dr Lushington, to the 
 wine-cellar, where care and ceremony were both speedily drowned, 
 the one of the pair exclaiming, ' Here 's io thee, Lushington,' 
 and the other, ' Here 's to thee, Corbet.' Men winked at these 
 irregularities, probably on the principle mentioned by Scott, in 
 reference to Prior Aymer, in ' Ivanhoe,' — ' If Prior Aymer rode 
 hard in the chase, or remained late at the banquet, men only 
 shrugged up their shoulders by recollecting that the same irre- 
 gularities were practised by many of his brethren, who had no 
 redeeming qualities whatsoever to atone for them.' Corbet, on 
 the other hand, was a kind as well as a convivial — a warm- 
 hearted as well as an eccentric man. He was tolerant to the 
 Puritans and sectaries ; his attention to his duties was respect- 
 able ; his talents were of a high order, and he had in him a 
 vein of genius of no ordinary kind. He died in 1635, but his 
 poems were not published till 1647. They are of various merit, 
 and treat of various subjects. In his ' Journey to France,' you 
 see the humorist, who, on one occasion, when the country people 
 were flocking to be confirmed, cried, ' Bear off there, or I '11 
 confirm ye with my staff.' In his lines to his son Vincent, we 
 see, notwithstanding all his foibles, the good man ; and in his 
 ' Farewell to the Fairies ' the fine and fanciful poet. 
 246
 
 1550-16i0.] TUE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [cORBET. 
 
 DR Corbet's journey into fr^^jste. 
 
 1 I went from England into France, 
 Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance, 
 
 Nor yet to ride nor fence ; 
 Nor did I go like one of those 
 That do return wdth half a nose. 
 
 They carried from hence. 
 
 * 
 
 2 But I to Paris rode along. 
 
 Much like John Dory in the song, 
 
 Upon a holy tide ; 
 I on an ambling nag did jet, 
 (I trust he is not paid for yet,) 
 
 And spm-r'd him on each side. 
 
 3 And to St Denis fast we came. 
 To see the sights of Notre Dame, 
 
 (The man that shows them snuffles,) 
 Where who is apt for to believe. 
 May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve. 
 
 And eke her old pantofies; 
 
 4 Her breast, her milk, her very gown 
 That she did wear in Bethlehem town. 
 
 When in the inn she lay; 
 Yet all the world knows that 's a fable, 
 For so good clothes ne'er lay hi stable. 
 
 Upon a lock of hay. 
 
 5 No carpenter could by his trade 
 Gain so much coin as to have made 
 
 A gown of so rich stuff; 
 
 247
 
 CORBET.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Yet they, poor souls, think, for their credit. 
 That they believe old Joseph did it, 
 'Cause he deserved enough. 
 
 6 There is one of the cross's nails, 
 Which whoso sees, his bonnet vails. 
 
 And, if he will, may kneel ; 
 Some say 'twas false, 'twas never so, 
 Yet, feeling it, thus much I know, 
 
 It is as true as steel. 
 
 7 There is a lanthorn wdiich the Jews, 
 When Judas led them forth, did use. 
 
 It weighs my weight downright ; 
 But to believe it, you must think 
 The Jews did put a candle in 't. 
 
 And then 'twas very lidit. 
 
 8 There 's one saint there hath lost his nose. 
 Another 's head, but not his toes. 
 
 His elbow and his thumb; 
 But when that we had seen the rags, 
 • We went to th' inn and took our nags. 
 And so away did come. 
 
 9 W^e came to Paris, on the Seine, 
 'Tis wondrous fair, 'tis nothing clean, 
 
 'Tis Europe's greatest town; 
 How strong it is I need not tell it. 
 For all the world may easily smell it. 
 
 That walk it up and down. 
 
 10 There many strange things are to see. 
 The palace and great gallery. 
 The Place Boyal doth excel, 
 
 248
 
 1550-1G40.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [cORBET. 
 
 The New Bridge, and the statutes there, 
 At Notre Dame St Q. Pater, 
 The steeple bears the bell. 
 
 11 For learning the University, 
 And for old clothes the Frippery, 
 
 The house the queen did build. 
 St Innocence, whose earth devours 
 Dead corps in four-and-twenty hours. 
 And there the king was kill'd. 
 
 12 The Bastille and St Denis Street, 
 The Shafflenist like London Fleet, 
 
 The Arsenal no toy; 
 But if you '11 see the prettiest thing. 
 Go to the court and see the king — 
 
 Oh, 'tis a hopeful boy ! 
 
 13 He is, of all his dukes and peers. 
 Reverenced for much wit at 's years, 
 
 Nor must you think it much ; 
 For he with little switch doth play. 
 And make fine dirty pies of clay. 
 
 Oh, never Idng made such! 
 
 14 A bird that can but kill a fly. 
 
 Or prate, doth please his majesty, 
 
 'Tis known to everv one : 
 The Duke of Guise gave him a parrot. 
 And he had twenty cannons for it. 
 
 For his new galleon. 
 
 15 Oh that I e'er might have the hap 
 To get the bird which in the map 
 
 Is call'd the Indian ruck ! 
 
 249
 
 CORBET.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 I 'd give it him, and hope to be 
 As rich as Guise or Livine, 
 Or else I had ill-luck. 
 
 16 Birds round about his chamber stand. 
 And he them feeds with his own hand, 
 
 Tis his humility; 
 And if they do want anything. 
 They need but whistle for their kim 
 And he comes presently. 
 
 
 1 7 But now, then, for these parts he must 
 Be enstyled Lewis the Just, 
 
 Great Henry's lawful heir ; 
 When to his style to add more words. 
 They'd better call him King of Birds, 
 
 Than of the great Navarre. - 
 
 18 He hath besides a pretty quirk, 
 Taught him by nature, how to work 
 
 In iron with much ease ; 
 Sometimes to the forge he goes, 
 There he knocks and there he blows. 
 
 And makes both locks and keys; 
 
 19 Which puts a doubt in every one, 
 Whether he be Mars' or Vulcan's son, 
 
 Some few believe his mother ; 
 But let them all say what they will, 
 I came resolved, and so think still, 
 
 As much the one as th' other. 
 
 20 The people too dislike the youth. 
 Alleging reasons, for, in truth, 
 
 Mothers should honour'd be; 
 250
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [cORBET. 
 
 Yet otliers say, he loves her rather 
 As well as ere she loved her fatlier, 
 And that 's notoriously. 
 
 21 His queen,* a pretty little wench. 
 
 Was born in Spain, speaks little French, 
 
 She 's ne'er like to be mother ; 
 For her incestuous house could not 
 Have children which were not be2;ot 
 By uncle or by brother. 
 
 22 Nor why should Lewis, being so just. 
 Content himself to take his lust 
 
 With his Lucina's mate. 
 And suffer his little pretty queen, 
 From all her race that yet hath been, 
 
 So to dei^enerate ■? 
 
 23 Twere charity for to be known 
 
 To love others' children as his own, 
 
 And why 1 it is no shame. 
 Unless that he would greater be 
 Than was his father Henery, 
 
 Who, men thought, did the same. 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES. 
 
 1 Farewell, rewards and fairies, 
 
 Good housewives now may say. 
 For now foul sluts in dauies 
 
 Do fare as well as they. 
 And though they sweep their hearths no less 
 
 Than maids were w^ont to do. 
 Yet who of late, for cleanliness. 
 
 Finds SLxpence in her shoe 1 
 
 * Auue of Austria. 
 
 251
 
 CORBET.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 2 Lament, lament, old Abbeys, 
 
 The fairies lost command; 
 They did but change priests' babies. 
 
 But some have changed your land ; 
 And all your children sprung from thence 
 
 Are now grown Puritans; 
 Who live as changelings ever since. 
 
 For love of your domains. 
 
 3 At morning and at evening both. 
 
 You merry were and glad. 
 So little care of sleep or sloth 
 
 These pretty ladies had; 
 AVhen Tom came home from labour, 
 
 Or Cis to milking rose. 
 Then merrily went their tabor. 
 
 And nimbly went their toes. 
 
 4 Witness those rings and roundelays 
 
 Of theirs, which yet remain, 
 Were footed in Queen Mary's days 
 
 On many a grassy plain; 
 But since of late Elizabeth, 
 
 And later, James came in, 
 They never danced on any heath 
 
 As when the time hath been. 
 
 5 By which we note the fairies 
 
 Were of the old profession. 
 Their songs were Ave-Maries, 
 
 Their dances were procession: 
 But now, alas ! they all are dead. 
 
 Or gone beyond the seas; 
 Or further for religion fled. 
 
 Or else they take their ease. 
 252
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [jONSON. 
 
 6 A tell-tale in tlieir company 
 
 They never could endure, 
 And Avhoso kept not secretly 
 
 Their mii'th, was punish 'd sure ; 
 It was a just and Christian deed. 
 
 To pinch sucli black and blue : 
 Oh, how the commonwealth doth need 
 
 Such justices as you ! 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 As ' rare Ben ' chiefly shone as a dramatist, vre need not recount 
 at length the events of his life. He was horn in 1574; his 
 father, who had been a clergyman in Westminster, and was 
 sprung from a Scotch family in Annandale, having died before 
 his bh-th. His mother marrying a bricklayer, Ben was brought 
 up to the same employment. Disliking this, he enlisted in the 
 army, and served with credit in the Low Countries. When he 
 came home, he entered St John's College, Cambridge; but his 
 stay there must have been short, since he is found in London at 
 the age of twenty, married, and acting on the stage. He began 
 at the same time to write dramas. He was unlucky enough to 
 quarrel with and kill another performer, for which he was com- 
 mitted to prison, but released without a trial. He resumed his 
 labours as a writer for the stage ; but having failed in the acting 
 department, he forsook it for ever. His first hit was, ' Every 
 Man in his Humour,' a play enacted in 1598, Shakspeare being 
 one of the actors. His course afterwards was chequered. He 
 quarrelled with Marston and Dekker, — he was imprisoned for 
 some reflections on the Scottish nation in one of his comedies, 
 — he was appointed in 1619 poet-laureate, with a pension of 
 100 marks, — he made the same year a journey to Scotland on 
 foot, where he visited Drummond at Hawthornden, and they 
 seem to have mutually loathed each other, — he fell into habits 
 of intemperance, and acquired, as he said himself, 
 * A mountain belly and a rocky face.' 
 
 253
 
 JONSON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER, 
 
 Ills favourite haunts were the llermaid, and the Falcon 
 Tavern, Southwark. He was engaged in constant squabbles 
 ■with his contemporaries, and died at last, in 1637, in miserably- 
 poor circumstances. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, 
 under a square tablet, where one of his admirers afterwards 
 inscribed the words, ' rare Ben Jonson ! ' 
 
 Of his powers as a dramatist we need not speak, but pre- 
 sent our readers with some rough and racy specimens of his 
 poetry. 
 
 EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 
 
 Underneath this sable hearse 
 Lies the subject of all verse, 
 Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; 
 Death ! ere thou hast slain another, 
 Learn'd and fair, and good as she, 
 Time shall throw a dart at thee ! 
 
 THE PICTURE OF THE BODY. 
 
 Sitting, and ready to be drawn, 
 What make these velvets, silks, and lawn, 
 Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace, 
 Where every limb takes like a face ? 
 
 Send these suspected helps to aid 
 Some form defective, or decay'd; 
 This beauty, without falsehood fair, 
 Needs nought to clothe it but the air. 
 
 Yet something to the painter's view. 
 Were fitly interposed ; so new, 
 He shall, if he can understand, 
 Work by my fancy, with his hand. 
 254
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [jONSON. 
 
 Draw first a cloud, all save her neck, 
 And, out of that, make day to break ; 
 Till like her face it do appear, 
 And men may think all light rose there. 
 
 Then let the beams of that disperse 
 The cloud, and show the universe ; 
 But at such distance, as the eye 
 May rather yet adore, than spy. 
 
 TO PENSHURST. 
 
 (from ' THE FOREST.') 
 
 Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show 
 
 Of touch or marble ; nor canst boast a row 
 
 Of polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold : 
 
 Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told ; 
 
 Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile. 
 
 And these grudged at, are reverenced the while. 
 
 Thou joy'st in better marks of soil and air, 
 
 Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair. 
 
 Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport ; 
 
 Thy mount to which the dryads do resort. 
 
 Where Pan and Bacchus their hidi feasts have made 
 
 Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade ; 
 
 That taller tree which of a nut was set 
 
 At his great birth where all the Muses met. 
 
 There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names 
 
 Of many a Sylvan token with his flames. 
 
 And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke 
 
 The lighter Fauns to reach thy Ladies' Oak. 
 
 Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast here 
 
 That never fails, to serve thee, seasoned deer, 
 
 When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends. 
 
 The lower land that to the river bends, 
 
 255
 
 JONSON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed: 
 
 The middle ground thy mares and horses breed. 
 
 Each bank doth yield thee conies, and the tops 
 
 Fertile of wood. Ashore, and Sidney's copse. 
 
 To crown thy open table doth provide 
 
 The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side : 
 
 The painted partridge lies in every field, 
 
 And, for thy mess, is willing to be kill'd. 
 
 And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish. 
 
 Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish. 
 
 Fat, aged carps that run into thy net, 
 
 And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat. 
 
 As loth the second draught or cast to stay, 
 
 Officiously, at first, themselves betray. 
 
 Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land. 
 
 Before the fisher, or into his hand. 
 
 Thou hast thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, 
 
 Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. 
 
 The early cherry w4th the later plum. 
 
 Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come : 
 
 The blushing apricot and woolly peach 
 
 Hang on thy walls that every child may reach. 
 
 And though thy walls be of the country stone. 
 
 They 're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan ; 
 
 There's none that dwell about them wish them 
 
 down ; 
 But all come in, the farmer and the clown, 
 And no one empty-handed, to salute 
 Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. 
 Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, 
 Some nuts, some apples; some that think they 
 
 make 
 The better cheeses, bring them, or else send 
 By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend 
 256
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [jONSON. 
 
 This way to Inisloands; and whose baskets bear 
 An emblem of themselves, in plum or pear. 
 But what can this (more than express their love) 
 Add to thy free provision, far above 
 The need of such'? whose lil^cral board doth flow 
 With all that hospitality doth know ! 
 Where comes no guest but is allow'd to eat 
 Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat : 
 Where the same beer, and bread, and selfsame 
 
 wine 
 That is his lordship's shall be also mine. 
 And I not fain to sit (as some this day 
 At great men's tables) and yet dine away. 
 Here no man tells my cups ; nor, standing by, 
 A waiter doth my gluttony envy : 
 But gives me what I call, and lets me eat; 
 He knows below he shall find plenty of meat ; 
 Thy tables hoard not up for the next day. 
 Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray 
 For fire, or lights, or livery : all is there, 
 As if thou, then, wert mine, or I reign'd here. 
 There 's nothing I can wish, for which I stay. 
 This found King James, when hunting late this 
 
 way 
 With his brave son, the Prince ; they saw thy fires 
 Shine bright on every hearth, as the desu*es 
 Of thy Penates had been set on flame 
 To entertain them ; or the country came, 
 With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here. 
 What (great, I will not say, but) sudden clieer 
 Did'st thou then make them! and what praise was 
 
 heap'd 
 On thy good lady then, who therein reap'd 
 The just reward of her high housewifery; 
 VOL. I. R 257
 
 JONSON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh. 
 
 When she was far ; and not a room but drest 
 
 As if it had expected such a guest ! 
 
 These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all; 
 
 Thy lady 's noble, fruitful, chaste withal. 
 
 His children ""' ''' """ 
 
 * '''' have been taught religion; thence 
 
 Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence. 
 
 Each morn and even they are taught to pray, 
 
 AVith the whole household, and may, every day, 
 
 Read, in their virtuous parents' noble parts, 
 
 The mysteries of manners, arais, and arts. 
 
 Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee 
 
 With other edifices, when they see 
 
 Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else, 
 
 May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MT BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, 
 AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US. 
 
 To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, 
 Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; 
 While I confess thy writings to be such 
 As neither man nor Muse can praise too much, 
 'Tis true, and all men's suftrage. But these ways 
 Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; 
 For silliest ignorance on these would light, 
 Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; 
 Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance 
 The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance ; 
 Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, 
 And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise. 
 But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, 
 Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. 
 258
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [jONSON. 
 
 I therefore will beoin : Soul of the ao-e ! 
 
 The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage ! 
 
 My Shakspeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by 
 
 Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 
 
 A little further off, to make thee room : 
 
 Thou art a monument without a tomb. 
 
 And art alive still, while thv book doth live. 
 
 And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 
 
 That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, 
 
 I mean with great but disproportion'd Muses : 
 
 For if I thought my judgment were of years, 
 
 I should commit thee surely with thy peers. 
 
 And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, 
 
 Or sporting Kyd or Marlow's mighty line, 
 
 And though thou had small Latin and less Greek, 
 
 From thence to honour thee I will not seek 
 
 For names : but call forth thund'rino; ^Fschvlus, 
 
 Euripides, and Sophocles to us, 
 
 Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead. 
 
 To live aoain, to hear thv buskin tread. 
 
 And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on 
 
 Leave thee alone for the comparison 
 
 Of all, that insolent Greece or hauu-htv Eome 
 
 Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. 
 
 Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, 
 
 To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
 
 He was not of an aa-e, but for all time! 
 
 And all the Muses still were in their prime. 
 
 When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 
 
 Our ears, or like a Mercurv, to charm ! 
 
 Nature herself was proud of his designs, 
 
 And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines !. 
 
 Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, 
 
 As, smce, she will vouchsafe no other wit. 
 
 259
 
 JONSON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 
 
 Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; 
 
 But antiquated and deserted lie. 
 
 As they were not of nature's family, 
 
 Yet must I not give nature all ; thy art. 
 
 My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part. 
 
 For though the poet's matter nature be, 
 
 His art doth give the fashion ; and, that he 
 
 Who casts to write a living line, must sweat 
 
 (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat 
 
 Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same. 
 
 And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ; 
 
 Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn ; 
 
 For a good poet 's made as well as born. 
 
 And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face 
 
 Lives in his issue, even so the race 
 
 Of Shakspeare's mind and manners'' brightly shines 
 
 In his well-turned and true-filed lines ; 
 
 In each of which he seems to shake a lance, 
 
 As brandish'd at the e^^es of ignorance. 
 
 Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sidit it were 
 
 To see thee in our water yet appear, 
 
 And make those flights upon the banks of Thames 
 
 That so did take Eliza and our James ! 
 
 But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 
 
 Advanced, and made a constellation there ! 
 
 Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage. 
 
 Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, 
 
 Which since thy flight from hence hath mourn'd like 
 
 night. 
 And despairs day, but for thy volume's light ! 
 
 260
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [VERE, ETC. 
 
 ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 (under the frontispiece to the first edition of his works: 1C23.) 
 
 This figure that thou here seest put, 
 It was for gentle Shakspeare cut, 
 Wherein the graver had a strife 
 With nature, to outdo the Hfe : 
 Oh, could he but have drawn his wdt. 
 As well in brass, as he hath hit 
 His face ; the print would then surpass 
 All that was ever writ in brass : 
 But since he cannot, reader, look 
 Not on his picture but his book. 
 
 VEEE, STOEREE, &c. 
 
 In the same age of fertile, seething mind which produced Jonson 
 and the rest of the Elizabethan giants, there flom-islied some 
 minor poets, whose names we merely chronicle : such as Edward 
 Vere, Earl of Oxford, born 1534, and dying 1604, who travelled 
 in Italy in his youth, and returned the ' most accomplished cox- 
 comb in Europe,' who sat as Grand Chamberlain of England 
 upon the trial of Mary Queen of Scots, and who has left, in the 
 ' Paradise of Dainty Devices,' some rather beautiful verses, 
 entitled, ^ Fancy and Desire ; ' — as Thomas Storrer, a student of 
 Christ Church, Oxford, and the author of a versified ' History 
 of Cardinal Wolsey,' in three parts, who died in 1604 ; — as Wil- 
 liam Warner, a native of Oxfordsliire, born in 1558, who became 
 an attorney of the Common Pleas in London, and died sud- 
 denly in 1609, havhig made himself famous for a time by a 
 poem, entitled ' Albion's England,' called by Campbell ' an 
 enormous ballad on the history, or rather the fables appendant 
 to the history of England,' with some fine touches, but heavy 
 and prolix as a whole ; — as Sir John Harrington, who was the 
 son of a poet and the favourite of Essex, who was created a 
 
 261
 
 RANDOLPH.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Knight of tlie Batli hy James I., and who wrote some pointed 
 epigrams and a miserable translation of Ariosto, in which he 
 effectually tamed that wild Pegasus ; — as Henry Perrot, who 
 collected, in 1613, a book of epigrams, entitled, ' Springes for 
 AVoodcocks ;' — as Sir Thomas Overbury, whose dreadful and 
 mysterious fate, well known to all who read English history, 
 excited such a sympathy for him, that his poems, ' A Wife,' and 
 ^ The Choice of a Wife,' j)assed through sixteen editions before 
 the year 1653, although his prose ' Characters,' such as the 
 exquisite and well-known ' Fair and Happy Milkmaid,' are far 
 better than his poetry ; — as Samuel Rowlandes, a prolific pam- 
 phleteer in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles L, 
 author also of several plays and of a book of epigrams; — as 
 Thomas Picke, who belonged to the Middle Temple, and pub- 
 lished, in 1631, a number of songs, sonnets, and elegies ; — as 
 Henry Constable, born in 1568, and a well-known sonneteer of 
 his day ; — as Nicholas Breton, author of some pretty pastorals, 
 who, it is conjectured, was born in 1555, and died in 1624; — 
 and as Dr Thomas Lodge, born in 1556, and who died in 1625, 
 after translating Josephus into English, and writing some tolerable 
 poetical pieces. 
 
 THOMAS RANDOLPH. 
 
 This was a true poet, although his power comes forth principally 
 in the drama. He was born at Newnham, near Daventry, 
 Northamptonshire, in 1605, being the son of Lord Zouch's 
 steward. He became a King's Scholar at Westminster, and 
 subsequently a Fellow in Trinity College, Cambridge. Ben 
 Jonson loved him, and he reciprocated the attachment. Whe- 
 ther from natural tendency or in imitation of Jonson, who called 
 him, as well as Cartwright, his adopted son, he learned intem- 
 perate habits, and died, in 1634, at the age of twenty-nine. His 
 death took place at the house of W. Stafford, Esq. of Blather- 
 wyke, in his native county, and he was buried in the church 
 beside, where Sir Christopher, afterwards Lord Hatton, signalised 
 the spot of his rest by a monument. He wrote five dramas, 
 which are imperfect and formal in plan, but written with con- 
 262
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS- KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [RANDOLPH. 
 
 sideraLle power. Some of his miscellaneous poems discover 
 feeling and genius. 
 
 THE PRAISE OF WOMAN. 
 
 He is a parricide to his mother's name, 
 
 And with an impious hand murders her fame, 
 
 That wrongs the praise of women ; that dares write 
 
 Lihels on saints, or with foul ink requite 
 
 The milk they lent us ! Better sex ! command 
 
 To your defence my more religious hand. 
 
 At sword or pen ; yours was the nobler birth. 
 
 For you of man w^ere made, man but of earth — 
 
 The sun of dust ; and though your sin did breed 
 
 His fall, again you raised him in your seed. 
 
 Adam, in 's sleep again full loss sustain'd, 
 
 That for one rib a better half regain'd. 
 
 Who, had he not your blest creation seen 
 
 In Paradise, an anchorite had been. 
 
 Why in this M'ork did the creation rest, 
 
 But that Eternal Providence thought you best 
 
 Of all his six days' labour 1 Beasts should do 
 
 Homage to man, but man shall wait on you ; 
 
 You are of comelier sight, of daintier touch, 
 
 A tender flesh, and colour bright, and such 
 
 As Parians see in marble ; skin more fair. 
 
 More glorious head, and far more glorious hair ; 
 
 Eyes full of grace and quickness; purer roses 
 
 Blush in your cheeks; a milder wdiite composes 
 
 Your stately fronts; your breath, more sweet than 
 
 his. 
 Breathes spice, and nectar drops at every kiss. 
 
 If, then, in bodies wdiere the souls do dwell. 
 You better us, do then our souls excel 1 
 
 263
 
 RANDOLPH.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 No. * * * * 
 
 Boast we of knowledge, you are more than we, 
 You were the first ventured to pluck the tree ; 
 And that more rhetoric in your tongues do lie. 
 Let him dispute against that dares deny 
 Your least commands ; and not persuaded be. 
 With Samson's strength and David's piety. 
 To be your willing captives. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Thus, perfect creatures, if detraction rise 
 Against your sex, dispute but with your eyes. 
 Your hand, your lip, your brow, there will be sent 
 So subtle and so strong an argument. 
 Will teach the stoic his affections too. 
 And call the cynic from his tub to woo. 
 
 TO MY PICTURE. 
 
 When age hath made me what T am not now. 
 And every wrinkle tells me where the plough 
 Of Time hath furrow'd, when an ice shall flow 
 Through every vein, and all my head be snow; 
 When Death displays his coldness in my cheek. 
 And I, myself, in my own picture seek, 
 Not finding what I am, but what I was. 
 In doubt which to believe, this or my glass ; 
 Yet though I alter, this remains the same 
 As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame, 
 And first complexion ; here will still be seen. 
 Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin : 
 Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye, 
 The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye. 
 Behold what frailty we in man may see. 
 Whose shadow is less given to change than he. 
 264
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [RANDOLPH. 
 
 TO A LADY ADMIRING HERSELF IN A LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Fair lady, when, you see the grace 
 Of beauty in your looking-glass ; 
 A stately forehead, smooth and high. 
 And full of princely majesty; 
 A sparkling eye, no gem so fair, 
 Whose lustre dims the Cyprian star; 
 A glorious cheek, divinely sweet. 
 Wherein both roses kindly meet; 
 A cherry lip that would entice 
 Even gods to kiss at any price; 
 You think no beauty is so rare 
 That with your shadow might compare ; 
 That your reflection is alone 
 The thing that men must dote upon. 
 Madam, alas ! your glass doth lie. 
 And you are much deceived ; for I 
 A beauty know of richer grace, — 
 (Sweet, be not angry,) 'tis your face. 
 Hence, then, oh, learn more mild to be, 
 And leave to lay your blame on me : 
 If me your real substance move. 
 When you so much your shadow love. 
 Wise Nature would not let your eye 
 Look on her own bright majesty; 
 Which, had you once but gazed upon, 
 You could, except yourself, love none : 
 AVhat then you cannot love, let me. 
 That face I can, you cannot see. 
 
 * Now you have what to love,' you '11 say, 
 *What then is left for me, I pray^' 
 My face, sweet heart, if it please thee; 
 That which you can, I cannot see : 
 
 265
 
 BURTON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 So either love shall gain his due, 
 Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you. 
 
 EGBERT BUHTON. 
 
 The great, though whimsical author of the ' Anatomy of Melan- 
 clioly ' was horn at Lindley, in Leicestershire, 1576, and edu- 
 cated at Christ Church, Oxford. He became Rector of Sea- 
 grave, in his native shire. He was a man of vast erudition, of 
 integrity and benevolence, but his happiness, like that of Burns, 
 although in a less measure, ' was blasted ab origine by an incur- 
 able taint of hypochondria;' and although at times a most 
 delightful companion, at other times he was so miserable, even 
 when a young student at Oxford, that he had no resource but to 
 go down to the river-side, where the coarse jests of the barge- 
 men threw him into fits of laughter. This surely was a violent 
 remedy, and one that must have reacted into deeper depression. 
 In 1621, he wrote and published, as a safety-t^alve to his morbid 
 feelings, his famous 'Anatomie of Melancholy, by Democritus 
 Junior.' It became instantly popular, and sold so well, that the 
 publisher is said to have made a fortune by it. Nothing more 
 of consequence is recorded of the author, who died in 1640. 
 Although 
 
 ' Melancholy mark'd him for her own,' 
 
 she failed to kill him till he had passed his grand climacteric. 
 He was buried in Christ Church, with the following epitaph, 
 said to have been composed by himself: — 
 
 ' Paucis notus, paucioribus ignotus. 
 Hie jacet Democritus Junior, 
 Cui vitam pariter et mortem 
 Dedit Melancholia^ 
 
 * Known [by name] to few, unknown [as the author of the " Anatomy "] 
 to fewer, here lies D. J., who owes his death [as a man] and his life [as an 
 author] to Melancholy.' 
 
 His work is certainly a most curious and bewitcliing medley 
 of thought, information, wit, learning, personal interest, and 
 266
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [bURTON. 
 
 poetic fancy. "\Ve all know it was the only book which ever 
 drew the lazy Johnson from his bed an hour sooner than he 
 wished to rise. The subject, like the flesh of that ' melancholy ' 
 creature the hare, may be dry, but, as with that, an astute cook- 
 ery prevails to make it exceedingly piquant ; the sauce is better 
 than the substance. Burton's melancholy is not, like Johnson's, 
 a deep, hopeless, ' inspissated gloom,' thickened by memories of 
 remorse, and lighted up by the lurid fires of feared perdition ; 
 it is not, like Byron's, dashed with the demoniac element, and 
 fretted into universal misanthropy ; it is not, like Foster's, the 
 sad, fixed fascination of a pure intelligence contemplating the 
 darker side of things, as by a necessity of nature, and ignoring, 
 without denying, the existence of the bright ; nor is it, like that 
 of the ' melancholy Jacques,' in ^ As you Like it,' a wild, wood- 
 land, fantastical habit of thought, as of one living collaterally 
 and aside to the world, and which often explodes into laughter 
 at itself and at all things else; — Burton's is a wide-spread but 
 tender shade, like twilight, diffused over the wdiole horizon of 
 his thought, and is nourislied at times into a luxury, and at 
 times paraded as a peculiar possession. In his form of melan- 
 choly there are pleasures as well as pains. ' Most pleasant it 
 is,' he says, ' to such as are to melancholy given, to lie in bed 
 whole days and keep their chambers ; to walk alone in some 
 solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by a brook-side, to me- 
 ditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject ; and a most 
 incomparable delight it is so to melancholise and build castles 
 in the air.' Eeligious considerations have little to do with 
 Burton's melancholy, and remorse or fear apparently nothing. 
 Hence his book, although its theme be sadness, never shadows 
 the spirit, but, on the contrary, from his dark, Lethean poppies, 
 his readers are made to extract an element of joyful excitement, 
 and the anatomy, and the cure, of the evil, are one and the 
 
 same. 
 
 As a writer. Burton ranks, in some points, with Montaigne, 
 and in others with Sir Thomas Browne. He resembles the 
 first in simplicity, honliommie, and miscellaneous learning, and 
 the other in rambling manner, quaint phraseology, and fan- 
 tastic imagination. Keither of the three could be said to write 
 
 267
 
 BURTON.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 "books, but they accumulated vast storehouses, whence thousands 
 of volumes might be, and have been compiled. There is 
 nothing in Burton so low as in many of tlie ' Essays' of Mon- 
 taigne, but there is nothing so lofty as in passages of Browne's 
 ' Eeligio Medici ' and ^ Urn-Burial.' Burton has been a favour- 
 ite quarry to literary thieves, among whom Sterne, in his 
 ^ Tristram Shandy,' stands pre-eminent. To his ' Anatomy ' 
 he prefixes a poem, a few stanzas of which we extract. 
 
 ON MELANCHOLY. 
 
 1 When I go musing all alone. 
 Thinking of divers things foreknown, 
 When 1 build castles in the air. 
 Void of sorrow, void of fear. 
 Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet 
 Methinks the time runs very fleet. 
 
 All my joys to this are folly; 
 Nought so sweet as melanclioly. 
 
 2 When I go walking all alone, 
 Kecountinir what I have ill-done. 
 My thoughts on me then tyrannise. 
 Fear and sorrow me surprise ; 
 Whether I tarry still, or go, 
 Methinks the time moves very slow. 
 
 All my griefs to this are jolly ; 
 Nought so sad as melancholy. 
 
 3 When to myself I act and smile, 
 
 With pleasing thoughts the time beguile, 
 By a brook-side or wood so green, 
 Unheard, unsought for, or unseen, 
 A thousand pleasures do me bless. 
 And crown my soul with happiness. 
 All my joys besides are folly ; 
 None so sweet as melancholy. 
 268
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [cAREW. 
 
 4 When I lie, sit, or walk alone, 
 
 I sigh, I grieve, making great moan ; 
 In a dark grove or irksome den, 
 With discontents and furies then, 
 A thousand miseries at once 
 Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce. 
 
 All my griefs to this are jolly ; 
 
 None so sour as melancholy. 
 
 5 Methinks I hear, methinks I see 
 Sweet music, Avondrous melody, 
 Towns, palaces, and cities, fine ; 
 
 Here now, then there, the world is mine, 
 Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine, 
 Whate'er is lovely is divine. 
 
 All other joys to this are folly ; 
 
 None so sweet as melancholy, 
 
 6 Methinks I hear, methinks I see 
 Ghosts, goblins, fiends : my fantasy 
 Presents a thousand ugly shapes ; 
 Headless bears, black men, and apes ; 
 Doleful outcries and fearful sights 
 My sad and dismal soul affrights. 
 
 All my griefs to this are jolly ; 
 None so damn'd as melancholy. 
 
 THOMAS CAREW. 
 
 This delectable versifier was born in 1589, in Gloucestershire, 
 from an old family in which he sprimg. He was educated at 
 Corpus Christi College, Oxford, but neither matriculated nor 
 took a degree. After finishing his travels, he returned to Eng- 
 
 269
 
 CAREW.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 land, and became soon liiglily distinguished, in tlie Conrt of 
 Charles I., for his manners, accomplishments, and wit. He was 
 appointed Gentleman of the Privy Chamber and Sewer in Ordi- 
 nary to the King. He spent the rest of his life as a gay and 
 gallant corn-tier ; and in the intervals of pleasure produced some 
 light but exquisite poetry. He is said, ere his death, which took 
 place in 1639, to have become very devout, and bitterly to have 
 deplored the licentiousness of some of his verses. 
 
 Indelicate choice of subject is often, in Carew, combined with 
 great delicacy of execution. No one touches dangerous themes 
 with so light and glove-guarded a hand. His pieces are all 
 fugitive, but they suggest great possibilities, which his mode of 
 life and his premature removal did not permit to be realised. 
 Had he, at an earlier period, renounced, like George Herbert, 
 ' the painted pleasures of a court,' and, like Prospero, dedicated 
 himself to '■ closeness,' with his marvellous facility of verse, his 
 laboured levity of style, and his nice exuberance of fancy, he 
 might have produced some work of Horatlan merit and classic 
 permanence. 
 
 PERSUASIONS TO LOVE. 
 
 Think not, 'cause men flattering say, 
 Y' are fresli as April, sweet as May, 
 Bright as is the morning-star. 
 That you are so ; — or though you are, 
 Be not therefore proud, and deem 
 All men unworthy your esteem : 
 ***** 
 
 Starve not yourself, because you may 
 Thereby make me pine away; 
 Nor let brittle beauty make 
 You your wiser thoughts forsake : 
 For that lovely face will fail; 
 Beauty 's sweet, but beauty 's frail ; 
 'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done, 
 Than summer's rain, or winter's sun : 
 270 
 
 I
 
 1550-16i0.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [CAREW. 
 
 Most fleeting, when it is most dear; 
 'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis here. 
 These curious locks so aptly twined. 
 Whose every hair a soul doth bind, 
 Will change their auburn hue, and grow 
 White and cold as winter's snow. 
 That eye which now is Cupid's nest 
 Will prove his grave, and all the rest 
 Will follow ; in the cheek, chin, nose, 
 Nor lily shall be found, nor rose ; 
 And what will then become of all 
 Those, whom now you servants call? 
 Like swallows, when your summer 's done 
 They '11 fly, and seek some warmer sun. 
 
 * * * « « 
 
 The snake each year fresh skin resumes, 
 And eagles change their aged plumes; 
 The faded rose each spring receives 
 A fresh red tincture on her leaves: 
 But if your beauties once decay. 
 You never know a second May. 
 Oh, then be wise, and whilst your season 
 Affords you days for sport, do reason; 
 Spend not in vain your life's short hour. 
 But crop in time your beauty's flower : 
 AVhich will awav, and doth too'ether 
 Both bud and fade, both blow and wither. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Give me more love, or more disdain, 
 The torrid, or the frozen zone 
 
 Bring equal ease unto my pain ; 
 The temperate affords me none; 
 
 271
 
 CAREW.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Either extreme, of love or hate. 
 Is sweeter than a cahii estate. 
 
 Give me a storm ; if it be love, 
 
 Like Danae in a golden shower, 
 I swim in pleasure ; if it prove 
 
 Disdain, that torrent will devour 
 My vulture-hopes ; and he 's possess'd 
 Of heaven that 's but from hell released : 
 Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; 
 Give me more love, or more disdain. 
 
 TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVEr's SIDE. 
 
 Mark how yon eddy steals away 
 From the rude stream into the bay; 
 There lock'd up safe, she doth^ivorce 
 Her waters from the channel's course, 
 And scorns the torrent that did brino: 
 Her headlong from her native spring. 
 Now doth she with her new love play. 
 Whilst he runs murmuring away. 
 Mark how she courts the banks, whilst they 
 As amorously their arms display. 
 To embrace and clip her silver waves : 
 See how she strokes their sides, and craves 
 An entrance there, which they deny; 
 Whereat she frowns, threatening to fly 
 Home to her stream, and 'gins to swim 
 Backward, but from the channel's brim 
 Smiling returns into the creek, 
 • With thousand dimples on her cheek. 
 Be thou this eddy, and 1 11 make 
 
 My breast thy shore, wdiere thou shalt take 
 
 272 
 
 I
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [CAREW. 
 
 Secure repose, and never dream 
 Of the quite forsaken stream: 
 Let him to the wide ocean haste, 
 There lose his colour, name, and taste; 
 Thou shalt save all, and, safe from him. 
 Within these arms for ever swim. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 If the quick spirits in your eye 
 Now languish, and anon must die ; 
 If every sweet, and every grace, 
 Must fly from that forsaken face : 
 Then, Celia, let us reap our joys, 
 Ere time such goodly fruit destroys. 
 
 Or, if that golden fleece must grow 
 For ever, free from aged snow; 
 If those brio-ht suns must know no shade, 
 jSTor your fresh beauties ever fade ; 
 Then fear not, Celia, to bestow 
 What still being gather'd still must grow. 
 Thus, either Time his sickle brings 
 In vain, or else in vain his wings. 
 
 A PASTORAL DIALOGUE. 
 
 SHEPHERD, NYMPH, CHORUS. 
 
 Sliep. This mossy bank they press'd. Nym. That aged oak 
 
 Did canopy the happy pair 
 
 All night from the damp air. 
 Clio. Here let us sit, and sing the words they spoke, 
 Till the day-breaking their embraces broke. 
 
 Shep. See, love, the blushes of the morn appear: 
 And now she hangs her pearly store 
 (Robb'd from the eastern shore) 
 VOL. L s 273
 
 CAREW.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 I' til' cowslip's bell and rose's ear: 
 Sweet I must stay no longer here. 
 
 Nym. Those streaks of doubtful light usher not day, 
 
 But show my sun must set; no morn 
 
 Shall shine till thou return : 
 The yellow planets, and the gray 
 Dawn, shall attend thee on thy way. 
 
 Shej). If thine eyes gild my paths, they may forbear 
 Their useless shine. Nym. My tears will quite 
 Extinguish their faint light. 
 
 Sliep. Those drops will make their beams more cleaJ, 
 
 Love's flames will sliine in every tear. 
 
 Cho. They kiss'd, and wept ; and from their lips and eyes, 
 
 In a mix'd dew of briny sweet. 
 
 Their joys and sorrows meet; 
 But she cries out. Nym. Shepherd, arise. 
 The sun betrays us else to spies. 
 
 Shep. The winged hours fly fast whilst we embrace; 
 
 But when we want their help to meet. 
 
 They move with leaden feet. 
 Nym. Then let us pinion time, and chase 
 The day for ever from this place. 
 
 Shep. Hark! Nym. Ah me, stay! Shep. For ever. 
 Nym. No, arise; 
 We must be gone. Shep. My nest of spice. 
 Nym. My soul. Shep. My paradise. 
 Cho. Neither could say farewell, but through their eyes 
 Grief interrupted speech with tears supplies. 
 274
 
 1550-1G40.J THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [SUCKLING. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
 AYhen June is past, the fading rose ; 
 For in your beauties orient deep 
 These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 
 
 Ask me no more whither do stray 
 The golden atoms of the day; 
 For, in pure love. Heaven did prepare 
 Those powders to enrich your hair. 
 
 Ask me no more whither doth haste 
 The nightingale, when May is past ; 
 For in your sweet dividing throat 
 She winters, and keeps warm her note. 
 
 Ask me no more, where those stars light, 
 That downwards fall in dead of night; 
 For in your eyes they sit, and there 
 Fixed become, as m their sphere. 
 
 Ask me no more, if east or west 
 The phoenix builds her spicy nest; 
 For unto you at last she flies. 
 And in your fragrant bosom dies. 
 
 Sm JOHN SUCKLING. 
 
 This witty baronet was born in 1608. He was the son of the 
 Comptroller of the Household of Charles I. He was uncom- 
 monly precocious ; at five is said to have spoken Latin, and at 
 sixteen had entered into the service of Gustavus Adolphus, ' the 
 lion of the North, and the bulwark of the Protestant faith.' 
 
 275
 
 SUCKLING.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 On Ills return to England, he was favoured by Charles, and 
 became, in his turn, a most enthusiastic supporter of the Royal 
 cause : writing plays for the amusement of the Court ; and, 
 when the Civil War broke out, raising, at his own expense of 
 £1200, a regiment for the King, which is said to have been 
 distinguished only by its ' finery and cowardice.' When the 
 Earl of Strafford came into trouble. Suckling, along with some 
 other cavaliers, intrigued for his deliverance, was impeached by 
 the House of Commons, and had to flee to France. Here an 
 early death awaited him. His servant having robbed him, he 
 drew on, in vehement haste, his boots, to pursue the defaulter, 
 Avhen a rusty nail, or, some say, the blade of a knife, which was 
 concealed in one of them, pierced his heel. A mortification 
 ensued, and he died, in 1641, at thirty-three years of age. 
 
 Suckling has written five plays, various poems, besides letters, 
 speeches, and tracts, which have all been collected into one 
 thin volume. They are of various merit ; none, in fact, being 
 worthy of print, or at least of preservation, except one or two of 
 his songs, and his ' Ballad upon a Wedding.' This last is an 
 admirable expression of what were his principal qualities — 
 naivete, sly humour, gay badinage, and a delicious vein of fancy, 
 coming out occasionally by stealth, even as in his own exquisite 
 lines about the bride, 
 
 ' Her feet, beneath her petticoat, 
 
 Like little mice, stole in and out, 
 
 As if they fear'd the light.' 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover ! 
 
 Prithee why so pale '? 
 Will, when looking well can't move lier, 
 
 Looking ill prevail? 
 
 Prithee why so pale? 
 
 Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 
 Prithee why so mute? 
 276
 
 1550-16-10.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [SUCKLING. 
 
 Will, when speaking well can't win lier,
 
 SUCKLING.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 On Ills return to England, he was favoured Iby Charles, and
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [SUCKLING. 
 
 Will, when speaking well can't win lier, 
 Saying nothing do't? 
 Prithee w^hy so mute? 
 
 Quit, quit for shame ! this will not move. 
 
 This cannot take her; 
 If of herself she will not love, 
 
 Nothing can make her — 
 
 The devil take her! 
 
 A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. 
 
 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been. 
 Where I the rarest things have seen : 
 
 Oh, things without compare! 
 Such sights again cannot be found 
 In any place on English ground, 
 
 Be it at wake or fair. 
 
 2 At Charing-Cross, hard by the way 
 Where w^e (thou know'st) do sell our hay. 
 
 There is a house with stairs : 
 And there did I see coming down 
 Such folks as are not in our town, 
 
 Vorty at least, in pairs. 
 
 3 Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine, 
 (His beard no bigger though than thine,) 
 
 Walk'd on before the rest : 
 Our landlord looks like nothing to him : 
 The king (God bless him) 'twould undo him, 
 Should he go still so dress'd. 
 
 4 At Course-a-park, without all doubt. 
 He should have first been taken out 
 
 By all the maids i' the town : 
 
 277
 
 SUCKLING.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Tlioiigli lusty Eoger there had been, 
 Or little George upon the Green, 
 
 Or Vincent of the Crown. 
 
 5 But wot you what? the youth was going 
 To make an end of all his wooing; 
 
 The parson for him staid : 
 Yet by his leave, for all his haste, 
 He did not so much wish all past 
 
 (Perchance) as did the maid. 
 
 6 The maid — and thereby hangs a tale 
 
 For such a maid no Whitsun ale 
 
 Could ever yet produce: 
 No grape that 's kindly ripe could be 
 So round, so plump, so soft as she. 
 
 Nor half so full of juice. 
 
 7 Her fino-er was so small, the rino; 
 Would not stay on which they did bring. 
 
 It was too wide a' peck: 
 And to say truth (for out it must) 
 It look'd like the great collar (just) 
 
 About our young colt's neck. 
 
 8 Her feet, beneath her petticoat, 
 Like little mice, stole in and out. 
 
 As if they fear'd the light : • 
 But oh! she dances such a way! 
 No sun upon an Easter-day 
 
 Is half so fine a sidit. 
 
 9 He would have kiss'd her once or twice, 
 But she would not, she was so nice, 
 
 She would not do't in sight; 
 278
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [SUCKLING. 
 
 And then she look'd as wlio should say 
 I Avill do ^Yhat I list to-day; 
 
 And you shall do't at night. 
 
 10 Her cheeks so rare a white w^as on, 
 No daisy makes comparison, 
 
 (\Vho sees them is undone,) 
 For streaks of red were mingled there, 
 Such as are on a Katherine pear, 
 
 The side that 's next the sun. 
 
 11 Her lips M'-ere red, and one was thin. 
 Compared to that was next her chin. 
 
 Some bee had stung it newly. 
 But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face, 
 I durst no more upon them gaze, 
 
 Than on the sun in July. 
 
 12 Her mouth so small, wdien she does speak. 
 Thou 'dst swear her teeth her words did break. 
 
 That they might passage get; 
 But she so handled still the matter. 
 They came as good as ours, or better. 
 
 And are not spent a whit. 
 
 13 If wishing should be any sin, 
 
 The parson himself had guilty been, 
 
 She look'd that day so purely: 
 
 And did the youth so oft the feat 
 
 At night, as some did in conceit. 
 
 It would have spoil'd him, surely. 
 
 14 Passion o'me! how I run on! 
 
 There 's that that would be thought upon, 
 I trow, beside the bride : 
 
 279
 
 SUCKLI^^G.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 The business of the kitchen's great, 
 For it is fit that men should eat; 
 
 Nor was it there denied. 
 
 15 Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice. 
 And all the waiters in a trice 
 
 His summons did obey; 
 Each serving-man with dish in hand. 
 March'd boldly up, like our train'd band. 
 
 Presented and away. 
 
 16 When all the meat was on the table, 
 What man of knife, or teeth, was able 
 
 To stay to be entreated? 
 And this the very reason was, 
 Before the parson could say grace. 
 
 The company were seated. 
 
 1 7 Now hats fly off", and youths carouse ; 
 Healths first go round, and then the house, 
 
 The bride's came thick and thick; 
 And when 'twas named another 's health. 
 Perhaps he made it hers by stealth, 
 
 And who could help it, Dick? 
 
 18 0' the sudden up tliey rise and dance; 
 Then sit again, and sigh and glance : 
 
 Then dance again and kiss. 
 Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass, 
 Whil'st every woman wish'd her place. 
 
 And every man w^sli'd his. 
 
 19 By this time all were stol'n aside 
 To counsel and undress the bride ; 
 
 But that he must not know ; 
 280
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [sUCKLING. 
 
 But 3^et 'twas thouglit he guess'd licr mind, 
 And did not mean to stay behind 
 Above an hour or so. 
 
 20 When in he came (Dick), there she hiy, 
 Like new-fall'n snow meltino* away, 
 
 'Twas time, I trow, to part. 
 Kisses were now the only stay. 
 Which soon she gave, as who would say. 
 
 Good-bye, with all my heart. 
 
 21 But just as heavens would have to cross it. 
 In came the bridemaids with the posset; 
 
 The bridegroom eat in spite; 
 For had he left the women to 't 
 It w^ould have cost two hours to do 't. 
 
 Which were too much that niii;lit. 
 
 22 At length the candle 's out, and now 
 All that they had not done, they do! 
 
 What that is, who can telH 
 But I believe it was no more 
 Than thou and I have done before 
 
 With Brido-et and with Nell ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I pray thee send me back my heart. 
 
 Since I can not have thine. 
 For if from yours you will not part. 
 
 Why then sliouldst thou have mine \ 
 
 Yet now I think on 't, let it lie. 
 
 To find it were in vain ; 
 For thou'st a thief in either eye 
 
 Would steal it back again. 
 
 281
 
 CART WRIGHT.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Why slioiild two hearts in one breast lie, 
 
 And yet not lodge together? 
 love ! where is thy sympathy, 
 
 If thus our breasts thou sever? 
 
 But love is such a mysteiy, 
 
 I cannot find it out ; 
 For when I think I 'm best resolved, 
 
 I then am in most doubt. 
 
 Then farewell care, and farewell woe,'^ 
 
 I will no longer pine ; 
 For I '11 believe I have her heart 
 
 As much as she has mine. 
 
 WILLIAM CAETWPJGHT. 
 
 CArvTWPJGHT was born in 1611, and was the son of an inn- 
 keeper — once a gentleman — in Cirencestei". He became a 
 King's scholar at Westminster, and afterwards took orders at 
 Oxford, where he distinguished himself, according to Wood, as 
 a ' most florid and seraphic preacher.' One is reminded of the 
 description given of Jeremy Taylor, who, when he first began 
 to preach, by his ' young and florid beauty, and his subhme 
 and raised discourses, made men take him for an angel newly 
 descended from the climes of Paradise.' Cartwright was ap- 
 pointed, through his friend Bishop Duppa, Succentor of the 
 Church of Salisbury in 1642. He was one of a council of war 
 appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops in 
 the King's cause, to protect, or some said to overawe, the Uni- 
 versities. He was imprisoned by the Parliamentary forces on 
 account of his zeal in the Royal cause, but soon liberated on 
 bail. In 1643, he was appointed Junior Proctor of his Uni- 
 versity, and also Reader in ]\letaphysics. At this time he is 
 said to have studied sixteen hours a- day. This, however, seems 
 282
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [CARTVVRIGHT. 
 
 to have weakened Lis constitution, and rendered hira an easy 
 victim to what was called the camp-fever, then prevalent in 
 Oxford. He died December 23, 1643, aged thirty-two. The 
 King, then in Oxford, went into mourning for him. His works 
 were published in 1651, and to them were prefixed fifty copies 
 of encomiastic verses from the wits and poets of the time. They 
 scarcely justify the praises they have received, being somewhat 
 crude and harsh, and all of them occasional. His private char- 
 acter, his eloquence as a preacher, and his zeal as a Eoyalist, 
 seem to have supplemented his claims as a poet. He enjoyed, 
 too, in his earlier life, the friendship of Ben Jonson, who used 
 to say of him, ' My son Cartwright writes all like a man ; ' and 
 such a sentence from such an authority was at that time fame. 
 
 love's darts. 
 
 AVliere is that learned wretch that knows 
 What are those darts the veil'd god throws'? 
 Oh, let him tell me ere I die 
 When 'twas he saw or heard them fly; 
 
 Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's, 
 
 Wing them for ^^arious loves; 
 
 And whether gold or lead. 
 
 Quicken or dull the head : 
 I will anoint and keep them warm. 
 And make the weapons heal the harm. 
 
 Fond that I am to ask ! whoe'er 
 Did yet see thoudit 'i or silence hear ? 
 Safe from the search of human eye 
 These arrows (as their ways are) fly: 
 
 The flights of angels part 
 
 Not air with so much art ; 
 
 And snows on streams, we may 
 
 Say, louder fall than they. 
 
 283
 
 CAETWRIGHT.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [sD PER. 
 
 So hopeless I must now endure, 
 And neither know the shaft nor cure. 
 
 3 A sudden fire of blushes shed 
 
 To dye white paths with hasty red; 
 A glance's lightning swiftly thrown, 
 Or from a true or seeming frown; 
 
 A subtle taking smile 
 
 From passion, or from guile ; 
 
 The spirit, life, and grace 
 
 Of motion, limbs, and face ; 
 These misconceit entitles darts, 
 And tears the bleedings of our hearts. 
 
 4 But as the feathers in the wina" 
 Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring. 
 And harmless twigs no bloodshed know. 
 Till art doth fit them for the bow;"' 
 
 So lights of flowing graces 
 
 Sparkling in several places, 
 
 Only adorn the parts. 
 
 Till that we make them darts; 
 Themselves are only twigs and quills : 
 We give them shape and force for ills. 
 
 5 Beauty 's our grief, but in the ore. 
 We mint, and stamp, and then adore : 
 Like heathen we the image crown. 
 And indiscreetly then fall down : 
 
 Those graces all were meant 
 
 Our joy, not discontent; 
 
 But with untaught desires 
 
 We turn those lights to fires. 
 Thus Nature's healing herbs we take. 
 And out of cures do poisons make. 
 284
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [cARTWRIGHT. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE. 
 
 Not to bo wrought by malice, gain, or pride, 
 To a compliance with the thriving side ; 
 Not to take arms for love of change, or spite, 
 But only to maintain afflicted right ; 
 Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame, 
 Perversely seeking after voice and name ; 
 Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do, 
 And thus did he, soldier and martyr too. 
 4:- * * * * 
 
 When now^ the incensed legions proudly came 
 Down like a torrent without bank or dam : 
 When undeserved success urged on their force ; 
 That thunder must come down to stop their course, 
 Or Grenville must step in ; then Grenville stood, 
 And wdth himself opposed and check'd the flood. 
 Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire 
 Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire : 
 His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about. 
 Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out ; 
 Not any pike on that renowned stand. 
 But took new force from his inspiring hand : 
 Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man. 
 And he urged all ; so much example can ; 
 Hurt upon hurt, W'Ound upon wound did call. 
 He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all: 
 His soul this wdiile retired from cell to cell. 
 At last flew up from all, and then he fell. 
 But the devoted stand enraged more 
 From that his fate, plied hotter than before. 
 And proud to fall w^ith him, sworn not to yield, 
 Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the field. 
 
 285
 
 CARTWRIGHT.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew : 
 And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew. 
 
 This was not nature's courage, not that thing 
 We valour call, w^hich time and reason bring ; 
 But a diviner furv, fierce and hio-h. 
 Valour transported into ecstasy, 
 AVliich angels, looking on us from above, 
 Use to convey into the souls they love. 
 You now that boast the spirit, and its sway, 
 Shew us his second, and we'll give the day : 
 We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly ; 
 Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die : 
 And though you thank God that you lost none there, 
 'Cause they were such who lived not when they were ; 
 Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall, 
 As his successes do, whom you dare call, 
 As fame unto you doth reports dispense. 
 
 Either a or his excellence) 
 
 Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws. 
 Could wish his fate together with his cause. 
 
 And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame. 
 As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name. 
 Whose life affords what doth content both eyes. 
 Glory for people, substance for the wise. 
 Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat 
 To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat: 
 And when thou seest an happy period sent 
 To these distractions, and the storm quite spent, 
 Look down and say, I have my share in all. 
 Much good grew from my life, much from my fall. 
 
 286
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [w. BROWNE. 
 
 A VALEDICTION. 
 
 Bid mc not go where neither suns nor showers 
 
 Do make or cherish flowers; 
 
 Where discontented things in sadness lie. 
 
 And Nature grieves as I. 
 
 AVhen I am parted from those eyes, 
 
 From which my better day doth rise. 
 
 Though some propitious power 
 
 Should plant me in a bower, 
 
 Where amongst happy lovers I might see 
 
 How showers and sunbeams bring 
 
 One everlasting spring, 
 
 Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to mc ; 
 
 Nature herself to him is lost, 
 
 Who loseth her he honours most. 
 
 Then, fairest, to my parting view display 
 
 Your graces all in one full day; 
 
 Whose blessed shapes I '11 snatch and keep till when 
 
 I do return and view again : 
 
 So by this art fancy shall fortune cross. 
 
 And lovers live by thinking on their loss. 
 
 WILLIAM BROWNE. 
 
 This pastoral poet was born, in 1590, at Tavistock, in Devon- 
 shire, a lovely part of a lovely county. He was educated at 
 Oxford, and went thence to the Inner Temple. He was at one 
 time tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, and afterwards, when that 
 nobleman perished in the battle of Newbury, in 1643, he was 
 patronised by the Earl of Pembroke, in whose house he resided, 
 and is even said to have become so rich that he purchased an 
 estate. In 1645 he died, at Ottery St Mary, the parish where, 
 in 1772, Coleridge was born. 
 
 287
 
 W. BROWNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 BrowTie began his poetical career earlj, and closed it soon. 
 He publislied the first part of ' Britannia's Pastorals ' in 1613, 
 the second in 1616 ; shortly after, his ' Shepherd's Pipe ;' and, in 
 1620, produced his ' Inner Temple Masque,' which was then 
 enacted, but not printed till a hundred and twenty years after 
 the author's death, when Dr Farmer transcribed it from a MS. 
 of the Bodleian Library, and it appeared in Tom Davies' edition 
 of Browne's poems. Browne has no constructive power, and 
 no human interest in his pastorals, but he has an eye for nature, 
 and we quote from him some excellent specimens of descriptive 
 poetry. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Gentle nymphs, be not refusing. 
 Love's neglect is Time's abusing, 
 
 They and beauty are but lent you; 
 Take the one, and keep the other: 
 Love keeps fresli what age doth smother. 
 
 Beauty gone, you will repent you. 
 
 'Twill be said, when ye have proved. 
 Never swains more truly loved : 
 
 Oh, then, fly all nice bebaviour! 
 Pity fain w^ould (as her duty) 
 Be attending still on Beauty, 
 
 Let her not be out of favour. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1 Shall I tell you whom I love? 
 Hearken then a while to me. 
 And if such a woman move 
 
 As I now shall versify ; 
 Be assured, 'tis she, or none, 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 288
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KKOWN BRITISH POETS. [w. BROWNE. 
 
 2 Nature did her so much right. 
 
 As she scorns the help of art. 
 In as many virtues dight 
 
 As e'er yet embraced a heart ; 
 So much o'ood so trulv tried, 
 Some for less were deified. 
 
 3 Wit she hath, without desire 
 
 To make known how much she hath; 
 And her anger flames no higher 
 
 Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
 Full of pity as ma}^ be, 
 Though perhaps not so to me. 
 
 4 Reason masters every sense. 
 
 And her virtues grace her birth : 
 Lovely as all excellence. 
 
 Modest in her most of mirth : 
 Likelihood enough to prove 
 Only w^orth could kindle love. 
 
 5 Such she is : and if vou know 
 
 Such a one as I have sung; 
 Be she brown, or fair, or so, 
 
 That she be but somewdiile young; 
 Be assured, 'tis she, or none. 
 That I love, and love alone. 
 
 POWER OF GENIUS OVER ENVY. 
 
 'Tis not the rancour of a canker'd heart 
 That can debase the excellence of art, 
 Nor great in titles makes our worth obey, 
 Since we have lines far more esteem'd than they. 
 VOL. I. T 289
 
 W. BROWNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 For there is hidden in a poet's name 
 
 A spell that can command the wings of Fame, 
 
 And manure all oblivion's hated birth 
 
 Begin their immortality on earth, 
 
 AVhen he that 'gainst a muse with hate combines. 
 
 ]\Iay raise his tomb in vain to reach our lines. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 As in an evening when the gentle air 
 
 Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair, 
 
 I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank to hear 
 
 My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear, 
 
 When he hath play'd (as well he can) some strain 
 
 That likes me, straight I ask the same again, 
 
 And he, as gladly granting, strikes it o'er 
 
 With some sweet relish was forgot before : 
 
 I would have been content, if he would play, 
 
 In that one strain to pass the night away; 
 
 But fearing much to do his patience w^rong, 
 
 Unwilhngly have ask'd some other song: 
 
 So in tliis differing key though I could well 
 
 A many hours but as few minutes tell. 
 
 Yet lest mine own delight might injure you 
 
 (Though loth so soon) I take my song anew. 
 
 FROM ' Britannia's pastorals.' 
 
 Between two rocks (immortal, without mother) 
 That stand as if outfacing one another. 
 There ran a creek up, intricate and blind. 
 As if the waters hid them from the wind, 
 Which never wasli'd but at a higher tide 
 The frizzled cotes which do the mountains hide, 
 Where never gale was longer known to stay 
 Than from the smooth wave it had swept away 
 290
 
 1550-1G40.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [w. BROWNE. 
 
 The new divorced leaves, that from each side 
 Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide. 
 At further end the creek, a stately wood 
 Gave a kind shadow (to the brackish flood) 
 ^lade up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff 
 Than that sky-scaling peak of Teneriffe, 
 Upon whose tops the hernshew bred her young, 
 And hoary moss upon their branches hung ; 
 Whose ru2'2;ed rinds sufficient were to show. 
 Without their height, what time they 'gan to 
 
 grow. 
 And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears, 
 None could allot them less than Nestor's vears. 
 As under their command the thronged creek 
 Ean lessen'd up. Here did the shepherd seek 
 Where he his little boat might safely hide. 
 Till it was fraught with what the world beside 
 Could not outvalue ; nor give equal weight 
 Though in the time when Greece was at her 
 
 height. 
 
 •s % * * * * 
 
 Yet that their happy voyage might not be 
 Without Time's shortener, heaven-taught melody, 
 (Music that lent feet to the stable woods. 
 And in their currents turn'd the mighty floods, 
 Sorrow's sweet nurse, yet keeping Joy alive, 
 Sad Discontent's most welcome corrosive. 
 The soul of art, best loved when love is by. 
 The kind inspirer of sweet poesy. 
 Least thou shouldst wantmg be, when swans would 
 
 fain 
 Have sung one song, and never sung again,) 
 The gentle shepherd, hasting to the shore, 
 Began this lay, and timed it with his oar : 
 
 291
 
 W. BROWNE.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Nevermore let holy Dee 
 
 O'er other rivers brave, 
 Or boast how (in his jollity) 
 Kings row'd upon his w^ave. 
 But silent be, and ever know 
 That Neptune for my fare would row. 
 * * * * 
 
 Swell then, gently swell, ye floods, 
 
 As proud of what ye bear. 
 And nymphs that in low coral woods 
 String pearls upon your hair, 
 Ascend; and tell if ere this day 
 A fairer prize was seen at sea. 
 
 See the salmons leap and bound 
 
 To please us as we pass, 
 Each mermaid on the rocks- around 
 Lets fall her brittle glass. 
 As they their beauties did despise 
 And loved no mirror but your eyes. 
 
 Blow, but gently blow, fair wind, 
 
 From the forsaken shore. 
 And be as to the halcyon kind. 
 Till we have ferried o'er: 
 So mayst thou still have leave to blow. 
 And fan the way where she shall go. 
 
 A DESCRIPTIVE SKETCH. 
 
 Oh, what a rapture have I gotten now! 
 That age of gold, this of the lovely brow, 
 Have drawn me from my song! I onward run, 
 (Clean from the end to wdiich I first begun,) 
 292
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [\V. BROWNE. 
 
 But 3^e, the heavenly creatures of the AYest, 
 
 In whom the virtues and the graces rest, 
 
 Pardon ! that I have run astray so long, 
 
 And QTOW so tedious in so rude a sono-. 
 
 If you yourselves should come to add one grace 
 
 Unto a pleasant grove or such like place, 
 
 "Where, here, the curious cutting of a hedge. 
 
 There in a pond, the trimming of the sedge ; 
 
 Here the fine setting of well-shaded trees. 
 
 The walks their mounting up by small degrees. 
 
 The gravel and the green so equal lie. 
 
 It, with the rest, draws on your lingering eye : 
 
 Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air. 
 
 Arising from the infinite repair 
 
 Of odoriferous buds, and herbs of price, 
 
 (As if it were another paradise,) 
 
 So please the smelling sense, that you are fain 
 
 Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again. 
 
 There the small birds with their harmonious notes 
 
 Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats: 
 
 For in her face a many dimples show, 
 
 And often skips as it did dancing go : 
 
 Here further down an over-arched alley 
 
 That from a hill goes winding in a valley. 
 
 You spy at end thereof a standing lake. 
 
 Where some ingenious artist strives to make 
 
 The water (brought in turning pipes of lead 
 
 Through birds of earth most lively fashioned) 
 
 To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all 
 
 In sinaino- well their own set madrio-al. 
 
 This with no small delight retains your ear. 
 
 And makes you think none blest but v.dio live there. 
 
 Then in another place the fruits that be 
 
 In gallant clusters decldng each good tree 
 
 293
 
 STIRLING.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Invite your liand to crop them from tlie stem, 
 And liking one, taste every sort of them : 
 Then to the arlDours walk, then to the bowers, 
 Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers. 
 Then to the birds, and to the clear spring thence. 
 Now pleasing one, and then another sense : 
 Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin th. 
 As if it were some hidden labyrinth. 
 
 WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EAEL OF STIRLING. 
 
 This eminent Scotchman was horn in 1580. He travelled on 
 the Continent as tutor to the Duke of Argjle. After his return 
 to Scotland, he fell in love with a lady, whom he calls ' Aurora/ 
 and to whom he addressed some beautiful sonnets. She refused 
 his hand, however, and he married the daughter of Sir William 
 Erskine. He repaired to the Court of James 1., and became a 
 distinguished favourite, being appointed Gentleman Usher to 
 Charles I., and created a knight. He concocted a scheme for 
 colonishig Nova Scotia, in which he was encouraged by both 
 James and Charles ; but the difficulties seemed too formidable, 
 and it was in consequence dropped. Charles appointed him 
 Lord-Lieutenant of Nova Scotia, and, in 1633, he created him 
 Lord Stirling. Fifteen years (from 1626 to 1641) our poet was 
 Secretary of State for Scotland. These were the years during 
 which Laud was foolishly seeking to force his liturgy upon the 
 Presbyterians, but Stirling gained the praise of being moderate 
 in his share of the business. In the course of this time he con- 
 ti'ived to amass an ample fortune, and spent part of it in building 
 a fine mansion in Stirling, which is still, we believe, standing. 
 He died in 1641. 
 
 Besides his smaller pieces, Stirling wrote several tragedies, in- 
 cluding one on Julius Csesar ; an heroic poem ; a poem addressed 
 294
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [STIRLING. 
 
 to Prince Heniy, tlie son of James I.; another heroic poem, 
 entitled ' Jonathan ; ' and a poem, in twelve parts, on the ' Day of 
 Judgment.' These are all forgotten, and, notwithstanding vigo- 
 rous parts, deserve to be forgotten ; but liis little sonnets, which 
 are, if not brilliant, true things, and inspired by a true passion, 
 may long survive. He was, on the whole, rather a man of 
 great talent than of genius. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I swear, Aurora, by tliy starry eyes, 
 
 And by those golden locks, whose lock none slips. 
 
 And by the coral of thy rosy lips. 
 
 And by the naked snows which beauty dyes; 
 
 I swear by all the jew^els of thy mind. 
 
 Whose like yet never worldly treasure bought, 
 
 Thy solid judgment, and thy generous thought. 
 
 Which in this darken'd age have clearly shined; 
 
 I swear by those, and by my spotless love, « 
 
 And by my secret, yet most fervent fires. 
 
 That I have never nursed but chaste desires. 
 
 And such as modesty might w^ell approve. 
 
 Then, since I love those virtuous parts in thee, 
 
 Shouldst thou not love this virtuous mind in me ? 
 
 295
 
 DRUMMOND.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 WILLIAM DEUMMOND. 
 
 A MAN of miicli finer gifts than Stirling, was the famous Drum- 
 mond. He was born, December 13, 1585, at Hawthornclen, his 
 father's estate, in Mid-Lothian. It is one of the most beautiful 
 spots, along the sides of one of the fairest streams in all Scotland, 
 and well fitted to be the home of genius. He studied civil laAv for 
 four years in France, but, in 1611, the estate of Hawthorndeu 
 became his own, and here he fixed his residence, and applied 
 himself to literature. At this time he courted, and was upon 
 the point of marrying, a lady named Cunningham, who died ; 
 and the melancholy which preyed on his mind after this event, 
 drove him abroad in search of solace. He visited Italy, Ger- 
 many, and France ; and during his eight years of residence on 
 the Continent, used his time well, conversing with the learned, 
 admiring all that was admirable in the scenery and the life of 
 foreign lands, and collecting rare books and manuscripts. He 
 had, before his departure, published, first, a volume of occasional 
 poems ; next, a moral treatise, in prose, entitled, ' The Cypress 
 Grove ; ' and then another work, in verse, ^ The Flowers of Zion.' 
 Returned once more to Scotland, he retired to the seat of his 
 brother-in-law, Sir John Scott of Scotstarvet, and there wrote 
 a ' History of the Five James's of Scotland,' a book abounding 
 in bombast and slavish principles. When he returned to his 
 own lovely Hawthornden, he met a lady named Logan, of the 
 house of Restalrig, whom he fancied to bear a striking resem- 
 blance to his dead mistress^^ On that hint he spake, and she 
 became his wife. He proceeded to repair the house of Hawthorn- 
 den, and would have spent his days there in great peace, had 
 it not been for the distracted times. His j)olitics were of the 
 lloyalist complexion ; and llie party in power, belonging to the 
 Presbyterians, used every method to annoy him, compelling him, 
 for instance, to furnish his quota of men and arms to support 
 the cause which he opposed. In 1619, Ben Jonson visited him 
 at Hawthornden. The pair w^ere not well assorted. Brawny 
 Ben and dreaming Drummond seem, in the expressive coinage 
 of He Quincey, to have ' interdespised ;' and is not their feud, 
 with all its circumstances, recorded in the chronicles of the 
 296
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KXOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRUMMOND. 
 
 'Quarrels of Authors,' compiled bj the elder Disraeli? The 
 death of a lady sent Drummond travelling over Europe — the 
 death of a King sent him away on a farther and a final journey. 
 His grief for the execution of Charles I. is said to have 
 shortened his days. At all events, in December of the year of 
 the so-called 'Martyrdom/ (1649,) he breathed his last. 
 
 He was a genuine poet as well as a brilliant humorist. His 
 'Polemo Middinia/ a grotesque mixture of bad Latin and 
 semi-Latinised Scotch, has created, among many generations, 
 inextinguishable laughter. His ' Wandering Muses ; or, The 
 Eiver of Forth Feasting,' has some gorgeous descriptions, par- 
 ticularly of Scotland's lakes and rivers, at a time when 
 
 ' She lay, like some unkenn'd of isle, 
 Ayont New Holland ; ' 
 
 but his sonnets are unquestionably his finest productions. They 
 breathe a spirit of genuine poetry. Each one of them is a rose 
 liglitly wet with the dew of tenderness, and one or two suggest 
 irresistibly the recollection of our Great Dramatist's sonnets, 
 although we feel that ' a less than Shakspeare is here.' 
 
 THE RIVER OF FORTH FEASTING. 
 
 A PANEGTEIC TO THE HIGH AND MIGHTY PRINCE JAMES, KING OF GBEAT BRITAIN, 
 
 FRANCE, AND IRELAND. 
 
 To his Sacred Majesty. 
 
 If in this storm of joy and pompous throng, 
 This nymph (great king) doth come to thee so near 
 That thy harmonious ears her accents hear, 
 Give pardon to her hoarse and lowly song : 
 Fain would she trophies to thy virtues rear ; 
 But for this stately task she is not strong, 
 And her defects her high attempts do wrong, 
 Yet as she could she makes thy worth appear. 
 So in a map is shown this flowery place ; 
 So wrought in arras by a virgin's hand 
 
 297
 
 DRUMMOND.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 With heaven and blazing stars doth Atlas stand, 
 So drawn by charcoal is Narcissus' face : 
 
 She like the morn may be to some bright sun, 
 The day to perfect that 's by her begun. 
 
 What blustering noise now interrupts my sleep 1 
 
 What echoing shouts thus cleave my cr3'Stal deep, 
 
 And seem to call me from my watery court 1 
 
 What melody, what sounds of joy and sport. 
 
 Are convey 'd hither from each neighbouring spring 1 
 
 With what loud rumours do the mountains ring. 
 
 Which in unusual pomp on tiptoes stand. 
 
 And (full of wonder) overlook the land 1 
 
 Whence come these glittering throngs, these meteors 
 
 bright. 
 This golden people glancing in my sight ? 
 Whence doth this praise, applause, and jove arise. 
 What load-star eastward draweth thus all eyes '? 
 Am I awake 1 or have some dreams conspired 
 To mock my sense with what I most desired 1 
 View I that living face, see I those looks. 
 Which with delight were wont t' amaze my brooks 1 
 Do I behold that worth, that man divine, 
 This age's glory, by these banks of mine ? 
 Then find I true what long I wish'd in vain. 
 My much beloved prince is come again ; 
 So unto them whose zenith is the pole. 
 When six black months are past, the sun doth roll : 
 So after tempest to sea-tossed wights 
 Fair Helen's brothers show their cheering lights : 
 So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods. 
 And far, far oft' is seen by Memphis' floods ; 
 The feather'd Sylvans, cloud-like, by her fly, 
 And with triumphing plaudits beat the sky ; 
 
 298
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRUMMOND. 
 
 Nile marvels, Seraph's priests, entranced, rave, 
 And in Mydonian stone her shape engrave; 
 In lasting cedars they do mark the time 
 In which Apollo's bird came to their clime. 
 
 Let Mother Earth now deck'd w'ith flow^ers be seen, 
 And sweet-breath'd zephyrs curl the meadows green, 
 Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower, 
 Such as on India's shores they use to pour : 
 Or with that golden storm the fields adorn. 
 Which Jove rain'd when his blue-eyed maid was born. 
 May never hours the web of day out weave, 
 May never night rise from her sable cave. 
 Swell proud, my billows, faint not to declare 
 Your joys as ample as their causes are : 
 For murmurs hoarse sound like Arion's harp, 
 Now delicately flat, now sw^eetly sharp ; 
 And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist repair ; 
 Strow all your springs and grots wdth lilies fair : 
 Some swiftest-footed, get them hence, and pray 
 Our floods and lakes come keep this holiday ; 
 Whate'er beneath Albania's hills do nin, 
 Which see the rising or the setting sun. 
 Which drink stern Grampius' mists, or Ochil's snows : 
 Stone-rollmg Tay, Tyne tortoise-like that flows. 
 The pearly Don, the Dees, the fertile Spey, 
 W^ild Neverne, which doth see our longest day ; 
 Ness smoking sulphur. Leave wdth mountains crow^n'd, 
 Strange Lomond for his floating isles renown'd : 
 The Irish Pvian, Ken, the silver Ayr, 
 The snaky Dun, the Ore with rushy hair. 
 The crystal-streaming Nid, loud-bellowing Clyde, 
 Tw^eed which no more our kingdoms shall divide ; 
 Rank-sw^elling Annan, Lid with curled streams. 
 The Esks, the Solway, where they lose their names, 
 
 299
 
 DRUMMOND.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 To every one proclaim our jo3''s and feasts, 
 Our triumphs ; bid all come and be our guests : 
 And as they meet in Neptune's azure hall, 
 Bid them bid sea-gods keep this festival ; 
 This day shall by our currents be renown'd, 
 Our hills about shall still this day resound ; 
 Nay, that our love more to this day appear, 
 Let us with it henceforth begin our year. 
 
 To virgins, flowers ; to sunburnt earth, the rain ; 
 To mariners, fair winds amidst the main ; 
 Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn. 
 Are not so pleasing as thy blest return. 
 Tliat day, dear prince, which robb'd us of thy siglit, 
 (Day, no, but darkness and a dusky night,) 
 Did fill our breasts with sighs, our eyes with tears, 
 Turn'd minutes to sad months, sad months to years, 
 Trees left to flourish, meadows to bear flawers, 
 Brooks hid their heads within their sedgy bowers. 
 Fair Ceres cursed our fields with barren frost. 
 As if again she had her daughter lost : 
 The muses left our groves, and for sweet songs 
 Sat sadly silent, or did weep theii- wrongs. 
 You know it, meads ; your murmuring woods it know. 
 Hill, dales, and caves, copartners of their woe ; 
 And you it know, my streams, which from their een 
 Oft on your glass received their pearly brine ; 
 O Naiads dear, (said they,) Napeas fair, 
 nymphs of trees, nymphs which on hills repair ! 
 Gone are those maiden glories, gone that state, 
 Which made all eyes admire our bliss of late. 
 As looks the heaven when never star appears. 
 But slow and weary shroud them in their spheres, 
 While Titon's wife embosom'd by him lies. 
 And world doth languish in a dreary guise : 
 300
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRUMMOND. 
 
 As looks a garden of its beauty spoil'd, 
 
 As woods in winter by rough Boreas foil'd, 
 
 As portraits razed of colours used to be : 
 
 So look'd these abject bounds deprived of thee. 
 
 While as my rills enjoy'd thy royal gleams, 
 They did not envy Tiber's haughty streams, 
 Nor wealthy Tagus with his golden ore. 
 Nor clear Hydaspes which on pearls doth roar. 
 Nor golden Gauge that sees the sun new born. 
 Nor Achelous with his flowery horn, 
 Nor floods which near Elysian fields do fall : 
 For why 'i thy sight did serve to them for all. 
 No place there is so desert, so alone. 
 Even from the frozen to the torrid zone. 
 From flaming Hecla to great Quinsey's lake. 
 Which thy abode could not most happy make ; 
 All those perfections which by bounteous Heaven 
 To divers worlds in divers times w^ere given, 
 The starry senate pour'd at once on thee. 
 That thou exemplar mightst to others be. 
 
 Thy life was kept till the Three Sisters spun 
 Their threads of gold, and then it was begun. 
 With chequer'd clouds when skies do look most fair. 
 And no disorder'd blasts disturb the air. 
 When lilies do them deck in azure gowns; 
 And new-born roses blush with golden crowns. 
 To prove how calm we under thee should live, 
 What halcyonian days thy reign should give. 
 And to two flowery diadems thy right ; 
 The heavens thee made a partner of the light. 
 Scarce wast thou born when, join'd in friendly bands. 
 Two mortal foes with other clasped hands ; 
 With Virtue Fortune strove, which most should grace 
 Thy place for thee, thee for so high a place ; 
 
 301
 
 DEUMMOND.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 One vow'd thy sacred breast not to forsake, 
 The other on thee not to turn her back ; 
 And that thou more her love's effects mightst feel, 
 For thee she left her globe, and broke her wheel. 
 
 When years thee vigour gave, oh, then, how clear 
 Did smother'd sparkles in bright flames appear ! 
 Amongst the woods to force the flying hart, 
 To pierce the mountain wolf with feather'd dart ; 
 See falcons climb the clouds, the fox ensnare. 
 Outrun the wind-outrunning Dcedale hare. 
 To breathe thy fiery steed on every plain. 
 And in meand'ring gyres him bring again, 
 The press thee making place, and vulgar things. 
 In Admiration's air, on Glory's wings ; 
 Oh, thou far from the common pitch didst rise, 
 With thy designs to dazzle Envy's eyes : 
 Thou souo-htst to know this All's eternal source. 
 Of ever-turning heaven the restless course, 
 Their fixed lamps, their lights which wandering run, 
 Wlience moon her silver hath, his gold the sun ; 
 If Fate there be or no, if planets can 
 By fierce aspects force the free will of man ; 
 The light aspiring fire, the liquid air, 
 The flaming dragons, comets with red hair, 
 Heaven's tilting lances, artillery, and bow, 
 Loud-sounding trumpets, darts of hail and snow, 
 The roaring elements, with people dumb, 
 The earth with what conceived is in her womb. 
 What on her moves were set unto thy sight, 
 Till thou didst find their causes, essence, might. 
 But unto nought thou so thy mind didst strain, 
 As to be read in man, and learn to reign : 
 To know the weight and Atlas of a crown, 
 To spare the humble, proud ones tumble down. 
 302
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRUMJIOND. 
 
 AYben from tliose piercing cares which thrones invest, 
 
 As thorns the rose, thou wearied wouldst thee rest, 
 
 "With lute in hand, full of celestial fire, 
 
 To the Pierian groves thou didst retire : 
 
 There 2:arlanded with all Urania's flowers. 
 
 In sweeter lays than builded Thebes' towers, 
 
 Or themwdiich charm'd the dolphins in the main. 
 
 Or wdiich did call Euiydice again, 
 
 Thou sung'st away the hours, till from their sphere 
 
 Stars seem'd to shoot thy melody to hear. 
 
 The god with golden hair, the sister maids, 
 
 Did leave their Helicon, and Tempo's shades. 
 
 To see thine isle, here lost their native tongue. 
 
 And in thy world-divided language sung. 
 
 Who of thine after ao'e can count the deeds, 
 With all that Fame in Time's hu^-e annals reads'? 
 How, by example more than any law. 
 This people fierce thou didst to goodness draw; 
 How, while the neighbour world, toss'd by the lates. 
 So many Phaetons had in their states, 
 Whicli turn'd to heedless flames their burnish'd thrones, 
 Thou, as ensphered, kept'st temperate thy zones; 
 In Afric shores the sands that ebb and flow. 
 The shady leaves on Arden's trees that grow. 
 He sure may count, with all the waves that meet 
 To wash the Mauritanian Atlas' feet. 
 Though crown'd thou wert not, nor a king by birth. 
 Thy worth deserves the richest crown on earth. 
 Search this half sphere, and the Antarctic gTound, 
 "WTiere is such wit and bounty to be found 1 
 As into silent night, when near the Bear, 
 The virgin huntress shines at full most clear, 
 And strives to match her brother's golden light, 
 The host of stars doth vanish in her sight, 
 
 303
 
 DRUMMOND.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Arcturus dies ; cool'd is the Lion's ire, 
 
 Po burns no more with Phaetontal fire : 
 
 Orion faints to see his arms grow black, 
 
 And that his flaming sword he now doth kck: 
 
 So Europe's lights, all bright in their degree, 
 
 Lose all their lustre parallel'd with thee ; 
 
 By just descent thou from more kings dost shine, 
 
 Than many can name men in all their line : 
 
 What most they toil to find, and finding hold. 
 
 Thou scornest — orient gems, and flattering gold ; 
 
 Esteeming treasure surer in men's breasts, 
 
 Than when immured with marble, closed in chests ; 
 
 No stormy passions do disturb thy mind, 
 
 No mists of greatness ever could thee blind : 
 
 Who yet hath been so meek 1 thou life didst give 
 
 To them who did repine to see thee live; 
 
 AVhat prince by goodness hath such Idngdoms gain'd 1 
 
 Who hath so long his people's peace maintain'd 1 
 
 Their swords are turn'd to scythes, to coulters spears, 
 
 Some giant post their antique armour bears : 
 
 Now, where the wounded knight his life did bleed. 
 
 The wanton swain sits piping on a reed ; 
 
 And wdiere the cannon did Jove's thunder scorn. 
 
 The gaud}^ huntsman winds his shrill-tuned horn : 
 
 Her green locks Ceres doth to yellow dye. 
 
 The pilgrim safely in the shade doth lie. 
 
 Both Pan and Pales careless keep their flocks. 
 
 Seas have no dangers save the wind and rocks : 
 
 Thou art this isle's Palladium, neither can 
 
 (Whiles thou dost live) it be o'erthrown by man. 
 
 Let others boast of blood and spoils of foes. 
 Fierce rapines, murders, Iliads of woes. 
 Of hated pomp, and trophies reared fair. 
 Gore-spangled ensigns streaming m the air, 
 304
 
 .1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRUMMOND. 
 
 Count liow they make the Scythian them adore, 
 
 The Gaditan and soldier of Aurore. 
 
 Unhappy boasting ! to enlarge their bounds, 
 
 That cliarge themselves with cares, their friends with 
 
 wounds ; 
 Who liave no law to their ambitious will, 
 But, man-plagues, born are human blood to spill! 
 Thou a true victor art, sent from above 
 What others strain by force, to gain by love; 
 W'oiid-wandering Fame this praise to thee imparts, 
 To be the only monarch of all hearts. 
 They many fear who are of many fear'd, 
 And kingdoms got by wrongs, by wrongs are tear'd ; 
 Such thrones as blood doth raise, blood throweth 
 
 down, 
 No guard so sure as love unto a crown. 
 
 E^^e of our western world, Mars-daunting king, 
 With whose renown the earth's seven climates ring, 
 Thy deeds not only claim these diadems. 
 To which Thame, Liffey, Tay, subject their streams; 
 But to thy virtues rare, and gifts, is due 
 All that the planet of the year doth view ; 
 Sure if the world above did want a prince, 
 The world above to it would take thee hence. 
 
 That Mui'der, Rapine, Lust, are fled to hell. 
 And in their rooms with us the Graces dwell ; 
 That honour more than riches men respect. 
 That worthiness than u'eld doth more effect. 
 That Piety unmasked shows her face, 
 That Innocency keeps with Power her place, 
 That long-exiled Astrea leaves the heaven. 
 And turneth right her sword, her weights holds even. 
 That the Saturnian world is come again. 
 Are wish'd effects of thy most happy reign. 
 
 VOL. L u 305
 
 DRUMMOND.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 That daily, Peace, Love, Truth, Delights increase. 
 
 And Discord, Hate, Fraud, with Incumbers, cease ; 
 
 That men use strength not to shed others' blood. 
 
 But use their strength now to do others good; 
 
 That Fury is enchain'd, disarmed Wrath, 
 
 That (save by Nature's hand) there is no death ; 
 
 That late grim foes like brothers other love. 
 
 That vultures prey not on the harmless dove, 
 
 That wolves with lambs do friendship entertain. 
 
 Are wish'd effects of thy most happy reign. 
 
 That towns increase, that ruin'd temples rise. 
 
 That their wind-moving vanes do kiss the skies; 
 
 That Ignorance and Sloth hence run away. 
 
 That buried Arts now rouse them to the day. 
 
 That Hyperion far beyond his bed 
 
 Doth see our lions ramp, our roses spread ; 
 
 That Iber courts us, Tiber not us charms. 
 
 That Rhine with hence-brought beams his bosom warms; 
 
 That ill doth fear, and good doth us maintain. 
 
 Are wish'd effects of thy most happy reign. 
 
 Virtue's pattern, glory of our times, 
 Sent of past days to expiate the crimes, 
 Great king, but better far than thou art great, 
 Whom state not honours, but who honours state, 
 By wonder born, by wonder first install'd. 
 By wonder after to new kingdoms call'd ; 
 Young, kept by wonder from home-bred alarms, 
 Old, saved by wonder from pale traitors' harms. 
 To be for this thy reign, which wonders brings, 
 A king of wonder, wonder unto Idngs. 
 If Pict, Dane, Norman, thy smooth yoke had seen, 
 Pict, Dane, and Norman had thy subjects been; 
 If Brutus knew the bliss thy rule doth give. 
 Even Brutus joy would under thee to live, 
 306 
 
 I
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRUMMOND. 
 
 For thou tliy people dost so dearly love, 
 
 That they a father, more than prmce, thee prove. 
 
 days to be desu-ed ! Age happy thrice ! 
 If you your heaven-sent good could duly prize ; 
 But we (half palsy-sick) think never right 
 Of what we hold, till it be from our sight. 
 Prize only summer's sweet and musked breath, 
 When armed winters threaten us with death. 
 In pallid sickness do esteem of health, 
 And by sad poverty discern of wealth : 
 I see an age when, after some few years. 
 And revolutions of the slow-paced spheres. 
 These days shall be 'bove other far esteem'd. 
 And like Augustus' palmy reign be deem'd. 
 The names of Arthur, fabulous Paladines, 
 Graven in Time's surly brows, in wrinkled lines, 
 Of Henrys, Edwards, famous for their fights. 
 Their neighbour conquests, orders new of knights. 
 Shall by this prince's name be pass'd as far 
 As meteors are by the Idalian star. 
 If gray-hair'd Proteus' songs the truth not miss — 
 And gray-hair'd Proteus oft a prophet is — 
 There is a land hence distant many miles, 
 Outreaching fiction and Atlantic isles, 
 Which (homelings) from this little world we name, 
 That shall emblazon with strange rites his fame, 
 Shall rear him statues all of purest gold. 
 Such as men gave unto the gods of old, 
 Name by him temples, palaces, and towns, 
 With some great river, which their fields renowns : 
 This is that king who sliould make right each wrong, 
 Of whom the bards and mystic Sibyls sung. 
 The man long promised, by whose glorious reign 
 This isle should yet her ancient name regain, 
 
 307
 
 DRUMMOND.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 And more of fortunate deserve the style, 
 
 Than those whose heavens with double summers smile. 
 
 Kun on, great prince, thy course in glory's way. 
 The end the life, the evening crowns the day ; 
 Heap worth on worth, and strongly soar above 
 Those heights wliich made the world thee first to love: 
 Surmount thyself, and make thine actions past 
 Be but as gleams or lightnings of thy last. 
 Let them exceed those of thy younger time. 
 As far as autumn doth the flowery prime. 
 Through this thy empire range, like world's bright eye, 
 That once each year surveys all earth and sky, 
 Now glances on the slow and resty Bears, 
 Then turns to dry the weeping Auster's tears, 
 Hurries to both the poles, and moveth even 
 In the figured circle of the heaven : 
 Oh, long, long haunt these bounds whicli by thy sight 
 Have now regain'd their former heat and light. 
 Here grow green woods, here silver brooks do glide. 
 Here meadows stretch them out with painted pride, 
 Embroidering all the banks, here hills aspire 
 To crown their heads with the ethereal fire, 
 Hills, bulwarks of our freedom, giant walls. 
 Which never friends did slight, nor sword made thralls : 
 Each circling flood to Thetis tribute pays. 
 Men here in health outlive old Nestor's days : 
 Grim Saturn yet amongst our rocks remains. 
 Bound in our caves, with many metall'd cliains. 
 Bulls haunt our shade like Leda's lover white. 
 Which yet might breed Pesiphae delight. 
 Our flocks fair fleeces bear, with which for sport 
 Endymion of old the moon did court. 
 High-palmed harts amidst our forests run. 
 And, not impaled, the deep-mouth'd hounds do shun ; 
 308
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRUMMOND. 
 
 The roiidi-foot hare safe in our bushes shrouds, 
 And long-wing'd hawks do perch amidst our clouds. 
 The wanton wood-nymphs of the verdant spring, 
 Blue, golden, purple flowers shall to thee bring, 
 Pomona's fruits the Panisks, Thetis' girls, 
 The Thulc's amber, wdth tlie ocean pearls ; 
 The Tritons, herdsmen of the glassy field, 
 Shall give thee what far-distant shores can yield. 
 The Serean fleeces, Erythrean gems. 
 Vast Plata's silver, gold of Peru streams, 
 Antarctic parrots, Ethiopian plumes, 
 Sabcean odours, myrrh, and sweet perfumes : 
 And I myself, wrapt in a watchet gown 
 Of reeds and lilies, on mine head a crown. 
 Shall incense to thee burn, green altars raise, 
 And yearly sing due pseans to thy praise. 
 
 Ah ! why should Isis only see thee shine ? 
 Is not thy Forth, as well as Isis, thine 1 
 Though Isis vaunt she hath more wealth in store. 
 Let it suffice thy Forth doth love thee more : 
 Though she for beauty may compare with Seine, 
 For swans and sea-nymphs with imperial Phine, 
 Yet for the title may be claim'd in thee. 
 Nor she nor all the world can match with me. 
 Now when, by honour drawn, thou shalt away 
 To her, already jealous of thy stay, 
 When in her amorous arms she doth thee fold. 
 And dries thy dewy hairs with hers of gold, 
 Much asking of thy fare, much of thy sport, 
 Much of thine absence, long, how^e'er so short. 
 And chides, perhaps, thy coming to the north. 
 Loathe not to think on thy much-loving Forth : 
 Oh, love these bounds, where of thy royal stem 
 More than an hundred wore a diadem. 
 
 309
 
 DRUMMOND.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER, 
 
 So ever gold and bays tliy brows adorn, 
 So never time may see tliy race outworn, 
 So of thine own still mayst thou be desired, 
 Of strangers fear'd, redoubted, and admired ; 
 So Memory thee praise, so precious hours 
 May character thy name in starry flowers ; 
 So may thy high exploits at last make even, 
 With earth thy empire, glory with the heaven. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I. 
 
 I know that all beneath the moon decays. 
 And what by mortals in this world is brought. 
 In Time's great periods shall return to nought ; 
 That fairest states have fatal nights and days ; 
 I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays. 
 With toil of sp'rit, which are so dearly bought, 
 As idle sounds, of few, or none, are sought. 
 That there is nothing lighter than vain praise ; 
 I know frail beauty like the purple flower, 
 To which one morn oft birth and death affords. 
 That love a jarring is of minds' accords, 
 Where sense and will envassal Reason's power; 
 Know what I list, all this can not me move, 
 But that, alas! I both must write and love. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah me! and I am now the man whose muse 
 In happier times was wont to laugh at love. 
 And those who suffer'd that blind boy abuse 
 The noble gifts were given them from above. 
 What metamorphose strange is this I prove 1 
 Myself now scarce I find myself to be. 
 And think no fable Circe's tyranny, 
 And all the tales are told of changed Jove; 
 310
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRUMMOND. 
 
 Virtue liatli taught with her philosophy 
 Mj mind into a better course to move : 
 Reason may chide her fill, and oft reprove 
 Aftection's power, but what is that to me 1 
 Who ever think, and never think on ought 
 But that bright cherubim which thralls my 
 thought. 
 
 III. 
 
 How that vast heaven, entitled first, is roU'd, 
 If any glancing towers beyond it be. 
 And people living in eternity. 
 Or essence pure that doth this all uphold : 
 "What motion have those fixed sparks of gold. 
 The wandering carbuncles wdiich shine from high. 
 By sp'rits, or bodies crossways in the sky, 
 If they be turn'd, and mortal things behold ; 
 How^ sun posts heaven about, how night's pale 
 
 queen 
 With borrow'd beams looks on this hanging round. 
 What cause fair Iris hath, and monsters seen 
 In air's large field of light, and seas profound. 
 
 Did hold my wandering thoughts, wdien thy 
 sweet eve 
 
 Bade me leave all, and only think on thee. 
 
 IV. 
 
 If cross'd with all mishaps be my poor life. 
 If one short day I never spent in mirth, 
 If my sp'rit with itself holds lasting strife. 
 If sorrow's death is but new sorrow's birth ; 
 If this vain world be but a mournful stage. 
 Where slave-born man plays to the scoffing stars. 
 If youth be toss'd with love, with weakness age ; 
 If knowledge serves to hold our thoughts in wars, 
 
 311
 
 DRDMMOND.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 If Time can close the hundred mouths of Fame, 
 
 And make what 's long since past, like that 's to be ; 
 
 If virtue only be an idle name, 
 
 If being born I was but born to die ; 
 
 Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days 1 
 The fairest rose in shortest time decays. 
 
 Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends, 
 Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light. 
 Such sad, lamenting strains, that night attends, 
 Become all ear ; stars stay to hear thy plight. 
 If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends, 
 Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste dehght, 
 May thee importune who like case pretends. 
 And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite. 
 Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try. 
 And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains, 
 Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky, 
 Enamour'd, smiles on woods and flowery plains? 
 The bird, as if my questions did her move, 
 With trembling wings sigh'd forth, ' I love, I love.' 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sweet soul, which, in the April of thy years, 
 For to enrich the heaven mad'st poor this round. 
 And now, with flaming rays of glory crown'd. 
 Most blest abides above the sphere of spheres ; 
 If heavenly laws, alas! have not tliee bound 
 From looking to tliis globe that all upbears. 
 If ruth and pity there above be found, 
 Oh, deign to lend a look unto these tears. 
 Do not disdain, dear ghost, this sacriflce. 
 And though I raise not pillars to thy praise, 
 312
 
 1560-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [dRUMMOND. 
 
 My offerings take, let this for me suffice. 
 
 My heart a Hving pyramid I raise : 
 
 And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green, 
 Thine shall with myrtles and these flowers be seen. 
 
 SPIRITUAL POEMS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Look, how the flower which ling'ringiy doth fade. 
 The morning's darling late, the summers queen, 
 Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green. 
 As high as it did raise, bows low the head : 
 Kight so the pleasures of my life being dead. 
 Or in their contraries but onlv seen, 
 With swifter speed declines than erst it spread. 
 And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been. 
 As doth tlie pilgrim, therefore, whom the night 
 By darkness would imprison on his way, 
 Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright. 
 Of what 's yet left thee of life's wasting day ; 
 Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn. 
 And twice it is not given thee to be born. 
 
 II. 
 
 The weary mariner so fast not flies 
 A howling tempest, harbour to attain; 
 Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise. 
 So fast to fold, to save his bleating train, 
 As I, wing'd with contempt and just disdain, 
 Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize, 
 And sanctuary seek, free to remain 
 From ^vounds of abject times, and Envy's eyes. 
 To me this world did once seem sweet and fair, 
 While senses' light mind's prospective kept blind , 
 
 313
 
 DRUMMOND.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [2D PER. 
 
 Now, like imagined Landscape in the air, 
 And weeping rainbows, her best jo3^s I find : 
 
 Or if aught here is had that praise should have. 
 
 It is a life obscure, and silent grave. 
 
 TIL 
 
 The last and greatest herald of heaven's King, 
 Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, 
 Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, 
 Which he more harmless found than man, and 
 
 mild ; 
 His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, 
 With honey that from virgin hives distill'd ; 
 Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing 
 Made him appear, long since from earth exiled; 
 There burst he forth ; ' All ye whose hopes rely 
 On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn; 
 Hepent, repent, and from old errors turn !' 
 Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry ? 
 Only the echoes, which he made relent, 
 Rung from their flinty caves, * Repent, repent ! * 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours 
 Of winters past or coming, void of care. 
 Well-pleased with delights which present are. 
 Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling 
 
 flowers : 
 To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, 
 Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare. 
 And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, 
 A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
 What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs, 
 Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not driven 
 314
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, [p. FLETCHER. 
 
 Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs. 
 And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven 1 
 Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise 
 To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays. 
 
 V. 
 
 As when it happ'neth that some lovely town 
 Unto a barbarous besieger falls, 
 Who both by sword and flame himself installs, 
 And, shameless, it in tears and blood doth drown 
 Her beauty spoil'd, her citizens made thralls. 
 His spite yet cannot so her all throw down. 
 But that some statue, pillar of renown. 
 Yet lurks unmaim'd within her weeping walls : 
 So, after all the spoil, disgrace, and wreck. 
 That time, the world, and death, could bring corn- 
 Amidst that mass of ruins they did make, [bined, 
 Safe and all scarless yet remains my mind : 
 
 From this so high transcending rapture springs, 
 That I, all else defaced, not envy kings. 
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHEE. 
 
 We have already spoken of Giles Fletcher, the brother of Phi- 
 neas. Of Phineas we know nothing except that he was born in 
 1584, educated at Eton and Cambridi^e, became Rector at Hil- 
 gay, in Norfolk, where he remained for twenty-nine years, sur- 
 viving his brother ; that he wrote an account of the founders 
 and learned men of his university ; that in 1633, he published 
 'The Purple Island;' and that in 1650 he died. 
 
 His * Purple Island ' (with which we first became acquainted 
 in the writings of James Hervey, author of the * Meditations,' 
 who was its fervent admirer) is a curious, complex, and highly 
 ingenious allegory, forming an elaborate picture of Man, in his 
 
 315
 
 p. FLETCHER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 body and soul; and for subtlety and infinite flexibility, both 
 of fancy and verse, deserves great praise, although it cannot, 
 for a moment, be compared with his brother's ' Christ's Victory 
 and Triumph/ either in interest of subject or in splendour of 
 genius. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF PARTHENIA. 
 
 With her, her sister went, a warlike maid, 
 Parthenia, all in steel and gilded arms ; 
 In needle's stead, a mighty spear she sway'd, 
 With which in bloody fields and fierce alarms. 
 The boldest champion she down M^ould bear. 
 And like a thunderbolt wide passage tear, 
 riinging all to the earth with her enchanted spear. 
 
 Her goodly armour seem'd a garden green. 
 
 Where thousand spotless lilies freshly blew ; 
 And on her shield the lone bird might be seen. 
 The Arabian bird, shining in colours new ; 
 Itself unto itself was only mate ; 
 Ever the same, but new in newer date : 
 And underneath was w^rit, ' Such is chaste single state.' 
 
 Thus hid in arms she seem'd a goodly knight. 
 
 And fit for any warlike exercise : 
 But when she list lay down her armour bright. 
 And back resume her peaceful maiden's guise ; 
 The fairest maid she was, that ever yet 
 Prison'd her locks within a golden net. 
 Or let them waving hang, with roses fair beset. 
 
 Choice nymph ! the crown of chaste Diana's train. 
 Thou beauty's lily, set in heavenly earth ; 
 
 Thy fairs, unpattern'd, all perfection stain : 
 Sure heaven with curious pencil at thy birth 
 316
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KiS^OWN BRITISH POETS, [p. FLETCHER. 
 
 In tliy rare face her own full picture drew : 
 It is a strong verse here to write, but true, 
 Plvperboles in others are but half thy due. 
 
 Upon her forehead Love his trophies fits, 
 
 A thousand spoils in silver arch displaying : 
 And in the midst himself full proudly sits, 
 Himself in awful majesty arraying : 
 
 Upon her brows lies his bent ebon bow, 
 And ready shafts ; deadly those weapons show ; 
 Yet sweet the death appear'd, lovely that deadly blow. 
 
 :i» 2i» £!* 21. i:* 
 
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 A bed of lilies flower upon her cheek. 
 
 And in the midst was set a circling rose ; 
 AVhose sweet aspect would force Narcissus seek 
 New liveries, and fresher colours choose 
 To deck his beauteous head in snowy 'tire ; 
 But all in A^ain : for who can hope t' aspire 
 To such a fair, which none attain, but all admire ■? 
 
 Her ruby lips lock up from gazing sight 
 
 A troop of pearls, which march in goodly row : 
 But when she deigns those precious bones undight, 
 Soon heavenly notes from those divisions flow. 
 And with rare music charm the ravish'd ears. 
 Daunting bold thoughts, but cheering modest fears: 
 The spheres so only sing, so only charm the spheres. 
 
 Yet all these stars which deck this beauteous sky 
 
 Bv force of th' inward sun both shine and move ; 
 Throned in her heart sits love's high majesty ; 
 In highest majesty the highest love. 
 
 As when a taper shines in glassy frame. 
 The sparkling crystal burns in glittering flame. 
 So does that brightest love brighten this lovely dame. 
 
 317
 
 p. FLETCHER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OP [2D PER. 
 
 INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GREATNESS. 
 
 Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness, 
 
 And here long seeks what here is never found! 
 For all our good we hold from Heaven by lease, 
 With many forfeits and conditions bound; 
 Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due : 
 Though now but writ and seal'd, and given anew, 
 Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. 
 
 Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good. 
 At every loss against Heaven's hce repining? 
 Do but behold where glorious cities stood. 
 With gilded tops, and silver turrets shining; 
 
 Where now the hart fearless of greyhound feeds. 
 And loving pelican in safety breeds; 
 Where screeching satyrs fill the people's empty steads. 
 
 Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide, 
 
 That all the East once grasp'd in lordly paw? 
 Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride 
 The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw? 
 Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard. 
 Through all the world with nimble pinions fared, 
 And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shared? 
 
 Hardly the place of such antiquity. 
 
 Or note of these great monarchies we find : 
 Only a fading verbal memory, 
 
 An empty name in writ is left behind: 
 But when this second life and glory fades. 
 And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, 
 A second fall succeeds, and double death invades. 
 
 318
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS. [P. FLETCHER. 
 
 That monstrous Beast, wliicli nursed in Tiber's fen, 
 
 Did all the world with hideous shape aftray; 
 That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den, 
 And trod down all the rest to dust and clay : 
 His battering horns pull'd out by civil hands, 
 And iron teeth lie scatter'd on the sands; 
 Backed, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked 
 stands. 
 
 And that black Vulture,^ which with deathful wing 
 
 O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight 
 Frighten'd the Muses from their native spring, 
 Already stoops, and flags with weary flight: 
 Who then shall look for happiness beneath 1 
 Where each new day proclaims chance, change, 
 and death. 
 And life itself 's as fleet as is the air we breathe. 
 
 HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERd's LIFE. 
 
 Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state ! 
 
 AVhen courts are happiness, unhappy pawns ! 
 His cottage low and safely humble gate 
 
 Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns 
 No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep : 
 Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep; 
 Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep. 
 
 No Serian worms he knows, that with then- thread 
 
 Draw out their silken lives ; nor silken pride : 
 His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need. 
 Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed : 
 No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright, 
 Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite; 
 But sweet content exiles both misery and spite. 
 
 1 'Black Yulture:' the Turk. 
 
 319
 
 r. FLETCHER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF 
 
 [2D PER. 
 
 Instead of music, and base flattering tongues, 
 Whicli wait to first salute my lord's uprise, 
 The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs, 
 And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes : 
 In country plays is all the strife he uses. 
 Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses, 
 And but in music's sports all difference refuses. 
 
 His certain life, that never can deceive him. 
 
 Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content ; 
 The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him 
 With coolest shades, till noontide rage is spent; 
 His life is neither toss'd in boisterous seas 
 Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease ; 
 Pleased, and full blest he lives, when he his God can 
 please. 
 
 His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps. 
 
 While by his side his faithful spouse hath place; 
 His little son into his bosom creeps. 
 The lively picture of his father's face : 
 
 Never his humble house nor state torment him ; 
 Less he could like, if less his God had sent him ; 
 And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content 
 him. 
 
 MARRIAGE OF CHRIST AND THE CHURCH. ' 
 
 * Ah, dearest Lord! does my rapt soul behold thee ? 
 
 Am I awake, and sure I do not dream '? 
 Do these thrice-blessed arms again enfold thee '? 
 
 Too much delisht makes true thino-s feio-ned seem. 
 
 CD O O 
 
 Thee, thee I see ; thou, thou thus folded art : 
 For deep thy stamp is printed on my heart. 
 And thousand ne'er-felt joys stream in each melting part.' 
 320
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, [p. FLETCHER. 
 
 Thus with glad sorrow did she sweetly 'plain her, 
 
 Upon his neck a welcome load depending ; 
 While he with equal joy did entertain her, 
 
 Herself, her champions, highly all commending : 
 So all in triumph to his palace went ; 
 Whose work in narrow words may not be pent : 
 For boundless thought is less than is that glorious tent. 
 
 There sweet delights, wdiich know nor end nor measure ; 
 
 No chance is there, nor eating times succeeding : 
 No wasteful spending can impair their treasure ; 
 Pleasure full grown, yet ever freshly breeding : 
 Fulness of sweets excludes not more receiving ; 
 The soul still big of joy, yet still conceiving ; 
 Beyond slow tongue's report, beyond quick thought's 
 perceiving. 
 
 There are they gone ; there will they ever bide ; 
 
 Swimming in waves of joys and heavenly loves: 
 He still a bridegroom, she a gladsome bride ; 
 
 Their hearts in love, like spheres still constant 
 
 moving ; 
 
 No change, no grief, no age can them befall; 
 Their bridal bed is in that heavenly hall, 
 Where all days are but one, and only one is all. 
 
 And as in his state they thus in triumph ride. 
 
 The boys and damsels their just praises chant ; 
 The boys the bridegroom sing, the maids the bride. 
 While all the hills glad hymens loudly vaunt : 
 Heaven's winged shoals, greeting this glorious 
 
 spring. 
 Attune their higher notes, and hymens sing : 
 Each thought to pass, and each did pass thought's loftiest 
 wing. 
 VOL. I. X 321
 
 p. FLETCHER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS OF [2D PER. 
 
 Upon his lightning brow love proudly sitting 
 
 Flames out in poAver, shines out in majesty; 
 There all his lofty spoils and trophies fitting. 
 Displays the marks of highest Deity : 
 
 There full of strength in lordly arms he stands, 
 And every heart and every soul commands: 
 No heart, no soul, his strength and lordly force with- 
 stands. 
 
 Upon her forehead thousand cheerful graces. 
 
 Seated on thrones of spotless ivory ; 
 There gentle Love his armed hand unbraces ; 
 His bow unbent disclaims all tyranny; 
 
 There by his play a thousand souls beguiles. 
 Persuading more by simple, modest smiles. 
 Than ever he could force by arms or crafty wiles. 
 
 Upon her cheek doth Beauty's self implant 
 
 The freshest garden of her choicest flowers ; 
 On which, if Envy might but glance askant. 
 
 Her eyes would swell, and burst, and melt in 
 showers : 
 Thrice fairer both than ever fairest eyed ; 
 Heaven never such a bridegroom yet descried; 
 Nor ever earth so fair, so undefiled a bride. 
 
 Full of his Father shines his glorious face. 
 
 As far the sun surpassing in his light. 
 As doth the sun the earth with flaming blaze : 
 
 Sweet influence streams from his quickening sight : 
 His beams from nought did all this All display ; 
 And when to less than nought they fell away. 
 He soon restored again by his new orient ray. 
 322
 
 1550-1640.] THE LESS-KNOWN BRITISH POETS, [p. FLETCHER.' 
 
 All heaven shines forth in her sweet face's frame : 
 Her seeing stars (which we miscall bright eyes) 
 More bright than is the morning's brightest flame, 
 More fruitful than the May-time Geminies : 
 These, back restore the timely summer's fire ; 
 Those, springing thoughts in winter hearts inspire. 
 Inspiriting dead souls, and quickening warm desire. 
 
 These two fair suns in heavenly spheres are placed, 
 
 Where in the centre joy triumphing sits : 
 Thus in all high perfections fully graced. 
 Her mid-day bliss no future night admits ; 
 But in the mirrors of her Spouse's eyes 
 Her fairest self she dresses ; there where lies 
 All sweets, a glorious beauty to emparadise. 
 
 His locks like raven's plumes, or shining jet. 
 
 Fall down in curls along his ivory neck; 
 Within their circlets hundred graces set. 
 
 And with love-knots their comely hangings deck : 
 His mighty shoulders, like that giant swain. 
 All heaven and earth, and all in both sustam; 
 Yet knows no weariness, nor feels oppressing pain. 
 
 Her amber hair lil^e to the sunny ray, 
 
 With gold enamels fair the silver white , 
 There heavenly loves their pretty sportings play, 
 Fuing their darts in that wide flaming light : 
 Her dainty neck, spread with that silver mould. 
 Where double beauty doth itself unfold. 
 In the own fair silver shines, and fairer borrow'd gold. 
 
 His breast a rock of purest alabaster. 
 
 Where loves self-sailing, shipwreck'd, often sitteth. 
 
 323
 
 p. FLETCHER.] SPECIMENS WITH MEMOIRS, ETC. [2D PER. 
 
 Hers a twin-rock, unknown but to the sliipmaster ; 
 Which harbours him alone, all other splitteth. 
 
 Where better could her love than here have nested, 
 
 Or he his thoughts than here more sweetly feasted 1 
 
 Then both their love and thoughts in each are ever rested. 
 
 Bun now, you shepherd swains ; ah ! run you thither, 
 Where this fair bridegroom leads the blessed way : 
 And haste, you lovely maids, haste you together 
 With this sweet bride, while yet the sunshine day 
 Guides your blind steps ; while yet loud summons 
 
 call, 
 That every wood and hill resounds withal, 
 Come, Hymen, Hymen, come, dress'd in thy golden pall. 
 
 The sounding echo back the music flung, 
 
 While heavenly spheres unto the voicos play'd. 
 But see ! the day is ended with my song, 
 
 And sporting bathes with that fair ocean maid . 
 Stoop now thy wing, my muse, now stoop thee low : 
 Hence mayst thou freely play, and rest thee now ; 
 While here I hang my pipe upon the willow bough. 
 
 So up they rose, while all the shepherds' throng 
 With their loud pipes a country triumph blew, 
 And led their Thirsil home with joyful song : 
 Meantime the lovely nymphs, with garlands new 
 His locks in bay and honour'd palm-tree bound. 
 With lilies set, and hyacinths around. 
 And lord of all the year and their May sportings crown'd. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. 
 
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