UC-NRLF 
 
 N 
 
POETS ON POETS 
 

POETS ON POETS 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 MRS. RICHARD STRACHEY 
 
 LONDON 
 
 KEG AN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER 6" CO. LTD. 
 MDCCCXOIV 
 
: 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 IN the preface to his great play, "All for 
 Love," Dryden asserts that "poets themselves 
 are the most proper, though not the only 
 critics of poetry," and thinks it " reasonable that 
 the judgment of an artificer in his art should 
 be preferable to the opinion of another man ; 
 at least, where he is not bribed by interest or 
 prejudiced by malice." English poets from 
 Jonson to Swinburne have not been back- 
 ward in exercising the function of critics on 
 their fellows ; but it is specially remarkable 
 that almost every memorable poet through- 
 out the illustrious bead-roll has expressed an 
 opinion in verse on the poetical qualities of 
 some or other of his predecessors or con- 
 temporaries. The circumstance that the 
 poetic succession has been carried on by a 
 series of groups or clusters, has given us, in 
 addition to individual appreciations, a body 
 of criticism revealing the artistic point of 
 
 258474 
 
Tiii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 cious phrase by all the Muses filed," and 
 records in one splendid line "the proud 
 full sail of his great verse." But though the 
 wreath is there, we know not on whose brow 
 to place it ; the mystery which surrounds the 
 whole subject of the sonnets enwraps the 
 rival poet too ; whether it were Spenser, 
 Chapman, Daniel, or another, we know only 
 that he has been mocked by Fate, who with- 
 held, whilst she seemed to bestow, the 
 proudest title ever poet earned He whom 
 Shakespeare praised. 
 
 It is evident that, on the whole, the judg- 
 ment of the poets in session agrees altogether 
 with the popular verdict ; this would naturally 
 be the case as regards the greatest of those 
 brought before the bar ; the heart of man- 
 kind and the conscience of the artist must 
 alike acknowledge their supremacy. From 
 the voice of Spenser, ushering in the heroic 
 age of English song, to that of Tennyson, 
 hushed but yesterday, Chaucer is hailed as 
 Master ; the great singers of every age salute 
 as they pass the mighty shades of Spenser, 
 Shakespeare, Milton. But what is perhaps 
 noteworthy is that the poets have so few 
 favourites apart from the general ; I can 
 name only two whose popularity having 
 died with the public has survived with sue- 
 
INTRODUCTION. ix 
 
 cessive generations of poets Sidney and 
 Cowley. The preferences of individual poets 
 are of interest ; we find something agreeably 
 incongruous in the devotion of Herrick the 
 dainty to Ben Jonson, in the gentle Cowper's 
 admiration of Churchill, and the ardour of 
 Byron for Pope, and Southey's solemn adora- 
 tion of Spenser ; but it is when we study the 
 collective attitude of criticism, characterizing 
 successive periods of poetic energy, that we 
 find most to attract and impress us. Nothing, 
 for instance, is more startling to a reader 
 than to step out of the world of Elizabethans 
 into that of their successors after the Resto- 
 ration ; there is hardly a deeper stroke of 
 irony in the drama of human existence. Of 
 all that earlier throng, brimful of vehement 
 vitality, whom we have seen jostling one 
 another with cries of applause and derision, 
 who had so superb a consciousness of power, 
 such full assurance of high endeavour and 
 noble achievement and immortal worth, four 
 names only are found on the lips of the men 
 who next fill their places as Masters of English 
 song : Spenser, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, 
 Fletcher these alone, for nearly two hundred 
 years, lived with the living, while of the rest 
 not even the poor ghosts remained to haunt 
 the realms of imagination. It is not that 
 
x INTRODUCTION. 
 
 they were overtaken by the common lot of 
 those whose pipe, sweet to contemporary 
 ears, cannot carry its sound beyond them 
 that in each new generation " many a splen- 
 dour finds its tomb, many spent fames and 
 fallen mights ; " it was the advent of such a 
 radical change in the whole conception of 
 art, as for a time a long time doomed 
 some of the glories of English literature not 
 only to neglect but oblivion. For the seven- 
 teenth and eighteenth-century poets, those of 
 the sixteenth were blind and barbarous forces, 
 gifted, some of them, with an elemental 
 genius which made its way to greatness by 
 sheer abundance, but lacking in all artistic 
 capacity. That the magnificent craftsman- 
 ship which from Marlowe to Milton, through 
 so many workmen and to such varied music, 
 hammered out the instrument of blank verse, 
 should receive no recognition, even from 
 Dryden, is amazing ; and not less so is the 
 insensibility to the technical perfection of a 
 host of lyrics unequalled in any language but 
 the Greek. The want of proportion in design 
 and of sobriety in treatment which charac- 
 terizes most of the Elizabethan writers, and 
 their generally imperfect handling of the 
 heroic couplet in pieces of any length, blinded 
 their successors to the mastery in their art 
 
INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 which they had attained through strenuous 
 and self-conscious effort. 
 
 There is no such violent disruption of 
 continuity in the new upheaval of poetry 
 which marked the beginning of the nineteenth 
 century ; re-action, inevitable, though long- 
 delayed, carried with it no consequences so 
 grave to art and so unjust to individual 
 artists. Brilliant, flexible and appropriate 
 diction, a new sense of the beauty of what is 
 decorous and controlled, and complete mas- 
 tery over the vibrant weapon of satire, are 
 the gifts bestowed on English literature by 
 the race of poets over whom Pope was long 
 acknowledged chief; gifts which she has 
 never again suffered to drop from her hands. 
 And the harbingers of a wider poetic vision 
 in their return to the great masters of an early 
 day were not unjust to those of a later ; Dry- 
 den is caught up with Shakespeare and 
 Milton in the famous ode wherein Gray lifts 
 them from the plane of unimpassioned com- 
 ment to the firmament of lyric adoration. 
 If in after days Pope paid for his unequalled 
 prestige by a share in the contempt which 
 fell on his followers for doing ill what he 
 did so well, his unpopularity was at least no 
 result of ignorance, but rather of an excessive 
 familiarity that dulled men's ears to the merit 
 f 
 
xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 which was its cause. Of these followers 
 Goldsmith survives through a genius which 
 had a touch of the lyrical ; but to the rest the 
 long inglorious list of Hills and Langhornes 
 and Whiteheads who strove to uphold 
 Pope's standard and govern in his name 
 the victory of the insurgent forces brought 
 not so much defeat as annihilation ; the 
 scattered fire of Collins, Gray, and Chatter- 
 ton, the gradual mine of Thomson and 
 Cowper, the splendid cavalry charge of 
 Burns, preceded an unopposed march of the 
 great army which, advancing in separate 
 columns under the leadership of Words- 
 worth, Scott, and Byron, secured the dominion 
 of a new dynasty. 
 
 The work of their predecessors and con- 
 temporaries was of keen interest to the new 
 poets, as the abundant extracts from their 
 works testify. They, in their turn, are await- 
 ing the verdict of their successors. 
 
 In arranging this book I have as far as 
 possible placed the poets in order of time, 
 contemporaries necessarily over-lapping, 
 while the order of the extracts from their 
 works has been determined, not by the date 
 of the poem but of the poet who is the subject 
 of it. There will, no doubt, be differences of 
 
INTRODUCTION. xiii 
 
 opinion regarding the selection ; I have 
 leaned rather to inclusion than to omission. 
 Believing with Mr. Palgrave that "a book 
 planned for popular use half defeats its own 
 object by adherence to unfamiliar modes of 
 spelling," I have modernized all the spelling 
 except that of the first period, from Chaucer 
 to Lydgate, where it cannot be done without 
 affecting the verse. Living poets are ex- 
 cluded, but death has lately removed so 
 many from among us, that the first genera- 
 tion of Victorian poets may be said to have 
 taken their places on the bench with their 
 illustrious precursors. The restrictions im- 
 posed on my selections by the operation of 
 the law of copyright have fortunately been 
 few ; my thanks are specially due to Messrs. 
 Macmillan for their liberalityingivingme com- 
 plete freedom of choice in those cases in which 
 their interests are affected, viz., in the Poems 
 of Mr. Matthew Arnold and Lord Tennyson. 
 By this courtesy we are enabled to follow 
 the noble procession without interruption 
 from Chaucer to our own day, keeping still 
 abreast of the strong and flowing tide of 
 
 " Poesy's unfailing river, 
 
 Which through Albion winds for ever, 
 
 Lashing with melodious wave 
 
 Many a sacred poet's grave. " 
 
 J. M. S. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PERIOD I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAUCER, GEOFFREY. 1328-1400. 
 
 Prom Troilus and Cressida 3 
 
 GOWER, JOHN. 1320-1402. 
 
 From, Confessio Araantis 3 
 
 OCCLBVB, THOMAS. 1370-1454. 
 
 From The Regement of Princes 4 
 
 LYDGATE, JOHN. 1375-1460. 
 
 From Prologue to the Story of Thebes .... 5 
 
 From Prologue to the Translation of Boccaccio's 
 Fall of Princes 6 
 
 From The Praise of the Virgin Mary 6 
 
 PERIOD II. 
 SURREY, EARL OF. 1515-1547. 
 
 On the Death of Sir Thomas Wyatt u 
 
 SPENSER, EDMUND. 1553-1598. 
 
 From The Shepherd's Calendar. February . . 12 
 
 M it June .... 13 
 
 ,, ,, ,, December . . 14 
 
 From The Fairy Queen 15 
 
 From Colin Clout's come home again 16 
 
 From The Ruins of Time 19 
 
 From L'Envoy to the Ruins of Time 20 
 
 From Astrophel ao 
 
 To Sir Walter Raleigh 23 
 
xvi CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ROYDON, MATTHEW. 
 
 Front An Elegy 24 
 
 RALEIGH, SIR WALTER. 1552-1618. 
 
 A Vision upon this Conceipt of the Fairy Queen . 27 
 
 From Another of the same 27 
 
 PEELE, GEORGE, c. 1553-1598. 
 
 Ad Maecenatem Prologus 27 
 
 BRETON, NICHOLAS. 1558-1624. 
 
 An Epitaph upon Poet Spenser 29 
 
 BARNFIELD, RICHARD. 1574-1620. 
 
 To his Friend, Master R. I. In Praise of Music 
 and Poetry 31 
 
 A Remembrance of some English Poets .... 32 
 BROWNE, WILLIAM. 1588-1643. 
 
 Front Britannia's Pastorals 32 
 
 DRAYTON, MICHAEL. 1563-1631. 
 
 To William Browne 35 
 
 To my most dearly-loved friend, Henry Reynolds, 
 
 Esquire, of Poets and Poesie 35 
 
 HEYWOOD, THOMAS, d. 1640. 
 
 From The Hierarchic of the Blessed Angels ... 42 
 JOHN DAVIES OF HEREFORD. 1560-1618. 
 
 To our English Terence, Mr. Will. Shakespeare . 43 
 BEAUMONT, FRANCIS. 1586-1615. 
 
 Letter to Ben Jonson 43 
 
 From Verses to my dear friend, Master Ben Jonson, 
 upon his Fox 45 
 
 To my friend Mr. John Fletcher upon his Faithful 
 
 Shepherdess 45 
 
 FLETCHER, JOHN. 1576-1625. 
 
 To Beaumont on his Poems 46 
 
 To Ben Jonson on Volpone 47 
 
 From Verses to my worthy friend, Ben Jonson, on 
 
 his Catiline 48 
 
 CHAPMAN, GEORGE. 1557-1634. 
 
 From Hero and Leander, Book iii 48 
 
 To his loving friend, Mr. John Fletcher, con- 
 cerning his Pastoral being both a Poem and a 
 Play 48 
 
 From Verses on Sejanus . 49 
 
CONTENTS. xvii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 W. BASSE, d, c. 1652. 
 
 Epitaph on Shakespeare 50 
 
 JONSON, BENJAMIN. 1572-1637. 
 
 To Elizabeth, Countess of Rutland 51 
 
 From Epistle to Eliz., Countess of Rutland ... 52 
 
 From To Penshurst 52 
 
 From An Ode 52 
 
 To Francis Beaumont 52 
 
 To my worthy Author Mr. John Fletcher upon his 
 
 Faithful Shepherdess 53 
 
 To my worthy and honoured friend Master George 
 
 Chapman 53 
 
 To John Donne 54 
 
 To John Donne 54 
 
 To the Memory of my Beloved Master William 
 Shakespeare, and what he hath left us .... 55 
 
 On the Portrait of Shakespeare 57 
 
 A Vision on the Muses of his Friend Michael 
 
 Drayton 58 
 
 An Ode to Himself 61 
 
 Ode to Himself 62 
 
 FORD, JOHN. 1586-1639. 
 
 On the best of English Poets, Ben Jonson, Deceased 64 
 
 FLETCHER, PHI NBAS. 1582-1648. 
 
 From The Purple Island 65 
 
 QUARLES, FRANCIS. 1592-1644. 
 
 To my dear friend the Spenser of this Age ... 66 
 
 SHIRLEY, JAMES. 1596-1666. 
 
 A Prologue to the Alchemist 67 
 
 CAREW, THOMAS. 1598-1638. 
 
 From An Elegy upon the Death of Dr. Donne . . 68 
 
 WILLIAM HODGSON. 
 
 From Commendatory Verses on Ben Jonson . . 68 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 To Ben Jonson 63 
 
 HERRICK, ROBERT. 1591-1674. 
 
 From The Apparition of his Mistress calling him to 
 
 Elysium 69 
 
 Upon Master Fletcher's incomparable Plays ... 69 
 His Prayer to Ben Jonson 70 
 
xviii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 HERRICK, ROBERT continued. 
 
 An Ode for Him 71 
 
 A Bacchanalian Verse 71 
 
 Epigram 72 
 
 Upon Ben Jonson 72 
 
 Upon Mr. Ben Jonson 72 
 
 PERIOD III. 
 MILTON, JOHN. 1608-1674. 
 
 An Epitaph on the admirable dramatic poet, W. 
 
 Shakespeare 77 
 
 From II Penseroso 77 
 
 Front L'Allegro 78 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 On worthy Master Shakespeare and his Poems . . 78 
 WALLER, EDMUND. 1605-1687. 
 
 From Penshurst 81 
 
 On Mr. John Fletcher's Plays 81 
 
 From Prologue to the Maid's Tragedy . . . . 82 
 
 Upon Ben Jonson 83 
 
 To Sir William D'Avenant, upon his two first books 
 of Gondibert, finished before his voyage to 
 
 America 84 
 
 SUCKLING, SIR JOHN. 1609-1641. 
 
 To my friend Will. D'Avenant on his other Poems 85 
 CARTWRIGHT, WILLIAM. 1611-1643. 
 
 Upon the Report of the Printing of the Dramatical 
 
 Poems of Master John Fletcher 86 
 
 From Another Set of Verses 88 
 
 CRASHAW, RICHARD. 1612-1650. 
 
 From Wishes 89 
 
 Upon Two Green Apricocks sent to Cowley by Sir 
 
 Crashaw 89 
 
 On Mr. George Herbert's Book intituled The 
 
 Temple of Sacred Poems 91 
 
 OWEN FELLTHAM. d. c. 1678. 
 
 Front Commendatory Verses on Jonson . . . . 91 
 
CONTENTS. xix 
 
 PACK 
 CLEVELAND, JOHN. 1613-1658. 
 
 To the Memory of Ben Jonson 92 
 
 COWLEY, ABRAHAM. 1618-1667. 
 
 To Sir Will. D'Avenant upon his two first books of 
 Gondibert, finished before his Voyage to America 93 
 
 On the Death of Mr. Crashaw 94 
 
 DENHAM, SIR JOHN. 1615-1688. 
 
 From Verses on Mr. John Fletcher's Works . . 97 
 On Mr. Abraham Cowley his Death and Burial 
 
 amongst the Ancient Poets 96 
 
 BUTLER, SAMUEL. 1612-1680. 
 
 On Critics who judge of modern plays precisely by 
 
 the rules of the ancients oo 
 
 MARVELL, ANDREW. 16201678. 
 
 On Milton's Paradise Lost xoi 
 
 VAUGHAN, HENRY. i6ax-i695. 
 
 To Sir William D'Avenant upon his Gondibert . 103 
 DRYDEN, JOHN. 1631-1700. 
 
 On Palemon and Arcite 104 
 
 From The Art of Poetry 105 
 
 Under Mr. Milton's picture before bis Paradise 
 
 Lost 105 
 
 From Prologue to Aurengzebe 105 
 
 From Prologue to Troilus and Cressida . . . . 106 
 
 From Prologue to the Tempest 107 
 
 From Prologue to Albumazar 108 
 
 Epilogue to the Second Part of The Conquest of 
 
 Granada 108 
 
 From The Art of Poetry no 
 
 Epistle to my dear friend, Mr. Congreve on his 
 
 Comedy called The Double Dealer nt 
 
 ROCHESTER, EARL OF. 1647-1668. 
 
 From An Allusion to the tenth Satire of the first 
 
 book of Horace 114 
 
 OLDHAM, JOHN. 1653-1683. 
 
 From A Satire dissuading from Poetry . . . . 116 
 
xx CONTENTS. 
 
 PERIOD IV. 
 
 PAGK 
 
 ADDISON, JOSEPH. 1672-1719. 
 
 An Account of the greatest English Poets. To 
 Mr. Henry Sacheverell 119 
 
 PRIOR, MATTHEW. 1664-1721. 
 
 Front An Ode 123 
 
 From Alma 124 
 
 YOUNG, EDWARD. 1681-1765. 
 
 From An Epistle to Lord Lansdowne . . . . 125 
 
 TICKELL, THOMAS. 1686-1740. 
 
 On the Death of Mr. Addison 127 
 
 POPE, ALEXANDER. 1688-1744. 
 
 From Windsor Forest 131 
 
 From An Essay on Criticism 132 
 
 From The First Epistle of the Second Book of 
 
 Horace 132 
 
 From The Dunciad 137 
 
 Front An Epistle to the Earl of Oxford .... 137 
 Epitaph on Gay in Westminster Abbey .... 138 
 
 PARNELL, THOMAS. 1679-1718. 
 
 To Mr. Pope 138 
 
 SWIFT, JONATHAN. 1667-1745. 
 
 From On the Death of Dr. Swift 141 
 
 From A Libel on the Reverend Dr. Delany and 
 His Excellency John Lord Carteret .... 144 
 
 PERIOD V. 
 
 JOHNSON, SAMUEL 1709-1784. 
 
 From. Prologue spoken by Mr. Garrick at the 
 
 opening of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, 1747 147 
 THOMSON, JAMES. 1700-1748. 
 
 From Summer 148 
 
 From The Castle of Indolence 149 
 
 AKENSIDE, MARK. 1720-1770. 
 
 For a Statue of Chaucer at Woodstock .... 149 
 
CONTENTS. xxi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 COLLIXS, WILLIAM. 1721-1759. 
 
 From Ode to Fear 150 
 
 From Ode to the Popular Superstitions of the 
 
 Highlands of Scotland 150 
 
 From On our late taste in Music 151 
 
 From Epistle to Sir Thos. Hanmer 151 
 
 From An Ode on the Poetical Character ... 155 
 
 Ode on the Death of Thomson 155 
 
 GRAY, THOMAS. 1716-1770. 
 
 From The Progress of Poesy 157 
 
 From The Bard 159 
 
 Stanzas to Mr. Bentley 160 
 
 CHURCHILL, CHARLES. 1731-1764. 
 
 From The Rosciad 161 
 
 From The Author 162 
 
 From The Apology 163 
 
 From An Epistle to William Hogarth .... 164 
 
 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER. 1728-1774. 
 
 Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 164 
 
 COWPER, WILLIAM. 1731-1800. 
 
 From Table Talk 165 
 
 From The Task 165 
 
 Stanzas on the late indecent liberties taken with 
 
 the remains of Milton 166 
 
 From The Task 167 
 
 From An Epistle to Robt. Lloyd 167 
 
 From Table Talk 168 
 
 Epitaph on Dr. Johnson 170 
 
 BURNS, ROBERT. 1759-1796. 
 
 From The Vision 170 
 
 Address to the Shade of Thomson 172 
 
 From An Epistle to John Lapraik 172 
 
 PERIOD VI. 
 
 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. 1770-1850. 
 
 Sonnet. Edward VI 177 
 
 Sonnet. " Wings have we, and as far as we can 
 go" 77 
 
 
xxii CONTENTS. 
 
 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM continued. 
 
 From The Prelude 178 
 
 From the Dedication to The White Doe of 
 
 Rylstone 179 
 
 1802 180 
 
 From The Excursion 181 
 
 From Lines written in a blank leaf of Macpherson's 
 
 Ossian 181 
 
 From The Prelude 182 
 
 Sonnet. " Scorn not the Sonnet " 182 
 
 Inscription for a Seat in the Groves of Cole-Orton. 183 
 
 Sonnet to the Poet, John Dyer 184 
 
 From Liberty 184 
 
 Remembrance of Collins 185 
 
 From Resolution and Independence 186 
 
 At the Grave of Burns 186 
 
 Sonnet. Burns's Daisy 191 
 
 Inscription on Southey's Monument, Keswick . 192 
 
 From The Prelude 193 
 
 Yarrow Re- Visited 194 
 
 Sonnet on the departure of Sir Walter Scott from 
 
 Abbotsford for Naples 198 
 
 Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James 
 
 Hogg 199 
 
 COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. 1772-1834. 
 
 To William Wordsworth 201 
 
 SOUTHEY, ROBERT. 1774-1843. 
 
 For a Tablet at Penshurst 202 
 
 From Carmen Nuptiale 203 
 
 SCOTT, WALTER. 1771-1832. 
 
 From Rokeby 204 
 
 From Marmion 205 
 
 From Prelude to MacdufFs Cross 207 
 
 From. The Bridal of Triermaine 207 
 
 BYRON, LORD. 1788-1824. 
 
 From Childe Harold 208 
 
 Churchill's Grave 209 
 
 From English Bards and Scotch Reviewers . .210 
 
 From the Dedication to Don Juan 217 
 
 From Don Juan 220 
 
CONTENTS. xxiii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MOORE, THOMAS. 1778-1852. 
 
 From Intercepted Letters 224 
 
 Reflections before reading Lord Byron's Memoirs, 
 
 written by himself 225 
 
 Verses to the Poet Crabbe's Inkstand 227 
 
 SHELLEY, PEKCY BYSSHE. 1792-1822. 
 
 From A Letter to Maria Gisborne 230 
 
 From Peter Bell the Third 230 
 
 From Proem to the Witch of Atlas 232 
 
 Sonnet to Wordsworth 233 
 
 From Peter Bell the Third 233 
 
 From A Letter to Maria Gisborne 234 
 
 From Lines written among the Euganean Hills . 235 
 
 Fragment 237 
 
 Sonnet to Byron 237 
 
 On Keats 237 
 
 Adonais 238 
 
 KBATS, JOHN. 1795-1821. 
 
 Sonnet. On first looking into Chapman's Homer . 259 
 
 Sonnet 259 
 
 From Sleep and Poetry 260 
 
 From An Epistle to Charles Cowden Clarke . . 262 
 From Specimen of an Induction to a Poem. . . 264 
 From An Epistle to George Felton Mathew . . 265 
 
 Sonnet. Addressed to Haydon 265 
 
 LAMDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. 1775-1864. 
 
 On Shakespeare 266 
 
 " Beyond our shores, past Alps and Apennines " . 266 
 
 Shakespeare and Milton 266 
 
 Milton and Shakespeare 267 
 
 From To Lamartine, President of France . . . 267 
 
 "That critic must indeed be bold" 268 
 
 From Apology for Gebir 268 
 
 " Will nothing but from Greece or Rome "... 269 
 
 Goldsmith and Gray 269 
 
 Erin 269 
 
 14 Tenderest of tender hearts, of spirits pure " . . 270 
 " We know a poet rich in thought, profuse " . . 270 
 
 On Southey's Birthday 271 
 
 To Southey 1833 271 
 
xxiv CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE continued. 
 
 From To Andrew Crosse 273 
 
 " Changeful ! how little do you know " . . . . 273 
 
 To the Nightingale 274 
 
 " Thou hast not lost all glory, Rome ! " . . . . 274 
 
 Satirists 274 
 
 From To Wordsworth 276 
 
 From Epistle to the Author of Festus .... 277 
 
 From English Hexameters 278 
 
 To the Daisy 278 
 
 To Macaulay 278 
 
 To Robert Browning 279 
 
 PERIOD VII. 
 
 BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. 1806-1861. 
 
 From A Vision of Poets 283 
 
 From Casa Guidi Windows . 285 
 
 Cowper's Grave 286 
 
 Sonnet from the Portuguese 290 
 
 From Lady Geraldine's Courtship 290 
 
 ARNOLD, MATTHEW. 1822-1888. 
 
 Sonnet to Shakespeare 291 
 
 Memorial Verses. April, 1850 292 
 
 From Stanzas from the Grand Chartreuse . . . 294 
 
 From Thyrsis 295 
 
 BROWNING, ROBERT. 1812-1889. 
 
 From Christmas Eve and Easter Day .... 296 
 
 From The Two Poets of Croisic 296 
 
 From Parleyings with Certain People .... 296 
 
 " The super-human poet-pair " 297 
 
 From. Sordello 297 
 
 Memorabilia 298 
 
 From One Word More 298 
 
 From The Ring and the Book 298 
 
 TENNYSON, LORD. 1809-1892. 
 
 From A Dream of Fair Women 299 
 
CONTENTS. xxv 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TENNYSON, LORD continued. 
 
 From The Palace of Art 300 
 
 Alcaics 300 
 
 From Dedication to the Queen 301 
 
 NOTES 303 
 
 INDEX OF POETS 317 
 
 
' An English Poet should be tried by his Peers." 
 
PERIOD I. 
 
 POETS BORN IN THE 
 XIVTH CENTURY. 
 
 CHAUCER TO LYDGATE. 
 
POETS ON POETS. 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 From Troilus and Cressida. \c. 1380 
 
 O MORALL Gower, this booke I direct Cower. 
 
 To thee, and to the philosophical Strode, 
 To vouchsafe there neede is, to correct, 
 Of your benignities and zeales good. 
 
 GOWER. 
 From Confessio Amantis. \c. 1383 
 
 Venus speaks. 
 
 AND grete well Chaucer, whan ye mete, Chaucer. 
 
 As my disciple and my poete, 
 For in the floures of his youth, 
 In sondry wise, as he well couth, 
 Of dittees and of songes glade, 
 The which he for my sake made, 
 The lond fulfilled is over all, 
 Whereof to him in special 1 
 Above all other I am most holde. 
 Forthy now in his daies olde 
 Thou shalt him telle this message, 
 
OCCLEVE. 
 
 That he upon his later age 
 To sette an end of all his werke, 
 As he, which is min ovvne clerke, 
 Do make his testament of love, 
 As thou hast do thy shrifte above, 
 So that my court it may recorde. 
 
 OCCLEVE. [1411-12 
 
 From The Regement of Princes. 
 
 Chaucer. BUT weleaway ! so is myne hert wo 
 
 That the honour of Englisshe tonge is dede, 
 Of which I was wonte have counseile and rede. 
 
 O maister dere and fader reverent, 
 My maister Chaucer, floure of eloquence, 
 Mirrour of fructuous entendement, 
 O universal fader in science, 
 Alias ! that thou thyne excellent prudence 
 In thy bedde mortel myghtest not bequethe. 
 What eyled dethe, alias ! why wolde he sle the ? 
 
 O dethe, though didest not harm singulere 
 
 In slaughtre of hym, but alle this londe it smertethe ; 
 
 But natheles yit hast thow no powere 
 
 His name to slee ; his hye vertu astertethe 
 
 Unslayne fro the, which ay us lyfly hertyth 
 
 Withe bookes of his ornat endityng 
 
 That is to alle this lande enlumynyng. 
 
LYDGATE. 
 
 Alias ! my worthy maister honorable, 
 This londes verray tresour and richesse, 
 Dethe by thy dethe hathe harme irreparable 
 Unto us done, hir vengeable duresse 
 Despoilede hathe this londe of swetnesse 
 Of rethoryk fro us, to Tullius 
 Was never man so like amonge us. 
 
 Also who was hyer in philosofye 
 To Aristotle in our tunge but thow ? 
 The steppes of Virgile in poysye 
 Thou folwedest eke, men wote wele ynow. 
 That combreworlde that my maister slow, 
 Wolde I slayne were ! dethe was to hastyfe, 
 To renne on the and reve the thy lyfe. 
 **#** 
 
 She myght han taryede her vengeaunce a while, 
 Til that some man hade egalle to the be. 
 Nay, lete be that ! she knew wele that this yle 
 May never man bryng forthe like to the, 
 And hir office nedes do mote she ; 
 God bade hir do so, I truste for the beste. 
 O maister, maister, God thy soule reste ! 
 
 LYDGATE. [>. 1420 
 
 From Prologue to the Story of Thebes. 
 
 MY maister Chaucer, with his fresh commedies, Chaucer. 
 Is deed, alas ! chefe poete of Bretayne, 
 That sometime made full piteous tragedies, 
 
6 LYDGATE. 
 
 The fall of princes, he did also complayne, 
 As he that was of makyng soverayne, 
 Whom all this lande of right ought preferre, 
 Sithe of our language he was the lode-sterre. 
 
 Chaucer. BY hym that was, yf I shall not fayne, 
 
 Floure of Poetes, thorugh out of all Bretayne, 
 Whiche sothly had moost of excellence 
 In Rethoryke and in eloquence. 
 Rede his makyng, who lyst the trouthe fynde 
 Which never shall appallen in my mynde, 
 But alwaye freshe ben in my memorye, 
 To whom be yeve pryse, honour and glory e 
 Of well sayeing. 
 
 [t. 1430-1438 
 
 From Prologue to the Translation of 
 Boccaccio's Fall of Princes. 
 
 Chaucer. THIS sayed poete, my maister, in his dayes 
 
 Made and composed ful many a fresh dite, 
 Complaintes, ballades, roundeles, virelaies, 
 Full delectable to heren and to se. 
 For which men shulde of right and equite, 
 Sith he of English in making was the best, 
 Pray unto God to yeve his soule good rest. 
 
 \f. 1422 
 From The Praise of the Virgin Mary. 
 
 Chaucer. AND eke my master Chaucer is now in grave, 
 
 The noble rhetor poete of Bretayne. 
 
LYDGATE. 
 
 That worthy was the lawrer to have 
 
 Of poetrye, and the palme attayne, 
 
 That made first to dystylle and rayne 
 
 The gold dewe dropys of speche and eloquence 
 
 Into our tunge thrugh his excellence, 
 
 And fonde the flouris first of rethoryke 
 Our rude speche only to enlumyne, 
 That in our tunge was never none him lyke ; 
 For as the sonne doth in heven shyne 
 In mydday spere down to us by lyne, 
 In whose presence no sterre may appere, 
 Right so his ditees withouten ony pere. 
 
PERIOD II. 
 
 POETS BORN IN THE 
 XVITH CENTURY. 
 
 SURREY TO HERRICK. 
 
SURREY. [1542 
 
 On the Death of Sir Thomas Wyatt. 
 
 WYATT resteth here, that quick could never rest : Wyatt. 
 
 Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain ; 
 
 And virtue sank the deeper in his breast : 
 
 Such profit he by envy could obtain. 
 
 A head, whose wisdom mysteries did frame ; 
 
 Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain, 
 
 As on a stithe where that some work of fame 
 
 Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain's gain. 
 
 A visage stern, and mild ; where both did grow 
 
 Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice : 
 
 Amid great storms, whom grace assured so, 
 
 To live upright, and smile at fortune's choice. 
 
 A hand, that taught what might be said in rime ; 
 
 That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit Chaucer. 
 
 A mark, the which (unperfected for time) 
 
 Some may approach, but never none shall hit. 
 
 A tongue that served in foreign realms his king ; 
 
 Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflame 
 
 Each noble heart ; a worthy guide to bring 
 
 Our English youth by travail unto fame. 
 
 An eye, whose judgment none effect could blind, 
 
 Friends to allure and foes to reconcile ; 
 
 Whose piercing look did represent a mind 
 
12 SPENSER. 
 
 With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile. 
 
 A heart, whose dread was never so impress'd 
 
 To hide the thought that might the truth advance ; 
 
 In neither fortune loft, nor yet repress'd, 
 
 To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance. 
 
 A valiant corpse, where force and beauty met : 
 
 Happy, alas ! too happy, but for foes, 
 
 Lived, and ran the race that nature set ; 
 
 Of manhood's shape, where she the mould did 
 
 lose. 
 
 But to the heavens that simple soul is fled, 
 Which left, with such as covet Christ to know, 
 Witness of faith, that never shall be dead ; 
 Sent for our health, but not received so. 
 Thus for our guilt this jewel have we lost ; 
 The earth his bones, the heavens possess his 
 
 ghost. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 From The Shepherd's Calendar. [1579 
 
 February. 
 
 Thenot. But shall I tell thee a tale of truth, 
 Chaucer. Which I conned of Tityrus in my youth, 
 Keeping his sheep on the hills of Kent ? 
 
 Cuddie. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is 
 
 bent 
 
 Then to hear novels of his devise ; 
 They been so well thewed, and so wise 
 What ever that good old man bespake. 
 
 The. Many meet tales of youth did he make, 
 And some of love, and some of chivalry. 
 
SPENSER. 13 
 
 June. 
 Holbinoll. Colin, to hear thy rimes and rounde- Spenser 
 
 lays, 
 
 Which thou wert wont on wasteful hills to sing, 
 I more delight than lark in summer days, 
 Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring, 
 And taught the birds, which in the lower spring 
 Did shroud in shady leaves from sunny rays, 
 Frame to thy song their cheerful chirruping, 
 Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays. 
 
 I saw Calliope with Muses moe, 
 
 Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound, 
 
 Their ivory lutes and tambourines forego, 
 
 And from the fountain, where they sat around, 
 
 Run after hastily thy silver sound ; 
 
 But, when they came where thou thy skill didst 
 
 show, 
 
 They drew aback, as half with shame confound 
 Shepherd to see, them in their art outgo. 
 
 Colin. Of Muses, Hobbinoll, I conne no skill, 
 For they been daughters of the highest Jove, 
 And holden scorn of homely shepherd's quill ; 
 For sith I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove, 
 Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, 
 I never list presume to Parnasse hill, 
 But, piping low in shade of lowly grove, 
 I play to please myself, albeit ill. 
 
 Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or 
 
 blame, 
 Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest : 
 
14 SPENSER. 
 
 With shepherd sits not follow flying Fame, 
 But feed his flock in fields where falls them best. 
 I wot my rimes been rough, and rudely drest ; 
 The fitter they my careful case to frame : 
 Enough is me to paint out my unrest, 
 And pour my piteous plaints out in the same. 
 
 Chaucer. The God of shepherds, Tityrus, is dead, 
 
 Who taught me homely, as I can, to make : 
 He, whilst he lived, was the sovereign head 
 Of shepherds all that been with love ytake : 
 Well could he wail his woes, and lightly slake 
 The flames which love within his heart had bred, 
 And tell us merry tales to keep us wake, 
 The while our sheep about us safely fed. 
 
 Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead, 
 
 (O why should Death on him such outrage show !) 
 
 And all his passing skill with him is fled, 
 
 The fame whereof doth daily greater grow. 
 
 But, if on me some little drops would flow 
 
 Of that the spring was in his learned head, 
 
 I soon would learn these woods to wail my woe, 
 
 And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed. 
 
 December. 
 
 AND for I was in thilke same looser years, 
 (Whether the Muse so wrought me from my birth, 
 Or I too much believed my shepherd peers,) 
 Some deal ybent to song and musick's mirth, 
 A good old shepherd, Wrenock was his name, 
 Made me by art more cunning in the same. 
 
Fr 
 
 SPENSER. IS 
 
 _ /o thence I durst in derring to compare 
 With shepherd's swain whatever fed in field ; 
 And, if that Hobbinoll right judgment bare, 
 To Pan his own self pipe I need not yield : 
 For if the flocking Nymphs did follow Pan, 
 The wiser Muses after Colin ran. Spenser. 
 
 From The Fairy Queen. [1590 
 
 WHILOME as antique stories tellen us, 
 Those two were foes the fellonest on ground, 
 And battle made the dreadest dangerous 
 That ever shrilling trumpet did resound ; 
 Though now their acts be no where to be found, 
 As that renowned poet them compiled Chaucer. 
 
 With warlike numbers and heroic sound, 
 Dan Chaucer, well of English undefiled, 
 On Fame's eternal beadroll worthy to be filed. 
 
 But wicked Time that all good thoughts doth 
 
 waste, 
 
 And works of noblest wits to nought outwear, 
 That famous monument hath quite defaced 
 And robb'd the world of treasure endless dear, 
 The which mote have enriched all us here. 
 O cursed Eld, the canker-worm of writs ! 
 How may these rimes so rude as doth appear 
 Hope to endure, sith works of heavenly wits 
 Are quite devour'd, and brought to nought by 
 
 little bits. 
 
 Then pardon, O most sacred happy Spirit, 
 That I thy labours lost may thus revive, 
 
1 6 SPENSER. 
 
 And steal from thee the meed of thy due merit, 
 That none durst ever whilst thou wast alive, 
 And, being dead, in vain yet many strive : 
 Ne dare I like ; but, through infusion sweet 
 Of thine own spirit which doth in me survive, 
 I follow here the footing of thy feet, 
 That with thy meaning so I may the rather meet. 
 
 From Colin Clout's come home again. 
 
 " ONE day (quoth he) I sat (as was my trade) 
 Under the foot of Mole, that mountain hoar, 
 Keeping my sheep amongst the cooly shade 
 Of the green alders by the Mulla's shore : 
 There a strange shepherd chanced to find me out, 
 Whether allured with my pipe's delight, 
 Whose pleasing sound yshrilled far about, 
 Or thither led by chance, I know not right : 
 Whom when I asked from what place he came, 
 And how he hight, himself he did ycleepe 
 Raleigh. The Shepherd of the Ocean by name, 
 
 And said he came far from the main -sea deep. 
 
 He, sitting me beside in that same shade, 
 
 Provoked me to play some pleasant fit ; 
 
 And, when he heard the music which I made, 
 
 He found himself full greatly pleased at it : 
 
 Yet, semuling my pipe, he tooke in hond 
 
 My pipe, before that semuled of many, 
 
 And play'd thereon (for well that skill he conn'd ) ; 
 
 Himself as skilful in that art as any. 
 
 He piped, I sung ; and, when he sung, I piped ; 
 
 By change of turns, each making other merry ; 
 
SPENSER. 17 
 
 Neither envying other, nor envied. 
 
 So piped we, until we both were weary." 
 
 ****** 
 " Why? (said Alexis then) what needeth she 
 That is so great a shepherdess herself, 
 And hath so many shepherds in her fee, 
 To hear thee sing, a simple silly Elf? 
 Or be the shepherds which do serve her lazy, 
 That they list not their merry pipes apply ? 
 Or be their pipes untunable and crazy, 
 That they cannot her honour worthily ? " 
 
 " Ah nay (said Colin) neither so, nor so : 
 For better shepherds be not under sky, 
 Nor better able, when they list to blow 
 Their pipes aloud, her name to glorify. 
 There is good Harpalus, now woxen aged 
 In faithful service of fair Cynthia : 
 And there is Corydon, though meanly waged, 
 Yet ablest wit of most I know this day. 
 And there is sad Alcyon bent to mourn, 
 Though fit to frame an everlasting ditty. 
 Whose gentle spright for Daphne's death doth turn 
 Sweet lays of love to endless plaints of pity. 
 Ah ! pensive boy, pursue that brave conceit, 
 In thy sweet Eglantine of Meriflure ; 
 Lift up thy notes unto their wonted height, 
 That may the Muse and mates to mirth allure. 
 There eke is Palin worthy of great praise, 
 Albe he envy at my rustic quill : 
 And there is pleasing Alcon, could he raise 
 His tunes from lays to matter of more skill. 
 And there is old Palemon free from spite, 
 Whose careful pipe may make the hearer rue : 
 c 
 
1 8 SPENSER. 
 
 Yet he himself may rued be more right, 
 That sung so long until quite hoarse he grew. 
 
 Alabaster. And there is Alabaster throughly taught 
 
 In all this skill, though knowen yet to few ; 
 
 Yet were he known to Cynthia as he ought, 
 
 His Eliseis would be read anew. 
 
 Who lives that can match that heroic song, 
 
 Which he hath of that mighty princess made ? 
 
 O dreaded Dread, do not thy self that wrong, 
 
 To let thy fame lie so in hidden shade : 
 
 But call it forth, O call him forth to thee, 
 
 To end thy glory which he hath begun : 
 
 That, when he finish'd hath as it should be, 
 
 No braver poem can be under sun. 
 
 Nor Po nor Tybur's swans so much renown'd, 
 
 Nor all the brood of Greece so highly praised, 
 
 Can match that Muse when it with bays is crown'd, 
 
 And to the pitch of her perfection raised. 
 
 Daniel. And there is a new shepherd late up sprong, 
 
 The which doth all afore him far surpass : 
 Appearing well in that well-tuned song, 
 Which late he sung unto a scornful Lass. 
 Yet doth his trembling Muse but lowly fly, 
 As daring not too rashly mount on height, 
 And doth her tender plumes as yet but try 
 In love's soft lays and looser thoughts' delight. 
 Then rouse thy feathers quickly, Daniel, 
 And to what course thou please thyself advance : 
 But most, me seems, thy accent will excel 
 In tragic plaints and passionate mischance. 
 
 Raleigh. And there that shepherd of the Ocean is, 
 
 That spends his wit in Love's consuming smart : 
 Full sweetly temper'd is that Muse of his, 
 
SPENSER. 19 
 
 That can empierce a prince's mighty heart. 
 
 There also is (ah no, he is not now ! ) 
 
 But since I said he is, he quite is gone, 
 
 Amyntas quite is gone and lies full low, 
 
 Having his Amaryllis left to moan. 
 
 Help, O ye shepherds, help ye all in this, 
 
 Help Amaryllis this her loss to mourn : 
 
 Her loss is yours, your loss Amyntas is, 
 
 Amyntas, flower of shepherds' pride forlorn : 
 
 He whilst he lived was the noblest swain 
 
 That ever piped on an oaten quill : 
 
 Both did he other, which could pipe, maintain, 
 
 And eke could pipe himself with passing skill. 
 
 And there, though last not least, is yEtion ; 
 
 A gentler shepherd may no where be found : 
 
 Whose Muse, full of high thoughts' invention, 
 
 Doth like himself heroically sound. 
 
 All these, and many others mo remain, 
 
 Now, after Astrofell is dead and gone : Sidney. 
 
 But, while as Astrofell did live and reign, 
 
 Amongst all these was none his paragon. 
 
 All these do flourish in their sundry kind, 
 
 And do their Cynthia immortal make : 
 
 Yet found I liking in her royal mind, 
 
 Not for my skill, but for that shepherd's sake." 
 
 Prom The Ruins of Time. [1591 
 
 YET will I sing ; but who can better sing 
 
 Than thou thy self, thine own self's valiance, Sidney. 
 
 That, while thou livedst, madest the forests ring, 
 
 And fields resound, and flocks to leap and dance, 
 
 And shepherds leave their lambs unto mischance, 
 
20 SPENSER. 
 
 To run thy shrill Arcadian pipe to hear : 
 
 O happy were those days, thrice happy were ! 
 
 But now more happy thou, and wretched we, 
 Which want the wonted sweetness of thy voice, 
 Whiles thou now in Elysian fields so free, 
 With Orpheus, and with Linus, and the choice 
 Of all that ever did in rimes rejoice, 
 Conversest, and dost hear their heavenly lays, 
 And they hear thine, and thine do better praise. 
 
 So there thou livest, singing evermore, 
 
 And here thou livest, being ever song 
 
 Of us, which living loved thee afore, 
 
 And now thee worship 'mongst that blessed throng 
 
 Of heavenly Poets and Heroes strong. 
 
 So thou both here and there immortal art, 
 
 And everywhere through excellent desart, 
 
 ['59* 
 From L'Envoy to the Ruins of Time. 
 
 Sidney. IMMORTAL spirit of Philisides, 
 
 Which now art made the heavens' ornament, 
 That whilome wast the worldes chief st riches ; 
 Give leave to him that loved thee to lament 
 His loss, by lack of thee to heaven hent, 
 And with last duties of this broken verse, 
 Broken with sighs, to deck thy sable hearse ! 
 
 From Astrophel. [1595 
 
 Sidney. A GENTLE shepherd born in Arcady, 
 
 Of gentlest race that ever shepherd bore, 
 
SPENSER. 21 
 
 About the grassy banks of Haemony 
 Did keep his sheep, his little stock and store. 
 Full carefully he kept them day and night, 
 In fairest fields ; and Astrophel he hight. * 
 
 Young Astrophel, the pride of shepherd's praise, 
 
 Young Astrophel, the rustic lasses' love : 
 
 Far passing all the pastors of his days 
 
 In all that seemly shepherd might behove. 
 
 In one thing only failing of the best, 
 
 That he was not so happy as the rest. 
 
 For from the time that first the nymph his mother 
 Him forth did bring, and taught her lambs to feed ; 
 A slender swain, excelling far each other, 
 In comely shape, like her that did him breed, 
 He grew up fast in goodness and in grace, 
 And doubly fair woxe both in mind and face. 
 
 Which daily more and more he did augment, 
 With gentle usage and demeanour mild : 
 That all men's hearts with secret ravishment 
 He stole away, and weetingly beguiled. 
 Ne spite itself, that all good things doth spill, 
 Found ought in him, that she could say was ill. 
 
 His sports were fair, his joyance innocent, 
 Sweet without sour, and honey without gall ; 
 And he himself seem 'd made for merriment, 
 Merrily masking both in bower and hall. 
 There was no pleasure nor delightful play, 
 When Astrophel so ever was away. 
 
22 SPENSER. 
 
 For he could pipe, and dance, and carol sweet, 
 Amongst the shepherds in their shearing feast ; 
 As summer's lark that with her song doth greet 
 The dawning day forth coming from the East. 
 And lays of love he also could compose : 
 Thrice happy she, whom he to praise did chose. 
 
 Full many maidens often did him woo, 
 Them to vouchsafe amongst his rimes to name, 
 Or make for them as he was wont to do 
 For her that did his heart with love inflame. 
 For which they promised to dight for him 
 Gay chapelets of flowers and garlands trim. 
 
 And many a nymph both of the wood and brook, 
 Soon as his oaten pipe began to shrill, 
 Both crystal wells and shady groves forsook, 
 To hear the charms of his enchanting skill ; 
 And brought him presents, flowers if it were prime, 
 Or mellow fruit if it were harvest time. 
 
 But he for none of them did care a whit, 
 Yet woodgods for them often sighed sore ; 
 Ne for their gifts unworthy of his wit, 
 Yet not unworthy of the country's store. 
 For one alone he cared, for one he sigh't, 
 His life's desire, and his dear love's delight. 
 
 Stella the fair, the fairest star in sky, 
 As fair as Venus or the fairest fair, 
 (A fairer star saw never living eye), 
 Shot her sharp-pointed beams through purest air. 
 Her he did love, her he alone did honour, 
 His thoughts, his rimes, his songs were all upon 
 her. 
 
SPENSER. 23 
 
 To her he vow'd the service of his days, 
 On her he spent the riches of his wit : 
 For her he made hymns of immortal praise, 
 Of only her he sung, he thought, he writ. 
 Her, and but her, of love he worthy deem'd ; 
 For all the rest but little he esteem'd. 
 
 Ne her with idle words alone he woo'd, 
 And verses vain, (yet verses are not vainj, 
 But with brave deeds to her sole service vow'd, 
 And bold achievements he did entertain. 
 For both in words and deeds he nurtured was, 
 Both wise and hardy, (too hardy, alas !). 
 
 In wrestling nimble, and in running swift, 
 In shooting steady, and in swimming strong ; 
 Well made to strike, to throw, to leap, to lift, 
 And all the sports that shepherds are among, 
 In every one he vanquish'd every one, 
 He vanquish'd all, and vanquish'd was of none. 
 
 To Sir Walter Raleigh. [1590 
 
 To thee, that art the summer's nightingale, 
 Thy sovereign goddess' most dear delight, 
 Why do I send this rustic madrigale 
 That may thy tuneful ear unseason quite ? 
 
 Thou only fit this argument to write, 
 
 In whose high thoughts Pleasure hath built her 
 
 bower, 
 
 And dainty Love learn'd sweetly to endite. 
 My rimes I know unsavoury and sour, 
 
 To taste the streams that, like a golden shower, 
 Flow from thy fruitful head of thy Love's praise ; 
 
24 JROYDON. 
 
 Fitter perhaps to thunder martial stour, 
 Whenso thee list thy lofty Muse to raise : 
 Yet, till that thou thy poem wilt make known, 
 Let thy fair Cynthia's praises be thus rudely shown. 
 
 ROYDON. 
 From An Elegy. [1598 
 
 Sidney You knew, who knew not Astrophill ? 
 
 (That I should live to say I knew, 
 And have not in possession still !) 
 Things known permit me to renew ; 
 Of him you know his merit such, 
 I cannot say, you hear, too much. 
 
 Within these woods of Arcadie 
 He chief delight and pleasure took, 
 And on the mountain Parthenie, 
 Upon the crystal liquid brook, 
 
 The Muses met him every day, 
 
 That taught him sing, to write, and say. 
 
 When he descended down the mount, 
 His personage seemed most divine, 
 A thousand graces one might count 
 Upon his lovely cheerful eyne ; 
 
 To hear him speak and sweetly smile, 
 You were in Paradise the while. 
 
 A sweet attractive kind of grace, 
 A full assurance given by looks, 
 
ROYDON. 25 
 
 Continual comfort in a face, 
 
 The lineaments of Gospel books ; 
 
 I trow that countenance cannot lie, 
 Whose thoughts are legible in the eye. 
 
 Was never eye did see that face, 
 Was never ear did hear that tongue, 
 Was never mind did mind his grace, 
 That ever thought the travail long ; 
 
 But eyes and ears and every thought, 
 Were with his sweet perfections caught. 
 
 O God, that such a worthy man, 
 In whom so rare deserts did reign, 
 Desired thus, must leave us than, 
 And we to wish for him in vain ! 
 
 O could the stars, that bred that wit, 
 
 In force no longer fixed sit ! 
 
 Then being fill'd with learned dew, 
 
 The Muses willed him to love ; 
 
 That instrument can aptly shew 
 
 How finely our conceits will move ; 
 
 As Bacchus opes dissembled hearts, 
 So Love sets out our better parts. 
 
 Stella, a nymph within this wood, 
 Most rare and rich of heavenly bliss, 
 The highest in his fancy stood, 
 And she could well demerit this ; 
 
 'Tis likely they acquainted soon ; 
 
 He was a sun, and she a moon. 
 
 Our Astrophill did Stella love ; 
 O Stella, vaunt of Astrophill, 
 
26 ROYDON. 
 
 Albeit thy graces gods may move, 
 Where wilt thou find an Astrophill ! 
 The rose and lily have their prime, 
 And so hath beauty but a time. 
 
 Although thy beauty do exceed 
 In common sight of every eye, 
 Yet in his poesies when we read, 
 It is apparent more thereby, 
 
 He that hath love and judgment too, 
 Sees more than any other do. 
 
 Then Astrophill hath honour'd thee ; 
 
 For when thy body is extinct, 
 
 Thy graces shall eternal be, 
 
 And live by virtue of his ink ; 
 
 For by his verses he doth give 
 To short-lived beauty aye to live. 
 
 Above all others this is he, 
 Which erst approved in his song 
 That love and honour might agree, 
 And that pure love will do no wrong. 
 Sweet saints ! it is no sin or blame, 
 To love a man of virtuous name. 
 
 Did never love so sweetly breathe 
 In any mortal breast before, 
 Did never Muse inspire beneath 
 A Poet's brain with finer store ; 
 
 He wrote of love with high conceit, 
 And beauty rear'd above her height. 
 
RALEIGH PEELE. 27 
 
 RALEIGH. 
 
 A Vision upon this Conceipt of the 
 Fairy Queen. 
 
 METHOUGHT I saw the grave where Laura lay, Spenser. 
 
 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 buried ghosts the heavens did pierce : 
 
 Where Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief, 
 
 And curst the access of that celestial thief. 
 
 From Another of the same. [1590 
 
 OF me no lines are loved, nor letters are of price, Spenser. 
 (Of all which speak our English tongue), but those 
 of thy device. 
 
 PEELE. 
 
 Ad Maecenatem Prologus. [1593 
 
 PLAIN is my coat, and humble is my gait ; 
 Thrice-noble earl, behold with gentle eyes 
 
28 PEELE. 
 
 My wit's poor worth, even for your noblesse, 
 Renowned Lord, Northumberland's fair flower, 
 The Muses' love, patron, and favourite. 
 
 ****** 
 And you the Muses, and the Graces three, 
 You I invoke from heaven and Helicon, 
 For other patrons have poor poets none, 
 But Muses and the Graces to implore. 
 Augustus long ago hath left the world, 
 Sidney. And liberal Sidney, famous for the love 
 
 He bare to learning and to chivalry, 
 And virtuous Walsingham are fled to heaven. 
 Why thither speed not Hobbin and his feres, 
 Spenser. Great Hobbinol on whom our shepherds gaze, 
 
 Harington. And Harington, well-letter'd and discreet, 
 That hath so purely naturalized 
 Strange words and made them all free denizens ? 
 Daniel. Why thither speeds not Rosamond's trumpeter, 
 
 Sweet as the nightingale ? Why go'st not thou, 
 That richly cloth'st conceit with well-made words, 
 Campion. Campion, accompanied with our English Fraunce, 
 Fraunce. ^ peerless, sweet translator of our time ? 
 
 Why follow not a thousand that I know, 
 Fellows to these, Apollo's favourites, 
 And leave behind our ordinary grooms, 
 With trivial humours to pastime the world, 
 That favours Pan and Phoebus both alike ? 
 c . Why thither post not all good wits from hence, 
 
 Gower. To Chaucer, Gower, and to the fairest Phaer 
 
 Phaer. That ever ventured on great Virgil's works ? 
 
 Watson. To Watson, worthy many epitaphs 
 
 For his sweet poesy, for Amyntas' tears 
 And joys so well set down ? And after thee 
 
BRETON. 29 
 
 Why hie they not, unhappy in thine end, 
 
 Marley, the Muses' darling for thy verse, Marlowe. 
 
 Fit to write passions for the souls below, 
 
 If any wretched souls in passion speak ? 
 
 Why go not all into th' Elysian fields, 
 
 And leave this centre barren of repast, 
 
 Unless in hope Augusta will restore 
 
 The wrongs that learning bears of covetousness, 
 
 And court's disdain, the enemy to art ? 
 
 Leave, foolish lad, it mendeth not with words ; 
 
 Nor herbs nor time such remedy affords. 
 
 BRETON. 
 
 An Epitaph upon Poet Spenser. [1600 
 
 MOURNFUL Muses, sorrow's minions, 
 
 Dwelling in despair's opinions, 
 
 Ye that never thought invented 
 
 How a heart may be contented, 
 
 (But in torments all distress'd, 
 
 Hopeless how to be redress'd, 
 
 All with howling and with crying, 
 
 Live in a continual dying), 
 
 Sing a dirge on Spenser's death, 
 Till your souls be out of breath. 
 
 Bid the dunces keep their dens, 
 And the poets break their pens ; 
 Bid the shepherds shed their tears, 
 And the nymphs go tear their hairs ; 
 
30 BRETON. 
 
 Bid the scholars leave their reading, 
 And prepare their hearts to bleeding ; 
 Bid the valiant and the wise 
 Full of sorrows fill their eyes, 
 All for grief that he is gone, 
 Who did grace them every one. 
 
 Fairy Queen show fairest Queen 
 How her fair in thee is seen ; 
 Shepherd's Calender set down 
 How to figure best a clown. 
 As for Mother Hubberts Tale, 
 Crack the nut and leave the shale ; 
 And for other works of worth 
 (All too good to wander forth), 
 
 Grieve that ever you were wrote, 
 And your author be forgot. 
 
 Farewell Art of Poetry > 
 
 Scorning idle foolery ! 
 
 Farewell true conceited reason, 
 
 Where was never thought of treason ! 
 
 Farewell judgment, with invention 
 
 To describe a heart's intention ! 
 
 Farewell wit, whose sound and sense 
 
 Show a poet's excellence ! 
 
 Farewell all in one together, 
 
 And with Spenser's garland wither ! 
 
 And if any Graces live 
 That will virtue honour give, 
 Let them show their true affection 
 In the depth of griefs perfection, 
 
BARNFIELD. 
 
 In describing forth her glory 
 When she is most deeply sorry, 
 That they all may wish to hear 
 Such a song and such a quier, 
 
 As with all the woes they have 
 Follow Spenser to his grave. 
 
 BARNFIELD. 
 
 To his Friend, Master R. I. In praise of 
 Music and Poetry. 
 
 IF Music and sweet Poetry agree, 
 As they must needs (the sister and the brother), 
 Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me, 
 
 Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other. 
 
 Dowland to thee is dear ; whose heavenly touch 
 Upon the lute, doth ravish human sense : 
 Spenser to me ; whose deep conceit is such, Spenser. 
 
 As passing all conceit, needs no defence. 
 
 Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious soupd 
 That Phoebus' lute (the queen of music) makes: 
 And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd, 
 
 Whenas himself to singing he betakes. 
 One god is god of both (as poets feign), 
 One knight loves both, and both in thee 
 
32 BROWNE. 
 
 [i598 
 A Remembrance of some English Poets. 
 
 Spenser. LIVE Spenser ever, in thy Fairy Queen : 
 
 Whose like (for deep conceit) was never seen. 
 Crown'd mayst thou be, unto thy more renown, 
 (As king of poets) with a laurel crown. 
 
 Daniel. And Daniel, praised for thy sweet-chaste verse : 
 
 Whose fame is graved on Rosamond's black hearse. 
 Still mayst thou live ; and still be honoured, 
 For that rare work, The White Rose and the Red. 
 
 Drayton. And Drayton, whose well-written tragedies, 
 
 And sweet Epistles, soar thy fame to skies. 
 Thy learned name is equal with the rest ; 
 Whose stately numbers are so well address'd. 
 
 Shake- And Shakespeare, thou, whose honey-flowing vein 
 
 (Pleasing the world) thy praises doth obtain. 
 Whose Venus, and whose Lucrece (sweet and 
 
 chaste), 
 
 Thy name in fame's immortal book have placed. 
 Live ever you, at least in fame live ever : 
 Well may the body die, but fame dies never. 
 
 BROWNE. 
 
 From Britannia's Pastorals. [1613 
 
 Spenser. HAD Colin Clout yet lived (but he is gone), 
 
 That best on earth could tune a lover's moan, 
 Whose sadder tones enforced the rocks to weep, 
 And laid the greatest griefs in quiet sleep : 
 
BROWNE. 33 
 
 Who when he sung, (as I would do to mine), 
 His truest loves to his fair Rosaline, 
 Enticed each shepherd's ear to hear him play, 
 And rapt with wonder, thus admiring say : 
 Thrice happy plains (if plains thrice happy may be) 
 Where such a shepherd pipes to such a lady. 
 Who made the lasses long to sit down near him ; 
 And woo'd the rivers from their springs to hear him. 
 Heaven rest thy soul (if so a swain may pray), 
 And as thy works live here, live there for aye. 
 
 ALL their pipes were still, 
 
 And Colin Clout began to tune his quill Spenser. 
 
 With such deep art, that every one was given 
 To think Apollo (newly slid from heaven) 
 Had ta'en a human shape to win his love, 
 Or with the western swains for glory strove. 
 He sung the heroic knights of fairy land 
 In lines so elegant, of such command, 
 That had the Thracian play'd but half so well, 
 He had not left Eurydice in hell. 
 
 ERE their arrival, Astrophel had done Sidney. 
 
 His shepherd's lay, yet equalized of none. 
 The admired mirror, glory of our isle, 
 Thou far far more than mortal man, whose stile 
 Struck more men dumb to hearken to thy song, 
 Than Orpheus' harp, or Tully's golden tongue. 
 To him (as right) for wit's deep quintessence, 
 For honour, valour, virtue, excellence, 
 Be all the garlands, crown his tomb with bay, 
 D 
 
34 
 
 BROWNE. 
 
 Chapman. 
 
 Dray ton. 
 
 Jonson. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Davies and 
 Wither. 
 
 Who spake as much as e'er our tongue can say. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Then in a strain beyond an oaten quill 
 The learned shepherd of fair Hitching Hill 
 Sung the heroic deeds of Greece and Troy, 
 In lines so worthy life, that I employ 
 My reed in vain to overtake his fame. 
 All praiseful tongues do wait upon that name. 
 
 Our second Ovid, the most pleasing Muse 
 That heaven did e'er in mortal's brain infuse, 
 All-loved Drayton, in soul-raping strains, 
 A genuine note, of all the nymphish trains 
 Began to tune ; on it all ears were hung 
 As sometime Dido's on Eneas' tongue. 
 
 Jonson, whose full of merit to rehearse 
 Too copious is to be confined in verse ; 
 Yet therein only fittest to be known, 
 Could any write a line which he might own. 
 One, so judicious ; so well-knowing ; and 
 A man whose least worth is to understand ; 
 One so exact in all he doth prefer 
 To able censure ; for the theatre 
 Not Seneca transcends his worth of praise ; 
 Who writes him well shall well deserve the bays. 
 
 Well-languaged Daniel .... 
 Davies and Wither, by whose Muses' power 
 A natural day to me seems but an hour, 
 And could I ever hear their learned lays, 
 Ages would turn to artificial days. 
 
DRA YTON. 35 
 
 DRAYTON. 
 To William Browne. [1616 
 
 DRIVE forth thy flock, young pastor, to that plain, 
 Where our old shepherds wont their flocks to feed ; 
 To those clear walks, where many a skilful swain, 
 Towards the calm evening, tuned his pleasant reed. 
 Those, to the Muses once so sacred, downs, 
 As no rude foot might there presume to stand : 
 (Now made the way of the unworthiest clowns, 
 Digg'd and plough'd up with each unhallow'd 
 
 hand,) 
 
 If possible thou canst, redeem those places, 
 Where, by the brim of many a silver spring, 
 The learned Maidens and delightful Graces 
 Often have sate to hear our shepherds sing : 
 Where on those pines the neighbouring groves 
 
 among 
 
 (Now utterly neglected in these days), 
 Our garlands, pipes, and cornamutes were hung, 
 The monuments of our deserved praise. 
 So may thy sheep like, so thy lambs increase, 
 And from the wolf feed ever safe and free ! 
 So mayst thou thrive, among the learned press, 
 As thou, young shepherd, art beloved of me ! 
 
 [p. 1627 
 
 To My most dearly-loved friend,' Henry 
 Reynolds, Esquire, of Poets and Poesie. 
 
 MY dearly-loved friend, how oft have we 
 In winter evenings (meaning to be free) 
 To some well-chosen place used to retire, 
 
36 DRA YTON. 
 
 And there with moderate meat and wine and fire 
 
 Have pass'd the hours contentedly with chat ; 
 
 Now talk't of this, and then discoursed of that ; 
 
 Spoke our own verses 'twixt ourselves, if not, 
 
 Other men's lines which we by chance had got, 
 
 Or some stage pieces famous long before 
 
 Of which your happy memory had store ; 
 
 And I remember you much pleased were 
 
 Of those who lived long ago to hear, 
 
 As well as of those of these latter times 
 
 Who have enrich'd our language with their rimes, 
 
 And in succession how still up they grew ; 
 
 Which is the subject that I now pursue. 
 
 For from my cradle you must know that I 
 
 Was still inclined to noble poesie ; 
 
 And when that once Pueriles I had read, 
 
 And newly had my Cato construed, 
 
 In my small self I greatly marvell'd then 
 
 Amongst all others what strange kind of men 
 
 These poets were ; and pleased with the name 
 
 To my mild tutor merrily I came, 
 
 (For I was then a proper goodly page, 
 
 Much like a pigmy, scarce ten years of age,) 
 
 Clasping my slender arms about his thigh ; 
 
 " O my dear master, cannot you " (quoth I) 
 
 Make me a poet ? do it, if you can, 
 
 And you shall see I'll quickly be a man." 
 
 W T ho me thus answer 'd smiling : " Boy," quoth 
 
 he, 
 
 ' ' If you'll not play the wag, but I may see 
 You ply your learning, I will shortly read 
 Some poets to you. " Phoebus be my speed ! 
 To't hard went I, when shortly he began, 
 
DRA YTON. 37 
 
 And first read to me honest Mantuan^ 
 Then Virgil's Eglogues. Being enter'd thus, 
 Methought I straight had mounted Pegasus, 
 And in his full career could make him stop 
 And bound upon Parnassus' bi-clift top. 
 I scorn'd your ballad then, though it were done 
 And had for finis William Elderton. 
 
 But soft ; in sporting with this childish jest, 
 I from my subject have too long digrest ; 
 Then to the matter that we took in hand 
 Jove and Apollo for the Muses stand ! 
 
 That noble Chaucer in those former times Chaucer. 
 
 The first enrich'd our English with his rimes, 
 And was the first of ours that ever brake 
 Into the Muses' treasure, and first spake 
 In weighty numbers, delving in the mine 
 Of perfect knowledge, which he could refine 
 And coin for current ; and as much as then 
 The English language could express to men, 
 He made it do, and by his wondrous skill 
 Gave us much light from his abundant quill. 
 
 And honest Gower, who, in respect of him, Gowerv 
 
 Had only sipt at Aganippa's brim, 
 And though in years this last was him before, 
 Yet fell he far short of the other's store. 
 When after those, four ages very near, 
 They with the Muses which conversed, were 
 That princely Surrey, early in the time Surrey. 
 
 Of the Eight Henry, who was then the prime 
 Of England's noble youth : with him there came 
 Wyat, with reverence whom we still do name Wyatt. 
 
 Amongst our poets : Brian had a share Brian. 
 
 With the two former, which accompted are 
 
38 DRA YTON. 
 
 That time's best makers, and the authors were 
 Of those small poems which the title bear 
 Of songs and sonnets, wherein oft they hit 
 On many dainty passages of wit. 
 
 Gascoigne Gascoigne and Churchyard after them again, 
 
 Churchyard. In the beginning of Eliza's reign, 
 
 Accompted were great meterers many a day, 
 But not inspired with brave fire : had they 
 Lived but a little longer, they had seen 
 Their works before them to have buried been. 
 
 Spenser. Grave moral Spenser after these came on, 
 
 Than whom I am persuaded there was none, 
 Since the blind bard his Iliads up did make, 
 Fitter a task like that to undertake ; 
 To set down boldly, bravely to invent, 
 In all high knowledge surely excellent. 
 
 Sidney. The noble Sidney with this last arose, 
 
 That heroe for numbers and for prose ; 
 That throughly paced our language as to show 
 The plenteous English hand in hand might go 
 With Greek and Latin ; and did first reduce 
 
 Lilly. Our tongue from Lilly's writing then in use, 
 
 Talking of stones, stars, plants, of fishes, flies, 
 Playing with words and idle similies ; 
 As the English apes and very zanies be 
 Of everything that they do hear and see, 
 So imitating his ridiculous tricks 
 They spake and writ all like mere lunatics. 
 
 Warner. Then Warner, though his lines were not so 
 
 trimm'd, 
 
 Nor yet his poem so exactly limb'd 
 And neatly jointed but the critic may 
 Easily reprove him, yet thus let me say 
 
DRA YTON. 39 
 
 For my old friend : some passages there be 
 In him, which, I protest, have taken me 
 With almost wonder ; so fine, clear, and new, 
 As yet they have been equalled by few. 
 
 Next Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs, Marlowe. 
 Had in him those brave translunaiy things 
 That the first poets had ; his raptures were 
 All air and fire, which made his verses clear ; 
 For that fine madness still he did retain 
 Which rightly should possess a poet's brain. 
 
 And surely Nash, though he a proser were, Nash. 
 
 A branch of laurel yet deserves to bear ; 
 Sharply satiric was he, and that way 
 He went, that since his being to this day 
 Few have attempted ; and I surely think 
 Those words shall hardly be set down with ink 
 Should scorch and blast so as his could where he 
 Would inflict vengeance. And be it said of thee, Shake- 
 Shakespeare, thou had'st as smooth a comic vein, s P eare - 
 Fitting the sock, and in thy natural brain 
 As strong conception and as clear a rage 
 As any one that traffick'd with the stage. 
 
 Amongst these Samuel Daniel, whom if I Daniel. 
 
 May speak of, but to censure do deny, 
 Only have heard some wise men him rehearse, 
 To be too much historian in verse : 
 His rimes were smooth, his metres well did close, 
 But yet his manner better fitted prose. 
 Next these, learn'd Jonson in this list I bring, Jonson. 
 
 Who had drunk deep of the Pierian spring, 
 Whose knowledge did him worthily prefer, 
 And long was lord here of the theater : 
 Who in opinion made our learn'd to stick 
 
40 DRA YTON. 
 
 Whether in poems rightly dramatic 
 Strong Seneca or Plautus, he or they, 
 Should bear the buskin and the sock away. 
 Others again here lived in my days 
 That have of us deserved no less praise 
 For their translations than the daintiest wit 
 That on Parnassus thinks he highest doth sit. 
 And for a chair may 'mongst the Muses call 
 As the most curious maker of them all : 
 
 Chapman. As reverent Chapman, who hath brought to us 
 Musaeus, Homer, and Herodotus 
 Out of the Greek, and by his skill hath rear'd 
 Them to that height and to our tongue endear'd 
 That, were those poets at this day alive 
 To see their books thus with us to survive, 
 They would think, having neglected them so long, 
 They had bin written in the English tongue. 
 
 Silvester. And Silvester, who from the French more weak 
 
 Made Bartas of his six days' labour speak 
 In natural English, who, had he there stay'd 
 He had done well, and never had bewray'd 
 His own invention to have bin so poor, 
 WJio still wrote less in striving to write more. 
 
 Sands. Then dainty Sands, that hath to English done 
 
 Smooth-sliding Ovid, and hath made him run 
 With so much sweetness and unusual grace, 
 As though the neatness of the English pace 
 Should tell the jetting Latin that it came 
 But slowly after, as though stiff and lame. 
 So Scotland sent us hither for our own 
 That man whose name I ever would have known 
 To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight, 
 
 Alexander. My Alexander, to whom in his right 
 
DRA YTON. 
 
 I want extremely, yet in speaking thus 
 
 I do but show the love that was 'twixt us, 
 
 And not his numbers, which were brave and high, 
 
 So like his mind was his clear poesie. 
 
 And my dear Drummond, to whom much I owe 
 
 For his much love, and proud I was to know 
 
 His poesie : for which two worthy men 
 
 I Menstry still shall love, and Hawthornden. 
 
 Then the two Beaumonts and my Browne arose, 
 
 My dear companions whom I freely chose 
 
 My bosom friends, and in their several ways 
 
 Rightly born poets, and in these last days 
 
 Men of much note and no less nobler parts, 
 
 Such as have freely told to me their hearts 
 
 As I have mine to them. But if you shall 
 
 Say in your knowledge that these be not all 
 
 Have writ in numbers, be inform'd that I 
 
 Only myself to these few men do tie 
 
 Whose works oft printed, set on every post, 
 
 To public censure subject have been most. 
 
 To such whose poems, be they ne'er so rare, 
 
 In private chambers that incloister'd are, 
 
 And by transcription daintily must go, 
 
 As though the world unworthy were to know 
 
 Their rich composures, let those men that keep 
 
 These wondrous relics in their judgments deep, 
 
 And cry them up so, let such pieces be 
 
 Spoke of by those that shall come after me ; 
 
 I hope not for them : nor do mean to run 
 
 In quest of these that them applause have won 
 
 Upon our stages in these latter days, 
 
 That are so many ; let them have their bays 
 
 That do deserve it ; let those wits that haunt 
 
 Drummond. 
 
 Beaumont, 
 Sir J. Beau- 
 mont and 
 Browne. 
 
42 HEYWOOD. 
 
 Those public circuits, let them freely chaunt 
 Their fine composures, and their praise pursue. 
 And so, my dear friend, for this time adieu. 
 
 Greene. 
 
 Marlowe. 
 
 Kyd. 
 Watson. 
 
 Nash. 
 
 Beaumont. 
 
 THOS. HEYWOOD. 
 
 From The Hierarchic of the Blessed 
 
 Angels. [ l6 35 
 
 OUR modern poets to that pass are driven, 
 Those names are curtal'd which they first had 
 
 given ; 
 
 And, as we wish to have their memories drown 'd, 
 We scarcely can afford them half their sound. 
 
 Greene, who had in both Academies ta'en 
 Degree of Master, yet could never gain 
 To be call'd more than Robin : who, had he 
 Profest ought save the Muse, served, and been free 
 After a seven years' prenticeship, might have 
 (With credit too) gone Robert to his grave. 
 Marlow, renown'd for his rare art and wit, 
 Could ne'er attain beyond the name of Kit ; 
 Although his Hero and Leander did 
 Merit addition rather. Famous Kyd 
 Was call'd but Tom. Torn, Watson, tho j he 
 
 wrote 
 
 Able to make Apollo's self to dote 
 Upon his Muse ; for all that he could strive, 
 Yet never could to his full name arrive. 
 Tom, Nash (in his time of no small esteem) 
 Could not a second syllable redeem. 
 Excellent Beaumont, in the foremost rank 
 
 
DA VIES. 
 
 43 
 
 Of the rarest wits, was never more than Frank. 
 Mellifluous Shakespeare, whose enchanting quill 
 Commanded mirth or passion, was but Will. 
 And famous Jonson, though his learned pen 
 Be dipt in Castaly, is still but Ben. 
 Fletcher and Webster, of that learned pack 
 None of the mean'st, yet neither was hijack. 
 Decker's but Tom ; nor May, nor Middleton. 
 And he's now \)\&Jack Ford, that once were John. 
 
 Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 Jonson. 
 
 Fletcher and 
 Webster. 
 
 Dekker. 
 Ford. 
 
 JOHN DAVIES OF HEREFORD. 
 
 To our English Terence, Mr. Will. 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 SOME say, good Will, which I, in sport, do sing, 
 
 Had'st thou not play'd some kingly parts in 
 
 sport, 
 Thou had'st been a companion for a king ; 
 
 And been a king among the meaner sort. 
 Some others rail ; but, rail as they think fit, 
 Thou hast no railing, but an honest wit : 
 
 And honesty thou sow'st, which they do reap ; 
 
 So, to increase their stock which they do keep. 
 
 BEAUMONT. 
 Letter to Ben Jonson. 
 
 THE sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring 
 To absent friends, because the self-same thing 
 
44 BEAUMONT. 
 
 They know they see, however absent,) is 
 Here our best hay-maker (forgive me this ; 
 It is our country's style ) : in this warm shine 
 I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid wine. 
 ****** 
 
 What 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 whom 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 where there hath 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 
 Was able to make the two next companies 
 Right witty; though but downright fools, mere 
 
 Fate once again 
 Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and 
 
 plain 
 
 The way of knowledge for me, and then I, 
 Who 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'll taste 
 
 wine; 
 I'll drink thy Muse's health, thou shalt quaff mine. 
 
BEAUMONT. 45 
 
 From Verses to My dear friend 
 Master Ben Jonson, upon his Fox. 
 
 I WOULD have shown, 
 To all the world, the art, which thou alone 
 Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time, of place, 
 And other rites, deliver'd with the grace 
 Of comic style, which only, is far more 
 Than any English stage hath known before. 
 
 To my friend Mr. John Fletcher upon his 
 Faithful Shepherdess. [1610 
 
 I KNOW too well, that, no more than the man 
 That travels through the burning deserts, can, 
 When he is beaten with the raging sun, 
 Half smother'd with the dust, have power to run 
 From a cool river, which himself doth find, 
 Ere he be slaked ; no more can he, whose mind 
 Joys in the Muses, hold from that delight, 
 When Nature and his full thoughts bid him write. 
 Yet wish I those, whom I for friends have known, 
 To sing their thoughts to no ears but their own. 
 Why should the man, whose wit ne'er had a stain, 
 Upon the public stage present his vein, 
 And make a thousand men in judgment sit, 
 To call in question his undoubted wit, 
 Scarce two of which can understand the laws 
 Which they should judge by, nor the party's cause ? 
 Among the rout, there is not one that hath 
 In his own censure an explicit faith ; 
 One company, knowing they judgment lack, 
 Ground their belief on the next man in black ; 
 
46 FLETCHER. 
 
 Others, on him that makes signs, and is mute ; 
 Some like, as he does in the fairest suit ; 
 He, as his mistress doth ; and she, by chance ; 
 Nor want there those, who, as the boy doth dance 
 Between the acts, will censure the whole play ; 
 Some like if the wax-lights be new that day ; 
 But multitudes there are, whose judgment goes 
 Headlong according to the actors' clothes. 
 For this, these public things and I agree 
 So ill, that, but to do a right to thee, 
 I had not been persuaded to have hurl'd 
 These few ill-spoken lines into the world ; 
 Both to be read and censured of by those 
 Whose very reading makes verse senseless prose ; 
 Such as must spend above an hour to spell 
 A challenge on a post, to know it well. 
 But since it was thy hap to throw away 
 Much wit, for which the people did not pay, 
 Because they saw it not, I not dislike 
 This second publication, which may strike 
 Their consciences, to see the things they scorn'd, 
 To be with so much wit and art adorn 'd. 
 Besides, one vantage more in this I see, 
 Your censurers must have the quality 
 Of reading, which I am afraid is more 
 Than half your shrewdest judges had before. 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 To Beaumont on his Poems. [1610 
 
 THE matchless lust of a fair poesy, 
 Which was erst buried in old Rome's decays, 
 
FLETCHER. 47 
 
 Now 'gins with heat of rising majesty, 
 
 Her dust-wrapt head from rotten tomb to raise, 
 And with fresh splendour gilds her fearless crest, 
 Rearing her palace in our poet's breast. 
 
 The wanton Ovid, whose enticing rimes 
 
 Have with attractive wonder forced attention, 
 
 No more shall be admired at ; for these times 
 Produce a poet, whose more rare invention 
 
 Will tear the love-sick myrtle from his brows, 
 
 To adorn his temples with deserved boughs. 
 
 The strongest marble fears the smallest rain ; 
 
 The rusting canker eats the purest gold. 
 Honour's best dye dreads envy's blackest stain ; 
 
 The crimson badge of beauty must wax old : 
 But this fair issue of thy fruitful brain, 
 Nor dreads age, envy, cankering rust, or rain. 
 
 To Ben Jonson on Volpone. 
 
 FORGIVE thy friends ; they would, but cannot 
 
 praise 
 
 Enough the wit, art, language of thy plays ; 
 Forgive thy foes ; they will not praise thee. Why ? 
 Thy fate hath thought it best they should envy. 
 Faith, for thy Fox's sake, forgive then those 
 Who are not worthy to be friends, nor foes. 
 Or, for their own brave sake, let them be still 
 Fools at thy mercy, and like what they will. 
 
48 CHAPMAN. 
 
 From Verses to my worthy friend, 
 Ben Jonson, on his Catiline. 
 
 BUT, O thou happy man, that must not die, 
 As these things shall ; leaving no more behind 
 But a thin memory, like a passing wind 
 That blows, and is forgotten, ere they are cold. 
 Thy labours shall outlive thee ; and, like gold 
 Stampt for continuance, shall be current, where 
 There is a sun, a people, or a year. 
 
 CHAPMAN. [1600 
 
 From Hero and Leander. Book in. 
 
 THEN, ho ! most strangely intellectual fire 
 That, proper to my soul, hast power to inspire 
 Her burning faculties, and with the wings 
 Of thy unsphered flame visit'st the springs 
 Of spirits immortal, now (as swift as Time 
 Doth follow motion) find the eternal clime 
 Marlowe. Of his free soul whose living subject stood 
 Up to the chin in the Pierian flood. 
 
 To his loving friend, Mr. John Fletcher, 
 concerning his Pastoral being both a 
 Poem and a Play. [1610 
 
 THERE are no sureties, good friend, will be taken 
 For works that vulgar good-name hath forsaken. 
 A poem and a play too ! Why, 'tis like 
 A scholar that 's a poet : their names strike 
 
CHAPMAN. 49 
 
 Their pestilence inward, when they take the air, 
 
 And kill outright ; one cannot both fates bear. 
 
 But, as a poet that 's no scholar makes 
 
 Vulgarity his whiffler, and so takes 
 
 Passage with ease and state through both sides 
 preas 
 
 Of pageant seers : or as scholars please 
 
 That are no poets, more than poets learn'd, 
 
 (Since their art solely is by souls discern'd ; 
 
 The others' falls within the common sense, 
 
 And sheds, like common light, her influence:) 
 
 So were your play no poem, but a thing 
 
 That every cobbler to his patch might sing, 
 
 A rout of nifles, like the multitude, 
 
 With no one limb of any art endued ; 
 
 Like would to like, and praise you. But, because 
 
 Your poem only hath by us applause, 
 
 Renews the golden world, and holds through all 
 
 The holy laws of homely pastoral, 
 
 Where flowers and founts, and nymphs and semi- 
 gods, 
 
 And all the graces find their old abodes ; 
 
 Where forests flourish but in endless verse, 
 
 And meadows nothing fit for purchasers : 
 
 This iron age, that eats itself, will never 
 
 Bite at your golden world, that others ever 
 
 Loved as itself. Then, like your book, do you 
 
 Live in old peace, and that for praise allow. 
 
 From Verses on Sejanus. [1605 
 
 FOR though thy hand was scarce addrest to draw Jonson. 
 The semicircle of Sejanus' life, 
 
50 BASSE. 
 
 Thy muse yet makes it the whole sphere, and law 
 
 To all state-lives, and bounds ambition's strife ; 
 And as a little brook creeps from his spring, 
 
 With shallow tremblings, through the lowest 
 
 vales, 
 As if he fear'd his stream abroad to bring 
 
 Lest profane feet should wrong it, and rude 
 
 gales ; 
 But finding happy channels, and supplies 
 
 Of other fords mixt with his modest course, 
 He grows a goodly river, and descries 
 
 The strength that mann'd him, since he left his 
 
 source ; 
 Then takes he in delightsome meads and groves, 
 
 And, with his two-edged waters, flourishes 
 Before great palaces, and all men's loves 
 
 Build by his shores, to greet his passages : 
 So thy chaste muse, by virtuous self-mistrust, 
 
 Which is a true mark of the truest merit ; 
 In virgin fear of men's illiterate lust, 
 
 Shut her soft wings, and durst not shew her 
 
 spirit ; 
 Till nobly cherish'd, now thou let'st her fly, 
 
 Singing the sable Orgies of the Muses, 
 And in the highest pitch of Tragedy, 
 
 Mak'st her command, all things thy ground 
 produces. 
 
 BASSE. [1616? 
 
 Spenser. RENOWNED Spenser, lie a thought more nigh 
 
 Chaucer. To learned Chaucer ; and rare Beaumont, lie 
 
JONS ON. 51 
 
 A little nearer Spenser ; to make room Beaumont. 
 
 For Shakespeare in your three-fold four-fold tomb : Shake- 
 To lodge all four in one bed make a shift speare. 
 Until Doomsday ; for hardly will a fift, 
 Betwixt this day and that, by fate be slain, 
 For whom your curtains may be drawn again. 
 But if precedency in death doth bar 
 A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre, 
 Under this carved marble of thine own, 
 Sleep, rare tragedian, Shakespeare, sleep alone : 
 Thy unmolested peace, unshared cave, 
 Possess as lord, not tenant, of thy grave ; 
 That unto us and others it may be 
 Honour hereafter to be laid by thee. 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 To Elizabeth, Countess of Rutland. 
 
 THAT poets are far rarer births than kings, 
 
 Your noblest father proved ; like whom, before, Sidney. 
 
 Or then, or since, about our Muses' springs, 
 
 Came not that soul exhausted so their store. 
 
 Hence was it that the Destinies decreed 
 
 (Save that most masculine issue of his brain) 
 
 No male unto him ; who could so exceed 
 
 Nature, they thought, in all that he would feign. 
 
 At which, she happily displeased, made you : 
 
 On whom, if he were living now to look, 
 
 He should those rare and absolute numbers view, 
 
 As he would burn, or better far his book. 
 
52 JONSON. 
 
 From Epistle to Eliz., Countess of Rutland. 
 
 NOT with tickling rimes, 
 
 Or common-places, filch'd, that take these times, 
 But high and noble matter, such as flies 
 From brains entranced, and filled with extasies ; 
 Sidney. Moods which the god-like Sidney oft did prove. 
 
 From To Penshurst. 
 
 That taller tree, which of a nut was set 
 Sidney. At his great birth, where all the Muses met. 
 
 From An Ode. 
 
 Sidney. Hath our great Sidney, Stella set 
 
 Where never star shone brighter yet ? 
 
 Constable. Or Constable's ambrosiac muse 
 Made Dian not his notes refuse ? 
 
 To Francis Beaumont. 
 
 How I do love thee, Beaumont, and thy Muse, 
 That unto me dost such religion use ! 
 How I do fear myself, that am not worth 
 The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth ! 
 At once thou mak'st me happy and unmak'st ; 
 And giving largely to me more thou tak'st ! 
 What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves ? 
 What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives ? 
 When even there, where most thou praisest me, 
 For writing better, I must envy thee. 
 
JONSON. 53 
 
 To my worthy Author Mr. John Fletcher 
 upon his Faithful Shepherdess. [1610 
 
 THE wise and many-headed bench, that sits 
 Upon the life and death of plays and wits, 
 (Composed of gamester, captain, knight, knight's 
 
 man, 
 
 Lady or pucelle, that wears mask or fan, 
 Velvet, or taffeta cap, rank'd in the dark 
 With the shop's foreman, or some such brave spark 
 That may judge for his sixpence) had, before 
 They saw it half, damn'd thy whole play, and 
 
 more; 
 
 Their motives were, since it had not to do 
 With vices, which they look'd for, and came to. 
 I, that am glad thy innocence was thy guilt, 
 And wish that all the Muses' blood were spilt 
 In such a martyrdom, to vex their eyes, 
 Do crown thy murder'd poem : which shall rise 
 A glorified work to time, when fire, 
 Or moths shall eat what all these fools admire. 
 
 To my worthy and honoured friend 
 Master George Chapman. [1618 
 
 WHOSE work could this be, Chapman, to refine 
 Old Hesiod's ore, and give it thus ! but thine, 
 Who had'st before wrought in rich Homer's mine. 
 
 What treasure hast thou brought us ! and what 
 
 store 
 
 Still, still, dost thou arrive with at our shore, 
 To make thy honour, and our wealth the more ! 
 
54 JONSON. 
 
 If all the vulgar tongues that speak this day 
 Were ask'd of thy discoveries ; they must say, 
 To the Greek coast thine only knew the way. 
 
 Such passage hast thou found, such returns made, 
 As now of all men, it is call'd thy trade, 
 And who make thither else, rob or invade. 
 
 To John Donne. [1616 
 
 DONNE, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse, 
 Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse ; 
 Whose every work of thy most early wit 
 Came forth example, and remains so yet : 
 Longer a-knowing than most wits do live, 
 And which no affection praise enough can give ! 
 To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life, 
 Which might with half mankind maintain a strife ; 
 All which I meant to praise, and yet I would ; 
 But leave, because I cannot as I should ! 
 
 To John Donne. 
 
 WHO shall doubt, Donne, wher I a poet be, 
 When I dare send my Epigrams to thee ? 
 That so alone canst judge, so alone dost make : 
 And in thy censures, evenly, dost take 
 As free simplicity to disavow, 
 As thou hast best authority to allow. 
 Read all I send ; and if I find but one 
 Mark'd by thy hand, and with the better stone, 
 My title 's seal'd. Those that for claps do write, 
 Let pui'nees, porters, players' praise delight, 
 And till they burst their backs, like asses load : 
 A man should seek great glory, and not broad. 
 
JONSON. 55 
 
 To the Memory of my Beloved Master 
 William Shakespeare, and what he 
 hath left us. [1623 
 
 To draw no envy, Shakespeare, 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 suffrage. But these ways 
 
 Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; 
 
 For silliest ignorance on these may light, 
 
 Which when it sounds at best, but echoes right ; 
 
 Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance 
 
 The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ; 
 
 Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, 
 
 And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise. 
 
 But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, 
 
 Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. 
 
 I therefore will begin : Soul of the age ! 
 
 The applause ! delight ! the wonder of our stage ! 
 
 My Shakespeare rise ! I will not lodge thee by 
 
 Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie Chaucer, 
 
 A little further off, to make thee room : Beaumont. 
 
 Thou art a monument without a tomb, 
 
 And art alive still, while thy book doth live 
 
 And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 
 
 That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, 
 
 I mean with great, but disproportion'd Muses : 
 
 For if I thought my judgment were of years, 
 
 I should commit thee surely with thy peers, 
 
 And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine, Lily, 
 
 Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. Marlowe 
 
 And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, 
 
56 JONSON. 
 
 From thence to honour thee, I would not seek 
 For names : but call forth thund'ring ^Eschylus, 
 Euripides and Sophocles to us, 
 Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova, dead, 
 To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, 
 And shake a stage ; or when thy socks were on, 
 Leave thee alone for the comparison 
 Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome 
 Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. 
 Triumph my Britain, thou hast one to show, 
 To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
 He was not of an age, but for all time ! 
 And all the Muses still were in their prime, 
 When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 
 Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm ! 
 Nature herself was proud of his designs, 
 And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines ! 
 Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, 
 As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. 
 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 Shakespeare, 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. 
 
JONSOtf. 57 
 
 And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face 
 
 Lives in his issue, even so the race 
 
 Of Shakespeare'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 eyes of ignorance. 
 
 Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were 
 
 To see thee in our water yet appear, 
 
 And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, 
 
 That so did take Eliza, and our James ! 
 
 But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 
 
 Advanced, and made a constellation there ! 
 
 Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage, 
 
 Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage, 
 
 Which since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd 
 
 like night, 
 And despairs day, but for thy volume's light. 
 
 On the Portrait of Shakespeare. [1623 
 To the Reader. 
 
 THIS figure that thou here seest put, 
 It was for gentle Shakespeare cut, 
 Wherein the graver had a strife 
 With nature to out-do the life : 
 O could he but have drawn his wit 
 As well in brass, as he has 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. 
 
58 JONSON. 
 
 A Vision on the Muses of his Friend 
 
 Michael Drayton. [1627 
 
 IT hath been questioned, Michael, if I be 
 A friend at all ; or, if at all, to thee : 
 Because, who made the question, have not seen 
 Those ambling visits pass in verse, between 
 Thy Muse and mine, as they expect : 'tis true, 
 You have not writ to me, nor I to you. 
 And though I now begin, 'tis not to rub 
 Haunch against haunch, or raise a riming club 
 About the town ; this reckoning I will pay 
 Without conferring symbols ; this, my day. 
 It was no dream ! I was awake and saw. 
 Lend me the voice, O Fame, that I may draw 
 Wonder to truth, and have my vision hurl'd 
 Hot from thy trumpet round about the world. 
 I saw a beauty from the sea to rise, 
 That all earth look'd on, and that earth all eyes ! 
 It cast a beam, as when the cheerful sun 
 Is fair got up, and day some hours begun ; 
 And fill'd an orb as circular as heaven : 
 The orb was cut forth into regions seven, 
 And those so sweet, and well-proportion'd parts, 
 As it had been the circle of the arts : 
 When by thy bright Idea standing by, 
 I found it pure and perfect poesy. 
 There read I, straight, thy learned Legends three, 
 Heard the soft airs, between our swains and thee, 
 Which made me think the old Theocritus, 
 Or rural Virgil come to pipe to us. 
 But then thy Epistolar Heroic Songs, 
 Their loves, their quarrels, jealousies and wrongs, 
 
JONSON. 59 
 
 Did all so strike me, as I cried, who can 
 
 With us be called the Naso, but this man ? 
 
 And looking up, I saw Minerva's fowl, 
 
 Perch'd over head, the wise Athenian Owl : 
 
 I thought thee then our Orpheus, that would'st try, 
 
 Like him, to make the air one volary. 
 
 And I had styled thee Orpheus, but before 
 
 My lips could form the voice, I heard that roar, 
 
 And rouze, the marching of a mighty force, 
 
 Drums against drums, the neighing of the horse, 
 
 The fights, the cries, and wondering at the jars, 
 
 I saw and read it was the Barons' Wars. 
 
 O how in those dost thou instruct these times, 
 
 That rebels' actions are but valiant crimes ; 
 
 And carried, though with shout and noise, confess 
 
 A wild, and an unauthorized wickedness ! 
 
 Say'st thou so, Lucan ? but thou scorn'st to stay 
 
 Under one title : thou hast made thy way 
 
 And flight about the isle, well near, by this 
 
 In the admired Periegesis, 
 
 Or universal circumduction 
 
 Of all that read thy Poly-Olbion ; 
 
 That read it ! that are ravish'd ; such was I, 
 
 With every song, I swear, and so would die ; 
 
 But that I hear again thy drum to beat 
 
 A better cause, and strike the bravest heat 
 
 That ever yet did fire the English blood, 
 
 Our right in France, if rightly understood. 
 
 There thou art Homer ; pray thee, use the style 
 
 Thou hast deserved, and let me read the while 
 
 Thy catalogue of ships, exceeding his, 
 
 Thy list of aids and force, for so it is ; 
 
 The poet's act ; and for his country's sake, 
 
60 JONSON. 
 
 Brave are the musters that the Muse will make. 
 
 And when he ships them, where to use their arms, 
 
 How do his trumpets breathe ! what loud alarms ! 
 
 Look how we read the Spartans were inflamed 
 
 With bold Tyrtseus' verse ; when thou art named, 
 
 So shall our English youth urge on, and cry 
 
 An Agincourt ! an Agincourt ! or die. 
 
 This book it is a catechism to fight, 
 
 And will be bought of every lord and knight 
 
 That can but read ; who cannot, may in prose 
 
 Get broken pieces, and fight well by those. 
 
 The miseries of Margaret the queen, 
 
 Of tender eyes will more be wept than seen. 
 
 I feel it by mine own, that overflow 
 
 And stop my sight in every line I go. 
 
 But then, refreshed by thy Fairy Court, 
 
 I look on Cynthia, and Syrena's sport, 
 
 As on two flowery carpets, that did rise, 
 
 And with their grassy green restored mine eyes. 
 
 Yet give me leave to wonder at the birth 
 
 Of thy strange Moon-calf, both thy strain of mirth, 
 
 And gossip-got acquaintance, as to us 
 
 Thou had'st brought Lapland, or old Cobalus, 
 
 Empusa, Lamia, or some monster more 
 
 Than Afric knew, or the full Grecian store. 
 
 I gratulate it to thee, and thy ends, 
 
 To all thy virtuous and well-chosen friends; 
 
 Only my loss is, that I am not there, 
 
 And till I worthy am to wish I were, 
 
 I call the world that envies me, to see 
 
 If I can be a friend, and friend to thee. 
 
JONS ON. 6 1 
 
 An Ode to Himself. 
 
 WHERE dost thou careless lie 
 
 Buried in ease and sloth ? 
 Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die; 
 And this security, 
 
 It is the common moth 
 
 That eats on wits and arts, and so destroys them 
 both. 
 
 Are all the Aonian springs 
 
 Dried up ? lies Thespia waste ? 
 Doth Clarius' harp want strings, 
 That not a nymph now sings ; 
 
 Or droop they as disgraced, 
 To see their seats and bowers by chatting pies 
 defaced ? 
 
 If hence thy silence be, 
 
 As 'tis too just a cause ; 
 Let this thought quicken thee : 
 Minds that are great and free 
 
 Should not on fortune pause, 
 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause 
 
 What though the greedy fry 
 
 Be taken with false baits 
 Of worded balladry, 
 And think it poesy ? 
 
 They die with their conceits, 
 And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. 
 
 Then take in hand thy lyre, 
 Strike in thy proper strain, 
 
62 JONSON. 
 
 With Japhet's line, aspire 
 Sol's chariot for new fire, 
 
 To give the world again : 
 Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. 
 
 And since our dainty age 
 
 Cannot indure reproof, 
 Make not thyself a page, 
 
 To that strumpet the stage, 
 But sing high and aloof, 
 
 Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's 
 hoof. 
 
 Ode to Himself. [c. 1629 
 
 COME leave the loathed stage, 
 
 And the more loathsome age ; 
 Where pride and impudence, in faction knit, 
 
 Usurp the chair of wit ! 
 Indicting and arraigning every day 
 
 Something they call a play. 
 
 Let their fastidious, vain 
 
 Commission of the brain 
 
 Run on and rage, sweat, censure and condemn ; 
 They were not made for thee, less thou for them. 
 
 Say that thou pourest them wheat, 
 And they will acorns eat ; 
 'Twere simple fury still thyself to waste 
 
 On such as have no taste ! 
 To offer them a surfeit of pure bread, 
 
 Whose appetites are dead ! 
 No, give them grains their fill, 
 Husks, draff to drink and swill : 
 
JONSON. 63 
 
 If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, 
 Envy them not, their palate's with the swine. 
 
 No doubt some mouldy tale, 
 
 Like Pericles, and stale 
 As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish 
 
 Scraps out of every dish 
 
 Thrown forth, and raked into the common tub, 
 May keep up the Play -club : 
 
 There, sweepings do as well 
 
 As the best order'd meal ; 
 For who the relish of these guests will fit, 
 Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit. 
 
 And much good do 't you then : 
 Brave plush and velvet -men 
 Can feed on orts ; and, safe in your stage -clothes, 
 
 Dare quit upon your oaths, 
 The stagers and the stage-wrights too, your peers, 
 
 Of larding your large ears 
 With their foul comic socks, 
 Wrought upon twenty blocks ; 
 Which if they are torn, and turn'd, and patch'd 
 
 enough, 
 The gamesters share your gilt, and you their stuff. 
 
 Leave things so prostitute, 
 And take the Alcaic lute ; 
 Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre ; 
 
 Warm thee by Pindar's fire : 
 And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be 
 cold 
 
 Ere years have made thee old, 
 
64 FORD. 
 
 Strike that disdainful heat, 
 
 Throughout, to their defeat, 
 As curious fools, and envious of thy strain, 
 May, blushing, swear no palsy's in thy brain. 
 
 But when they hear thee sing 
 
 The glories of thy king, 
 His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men : 
 
 They may, blood-shaken then, 
 Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers 
 As they shall cry, " Like ours, 
 
 In sound of peace or wars, 
 
 No harp e'er hit the stars, 
 In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign ; 
 And raising Charles his chariot 'bove his Wain." 
 
 FORD. 
 
 On the best of English Poets, Ben Jonson, 
 Deceased. [1638 
 
 So seems a star to shoot ; when from our sight 
 Falls the deceit, not from its loss of light ; 
 We want use of a soul, who merely know 
 What to our passion, or our sense we owe : 
 By such a hollow glass, our cozen'd eye 
 Concludes alike all dead, whom it sees die. 
 Nature is knowledge here but unrefined, 
 Both differing, as the body from the mind ; 
 Laurel and cypress else, had grown together, 
 And wither'd without memory to either : 
 Thus undistinguish'd, might in every part 
 The sons of earth vie with the sons of art. 
 
PH1NEAS FLETCHER. 65 
 
 Forbid it, holy reverence to his name, 
 Whose glory hath fill'd up the book of fame ! 
 ****** 
 
 Drawn to the life of every line and limb, 
 He (in his truth of art, and that in him) 
 Lives yet, and will, while letters can be read ; 
 The loss is ours ; now hope of life is dead. 
 Great men, and worthy of report, must fall 
 Into their earth, and sleeping there sleep all : 
 Since he whose pen in every strain did use 
 To drop a verse, and every verse a muse, 
 Is vow'd to heaven ; as having with fair glory, 
 Sung thanks of honour, or some nobler story. 
 The court, the university, the heat 
 Of theatres, with what can else beget 
 Belief, and admiration, clearly prove 
 Our poet first in merit, as in love : 
 Yet if he do not at his full appear, 
 Survey him in his works, and know him there. 
 
 PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 From The Purple Island. [1633 
 
 WITNESS our Colin ; whom though all the Graces, Spenser. 
 And all the Muses nursed ; whose well-taught song 
 Parnassus self, and Glorian embraces 
 And all the learn'd, and all the shepherds throng ; 
 Yet all his hopes were cross'd, all suits denied ; 
 Discouraged, scorn'd, his writings vilified : 
 Poorly poor man he lived ; poorly poor man 
 he died. 
 
 F 
 
66 QUARLES. 
 
 QUARLES. [1633 
 
 To my dear friend, the Spenser of this Age. 
 
 Ph. Fletcher. DEAR Friend, 
 
 No more a stranger now : I lately past 
 
 Thy curious Building : call'd ; but then my haste 
 
 Denied me a full draught, I did but taste. 
 
 Thy wine was rich and pleasing ; did appear 
 No common grape : my haste could not forbear 
 A second sip ; I hung a garland there : 
 
 Past on my way ; I lash'd through thick and thin, 
 Despatched my business, and return'd again ; 
 I call'd the second time ; unhorsed, went in : 
 
 View'd every room ; each room was beautified 
 With new invention, carved on every side, 
 To please the common and the curious eyed ; 
 
 View'd every office ; every office lay 
 Like a rich magazine ; and did bewray 
 Thy treasure, open'd with thy golden key : 
 
 View'd every orchard ; every orchard did 
 Appear a Paradise whose fruits were hid 
 Perchance with shadowing leaves, but none 
 forbid : 
 
 View'd every plot ; spent some delightful hours : 
 In every garden, full of new-born flowers, 
 Delicious banks, and delectable bowers. 
 
SHIRLEY. 67 
 
 Thus having stepp'd and travell'd every stair 
 Within, and tasted every fruit that 's rare 
 Without ; I made thy house my thorough -fare. 
 
 Then give me leave, rare Fletcher, as before 
 I left a garland at thy gates once more 
 To hang this ivy at thy postern door. 
 
 SHIRLEY. 
 
 A Prologue to the Alchemist. [1637 
 
 THE Alchemist, a play for strength of wit, 
 
 And true art, made to shame what hath been writ 
 
 In former ages ; I except no worth 
 
 Of what or Greeks or Latins have brought forth ; 
 
 Is now to be presented to your ear, 
 
 For which I wish each man were a Muse here, 
 
 To know, and in his soul be fit to be 
 
 Judge of this masterpiece of comedy ; 
 
 That when we hear but once of Jonson's name, Jonson. 
 
 Whose mention shall make proud the breath of 
 
 fame, 
 
 We may agree, and crowns of laurel bring 
 A justice unto him the poets' king. 
 But he is dead : time, envious of that bliss 
 .Which we possess'd in that great brain of his, 
 By putting out this light, hath darken'd all 
 The sphere of poesy, and we let fall, 
 At best, unworthy elegies on his hearse, 
 A tribute that we owe his living verse ; 
 
68 CAREW HODGSON. 
 
 Which though some men, that never reach'd him, 
 
 may 
 
 Decry, that love all folly in a play, 
 The wiser few shall this distinction have, 
 To kneel, not tread, upon his honour'd grave. 
 
 CAREW. 
 
 From An Elegy upon the Death of 
 Dr. Donne. 
 
 HERE lies a King that ruled as he thought fit 
 The universal monarchy of wit. 
 
 HODGSON. . 
 
 From Commendatory Verses on 
 
 Ben Jonson. [1616 
 
 FOR lyric sweetness in an ode, or sonnet, 
 
 To BEN the best of wits might vail their bonnet. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 To Ben Jonson. [ l6 39 
 
 LET Ignorance with Envy chat, 
 In spite of both, thou fame shalt win ; 
 Whose mass of learning seems like that 
 Which Joseph gave to Benjamin. 
 
HERRICK. 
 
 69 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 From The Apparition of his Mistress 
 
 calling him to Elysium. [1648 
 
 AND here we'll sit on primrose -banks, and see 
 Love's Chorus led by Cupid ; and we'll be 
 Two loving followers too unto the grove, 
 Where Poets sing the stories of our love. 
 ****** 
 
 Thou shalt there 
 
 Behold them in a spacious theater, 
 Among which glories (crown'd with sacred bays, 
 And flattering ivy) Two recite their plays, 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, Swans, to whom all ears 
 Listen, while they (like sirens in their spheres) 
 Sing their Evadnes ; and still more for thee 
 There yet remains to know, than thou canst see 
 By glimmering of a fancy ; do but come, 
 And there I'll show thee that capacious room 
 In which thy father Jonson now is placed, 
 As in a globe of radiant fire, and graced 
 To be in that orb crown'd (that doth include 
 Those prophets of the former magnitude), 
 And he one chief. 
 
 Upon Master Fletcher's incomparable 
 Plays. [1648 
 
 APOLLO sings, his harp resounds : give room, 
 For now behold the golden pomp is come, 
 Thy pomp of plays, which thousands come to see, 
 With admiration both of them and thee. 
 
 Beaumont 
 
 and 
 
 Fletcher. 
 
 Jonson. 
 
70 HERRICK. 
 
 O volume worthy, leaf by leaf, and cover, 
 To be with juice of cedar wash'd all over ; 
 Here words with lines, and lines with scenes 
 
 consent, 
 
 To raise an Act to full astonishment ; 
 Here melting numbers, words of power to move 
 Young men to swoon and maids to die for love. 
 Love lies a bleeding here, Evadne there 
 Swells with brave rage, yet comely everywhere ; 
 Here 's a Mad Lover , there that high design 
 Of King and no King (and the rare plot thine), 
 So that whene'er we circumvolve our r yes, 
 Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varieties, 
 Ravish our spirits, that entranced we see 
 None writes love's passion in the world, like thee. 
 
 His Prayer to Ben Jonson. [1648 
 
 WHEN I a verse shall make, 
 Know I have pray'd thee 
 For old religion's sake, 
 Saint Ben to aid me. 
 
 Make the way smooth for me, 
 When I, thy Herrick, 
 Honouring thee, on my knee 
 Offer my Lyric. 
 
 Candles I'll give to thee, 
 And a new altar ; 
 And thou Saint Ben, shalt be 
 Writ in my psalter. 
 
HERRICK. 7I 
 
 An Ode for Him. [1648 
 
 Ah Ben ! 
 
 Say how, or when 
 Shall we thy guests 
 Meet at those lyric feasts, 
 
 Made at the Sun, 
 The Dog, the triple Tun ? 
 
 Where we such clusters had 
 As made us nobly wild, not mad ; 
 
 And yet each verse of thine 
 Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine. 
 
 My Ben ! 
 Or come again : 
 Or send to us, 
 Thy wit's great over-plus ; 
 
 But teach us yet 
 Wisely to husband it 
 Lest we that talent spend, 
 And having once brought to an end 
 
 That precious stock ; the store 
 Of such a wit the world should have no more. 
 
 A Bacchanalian Verse. 
 FILL me a mighty bowl 
 Up to the brink : 
 That I may drink 
 Unto my Jonson's soul. Joason 
 
72 HERR1CK. 
 
 Crown it agen agen ; 
 
 And thrice repeat 
 
 That happy heat ; 
 To drink to thee my Ben. 
 
 Well I can quaff I see, 
 
 To th' number five, 
 
 Or nine ; but thrive 
 In frenzy ne'er like thee. 
 
 Epigram. [1648 
 
 THOU had'st the wreath before, now take the tree 
 That henceforth none be laurel-crown'd but thee. 
 
 Upon Ben Jonson. [1648 
 
 HERE lies Jonson with the rest 
 
 Of the Poets ; but the best. 
 
 Reader, would'st thou more have known? 
 
 Ask his story, not this stone. 
 
 That will speak what this can't tell 
 
 Of his glory. So farewell. 
 
 Upon Mr. Ben Jonson. [1648 
 
 AFTER the rare arch -poet died, 
 The sock grew loathsome, and the buskin's pride 
 Together with the stage's glory stood 
 Each like a poor and pitied widowhood. 
 The Cirque profaned was ; and all postures rackt : 
 For men did strut, and stride, and stare, not act. 
 Then temper flew from words; and men did 
 squeak, 
 
HERRICK. 73 
 
 Look red, and blow, and bluster, but not speak : 
 No holy rage, or frantic fire did stir, 
 Or flash about the spacious theater. 
 No clap of hands, or shout, or praises-proof 
 Did crack the playhouse sides, or cleave her roof. 
 Artless the scene was ; and that monstrous sin 
 Of deep and arrant ignorance came in ; 
 Such ignorance as theirs was, who once hiss'd 
 At thy unequall'd play the Alchemist ; 
 O fie upon 'em ! Lastly too, all wit 
 In utter darkness did, and still will sit 
 vSleeping the luckless age out, till that she 
 Her resurrection has again with thee. 
 
PERIOD III. 
 
 POETS OF THE 
 XVIITH CENTURY. 
 
 MILTON TO OLDHAM. 
 
MILTON. 
 
 An Epitaph on the admirable dramatic 
 poet, W. Shakespeare. [1632 
 
 WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd 
 
 bones 
 
 The labour of an age in piled stones, 
 Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid 
 Under a star-ypointing pyramid ? 
 Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame, 
 What need'st thou such weak memory of thy 
 
 name? 
 
 Thou, in our wonder and astonishment, 
 Hast built thyself a live -long monument : 
 For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavouring art 
 Thy easy numbers flow ; and that each heart 
 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
 Those Delphic lines with deep impression took ; 
 Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, 
 Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ; 
 And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, 
 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 
 
 From II Penseroso. [1632-1638 
 
 OR call up him that left half-told Chaucer. 
 
 The story of Cambuscan bold, 
 
78 UNKNOWN. 
 
 Of Camball and of Algarsife, 
 And who had Canace to wife, 
 That own'd the virtuous ring and glass ; 
 And of the wondrous horse of brass, 
 On which the Tartar kings did ride ; 
 And if aught else great bards beside 
 In sage and solemn tunes have sung, 
 Of turneys and of trophies hung, 
 Of forests and enchantments drear, 
 Where more is meant than meets the ear. 
 
 From U Allegro. [1632-1638 
 
 THEN to the well-trod stage anon, 
 If Jonson's learned sock be on, 
 Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 
 Warble his native wood-notes wild. 
 
 UNKNOWN. [1632 
 
 On worthy Master Shakespeare and 
 his Poems. 
 
 A MIND reflecting ages past, whose clear 
 And equal surface can make things appear 
 Distant a thousand years, and represent 
 Them in their lively colours, just extent, 
 To out-run hasty Time, retrieve the Fates, 
 Roll back the heavens, blow up the iron gates 
 Of Death and Lethe, where confused lie 
 Great heaps of ruinous mortality ; 
 In that deep dusky dungeon to discern 
 
UNKNOWN. 79 
 
 A royal ghost from churls ; by art to learn 
 
 The physiognomy of shades, aBd-gixe 
 
 Them sudden birth, wondering how oft they 
 
 live; 
 
 What story coldly tells, what poets feign 
 At second-hand, and picture without brain, 
 Senseless and soul-less shows : to give a stage 
 (Ample and true with life) voice, action, age, 
 As Plato's year, a new scene of the world, 
 Them unto us, or us to them had hurl'd : 
 To raise our ancient sovereigns from their hearse, 
 Make kings his subjects ; by exchanging verse 
 Enlive their pale trunks, that the present age 
 Joys in their joy, and trembles at their rage : 
 Yet so to temper passion, that our ears 
 Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears 
 Both weep and smile ; fearful at plots so sad, 
 Then laughing at our fear ; abused and glad 
 To be abused ; affected with that truth 
 Which we perceive is false, pleased in that ruth 
 At which we start, and by elaborate play 
 Tortured and tickled ; by a crab-like way 
 Time past made pastime, and in ugly sort 
 Disgorging up his ravin for our sport : 
 While the plebeian imp, from lofty throne, 
 Creates and rules a world, and works upon 
 Mankind by secret engines ; now to move 
 A chilling pity, then a rigorous love ; 
 To strike up and stroke down both joy and ire ; 
 To steer the affections ; and by heavenly fire 
 Mould us anew, stolen from ourselves : 
 
 This, and much more which cannot be express'd 
 But by himself, his tongue, and his own breast, 
 
8o UNKNOWN. 
 
 Was Shakespeare's freehold ; which his cunning 
 
 brain 
 
 Improved by favour of the nine-fold train ; 
 The buskin'd Muse, the comic queen, the grand 
 And louder tone of Clio, nimble hand 
 And nimbler foot of the melodious pair, 
 The silver-voiced lady, the most fair 
 Calliope, whose speaking silence daunts, 
 And she whose praise the heavenly body chaunts ; 
 These jointly woo'd him, envying one another, 
 (Obey'd by all as spouse, but loved as brother,) 
 And wrought a curious robe, of sable grave, 
 Fresh green, and pleasant yellow, red most brave, 
 And constant blue, rich purple, guiltless white, 
 The lowly russet and the scarlet bright ; 
 Branch'd and embroider'd like the painted spring ; 
 Each leaf match 'd with a flower, and each string 
 Of golden wire, each line of silk ; there run 
 Italian works, whose thread the sisters spun ; 
 And there did sing, or seem to sing, the choice 
 Birds of a foreign note and various voice ; 
 Here hangs a mossy rock ; there plays a fair 
 But chiding fountain, purled ; not the air, 
 Nor clouds, nor thunder, but were living drawn, 
 Not out of common tiffany or lawn, 
 But fine materials, which the Muses know, 
 And only know the countries where they grow. 
 Now, when they could no longer him enjoy 
 In mortal garments pent, " Death may destroy " 
 They say, " his body ; but his verse shall live, 
 And more than nature takes, our hands shall 
 
 give: 
 In a less volume, but more strongly bound, 
 
WALLER. 81 
 
 Shakespeare shall breathe and speak ; with laurel 
 
 crown'd 
 
 Which never fades ; fed with ambrosian meat, 
 In a well-lined vesture, rich and neat." 
 So with this robe they clothe him, bid him wear it ; 
 For time shall never stain nor envy tear it. 
 
 I. M. S. 
 
 WALLER. 
 
 From Penshurst. \c. 1636 
 
 LOVE'S foe profess'd ! why dost thou falsely feign 
 
 Thyself a Sidney ? from which noble strain 
 
 He sprung, that could so far exalt the name Sidney. 
 
 Of Love, and warm a nation with his flame ; 
 
 That all we can of love or high desire 
 
 Seems but the smoke of amorous Sidney's fire. 
 
 On Mr. John Fletcher's Plays. 
 
 FLETCHER ! to thee we do not only owe 
 All these good plays, but those of others too : 
 Thy wit repeated does support the stage, 
 Credits the last, and entertains this age, 
 No worthies form'd by any Muse but thine 
 Could purchase robes to make themselves so fine. 
 
 What brave commander is not proud to see 
 Thy brave Melantius in his gallantry ? 
 Our greatest ladies love to see their scorn 
 Outdone by thine, in what themselves have worn : 
 G 
 
82 WALLER. 
 
 The impatient widow, ere the year be done, 
 Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her gown. 
 
 I never yet the tragic train assay'd, 
 Deterr'd by that inimitable Maid ; 
 And when I venture at the comic style, 
 Thy Scornful Lady seems to mock my toil. 
 
 Thus has thy Muse at once improved and marr'd 
 Our sport in plays, by rendering it too hard ! 
 So when a sort of lusty shepherds throw 
 The bar by turns, and none the rest outgo 
 So far, but that the best are measuring casts, 
 Their emulation and their pastime lasts ; 
 But if some brawny yeoman of the guard 
 Step in, and toss the axle-tree a yard 
 Or more beyond the furthest mark, the rest 
 Despairing stand, their sport is at the best. 
 
 [1645? 
 From Prologue to the Maid's Tragedy. 
 
 SCARCE should we have the boldness to pretend 
 So long renown'd a tragedy to mend, 
 Had not already some deserved your praise 
 With like attempt. Of all our elder plays 
 Beaumont This and Philaster have the loudest fame : 
 Fletcher. Great are their faults, and glorious is their flame. 
 
 In both our English genius is express'd ; 
 Lofty and bold, but negligently dress'd. 
 
 Above our neighbours' our conceptions are ; 
 But faultless writing is the effect of care. 
 Our lines reform'd, and not composed in haste, 
 Polish'd like marble, would like marble last. 
 But as the present, so the last age writ ; 
 
WALLEK. 83 
 
 In both we find like negligence and wit. 
 Were we but less indulgent to our faults, 
 And patience had to cultivate our thoughts, 
 Our muse would flourish, and a nobler rage 
 Would honour this than did the Grecian stage. 
 
 Upon Ben Jonson. [1638 
 
 MIRROR of poets ! mirror of our age ! 
 Which her whole face beholding on thy stage, 
 Pleased and displeased with her own faults, endures 
 A remedy like those whom music cures. 
 Thou hast alone those various inclinations 
 Which Nature gives to ages, sexes, nations, 
 So traced with thy all -resembling pen, 
 That whate'er custom has imposed on men, 
 Or ill-got habit, (which deforms them so, 
 That scarce a brother can his brother know) 
 Is represented to the wondering eyes 
 Of all that see or read thy Comedies. 
 Whoever in these glasses looks, may find 
 The spots return'd or graces of his mind ; 
 And by the help of so divine an art, 
 At leisure view and dress his nobler part. 
 Narcissus, cozen'd by that flattering well, 
 Which nothing could but of his beauty tell, 
 Had here, discovering the deform'd estate 
 Of his fond mind, preserved himself with hate. 
 But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad 
 In flesh and blood so well, that Plato had 
 Beheld what his high fancy once embraced, 
 Virtue with colours, speech, and motion graced. 
 The sundry postures of thy copious Muse 
 
84 WALLER. 
 
 Who would express, a thousand tongues must use, 
 
 Whose fate 's no less peculiar than thy art ; 
 
 For as thou could'st all characters impart, 
 
 So none could render thine, which still escapes, 
 
 Like Proteus, in variety of shapes ; 
 
 Who was nor this nor that ; but all we find, 
 
 And all we can imagine, in mankind. 
 
 To Sir William D'Avenant, upon his two 
 first books of Gondibert, finished 
 before his voyage to America. [1650 
 
 THUS the wise nightingale that leaves her home, 
 Her native wood, when storms and winter come, 
 Pursuing constantly the cheerful Spring 
 To foreign groves does her old music bring : 
 
 The drooping Hebrews' banish'd harps unstrung 
 At Babylon, upon the willows hung ; 
 Yours sounds aloud, and tells us you excel 
 No less in courage than in singing well ; 
 Whilst unconcern'd you let your country know, 
 They have impov'rished themselves, not you ; 
 Who with the Muses' help can mock those fates 
 Which threaten kingdoms, and disorder states. 
 
 So Ovid when from Caesar's rage he fled, 
 The Roman Muse to Pontus with him led ; 
 Where he so sung, that we through pity's glass, 
 See Nero milder than Augustus was. 
 Hereafter such in thy behalf shall be 
 The indulgent censure of posterity. 
 To banish those who with such art can sing, 
 Is a rude crime which its own curse does bring ; 
 Ages to come shall ne'er know how they fought, 
 
SUCKLING. 85 
 
 Nor how to love their present youth he taught. 
 This to thy self. Now to thy matchless book, 
 Wherein those few that can with judgment look, 
 May find old love in pure fresh language told, 
 Like new-stampt coin made out of angel-gold. 
 Such truth in love as the antique world did know, 
 In such a style as Courts may boast of now. 
 Which no bold tales of gods or monsters swell, 
 But human passions, such as with us dwell. 
 Man is thy theme, his virtue or his rage 
 Drawn to the life in each elaborate page. 
 Mars nor Bellona are not named here ; 
 But such a Gondibert as both might fear. 
 Venus had here, and Hebe, been out-shined 
 By thy bright Birtha and thy Rhodalind. 
 Such is thy happy skill, and such the odds 
 Betwixt thy worthies and the Grecian Gods 
 Whose deities in vain had here come down, 
 Where mortal beauty wears the sovereign crown ; 
 Such as of flesh composed, by flesh and blood 
 (Though not resisted) may be understood. 
 
 SUCKLING. 
 
 To my friend Will D'Avenant on his other 
 Poems. 
 
 THOU hast redeem'd us, Will, and future times 
 
 Shall not account unto the age's crimes 
 
 Dearth of pure wit. Since the great lord of it, 
 
 Donne, parted hence, no man has ever writ Donne. 
 
86 CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 So near him in his own way ; I would commend 
 Particulars, but then how should I end 
 Without a volume ? Every line of thine 
 Would ask, to praise it right, twenty of mine. 
 
 CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 Upon the Report of the Printing of the 
 Dramatical Poems of Master John 
 Fletcher. [1647 
 
 THOUGH when all Fletcher writ, and the entire 
 
 Man was indulged unto that sacred fire, 
 
 His thoughts and his thoughts' dress, appear'd 
 
 both such 
 
 That 'twas his happy fault to do too much : 
 Who therefore wisely did submit each birth 
 To knowing Beaumont, ere it did come forth, 
 Working again until he said 'twas fit, 
 And made him the sobriety of his wit. 
 Though thus he call'd his judge into his fame, 
 And for that aid allow'd him half the name, 
 'Tis known that sometimes he did stand alone, 
 That both the sponge and pencil were his own ; 
 That himself judged himself, could singly do, 
 And was at last Beaumont and Fletcher too : 
 Else we had lost his Shepherdess, a piece 
 Even and smooth, spun from a finer fleece ; 
 Where softness reigns, where passions passions 
 
 greet, 
 
 Gentle and high, as floods of balsam meet. 
 Where, dress'd in white expressions, sit bright loves, 
 
CARTWRIGHT. 87 
 
 Drawn, like their fairest queen, by milky doves ; 
 A piece which Jonson in a rapture bid 
 Come up a glorified work ; and so it did. 
 
 Else had his muse set with his friend, the stage 
 Had miss'd those poems, which yet take the age ; 
 The world had lost those rich exemplars, where 
 Art, language, wit, sit ruling in one sphere ; 
 Where the fresh matters soar above old themes, 
 As prophets' raptures do above our dreams ; 
 Where, in a worthy scorn, he dares refuse 
 All other gods, and makes the thing his muse ; 
 Where he calls passions up, and lays them so, 
 As spirits, awed by him to come and go ; 
 Where the free author did whate'er he would, 
 And nothing will'd but what a poet should. 
 
 No vast uncivil bulk swells any scene, 
 The strength 's ingenious, and the vigour clean ; 
 None can prevent the fancy, and see through 
 At the first opening ; all stand wondering how 
 The thing will be, until it is ; which thence, 
 With fresh delight still cheats, still takes the 
 
 sense ; 
 
 The whole design, the shadows, the lights, such 
 That none can say he shews or hides too much : 
 Business grows up, ripen'd by just increase, 
 And by as just degrees again doth cease ; 
 The heats of minutes and affairs are watch'd, 
 And the nice points of time are met and snatch 'd ; 
 Naught later than it should, naught comes before, 
 Chemists and calculators do err more : 
 Sex, age, degree, affections, country, place, 
 The inward substance and the outward face, 
 All kept precisely, all exactly fit ; 
 
88 
 
 CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 Jonson. 
 
 Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 Jonson. 
 Fletcher. 
 
 What he would write, he was before he writ. 
 'Twixt Jonson's grave, and Shakespeare's lighter 
 
 sound, 
 
 His muse so steer'd, that something still was found, 
 Nor this, nor that, nor both, but so his own, 
 That 'twas his mark, and he by it was known ; 
 Hence did he take true judgments, hence did strike 
 All palates some way, though not all alike : 
 The god of numbers might his numbers crown, 
 And, listening to them, wish they were his own. 
 Thus, welcome forth, what ease, or wine, or wit 
 Durst yet produce : that is, what Fletcher writ ! 
 
 From Another Set of Verses. [1647 
 
 JONSON hath writ things lasting and divine, 
 Yet his love-scenes, Fletcher, compared to thine, 
 Are cold and frosty, and express love so, 
 As heat with ice, or warm fires mix'd with snow ; 
 Thou, as if struck with the same generous darts, 
 Which burn, and reign, in noble lovers' hearts, 
 Hast clothed affection in such native tires, 
 And so described them in their own true fires, 
 Such moving sighs, such undissembled tears, 
 Such charms of language, such hopes mix'd with 
 
 fears, 
 
 Such grants after denial, such pursuits 
 After despair, such amorous recruits, 
 That some, who sat spectators, have confest 
 Themselves transform'd to what they saw exprest ; 
 And felt such shafts steal through their captived 
 
 sense, 
 As made them rise parts, and go lovers thence. 
 
CRASH AW. 89 
 
 Nor was thy style wholly composed of groves, 
 
 Or the soft strains of shepherds and their loves ; 
 
 When thou would'st comic be, each smiling birth, 
 
 In that kind, came into the world all mirth, 
 
 All point, all edge, all sharpness ; we did sit 
 
 Sometimes five acts out in pure sprightful wit, 
 
 Which flow'd in such true salt, that we did doubt 
 
 In which scene we laugh'd most two shillings out. 
 
 Shakespeare to thee was dull, whose best jest lies Shake- 
 
 I' the ladies' questions, and the fools' replies, speare. 
 
 Old-fashion'd wit, which walk'd from town to town 
 
 In trunk -hose, which our fathers called the clown ; 
 
 Whose wit our nice times would obsceneness call, 
 
 And which made bawdry pass for comical. 
 
 Nature was all his art ; thy vein was free 
 
 As his, but without his scurrility ; 
 
 From whom mirth came unforced, no jest perplex'd, 
 
 But, without labour, clean, chaste, and unvex'd. 
 
 CRASHAW. 
 
 From Wishes. 
 
 showers Sidney. 
 
 Of sweet discourse, whose powers 
 Can crown old Winter's head with flowers. 
 
 Upon Two Green Apricocks sent to Cowley 
 by Sir Crashaw. 
 
 TAKE these, Time's tardy truants, sent by me 
 To be chastised (sweet friend) and chid by thee. 
 
90 CRASH AW. 
 
 Pale sons of our Pomona ! whose wan cheeks 
 Have spent the patience of expecting weeks, 
 Yet are scarce ripe enough at best to show 
 The red, but of the blush to thee they owe. 
 By thy comparison they shall put on 
 More summer in their shame's reflection, 
 Than e'er the fruitful Phoebus' flaming kisses 
 Kindled on their cold lips. O had my wishes 
 And the dear merits of your Muse, their due, 
 The year had found some fruit early as you ; 
 Ripe as those rich composures Time computes 
 Blossoms, but our blest taste confesses fruits. 
 How does the April-Autumn mock these cold 
 Progressions 'twixt whose terms poor Time grows 
 
 old! 
 
 With thee alone he wears no beard, thy brain 
 Gives him the morning world's fresh gold again. 
 J Twas only Paradise, 'tis only thou, 
 Whose fruit and blossoms both bless the same 
 
 bough. 
 
 Proud in the pattern of thy precious youth, 
 Nature (me thinks) might easily mend her growth, 
 Could she in all her births but copy thee. 
 Into the public years proficiency, 
 No fruit should have the face to smile on thee 
 (Young master of the world's maturity) 
 But such whose sun-born beauties what they 
 
 borrow 
 
 Of beams to-day, pay back again to-morrow, 
 Nor need be double-gilt. How then must these 
 Poor fruits look pale at thy Hesperides ! 
 Fain would I chide their slowness, but in their 
 Defects I draw mine own dull character. 
 
FELLTHAM. 91 
 
 Take them, and me in them acknowledging, 
 How much my Summer waits upon thy Spring. 
 
 On Mr. George Herbert's Book, intituled 
 The Temple of Sacred Poems. 
 
 Sent to a Gentlewoman. 
 KNOW you, fair, on what you look ? 
 Divinest love lies in this book : 
 Expecting fire from your fair eyes, 
 To kindle this his sacrifice. 
 When your hands untie these strings, 
 Think, you've an angel by the wings ; 
 One that gladly would be nigh, 
 To wait upon each morning sigh ; 
 To flutter in the balmy air 
 Of your well-perfumed prayer ; 
 These white plumes of his he'll lend you, 
 Which eveiy day to heaven will send you : 
 To take acquaintance of each sphere, 
 And all your smooth-faced kindred there. 
 And though Herbert's name do owe Herbert. 
 
 These devotions ; fairest, know 
 While I thus lay them on the shrine 
 Of your white hand, they are mine. 
 
 OWEN FELLTHAM. [1638 
 
 From Commendatory Verses on Jonson. 
 
 As when Augustus reign'd, and war did cease, 
 Rome's bravest wits were usher'd in by peace : 
 
92 CLEVELAND. 
 
 So in our halcyon days, we have had now 
 Wits, to which, all that after come, must bow. 
 And should the stage compose herself a crown 
 Of all those wits, which hitherto she has known : 
 Though there be many that about her brow, 
 Like sparkling stones, might a quick lustre throw ; 
 
 Shake- Yet, Shakespeare, Beaumont, Jonson, these three 
 
 speare, -, 1T 
 
 Beaumont, 
 
 Jonson. Make up the gem in the point vertical. 
 
 And now, since Jonson 's gone, we well may say, 
 The stage hath seen her glory and decay. 
 Whose judgment was't refined it? or who 
 Gave laws, by which hereafter all must go, 
 But solid Jonson ? from whose full strong quill, 
 Each line did like a diamond drop distil, 
 Though hard, yet clear. 
 
 CLEVELAND. [1638 
 
 To the Memory of Ben Jonson. 
 
 THE Muses' fairest light in no dark time ; 
 The wonder of a learned age ; the line 
 Which none can pass ; the most proportion'd wit 
 To Nature, the best judge of what was fit ; 
 The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen ; 
 The voice most echo'd by consenting men ; 
 The soul which answer'd best to all well said 
 By others, and which most requital made ; 
 Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome, 
 Returning all her music with his own, 
 In whom with nature, study claimed a part, 
 
COWLEY. 93 
 
 And yet who to himself owed all his art : 
 
 Here lies Ben Jonson ! Every age will look 
 With sorrow here, with wonder on his book. 
 
 COWLEY. 
 
 To Sir Will. D'Avenant upon his two first 
 books of Gondibert, finished before his 
 Voyage to America. [ l6 5 
 
 METHINKS heroic poesy till now 
 Like some fantastic fairy-land did show ; 
 Gods, devils, nymphs, witches, and giants' race, 
 And all but man, in man's best work had place. 
 Thou, like some worthy knight, with sacred arms 
 Dost drive the monsters thence, and end the charms : 
 Instead of those dost men and manners plant, 
 The things which that rich soil did chiefly want. 
 Yet even thy mortals do their gods excel, 
 Taught by thy muse to fight and love so well. 
 
 By fatal hands whilst present empires fall, 
 Thine from the grave past monarchies recall. 
 So much more thanks from human kind does merit 
 The poet's fury, than the zealot's spirit. 
 And from the grave thou mak'st this empire rise, 
 Not like some dreadful ghost to affright our eyes, 
 But with more beauty and triumphant state, 
 Than when it crown'd at proud Verona sate. 
 So will our God rebuild man's perish'd frame, 
 And raise him up much better, yet the same : 
 So God-like poets do past things rehearse, 
 Not change, but heighten Nature by their verse. 
 
94 COWLEY. 
 
 With shame methinks, great Italy must see 
 Her conquerors raised to life again by thee ; 
 Raised by such powerful arts, that ancient Rome 
 May blush no less to see her wit o'ercome. 
 Some men their fancies like their faith derive, 
 And count all ill but that which Rome doth give ; 
 The marks of Old and Catholic would find ; 
 To the same chair would Truth and Fiction bind. 
 Thou in those beaten paths disdain'st to tread, 
 And scorn'st to live by robbing of the dead. 
 Since Time does all things change, thou think'st 
 
 not fit 
 
 This latter age should see all new but wit. 
 Thy fancy, like a flame, her way does make, 
 And leaves bright tracks for following pens to take. 
 Sure 'twas this noble boldness of the Muse 
 Did thy desire to seek new worlds infuse ; 
 And ne'er did heaven so much a voyage bless, 
 If thou canst plant but there with like success. 
 
 On the Death of Mr. Crashaw. [1650 
 
 POET and Saint ! to thee alone are given 
 The two most sacred names of Earth and Heaven. 
 The hard and rarest union which can be, 
 Next that of Godhead with Humanity. 
 Long did the Muses banish'd slaves abide, 
 And built vain pyramids to mortal pride ; 
 Like Moses, thou, though spells and charms with- 
 stand, 
 Hast brought them nobly home back to their 
 
 Holy Land. 
 Ah wretched we, poets of earth ! but thou 
 
COWLEY. 95 
 
 Wert living the same poet thou art now. 
 Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine, 
 And joy in an applause so great as thine. 
 Equal society with them to hold, 
 Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old. 
 And they, kind spirits ! shall all rejoice to see 
 How little less than they, exalted man may be. 
 
 Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell, 
 The heavenliest thing on earth still keeps up hell. 
 Nor have we yet quite purged the Christian land ; 
 Still idols here, like calves at Bethel, stand. 
 And though Pan's death long since all oracles 
 
 broke, 
 
 Yet still in rime the fiend Apollo spoke : 
 Nay, with the worst of heathen dotage we, 
 (Vain men !) the monster woman deify ; 
 Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face, 
 And Paradise in them by whom we lost it, place. 
 What different faults corrupt our Muses thus ? 
 Wanton as girls, as old wives, fabulous 
 
 Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain 
 The boundless Godhead ; she did well disdain 
 That her eternal verse employ'd should be 
 On a less subject than Eternity; 
 And for a sacred mistress scorn to take, 
 But her whom God himself scorn 'd not his spouse 
 
 to make. 
 
 It, (in a kind,) her miracle did do ; 
 A fruitful mother was, and virgin too. 
 
 How well, blest Swan, did fate contrive thy 
 
 death, 
 
 And made thee render up thy tuneful breath 
 In thy great mistress' arms ? thou most divine, 
 
96 COWLEY. 
 
 And richest offering of Loretto's shrine ! 
 Where like some holy sacrifice to expire, 
 A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire. 
 Angels, they say, brought the famed Chapel there, 
 And bore the sacred load in triumph through the 
 
 air. 
 
 'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they, 
 And thou, their charge, went singing all the way. 
 
 Pardon, my mother Church, if I consent 
 That angels led him when from thee he went, 
 For even in error sure no danger is 
 When join'd with so much piety as his. 
 Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak 't, and grief, 
 Ah that our greatest faults were in belief ! 
 And our weak reason were even weaker yet, 
 Rather than thus our wills too strong for it. 
 His faith perhaps in some nice tenets might 
 Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right. 
 And I myself a Catholic will be, 
 So far, at least, great Saint, to pray to thee. 
 Hail bard triumphant ! and some care bestow 
 On us, the poets militant below ! 
 Opposed by our old enemy, adverse Chance, 
 Attack'd by Envy, and by Ignorance, 
 Enchain'd by Beauty, tortured by Desires, 
 Exposed by tyrant Love to savage beasts and fires. 
 Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise, 
 And like Elijah, mount alive the skies. 
 Elisha-like (but with a wish much less, 
 More fit thy greatness, and my littleness) 
 Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove 
 So humble to Esteem, so good to love) 
 Not that thy Spirit might on me doubled be, 
 
DENHAM. 97 
 
 I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me. 
 And when my Muse soars with so strong a wing, 
 'T will learn of things divine, and first of thee, to 
 sing. 
 
 DENHAM. 
 
 From Verses on Mr. John Fletcher's 
 
 Works. [1647 
 
 BUT whither am I stray'd ? I need not raise 
 Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise ; 
 Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built, 
 Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt 
 Of Eastern kings, who to secure their reign, 
 Must have their brothers, sons and kindred slain. 
 Then was wit's empire at the fatal height, 
 When labouring and sinking with its weight, 
 From thence a thousand lesser poets sprung, 
 Like petty princes from the fall of Rome ; 
 When Jonson, Shakespeare, and thyself did sit, 
 And sway'd in the triumvirate of wit. 
 
 Yet what from Jonson's oil and sweat did flow, Jonson. 
 
 Or what more easy Nature did bestow 
 On Shakespeare's gentler Muse, in thee full-grown Shake- 
 Their graces both appear ; yet so, that none 
 Can say, here Nature ends and Art begins. 
 But mix'd like the elements, and born like twins ; 
 So interweaved, so like, so much the same, 
 None this mere Nature, that mere Art can name : 
 'Twas this the ancients meant ; Nature and Skill 
 Are the two tops of their Parnassus hill. 
 H 
 
98 DENHAM. 
 
 \c. 1667 
 
 On Mr. Abraham Cowley his Death and 
 Burial amongst the Ancient Poets. 
 
 Chaucer- OLD Chaucer, like the morning star, 
 To us discovers day from far ; 
 His light those mists and clouds dissolved, 
 Which our dark nation long involved : 
 But he descending to the shades, 
 Darkness again the age invades. 
 
 Spenser. Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose, 
 
 Whose purple blush the day foreshows ; 
 The other three, with his own fires, 
 Phoebus, the poet's god, inspires ; 
 
 Shake- By Shakespeare's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines, 
 
 U>nson ^ ur s ^ a S e ' s lustre Rome's outshines : 
 
 Fletcher. These poets near our princes sleep, 
 
 And in one grave their mansion keep. 
 They lived to see so many days, 
 Till time had blasted all their bays : 
 But cursed be the fatal hour 
 That pluck'd the fairest, sweetest flower 
 That in the Muses' garden grew, 
 And amongst wither'd laurels threw. 
 Time, which made them their fame out-live 
 
 Cowley. To Cowley scarce did ripeness give. 
 
 Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave 
 
 Shake- Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have ; 
 
 speare. j n Spenser and in Tonson, Art 
 
 Fletcher, ^ r i XT .. v 
 
 Spenser, Of slower Nature got the start ; 
 
 Jonson. > U f- b ot n in him so equal are, 
 
 Cowley. None knows which bears the happiest share ; 
 
 To him no author was unknown, 
 
DENHAM. 99 
 
 Yet what he wrote was all his own ; 
 
 He melted not the ancient gold, 
 
 Nor with Ben Jonson, did make bold 
 
 To plunder all the Roman stores 
 
 Of poets, and of orators : 
 
 Horace's wit, and Virgil's state, 
 
 He did not steal, but emulate ! 
 
 And when he would like them appear, 
 
 Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear : 
 
 He not from Rome alone, but Greece, 
 
 Like Jason, brought the golden fleece ; 
 
 To him that language (though to none 
 
 Of the others) as his own was known. 
 
 On a stiff gale, (as Flaccus sings), 
 
 The Theban swan extends his wings 
 
 When through the ethereal clouds he flies, 
 
 To the same pitch our swan doth rise ; 
 
 Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd, 
 
 When on that gale his wings are stretch'd ; 
 
 His fancy and his judgment such, 
 
 Each to the other seem'd too much, 
 
 His severe judgment (giving law) 
 
 His modest fancy kept in awe : 
 
 As rigid husbands jealous are, 
 
 When they believe their wives too fair. 
 
 His English streams so pure did flow, 
 
 As all that saw and tasted know, 
 
 But for his Latin vein, so clear, 
 
 Strong, full, and high it doth appear, 
 
 That were immortal Virgil here, 
 
 Him, for his judge, he would not fear; 
 
 Of that great portraiture, so true 
 
 A copy pencil never drew. 
 
BUTLER. 
 
 BUTLER. 
 
 On Critics who judge of modern plays pre- 
 cisely by the rules of the ancients. \J>. 1754 
 
 AN English poet should be tried by his peers, 
 
 And not by pedants and philosophers, 
 
 Incompetent to judge poetic fury, 
 
 As butchers are forbid to be of a jury ; 
 
 Besides the most intolerable wrong 
 
 To try their matters in a foreign tongue, 
 
 By foreign jurymen, like Sophocles, 
 
 Or Tales falser than Euripides ; 
 
 When not an English native dares appear 
 
 To be a witness for the prisoner ; 
 
 When all the laws they use to arraign and try 
 
 The innocent and wrong'd delinquent by, 
 
 Were made by a foreign lawyer, and his pupils, 
 
 To put an end to all poetic scruples, 
 
 And by the advice of virtuosi Tuscans, 
 
 Determined all the doubts of socks and buskins ; 
 
 Gave judgment on all past and future plays, 
 
 As is apparent by Speroni's case, 
 
 Which Lope Vega first began to steal, 
 
 And after him the French filou Corneille ; 
 
 And since our English plagiaries nim, 
 
 And steal their far-fet criticisms from him, 
 
 And, by an action falsely laid of Trover, 
 
 The lumber for their proper goods recover ; 
 
 Enough to furnish all the lewd impeachers, 
 
 Of witty Beaumont's poetry, and Fletcher's, 
 
 Who for a few misprisions of wit, 
 
MARVELL. 101 
 
 Are charged by those who ten times worse commit ; 
 And for misjudging some unhappy scenes, 
 Are censured for 't with more unlucky sense ; 
 When all their worst miscarriages delight, 
 And please more than the best that pedants write. 
 
 MARVELL. 
 
 On Milton's Paradise Lost. [1674 
 
 WHEN I beheld the poet blind, yet bold, 
 In slender book his vast design unfold, 
 Messiah crown'd, God's reconciled decree, 
 Rebelling Angels, the forbidden Tree, 
 Heaven, Hell, Earth, Chaos, all ; the argument 
 Held me awhile misdoubting his intent, 
 That he would ruin, (for I saw him strong) 
 The sacred truths to fable and old song ; 
 So Sampson grasp'd the temple's posts in spite, 
 The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight. 
 
 Yet as I read, soon growing less severe, 
 I liked his project, the success did fear ; 
 Thro' that wide field how he his way should find, 
 O'er which lame faith leads understanding blind ; 
 Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain, 
 And what was easy he should render vain. 
 
 Or if a work so infinite he spann'd, 
 Jealous I was that some less skilful hand, 
 (Such as disquiet always what is well, 
 And by ill-imitating would excel,) 
 Might hence presume the whole creation's day 
 To change in scenes, and show it in a play. 
 
102 MARVELL. 
 
 Pardon me, mighty poet, nor despise 
 My causeless, yet not impious surmise, 
 But I am now convinced, and none will dare 
 Within thy labours to pretend a share. 
 Thou hast not miss'd one thought that could be fit, 
 And all that was improper dost omit ; 
 So that no room is here for writers left, 
 But to detect their ignorance or theft. 
 
 That majesty which thro' thy work doth reign 
 Draws the devout, deterring the profane. 
 And things divine thou treat'st of in such state 
 As them preserves, and thee, inviolate. 
 At once delight and horror on us seize, 
 Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease ; 
 And above human flight dost soar aloft, 
 With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft : 
 The bird named from that paradise you sing 
 So never flags, but always keeps on wing. 
 Where could 'st thou words of such a compass find ? 
 Whence furnish such a vast expense of mind ? 
 Just heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite, 
 Rewards with prophecy thy loss of sight. 
 
 Well might thou scorn thy readers to allure 
 With tinkling rime, of thy own sense secure ; 
 While the Town-Bayes writes all the while and 
 
 spells, 
 
 And like a pack-horse tires without his bells. 
 Their fancies like our bushy points appear, 
 The poets tag them ; we for fashion wear. 
 I too, transported by the mode, offend, 
 And while I meant to praise thee, miscommend. 
 Thy verse created like thy theme sublime, 
 In number, weight, and measure, needs not rime. 
 
VAUGHAN. 103 
 
 VAUGHAN. 
 
 To Sir William D'Avenant upon his 
 Gondibert. [ l6 5 
 
 WELL, we are rescued ! and by thy rare pen 
 
 Poets shall live, when princes die like men. 
 
 Th' hast clear'd the prospect to our harmless hill, 
 
 Of late years clouded with imputed ill, 
 
 And the soft, youthful couples there may move, 
 
 As chaste as stars converse and smile above. 
 
 Th' hast taught their language and their love to flow 
 
 Calm as rose-leaves, and pure as virgin-snow, 
 
 Which doubly feasts us, being so refined 
 
 They both delight, and dignify the mind ; 
 
 Like to the watery music of some spring, 
 
 "Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing. 
 
 And where before heroic poems were 
 Made up of spirits, prodigies, and fear, 
 And shew'd through all the melancholy flight 
 Like some dark region overcast with night, 
 As if the poet had been quite dismay 'd, 
 While only giants and enchantments sway'd ; 
 Thou like the sun, whose eye brooks no disguise 
 Hast chased them hence, and with discoveries 
 So rare and learned fill'd the place, that we 
 Those famed grandezas find out-done by thee, 
 And under-foot see all those vizards hurl'd, 
 Which bred the wonder of the former world. 
 'Twas dull to sit as our forefathers did, 
 At crumbs and voiders, and because unbid, 
 
104 DRYDEN. 
 
 Refrain wise appetite. This made thy fire 
 
 Break through the ashes of thy aged sire, 
 
 To lend the world such a convincing light 
 
 As shews his fancy darker than his sight. 
 
 Nor was 't alone the bars and lengths of days 
 
 Though those gave strength and stature to his 
 
 bays 
 
 Encounter'd thee, but what's an old complaint 
 And kills the fancy, a forlorn restraint ; 
 How could'st thou mured in solitary stones 
 Dress Birtha's smiles, though well thou might'st 
 
 her groans ? 
 
 And, strangely eloquent, thy self divide 
 'Twixt sad misfortunes, and a bloomy bride ? 
 Through all the tenour of thy ample song 
 Spun from thy own rich store, and shared among 
 Those fair adventurers, we plainly see 
 The imputed gifts, inherent are in thee. 
 Then live for ever and by high desert 
 In thy own mirror, matchless Gondibert, 
 And in bright Birtha leave thy love inshrined 
 Fresh as her emrauld, and fair as her mind, 
 While all confess thee as they ought to do 
 The prince of poets and of lovers too. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 On Palemon and Arcite. [1700 
 
 THE bard who first adorn'd our native tongue, 
 Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song : 
 
DRYDEN. 105 
 
 Which Homer might without a blush rehearse, 
 And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse : 
 He match'd their beauties where they most excel ; 
 Of love sung better, and of arms as well. 
 
 From The Art of Poetry. 
 
 IN all he writes appears a noble fire ; Juvenal. 
 
 To follow such a master then desire. 
 
 Chaucer alone, fix'd on this solid base, Chaucer. 
 
 In his old style conserves a modern grace : 
 
 Too happy, if the freedom of his rimes 
 
 Offended not the method of our times. 
 
 Under Mr. Milton's picture before his 
 Paradise Lost. 
 
 THREE Poets in three distant ages born, 
 
 Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
 
 The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd ; Homer. 
 
 The next, in majesty ; in both the last. Virgil. 
 
 The force of nature could no further go ; 
 
 To make a third she join'd the former two. Milton. 
 
 From Prologue to Aurengzebe. [1672 
 
 OUR author by experience, finds it true, 
 
 'Tis much more hard to please himself than you ; 
 
 And out of no feign 'd modesty, this day 
 
 Damns his laborious trifle of a play : 
 
 Not that it's worse than what before he writ, 
 
 But he has now another taste of wit ; 
 
 And to confess a truth, though out of time, 
 
 Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rime. 
 
io6 DRYDEN. 
 
 Passion 's too fierce to be in fetters bound, 
 And nature flies him like enchanted ground : 
 What verse can do he has perform'd in this, 
 Which he presumes the most correct of his ; 
 But spite of all his pride, a secret shame 
 Invades his breast at Shakespeare's sacred name : 
 Awed when he hears his god -like Romans rage, 
 He, in a just despair would quit the stage ; 
 And to an age less polish'd, more unskill'd, 
 Does with disdain the foremost honours yield. 
 As with the greater dead he dares not strive, 
 He would not match his verse with those who live : 
 Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast, 
 The first of this, and hindmost of the last. 
 
 From Prologue to Troilus and Cressida. 
 The ghost of Shakespeare log. [1679 
 
 SEE, my loved Britons, see your Shakespeare rise, 
 An awful ghost confess'd to human eyes ! 
 Unnamed, methinks, distinguish'd I had been 
 From other shades by this eternal green, 
 About whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive, 
 And with a touch their wither'd bays revive. 
 Untaught, unpractised, in a barbarous age, 
 I found not, but created first the stage. 
 And, if I drain'd no Greek or Latin store, 
 'Twas that my own abundance gave me more. 
 On foreign trade I needed not rely, 
 Like fruitful Britain, rich without supply. 
 In this my rough-drawn play you shall behold 
 Some master-strokes, so manly and so bold, 
 That he who meant to alter, found 'em such, 
 
DRYDEN. 107 
 
 He shook, and thought it sacrilege to touch. 
 Now, where are the successors to my name ? 
 What bring they to fill out a poet's fame ? 
 Weak, short-lived issues of a feeble age ; 
 Scarce living to be christen'd on the stage ! 
 For humour farce, for love they rime dispense, 
 That tolls the knell for their departed sense. 
 
 From Prologue to the Tempest. [1667 
 
 As when a tree 's cut down, the secret root 
 Lives underground, and thence new branches 
 
 shoot ; Shake 
 
 So from old Shakespeare's honour'd dust, this speare. 
 
 day 
 
 Springs up and buds a new reviving play : 
 Shakespeare, who (taught by none) did first impart Flet , 
 To Fletcher wit, to labouring Jonson art. and 
 
 He, monarch-like, gave those his subjects, law ; Jonson. 
 And is that nature which they paint and draw. 
 Fletcher reach 'd that which on his heights did 
 
 grow, 
 
 While Jonson crept, and gather'd all below. 
 This did his love, and this his mirth digest : 
 One imitates him most, the other best. 
 If they have since outwrit all other men, 
 'Tis with the drops which fell from Shakespeare's 
 
 pen. 
 The storm, which vanish'd on the neighbouring 
 
 shore, 
 Was taught by Shakespeare's Tempest first to 
 
 roar. 
 That innocence and beauty which did smile 
 
io8 DRYDEN. 
 
 In Fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle. 
 But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be ; 
 Within that circle none durst walk but he. 
 I must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now 
 That liberty to vulgar wits allow, 
 Which works by magic supernatural things : 
 But Shakespeare's power is sacred as a king's. 
 Those legends from old priesthood were received, 
 And he then writ, as people then believed. 
 
 From Prologue to Albumazar. [1668 
 
 To say, this comedy pleased long ago, 
 Is not enough to make it pass you now. 
 Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit ; 
 When few men censured, and when fewer writ. 
 And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this, 
 As the best model of his masterpiece. 
 Subtle was got by our Albumazar, 
 That Alchymist by this Astrologer ; 
 Here he was fashion 'd, and we may suppose 
 He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes. 
 But Ben made nobly his what he did mould ; 
 What was another's lead becomes his gold : 
 Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns, 
 Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains. 
 
 Epilogue to the Second Part of The 
 
 Conquest of Granada. [1672 
 
 THEY who have best succeeded on the stage, 
 Have still conform'd their genius to their age. 
 Thus Jonson did mechanic humour show, 
 
DRYDEN. 109 
 
 When men were dull, and conversation low. 
 
 Their comedy was faultless, but 'twas coarse : 
 
 Cobb's tankard was a jest, and Otter's horse. 
 
 And, as their comedy, their love was mean ; 
 
 Except, by chance, in some one labour'd scene, 
 
 Which must atone for an ill-written play. 
 
 They rose, but at their height could seldom stay. 
 
 Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped ; 
 
 And they have kept it since by being dead. 
 
 But, were they now to write, when Critics weigh 
 
 Each line, and every word, throughout a play, 
 
 None of them, no, not Jonson in his height, Jonson. 
 
 Could pass, without allowing grains for weight. 
 
 Think it not envy that these truths are told : 
 
 Our poet 's not malicious though he 's bold. 
 
 'Tis not to brand them, that their faults are shown, 
 
 But by their errors, to excuse his own. 
 
 If love and honour now are higher raised, 
 
 'Tis not the poet, but the age is praised. 
 
 Wit 's now arrived to a more high degree ; 
 
 Our native language more refined and free. 
 
 Then, one of these is, consequently, true ; 
 
 That what this poet writes comes short of you, 
 
 And imitates you ill (which most he fears), 
 
 Or else his^writing is not worse than theirs. 
 
 Yet though you judge (as sure the critics will), 
 
 That some before him writ with greater skill, 
 
 In this one praise he has their fame surpast, 
 
 To please an age more gallant than the last. 
 
no 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 From The Art of Poetry. 
 
 OBSERVE the town, and study well the court ; 
 
 For thither various characters resort : 
 
 Thus 'twas great Jonson purchased his renown, 
 
 And in his art had borne away the crown ; 
 
 If, less desirous of the people's praise, 
 
 He had not with low farce debased his plays ; 
 
 Mix'd dull buffoonery with wit refined, 
 
 And Harlequin with noble Terence join'd. 
 
 When in the Fox I see the tortoise hiss'd 
 
 I lose the author of the Alchymist. 
 
 YOUR bully poets, bully heroes write : 
 Chapman in Bussy d'Ambois took delight, 
 And thought perfection was to huff and fight. 
 
 OUR ancient verse, as homely as the times, 
 
 Was rude, unmeasured, overclogg'd with rhymes ; 
 
 Number and cadence that have since been shown, 
 
 To those unpolish'd writers were unknown. 
 
 Fairfax was he, who in that darker age, 
 
 By his just rules restrain'd poetic rage ; 
 
 Spenser did next in pastorals excel, 
 
 And taught the noble art of writing well : 
 
 To stricter rules the stanza did restrain, 
 
 And found for poetry a richer vein. 
 
 Then D' Avenant came ; who with a new-found art, 
 
 Changed all, spoil'd all, and had his way apart : 
 
 His haughty Muse all others did despise, 
 
 And thought in triumph to bear off the prize, 
 
 Till the sharp-sighted critics of the times, 
 
 In their Mock-Gondibert, exposed his rhymes ; 
 
DRYDEN. in 
 
 The laurels he pretended did refuse, 
 
 And dash'd the hopes of his aspiring muse. 
 
 This headstrong writer falling from on high, 
 
 Made following authors take less liberty. 
 
 Waller came last, but was the first whose art Waller. 
 
 Just weight and measure did to verse impart ; 
 
 That of a well-placed word could teach the force, 
 
 And show'd for poetry a nobler course ; 
 
 His happy genius did our tongue refine, 
 
 And easy words with pleasing numbers join : 
 
 His verses to good method did apply, 
 
 And changed hard discord to soft harmony. 
 
 All own'd his laws ; which long approved and tried, 
 
 To present authors now may be a guide. 
 
 Tread boldly in his steps, secure from fear, 
 
 And be, like him, in your expressions clear. 
 
 LET not so mean a style your muse debase : 
 
 But learn from Butler the buffooning grace. Butler. 
 
 Epistle to my dear friend, Mr. Congreve 
 on his Comedy called The Double Dealer. 
 
 WELL then, the promised hour is come at last, 
 
 The present age of wit obscures the past ; 
 
 Strong were our sires, and as they fought they 
 
 writ, 
 
 Conquering with force of arms and dint of wit : 
 Theirs was the giant race, before the flood ; 
 And thus when Charles return'd our empire stood. 
 Like Janus he the stubborn soil manured, 
 With rules of husbandry the rankness cured ; 
 
112 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 Congreve. 
 
 Fletcher. 
 
 Jonson. 
 
 Ether ege 
 and 
 
 Southerne. 
 Wycherly. 
 
 Tuned us to manners, when the stage was rude ; 
 
 And boisterous English wit with art indued. 
 
 Our age was cultivated thus at length ; 
 
 But what we gain'd in skill we lost in strength. 
 
 Our builders were with want of genius cursed ; 
 
 The second temple was not like the first : 
 
 Till you, the best Vitruvius came at length ; 
 
 Our beauties equal, but excel our strength. 
 
 Firm Doric pillars found your solid base : 
 
 The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space ; 
 
 Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace. 
 
 In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise ;. 
 
 He moved the mind, but had not power to raise. 
 
 Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please ; 
 
 Yet doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease. 
 
 In differing talents both adorn 'd their age ; 
 
 One for the study, t' other for the stage. 
 
 But both to Congreve justly shall submit, 
 
 One match'd in judgment, both o'ermatched in 
 
 wit. 
 
 In him all beauties of this age we see, 
 Etherege his courtship, Southerne's purity, 
 The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherly. 
 All this in blooming youth you have achieved : 
 Nor are your foil'd contemporaries grieved. 
 So much the sweetness of your manners move, 
 We cannot envy you, because we love. 
 Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw 
 A beardless consul made against the law, 
 And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome ; 
 Though he with Hannibal was overcome. 
 Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame, 
 And scholar to the youth he taught became. 
 
DRY DEN. 113 
 
 O that your brows my laurel had sustain'd ! 
 Well had I been deposed, if you had reign'd : 
 The father had descended like the son ; 
 For only you are lineal to the throne. 
 Thus, when the state one Edward did depose, 
 A greater Edward in his room arose. 
 But now, not I, but poetry is cursed ; 
 For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first. 
 But let them not mistake my patron's part, 
 Nor call his charity, their own desert. 
 Yet this I prophesy ; thou shalt be seen, 
 (Though with some short parenthesis between) 
 High on the throne of wit, and seated there. 
 Not mine, that 's little, but thy laurel wear. 
 Thy first attempt an early promise made ; 
 That early promise this has more than paid. 
 So bold, yet so judiciously you dare, 
 That your least praise is to be regular. 
 Time, place, and action, may with pains be 
 
 wrought ; 
 
 But genius must be born, and never can be taught. 
 This is your portion ; this your native store ; 
 Heaven, that but once was prodigal before, 
 To Shakespeare gave as much ; she could not give shake- 
 him more. speare. 
 
 Maintain your post : that 's all the fame you need ; 
 For 'tis impossible you should proceed. 
 Already I am worn with cares and age, 
 And just abandoning the ungrateful stage : 
 Unprofitably kept at heaven's expense, 
 I live a rent-charge on his providence : 
 But you whom every muse and grace adorn, 
 Whom I foresee to better fortune born, 
 I 
 
114 ROCHESTER. 
 
 Be kind to my remains ; and O defend, 
 Against your judgment, your departed friend ! 
 Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, 
 But shade those laurels which descend to you : 
 And take for tribute what these lines express : 
 You merit more ; nor could my love do less. 
 
 ROCHESTER. 
 
 From An Allusion to the tenth Satire of th< 
 first book of Horace. [167: 
 
 Dryden. WELL, sir, 'tis granted ; I said Dryden's rimes 
 
 Were stolen, unequal, nay dull, many times : 
 What foolish patron is there found of his, 
 So blindly partial to deny me this ? 
 But that his plays, embroider'd up and down 
 With wit and learning, justly please the town, 
 In the same paper I as freely own. 
 Yet, having this allow'd, the heavy mass 
 That stuffs up his loose volumes must not pass ; 
 For by that rule I might as well admit 
 Crown's tedious scenes for poetry and wit. 
 
 ****** 
 But to be just, 'twill to his praise be found, 
 His excellences more than faults abound : 
 Nor dare I from his sacred temples tear 
 The laurel, which he best deserves to wear. 
 
 Jonson. But does not Dryden find even Jonson dull ? 
 
 Beaumont Beaumont and Fletcher incorrect, and full 
 
 Fletcher Of lewd lines, as he calls them ? Shakespeare 
 
 style 
 
ROCHESTER. II 
 
 Stiff and affected ? to his own the while 
 
 Allowing all the justice that his pride 
 
 So arrogantly had to these denied ? 
 
 And may not I have leave impartially 
 
 To search and censure Dryden's works, and try 
 
 If those gross faults his choice pen doth commit 
 
 Proceed from want of judgment, or of wit ? 
 
 Or, if his lumpish fancy doth refuse 
 
 Spirit and grace to his loose slattern Muse ? 
 
 Five hundred verses every morning writ, 
 
 Prove him no more a poet than a wit : 
 
 Such scribbling authors have been seen before ; 
 
 Mustapha, the Island Princess, forty more, 
 
 Were things perhaps composed in half an hour. 
 
 A JEST in scorn points out and hits the thing 
 More home, than the remotest satire's sting. 
 Shakespeare and Jonson did in this excel, 
 And might herein be imitated well ; 
 Whom refined Etherege copies not at all, 
 But is himself a sheer original. 
 
 ****** 
 Waller, by nature for the bays design'd, 
 With force, and fire, and fancy unconfined 
 In panegyric does excel mankind. 
 He best can turn, enforce, and soften things, 
 To praise great conquerors, and flatter kings. 
 For pointed satire I would Buckhurst choose, 
 The best good man, with the worst -natured Muse. 
 
 Shake- 
 speare and 
 Jonson. 
 Etherege. 
 
 Waller. 
 
 Buckhurst. 
 
116 OLDHAM. 
 
 OLDHAM. 
 
 From A Satire dissuading from [1681 
 Poetry. 
 
 Butler. ON Butler, who can think without just rage, 
 
 The glory and the scandal of the age ? 
 Fair stood his hopes, when first he came to town, 
 Met every where with welcomes of renown, 
 Courted, caress'd by all, with wonder read, 
 And promises of princely favour fed : 
 But what reward for all had he at last, 
 After a life in dull expectance past ? 
 The wretch, at summing up his mis-spent days, 
 Found nothing left but poverty and praise. 
 Of all his gains by verse he could not save 
 Enough to purchase flannel and a grave : 
 Reduced to want, he in due time fell sick, 
 Was fain to die, and be interred on tick, 
 And well might bless the fever that was sent 
 To rid him hence, and his worse fate prevent. 
 
PERIOD IV. 
 
 POETS BORN IN THE 
 XVI ITH CENTURY. 
 
 ADDISON TO SWIFT. 
 
ADDISON. 
 
 An Account of the greatest English Poets. 
 To Mr. Henry Sacheverell. [1694 
 
 SINCE, dearest Harry, you will needs request 
 
 A short account of all the muse-possest, 
 
 That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's 
 
 times, 
 
 Have spent their noble rage in British rimes ; 
 Without more preface, writ in formal length, 
 To speak the undertaker's want of strength, 
 I'll try to make their several beauties known, 
 And show their verses' worth, though not my own. 
 
 Long had our dull forefathers slept supine, 
 
 Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful nine ; 
 
 Till Chaucer first, a merry bard, arose, Chaucer. 
 
 And many a story told in rime and prose. 
 
 But age has rusted what the poet writ, 
 
 Worn out his language, and obscured his wit : 
 
 In vain he jests in his unpolish'd strain, 
 
 And tries to make his readers laugh in vain. 
 
 Old Spenser next, warm'd with poetic rage, Spenser. 
 
 In ancient tales amused a barbarous age ; 
 An age that yet uncultivate and rude, 
 
120 ADDISON. 
 
 Where'er the poet's fancy led, pursued 
 Through pathless fields and unfrequented floods, 
 To dens of dragons and enchanted woods. 
 But now the mystic tale that pleased of yore, 
 Can charm an understanding age no more ; 
 The long-spun allegories fulsome grow, 
 While the dull moral lies too plain below. 
 We view well-pleased at distance all the sights 
 Of arms and palfreys, battles, fields, and fights, 
 And damsels in distress, and courteous knights. 
 But, when we look too near, the shades decay, 
 And all the pleasing landscape fades away. 
 Cowley. Great Cowley then, a mighty genius, wrote, 
 
 O'er-run with wit, and lavish of his thought : 
 His turns too closely on the reader press : 
 He more had pleased us, had he pleased us less. 
 One glittering thought no sooner strikes our eyes 
 With silent wonder, but new wonders rise. 
 As in the milky-way a shining white 
 O'erflows the heavens with one continued light ; 
 That not a single star can show his rays, 
 Whilst jointly all promote the common blaze. 
 Pardon, great poet, that I dare to name 
 The unnumber'd beauties of thy verse with blame ; 
 Thy fault is only wit in its excess, 
 But wit like thine in any shape will please. 
 What muse like thine can equal hints inspire, 
 And fit the deep-mouth'd Pindar to thy lyre : 
 Pindar, whom others in a labour'd strain, 
 And forced expression, imitate in vain ? 
 Well-pleased in thee he soars with new delight, 
 And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a 
 nobler flight. 
 
ADD ISO N. 121 
 
 Blest man ! whose spotless life and charming lays 
 Employ'd the tuneful prelate in thy praise : 
 Blest man ! who now shall be for ever known, 
 In Sprat's successful labours and thy own. 
 
 But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks, Milton. 
 Unfetter'd in majestic numbers walks ; 
 No vulgar hero can his muse engage ; 
 Nor earth's wide scene confine his hallow'd rage. 
 See ! see, he upward springs, and towering high 
 Spurns the dull province of mortality, 
 Shakes heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms, 
 And sets the almighty thunderer in arms. 
 Whate'er his pen describes I more than see, 
 Whilst every verse, array'd in majesty, 
 Bold and sublime, my whole attention draws, 
 And seems above the critic's nicer laws. 
 How are you struck with terror and delight, 
 When angel with archangel copes in fight ! 
 When great Messiah's outspread banner shines, 
 How does the chariot rattle in his lines ! 
 What sounds of brazen wheels, [what thunder, 
 
 scare, 
 
 And stun the reader with the din of war ! 
 W T ith fear my spirits and my blood retire, 
 To see the seraphs sunk in clouds of fire ; 
 But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise, 
 And view the first gay scenes of Paradise ; 
 What tongue, what words of rapture can express 
 A vision so profuse of pleasantness ! 
 O, had the poet ne'er profaned his pen, 
 To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men, 
 His other works might have deserved applause ! 
 But now the language can't support the cause ; 
 
122 ADDISON. 
 
 While the clean current, though serene and bright, 
 Betrays a bottom odious to the sight. 
 
 But now my muse a softer strain rehearse, 
 Turn every line with art, and smooth thy verse ; 
 
 Waller. The courtly Waller next commands thy lays : 
 
 Muse, turn thy verse, with art, to Waller's praise ! 
 While tender airs and lovely dames inspire 
 Soft melting thoughts, and propagate desire ; 
 So long shall Waller's strains our passion move, 
 And Sacharissa's beauties kindle love. 
 Thy verse, harmonious bard, and flattering song, 
 Can make the vanquish'd great, the coward strong. 
 Thy verse can show even Cromwell's innocence, 
 And compliment the storms that bore him hence. 
 O, had thy muse not come an age too soon, 
 But seen great Nassau on the British throne ! 
 How had his triumphs glitter'd in thy page, 
 And warm'd thee to a more exalted rage ! 
 What scenes of death and horror had we view'd, 
 And how had Boyne's wide current reek'd in blood ! 
 Or if Maria's charms thou would'st rehearse, 
 In smoother numbers and a softer verse ; 
 Thy pen had well described her graceful air, 
 And Gloriana would have seem'd more fair. 
 
 Roscomjnon. Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by, 
 That makes even rules a noble poetry ; 
 Rules whose deep sense and heavenly numbers 
 
 show 
 The best of critics, and of poets too. 
 
 Denham. Nor, Denham, must we e'er forget thy strains, 
 
 While Cooper's Hill commands the neighbouring 
 plains. 
 
 Dryden. But see where artful Dryden next appears 
 
PRIOR. 123 
 
 Grown old in rime, but charming even in years. 
 
 Great Dryden next, whose tuneful muse affords 
 
 The sweetest numbers, and the fittest words. 
 
 Whether in comic sounds or tragic airs 
 
 She forms her voice, she moves our smiles or tears. 
 
 If satire or heroic strains she writes, 
 
 Her hero pleases, and her satire bites. 
 
 From her no harsh unartful numbers fall, 
 
 She wears all dresses, and she charms in all. 
 
 How might we fear our English poetry, 
 
 That long has flourish'd, should decay with thee ; 
 
 Did not the muses' other hope appear, 
 
 Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear : Congreve. 
 
 Congreve ! whose fancy's unexhausted store 
 
 Has given already much, and promised more. 
 
 Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive, 
 
 And Dryden's muse shall in his friend survive. 
 
 PRIOR. 
 From An Ode. [1706 
 
 WHEN bright Eliza ruled Britannia's state, 
 
 Widely distributing her high commands, 
 
 And boldly wise, and fortunately great, 
 
 Freed the glad nations from tyrannic bands ; 
 
 An equal genius was in Spenser found ; Spenser. 
 
 To the high theme he match'd his noble lays ; 
 
 He travell'd England o'er on fairy ground, 
 
 In mystic notes to sing his monarch's praise : 
 
 Reciting wondrous truths in pleasing dreams, 
 
 He deck'd Eliza's head with Gloriana's beams. 
 
124 PRIOR. 
 
 From Alma. [1718 
 
 BUT shall we take the Muse abroad 
 To drop her idly on the road ? 
 And leave our subject in the middle ; 
 Butler. As Butler did his bear and fiddle ? 
 
 Yet he, consummate master, knew 
 When to recede, and where pursue ; 
 His noble negligences teach 
 What others' toils despair to reach. 
 He, perfect dancer, climbs the rope, 
 And balances your fear and hope : 
 If, after some distinguish'd leap, 
 He drops his pole, and seems to slip, 
 Straight gathering all his active strength, 
 He rises higher half his length. 
 With wonder you approve his sleight ; 
 And owe your pleasure to your fright. 
 But like poor Andrew I advance, 
 False mimic of my master's dance ; 
 Around the cord awhile I sprawl, 
 And thence, though low, in earnest fall. 
 
 O ABELARD, ill-fated youth, 
 Thy tale will justify this truth : 
 But well I weet, thy cruel wrong 
 Adorns a nobler poet's song. 
 Pope. Dan Pope, for thy misfortune grieved, 
 
 With kind concern and skill has weaved 
 A silken web ; and ne'er shall fade 
 Its colours ; gently has he laid 
 The mantle o'er thy sad distress : 
 
YOUNG. 125 
 
 And Venus shall the texture bless. 
 He o'er the weeping nun has drawn 
 Such artful folds of sacred lawn ; 
 That love, with equal grief and pride, 
 Shall see the crime he strives to hide ; 
 And, softly drawing back the veil, 
 The god shall to his votaries tell 
 Each conscious tear, each blushing grace, 
 That deck'd dear Eloisa's face. 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 From An Epistle to Lord Lansdowne. 
 
 OUR foes confess, nor we the praise refuse, 
 The drama glories in the British muse. 
 The French are delicate, and nicely lead 
 Of close intrigue the labyrinthine thread ; 
 Our genius more affects the grand, than fine, 
 Our strength can make the great plain action 
 
 shine : 
 
 They raise a great curiosity indeed, 
 From his dark maze to see the hero freed ; 
 We rouse the affections, and that hero show 
 Gasping beneath some formidable blow : 
 They sigh ; we weep : the Gallic doubt and care 
 We heighten into terror and despair ; 
 Strike home, the strongest passions boldly touch, 
 Nor fear our audience should be pleased too much. 
 What's great in nature we can greatly draw, 
 Nor thank for beauties the dramatic law. 
 
126 YOUNG. 
 
 The fate of Caesar is a tale too plain 
 
 The fickle Gallic taste to entertain ; 
 
 Their art would have perplext, and interwove 
 
 The golden arras with gay flowers of love ; 
 
 We know heaven made him a far greater man 
 
 Than any Caesar in a human plan, 
 
 And such we draw him, nor are too refined 
 
 To stand affected with what heaven design'd 
 
 To claim attention, and the heart invade ; 
 
 Shakespeare but wrote the play the Almighty made. 
 
 Our neighbour's stage art too bare-faced betrays, 
 
 'Tis great Corneille at every scene we praise ; 
 
 On nature's surer aid Britannia calls, 
 
 None think of Shakespeare till the curtain falls ; 
 
 Then with a sigh returns our audience home, 
 
 From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome. 
 
 France yields not to the glory of our lines, 
 But manly conduct of our strong designs ; 
 That oft they think more justly we must own, 
 Not ancient Greece a truer sense has shown : 
 Greece thought but justly, they think justly too ; 
 We sometimes err by striving more to do. 
 So well are Racine's meanest people taught, 
 But change a sentiment, you make a fault ; 
 Nor dare we charge them with the want of flame : 
 When we boast more, we own ourselves to blame. 
 
 And yet in Shakespeare something still I find, 
 That makes me less esteem all human kind ; 
 He made one nature, and another found, 
 Both in his page with master strokes abound : 
 His witches, fairies, and enchanted isle, 
 Bid us no longer at our nurses smile ; 
 Of lost historians we almost complain, 
 
TICKELL. 127 
 
 Nor think it the creation of his brain. 
 Who lives, when his Othello 's in a trance ? 
 With his great Talbot too he conquer'd France. 
 
 TICKELL. 
 
 On the Death of Mr. Addison. [1719 
 
 IF dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, 
 
 And left her debt to Addison unpaid, 
 
 Blame not her silence, Warwick ! but bemoan, 
 
 And judge, oh judge my bosom by your own ! 
 
 What mourner ever felt poetic fires ? 
 
 Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires ; 
 
 Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, 
 
 Or flowing members with a bleeding heart. 
 
 Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
 My soul's best part for ever to the grave ! 
 How silent did his old companions tread, 
 By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, 
 Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, 
 Through rows of warriors and through walks of 
 
 kings ! 
 
 What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire, 
 The pealing organ and the pausing choir, 
 The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid, 
 And the last words that dust to dust convey'd I 
 \Vhile speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, 
 Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend ! 
 Oh, gone for ever ! take this long adieu, 
 And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague. 
 To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine, 
 
128 TICKELL. 
 
 A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine ; 
 Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 
 And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. 
 If e'er from me thy loved memorial part, 
 May shame afflict this alienated heart ! 
 Of thee forgetful if I form a song, 
 My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue ; 
 My grief be doubled, from thy image free, 
 And mirth a torment unchastised by thee ! 
 
 Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, 
 Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown ; 
 Along the walls where speaking marbles show 
 What worthies form the hallow'd mould below : 
 Proud names ! who once the reign of empire held, 
 In arms who triumph'd, or in arts excell'd ; 
 Chiefs, graced with scars and prodigal of blood, 
 Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood, 
 Just men, by whom impartial laws were given, 
 And saints, who taught and led the way to 
 
 Heaven ! 
 
 Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, 
 Since their foundation came a nobler guest, 
 Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd 
 A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade. 
 
 In what new region to the just assign'd, 
 What new employments please the unbodied mind ! 
 A winged Virtue through the ethereal sky, 
 From world to world unwearied does he fly, 
 Or curious trace the long laborious maze 
 Of Heaven's decrees where wondering angels gaze ! 
 Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell 
 How Michael battled, and the dragon fell ; 
 Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow 
 
TICKELL. 129 
 
 In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below ? 
 Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind ? 
 A task well-suited to thy gentle mind. 
 Oh ! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, 
 To me thy aid, thou guardian genius ! lend. 
 When rage misguides me, or when pleasure charms, 
 When pain distresses, or when fear alarms, 
 In silent whisperings, purer thoughts impart, 
 And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart ; 
 Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 
 Till bliss shall join nor death can part us more. 
 
 That awful form which, so the Heavens decree, 
 Must still be loved and still deplored by me, 
 In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, 
 Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes. 
 If business calls, or crowded courts invite, 
 The unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my 
 
 sight ; 
 
 If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, 
 I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato, there ; 
 If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 
 His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove ; 
 'Tvvas there of just and good he reason'd strong, 
 Clear'd some great truth, or raised some serious 
 
 song; 
 
 There patient show'd us the wise course to steer, 
 A candid censor and a friend sincere ; 
 There taught us how to live, and (oh ! too high 
 The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. 
 Thou hill ! whose brow the antique structures 
 
 grace, 
 
 Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, 
 Why, once so loved, whene'er thy bower appears, 
 K 
 
130 TICKELL. 
 
 O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears ! 
 
 How sweet were once thy prospects, fresh and fair 
 
 Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air ! 
 
 How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, 
 
 Thy noontide shadow and thy evening breeze ! 
 
 His image thy forsaken bowers restore, 
 
 Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; 
 
 No more the summer, in thy glooms allay'd, 
 
 Thy evening breezes and thy noonday shade. 
 
 From other ills, however fortune frown'd, 
 Some refuge in the Muse's art I found ; 
 Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, 
 Bereft of him who taught me how to sing ; 
 And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn, 
 Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 
 
 O ! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, 
 And Craggs, in death, to Addison succeeds) 
 The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, 
 And weep a second in the unfinish'd song ! 
 These works divine, which on his death-bed laid, 
 To thee, O Craggs ! the expiring sage convey'd, 
 Great but ill-omen'd monument of fame, 
 Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim ; 
 Swift after him thy social spirit flies, 
 And close to his, how soon ! thy coffin lies. 
 Bless'd pair ! whose union future bards shall tell 
 In future tongues : each other's boast, farewell ! 
 Farewell ! whom join'd in fame, in friendship tried, 
 No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. 
 
POPE. 131 
 
 POPE. 
 
 From Windsor Forest. [ X 74 
 
 YE sacred Nine ! that all my soul possess, 
 Whose raptures fire me, and whose visions bless, 
 Bear me, O bear me to sequester'd scenes, 
 The bowery mazes, and surrounding greens ; 
 To Thames' banks, which fragrant breezes fill, 
 Or where ye muses sport on Cooper's hill. 
 (On Cooper's hill eternal wreaths shall grow, 
 While lasts the mountain, or while Thames shall 
 
 flow.) 
 
 I seem through consecrated walks to rove ; 
 I hear soft music die along the grove ; 
 Led by the sound I rove from shade to shade, 
 By god-like poets venerable made : 
 
 Here his first lays majestic Denham sung ; Denham. 
 
 There the last numbers flow'd from Cowley's Cowley. 
 
 tongue. 
 
 O early lost ! what tears the river shed, 
 When the sad pomp along his banks was led ! 
 His drooping swans on every note expire, 
 And on his willows hung each Muse's lyre. 
 
 Since fate relentless stopp'd their heavenly voice, 
 No more the forests ring, or groves rejoice ; 
 Who now shall charm the shades where Cowley 
 
 strung 
 
 His living harp, and lofty Denham sung ? 
 ****** 
 
 Here noble Surrey felt the sacred rage, Surrey. 
 
 Surrey, the Granville of a former age : 
 
132 POPE. 
 
 Matchless his pen, victorious was his lance, 
 Bold in the lists, and graceful in the dance : 
 In the same shades the Cupids tuned his lyre, 
 To the same notes, of love, and soft desire ; 
 Fair Geraldine, bright object of his vow, 
 Then fill'd the groves, as heavenly Mira now. 
 
 From An Essay on Criticism. [1711 
 
 LEAVE such to tune their own dull rimes and know 
 What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow : 
 And praise the easy vigour of a line 
 Where Denham's strength and Waller's sweetness 
 
 join. 
 
 ****** 
 Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, 
 And bid alternate passions fall and rise ! 
 While at each change the son of Libyan Jove 
 Now burns with glory, and then melts with love ; 
 Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, 
 Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow : 
 Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, 
 And the world's victor stood subdued by sound ! 
 The power of music all our hearts allow, 
 Dryden. And what Timotheus was is Dryden now. 
 
 From the First Epistle of the second 
 
 book of Horace. [ J 733 
 
 AUTHORS, like coins, grow dear as they grow 
 old; 
 
 It is the rust we value, not the gold. 
 Chaucer. Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learn 'd by rote, 
 
 Skelton. And beastly Skelton heads of houses quote, 
 
POPE. 
 
 '33 
 
 One likes no language but the Fairy Queen ; Spenser. 
 
 A Scot will fight for Christ's Kirk o' the Green ; James ist. 
 
 And each true Briton is to Ben so civil, Jonson. 
 He swears the Muses met him at the Devil. 
 
 Shakespeare (whom you and every playhouse bill 
 Style the divine ! the matchless ! what you will) 
 For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight, 
 And grew immortal in his own despite. 
 Ben, old and poor, as little seem'd to heed 
 The life to come in every poet's creed. 
 Who now reads Cowley ? if he pleases yet, 
 His moral pleases, not his pointed wit : 
 Forgot his Epic, nay Pindaric art, 
 But still I love the language of his heart. 
 
 " Yet surely, surely these were famous men ! 
 What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben ? 
 In all debates where critics bear a part, 
 Not one but nods, and talks of Jonson's art, 
 Of Shakespeare's nature, and of Cowley's wit ; 
 How Beaumont's judgment check'd what Fletcher 
 
 writ; 
 
 How Shadwell hasty, Wycherly was slow ; 
 But for the passions, Southerne sure, and Rowe ! 
 These, only these, support the crowded stage, 
 From eldest Hey wood down to Gibber's age." 
 
 All this may be ; the people's voice is odd ; 
 It is, and it is not, the voice of God. 
 To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays, 
 And yet deny the Careless Husband praise, 
 Or say our fathers never broke a rule ; 
 Why then, I say, the public is a fool. 
 But let them own that greater faults than we 
 
 Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 Jonson. 
 Cowley. 
 
 Jonson. 
 Shake- 
 speare. 
 Beaumont 
 and 
 Fletcher. 
 
 Shadwell. 
 Wycherly. 
 Southerne. 
 Rowe. 
 
 Cibber. 
 
134 POPE. 
 
 They had, and greater virtues, I'll agree. 
 Spenser. Spenser himself affects the obsolete, 
 
 Sidney. And Sidney's verse halts ill on Roman feet ; 
 
 Milton. Milton's strong pinion now not heaven can bound, 
 
 Now, serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground ; 
 In quibbles angel and archangel join, 
 And God the Father turns a school -divine. 
 Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book, 
 Like slashing Bentley with his desperate hook ; 
 Or damn all Shakespeare, like the affected fool 
 At Court, who hates whate'er he read at school. 
 
 BUT for the wits of either Charles's days, 
 The mob of gentlemen who write with ease ; 
 
 Sprat, Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more, 
 
 Carew and /T .. ' . ... Ji . __. 
 
 Sedley. (Like twinkling stars the Miscellanies o er,) 
 
 One smile that solitary shines 
 
 In the dry desert of a thousand lines, 
 
 Or lengthen'd thought, that gleams through many 
 
 a page, 
 
 Has sanctified whole poems for an age. 
 I lose my patience, and I own it too, 
 When works are censured, not as bad, but new ; 
 While, if our elders break all reason's laws, 
 These fools demand not pardon, but applause. 
 
 Shake- O N Avon's bank, where flowers eternal blow, 
 
 speare. If I but ask if any weed can grow, 
 
 One tragic sentence if I dare deride, 
 Which Betterton's grave action dignified, 
 Or well-mouth'd Booth with emphasis proclaims, 
 (Though but perhaps a muster-roll of names, ) 
 
POPE. 
 
 How will our fathers rise up in a rage, 
 And swear all shame is lost in George's age ! 
 
 135 
 
 OF little use the man you may suppose 
 Who says in verse what others say in prose ; 
 Yet let me show a poet 's of some weight, 
 And (though no soldier) useful to the state. 
 What will a child learn sooner than a song ? 
 What better teach a foreigner the tongue ? 
 What 's long or short, each accent where to place, 
 And speak in public with some sort of grace ? 
 I can scarce think him such a worthless thing, 
 Unless he praise some monster of a king ; 
 Or virtue or religion turn to sport, 
 To please a lewd or unbelieving Court. 
 Unhappy Dryden ! In all Charles' days 
 Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays ; 
 And in our own (excuse some courtly stains) 
 No whiter page than Addison remains : 
 He from the taste obscene reclaims our youth, 
 And sets the passions on the side of truth, 
 Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art, 
 And pours each human virtue in the heart. 
 Let Ireland tell how wit upheld her cause, 
 Her trade supported, and supplied her laws ; 
 And leave on Swift this grateful verse engraved, 
 " The rights a Court attack'd, a poet saved." 
 Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure, 
 Stretch'd to relieve the idiot and the poor ; 
 Proud vice to brand, or injured worth adorn, 
 And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Roscommoa. 
 
 Addison. 
 
 Swift. 
 
136 
 
 POPE. 
 
 Waller and 
 Dryden. 
 
 Shakespeare 
 and Otway. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Congreve. 
 Farquhar. 
 Vanbrugh. 
 Aphra Behn. 
 
 WE conquered France, but felt our captive's 
 
 charms ; 
 
 Her arts victorious triumphed o'er our arms ; 
 Britain to soft refinement less a foe, 
 Wit grew polite, and numbers learn'd to flow. 
 Waller was smooth ; but Dryden taught to join 
 The varying verse, the full resounding line, 
 The long majestic march, and energy divine : 
 Though still some traces of our rustic vein 
 And splay-foot verse remain'd and will remain. 
 Late, very late, correctness grew our care, 
 When the tired nation breath'd from civil war. 
 Exact Racine and Corneille's noble fire 
 Show'd us that France had something to admire. 
 Not but the tragic spirit was our own, 
 And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway, shone ; 
 But Otway fail'd to polish or refine, 
 And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a line. 
 E'en copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, 
 The last and greatest art, the art to blot. 
 Some doubt if equal pains or equal fire 
 The humbler muse of comedy require. 
 But in known images of life I guess 
 The labour greater, as the indulgence less. 
 Observe how seldom e'en the best succeed : 
 Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools indeed ? 
 What pert low dialogue has Farquhar writ ! 
 How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit ! 
 The stage how loosely does Astrsea tread, 
 Who fairly puts all characters to bed ! 
 
POPE. 137 
 
 From The Dunciad. [1728 
 
 HERE lay poor Fletcher's half-eat scenes, and here Fletcher. 
 
 The frippery of crucified Moliere ; 
 
 There napless Shakespeare, yet of Tibbald sore, Shake- 
 
 Wish'd he had blotted for himself before. speare - 
 
 The rest on outside merit but presume, 
 
 Or serve (like other fools) to fill a room ; 
 
 Such with their shelves as due proportion hold, 
 
 Or their fond parents dress'd in red and gold ; 
 
 Or where the pictures for the page atone, 
 
 And Quarles is saved by beauties not his own. Quarles. 
 
 O THOU ! whatever title please thine ear, Swift. 
 
 Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver ! 
 
 Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air, 
 
 Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy chair, 
 
 Or praise the court, or magnify mankind, 
 
 Or thy grieved country's copper chains unbind ; 
 
 From thy Boeotia though her power retires, 
 
 Mourn not, my Swift ! at ought our realm requires, 
 
 Here pleased behold her mighty wings outspread 
 
 To hatch a new Saturnian age of lead. 
 
 From An Epistle to the Earl of Oxford, 
 prefixed to Parnell's poems. [1721 
 
 SUCH were the notes thy once loved poet sung, Pamell. 
 
 Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. 
 
 O, just beheld and lost ! admired and mourn 'd ! 
 
 With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd ! 
 
 Bless'd in each science ! bless'd in every strain ! 
 
 Dear to the Muse ! to Harley dear in vain ! 
 
138 PARNELL. 
 
 [1732 
 Epitaph on Gay in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 OF manners gentle, of affections mild ; 
 In wit a man ; simplicity a child : 
 With native humour tempering virtuous rage, 
 Form'd to delight at once and lash the age : 
 Above temptation in a low estate, 
 And uncorrupted e'en among the great : 
 A safe companion and an easy friend, 
 Unblamed through life, lamented in thy end. 
 These are thy honours J not that here thy bust 
 Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust : 
 But that the worthy and the good shall say, 
 Striking their pensive bosoms <c Here lies Gay." 
 
 PARNELL. 
 
 To Mr. Pope. 
 
 To praise, yet still with due respect to praise, 
 A bard triumphant in immortal bays, 
 The learn'd to show, the sensible commend, 
 Yet still preserve the province of the friend, 
 What life, what vigour, must the lines require ! 
 What music tune them ! what affection fire ! 
 
 O might thy genius in my bosom shine ! 
 Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine, 
 The brightest ancients might at once agree 
 To sing within my lays, and sing of thee. 
 
PARNELL. 139 
 
 Horace himself would own thou dost excel 
 In candid arts to play the critic well. 
 
 Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame 
 Whom Windsor forest sees a gliding stream ; 
 On silver feet, with annual osier crown'd, 
 She runs for ever through poetic ground. 
 
 How flame the glories of Belinda's hair, 
 Made by thy Muse the envy of the fair ; 
 Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess wore, 
 Which sweet Callimachus so sung before. 
 Here courtly trifles set the world at odds, 
 Belles war with beaux, and whims descend for 
 
 gods. 
 
 The new machines in names of ridicule, 
 Mock the grave phrenzy of the chymic fool ; 
 But know, ye fair, a point conceal'd with art, 
 The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart : 
 The Graces stand in sight ; a Satyr train 
 Peep o'er their heads, and laugh behind the 
 
 scene. 
 
 In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest wits 
 Inshrined on high the sacred Virgil sits, 
 And sings in measures, such as Virgil's muse 
 To place thee near him might be found to choose, 
 How might he tune the alternate reed with thee, 
 Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he, 
 While some old Damon o'er the vulgar wise, 
 Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize ! 
 Rapt with the thought my fancy seeks the plains, 
 And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains. 
 
140 PARNELL. 
 
 Indulgent nurse of every tender gale, 
 Parent of flowerets, old Arcadia, hail ! 
 Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread, 
 Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head ; 
 Still slide thy waters soft among the trees, 
 Thy aspins quiver in a breathing breeze ; 
 Smile all thy valleys in eternal spring, 
 Be hush'd, ye winds ! while Pope and Virgil sing. 
 
 In English lays, and all sublimely great, 
 Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat ; 
 He shines in council, thunders in the fight, 
 And flames with every sense of great delight. 
 Long has that poet reign'd, and long unknown, 
 Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne ; 
 In all the majesty of Greek retired, 
 Himself unknown, his mighty name admired ; 
 His language failing, wrapt him round with night, 
 Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light. 
 So wealthy mines, that ages long before 
 Fed the large realms around with golden ore, 
 When choked by sinking banks, no more appear, 
 And shepherds only say, the mines were here ! 
 Should some rich youth, if nature warm his heart, 
 And all his project stand inform'd with art, 
 Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein ; 
 The mines detected, flame with gold again. 
 
 How vast, how copious are thy new designs ! 
 How every music varies in thy lines ! 
 Still as I read, I feel my bosom beat, 
 And rise in raptures by another's heat. 
 
SWIFT. 141 
 
 Thus in the wood, when summer dress'd the 
 
 days, 
 
 When Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease, 
 Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest, 
 And Philomela, sweetest o'er the rest : 
 The shades resound with song O softly tread ! 
 While a whole season warbles round my head. 
 
 This to my friend and when a friend inspires, 
 My silent harp its master's hand requires, 
 Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound, 
 For fortune placed me in unfertile ground 5 
 Far from the joys that with my soul agree, 
 From wit, from learning far, O far from thee ! 
 Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf, 
 Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf ; 
 Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet, 
 Rocks at their side, and torrents at their feet ; 
 Or lazy lakes, unconscious of a flood, 
 I Whose dull brown Naiads ever sleep in mud. 
 
 I Yet here content can dwell, and learned ease, 
 ( A friend delight me, and an author please ; 
 ? Even here I sing, while Pope supplies the theme, 
 r Show my own love, though not increase his fame. 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 From On the Death of Dr. Swift. [1731 
 
 WHAT poet would not grieve to see 
 His brother write as well as he ? 
 But rather than they should excel, 
 
142 SWIFT. 
 
 Would wish his rivals all in hell ? 
 
 Her end when Emulation misses, 
 She turns to Envy, stings and hisses : 
 The strongest friendship yields to pride, 
 Unless the odds be on our side. 
 Vain human kind ! fantastic race ! 
 Thy various follies who can trace ? 
 Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, 
 Their empire in our hearts divide. 
 Give others riches, power, and station, 
 'Tis all on me a usurpation. 
 I have no title to aspire ; 
 Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher 
 Pope. i n Pope I cannot read a line, 
 
 But with a sigh I wish it mine ; 
 When he can in one couplet fix 
 More sense than I can do in six ; 
 It gives me such a jealous fit, 
 I cry, " Pox take him and his wit ! " 
 Gay. I grieve to be outdone by Gay 
 
 In my own humorous biting way. 
 Arbuthnot. Arbuthnot is no more my friend, 
 
 Who dares to irony pretend, 
 Which I was born to introduce, 
 Refined it first and show'd its use. 
 St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows 
 That I had some repute for prose ; 
 And, till they drove me out of date, 
 Could maul a minister of state. 
 If they have mortified my pride, 
 And made me throw my pen aside ; 
 If with such talents Heaven has bless'd 'em, 
 Have I not reason to detest 'em ? 
 
SWIFT. 143 
 
 SUPPOSE me dead ; and then suppose 
 A club assembled at the Rose ; 
 Where, from discourse of this or that, 
 I grow the subject of their chat. 
 And while they toss my name about, 
 With favour some, and some without, 
 One, quite indifferent in the cause, 
 My character impartial draws : 
 
 " The Dean, if we believe report, Swift. 
 
 Was never ill-received at court. 
 As for his works in verse and prose, 
 I own myself no judge of those ; 
 Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em : 
 But this I know, all people bought 'em. 
 As with a moral view design'd 
 To cure the vices of mankind : 
 His vein, ironically grave, 
 Exposed the fool, and lash'd the knave. 
 To steal a hint was never known, 
 But what he writ was all his own. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Perhaps I may allow the Dean 
 Had too much satire in his vein ; 
 And seem'd determined not to starve it, 
 Because no age could more deserve it. 
 Yet malice never was his aim ; 
 He lash'd the vice, but spared the name ; 
 No individual could resent, 
 Where thousands equally were meant ; 
 His satire points at no defect, 
 But what all mortals may correct ; 
 For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe 
 Who call it humour when they gibe : 
 
144 SWIFT. 
 
 He spared a hump, or crooked nose, 
 Whose owners set not up for beaux. 
 True genuine dulness moved his pity, 
 Unless it offer'd to be witty. 
 Those who their ignorance confest, 
 He ne'er offended with a jest ; 
 But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote 
 A verse from Horace learn'd by rote. " 
 
 [1729 
 
 From A Libel on the Reverend Dr. Delany 
 and His Excellency John Lord Carteret. 
 
 Pope. HAIL, happy Pope ! whose generous mind 
 
 Detesting all the statesman kind, 
 Contemning courts, at courts unseen, 
 Refused the visits of a queen. 
 A soul with every virtue fraught, 
 By sages, priests, or poets taught ; 
 Whose filial piety excels 
 Whatever Grecian story tells ; 
 A genius for all stations fit, 
 Whose meanest talent is his wit : 
 His heart too great, though fortune little, 
 To lick a rascal statesman's spittle ; 
 Appealing to the nation's taste, 
 Above the reach of want is placed : 
 By Homer dead was taught to thrive, 
 Which Homer never could alive ; 
 And sits aloft on Pindus' head, 
 Despising slaves that cringe for bread. 
 
PERIOD V. 
 
 POETS OF THE 
 XVIIITH CENTURY. 
 
 JOHNSON TO BURNS. 
 
JOHNSON. 
 
 From Prologue, spoken by Mr. Garrick 
 at the opening of the Theatre Royal 
 Dniry Lane, 1747. 
 
 WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes 
 First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose ; Shake- 
 Each change of many-colour'd life he drew, speare. 
 Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new : 
 Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, 
 And panting Time toil'd after him in vain. 
 His powerful strokes presiding Truth impress'd, 
 And unresisted Passion storm'd the breast. 
 
 Then Jonson came, instructed from the school, Jonson. 
 To please in method, and invent by rule ; 
 His studious patience and laborious art, 
 By regular approach assail'd the heart : 
 Cold approbation gave the lingering bays, 
 For those who durst not censure, scarce could 
 
 praise. 
 
 A mortal born, he met the general doom, 
 But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb. 
 
 The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame, Carolinians. 
 Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakespeare's flame. 
 Themselves they studied, as they felt they writ ; 
 
148 THOMSON. 
 
 Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit. 
 Vice always found a sympathetic friend ; 
 They pleased their age, and did not aim to mend. 
 Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise, 
 And proudly hoped to pimp in future days. 
 Their cause was general, their supportsjwere strong, 
 Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long : 
 Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense betray'd, 
 And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid. 
 
 Then, crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refined, 
 For years the power of Tragedy declined ; 
 From bard to bard the frigid caution crept, 
 Till Declamation roar'd while Passion slept ; 
 Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread, 
 Philosophy remain'd, though Nature fled. 
 But forced at length, her ancient reign to quit, 
 She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit ; 
 Exulting Folly hail'd the joyful day, 
 And Pantomime and Song confirm'd her sway. 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 From Summer. [1727 
 
 Sidney. NOR can the Muse the gallant Sidney pass, 
 
 The plume of war ! with early laurels crown'd, 
 The lover's myrtle, and the poet's bay. 
 ****** 
 
 For lofty sense, 
 
 Creative fancy, and inspection keen 
 Through the deep windings of the human heart, 
 
 Shake- j s not ^Hd Shakespeare thine and Nature's boast ? 
 
 speare. 
 
AKENSIDE. 149 
 
 Is not each great, each amiable Muse 
 
 Of classic ages in thy Milton met ? Milton. 
 
 A genius universal as his theme ; 
 
 Astonishing as Chaos, as the bloom 
 
 Of blowing Eden fair, as Heaven sublime ! 
 
 Nor shall my verse that elder bard forget, 
 
 The gentle Spenser, Fancy's pleasing son ; Spenser. 
 
 Who, like a copious river, pour'd his song 
 
 O'er all the mazes of enchanted ground : 
 
 Nor thee, his ancient master, laughing sage, 
 
 Chaucer, whose native manners-painting verse, Chaucer. 
 
 Well moralized, shines through the gothic cloud 
 
 Of time and language o'er thy genius thrown. 
 
 From The Castle of Indolence. [1748 
 
 A BARD here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems ; Thomson. 
 
 Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain, 
 
 On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes, 
 
 Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain ; 
 
 The world forsaking with a calm disdain, 
 
 Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat ; 
 
 Here quafifd, encircled with the joyous train, 
 
 Oft moralizing sage : his ditty sweet 
 
 He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat. 
 
 AKENSIDE. 
 
 For a Statue of Chaucer at Woodstock. [1758 
 
 SUCH was old Chaucer ; such the placid mien 
 Of him who first with harmony inform'd 
 
ISO COLLINS. 
 
 The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt 
 For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls 
 Have often heard him, while his legends blithe 
 He sang ; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles 
 Of homely life : through each estate and age, 
 The fashions and the follies of the world 
 With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance 
 From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art come 
 Glowing with Churchill's trophies ; yet in vain 
 Dost thou applaud them, if thy breast be cold 
 To him, this other hero ; who, in times 
 Dark and untaught, began with charming verse 
 To tame the rudeness of his native land. 
 
 COLLINS. 
 
 From Ode to Fear. [1747 
 
 O THOU, whose spirit most possess'd 
 speare". The sacred seat of Shakespeare's breast ! 
 
 By all that from the prophet broke, 
 In thy divine emotions spoke ; 
 Hither again thy fury deal, 
 Teach me but once like him to feel : 
 His cypress wreath my meed decree, 
 And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee ! 
 
 From Ode to the Popular Superstitions of 
 the Highlands of Scotland. [1747 
 
 NOR need'st thou blush that such false themes 
 engage 
 
COLLINS. 151 
 
 Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest ; 
 For not alone they touch the village breast, 
 But fill'd in elder time, the historic page. 
 There, Shakespeare's self with every garland Shake- 
 
 ,, speare. 
 
 crown d, 
 
 Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen, 
 In musing hour ; his wayward sisters found, 
 
 And with their terrors drest the magic scene. 
 From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, 
 
 Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast ! 
 The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line 
 
 Through the dark cave in gloomy pageant pass'd. 
 
 THEN will I dress once more the faded bower, 
 
 ,,,, T T-. j i i i Jonsona 
 
 Where Jonson sat in Drummond s classic shade. Drummc 
 
 From On our late taste in Music. [1747 
 THE temper of our isle, though cold, is clear ; 
 And such our genius, noble though severe. Shake - 
 
 Our Shakespeare scorn'd the trifling rules of art, speare. 
 But knew to conquer and surprise the heart ! 
 In magic chains the captive thought to bind, 
 And fathom all the depths of human kind ! 
 
 ['743 
 From Epistle to Sir Thos. Hanmer, 
 
 BUT Heaven, still various in its works, decreed 
 The perfect boast of time should last succeed. Shake- 
 
 The beauteous union must appear at length, 
 Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength : 
 
152 
 
 COLLINS. 
 
 One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn, 
 
 And e'en a Shakespeare to her fame be born ! 
 
 Yet ah ! so bright her morning's opening ray, 
 In vain our Britain hoped an equal day ! 
 No second growth the western isle could bear, 
 At once exhausted with too rich a year. 
 
 Jonson. Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part ; 
 
 Nature in him was almost lost in art. 
 
 Fletcher. Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came, 
 
 The next in order, as the next in name ; 
 With pleased attention, 'midst his scenes we find 
 Each glowing thought that warms the female 
 
 mind; 
 
 Each melting sigh, and every tender tear ; 
 The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear. 
 His every strain the Smiles and Graces own ; 
 But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone : 
 Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand 
 The unrivall'd picture of his early hand. 
 
 With gradual steps and slow, exacter France 
 Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance : 
 By length of toil a bright perfection knew, 
 Correctly bold, and just in all she drew : 
 Till late Corneille, with Lucan's spirit fired, 
 Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired : 
 And classic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine 
 The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line. 
 
 But wilder far the British laurel spread, 
 And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head. 
 
COLLINS. 153 
 
 Yet he alone to every scene could give 
 
 The historian's truth, and bid the manners live. 
 
 Waked at his call I view, with glad surprise, 
 
 Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise. 
 
 There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms, 
 
 And laurel'd Conquest waits her hero's arms. 
 
 Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh, 
 
 Scarce born to honours and so soon to die ! 
 
 Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring 
 
 No beam of comfort to the guilty king ; 
 
 The time shall come when Glos'ter's heart shall 
 
 bleed, 
 
 In life's last hours, with horror of the deed ; 
 When dreary visions shall at last present 
 Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent : 
 Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear, 
 Blunt the weak sword, and break the oppressive 
 
 spear ! 
 
 Where'er we turn, by Fancy charm'd, we find 
 Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind. 
 Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove 
 With humbler nature, in the rural grove ; 
 Where swains contented own the quiet scene, 
 And twilight fairies tread the circled green : 
 Dress'd by her hand, the woods and valleys smile, 
 And Spring diffusive decks the enchanted isle. 
 
 O, more than all in powerful genius blest, 
 Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast ! 
 Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall 
 
 feel, 
 Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal I 
 
154 COLLINS. 
 
 There every thought the poet's warmth may raise, 
 
 There native music dwells in all the lays. 
 
 O might some verse with happiest skill persuade 
 
 Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid ! 
 
 What wondrous draughts might rise from every 
 
 page! 
 What other Raphaels charm a distant age ! 
 
 Methinks e'en now I view some free design, 
 Where breathing nature lives in every line : 
 Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay, 
 Steal into shades, and mildly melt away. 
 And see where Antony, in tears approved, 
 Guards the pale relics of the chief he loved : 
 O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend, 
 Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd 
 
 friend ! 
 
 Still as they press, he calls on all around, 
 Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound. 
 
 But who is he, whose brows exalted bear 
 A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air ? 
 Awake to all that injured worth can feel, 
 On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel ; 
 Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall 
 (So heaven ordains it) on the destin'd wall. 
 See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train, 
 Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain ! 
 Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide 
 The son's affection, in the Roman's pride : 
 O'er all the man conflicting passions rise ; 
 Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes. 
 
COLLINS. 155 
 
 From An Ode on the Poetical Character. 
 
 HIGH on some cliff, to heaven up-piled, 
 
 Of rude access, of prospect wild, 
 
 Where, tangled round the jealous steep, 
 
 Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep, 
 
 And holy Genii guard the rock, 
 
 Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock, 
 
 While on its rich ambitious head, 
 
 An Eden, like his own, lies spread : Milton. 
 
 I view that oak, the fancied glades among, 
 
 By which as Milton lay, his evening ear, 
 
 From many a cloud that dropp'd ethereal dew, 
 
 Nigh sphered in heaven, its native strains could 
 
 hear; 
 
 On which that ancient trump he reach'd was 
 hung : 
 
 Thither oft, his glory greeting, 
 
 From Waller's myrtle shades retreating, Waller. 
 
 With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, 
 My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue ; 
 In vain such bliss to one alone, 
 Of all the sons of soul was known ; 
 And Heaven, and Fancy, kindred powers, 
 Have now o'erturn'd the inspiring bowers ; 
 Or curtain'd close such scene from every future 
 view. 
 
 Ode on the Death of Thomson. [1749 
 
 IN yonder grave a Druid lies, 
 Where slowly winds the stealing wave ; 
 
156 COLLINS. 
 
 The year's best sweets shall duteous rise 
 To deck its poet's sylvan grave. 
 
 In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
 
 His airy harp shall now be laid, 
 That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, 
 
 May love through life the soothing shade. 
 
 Then maids and youths shall linger here, 
 And while its sounds at distance swell, 
 
 Shall sadly seem in pity's ear 
 To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. 
 
 Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore 
 When Thames in summer wreaths is dresl, 
 
 And oft suspend the dashing oar, 
 To bid his gentle spirit rest ! 
 
 And oft as ease and health retire 
 
 To breezy lawn, or forest deep, 
 The friend shall view yon whitening spire, 
 
 And 'mid the varied landscape weep. 
 
 But thou, who own'st that earthy bed, 
 Ah ! what will every dirge avail ; 
 
 Or tears, which love and pity shed, 
 That mourn beneath the gliding sail ? 
 
 Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye 
 
 Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near ? 
 
 With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, 
 And joy desert the blooming year. 
 
GRA y. 157 
 
 But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide 
 No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend, 
 
 Now waft me from the green hill's side, 
 Whose cold turf hides the buried friend ! 
 
 And see, the fairy valleys fade ; 
 
 Dun night has veil'd the solemn view ! 
 Yet once again, dear parted shade, 
 
 Meek Nature's Child, again adieu ! 
 
 The genial meads, assign'd to bless 
 Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom ; 
 
 Their hinds and shepherd -girls shall dress, 
 With simple hands, thy rural tomb. 
 
 Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay 
 Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes : 
 
 O ! vales and wild woods, shall he say, 
 In yonder grave your Druid lies ! 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 From The Progress of Poesy. [1757 
 
 FAR from the sun and summer gale 
 
 In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid, speare! 
 
 What tune, where lucid Avon stray'd. 
 
 To him the mighty mother did unveil 
 Her awful face : the dauntless child 
 Stretch'd forth his little arms and smiled. 
 " This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear 
 Richly paint the vernal year : 
 
158 GRAY. 
 
 Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy ! 
 
 This can unlock the gates of joy ; 
 
 Of horror that, and thrilling fears, 
 
 Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. " 
 
 Milton. Nor second He, that rode sublime 
 
 Upon the seraph-wings of Extasy, 
 
 The secrets of the abyss to spy. 
 
 He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time : 
 
 The living throne, the sapphire blaze, 
 
 Where angels tremble while they gaze, 
 
 He saw ; but blasted with excess of light, 
 
 Closed his eyes in endless night. 
 Dryden. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, 
 
 Wide o'er the fields of glory bear 
 
 Two coursers of ethereal race, 
 
 With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resound- 
 ing pace. 
 
 Hark, his hands the lyre explore ! 
 Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, 
 Scatters from her pictured urn 
 Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. 
 But ah ! 'tis heard no more 
 G ray O lyre divine ! what daring spirit 
 
 Wakes thee now ? Tho' he inherit 
 Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, 
 
 That the Theban eagle bear, 
 Sailing with supreme dominion 
 Thro' the azure deep of air : 
 Yet oft before his infant eyes would run 
 
 Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, 
 With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun : 
 
GRAY. 159 
 
 Yet shall he mount and keep his distant way 
 Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, 
 Beneath the Good how far but far above the 
 Great. 
 
 From The Bard. [1757 
 
 ALL hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, 
 hail! 
 
 Girt with many a baron bold 
 Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 
 
 And gorgeous dames and statesmen old 
 In bearded majesty, appear. 
 In the midst a form divine ! 
 Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line ; 
 Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, 
 Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace. 
 What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 
 
 What strains of vocal transport round her play. 
 Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; 
 
 They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
 Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, 
 Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd 
 wings. 
 
 The verse adorn again Spenser. 
 
 Fierce war, and faithful love, 
 And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. 
 
 In buskin'd measures move Shake- 
 
 Pale grief, and pleasing pain, speare. 
 
 With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 
 
 A voice, as of the cherub choir, Milton. 
 
160 GRA Y. 
 
 Gales from blooming Eden bear ; 
 And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 
 That lost in long futurity expire. 
 
 Stanzas to Mr. Bentley. 
 
 IN silent gaze the tuneful choir among, 
 
 Half-pleased, half-blushing, let the Muse admire, 
 
 While Bentley leads her sister-art along, 
 And bids the pencil answer to the lyre. 
 
 See, in their course, each transitory thought 
 Fix'd by his touch a lasting essence take ; 
 
 Each dream, in fancy's airy colouring wrought 
 To local symmetry and life awake ! 
 
 The tardy rhymes that used to linger on, 
 To censure cold, and negligent of fame, 
 
 In swifter measures animated run 
 And catch a lustre from his genuine flame. 
 
 Ah ! could they catch his strength, his easy grace, 
 
 His quick creation, his unerring line ; 
 Pope. The energy of Pope they might efface, 
 
 Dryden. And Dryden's harmony submit to mine. 
 
 But not to one in this benighted age 
 
 Is that diviner inspiration given, 
 
 Shakespeare That burns in Shakespeare's or in Milton's page, 
 and Milton. The pomp and prodigality of heaven. 
 
 As when conspiring in the diamond's blaze, 
 The meaner gems that singly charm the sight, 
 
 Together dart their intermingled rays, 
 And dazzle with a luxury of light. 
 
CHURCHILL. 161 
 
 CHURCHILL. 
 
 From The Rosciad. [1761 
 
 " MAY not, (to give a pleasing fancy scope, 
 
 And cheer a patriot heart with patriot hope) 
 
 May not some great extensive genius raise 
 
 The name of Britain 'bove Athenian praise ; 
 
 And, whilst brave thirst of fame his bosom warms, 
 
 Make England great in letters as in arms ? 
 
 There may there hath and Shakespeare's muse Shake- 
 aspires s P eare - 
 
 Beyond the reach of Greece ; with native fires 
 
 Mounting aloft, he wings his daring flight, 
 
 Whilst Sophocles below stands trembling at his 
 
 height. 
 Why should we then abroad for judges roam, 
 
 When abler judges we may find at home? 
 
 Happy in tragic and in comic powers, 
 
 Have we not Shakespeare ? Is not Jonson ours ? Shakespeare 
 
 For them, your natural judges, Britons, vote ; and J onson - 
 
 They'll judge like Britons, who like Britons wrote." 
 He said, and conquer'd. Sense resumed her 
 sway, 
 
 And disappointed pedants stalk'd away. 
 
 Shakespeare and Jonson, with deserved applause, 
 
 Joint judges were ordain'd to try the cause. 
 ****** 
 
 In the first seat, in robe of various dyes, 
 A noble wildness flashing from his eyes, 
 Sat Shakespeare. In one hand a wand he bore, Shake- 
 For mighty wonders famed in days of yore ; speare. 
 
 M 
 
162 CHURCHILL. 
 
 The other held a globe, which to his will 
 Obedient turn'd, and own'd the master's skill : 
 Things of the noblest kind his genius drew, 
 And look'd through Nature at a single view : 
 A loose he gave to his unbounded soul, 
 And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll ; 
 Call'd into being scenes unknown before, 
 And passing Nature's bounds, was something more. 
 Jonson. Next Jonson sat, in ancient learning train'd, 
 
 His rigid judgment Fancy's flights restrain'd ; 
 Correctly pruned each wild luxuriant thought, 
 Mark'd out her course, nor spared a glorious fault : 
 The book of man he read with nicest art, 
 And ransack'd all the secrets of the heart ; 
 Exerted penetration's utmost force, 
 And traced each passion to its proper source ; 
 Then, strongly mark'd, in liveliest colours drew, 
 And brought each foible forth to public view : 
 The coxcomb felt a lash in every word, 
 And fools, hung out, their brother fools deterr'd. 
 His comic humour kept the world in awe, 
 And laughter frighten'd folly more than law. 
 
 From The Author. [1764 
 
 Spenser. Is this the land, where on our Spenser's tongue, 
 
 Enamour'd of his voice, Description hung ? 
 
 Jonson. Where Jonson rigid Gravity beguiled, 
 
 Whilst Reason through her critic fences smiled ? 
 
 Shake- Where Nature listening stood whilst Shakespeare 
 
 speare. play'd, 
 
 And wonder'd at the work herself had made ? 
 
CHURCHILL. 163 
 
 Is this the land, where, in those worst of times, 
 
 The hardy poet raised his honest rimes Marvel). 
 
 To dread rebuke, and bade Controlment speak 
 
 In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek ; 
 
 Bade Power turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe, 
 
 And made them fear the Muse, who fear'd not law ? 
 
 From The Apology. [1761 
 
 WALLER, whose praise succeeding bards rehearse, Waller. 
 
 Parent of harmony in English verse, 
 
 Whose tuneful Muse in sweetest accents flows, 
 
 In couplets first taught straggling sense to close. 
 
 In polish'd numbers and majestic sound, 
 Where shall thy rival, Pope ! be ever found ? Pope. 
 
 But whilst each line with equal beauty flows, 
 E'en excellence, unvaried, tedious grows. 
 Nature, through all her works, in great degree, 
 Borrows a blessing from variety. 
 Music itself her needful aid requires 
 To rouse the soul, and wake our dying fires. 
 Still in one key, the nightingale would tease ; 
 Still in one key, not Brent would always please. 
 
 Here let me bend, great Dryden, at thy shrine, Dryden. 
 Thou dearest name to all the tuneful nine. 
 What if some dull lines in cold order creep, 
 And with his theme the poet seems to sleep ? 
 Still, when his subject rises proud to view, 
 With equal strength the poet rises too ; 
 W T ith strong invention, noblest vigour fraught, 
 Thought still springs up and rises out of thought ; 
 Numbers ennobling numbers in their course, 
 In varied sweetness flow, in varied force ; 
 
164 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The powers of genius and of judgment join, 
 And the whole Art of Poetry is thine. 
 
 [1763 
 
 From An Epistle to William Hogarth. 
 POOR Sigismunda ! what a fate is thine ! 
 Dryden. Dryden, the great high -priest of all the Nine, 
 
 Revived thy name, gave what a Muse could give, 
 And in his numbers bade thy memory live ; 
 Gave thee those soft sensations which might move 
 And warm the coldest anchorite to love ; 
 Gave thee that virtue, which would curb desire, 
 Refine and consecrate love's headstrong fire ; 
 Gave thee those griefs, which made the Stoic feel, 
 And calPd compassion forth from hearts of steel ; 
 Gave thee that firmness, which our sex may shame, 
 And make man bow to woman's juster claim ; 
 So that our tears, which from compassion flow, 
 Seem to debase thy dignity of woe. 
 But, O, how much unlike ! how fallen ! how 
 
 changed ! 
 
 How much from Nature and herself estranged ! 
 How totally deprived of all the powers 
 To shew her feelings, and awaken ours, 
 Doth Sigismunda now devoted stand, 
 The helpless victim of a dauber's hand ! 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Epitaph on Dr. Parnell. [1768 
 
 THIS tomb inscribed to gentle Parnell's name, 
 May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 
 
COWPER. 165 
 
 What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, 
 
 That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way ? 
 
 Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; 
 
 And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 
 
 Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 
 
 The transitory breath of fame below : 
 
 More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, 
 
 While converts thank their poet in the skies. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 From Table Talk. [1782 
 
 AGES elapsed ere Homer's lamp appear'd, 
 
 And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard : 
 
 To carry nature lengths unknown before, 
 
 To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more. Milton. 
 
 Thus genius rose and set at order'd times, 
 
 And shot a dayspring into distant climes, 
 
 Ennobling every region that he chose ; 
 
 He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose ; 
 
 And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd 
 
 Emerged all splendour in our isle at last. 
 
 Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, 
 
 Then show far off their shining plumes again. 
 
 From The Task. [1784 
 
 Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, Milton. 
 
 And fed on manna ! 
 
1 66 COWPER. 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 on the late indecent liberties taken with 
 the remains of Milton. [1790 
 
 " ME too, perchance, in future days, 
 The sculptured stone shall show, 
 
 With Paphian myrtle or with bays 
 Parnassian on my brow. 
 
 " But I, or ere that season come, 
 
 Escaped from every care, 
 Shall reach my refuge in the tomb, 
 
 And sleep securely there." 
 
 Milton. So sang, in Roman tone and style, 
 
 The youthful bard, ere long 
 Ordain'd to grace his native isle 
 With her sublimest song. 
 
 Who then but must conceive disdain, 
 
 Hearing the deed unblest 
 Of wretches who have dared profane 
 
 His dread sepulchral rest ? 
 
 Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones 
 
 Where Milton's ashes lay, 
 That trembled not to grasp his bones 
 
 And steal his dust away ! 
 
 O ill-requited bard ! neglect 
 
 Thy living worth repaid, 
 And blind idolatrous respect, 
 
 As much affronts thee dead. 
 
COW PER. 167 
 
 From The Task. [1784 
 
 No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned 
 
 To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats 
 
 Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe 
 
 Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, 
 
 The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech. 
 
 Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms : Milton. 
 
 New to my taste his paradise surpass'd 
 
 The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue 
 
 To speak its excellence. I danced for joy. 
 
 I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an age 
 
 As twice seven years, his beauties had then first 
 
 Engaged my wonder ; and admiring still, 
 
 And still admiring, with regret supposed 
 
 The joy half lost, because not sooner found. 
 
 There too, enamour'd of the life I loved, Cowley 
 
 Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit 
 
 Determined, and possessing it at last 
 
 With transports, such as favour'd lovers feel, 
 
 I studied, prized, and wish'd that I had known 
 
 Ingenious Cowley ! and though now reclaim'd 
 
 By modern lights from an erroneous taste, 
 
 I cannot but lament thy splendid wit 
 
 Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. 
 
 I still revere thee, courtly though retired ; 
 
 Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers, 
 
 Not unemploy'd ; and finding rich amends 
 
 For a lost world in solitude and verse. 
 
 From An Epistle to Robert Lloyd. [1754 
 
 'Tis not that I design to rob 
 Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob, 
 
168 COWPEK. 
 
 For thou art born sole heir, and single, 
 Prior. Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle ; 
 
 ****** 
 That Matthew's numbers run with ease, 
 Each man of common sense agrees ! 
 All men of common sense allow 
 That Robert's lines are easy too : 
 Where then the preference shall we place, 
 Or how do justice in this case? 
 Matthew (says Fame) with endless pains 
 Smooth'd and refined the meanest strains ; 
 Nor suffer'd one ill-chosen rhyme 
 To escape him at the idlest time ; 
 And thus o'er all a lustre cast, 
 That while the language lives, shall last. 
 An't please your ladyship (quoth I), 
 For 'tis my business to reply ; 
 Sure so much labour, so much toil, 
 Bespeak at least a stubborn soil : 
 Theirs be the laurel- wreath decreed, 
 Who both write well, and write full speed ! 
 Who throw their Helicon about 
 As freely as a conduit spout ! 
 Friend Robert thus, like chien Sfavant, 
 Lets fall a poem en passant, 
 Nor needs his genuine ore refine ! 
 'Tis ready polish'd from the mine. 
 
 From Table Talk. [1782 
 
 son. IN front of these came Addison. In him 
 
 Humour in holiday and sightly trim, 
 Sublimity and Attic taste combined, 
 
COW PER. 169 
 
 To polish, furnish, and delight the mind. 
 
 Then Pope, as harmony itself exact, Pope. 
 
 In verse well-disciplined, complete, compact, 
 
 Gave virtue and morality a grace, 
 
 That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face, 
 
 Levied a tax of wonder and applause, 
 
 E'en on the fools that trampled on their laws. 
 
 But he (his musical finesse was such, 
 
 So nice his ear, so delicate his touch) 
 
 Made poetry a mere mechanic art ; 
 
 And every warbler has his tune by heart. 
 
 Nature imparting her satiric gift, 
 
 Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift, Swift. 
 
 With droll sobriety they raised a smile, 
 
 At folly's cost, themselves unmoved the while. 
 
 That constellation set, the world in vain 
 
 Must hope to look upon their like again. 
 
 A. Are we then left B. Not wholly in the dark ; 
 Wit now and then, struck smartly, shows a spark, 
 Sufficient to redeem the modern race 
 From total night and absolute disgrace. 
 While servile trick and imitative knack 
 Confine the million in the beaten track, 
 Perhaps some courser, who disdains the road, 
 Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad. 
 
 Ccntemporaries all surpass'd, see one ; Churchill. 
 
 Short his career indeed, but ably run ; 
 Churchill ; himself unconscious of his powers, 
 In penury consumed his idle hours ; 
 And, like a scatter'd seed at random sown, 
 Was left to spring by vigour of his own. 
 Lifted at length, by dignity of thought 
 And dint of genius, to an affluent lot, 
 
1 70 BURNS. 
 
 He laid his head in luxury's soft lap, 
 And took, too often, there his easy nap. 
 If brighter beams than all he threw not forth, 
 'Twas negligence in him, not want of worth. 
 Surly and slovenly, and bold and coarse, 
 Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force, 
 Spendthrift alike of money and of wit, 
 Always at speed, and never drawing bit, 
 He struck the lyre in such a careless mood, 
 And so disdain'd the rules he understood, 
 The laurel seem'd to wait on his command ; 
 He snatch'd it rudely from the muses' hand. 
 
 Epitaph on Dr. Johnson. [1785 
 
 HERE Johnson lies a sage by all allow'd, 
 Whom to have bred may well make England proud, 
 Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught, 
 The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought ; 
 Whose verse may claim grave, masculine and 
 
 strong, 
 
 Superior praise to the mere poet's song ; 
 Who many a noble gift from heaven possess'd, 
 And faith at last, alone worth all the rest. 
 O man, immortal by a double prize, 
 By fame on earth by glory in the skies ! 
 
 BURNS. 
 From The Vision. [1786 
 
 Bums. " THOU canst not learn, nor can I show, 
 
 Thomson, To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
 
BURNS. l?i 
 
 Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 
 
 With Shenstone's art ; Shenstone. 
 
 Or pour, with Gray, the melting flow Gray. 
 
 Warm on the heart. 
 
 " Vet, all beneath the unrivalled rose, 
 
 The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
 
 Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 
 
 His army shade, 
 Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows 
 
 Adown the glade. 
 
 "Then never murmur nor repine ; 
 Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
 And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 
 
 Nor king's regard, 
 Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
 
 A rustic bard. 
 
 " To give my counsels all in one, 
 Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
 Preserve the dignity of man, 
 
 With soul erect ; 
 And trust the Universal Plan 
 
 Will all protect. 
 
 " And wear thou this " she solemn said, 
 And bound the holly round my head ; 
 The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 
 
 Did rustling play ; 
 And, like a passing thought, she fled 
 
 In light away. 
 
172 BURNS. 
 
 Address to the Shade of Thomson, 
 on crowning his bust at Ednam, 
 Roxburghshire, with bays. [1791 
 
 WHILE cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, 
 
 Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet, 
 Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, 
 
 A carpet for her youthful feet : 
 While Summer, with a matron's grace, 
 
 Walks stately in the cooling shade, 
 And oft, delighted, loves to trace 
 
 The progress of the spiky blade : 
 While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
 
 With age's hoary honours clad 
 Surveys with self- approving mind 
 
 Each creature on his bounty fed : 
 While maniac Winter rages o'er 
 
 The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 
 Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
 
 Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 
 So long, sweet Poet of the year, 
 
 Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 
 While Scotia, with exulting tear, 
 
 Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 
 
 From An Epistle to John Lapraik, 
 
 an old Scottish Bard. [1785 
 
 BUT, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
 Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
 I to the crambo-jingle fell, 
 Tho' rude an' rough, 
 
BURNS. 173 
 
 Yet crooning to a body's seP, 
 Does weel eneugh. 
 
 I am nae poet, in a sense, Burns. 
 
 But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 
 An' ha'e to learning nae pretence, 
 
 Yet, what the matter ? 
 Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 
 
 I jingle at her. 
 
 Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
 And say, " How can you e'er propose, 
 You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 
 
 To mak a sang ? " 
 But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 
 
 Ye're maybe wrang. 
 
 What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
 Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
 If honest nature made you fools, 
 
 What sairs your grammars ? 
 Ye'd better ta'en up spades an' shools 
 
 Or knappin' hammers. 
 
 A set o' dull, conceited hashes, 
 Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
 They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 
 
 Plain truth to speak ; 
 An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 
 
 By dint o' Greek ! 
 
 Gi'e me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 
 That's a' the learning I desire ; 
 
174 BURNS. 
 
 Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 
 
 At pleugh or cart, 
 My muse, tho' hamely in attire, 
 
 May touch the heart. 
 
PERIOD VI. 
 
 POETS BORN IN THE 
 XVIIITH CENTURY. 
 
 WORDSWORTH TO LANDOR. 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Edward VI. [1827 
 
 " SWEET is the holiness of Youth "So felt Chaucer 
 
 Time-honour'd Chaucer speaking through that 
 
 Lay 
 
 By which the Prioress beguiled the way, 
 And many a pilgrim's rugged heart did melt. 
 Hadst thou, loved Bard ! whose spirit often dwelt 
 In the clear land of vision, but foreseen 
 King, child, and seraph, blended in the mien 
 Of pious Edward kneeling as he knelt 
 In meek and simple infancy, what joy 
 For universal Christendom had thrill'd 
 Thy heart ! what hopes inspired thy genius, skill'd 
 (O great Precursor, genuine morning Star) 
 The lucid shafts of reason to employ, 
 Piercing the Papal darkness from afar ! 
 
 Sonnet. [1806 
 
 WINGS have we, and as far as we can go 
 We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood, 
 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 
 Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Shake- 
 speare. 
 Spenser. 
 
 Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books we 
 
 know, 
 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and 
 
 blood, 
 
 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
 There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, 
 Matter wherein right voluble I am, 
 To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
 Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, 
 The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; 
 And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. 
 
 From The Prelude. 
 
 [i8o 
 
 SHEPHERDS were the men that pleased me first ; 
 Not such as Saturn ruled 'mid Latian wilds, 
 With arts and laws so temper'd, that their lives 
 Left, even to us toiling in this late day, 
 A bright tradition of the golden age ; 
 Not such as, 'mid Arcadian fastnesses 
 Sequester'd, handed down among themselves 
 Felicity, in Grecian song renown'd ; 
 Nor such as when an adverse fate had driven, 
 From house and home, the courtly band whos< 
 
 fortunes 
 
 Enter'd, with Shakespeare's genius, the wild wood: 
 Of Arden amid sunshine or in shade 
 Cull'd the best fruits of Time's uncounted hours, 
 Ere Phoebe sigh'd for the false Ganymede ; 
 Or there where Perdita and Florizel 
 Together danced, Queen of the feast, and King ; 
 Nor such as Spenser fabled. 
 
WORDSWORTH. 179 
 
 From Dedication to 
 The White Doe of Rylstone. [1807 
 
 IN trellis'd shed with clustering roses gay, 
 
 And Mary ! oft beside our blazing fire, 
 
 When years of wedded life were as a day 
 
 Whose current answers to the heart's desire, 
 
 Did we together read in Spenser's Lay Spenser. 
 
 How Una, sad of soul in sad attire, 
 
 The gentle Una of celestial birth, 
 
 To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth. 
 
 Ah, then, Beloved ! pleasing was the smart, 
 
 And the tear precious in compassion shed 
 
 For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart 
 
 Did meekly bear the pang unmerited ; 
 
 Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart 
 
 The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led, 
 
 And faithful, loyal in her innocence, 
 
 Like the brave Lion slain in her defence. 
 
 Notes could we hear as of faery shell 
 Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught ; 
 Free Fancy prized each specious miracle, 
 And all its finer inspiration caught ; 
 Till in the bosom of our rustic cell, 
 We by a lamentable change were taught 
 That " bliss with mortal man may not abide." 
 How nearly joy and sorrow are allied ! 
 
 For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, 
 
 For us the voice of melody was mute. 
 
 But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow, 
 
 
i8o WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And give the timid herbage leave to shoot, 
 Heaven's breathing influence fail'd not to bestow 
 A timely promise of unlook'd-for fruit, 
 Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content 
 From blossoms wild of fancies innocent. 
 
 It sooth'd us it beguiled us then, to hear 
 Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell ; 
 And griefs whose aery motion comes not near 
 The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel : 
 Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer, 
 High over hill, and low adown the dell 
 Again we wander'd, willing to partake 
 All that she sufFer'd for her dear Lord's sake. 
 
 1802. 
 
 Milton. MILTON ! thou should'st be living at this hour : 
 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
 O, raise us up, return to us again ! 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart ; 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
 In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
WORDSWORTH. 181 
 
 From The Excursion. [1814 
 
 AMONG the hills 
 
 He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, Milton. 
 
 The divine Milton. 
 
 From Lines written in a blank leaf of 
 
 Macpherson's Ossian. [1824 
 
 HAIL, Bards of mighty grasp ! on you 
 I chiefly call, the chosen Few, 
 Who cast not off the acknowledged guide, 
 Who falter'd not, nor turn'd aside ; 
 Whose lofty genius could survive 
 Privation, under sorrow thrive ; 
 In whom the fiery Muse revered 
 The symbol of a snow-white beard, 
 Bedew'd with meditative tears 
 Dropp'd from the lenient cloud of years. 
 
 Brothers in soul ! though distant times 
 Produced you nursed in various climes, 
 Ye, when the orb of life had waned, 
 A plenitude of love retain'd : 
 Hence, while in you each sad regret 
 By corresponding hope was met, 
 Ye linger'd among human kind, 
 Sweet voices for the passing wind ; 
 Departing sunbeams, loth to stop, 
 Though smiling on the last hill top ! 
 Such to the tender-hearted maid 
 Even ere her joys begin to fade ; 
 Such haply, to the rugged chief 
 
182 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 By fortune crush'd or tamed by grief ; 
 Appears, on Morven's lonely shore, 
 Dim-gleaming through imperfect lore 
 The Son of Fingal ; such was blind 
 Maeonides of ampler mind ; 
 
 Milton. Such Milton, to the fountain head 
 
 Of glory by Urania led ! 
 
 From The Prelude. [1799 1805 
 
 BESIDE the pleasant Mill of Trompington 
 Chaucer. I laugh'd with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade ; 
 
 Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell his tales 
 Of amorous passion. And that gentle Bard, 
 Chosen by the Muses for their Page of State 
 Spenser. Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven 
 
 With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft pace, 
 I call'd him Brother, Englishman, and Friend ! 
 Milton. Yea, our blind Poet, who in his later day, 
 
 Stood almost single ; uttering odious truth 
 Darkness before, and danger's voice behind, 
 Soul awful if the earth has ever lodged 
 An awful soul I seemed to see him here 
 Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress 
 Bounding before me, yet a stripling youth 
 A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks 
 Angelical, keen eye, courageous look, 
 And conscious step of purity and pride. 
 
 Sonnet. [1827 
 
 SCORN not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frown'd, 
 Mindless of its just honours ; with this key 
 
WORDSWORTH. 183 
 
 Shakespeare unlock'd his heart ; the melody Shake- 
 
 Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
 
 A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; 
 
 With it Camoens sooth 'd an exile's grief; 
 
 The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leaf 
 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd 
 
 His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, 
 
 It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land Spenser. 
 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand Milton. 
 
 The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew 
 
 Soul-animating strains alas, too few ! 
 
 Inscription for a Seat in the Groves of 
 Cole-Orton. [1808 
 
 BENEATH yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, 
 Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground 
 Stand yet, but, Stranger ! hidden from thy view, 
 The ivied ruins of forlorn Grace-Dieu ; 
 Erst a religious House, which day and night 
 With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite : 
 And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave 
 
 birth 
 
 To honourable Men of various worth : 
 There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, 
 Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child ; Beaumont. 
 
 There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks, 
 Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks ; 
 Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, 
 Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams 
 Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, 
 With which his genius shook the buskin'd stage. 
 
184 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Communities are lost, and empires die, 
 
 And things of holy use unhallow'd lie ; 
 
 They perish ; but the Intellect can raise, 
 
 From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays. 
 
 To the Poet, John Dyer. [1810-15 
 
 BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made 
 That work a living landscape fair and bright ; 
 Nor hallow'd less with musical delight 
 Than those soft scenes through which thy child- 
 hood stray'd, 
 
 Those southern tracts of Cambria, ' deep embay'd, 
 With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur 
 
 lull'd ; ' 
 
 Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culPd 
 For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade 
 Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced, 
 Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still, 
 A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay, 
 Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray 
 O'er naked Snowdon's wild aerial waste ; 
 Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill ! 
 
 From Liberty. [1829 
 
 IN a deep vision's intellectual scene, 
 Such earnest longings and regrets as keen 
 Depress'd the melancholy Cowley, laid 
 Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade ; 
 A doleful bower for penitential song, 
 Where Man and Muse complain'd of mutual 
 wrong ; 
 
WORDSWORTH. 185 
 
 While Cam's ideal current glided by, 
 
 And antique towers nodded their foreheads high, 
 
 Citadels dear to studious privacy. 
 
 But Fortune, who had long been used to sport 
 
 With this tried Servant of a thankless Court, 
 
 Relenting met his wishes ; and to you 
 
 The remnant of his days at least was true ; 
 
 You, whom, though long deserted, he loved best ; 
 
 You, Muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest ! 
 
 Remembrance of Collins. [1789 
 
 GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide, 
 O Thames ! that other bards may see 
 As lovely visions by thy side 
 As now, fair river ! come to me. 
 O glide, fair stream ! for ever so, 
 Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 
 Till all our minds for ever flow 
 As thy deep waters now are flowing. 
 
 Vain thought ! Yet be as now thou art, 
 
 That in thy waters may be seen 
 
 The image of a poet's heart, 
 
 How bright, how solemn, how serene ! 
 
 Such as did once the Poet bless, Collins. 
 
 Who murmuring here a later ditty, 
 
 Could find no refuge for distress 
 
 But in the milder grief of pity. 
 
 Now let us, as we float along, 
 For him suspend the dashing oar ; 
 And pray that never child of song 
 May know that Poet's sorrows more. 
 
186 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 How calm ! how still ! the only sound, 
 The dripping of the oar suspended ! 
 The evening darkness gathers round 
 By virtue's holiest powers attended. 
 
 [1807 
 From Resolution and Independence. 
 
 Chattcrton. I THOUGHT of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, 
 The sleepless Soul that perish'd in his pride ; 
 
 Burns. Of Him who walked in glory and in joy 
 
 Following his plough, along the mountain -side : 
 We Poets in our youth begin in gladness ; 
 But thereof come in the end despondency and 
 madness. 
 
 At the Grave of Burns, 
 Seven years after his death. [1803 
 
 I. 
 
 I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, 
 
 At thought of what I now behold : 
 
 As vapours breathed from dungeons cold 
 
 Strike pleasure dead, 
 So sadness comes from out the mould 
 
 Where Bums is laid. 
 And have I then thy bones so near, 
 And thou forbidden to appear ? 
 As if it were thyself that 's here 
 
 I shrink with pain ; 
 And both my wishes and my fear 
 
 Alike are vain. 
 
 Off weight nor press on weight ! away 
 Dark thoughts !--they came, but not to stay ; 
 
WORDSWORTH. 187 
 
 With chasten'd feelings would I pay 
 
 The tribute due 
 To him, and aught that hides his clay 
 
 From mortal view. 
 
 Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
 He sang, his genius ' glinted ' forth, 
 Rose like a star that touching earth, 
 
 For so it seems, 
 Doth glorify its humble birth 
 
 With matchless beams. 
 
 The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, 
 The struggling heart, where be they now ? 
 Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, 
 
 The prompt, the brave, 
 Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 
 
 And silent grave. 
 
 I mourn'd with thousands, but as one 
 More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
 Whose light I hail'd when first it shone, 
 
 And show'd my youth 
 How Verse may build a princely throne 
 
 On humble truth. 
 
 Alas ! where'er the current tends, 
 Regret pursues, and with it blends, 
 Huge CriffePs hoary top ascends 
 
 By Skiddaw seen, 
 Neighbours we were, and loving friends 
 
 We might have been ; 
 
1 88 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 True friends though diversely inclined ; 
 But heart with heart and mind with mind, 
 Where the main fibres are entwined, 
 
 Through Nature's skill, 
 May even by contraries be join'd 
 
 More closely still. 
 
 The tear will start, and let it flow ; 
 Thou " poor Inhabitant below," 
 At this dread moment even so 
 
 Might we together 
 Have sate and talk'd where gowans blow, 
 
 Or on wild heather. 
 
 What treasures would have then been placed 
 Within my reach ; of knowledge graced 
 By fancy what a rich repast ! 
 
 But why go on ? 
 Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, 
 
 His grave grass-grown. 
 
 There too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
 (Not three weeks past the Stripling died), 
 Lies gather'd to his Father's side, 
 
 Soul -moving sight ! 
 Yet one to which is not denied 
 
 Some sad delight. 
 
 For he is safe, a quiet bed 
 
 Hath early found among the dead, 
 
 Harbour'd where none can be misled, 
 
 Wrong'd, or distrest ; 
 And surely here it may be said 
 
 That such are blest. 
 
WORDSWORTH. 189 
 
 And O for Thee, by pitying grace 
 Check'd ofttimes in a devious race, 
 May He who halloweth the place 
 
 Where Man is laid, 
 Receive thy Spirit in the embrace 
 
 For which it pray'd ! 
 
 Sighing I turn'd away ; but ere 
 Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, 
 Music that sorrow comes not near, 
 
 A ritual hymn, 
 Chaunted in love that casts out fear 
 
 By Seraphim. 
 
 ii. [.803 
 
 Too frail to keep the lofty vow Bums. 
 
 That must have follow'd when his brow 
 
 Was wreath 'd " The Vision " tells us how- 
 With holly spray, 
 
 He falter'd, drifted to and fro, 
 And pass'd away. 
 
 Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng 
 Our minds when, lingering all too long, 
 Over the grave of Burns we hung 
 
 In social grief 
 Indulged as if it were a wrong 
 
 To seek relief. 
 
 But, leaving such unquiet theme 
 Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, 
 
190 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And prompt to welcome every gleam 
 
 Of good and fair, 
 Let us beside this limpid Stream 
 
 Breathe hopeful air. 
 
 Enough of sorrow, wreck and blight ; 
 Think rather of those moments bright 
 When to the consciousness of right 
 
 His course was true, 
 When Wisdom prosper'd in his sight 
 
 And virtue grew. 
 
 Yes, freely let our hearts expand, 
 Freely as in youth's season bland, 
 When side by side, his Book in hand, 
 
 We wont to stray, 
 Our pleasure varying at command 
 
 Of each sweet Lay. 
 
 How oft inspired must he have trod 
 These pathways, yon far-stretching road ! 
 There lurks his home ; in that Abode, 
 
 With mirth elate, 
 Or in his nobly-pensive mood, 
 
 The Rustic sate. 
 
 Proud thoughts that Image overawes, 
 Before it humbly let us pause, 
 And ask of Nature, from what cause 
 
 And by what rules 
 She train'd her Burns to win applause 
 
 That shames the Schools. 
 
WORDSWORTH. 191 
 
 Through busiest street and loneliest glen 
 
 Are felt the flashes of his pen ; 
 
 He rules 'mid winter snows, and when 
 
 Bees fill their hives ; 
 Deep in the general heart of men 
 
 His power survives. 
 
 What need of fields in some far clime 
 Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 
 And all that fetch 'd the flowing rhyme 
 
 From genuine springs, 
 Shall dwell together till old Time 
 
 Folds up his wings ? 
 
 Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
 This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ; 
 The rueful conflict, the heart riven 
 
 With vain endeavour, 
 And memory of Earth's bitter leaven, 
 
 Effaced for ever. 
 
 But why to Him confine the prayer, 
 When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear 
 On the frail heart the purest share 
 
 With all that live ? 
 The best of what we do and are, 
 
 Just God, forgive ! 
 
 Sonnet. [1833 
 
 "THERE ! " said a Stripling, pointing with meet 
 
 pride 
 
 Towards a low roof with green trees half conceal'd, 
 " Is Mossgiel Farm ; and that 's the very field 
 
192 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Burns. Where Burns plough'd up the Daisy." Far and 
 
 wide 
 
 A plain below stretch'd seaward, while, descried 
 Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose ; 
 And, by that simple notice, the repose 
 Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
 Beneath * the random bield of clod or stone ' 
 Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower 
 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour 
 Have pass'd away ; less happy than the One 
 That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove 
 The tender charm of poetry and love. 
 
 Inscription on Southey's Monument 
 in Crosthwaite Church, Keswick. 
 
 YE vales and hills whose beauty hither drew 
 The poet's steps, and fix'd him here, on you, 
 His eyes have closed ! And ye, loved books, no 
 
 more 
 
 Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore, 
 To works that ne'er shall forfeit their renown, 
 Adding immortal labours of his own 
 Whether he traced historic truth, with zeal 
 For the State's guidance, or the Church's weal, 
 Or Fancy, disciplined by studious art, 
 Inform'd his pen, or wisdom of the heart, 
 Or judgments sanction 'd in the patriot's mind 
 By reverence for the rights of all mankind. 
 Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast 
 Could private feelings meet for holier rest. 
 His joys, his griefs, have vanish'd like a cloud 
 From Skiddaw's top ; but he to heaven was vow'd 
 
WORDSWORTH. 193 
 
 Through his industrious life, and Christian faith 
 Calm'd in his soul the fear of change and death. 
 
 From The Prelude. [1805 
 
 WITH such a theme, 
 
 Coleridge ! with this my argument, of thee Coleridge. 
 
 Shall I be silent ? O capacious Soul ! 
 Placed on this earth to love and understand, 
 And from thy presence shed the light of love, 
 Shall I be mute, ere thou be spoken of? 
 Thy kindred influence to my heart of hearts 
 Did also find its way. 
 
 ****** 
 Whether to me shall be allotted life, 
 And, with life, power to accomplish aught of worth, 
 That will be deem'd no insufficient plea 
 For having given the story of myself, 
 Is all uncertain : but, beloved Friend ! 
 When, looking back, thou seest, in clearer view 
 Than any liveliest sight of yesterday, 
 That summer, under whose indulgent skies, 
 Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved 
 Uncheck'd, or loiter'd 'mid her sylvan combs, 
 Thou in bewitching words, with happy heart, 
 Didst chaunt the vision of that Ancient Man, 
 The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes 
 Didst utter of the Lady Christabel ; 
 And I, associate with such labour, steep'd 
 In soft forgetfulness the live-long hours, 
 Murmuring of him, who, joyous hap, was found, 
 After the perils of his moonlight ride, 
 Near the loud waterfall ; or her who sate 
 o 
 
194 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 In misery near the miserable Thorn ; 
 
 When tHou dost to that summer turn thy thoughts, 
 
 And hast before thee all which then we were, 
 
 To thee, in memory of that happiness, 
 
 It will be known, by thee at least, my Friend ! 
 
 Felt, that the history of a Poet's mind 
 
 Is labour not unworthy of regard : 
 
 To thee the work shall justify itself. 
 
 Yarrow Re-visited. [1831 
 
 THE gallant youth, who may have gain'd, 
 
 Or seeks, a 'winsome marrow/ 
 Was but an infant in the lap 
 
 W T hen first I look'd on Yarrow ; 
 Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 
 
 Long left without a warder, 
 Scott. I stood, look'd, listen'd, and with Thee, 
 
 Great Minstrel of the Border ! 
 
 Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 
 
 Their dignity installing 
 In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 
 
 Were on the bough, or falling ; 
 But breezes play'd, and sunshine gleam'd 
 
 The forest to embolden ; 
 Redden'd the fiery hues, and shot 
 
 Transparence through the golden. 
 
 For busy thoughts the Stream flow'd on 
 
 In foamy agitation ; 
 And slept in many a crystal pool 
 
 For quiet contemplation : 
 
WORDSWORTH. 195 
 
 No public and no private care 
 
 The free-born mind enthralling, 
 We made a day of happy hours, 
 
 Our happy days recalling. 
 
 Brisk youth appear'd, the Morn of youth, 
 
 With freaks of graceful folly, 
 Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 
 
 Her Night not melancholy ; 
 Past, present, future, all appear'd 
 
 In harmony united, 
 Like guests that meet, and some from far, 
 
 By cordial love invited. 
 
 And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 
 
 And down the meadow ranging, 
 Did meet us with unalter'd face, 
 
 Though we were changed and changing ; 
 If, then, some natural shadows spread 
 
 Our inward prospect over, 
 The soul's deep valley was not slow 
 
 Its brightness to recover. 
 
 Eternal blessings on the Muse, 
 
 And her divine employment ! 
 The blameless Muse, who trains her sons 
 
 For hope and calm enjoyment ; 
 Albeit sickness, lingering yet, 
 
 Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 
 And Care waylays their steps a sprite 
 
 Not easily eluded. 
 
196 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 For thee, O Scott ! compell'd to change 
 
 Green Eildon-Hill and Cheviot 
 For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 
 
 And leave thy Tweed and Teviot 
 For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; 
 
 May classic Fancy, linking 
 With native Fancy her fresh aid 
 
 Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 
 
 O ! while they minister to thee, 
 
 Each vying with the other, 
 May Health return to mellow Age 
 
 With Strength, her venturous brother ; 
 And Tiber, and each brook and rill 
 
 Renown'd in song and story, 
 With unimagined beauty shine, 
 
 Nor lose one ray of glory ! 
 
 For thou, upon a hundred streams, 
 
 By tales of love and sorrow 
 Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 
 
 Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 
 And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 
 
 Wherever they invite thee, 
 At parent Nature's grateful call, 
 
 With gladness must requite thee. 
 
 A gracious welcome shall be thine, 
 Such looks of love and honour 
 
 As thy own Yarrow gave to me, 
 When first I gazed upon her ; 
 
WORDSWORTH. 197 
 
 Beheld what I had fear'd to see, 
 
 Unwilling to surrender 
 Dreams treasured up from early days, 
 
 The holy and the tender. 
 
 And what, for this frail world, were all 
 
 That mortals do or suffer, 
 Did no responsive harp, no pen, 
 
 Memorial tribute offer ? 
 Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? 
 
 Her features could they win us, 
 Unhelp'd by the poetic voice 
 
 That hourlyspeaks within us ? 
 
 Nor deem that localized Romance 
 
 Play false with our affections ; 
 Unsanctifies our tears made sport 
 
 For fanciful dejections : 
 Ah, no ! the visions of the past 
 
 Sustain the heart in feeling 
 Life as she is our changeful Life, 
 
 With friends and kindred dealing. 
 
 Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day 
 
 In Yarrow's groves were center'd ; 
 Who through the silent portal arch 
 
 Of mouldering Newark enter'd ; 
 And clomb the winding stair that once 
 
 Too timidly was mounted 
 By the * Last Minstrel ' (not the last !) 
 
 Ere he his Tale recounted. 
 
198 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream ! 
 
 Fulfil thy pensive duty, 
 Well pleased that future bards should chant 
 
 For simple hearts thy beauty ; 
 To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 
 
 Dear to the common sunshine, 
 And dearer still, as now I feel, 
 
 To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 
 
 On the departure of Sir Walter Scott 
 from Abbotsford for Naples. [1831 
 
 A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 
 Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 
 Engender'd, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height ; 
 Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 
 For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 
 While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe 
 
 strain, 
 
 Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 
 Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might 
 Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 
 Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue 
 Than sceptred king or laurell'd conqueror knows, 
 Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 
 Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, 
 Wafting your Charge to fair Parthenope ! 
 
WORDSWORTH. 199 
 
 Extempore Effusion upon the Death of 
 James Hogg. [1835 
 
 WHEN first, descending from the moorlands, 
 
 I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 
 
 Along a bare and open valley, 
 
 The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. Hogg. 
 
 When last along its banks I wander'd, 
 
 Through groves that had begun to shed 
 
 Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
 
 My steps the Border-minstrel led. Scott - 
 
 The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies; 
 And death upon the braes of Yarrow, 
 Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : 
 
 Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
 
 From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
 
 Since every mortal power of Coleridge Coleridge. 
 
 Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 
 
 The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
 
 The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 
 
 And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Lamb. 
 
 Has vanish'd from his lonely hearth. 
 
 Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits, 
 Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
 How fast has brother follow'd brother, 
 From sunshine to the sunless land ! 
 
200 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
 Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
 A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
 "Who next will drop and disappear?" 
 
 Our haughty life is crown'd with darkness, 
 Like London with its own black wreath, 
 
 Crabbe. On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forth-looking 
 
 I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 
 
 As if but yesterday departed, 
 Thou too art gone before ; but why, 
 O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gather'd, 
 Should frail survivors heave a sigh ? 
 
 Mrs. Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
 
 Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 
 For Her who, ere her summer faded, 
 Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 
 
 No more of old romantic sorrows, 
 
 For slaughter'd Youth or love-lorn Maid ! 
 
 With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, 
 
 And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead. 
 
COLERIDGE. 201 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 To William Wordsworth, [1807 
 Composed on the night after his recitation 
 of a Poem on the growth of an 
 individual mind. 
 
 FRIEND of the wise ! and teacher of the good ! 
 Into my heart have I received that lay 
 More than historic, that prophetic lay 
 Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 
 Of the foundations and the building up 
 Of a Human Spirit thou hast dar'd to tell 
 What may be told, to the understanding mind 
 Revealable ; and what within the mind 
 By vital breathings secret as the soul 
 Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart 
 Thoughts all too deep for words ! 
 * * * * * 
 
 An Orphic song indeed, 
 
 A song divine of high and passionate thoughts 
 To their own music chanted ! 
 
 O great Bard ! 
 
 Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, 
 With steadfast eye I view'd thee in the choir 
 Of ever-enduring men. The truly great 
 Have all one age, and from one visible space 
 Shed influence ! They, both in power and act, 
 Are permanent, and Time is not with them, 
 Save as it worketh for them, they in it. 
 Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old, 
 
202 SOUTHEY. 
 
 And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame 
 Among the archives of mankind, thy work 
 Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, 
 Of truth profound a sweet continuous lay, 
 Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! 
 Ah ! as I listen'd with a heart forlorn, 
 The pulses of my being beat anew : 
 And even as life returns upon the drown'd, 
 Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains 
 Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe 
 Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 
 And fears self-will'd that shunn'd the eye of hope ; 
 And hope that scarce would know itself from fear ; 
 Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain, 
 And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; 
 And all which I had cull'd in wood- walks wild, 
 And all which patient toil had rear'd, and all, 
 Commune with thee had open'd out but flowers 
 Strew'd on my corse, and borne upon my bier, 
 In the same coffin, for the self-same grave ! 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 For a Tablet at Penshurst. [1799 
 
 ARE days of old familiar to thy mind, 
 O Reader ? Hast thou let the midnight hour 
 Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived 
 With high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs, 
 Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy 
 Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain, 
 Following their dangerous fortunes ? If such lore 
 
SOUTHEY. 203 
 
 Hath ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread, 
 
 As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts, 
 
 The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was born. Sidney. 
 
 Sidney, than whom no gentler, braver man 
 
 His own delightful genius ever feign'd, 
 
 Illustrating the vales of Arcady 
 
 With courteous courage and with loyal loves. 
 
 Upon his natal day an acorn here 
 
 Was planted : it grew up a stately oak, 
 
 And in the beauty of its strength it stood 
 
 And flourish'd, when his perishable part 
 
 Had moulder'd, dust to dust. That stately oak 
 
 Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sidney's fame 
 
 Endureth in his own immortal works. 
 
 From Carmen Nuptiale. [1816 
 
 THAT wreath which in Eliza's golden days 
 
 My master dear, divinest Spenser, wore, Spenser. 
 
 That which rewarded Drayton's learned lays, Drayton. 
 
 Which thoughtful Ben and gentle Daniel bore. Jonson 
 
 Grin, Envy, through thy ragged mask of scorn ! Daniel 
 In honour it was given, with honour it was worn ! 
 
 But then my master dear arose to mind, 
 
 He on whose song while yet I was a boy, 
 My spirit fed, attracted to its kind, 
 
 And still insatiate of the growing joy ; . . . 
 He on whose tomb these eyes were wont to dwell, 
 With inward yearnings which I may not tell ; 
 
 He whose green bays shall bloom for ever young, 
 And whose dear name whenever I repeat, 
 
204 SCOTT. 
 
 Reverence and love are trembling on my tongue ; 
 Sweet Spenser, sweetest bard; yet not more 
 
 sweet 
 
 Than pure was he, and not more pure than wise ; 
 High Priest of all the Muses' mysteries. 
 
 I call'd to mind that mighty master's song, 
 When he brought home his beautifullest bride, 
 
 And Mulla murmur'd her sweet undersong, 
 
 And Mole with all his mountain woods replied ; 
 
 Never to mortal lips a strain was given, 
 
 More rich with love, more redolent of Heaven. 
 
 His cup of joy was mantling to the brim, 
 
 Yet solemn thoughts enhanced his deep delight ; 
 A holy feeling fill'd his marriage hymn, 
 And Love aspired with Faith a heavenward flight. 
 
 SCOTT, 
 
 From Rokeby. [ l8l 3 
 
 O, FOR that pencil, erst profuse 
 
 Of chivalry's emblazon'd hues, 
 
 That traced of old in Woodstock's bower, 
 
 The pageant of the Leaf and Flower, 
 
 And bodied forth the tourney high, 
 
 Held for the hand of Emily ! 
 
 Then might I paint the tumult broad, 
 
 That to the crowded abbey flow'd 
 
 And pour'd as with an ocean's sound, 
 
SCOTT. 205 
 
 Into the church's ample bound ! 
 Then might I show each varying mien, 
 Exulting, woeful, or serene ; 
 Indifference, with his idiot stare, 
 And Sympathy, with anxious air, 
 Paint the dejected Cavalier. 
 Doubtful, disarm'd, and sad of cheer ; 
 And his proud foe, whose formal eye 
 Claim'd conquest now and mastery ; 
 And the brute crowd, whose envious zeal 
 Huzzas each turn of fortune's wheel, 
 And loudest shouts when lowest lie 
 Exalted worth and station high. 
 
 No touch of childhood's frolic mood 
 Show'd the elastic spring of blood ; 
 Hour after hour he loved to pore 
 On Shakespeare's rich and varied lore, Shake- 
 
 But turn'd from martial scenes and light, speare. 
 
 From Falstaff s feast and Percy's fight, 
 To ponder Jaques' moral strain, 
 And muse with Hamlet, wise in vain ; 
 And weep himself to soft repose 
 O'er gentle Desdemona's woes. 
 
 From Marmion. [1808 
 
 NOT she, the Championess of old, 
 
 In Spenser's magic tale enroll'd, Spenser. 
 
 She for the charmed spear renown'd, 
 
 Which forced each knight to kiss the ground, 
 
 Not she more changed, when, placed at rest, 
 
206 SCOTT. 
 
 What time she was Malbecco's guest, 
 
 She gave to flow her maiden vest ; 
 
 When from the corslet's grasp relieved, 
 
 Free to the sight her bosom heaved ; 
 
 Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile, 
 
 Erst hidden by the aventayle ; 
 
 And down her shoulders graceful roll'd 
 
 Her locks profuse, of paly gold. 
 
 They who whilom, in midnight fight, 
 
 Had marvel I'd at her matchless might, 
 
 No less her maiden charms approved, 
 
 But looking liked, and liking loved. 
 
 The sight could jealous pangs beguile, 
 
 And charm Malbecco's cares awhile ; 
 
 And he, the wandering Squire of Dames, 
 
 Forgot his Columbella's claims, 
 
 And passion, erst unknown, could gain 
 
 The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane ; 
 
 Nor durst light Paridel advance, 
 
 Bold as he was, a looser glance. 
 
 She charm'd, at once, and tamed the heart, 
 
 Incomparable Britomart ! 
 
 THE mightiest chiefs of British song 
 Scorn'd not such legends to prolong : 
 
 Spenser. They gleam through Spenser's elfin dream, 
 
 Milton. And mix in Milton's heavenly theme ; 
 
 Dryden. And Dryden, in immortal strain, 
 
 Had raised the Table Round again, 
 But that a ribald King and Court 
 Bade him toil on, to make them sport ; 
 Demanded for their niggard pay, 
 Fit for their souls, a looser lay, 
 
SCOTT. 207 
 
 Licentious satire, song, and play ; 
 The world defrauded of the high design, 
 Profaned the God-given strength, and marr'd the 
 lofty line. 
 
 [1823 
 From Prelude to Macduff 's Cross. 
 
 BUT mark, a wizard born on Avon's bank, Shake- 
 
 Tuned but his harp to this wild northern theme, speare. 
 And lo ! the scene is hallow'd. None shall pass, 
 Now, or in after days, beside that stone, 
 But he shall have strange visions; thoughts and 
 
 words, 
 
 That shake, or rouse, or thrill the human heart, 
 Shall rush upon his memory when he hears 
 The spirit-stirring name of this rude symbol ; 
 Oblivious ages, at that simple spell, 
 Shall render back their terrors with their woes, 
 Alas ! and with their crimes and the proud 
 
 phantoms 
 
 Shall move with step familiar to his eye, 
 And accents which, once heard, the ear forgets not, 
 Though ne'er again to list them. 
 
 From The Bridal of Triermaine. [1813 
 
 BUT if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell 
 Of errant knight, and damozelle ; 
 Of the dread knot a wizard tied, 
 In punishment of maiden's pride, 
 In notes of marvel and of fear, 
 That best may charm romantic ear. 
 
2o8 BYRON. 
 
 Collins. For Lucy loves, like Collins, ill-starr'd name 
 
 Whose lay's requital, was that tardy fame, 
 Who bound no laurel round his living head, 
 Should hang it o'er his monument when dead, 
 For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand, 
 And thread, like him, the maze of fairy land ; 
 Of golden battlements to view the gleam, 
 And slumber soft by some Elysian stream. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 From Childe Harold. [ 1 8 1 8 
 
 IN Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
 And music meets not always now the ear : 
 Those days are gone but Beauty still is here. 
 States fall, arts fade but Nature doth not die, 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
 The pleasant place of all festivity, 
 The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 
 
 But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
 Her name in story, and her long array 
 Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
 Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
 Shake- O urs * s a tro phy which will not decay 
 
 speare. With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
 
 Otway. And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away 
 
 The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
 For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 
 
BYRON. 209 
 
 Churchill's Grave, [1816 
 
 A fact literally rendered. 
 
 I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 
 The comet of a season, and I saw 
 The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 
 With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
 On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
 With name no clearer than the names unknown, 
 Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 
 The gardener of that ground, why it might be 
 That for this plant strangers his memory task'd 
 Through the thick deaths of half a century ; 
 And thus he answer'd "Well, I do not know 
 Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; 
 He died before my day of sextonship, 
 And I had not the digging of this grave." 
 And is this all ? I thought, and do we rip 
 The veil of Immortality ? and crave 
 I know not what of honour and of light 
 Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? 
 So soon and so successless ? As I said, 
 The Architect of all on which we tread, 
 For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
 To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
 Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought 
 Were it not that all life must end in one, 
 Of which we are but dreamers ; as he caught 
 As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 
 Thus spoke he, " I believe the man of whom 
 i You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 
 \ Was a most famous writer in his day, 
 it And therefore travellers step from out their way 
 p 
 
2io BYRON. 
 
 To pay him honour, and myself whate'er 
 Your honour pleases," then most pleased I shook 
 From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
 Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 
 Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
 So much but inconveniently ; ye smile, 
 I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while, 
 Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
 You are the fools, not I for I did dwell 
 With a deep thought and with a soften'd eye, 
 On that old Sexton's natural homily, 
 In which there was Obscurity and Fame, 
 The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 
 
 From English Bards and Scotch 
 
 Reviewers. [1809 
 
 THEN should you ask me, why I venture o'er 
 The path which Pope and Gifford trod before ; 
 If not yet sicken'd you can still proceed : 
 Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
 "But hold!" exclaims a friend, " here's some 
 
 neglect ; 
 
 This that and t'other line seem incorrect." 
 What then ? The self-same blunder Pope has got, 
 And careless Dryden "Ay, but Pye has not : " 
 Indeed ! 'tis granted, faith ! but what care I ? 
 Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 
 Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
 Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, 
 When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
 No fabled graces, flourish'd side by side ; 
 From the same fount their inspiration drew, 
 And rear'd by taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew. 
 
BYRON. 
 
 211 
 
 Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
 Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain ; 
 A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, 
 And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
 Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song, 
 In stream less smooth indeed, yet doubly strong. 
 Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Otway's 
 
 melt 
 
 For nature then an English audience felt. 
 But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
 When all to feebler bards resign their place ? 
 Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
 When taste and reason with those times are past. 
 Now look around, and try each trifling page, 
 Survey the precious works that please the age ; 
 This truth at least let satire's self allow, 
 No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now. 
 The loaded press beneath her labour groans, 
 And printer's devils shake their weary bones ; 
 While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves, 
 And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
 
 ****** 
 Behold in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
 For notice eager, pass in long review : 
 Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
 And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race ; 
 Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
 And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
 Immeasurable measures move along ; 
 For simpering folly loves a varied song, 
 To strange mysterious dulness still the friend, 
 Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
 Thus Lays of Minstrels may they be the last ! 
 
 Pope. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Congreve 
 
 and 
 
 Otway. 
 
 Southey. 
 Moore. 
 
 Scott. 
 
212 BYRON. 
 
 On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast, 
 While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
 That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 
 And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood, 
 Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, 
 And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, 
 And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why ; 
 While high-born ladies in their magic cell, 
 Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 
 Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
 And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 
 
 Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
 The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
 Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
 Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
 The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; 
 A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
 And think'st thou, Scott, by vain conceit perchance, 
 On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
 Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
 To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line ? 
 No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
 Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
 Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
 Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame. 
 Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain ! 
 And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! 
 Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
 Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
 For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
 And bid a long " good night to Marmion." 
 
 These are the themes that claim our plaudit now ; 
 These are the bards to whom the muse must bow ; 
 
BYRON. 213 
 
 While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
 Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 
 
 The time has been, when yet the Muse was young, 
 When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, 
 An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
 While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name ; 
 The work of each immortal bard appears 
 The single wonder of a thousand years. 
 Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, 
 Tongues have expired with those who gave them 
 
 birth, 
 
 Without the glory such a strain can give, 
 As even in ruin bids the language live. 
 Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
 On one great work a life of labour spent : 
 With eagle pinion soaring to the skies, 
 
 Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! Southey. 
 
 To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
 Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
 
 First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
 The scourge of England and the boast of France ! 
 Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
 Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
 Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
 A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
 Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, 
 Arabia's monstrous, wild and wond'rous son ; 
 Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
 More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
 Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome, 
 For ever reign the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
 Since startled metre fled before thy face, 
 Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
 
214 BYRON. 
 
 Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence, 
 Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
 Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 
 Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales ; 
 Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
 More old than Mandeville's and not so true. 
 O Southey ! Southey ! cease thy varied song ! 
 A bard may chant too often and too long : 
 As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
 A fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. 
 But if, in spite of all the world can say, 
 Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; 
 If still in Berkeley ballads most uncivil, 
 Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, 
 The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue ; 
 " God help thee " Southey, and thy readers too. 
 Words- Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
 
 That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
 The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
 As soft as evening in his favourite May, 
 Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and trouble, 
 And quit his books, for fear of growing double ; " 
 Who, both by precept and example, shows 
 That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; 
 Convincing all, by demonstration plain, 
 Poetic souls delight in prose inane ; 
 And Christmas stories, tortured into rhyme, 
 Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
 Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
 The idiot mother of " an idiot boy ; " 
 A moonstruck, silly lad, who lost his way 
 And, like his bard, confounded night with day ; 
 So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 
 
BYRON. 215 
 
 And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
 That all who view " the idiot in his glory," 
 Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 
 
 Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, Coleridge. 
 
 To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
 Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 
 Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
 If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
 To him who takes a pixy for a muse, 
 Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
 The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
 So well the subject suits his noble mind, 
 He brays, the laureat of the long-ear'd kind. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir, Moore. 
 
 Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, 
 With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush'd, 
 Strikes his wild lyre, while listening dames are 
 
 hush'd ? 
 
 'Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
 As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! 
 Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just, 
 Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
 Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; 
 From grosser incense with disgust she turns : 
 Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, 
 She bids thee "mend thy line and sin no more.'* 
 
 ****** 
 To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 
 Neglected genius I let me turn to you. 
 
 Come forth, O Campbell ! give thy talents scope ; Campbell. 
 Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 
 And thou, melodious Rogers ! rise at last, Rogers. 
 
216 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 Cowper. 
 Bums. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 Southey. 
 
 Words- 
 worth. 
 Coleridge. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 
 Arise ! let blest remembrance still inspire, 
 And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ; 
 Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 
 Assert thy country's honour and thine own. 
 What ! must deserted Poesy still weep 
 Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep ? 
 Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns 
 To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel Burns ! 
 No? though contempt hath mark'd the spurious 
 
 brood, 
 
 The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, 
 Yet still some genuine sons 'tis her's to boast, 
 Who, least affecting, still affect the most : 
 Feel as they write, and write but as they feel 
 Bear witness Gifford, Sotheby, Macneil. 
 ****** 
 
 And thou, too, Scott, resign to minstrels rude 
 
 The wilder slogan of a border feud : 
 
 Let others spin their meagre lines for hire ; 
 
 Enough for genius if itself inspire ! 
 
 Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 
 
 Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; 
 
 Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse, 
 
 And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse ; 
 
 Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most, 
 
 To rouse the galleries or to raise a ghost ; 
 
 Let Moore still sigh; let Strangford steal from 
 
 Moore, 
 
 And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yore ; 
 Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, 
 And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave ; 
 Let sonnetering Bowles his strains refine, 
 
BYRON. 217 
 
 And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; 
 Let Stott, Carlisle, Matilda, and the rest 
 Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-place the best, 
 Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain, 
 Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
 But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
 Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lays ; 
 Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 
 Demand a hallow'd harp that harp is thine. 
 Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
 The glorious record of some nobler field, 
 Than the wild foray of a plundering clan, 
 Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 
 Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
 For Sherwood's outlaw tales of Robin Hood ? 
 Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, 
 And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 
 Yet not with thee alone his praise shall live, 
 But own the vast renown a world can give ; 
 Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 
 And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
 To future times her faded fame recall, 
 And save her glory, though his country fall. 
 
 From the Dedication to Don Juan. [1819 
 
 BOB Southey ! You're a poet Poet -Laureate, Southey. 
 
 And representative of all the race, 
 Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at 
 
 Last yours has lately been a common case, 
 And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at ? 
 
 With all the Lakers, in and out of place ? 
 A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
 Like "four-and -twenty Blackbirds in a pye ; 
 
218 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 Words- 
 worth. 
 
 " Which pye being open'd they began to sing " 
 (This old song and new simile holds good), 
 
 " A dainty dish to set before the King," 
 
 Or Regent, who admires such kind of food ; 
 
 And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, 
 But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, 
 
 Explaining metaphysics to the nation 
 
 I wish he would explain his Explanation. 
 
 You, Bob ! are rather insolent, you know, 
 At being disappointed in your wish 
 
 To supersede all warblers here below, 
 And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 
 
 And then you overstrain yourself, or so, 
 And tumble downward like the flying fish 
 
 Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, 
 
 And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob. 
 
 And Wordsworth, in a rather long " Excursion" 
 (I think the quarto holds five hundred pages), 
 
 Has given a sample from the vasty version 
 Of his new system to perplex the sages ; 
 
 'Tis poetry at least by his assertion, 
 And may appear so when the dog-star rages 
 
 And he who understands it would be able 
 
 To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 
 
 You Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclusion 
 From better company, have kept your own 
 
 At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion 
 Of one another's minds, at last have grown 
 
 To deem as a most logical conclusion, 
 That Poesy has wreaths for you alone : 
 
BYRON. 219 
 
 There is a narrowness in such a notion, 
 Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for 
 ocean. 
 
 I would not imitate the petty thought, 
 
 Nor coin my self-love to so a base a vice, 
 For all the glory your conversion brought, 
 
 Since gold alone should not have been its price. 
 You have your salary ; was't for that you wrought ? 
 
 And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. 
 You're shabby fellows true but poets still, 
 And duly seated on the immortal hill. 
 
 Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows 
 Perhaps some virtuous blushes : let them go 
 
 To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs 
 And for the fame you would engross below, 
 
 The field is universal, and allows 
 
 Scepe to all such as feel the inherent glow : Scott, 
 
 Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore and Crabbe, will cam^ 
 try Moore, 
 
 'Gainst you the question with posterity. Crabbe. 
 
 For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, 
 Contend not with you 'on the winged steed, 
 
 I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, 
 The fame you envy, and the skill you need. 
 
 And recollect a poet nothing loses 
 In giving to his brethren his full meed 
 
 Of merit, and complaint of present days 
 
 Is not the certain path to future praise. 
 
 He that reserves his laurels for posterity 
 (Who does not often claim the bright reversion) 
 
220 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 Milton, 
 Dryden, 
 Pope, 
 Words- 
 worth, 
 Coleridge, 
 Southey. 
 
 Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
 Being only injured by his own assertion ; 
 
 And although here and there some glorious rarity 
 Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, 
 
 The major part of such appellants go 
 
 To God knows where for no one else can know. 
 
 If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 
 Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 
 
 If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs, 
 And makes the word " Miltonic " mean " sub- 
 lime? 
 
 He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs, 
 Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 
 
 He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 
 
 But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 
 
 Think'st thou, could he the blind Old Man arise 
 Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more 
 
 The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, 
 Or be alive again again all hoar 
 
 With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, 
 And heartless daughters worn and pale and 
 poor; 
 
 Would he adore a sultan ? he obey 
 
 The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ? 
 
 From Don Juan. [ l8l 9 
 
 CANTO i. 
 
 THOU shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope, 
 Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, 
 
 Southey ; 
 Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, 
 
BYRON. 221 
 
 The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy ; 
 
 With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, Crabbe. 
 
 And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy ; Campbell. 
 
 Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor Rogers. 
 
 Commit flirtation with the muse of Moore. Moore. 
 
 CANTO 3. [1821 
 
 MILTON 's the prince of poets so we say, Milton. 
 
 A little heavy, but no less divine. 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S last quarto, by the way, is bigger Words- 
 Than any since the birthday of typography ; 
 A drowsy frowsy poem call'd the " Excursion," 
 Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 
 ****#* 
 
 We learn from Horace, " Homer sometimes 
 sleeps " ; 
 
 We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes Words- 
 wakes, worth - 
 To show with what complacency he creeps, 
 
 With his dear " Waggoners" around his lakes. 
 He wishes for a " boat " to sail the deeps 
 
 Of ocean ? No, of air ; and then he makes 
 Another outcry for "a little boat," 
 And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 
 
 If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, 
 And Pegasus runs restive in his "Waggon," 
 
 Could he not beg the loan of Charles' Wain ? 
 Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 
 
 Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, 
 
 He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 
 
222 BYRON. 
 
 And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 
 Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 
 
 " Pedlars," and " Boats," and " Waggons ! " O ! 
 ye shades 
 
 Dr P den * P P6 and Dr y den > are we come to this ? 
 
 That trash of such sort not alone evades 
 
 Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 
 Floats scum -like uppermost, and these Jack Cades 
 
 Of sense and song above your graves may hiss 
 The " little boat-man " and his " Peter Bell " 
 Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel ! " 
 
 CANTO n. 
 IN twice five years "the greatest living poet," 
 
 Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 
 Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, 
 
 Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 
 Byron. Even I albeit I'm sure I did not know it, 
 
 Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king, 
 Was reckon'd a considerable time, 
 The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 
 
 But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
 
 My Leipsic, and my Mount St. Jean seems 
 Cain; 
 
 " La Belle Alliance " of dunces down at zero, 
 Now that the Lion 's fallen, may rise again ; 
 
 But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 
 Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 
 
 Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go, 
 
 With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 
 
BYRON. 
 
 223 
 
 Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Camp- 
 bell 
 
 Before and after ; but now grown more holy, 
 The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
 
 With poets almost Clergymen, or wholly. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 Then there 's my gentle Euphues ; who, they say 
 Sets up for being a sort of moral me ; 
 
 He'll find it rather difficult some day 
 To turn out both, or either it may be. 
 
 Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway ; 
 And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three ; 
 
 And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian " Savage Landor" 
 
 Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 
 
 Leigh 
 Hunt. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 Words- 
 worth. 
 Landor. 
 Southey. 
 
 John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique 
 Just as he really promised something great, 
 
 If not intelligible, without Greek 
 
 Contrived to talk about the gods of late, 
 
 Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
 Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate ; 
 
 } Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 
 
 Should let itself be snuff 'd out by an article. 
 
 Keats. 
 
 CANTO 15. [1824 
 
 HAVING wound up with this sublime comparison, 
 Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, 
 
 And as my friend Scott says, "I sound my Scott. 
 
 warison ; " 
 Scott, the superlative of my comparative 
 
224 MOORE. 
 
 Scott, who can paint your Christian Knight or 
 
 Saracen, 
 Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would 
 
 share it, if 
 
 There had not been one Shakespeare and Voltaire, 
 Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 From Intercepted Letters. [1813 
 
 SHOULD you feel any touch of poetical glow, 
 Scott. We've a scheme to suggest Mr. Sc-tt, you must 
 
 know, 
 (Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the 
 
 Row] 
 
 Having quitted the Borders, to seek new renown, 
 Is coming, by long Quarto stages, to Town ; 
 And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to 
 
 pay) 
 
 Means to do all the gentlemen's seats on the way. 
 Now the scheme is (though none of our hackneys 
 
 can beat him, 
 To start a fresh poet through Highgate to meet 
 
 him; 
 Who by means of quick proofs no revises long 
 
 coaches 
 
 May do a few Villas, before Sc-tt approaches. 
 Indeed, if our Pegasus be not curst shabby, 
 He'll reach, without found'ring, at least Woburn 
 
 Abbey. 
 
MOORE. 22$ 
 
 Such, Sir, is our plan if you're up to the freak, 
 'Tis a match ! and we'll put you in training next 
 week. 
 
 Reflections before reading Lord Byron's 
 Memoirs, written by himself. [1819 
 
 LET me, a moment ere with fear and hope 
 Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope 
 As one in fairy tale, to whom the key 
 
 Of some enchanter's secret halls is given, 
 Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly, 
 
 If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven 
 Let me, a moment, think what thousands live 
 O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give, 
 Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow 
 Over these precious leaves, as I do now. 
 How all who know and where is he unknown ? 
 To what far region have his songs not flown, 
 Like Psaphon's birds, speaking their master's 
 
 name, 
 
 In every language, syllabled by Fame ? 
 ; How all, who've felt the various spells combined 
 Within the circle of that master-mind, 
 Like spells, derived from many a star, and met 
 Together in some wondrous amulet, 
 Would burn to know when first the Light awoke 
 In his young soul and if the gleams that broke 
 From that Aurora of his genius, raised 
 Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blazed ; 
 Would love to trace the unfolding of that power, 
 vVhich hath grown ampler, grander, every hour ; 
 Q 
 
226 MOORE. 
 
 And feel, in watching o'er his first advance, 
 As did the Egyptian traveller, when he stood 
 
 By the young Nile, and fathom'd with his lance 
 The first small fountains of that mighty flood. 
 
 They, too, who, 'mid the scornful thoughts that 
 dwell 
 
 In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams, 
 As if the Star of Bitterness, which fell 
 
 On earth, of old, had touch'd them with its 
 
 beams 
 
 Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate, 
 From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate ; 
 And which, even now, struck as it is with blight, 
 Comes out, at times, in Love's own native light ; 
 How gladly all, who've watch'd these struggling 
 
 rays 
 
 Of a bright, ruin'd spirit through his lays, 
 Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips, 
 
 What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven 
 That noble nature into cold eclipse ; 
 
 Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven, 
 And born, not only to surprise, but cheer 
 With warmth and lustre all within its sphere, 
 Is now so quench'd, that of its grandeur lasts 
 Nought, but the wide, cold shadow which it casts ! 
 
 Eventful volume ! whatsoe'er the change 
 
 Of scene and clime the adventures bold and 
 
 strange 
 
 The griefs the frailties, but too frankly told 
 The loves, the feuds, thy pages may unfold, 
 If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks 
 
MOORE. 227 
 
 His virtues or his failings, we shall find 
 The record there of friendships, held like rocks, 
 
 And enmities, like sun-touch'd snow, resign'd ; 
 Of fealty, cherish'd without change or chill, 
 III those who served him, young, and serve him 
 
 still ; 
 
 Of generous aid, given with that noiseless art 
 Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded 
 
 heart ; 
 
 Of acts but no not from himself must aught 
 Of the bright features of his life be sought. 
 While they, who court the world, like Milton's 
 
 cloud, 
 
 "Turn forth their silver lining" on the crowd, 
 This gifted Being wraps himself in night ; 
 
 And, keeping all that softens, and adorns, 
 And gilds his social nature hid from sight, 
 
 Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns. 
 
 [1832 
 Verses to the Poet Crabbe's Inkstand. 
 
 ALL as he left it ! even the pen 
 So lately at that mind's command, 
 
 Carelessly lying, as if then 
 Just fallen from his gifted hand. 
 
 Have we then lost him ? scarce an hour, 
 A little hour, seems to have past, 
 
 Since Life and Inspiration's power 
 Around that relic breathed their last. 
 
 Ah, powerless now like talisman, 
 Found in some vanish'd wizard's halls, 
 
228 MOORE. 
 
 Whose mighty charm with him began, 
 Whose charm with him extinguish'd falls. 
 
 Yet though, alas ! the gifts that shone 
 
 Around that pen's exploring track, . 
 
 Be now, with its great master, gone, 
 Nor living hand can call them back ; 
 
 Who does not feel, while thus his eyes 
 Rest on the enchanter's broken wand, 
 
 Each earth-born spell it work'd arise 
 Before him in succession grand ? 
 
 Grand, from the Truth that reigns o'er all ; 
 
 The unshrinking Truth, that lets her light 
 Through Life's low, dark interior fall, 
 
 Opening the whole, serenely bright : 
 
 Yet softening, as she frowns along, 
 
 O'er scenes which angels weep to see 
 
 Where Truth itself half veils the wrong, 
 In pity of the misery. 
 
 True Bard ! and simple, as the race 
 
 Of true-born poets ever are, 
 When, stooping from their starry place, 
 
 They're children, near, though gods, afar. 
 
 How freshly doth my mind recall, 
 'Mong the few days I've known with thee, 
 
 One that, most buoyantly of all, 
 Floats in the wake of memory ; 
 
MOORE. 229 
 
 When he, the poet, doubly graced, Rogers. 
 
 In life, as in his perfect strain, 
 With that pure mellowing power of Taste, 
 
 Without which Fancy shines in vain ; 
 
 Who in his page will leave behind, 
 
 Pregnant with genius though it be, 
 But half the treasures of a mind, 
 
 Where Sense o'er all holds mastery : 
 
 Friend of long years ! of friendship tried 
 Through many a bright and dark event ; 
 
 In doubts, my judge in taste, my guide 
 In all, my stay and ornament ! 
 
 He, too, was of our feast that day, 
 
 And all were guests of one, whose hand Campbell. 
 
 Hath shed a new and deathless ray 
 
 Around the lyre of this great land ; 
 
 In whose sea-odes as in those shells 
 
 Where Ocean's voice of majesty 
 Seems still to sound immortal dwells 
 
 Old Albion's Spirit of the Sea. 
 
 Such was our host ; and though, since then, 
 Slight clouds have risen 'twixt him and me, 
 
 Who would not grasp such hand again, 
 Stretch'd forth again in amity ? 
 
 Who can, in this short life, afford 
 To let such mists a moment stay, 
 
230 SHELLEY. 
 
 When thus one frank, atoning word, 
 Like sunshine, melts them all away ? 
 
 Moore. Bright was our board that day, though one 
 
 Unworthy brother there had place ; 
 As 'mong the horses of the Sun, 
 One was, they say, of earthly race. 
 
 Yet, next to Genius is the power 
 Of feeling where true Genius lies 
 
 And there was light around that hour 
 Such as, in memory, never dies ; 
 
 Light which comes o'er me, as I gaze, 
 Thou Relic of the Dead, on thee, 
 
 Like all such dreams of vanish'd days, 
 Brightly, indeed but mournfully ! 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 From Letter to Maria Gisborne. [1820 
 
 speare, SHAKESPEARE, Sidney, Spenser, and the rest 
 
 Sidney, Who made our land an island of the bless'd. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 From Peter Bell the Third. [1819 
 
 Words- ALL things that Peter saw and felt 
 
 wonh - Had a peculiar aspect to him ; 
 
 And, when they came within the belt 
 Of his own nature, seem'd to melt, 
 Like cloud to cloud, into him. 
 
SHELLEY. 231 
 
 And so, the outward world uniting 
 
 To that within him, he became 
 Considerably uninviting 
 To those who, meditation slighting, 
 
 Were moulded in a different frame. 
 
 He had a mind which was somehow 
 At once circumference and centre 
 
 Of all he might or feel or know ; 
 
 Nothing went ever out, although 
 Something did ever enter. 
 
 He had as much imagination 
 As a pint-pot ; he never could 
 
 Fancy another situation, 
 
 From which to dart his contemplation, 
 Than that wherein he stood. 
 
 Yet his was individual mind, 
 
 And new-created all he saw 
 In a new manner, and refined 
 Those new creations, and combined 
 Them by a master-spirit's law. 
 
 Thus although unimaginative 
 An apprehension clear, intense, 
 Of his mind's work, had made alive, 
 The things it wrought on ; I believe 
 Wakening a sort of thought in sense. 
 
 But from the first 'twas Peter's drift 
 
 To be a kind of moral eunuch : 
 He touch'd the hem of Nature's shift 
 
232 SHELLEY. 
 
 Felt faint, and never dared uplift 
 The closest all-concealing tunic. 
 
 She laugh'd the while with an arch smile, 
 
 And kiss'd him with a sister's kiss, 
 And said : " My best Diogenes, 
 I love you well but, if you please, 
 Tempt not again my deepest bliss. 
 
 " 'Tis you are cold ; for I, not coy, 
 
 Yield love for love, warm, frank and true ; 
 Buras. And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy 
 
 His errors prove it knew my joy 
 More, learned friend, than you. " 
 
 [1820 
 From Proem to the Witch of Atlas. 
 
 Words- WORDSWORTH informs us he was nineteen years 
 
 Considering and re-touching Peter Bell ; 
 Watering his laurels with the killing tears 
 
 Of slow dull care, so that their roots to hell 
 Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the 
 
 spheres 
 Of heaven with dewy leaves and flowers ; this 
 
 well 
 
 May be, for heaven and earth conspire to foil 
 The ever-busy gardener's blundering toil. 
 
 My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature 
 As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise 
 
 Clothes for our grandsons but she matches Peter, 
 Though he took nineteen years, and she three 
 days, 
 
SHELLEY. 233 
 
 In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre 
 
 She wears : he, proud as dandy with his stays, 
 Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress 
 Like King Lear's loop'd and window'd raggedness. 
 
 To Wordsworth. \c. 1815 
 
 POET of Nature, thou hast wept to know 
 
 That things depart which never may return ; 
 Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first 
 glow, 
 
 Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to 
 
 mourn. 
 These common woes I feel. One loss is mine, 
 
 Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore. 
 Thou wert as a lone star whose light did shine 
 
 On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar ; 
 Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood 
 Above the blind and battling multitude ; 
 In honour'd poverty thy voice did weave 
 
 Songs consecrate to truth and liberty. 
 Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve, 
 
 Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to 
 be. 
 
 From Peter Bell the Third. [1819 
 
 HE was a mighty poet and Coleridge. 
 
 A subtle-soul'd psychologist ; 
 All things he seem'd to understand 
 Of old or new, of sea or land 
 
 But his own mind which was a mist. 
 
234 SHELLEY. 
 
 This was a man who might have turn'd 
 Hell into Heaven and so in gladness 
 
 A Heaven unto himself have earn'd : 
 
 But he in shadows undiscern'd 
 
 Trusted, and damn'd himself to madness. 
 
 He spoke of poetry, and how 
 
 Divine it was "a light a love 
 
 A spirit which like wind doth blow 
 
 As it listeth to and fro ; 
 
 A dew rain'd down from God above : 
 
 A power which comes and goes like dream, 
 
 And which none can ever trace 
 Heaven's light on earth Truth's brightest beam." 
 And when he ceased there lay the gleam 
 Of those words upon his face. 
 
 From a Letter to Maria Gisborne. [1820 
 
 Coleridge, You will see Coleridge ; he who sits obscure 
 In the exceeding lustre and the pure 
 Intense irradiation of a mind 
 Which, with its own internal lightning blind, 
 Flags wearily through darkness and despair 
 A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, 
 A hooded eagle among blinking owls. 
 
 Leigh You will see Hunt ; one of those happy souls 
 
 Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom 
 This world would smell like what it is a tomb ; 
 Who is what others seem. His room no doubt 
 Is still adorn'd by many a cast from Shout : 
 With graceful flowers tastefully placed about, 
 
SHELLEY. 235 
 
 And coronals of bay from ribbons hung, 
 
 And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung, 
 
 The gifts of the most learn'd among some dozens 
 
 Of female friends, sisters-in-law and cousins. 
 
 And there is he with his eternal puns, 
 
 Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, like duns 
 
 Thundering for money at a poet's door ; 
 
 Alas ! it is no use to say "I'm poor ! " 
 
 Or oft in graver mood, when he will look 
 
 Things wiser than were ever said in book, 
 
 Except in Shakespeare's wisest tenderness. Shake- 
 
 You will see Hogg ; and I cannot express 
 
 His virtues (though I know that they are great), 
 
 Because he locks, then barricades, the gate 
 
 Within which they inhabit. Of his wit 
 
 And wisdom, you'll cry out when you are bit. 
 
 He is a pearl within an oyster-shell, 
 
 One of the richest of the deep. 
 
 From Lines written among the Euganean 
 Hills. [1818 
 
 SUN-GIRT city ! thou hast been 
 Ocean's child, and then his queen. 
 Now is come a darker day. 
 
 ***** 
 Perish ! Let there only be, 
 Floating o'er thy hearthless sea 
 As the garment of the sky 
 Clothes the world immortally, 
 One remembrance, more sublime 
 Than the tatter'd pall of time 
 
236 SHELLEY. 
 
 Which scarce hides thy visage wan : 
 Byron. That a tempest-cleaving swan 
 
 Of the songs of Albion, 
 Driven from his ancestral streams 
 By the might of evil dreams, 
 Found a nest in thee ; and ocean 
 Welcomed him with such emotion 
 That its joy grew his, and sprung 
 From his lips like music flung 
 O'er a mighty thunder-fit, 
 Chastening terror. What though yet 
 Poesy's unfailing river, 
 Which through Albion winds for ever, 
 Lashing with melodious wave 
 Many a sacred poet's grave, 
 Mourn its latest nurseling fled? 
 What though thou with all thy dead 
 Scarce canst for this fame repay 
 Aught thine own, O ! rather say, 
 Though thy sins and slaveries foul 
 Overcloud a sunlike soul ? 
 As the ghost of Homer clings 
 Round Scamander's wasting springs ; 
 Shake- As divinest Shakespeare's might 
 
 Fills Avon and the world with light, 
 
 Like Omniscient Power, which he 
 
 Imaged 'mid mortality ; 
 
 As the love from Petrarch's urn 
 
 Yet amid yon hills doth burn, 
 
 A quenchless lamp by which the heart 
 
 Sees things unearthly ; so thou art, 
 
 Mighty spirit ! so shall be 
 
 The city that did refuge thee ! 
 
SHELLEY. 237 
 
 Fragment. [1818 
 
 O MIGHTY mind, in whose deep stream this age Byron. 
 
 Shakes like a reed in the unheeding storm, 
 Why dost thou curb not thine own sacred rage ? 
 
 Sonnet to Byron. [1821 
 
 IF I esteem'd you less, Envy would kill 
 
 Pleasure, and leave to Wonder and Despair 
 The ministration of the thoughts that fill 
 
 The mind which, like a worm whose life may 
 
 share 
 A portion of the unapproachable, 
 
 Marks your creations rise as fast and fair 
 As perfect worlds at the Creator's will. 
 But such is my regard that nor your power 
 
 To soar above the heights where others climb, 
 Nor fame, that shadow of the unborn hour 
 
 Cast from the envious future on the time, 
 
 Move one regret for his unhonour'd name 
 Who dares these words : the worm beneath the 
 
 sod 
 May lift itself in homage of the God. 
 
 On Keats, [1821 
 
 Who desired that on his tomb should be 
 inscribed 
 
 " HERE lieth One whose name was writ on water." 
 But, ere the breath that could erase it blew, 
 Death, in remorse for that fell slaughter, 
 Death, the immortalizing winter, flew 
 
238 SHELLEY. 
 
 Athwart the stream, and time's monthless torrent 
 
 grew 
 
 A scroll of crystal, blazoning the name 
 Of Adonais." 
 
 Adonais; [1821 
 
 An Elegy on the death of John Keats. 
 
 i. 
 
 I WEEP for Adonais he is dead ! 
 Oh ! weep for Adonais, though our tears 
 Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head ! 
 And thou, sad Hour selected from all years 
 To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, 
 And teach them thine own sorrow ! Say : 
 
 " With me 
 
 Died Adonais ! Till the future dares 
 Forget the past, his fate and fame shall be 
 An echo and a light unto eternity." 
 
 II. 
 
 Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, 
 When thy son lay, pierced by the shaft which 
 
 flies 
 
 In darkness ? Where was lorn Urania 
 When Adonais died ? With veiled eyes, 
 'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 
 She sate, while one, with soft enamour'd breath, 
 Rekindled all the fading melodies 
 With which, like flowers that mock the corse 
 
 beneath, 
 He had adorn'd and hid the coming bulk of Death. 
 
SHELLEY. 239 
 
 in. 
 
 O, weep for Adonais he is dead ! 
 Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep ! 
 Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning 
 
 bed 
 
 Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep 
 Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep ; 
 For he is gone where all things wise and fair 
 Descend. O dream not that the amorous deep 
 Will yet restore him to the vital air ; 
 Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our 
 
 despair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Most musical of mourners, weep again ! 
 Lament anew, Urania ! He died, Milton. 
 
 Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, 
 Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride 
 The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, 
 Trampled and mock'd with many a loathed rite 
 Of lust and blood. He went unterrified 
 Into the gulf of death ; but his clear sprite 
 Yet reigns o'er earth, the third among the Sons of 
 Light. 
 
 v. 
 
 Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
 Not all to that bright station dared to climb ; 
 And happier they their happiness who knew, 
 Whose tapers yet burn through that night of 
 
 time 
 In which suns perish'd. Others more sublime, 
 
240 SHELLEY. 
 
 Struck by the envious wrath of man or God, 
 
 Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime ; 
 
 And some yet live, treading the thorny road 
 
 Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's 
 
 serene abode. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Keats. But now thy youngest, dearest one, has perish'd, 
 
 The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, 
 Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherish'd, 
 And fed with true love tears instead of dew. 
 Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
 Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, 
 The bloom whose petals, nipt before they blew, 
 Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste ; 
 The broken lily lies the storm is overpast. 
 
 VII. 
 
 To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
 Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, 
 He came ; and bought, with price of purest 
 
 breath, 
 
 A grave among the eternal. Come away ! 
 Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 
 Is yet his fitting charnel-roof, while still 
 He lies as if in dewy sleep he lay ; 
 Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill 
 Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He will awake no more, oh never more ! 
 Within the twilight chamber spreads apace 
 The shadow of white Death, and at the door 
 
SHELLEY. 241 
 
 Invisible Corruption waits to trace 
 His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place ; 
 The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe 
 Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface 
 So fair a prey, till darkness and the law 
 Of change shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain 
 draw. 
 
 IX. 
 
 O, weep for Adonais ! The quick Dreams, 
 The passion-winged Ministers of thought, 
 Who were his flocks, whom near the living 
 
 streams 
 
 Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught 
 The love which was its music, wander not 
 Wander no more from kindling brain to brain, 
 But droop there whence they sprung ; and 
 
 mourn their lot 
 Round the cold heart where, after their sweet 
 
 pain, 
 They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home 
 
 again. 
 
 x. 
 
 And one with trembling hands clasps his cold 
 
 head, 
 And fans him with her moonlight wings, and 
 
 cries : 
 
 " Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead ! 
 See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, 
 Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies 
 A tear some dream has loosen'd from his brain. " 
 Lost Angel of a ruin'd Paradise ! 
 R 
 
242 SHELLEY. 
 
 She knew not 'twas her own ; as with no stain 
 She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its 
 rain. 
 
 XI. 
 
 One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
 Wash'd his light limbs as if embalming them ; 
 Another dipt her profuse locks, and threw 
 The wreath upon him, like an anadem 
 Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem ; 
 Another in her wilful grief would break 
 Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem 
 A greater loss with one which was more weak, 
 And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Another Splendour on his mouth alit, 
 
 That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the 
 
 breath 
 
 Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, 
 And pass into the panting heart beneath 
 With lightning and with music : the damp death 
 Quench'd its caress upon his icy lips ; 
 And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
 Of moonlight vapour which the cold night clips, 
 It flush'd through his pale limbs, and pass'd to its 
 
 eclipse. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And others came. Desires and Adorations ; 
 Winged Persuasions and veil'd Destinies ; 
 Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering in- 
 carnations 
 
SHELLEY. 243 
 
 Of Hopes and Fears, and twilight Fantasies ; 
 And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs ; 
 And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam 
 Of her own dying smile instead of eyes, 
 Came in slow pomp ; the moving pomp might 
 
 seem 
 Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 All he had loved, and moulded into thought 
 From shape and hue and odour and sweet 
 
 sound, 
 
 Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
 Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, 
 Wet with tears which should adorn the ground, 
 Dimm'd the aerial eyes that kindle day ; 
 Afar the melancholy Thunder moan'd, 
 Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, 
 And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their 
 
 dismay. 
 
 xv. 
 
 Lost Echo sits among the voiceless mountains, 
 And feeds her grief with his remember'd lay, 
 And will no more reply to winds or fountains, 
 Or amorous birds perch'd on the young green 
 
 spray, 
 
 Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day ; 
 Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear 
 Than those for whose disdain she pined away 
 Into a shadow of all sounds : a drear 
 Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen 
 
 hear. 
 
244 SHELLEY. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Grief made the young Spring wild, and she 
 
 threw down 
 
 Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, 
 Or they dead leaves ; since her delight is flown, 
 For whom should she have waked the sullen 
 
 Year? 
 
 To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear, 
 Not to himself Narcissus, as to both 
 Thou, Adonais ; wan they stand and sere 
 Amid the faint companions of their youth, 
 With dew all turn'd to tears, odour, to sighing 
 
 ruth. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale, 
 Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain ; 
 Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale 
 Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain 
 Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain, 
 Soaring and screaming round her empty nest, 
 As Albion wails for thee : the curse of Cain 
 Light on his head who pierced thy innocent 
 
 breast, 
 And scared the angel soul that was its earthly 
 
 guest ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Ah, woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, 
 But grief returns with the revolving year ; 
 The airs and streams renew their joyous tone 
 The ants, the bees, the swallows, reappear ; 
 
SHELLEY. 245 
 
 Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons' 
 
 bier; 
 
 The amorous birds now pair in every brake, 
 And build their mossy homes in field and brere ; 
 And the green lizard and the golden snake, 
 Like unimprison'd flames, out of their trance 
 
 awake. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Through wood and stream and field and hill and 
 
 ocean, 
 A quickening life from the Earth's heart has 
 
 burst, 
 
 As it has ever done, with change and motion, 
 From the great morning of the world when first 
 God dawned on chaos ; in its stream immersed, 
 The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light ; 
 All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst, 
 Diffuse themselves and spend in love's delight 
 The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. 
 
 xx. 
 
 The leprous corpse touch'd by this spirit tender, 
 Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; 
 Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour 
 Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death, 
 And mock the merry worm that walks beneath. 
 Nought we know dies. Shall that alone which 
 
 knows 
 
 Be as a sword consumed before the sheath 
 By sightless lightning ? the intense atom glows 
 A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose. 
 
246 SHELLEY. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Alas ! that all we loved of him should be, 
 But for our grief, as if it had not been, 
 And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! 
 Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene 
 The actors or spectators ? Great and mean 
 Meet mass'd in death, who lends what life must 
 
 borrow. 
 
 As long as skies are blue and fields are green, 
 Evening must usher night, night urge the 
 
 morrow, 
 Month follow month with woe, and year wake 
 
 year to sorrow. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 He will awake no more, oh, never more ! 
 
 " Wake thou," cried Misery, "childless Mother ! 
 
 Rise 
 
 Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core 
 A wound more fierce than his, with tears and 
 
 sighs." 
 
 And all the Dreams that watch'd Urania's eyes, 
 And all the Echoes whom their Sister's song 
 Had held in holy silence, cried : " Arise ! " 
 Swift as a thought by the snake Memory stung, 
 From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour 
 
 sprung. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs 
 Out of the east, and follows wild and drear 
 The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, 
 Even as ghost abandoning a bier, 
 
SHELLEY. 247 
 
 Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear 
 So struck, so roused, so rapt, Urania ; 
 So sadden'd round her like an atmosphere 
 Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her way 
 Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Out of her secret paradise she sped, 
 
 Through camps and cities rough with stone and 
 
 steel 
 
 And human hearts, which to her aery tread 
 Yielding not, wounded the invisible 
 Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell. 
 And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp 
 
 than they, 
 
 Rent the soft form they never could repel, 
 Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of 
 
 May, 
 Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 In the death-chamber for a moment Death, 
 Shamed by the presence of that living Might, 
 Blush'd to annihilation, and the breath 
 Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 
 Flash'd through those limbs, so late her dear 
 
 delight. 
 
 " Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless, 
 As silent lightning leaves the starless night ! 
 Leave me not ! " cried Urania : her distress 
 Roused Death : Death rose and smiled, and met 
 
 her vain caress. 
 
248 SHELLEY. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " Stay yet awhile ! speak to me once again ! 
 Kiss me so long but as a kiss may live ! 
 And in my heartless breast and burning brain 
 That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else 
 
 survive, 
 
 With food of saddest memory kept alive, 
 Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 
 Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 
 All that I am, to be as thou now art : 
 But I am chain'd to Time, and cannot thence 
 depart. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " Oh gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, 
 Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men 
 Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty 
 
 heart 
 
 Dare the unpastured dragon in his den ? 
 Defenceless as thou wert, oh where was then 
 Wisdom the mirror'd shield, or Scorn the spear ? 
 Or, hadst thou waited the full cycle when 
 Thy spirit should have fill'd its crescent sphere, 
 The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like 
 deer. 
 
 xxvin. 
 
 " The herded wolves bold only to pursue ; 
 The obscene ravens clamorous o'er the dead, 
 The vulture to the conqueror's banner true, 
 Who feed where Desolation first has fed, 
 And whose wings rain contagion, how they 
 fled, 
 
SHELLEY. 249 
 
 When, like Apollo from his golden bow, 
 
 The Pythian of the age one arrow sped, 
 
 And smiled ! The spoilers tempt no second 
 
 blow, 
 They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as 
 
 they go. 
 
 " The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn ; 
 He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
 Is gather'd into death without a dawn, 
 And the immortal stars awake again. 
 So is it in the world of living men : 
 A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 
 Making earth bare and veiling heaven ; and when 
 Itsinks, the swarms that dimm'd or shared its light 
 Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Thus ceased she : and the Mountain Shepherds 
 
 came, 
 
 Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent ; 
 The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Byron. 
 
 Over his living head like heaven is bent, 
 An early but enduring monument, 
 Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song 
 In sorrow. From her wilds lerne sent 
 The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, Moore. 
 
 And love taught grief to fall like music from his 
 tongue. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 'Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, Shelley. 
 A phantom among men, companionless 
 
250 SHELLEY. 
 
 As the last cloud of an expiring storm 
 Whose thunder is its knell. He, as I guess, 
 Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness 
 Actaeon-like ; and now he fled astray 
 With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, 
 And his own thoughts along that rugged way, 
 Pursued like raging hounds their father and their 
 prey. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift 
 A love in desolation mask'd a power 
 Girt round with weakness ; it can scarce uplift 
 The weight of the superincumbent hour. 
 It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 
 A breaking billow ; even whilst we speak 
 Is it not broken ? On the withering flower 
 The killing sun smiles brightly : on a cheek 
 The life can burn in blood even while the heart 
 may break. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 His head was bound with pansies overblown, 
 And faded violets, white and pied and blue ; 
 And a light spear topp'd with a cypress cone, 
 Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew 
 Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, 
 Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
 Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it. Of that 
 
 crew 
 
 He came the last, neglected and apart ; 
 A herd-abandon'd deer, struck by the hunter's 
 
 dart. 
 
SHELLEY. 251 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
 Smiled through their tears. Well knew that gentle 
 
 band 
 
 Who in another's fate now wept his own. 
 As in the accents of an unknown land 
 He sung new sorrow, sad Urania scann'd 
 The Stranger's mien, and murmur'd : "Who 
 
 art thou ? " 
 
 He answered not, but with a sudden hand 
 Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, 
 Which was like Cain's or Christ's O that it 
 
 should be so ! 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 What softer voice is hush'd over the dead ? 
 Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown ? 
 Wliat form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed, 
 In mockery of monumental stone, 
 The heavy heart heaving without a moan ? 
 If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, 
 Taught, soothed, loved, honour'd the departed 
 
 one, 
 
 Let me not vex with inharmonious sighs 
 The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Our Adonais has drunk poison oh 
 What deaf and viperous murderer could crown 
 Life's early cup with such a draught of woe ? 
 The nameless worm would now itself disown : 
 It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone 
 Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong, 
 
252 SHELLEY. 
 
 But what was howling in one breast alone, 
 Silent with expectation of the song 
 Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre 
 unstrung. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame ! 
 Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from me, 
 Thou noteless blot on a remember'd name ! 
 But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! 
 And ever at thy season be thou free 
 To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow : 
 Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee, 
 Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, 
 And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt as 
 now. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Nor let us weep that our delight is fled 
 Far from these carrion kites that scream below. 
 He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead ; 
 Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now. 
 Dust to the dust : but the pure spirit shall flow 
 Back to the burning fountain whence it came, 
 A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 
 Through time and change, unquenchably the 
 
 same, 
 Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of 
 
 shame. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep ! 
 He hath awakened from the dream of life. 
 
SHELLEY. 253 
 
 'Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep 
 With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 
 And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife 
 Invulnerable nothings. We decay 
 Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief 
 Convulse us and consume us day by day, 
 And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living 
 clay. 
 
 He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night. 
 Envy and calumny and hate and pain, 
 And that unrest which men miscall delight, 
 Can touch him not and torture not again; 
 From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
 He is secure ; and now can never mourn 
 A heart grown cold, a head grown grey, in vain ; 
 Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, 
 With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 He lives, he wakes 'tis Death is dead, not he ; 
 Mourn not for Adonais. Thou young Dawn, 
 Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee 
 The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ! 
 Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! 
 Cease ye faint flowers and fountains ! and, thou 
 
 Air, 
 Which like a mourning-veil thy scarf hadst 
 
 thrown 
 
 O'er the abandon'd Earth, now leave it bare 
 Even to the joyous stars which smile on its 
 
 despair ! 
 
254 SHELLEY. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 He is made one with Nature. There is heard 
 His voice in all her music, from the moan 
 Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird. 
 He is a presence to be felt and known 
 In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, 
 Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 
 Which has withdrawn his being to its own, 
 Which wields the world with never-wearied love, 
 Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 He is a portion of the loveliness 
 Which once he made more lovely. He doth bear 
 His part, while the One Spirit's plastic stress 
 Sweeps through the dense dull world ; compelling 
 
 there 
 
 All new successions to the form they wear ; 
 Torturing the unwilling dross, that checks its 
 
 flight, 
 
 To its own likeness, as each mass may bear ; 
 And bursting in its beauty and its might 
 From trees and beasts and men into the heaven's 
 
 light. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The splendours of the firmament of time 
 May be eclipsed, but are extinguish'd not ; 
 Like stars to their appointed height they climb, 
 And death is a low mist which cannot blot 
 The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought 
 Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, 
 And love and life contend in it for what 
 
SHELLEY. 255 
 
 Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there, 
 And move like winds of light on dark and stormy 
 
 XLV. 
 
 The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown 
 
 Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal 
 
 thought, 
 
 Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton Chatterton. 
 
 Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 
 Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought, Sidney. 
 
 And as he fell, and as he lived and loved, 
 Sublimely mild, a spirit without spot, 
 Arose ; and Lucan, by his death approved : 
 Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 And many more, whose names on earth are dark, 
 But whose transmitted effluence cannot die 
 So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
 Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
 " Thou art become as one of us," they cry ; 
 " It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long 
 Swung blind in unascended majesty, 
 Silent alone amid an heaven of song. 
 Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our 
 throng ! " 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Who mourns for Adonais ? oh come forth, 
 Fond wretch, and know thyself and him aright. 
 Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous earth ; 
 As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
 
256 SHELLEY. 
 
 Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might 
 Satiate the void circumference : then shrink 
 Even to a point within our day and night ; 
 And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee sink, 
 When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the 
 brink. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, 
 O, not of him, but of our joy. 'Tis nought 
 That ages, empires, and religions, there 
 Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought ; 
 For such as he can lend they borrow not 
 Glory from those who made the world their 
 
 prey; 
 
 And he is gather'd to the kings of thought 
 Who waged contention with their time's decay, 
 And of the past are all that cannot pass away. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Go thou to Rome, at once the paradise, 
 
 The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; 
 
 And where its wrecks like shattered mountains 
 
 rise, 
 
 And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress 
 The bones of Desolation's nakedness, 
 Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 
 Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, 
 Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead 
 A light of laughing flowers along the grass is 
 
 spread. 
 
SHELLEY. 257 
 
 L. 
 
 And grey walls moulder round, on which dull 
 
 Time 
 
 Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
 And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, 
 Pavilioning the dust of him who plann'd 
 This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
 Like flame transform 'd to marble; and beneath 
 A field is spread, on which a newer band 
 Have pitch'd in heaven's smile their camp of 
 
 death, 
 Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguish'd 
 
 breath. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Here pause. These graves are all too young as yet 
 To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned 
 Its charge to each ; and, if the seal is set 
 Here on one fountain of a mourning mind, 
 Break it not thou ! too surely shalt thou find 
 Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, 
 Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind 
 Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
 What Adonais is, why fear we to become ? 
 
 Lit 
 
 The One remains, the many change and pass ; 
 Heaven's light for ever shines, Earth's shadows 
 
 fly; 
 
 Life, like a dome of many-colour'd glass, 
 Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
 Until Death tramples it to fragments. Die, 
 If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek ! 
 Follow where all is fled ! Rome's azure sky, 
 s 
 
258 SHELLEY. 
 
 Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak 
 The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my 
 
 heart ? 
 
 Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here 
 They have departed ; thou shouldst now depart. 
 A light is pass'd from the revolving year, 
 And man and woman ; and what still is dear 
 Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. 
 The soft sky smiles, the low wind whispers near : 
 'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither ! 
 No more let life divide what death can join to- 
 gether. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 That Light whose smile kindles the Universe, 
 That Beauty in which all things work and move, 
 That Benediction which the eclipsing curse 
 Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 
 Which through the web of being blindly wove 
 By man and beast and earth and air and sea, 
 Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
 The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me, 
 Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. 
 
 I.v. 
 
 The breath whose might I have invoked in song 
 Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven 
 Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng 
 Whose sails are never to the tempest given. 
 The massy earth and sphered skies are riven ! 
 

 KEATS. 259 
 
 I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ! 
 Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of heaven, 
 The soul of Adonais, like a star, 
 Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 
 
 KEATS. 
 
 On first looking into Chapman's 
 
 Homer. [p. 1817 
 
 MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 
 
 And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 
 
 Round many western islands have I been 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
 
 That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne ; 
 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : Chapman. 
 Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
 
 When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
 
 He stared at the Pacific and all his men 
 Look'd at each other with a wild surmise 
 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 SPENSER ! a jealous honourer of thine, Spenser. 
 
 A forester deep in thy midmost trees, 
 Did, last eve, ask my promise to refine 
 
 Some English, that might strive thine ear to 
 please. 
 
260 KEATS. 
 
 But, Elfin-poet ! 'tis impossible 
 
 For an inhabitant of wintry earth 
 To rise, like Phoebus, with a golden quill, 
 
 Fire-wing'd, and make a morning in his mirth. 
 It is impossible to 'scape from toil 
 
 O } the sudden, and receive thy spiriting : 
 The flower must drink the nature of the soil 
 
 Before it can put forth its blossoming : 
 Be with me in the summer days and I 
 Will for thine honour and his pleasure try. 
 
 From Sleep and Poetry. [1817 
 
 Is there so small a range 
 
 In the present strength of manhood, that the high 
 Imagination cannot freely fly 
 As she was wont of old ? prepare her steeds, 
 Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds 
 Upon the clouds ? Has she not shown us all ? 
 From the clear space of ether, to the small 
 Breath of new buds unfolding ? From the meaning 
 Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender greening 
 Of April meadows ? Here her altar shone, 
 E'en in this isle ; and who could paragon 
 The Eliza- The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 
 bethans. Qf harmony, to where it aye will poise 
 
 Its mighty self of convoluting sound, 
 Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, 
 Eternally around a dizzy void ? 
 Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd 
 With honours ; nor had any other care 
 Than to sing out and soothe their wavy hair. 
 
KEATS. 261 
 
 Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a schism 
 Nurtured by foppery and barbarism 
 Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 
 Men were thought wise who could not understand 
 His glories : with a puling infant's force 
 They sway'd about upon a rocking-horse, 
 And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal-souFd ! 
 The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd 
 Its gathering waves ye felt it not. The blue 
 Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 
 Of summer nights collected still to make 
 The morning precious : beauty was awake ! 
 Why were not ye awake ? But ye were dead 
 To things ye knew not of, were closely wed 
 To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 
 And compass vile : so that ye taught a school 
 Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit. 
 Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, 
 Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : 
 A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
 Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! 
 That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face, 
 And did not know it, no, they went about, 
 Holding a poor decrepit standard out, 
 Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in large 
 The name of one Boileau ! 
 
 O ye whose charge 
 
 It is to hover round our pleasant hills ! 
 Whose congregated majesty so fills 
 My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace 
 Your hallow'd names in this unholy place, 
 So near those common folks ; did not their shames 
 Affright you ? Did our old lamenting Thames 
 
262 KEATS. 
 
 Delight you ? Did ye never cluster round 
 Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, 
 And weep ? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 
 To regions where no more the laurel grew ? 
 Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 
 To some lone spirits who could proudly sing 
 Their youth away, and die ? 'Twas even so : 
 But let me think away those times of woe : 
 Now 'tis a fairer season ; ye have breathed 
 Rich benedictions o'er us ; ye have wreathed 
 Fresh garlands : for sweet music has been heard 
 In many places ; some has been upstirr'd 
 From out its crystal dwelling in a lake, 
 
 Words- By a swan's ebon bill ; from a thick brake, 
 
 worth. Nested and quiet in a valley mild, 
 
 Bubbles a pipe ; fine sounds are floating wild 
 About the earth ; happy are ye and glad. 
 
 From An Epistle to Charles Cowden 
 
 Clarke. [1816 
 
 OFT have you seen a swan superbly frowning, 
 And with proud breast his own white shadow 
 
 crowning ; 
 
 He slants his neck beneath the waters bright 
 So silently, it seems a beam of light 
 Come from the galaxy : anon he sports, 
 With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts, 
 Or ruffles all the surface of the lake 
 In striving from its crystal face to take 
 Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure 
 In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure. 
 But not a moment can he there ensure them, 
 
KEATS. 263 
 
 Nor to such downy rest can he allure them ; 
 
 For down they rush as though they would be free, 
 
 And drop like hours into eternity. 
 
 Just like that bird am I in loss of time, Keats. 
 
 Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme ; 
 
 With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent, 
 
 I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent; 
 
 Still scooping up the water with my fingers, 
 
 In which a trembling diamond never lingers. 
 
 By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see 
 
 Why I have never penn'd a line to thee : 
 
 Because my thoughts were never free and clear, 
 
 And little fit to please a classic ear ; 
 
 Because my wine was of too poor a savour 
 
 For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour 
 
 Of sparkling Helicon : small good it were 
 
 To take him to a desert rude and bare, 
 
 Who had on Baiae's shore reclined at ease, 
 
 While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze 
 
 That gave soft music from Armida's bowers, 
 
 Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers : 
 
 Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream Spenser. 
 
 Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream ; 
 
 Who had beheld Belphcebe in a brook, 
 
 And lovely Una in a leafy nook, 
 
 And Archimago leaning o'er his book : 
 
 Who had of all that 's sweet tasted, and seen 
 
 From silvery ripple, up to beauty's queen ; 
 
 From the sequester 'd haunts of gay Titania, 
 
 To the blue dwelling of divine Urania : 
 
 One who of late had ta'en sweet forest walks 
 
 With him who elegantly chats and talks 
 
264 KEA TS. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. The wrong'd Libertas who has told you stories 
 Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories ; 
 Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city, 
 And tearful ladies, made for love and pity : 
 With many else which I have never known. 
 Thus have I thought ; and days on days have flown 
 Slowly, or rapidly unwilling still 
 For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. 
 Nor should I now, but that I've known you long ; 
 That you first taught me all the sweets of song : 
 The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine ; 
 What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine : 
 
 Spenser. Spenserian vowels that elope with ease, 
 
 And float along like birds o'er summer seas ; 
 
 Milton. Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness: 
 
 Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair 
 slenderness. 
 
 From Specimen of an Induction to a 
 
 Poem. [1817 
 
 Spenser. SPENSER ! thy brows are arched, open, kind, 
 
 And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind ; 
 And always does my heart with pleasure dance, 
 When I think on thy noble countenance : 
 Where never yet was aught more earthly seen 
 Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green. 
 Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully 
 Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh 
 My daring steps : or if thy tender care, 
 Thus startled unaware, 
 Be jealous that the foot of other wight 
 Should madly follow that bright path of light 
 
KEATS. 265 
 
 Traced by thy loved Libertas ; he will speak, Leigh Hunt 
 
 And tell thee that my prayer is very meek ; 
 
 That I will follow with due reverence, 
 
 And start with awe at mine own strange pretence. 
 
 Him thou wilt hear ; so I will rest in hope 
 
 To see wide plains, fair trees, and lawny slope ; 
 
 The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the 
 
 flowers ; 
 Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking 
 
 towers. 
 
 From An Epistle to George Felton 
 
 Mathew. [1816 
 
 O MATHEW ! lend thy aid 
 To find a place where I may greet the maid 
 Where we may soft humanity put on, 
 
 And sit, and rhyme, and think on Chatterton ; Chatterton. 
 
 And that warm-hearted Shakespeare sent to meet Shake- 
 him speare ' 
 
 Four laurell'd spirits, heavenward to entreat him. 
 
 Sonnet. Addressed to Haydon. [1817 
 
 GREAT spirits now on earth are sojourning; 
 
 He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, Words- 
 
 Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake, 
 Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing : 
 He of the rose, the violet, the spring, Leigh Hunt, 
 
 The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake : 
 
 And lo ! whose steadfastness would never take 
 A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. 
 And other spirits there are standing apart 
 
 Upon the forehead of the age to come ; 
 
266 LANDOR. 
 
 These, these will give the world another heart, 
 And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 
 
 Of mighty workings ? 
 
 Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb. 
 
 LANDOR. 
 
 On Shakespeare. [1846 
 
 IN poetry there is but one supreme, 
 
 Tho' there are many angels round his throne, 
 
 Migfrty and beauteous, while his face is hid. 
 
 [1863 
 
 BEYOND our shores, past Alps and Apennines, 
 Shake- Shakespeare, from heaven came thy creative 
 
 speare. breath, 
 
 'Mid citron groves and over-arching vines 
 Thy genius wept at Desdemona's death. 
 In the proud sire thou badest anger cease, 
 And Juliet by her Romeo sleep in peace ; 
 Then rose thy voice above the stormy sea, 
 And Ariel flew from Prospero to thee. 
 
 Shakespeare and Milton. [1853 
 
 THE tongue of England, that which myriads 
 Have spoken and will speak, were paralyzed 
 Hereafter, but two mighty men stand forth 
 Above the flight of ages, two alone ; 
 
 Shake- One crying out, 
 
 speare - All nations speak thro 1 me. 
 
LANDOR. 267 
 
 The other : Milton. 
 
 True ; and thro 1 this trumpet burst 
 God^s word ; the fall of Angels, and the doom 
 First of immortal^ then of mortal, Man ; 
 Glory ! be Glory / not to me, to God. 
 
 Milton and Shakespeare. [1863 
 
 WITH frowning brow o'er pontiff-kings elate 
 
 Stood Dante, great the man, the poet great. 
 
 Milton in might and majesty surpast Milton. 
 
 The triple world, and far his shade was cast. 
 
 On earth he sang amid the angelic host, 
 
 And Paradise to him was never lost. 
 
 But there was one who came these two between Shake- 
 
 With larger light than yet our globe had seen. speare. 
 
 Various were his creations, various speech 
 
 Without a Babel he bestow'd on each. 
 
 Raleigh and Bacon tower'd above that earth 
 
 Which in their day had given our Shakespeare 
 
 birth, 
 
 And neither knew his presence ! they half-blind 
 Saw not in him the grandest of mankind. 
 
 From To Lamartine, President of France. 
 
 'TWAS not unseemly in the bravest bard Milton. 
 
 From Paradise and angels to descend, 
 
 And crown his country's saviour with a wreath 
 
 Above the regal : few his words, but strong, 
 
 And sounding through all ages and all climes. 
 
 He caught the sonnet from the dainty hand 
 
 Of Love, who cried to lose it ; and he gave 
 
268 LANDOR. 
 
 The notes to Glory. Darwen and Dunbar 
 Heard him ; Sabrina, whom in youth he woo'd, 
 Crouch'd in the sedges at the clang of war, 
 Until he pointed out from Worcester walls 
 England's avenger awfully sedate. 
 
 THAT critic must indeed be bold 
 Who pits new authors against old. 
 Only the ancient coin is prized, 
 The dead alone are canonized : 
 
 Shake- What was even Shakespeare until then ? 
 
 Jensen*. A poet scarce compared with Ben : 
 
 Milton. And Milton in the streets no taller 
 
 Waller. Than sparkling easy-ambling Waller. 
 
 Waller now walks with riming crowds, 
 While Milton sits above the clouds, 
 Above the stars, his fix'd abode, 
 And points to men their way to God. 
 
 From Apology for Gebir. [1858 
 
 I LOVE all beauty : I can go 
 At times from Gainsborough to Watteau ; 
 Milton. Even after Milton's thorough-bass 
 
 Butler. I hear the rhymes of Hudibras, 
 
 And find more solid wisdom there 
 Than pads professor's easy chair : 
 But never sit I quiet long 
 
 Young. Where broider'd cassock floats round Young ; 
 
 Whose pungent essences perfume 
 And quirk and quibble trim the tomb; 
 Who thinks the holy bread too plain, 
 And in the chalice pours champagne. 
 
LANDOR. 269 
 
 [1863 
 
 WILL nothing but from Greece or Rome 
 
 Please me? Is nothing good at home ? 
 
 Yes ; better ; but I look in vain 
 
 For a Moliere or La Fontaine. 
 
 Swift, in his humour was as strong, Swift. 
 
 But there was gall upon his tongue. 
 
 Bitters and acids may excite, 
 
 Yet satisfy not appetite. 
 
 Goldsmith and Gray. [1858 
 
 SWEET odours and bright colours swiftly pass, 
 
 Swiftly as breath upon a looking-glass. 
 
 Byron, the school -girl's pet, has lived his day, Byron. 
 
 And the tall maypole scarce remembers May. 
 
 Thou, Nature, bloomest in perennial youth . . . 
 
 Two only are eternal . . . thou and Truth. 
 
 Who walks not with thee thro' the dim Church- Gray. 
 
 yard ? 
 
 Who wanders not with Erin's wandering bard ? Goldsmith. 
 
 Who sits not down with Auburn's pastor mild 
 To take upon his knee the shyest child ? 
 These in all hearts will find a kindred place, 
 And live the last of our poetic race. 
 
 Erin. [1863 
 
 FORGETTEST thou thy bard who, hurried home Goldsmith. 
 
 From distant lands and, bent by poverty, 
 Reposed among the quiet scenes he loved 
 In native Auburn, nor disdain'd to join 
 The village dancers on the sanded floor ? 
 
270 LANDOR. 
 
 No poet since hath Nature drawn so close 
 To her pure bosom as her Oliver. 
 Moore. Thou nearest yet the melodies of Moore, 
 
 Who sang your blue-eyed maidens worthily 
 If any voice of song can reach so high. 
 
 [853 
 
 Cowper. TENDEREST of tender hearts, of spirits pure 
 
 The purest ! such, O Cowper ! such wert thou, 
 
 But such are not the happiest : thou wert not, 
 
 Till borne where all those hearts and spirits rest. 
 
 Young was I, when from Latin lore and Greek 
 
 I play'd the truant for thy sweeter Task, 
 
 Nor since that hour hath aught our Muses held 
 
 Before me seem'd so precious ; in one hour, 
 
 I saw the poet and the sage unite, 
 
 More grave than man, more versatile than boy! 
 
 Spenser. Spenser shed over me his sunny dreams; 
 
 Chaucer. Chaucer far more enchanted me ; the force 
 
 Milton. Of Milton was for boyhood too austere, 
 
 Yet often did I steal a glance at Eve : 
 
 Shake- Fitter for after-years was Shakespeare's world, 
 
 Its distant light had not come down to mine. 
 Thy milder beams with wholesome temperate 
 
 warmth 
 Fill'd the small chamber of my quiet breast. 
 
 ['853 
 
 Words- WE know a poet rich in thought, profuse 
 
 worth * In bounty ; but his grain wants winnowing ; 
 
 There hangs much chaff about it, barndoor dust, 
 
LANDOR. 271 
 
 Cobwebs, small insects : it might make a loaf, 
 A good large loaf of household bread ; but flour 
 Must be well-bolted for a dainty roll. 
 
 On Southey's Birthday. [1853 
 
 No Angel borne on whiter wing 
 
 Hath visited the sons of men, 
 Teaching the song they ought to sing 
 
 And guiding right the unsteady pen. 
 Recorded not on earth alone, 
 
 O Southey ! is thy natal day, 
 But there where stands the choral throne 
 
 Show us thy light and point the way. 
 
 To Southey 1833. 
 
 INDWELT.ER of a peaceful vale, 
 
 Ravaged erewhile by white-hair'd Dane ; 
 
 Rare architect of many a wondrous tale, 
 
 Which, till Helvellyn's head lie prostrate, shall 
 
 remain ! 
 
 From Arno's side I hear thy Derwent flow, 
 And see methinks the lake below 
 Reflect thy graceful progeny, more fair 
 And radiant than the purest waters are, 
 Even when gurgling in their joy among 
 The bright and blessed throng 
 "Whom, on her arm recline, 
 The beauteous Proserpine 
 With tenderest regretful gaze 
 Thinking of Enna's yellow field, surveys. 
 
272 LANDOR. 
 
 Alas ! that snows are shed 
 
 Upon thy laurel'd head, 
 Hurtled by many cares and many wrongs ! 
 
 Malignity lets none 
 
 Approach the Delphic throne ; 
 A hundred lane-fed curs bark down Fame's hundred 
 
 tongues. 
 But this is in the night, when men are slow 
 
 To raise their eyes, when high and low, 
 The scarlet and the colourless, are one ; 
 
 Soon Sleep unbars his noiseless prison, 
 
 And active minds again are risen ; 
 Where are the curs ? dream-bound, and whimper- 
 ing in the sun. 
 
 At fife's, or lyre's, or tabor's sound 
 The dance of youth, O Southey, runs not round, 
 But closes at the bottom of the room 
 Amid the falling dust and deepening gloom, 
 
 Where the weary sit them down, 
 And Beauty too unbraids, and waits a lovelier 
 
 crown. 
 We hurry to the river we must cross, 
 
 And swifter downward every footstep wends ; 
 Happy, who reach it ere they count the loss 
 
 Of half their faculties and half their friends ! 
 
 When we are come to it, the stream 
 
 Is not so dreary as they deem 
 
 Who look on it from haunts too dear ; 
 The weak from Pleasure's baths feel most its chill- 
 ing air ! 
 
 No firmer breast than thine hath Heaven 
 To poet, sage, or hero given : 
 
LANDOR. 273 
 
 No heart more tender, none more just 
 To that He largely placed in trust : 
 Therefore shalt thou, whatever date 
 Of years be thine, with soul elate 
 Rise up before the Eternal throne, 
 And hear, in God's own voice, " Well done ! " 
 
 Not, were that submarine 
 
 Gem-lighted city mine, 
 Wherein my name, engraven by thy hand, 
 Above the royal gleam of blazonry shall stand ; 
 
 Not, were all Syracuse, 
 
 Pour'd forth before my Muse, 
 With Hiero's cars and steeds, and Pindar's lyre 
 Brightening the path with more than solar fire, 
 Could I, as would beseem, requite the praise 
 Shower'd upon my low head from thy most lofty 
 lays. 
 
 From To Andrew Crosse. [1846 
 
 No longer do the girls for Moore Moore. 
 
 Jilt Horace as they did before. 
 
 He sits contented to have won 
 
 The rose-wreath from Anacreon, 
 
 And bears to see the orbs grow dim 
 
 That shone with blandest light on him. 
 
 CHANGEFUL ! how little do you know Byron. 
 
 Of Byron when you call him so ! 
 True as the magnet is to iron 
 Byron hath ever been to Byron. 
 
274 LANDOR. 
 
 His colour'd prints, in gilded frames, 
 Whatever the designs and names, 
 One image set before the rest, 
 In shirt with falling collar drest, 
 And keeping up a rolling fire at 
 Patriot, conspirator, and pirate. 
 
 To the Nightingale. [1853 
 
 Shelley. MELODIOUS Shelley caught thy softest song, 
 
 And they who heard his music heard not thine ; 
 Gentle and joyous, delicate and strong, 
 
 From the far tomb his voice shall silence mine. 
 
 [1863 
 
 THOU hast not lost all glory, Rome ! 
 
 With thee have found their quiet home 
 Shelley, Two whom we followers most admire 
 
 Keats. Of those that swell our sacred quire ; 
 
 And many a lower'd voice repeats 
 Hush 1 here lies Shelley ! here lies Keats ! 
 
 Satirists. [1846 
 
 HONESTER men and wiser, you will say, 
 Were satirists. 
 
 Unhurt? for spite? for pay? 
 Their courteous soldiership, outshining ours, 
 Mounted the engine, and took aim from towers 
 From putrid ditches we more safely fight, 
 And push our zig-zag parallels by night. 
 Dryden. Dryden's rich numbers rattle terse and round, 
 
 Profuse, and nothing plattery in the sound. 
 
LANDOR. 275 
 
 And, here almost his equal, if but here, Pope. 
 
 Pope pleased alike the playful and severe. 
 
 The slimmer cur at growler Johnson snarls, Johnson. 
 
 But cowers beneath his bugle-blast for Charles. 
 
 From Vanity and London far removed, Cowper. 
 
 With that pure Spirit his pure spirit loved, 
 
 In thorny paths the pensive Cowper trod, 
 
 But angels prompted, and the word was God. 
 
 Churchmen have chaunted satire, and the pews 
 
 Heard good sound doctrine from the sable Muse. 
 
 Frost-bitten and lumbaginous, when Donne, Donne. 
 
 With verses gnarl'd and knotted, hobbled on, 
 
 Thro' listening palaces did rhymeless South 
 
 Pour sparkling waters from his golden mouth. 
 
 Prim, in spruce parti-colours, Mason shone, Mason. 
 
 His Muse look'd well in gall-dyed crape alone. 
 
 Beneath the starry sky, 'mid garden glooms, 
 
 In meditation deep, and dense perfumes, 
 
 Young's cassock was flounced round with plaintive Young. 
 
 pun, 
 
 And pithier Churchill swore he would have none. Churchill. 
 He bared his own broad vices, but the knots 
 Of the loud scourge fell sorest upon Scots. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Byron was not all Byron ; one small part 
 Bore the impression of a human heart. 
 Guided by no clear love-star's panting light 
 Thro' the sharp surges of a northern night, 
 In Satire's narrow strait he swam the best, 
 Scattering the foam that hiss'd about his breast. 
 He, who might else have been more tender, first 
 From Scottish saltness caught his rabid thirst. 
 
276 LANDOR. 
 
 From To Wordsworth. [1846 
 
 A MARSH, where only flat leaves lie, 
 And showing but the broken sky, 
 Too surely is the sweetest lay 
 That wins the ear and wastes the day. 
 Where youthful Fancy pouts alone 
 And lets not Wisdom touch her zone. 
 
 He who would build his fame up high, 
 The rule and plummet must apply, 
 Nor say " I'll do what I have plann'd," 
 Before he try if loam or sand 
 Be still remaining in the place 
 Delved for each polish'd pillar's base. 
 With skilful eye and fit device 
 Thou raisest every edifice, 
 Whether in shelter'd vale it stand 
 Or overlook the Dardan strand, 
 Amid the cypresses that mourn 
 Laodameia's love forlorn. 
 
 We both have rim o'er half the space 
 Listed for mortal's earthly race ; 
 We both have cross 'd life's fervid line, 
 And other stars before us shine ; 
 May they be bright and prosperous 
 As those that have been stars for us ! 
 Our course by Milton's light was sped, 
 And Shakespeare shining overhead : 
 Chatting on deck was Dryden too, 
 The Bacon of the riming crew ; 
 None ever cross'd our mystic sea 
 
LANDOR. 277 
 
 More richly stored with thought than he ; 
 
 Tho' never tender nor sublime, 
 
 He wrestles with, and conquers Time. 
 
 To learn my lore on Chaucer's knee, Chaucer. 
 
 I left much prouder company ; 
 
 Thee gentle Spenser fondly led, Spenser. 
 
 But me he mostly sent to bed. 
 
 I wish them every joy above 
 
 That highly blessed spirits prove, 
 
 Save one : and that too shall be theirs, 
 
 But after many rolling years, 
 
 When 'mid their light thy light appears. 
 
 From Epistle to the Author of Festus. [1853 
 
 WE talk of schools . . unscholarly ; if schools 
 
 Part the romantic from the classical. 
 
 The classical like the heroic age 
 
 Is past ; but Poetry may re-assume 
 
 That glorious name with Tartar and with Turk, 
 
 With Goth or Arab, Sheik or Paladin, 
 
 And not with Roman and with Greek alone. 
 
 The name is graven on the workmanship. 
 
 The trumpet-blast of Marmion never shook Scott. 
 
 The God-built walls of Ilion ; yet what shout 
 
 Of the Achaians swells the heart so high ? 
 
 Nor fainter is the artillery-roar that booms Campbell. 
 
 From Hohenlinden to the Baltic strand. 
 
 Shakespeare with majesty benign call'd up Shake- 
 
 The obedient classics from their marble seat, speare. 
 
 And led them thro' dim glen and sheeny glade, 
 
 And over precipices, over seas 
 
278 LANDOR. 
 
 Unknown by mariner, to palaces 
 High-arch'd, to festival, to dance, to joust, 
 And gave them golden spur and vizor barr'd, 
 And steeds that Pheidias had turn'd pale to see. 
 
 From English Hexameters. [1853 
 
 Keats. KEATS, the most Grecian of all, rejected the metre 
 
 of Grecians ; 
 Poesy breathed over him, breathed constantly, 
 
 tenderly, freshly ; 
 Words- Wordsworth she left now and then, outstretch'd 
 
 in a slumberous languor, 
 
 Slightly displeased . . . but return'd as Aurora 
 return'd to Tithonus. 
 
 To the Daisy. [1846 
 
 WHAT name more graceful could'st thou chuse 
 Than Caledonia's pastoral Muse, 
 Burns. Breathed in the mellow reed of Burns ? 
 
 To Macaulay. [1846 
 
 THE dreamy rhymer's measured snore 
 
 Falls heavy on our ears no more ; 
 
 And by long strides are left behind 
 
 The dear delights of woman-kind, 
 
 Who win their battles like their loves, 
 
 In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, 
 
 And have achieved the crowning work 
 
 When they have truss'd and skewer'd a Turk. 
 
 Another comes with stouter tread, 
 
 And stalks among the statelier dead. 
 
LANDOR. 279 
 
 He rushes on, and hails by turns 
 
 High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns, Scott, 
 
 And shows the British youth, who ne'er Burns. 
 
 Will lag behind, what Romans were, 
 
 When all the Tuscans and their Lars 
 
 Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. 
 
 To Robert Browning. [1846 
 
 THERE is delight in singing, tho' none hear 
 Beside the singer ; and there is delight 
 In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone 
 And see the praised far off him, far above. 
 Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, Shake- 
 
 Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee, speare. 
 Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, Chaucer. 
 
 No man hath walk'd along our roads with step 
 So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 
 So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 
 Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the breeze 
 Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on 
 Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 
 The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 
 
PERIOD VII. 
 
 POETS OF THE 
 XIXTH CENTURY. 
 
 E. B. BROWNING TO TENNYSON. 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT 
 BROWNING. 
 
 From A Vision of Poets. [1844 
 
 THERE Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb 
 The crowns o' the world : O eyes sublime 
 With tears and laughter for all time ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 And Spenser droop'd his dreaming head 
 (With languid sleep-smile you had said 
 From his own verse engendered) 
 
 On Ariosto's, till they ran 
 Their curls in one : the Italian 
 Shot nimbler heat of bolder man 
 
 From his fine lids. 
 
 Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 And Chaucer, with his infantine Chaucer. 
 
 Familiar clasp of things divine ; 
 That mark upon his lip is wine. 
 
 Here, Milton's eyes strike piercing-dim : Milton. 
 
 The shapes of suns and stars did swim 
 Like clouds from them, and granted him 
 
28 4 
 
 E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 Cowley. 
 
 Drayton, 
 Browne. 
 
 Marlowe, 
 Webster, 
 Fletcher, 
 Jonson. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 Shelley. 
 Keats. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 God for sole vision. Cowley, there, 
 Whose active fancy debonaire 
 Drew straws like amber foul to fair. 
 
 Drayton and Browne, with smiles that drew 
 From outward nature, still kept new 
 From their own inward nature true. 
 
 And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, 
 Whose fire-hearts sow'd our furrows when 
 The world was worthy of such men. 
 
 And Burns, with pungent passionings 
 Set in his eyes : deep lyric springs 
 Are of the fire-mount's issuings. 
 
 And Shelley, in his white ideal 
 
 All statue -blind. And Keats the real 
 
 Adonis with the hymeneal 
 
 Fresh vernal buds half sunk between 
 
 His youthful curls, kiss'd straight and sheen 
 
 In his Rome-grave, by Venus queen. 
 
 And poor, proud Byron, sad as grave 
 And salt as life ; forlornly brave, 
 And quivering with the dart he drave. 
 
 And visionary Coleridge, who 
 
 Did sweep his thoughts as angels do 
 
 Their wings with cadence up the Blue. 
 
E. B. BROWNING. 285 
 
 From Casa Guidi Windows. [1851 
 
 WHILE England claims, by trump of poetry, 
 
 Verona, Venice, the Ravenna shore, 
 And dearer holds John Milton's Fiesole Milton. 
 
 Than Langland's Malvern with the stars in 
 flower. 
 
 And Vallombrosa, we two went to see 
 
 Last June, beloved companion, where sublime 
 The mountains live in holy families, 
 
 And the slow pinewoods ever climb and climb 
 Half up their breasts, just stagger as they seize 
 
 Some grey crag, drop back with it many a time, 
 And struggle blindly down the precipice. 
 
 The Vallombrosan brooks were strewn as thick 
 That June-day, knee-deep with dead beechen 
 leaves, 
 
 As Milton saw them ere his heart grew sick 
 And his eyes blind. 
 
 #**** 
 
 O waterfalls 
 And forests ! sound and silence ! mountains bare 
 
 That leap up peak by peak and catch the palls 
 Of purple and silver mist to rend and share 
 
 With one another, at electric calls 
 Of life in the sunbeams, till we cannot dare 
 
 Fix your shapes, count your number ! we must 
 
 think 
 Your beauty and your glory help'd to fill 
 
 The cup of Milton's soul so to the brink, 
 He never more was thirsty when God's will 
 
 Had shatter'd to his sense the last chain-link 
 
286 E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 By which he had drawn from Nature's visible 
 The fresh well-water. Satisfied by this, 
 
 He sang of Adam's paradise and smiled, 
 Remembering Vallombrosa. Therefore is 
 
 The place divine to English man and child, 
 And pilgrims leave their souls here in a kiss. 
 
 Cowper's Grave. [184 
 
 IT is a place where poets crown'd may feel th 
 
 heart's decaying ; 
 It is a place where happy saints may weep ami< 
 
 their praying : 
 Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silenc 
 
 languish : 
 Earth surely now may give her calm to whom sh 
 
 gave her anguish. 
 
 O poets, from a maniac's tongue was pour'd th 
 
 deathless singing ! 
 O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeles 
 
 hand was clinging ! 
 O men, this man in brotherhood your weary path 
 
 beguiling, 
 Groan'd inly while he taught you peace, and die* 
 
 while ye were smiling ! 
 
 And now, what time ye all may read throug] 
 
 dimming tears his story, 
 How discord on the music fell and darkness on th 
 
 glory* 
 
E. B. BROWNING. 287 
 
 And how when, one by one> sweet sounds and 
 wandering lights departed, 
 
 He wore no less a loving face because so broken- 
 hearted, 
 
 He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high 
 
 vocation, 
 And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker 
 
 adoration ; 
 Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good 
 
 forsaken, 
 Named softly as the household name of one whom 
 
 God hath taken. 
 
 With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think 
 
 upon him, 
 With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose 
 
 heaven hath won him, 
 Who suffer'd once the madness-cloud to His own 
 
 love to blind him, 
 But gently led the blind along where breath and 
 
 bird could find him ; 
 
 And wrought within his shatter'd brain such quick 
 
 poetic senses 
 As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious 
 
 influences : 
 The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within 
 
 its number, 
 And silent shadows from the trees refresh'd him 
 
 like a slumber. 
 
288 E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share 
 his home-caresses, 
 
 Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tender- 
 nesses : 
 
 The very world, by God's constraint, from false- 
 hood's ways removing, 
 
 Its women and its men became, beside him, true 
 and loving. 
 
 And though, in blindness, he remain'd unconscious 
 
 of that guiding, 
 And things provided came without the sweet sense 
 
 of providing, 
 He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy 
 
 desolated, 
 Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God 
 
 created. 
 
 Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother 
 
 while she blesses 
 And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of 
 
 her kisses, 
 That turns his fever'd eyes around " My mother ! 
 
 where's my mother ? " 
 As if such tender words and deeds could come 
 
 from any other ! 
 
 The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her 
 
 bending o'er him, 
 Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary 
 
 love she bore him ! 
 
E. B. BROWNING. 289 
 
 Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long 
 
 fever gave him, 
 Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes which closed in 
 
 death to save him. 
 
 Thus? oh not thus I no type on earth can image 
 
 that awaking, 
 Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs, 
 
 round him breaking, 
 Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body 
 
 parted, 
 But felt those eyes alone, and knew, "My 
 
 Saviour ! not deserted ! " 
 
 Deserted ! Who hath dreamt that when the cross 
 
 in darkness rested, 
 Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was 
 
 manifested ? 
 What frantic hands outstretch'd have e'er the 
 
 atoning drops averted ? 
 What tears have wash'd them from the soul, that 
 
 one should be deserted ? 
 
 Deserted ! God could separate from his own 
 
 essence rather ; 
 And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous 
 
 Son and Father : 
 Yea, once, ImmanuePs orphan'd cry His universe 
 
 hath shaken 
 It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am 
 
 forsaken ! " 
 
 u 
 
290 E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 It went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost 
 
 creation, 
 That, of the lost, no son should use those words 
 
 of desolation ! 
 That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should 
 
 mar not hope's fruition, 
 And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture 
 
 in a vision. 
 
 Sonnet from the Portuguese. [1844 
 
 THOU hast thy calling to some palace-floor, 
 Browning. Most gracious singer of high poems ! where 
 The dancers will break footing, from the care 
 Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more. 
 And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor 
 For hand of thine ? and canst thou think and bear 
 To let thy music drop here unaware 
 In folds of golden fulness at my door ? 
 Look up and see the casement broken in, 
 The bats and owlets builders in the roof ! 
 My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. 
 Hush, call no echo up in further proof 
 Of desolation ! there's a voice within 
 That weeps . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof. 
 
 From Lady Geraldine's Courtship. [1844 
 
 THERE, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud 
 
 the poems 
 Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various 
 
 of our own ; 
 
ARNOLD. 291 
 
 Read the pastoral parts of Spenser, or the subtle Spenser. 
 
 interflowings 
 Found in Petrarch's sonnets here's the book, the 
 
 leaf is folded down ! 
 
 Or at times a modern volume, Wordsworth's Words- 
 ,1 i t i 11 worth, 
 
 solemn-thoughted idyll, 
 
 Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted Howitt, 
 
 reverie,- Tennyson. 
 
 Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which, Browning, 
 if cut deep down the middle, 
 
 Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a vein'd 
 humanity. 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 Shakespeare. [1848 
 
 OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free. 
 We ask and ask Thou smilest and art still, 
 Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, 
 Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, 
 
 Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 
 Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, 
 Spares but the cloudy border of his base 
 To the foil'd searching of mortality ; 
 
 And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, 
 Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self- 
 secure, 
 Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. Better so ! 
 
292 ARNOLD. 
 
 All pains the immortal spirit must endure, 
 
 All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, 
 
 Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. 
 
 Memorial Verses. April, 1850. 
 
 GOETHE in Weimar sleeps, and Greece 
 Byron. Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 
 
 But one such death remain'd to come ; 
 Words- The last poetic voice is dumb 
 
 worth. We stand to _day by Wordsworth's tomb. 
 
 Byron. When Byron's eyes were shut in death, 
 
 We bow'd our head and held our breath. 
 He taught us little ; but our soul 
 Had/# him like the thunder's roll. 
 With shivering heart the strife we saw 
 Of passion with eternal law ; 
 And yet with reverential awe 
 We watch'd the fount of fiery life 
 Which served for that Titanic strife. 
 
 When Goethe's death was told, we said : 
 
 Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. 
 
 Physician of the iron age, 
 
 Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 
 
 He took the suffering human race, 
 
 He read each wound, each weakness clear; 
 
 And struck his finger on the place, 
 
 And said : Thou ailest here^ and here! 
 
 He look'd on Europe's dying hour 
 
 Of fitful dream and feverish power ; 
 
 His eye plunged down the weltering strife, 
 
ARNOLD. 293 
 
 The turmoil of expiring life 
 He said : The end is everywhere, 
 Art still has truth, take refuge there! 
 And he was happy, if to know 
 Causes of things, and far below 
 His feet to see the lurid flow 
 Of terror, and insane distress, 
 And headlong fate, be happiness. 
 
 And Wordsworth ! Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice ! Words- 
 
 For never has such soothing voice 
 
 Been to your shadowy world convey'd, 
 
 Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade 
 
 Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 
 
 Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. 
 
 Wordsworth has gone from us and ye, 
 
 Ah, may ye feel his voice as we ! 
 
 He too upon a wintry clime 
 
 Had fallen on this iron time 
 
 Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 
 
 He found us when the age had bound 
 
 Our souls in its benumbing round ; 
 
 He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears, 
 
 He laid us as we lay at birth 
 
 On the cool flowery lap of earth, 
 
 Smiles broke from us and we had ease ; 
 
 The hills were round us, and the breeze 
 
 Went o'er the sun-lit fields again ; 
 
 Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. 
 
 Our youth return'd ; for there was shed 
 
 On spirits that had long been dead, 
 
 Spirits dried up and closely furl'd, 
 
 The freshness of the early world. 
 
294 ARNOLD. 
 
 Ah ! since dark days still bring to light 
 Man's prudence and man's fiery might, 
 Time may restore us in his course 
 Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force ; 
 But where will Europe's latter hour 
 Again find Wordsworth's healing power ? 
 Others will teach us how to dare, 
 And against fear our breast to steel ; 
 Others will strengthen us to bear 
 But who, ah ! who, will make us feel ? 
 The cloud of mortal destiny, 
 Others will front it fearlessly 
 But who, like him, will put it by ? 
 
 Keep fresh the grass upon his grave, 
 O Rotha, with thy living wave ! 
 Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
 Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. 
 
 [1867 
 From Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse. 
 
 Byron. WHAT helps it now, that Byron bore, 
 
 With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart, 
 Through Europe to the ^Etolian shore 
 The pageant of his bleeding heart ? 
 That thousands counted every groan, 
 And Europe made his woe her own ? 
 
 Shelley. What boots it, Shelley ! that the breeze 
 
 Carried thy lovely wail away, 
 Musical through Italian trees 
 Which fringe the soft blue Spezzian bay ? 
 Inheritors of thy distress 
 Have restless hearts one throb the less ? 
 
ARNOLD. 295 
 
 From Thyrsis. [1866 
 
 IT irk'd him to be here, he could not rest. Clough. 
 
 He loved each simple joy the country yields, 
 
 He loved his mates ; but yet he could not keep, 
 For that a shadow lour'd on the fields, 
 
 Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep. 
 
 Some life of men unblest 
 He knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his 
 
 head. 
 
 He went ; his piping took a troubled sound 
 Of storms that rage outside our happy ground ; 
 He could not wait their passing, he is dead ! 
 ****** 
 
 What though the music of thy rustic flute 
 Kept not for long its happy, country tone ; 
 
 Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note 
 Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, 
 Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy 
 
 throat 
 
 It fail'd, and thou wast mute ! 
 Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, 
 
 And long with men of care thou could'st not 
 
 stay, 
 
 And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way, 
 Left human haunt, and on alone till night. 
 
296 BROWNING. 
 
 BROWNING. [1850 
 
 From Christmas Eve and Easter Day. 
 
 Shake- I DECLARE our Poet, him 
 
 s P eare - Whose insight makes all others dim : 
 
 A thousand Poets pried at life, 
 And only one amid the strife 
 Rose to be Shakespeare. 
 
 From The Two Poets of Croisic. [1878 
 
 BETTER and truer verse none ever wrote 
 Donne. Than thou, revered and magisterial Donne ! 
 
 From Parleyings with Certain People. [1887 
 
 YOURSELF who sang 
 Smart. A Song where flute-breath silvers trumpet-clang, 
 
 And stations you for once on either hand 
 Milton, With Milton and with Keats, empower'd to claim 
 
 Keats. Affinity on just one point (or blame 
 
 Or praise my judgment, thus it fronts you full) 
 How came it you resume the void and null, 
 Subside to insignificance ? 
 **#** 
 
 Such success 
 
 Befell Smart only out of throngs between 
 Milton and Keats that donn'd the singing-dress 
 Smart, solely of such songmen, pierced the screen 
 'Twixt thing and word, let language straight from 
 soul, 
 
BROWNING. 297 
 
 Left no fine film-flake on the naked coal 
 
 Live from the censer shapely or uncouth, 
 
 Fire -suffused through and through, one blaze of 
 
 truth 
 
 Undeaden'd by a lie, (you have my mind) 
 For, think ! this blaze outleapt with black behind 
 And blank before, when Hayley and the rest. . . . 
 But let the dead successors worst and best 
 Bury their dead : with life be my concern 
 Yours with the fire-flame : what I fain would learn 
 Is just (suppose me haply ignorant 
 Down to the common knowledge, doctors vaunt) 
 Just this why only once the fire-flame was. 
 ***** 
 
 Concede the fact 
 
 That here a poet was who always could 
 Never before did never after would 
 Achieve the feat : how were such fact explain'd ? 
 
 THE super-human poet-pair. KeatT' 
 
 From Sordello. [1840 
 
 APPEAR, 
 
 Verona ! stay thou, spirit, come not near Shelley. 
 
 Now not this time desert thy cloudy place 
 To scare me, thus employ'd, with that pure face ! 
 I need not fear this audience, I make free 
 With them, but then this is no place for thee I 
 The thunder-phrase of the Athenian, grown 
 Up out of memories of Marathon, 
 Would echo like his own sword's griding screech 
 Braying a Persian shield, the silver speech 
 
298 BROWNING. 
 
 Sidney. Of Sidney's self, the starry paladin, 
 
 Turn intense as a trumpet sounding in 
 The knights to tilt, wert thou to hear- ! 
 
 Memorabilia. [1855 
 
 Shdley. AH, did you once see Shelley plain, 
 
 And did he stop and speak to you, 
 And did you speak to him again ? 
 How strange it seems, and new ! 
 
 But you were living before that, 
 
 And you are living after ; 
 And the memory I started at 
 
 My starting moves your laughter ! 
 
 I cross'd a moor, with a name of its own 
 And a use in the world no doubt, 
 
 Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 
 'Mid the blank miles round about : 
 
 For there I pick'd up on the heather 
 And there I put inside my breast 
 
 A moulted feather, an eagle-feather ! 
 Well, I forget the rest. 
 
 From One Word More. [1855 
 E. B. MY moon of poets ! 
 
 Browning. 
 
 From The Ring and the Book. [1869 
 
 E. B. O LYRIC Love, half angel and half bird 
 
 Browning. p^& a jj a WO nder and a wild desire, 
 
 Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun, 
 
TENNYSON. 299 
 
 Took sanctuary within the holier blue, 
 And sang a kindred soul out to his face, 
 Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart 
 When the first summons from the darkling earth 
 Reach'd thee amid thy chambers, blanch'd their 
 
 blue, 
 
 And bared them of the glory to drop down, 
 To toil for man, to suffer or to die, 
 This is the same voice : can thy soul know change ? 
 Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help ! 
 Never may I commence my song, my due 
 To God who best taught song by gift of thee, 
 Except with bent head and beseeching hand 
 That still, despite the distance and the dark, 
 What was, again may be ; some interchange 
 Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought. 
 Some benediction anciently thy smile : 
 Never conclude, but raising hand and head 
 Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn 
 For all hope, all sustainment, all reward, 
 Their utmost up and on, so blessing back 
 In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home, 
 Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes 
 
 proud, 
 Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall ! 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 From A Dream of Fair Women. [1830 
 
 I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 
 The Legend of Good Women, long ago 
 
300 TENNYSON. 
 
 Chaucer. Sung by the morning star of song, who made 
 
 His music heard below ; 
 
 Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath 
 Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 
 
 The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
 With sounds that echo still. 
 
 From The Palace of Art. [1830 
 
 THEN in the towers I placed great bells that swung, 
 Moved of themselves, with silver sound ; 
 
 And with choice paintings of wise men I hung 
 The royal dais round, 
 
 Milton. For there was Milton like a seraph strong, 
 
 Shake- Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ; 
 
 speare. ^ n( j there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song, 
 
 And somewhat grimly smiled. 
 
 And there the Ionian father of the rest ; 
 
 A million wrinkles carved upon his skin ; 
 A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast, 
 
 From cheek and throat and chin. 
 
 Alcaics. [1863 
 
 Milton. O MiGHTY-mouth'd inventor of harmonies, 
 
 O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity 
 God -gifted organ- voice of England, 
 
 Milton, a name to resound for ages ; 
 Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
 Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armouries, 
 
TENNYSON. 301 
 
 Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 
 
 Rings to the roar of an angel onset 
 Me rather all that bowery loneliness, 
 The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, 
 And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
 
 Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, 
 Where some refulgent sunset of India 
 Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, 
 And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods 
 Whisper in odorous heights of even. 
 
 From Dedication to the Queen. [1851 
 
 THIS laurel greener from the brows Words- 
 
 Of him that utter'd nothing base. worth - 
 
NOTES. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 P. 4. Sle the, slay thee. 
 
 P. 5. Slow, slew. 
 
 P. 5. To hastyfe, too hasty. 
 
 P. 6. Of makyng soverayne. Repeated instances 
 of the use of to make, in the sense of to compose 
 poetry, and of maker for poet, will be met with in this 
 volume. 
 
 P. 6. Appallen, fade. 
 
 P. ii. Stithc, forge. 
 
 P. 13. Hobbinoll is Gabriel Harvey, and Colin 
 Spenser himself. Despite Colin's modest disclaimer 
 he shows here, and in the following extract, a masterly 
 sense of his own worth as a poet. 
 
 P. 15. Those two were foes. Camball and Tria- 
 mond ; the former was a personage in The Squier's 
 Tale, an unfinished story in the Canterbury Tales, 
 which Milton also alludes to in the Allegro. 
 
 P. 16. Colin Clouts come home again. Under the 
 guise of a pastoral, this poem recounts Spenser's visit 
 to London in 1591, when he was presented by Sir 
 Walter Raleigh to Queen Elizabeth. He takes occasion 
 to describe the principal English poets of the day, 
 some under their own names, others under pseudo- 
 nyms which have been differently interpreted. The 
 various conjectures are given below. 
 X 
 
306 NOTES. 
 
 P. 16. Mulla. The river running through Spen- 
 ser's estate of Kilcolman in Ireland. 
 
 P. 16. Raleigh is called the Shepherd of the Ocean, 
 because at this time he held the office of Vice-Admiral 
 of Devonshire and Cornwall. 
 
 P. 17. By the great shepherdess is meant Queen 
 Elizabeth ; she is called Cynthia lower down. 
 
 P. 17. Harpalus. Conj. Churchyard, Sackville, 
 Googe. 
 
 P. 17. Corydon. Conj. Abraham Fraunce. 
 
 P. 17. Alcyon. Conj. Sir A. Gorges. 
 
 P. 17. Palin. Conj. Challoner, Peele. 
 
 P. 17. A Icon. Conj. Lodge, Breton, Watson. 
 
 P. 17. Palemon. Conj. Churchyard, Golding. 
 
 P. 1 8. Alabaster. The poem to which Spenser 
 refers is an unfinished epic, in Latin hexameters, in 
 praise of Queen Elizabeth. Alabaster was also the 
 author of a tragedy in Latin called " Roxana. " He 
 ived from 1567 to 1640. 
 
 P. 19. Amyntas. The Earl of Derby. 
 
 P. 19. ALtion. Conj. Shakespeare, Drayton. 
 
 P. 20. Linus. An apocryphal poet, said to have 
 been the master of Orpheus. 
 
 P. 20. Astrophel. Twenty-five stanzas at the end 
 of this elegy are omitted, as having but little real con- 
 nection with Sidney ; they are a highly fanciful pastoral 
 allegory of his death. 
 
 P. 22. Stella the fair. Penelope, Lady Rich. 
 
 P. 24. An Elegy. The rest of the poem from 
 which these well-known beautiful stanzas are taken 
 is greatly inferior to them in poetical quality. 
 
 P. 25. Leave us than. For then. 
 
 P. 27. Ad McBcenatem. These verses are prefixed 
 to a poem by Peele called The Honour of the Garter, 
 on the admission of the Earl of Northumberland to 
 the Order. 
 
NOTES. 307 
 
 P. 28. Phaer's translation of the first seven books 
 of Virgil was printed in 1558, and the next two and 
 part of the tenth in 1562, two years after his death. 
 
 P. 29. And the poets break their pens. Cam den 
 says that Spenser's hearse "was attended by poets, 
 and mournful elegies and poems with the pens that 
 wrote them thrown into his tomb." 
 
 P. 30. Art of Poetry. A lost work of Spenser's, 
 sometimes called The English Poet. 
 
 P. 31. This sonnet was long attributed to Shake- 
 speare, from having been included in The Passionate 
 Pilgrim, a collection of poems by various authors, 
 printed by Jaggard, with W. Shakespeare's name on 
 the title-page. There is no doubt that it is Barnfield's. 
 
 P. 32. Rosamond's black hearse. One of Daniel's 
 principal poems is The Complaint of Rosamond, the 
 other alluded to by Barnfield is The Civil Wars of 
 York and Lancaster. 
 
 P. 33. So may thy sheep like, thrive. 
 
 P. 37. William Elderton. A well-known ballad 
 writer, who usually signed his ballads. 
 
 P. 40. Silvester's translation from the French of 
 Bartas was called The Divine Weeks and Works. 
 
 P. 40. Alexander. Sir William Alexander, Earl 
 of Stirling, was the author of many poems and plays, 
 collected together under the title of Recreations with 
 the Muse. 
 
 P. 41. Sir John Beaumont, the elder brother of 
 Francis, was the author of a poem highly esteemed by 
 his contemporaries, called Bosworth Field, and of 
 some minor poems. 
 
 P. 42. The Hierarchie. These lines, though no 
 more than a quaint bit of doggrel, have been inserted 
 as containing an often-quoted couplet on Marlowe, 
 and not a bad one on Shakespeare. 
 
 P. 43. To our English Terence. These lines also 
 
3o8 NOTES. 
 
 have been inserted not on account of their merit, but 
 for the interesting reference to the social stigma 
 attaching to Shakespeare's profession, to which he 
 himself alludes so bitterly in the cxth and cxith 
 sonnets. 
 
 P. 43. Letter to Ben Jon son. The full title of 
 this celebrated piece is " Master Francis Beaumont's 
 Letter to Ben Jonson, written before he and Master 
 Fletcher came to London, with two of the pre- 
 cedent Comedies then not finished, which deferred 
 their merry meetings at the Mermaid." Jonson's 
 reply is on p. 54. 
 
 P. 45. To Mr. John Fletcher. The failure on the 
 stage of Fletcher's exquisite pastoral called forth 
 much indignant sympathy from his fellow-poets. It 
 was revived after the Restoration, when Pepys de- 
 scribed it as "a most simple thing, and yet much 
 thronged after, and often shown, but it is only for the 
 scene's sake, which is very fine indeed and worth 
 seeing. " 
 
 P. 48. Hero and Leander, a poem in heroic verse, 
 was left unfinished by Marlowe, and completed by 
 Chapman who added four books to Marlowe's two. 
 
 P. 49. Whiffler. Properly a fifer, but used to 
 signify the forecomers in a procession. 
 
 P. 49. Nifles, trifles. 
 
 P. 49. Verses on Sejanus. Hers is a fine specimen 
 of the similes for which Chapman is famous. 
 
 P. 50. Basse. This epitaph was attributed to 
 Donne, and printed among his poems in 1633. There 
 are ten MSS. versions, with slightly various readings, 
 in existence, one of which is signed William Basse, 
 and in five of the others he is described as the author. 
 Basse's first poems were published in 1602 ; he was 
 still living in 1651, when Dean Bathurst addressed 
 some verses to him containing the lines : 
 
NOTES. 309 
 
 " . . . . thy grey muse grew up with older times, 
 And our deceased grandsires lisp'd the rimes." 
 
 P. 51. The Countess of Rutland was Sidney's only 
 child. Beaumont wrote an elegy on her death, 
 which occurred in 1612. 
 
 P. 52. That taller tree. The oak planted from an 
 acorn at Penshurst on Sidney's birthday is said to 
 have been felled by mistake in 1768. 
 
 P. 52. Dian. Constable wrote a series of sonnets 
 entitled Diana from the name of the lady to whom 
 they were addressed. 
 
 P. 54. To John Donne. It is unfortunate that 
 Donne returned his friend's compliments in Latin 
 verses, and so deprived us of an interesting addition 
 to our collection. 
 
 P. 54. Wher. A not uncommon contraction for 
 whether. 
 
 P. 55. To the Memory. No more need be said of 
 this famous poem, than that it is almost adequate to 
 its theme. 
 
 P. 55. / will not lodge thee by Chaucer. See 
 Basse, p. 50. 
 
 P. 58. A Vision. A roll of Drayton's poetical 
 works ; the first published was The Idea, or Shep- 
 herd's Garland. 
 
 P. 61. An Ode. This Ode, written, according to 
 Gifford, in early life, and the one which follows, 
 composed in old age, show Jonson's persistent re- 
 bellion against the necessity imposed on him by 
 poverty, of writing for the stage. 
 
 P. 62. Japhet's line. Prometheus, the son of 
 Japetus, was aided by Pallas to steal fire from the 
 sun's chariot. 
 
 P. 62. Ode. to Himself. Jonson's play called The 
 New Inn was hissed off the stage on its first per- 
 
310 NOTES. 
 
 formance. Hence this Ode, which appeared with the 
 following preface : " The just indignation the author 
 took at the vulgar censure of his play by some 
 malicious spectators, begat this following Ode to 
 himself." It called forth many imitations, and other 
 poems, addressed to Ben, in soothing, flattering and 
 caustic terms. 
 
 P. 65. Glorian for Gloriana. Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 P. 66. / hung a garland there. In allusion to 
 previous complimentary verses. 
 
 P. 69. Evadnes. Evadne is a character in The 
 Maid's Tragedy. 
 
 P. 72. Temper, moderation. 
 
 P. 77. Cambuscan bold. In The Squier's Tale. 
 
 P. 78. On -worthy Master Shakespeare. These 
 very noble verses were printed immediately after those 
 of Milton in the folio of 1632. The various conjec- 
 tures as to their authorship are none of them satis- 
 factory. Bowden suggests Chapman ; Godwin, John 
 Milton, Senior \ Collier and H. Morley, John Milton, 
 Student ; Dyce is in favour of Jasper Mayne ; Hunter 
 and Singer of Richard James ; Mr. Ingleby thinks 
 the initials stand for In Memoriam Scriptoris. 
 Could it be James Shirleyl 
 
 P. 80. Whose speaking silence does not refer to 
 Calliope but to the eighth Muse. 
 
 P. 8 1. Love's foe. Addressed to Dorothea Sidney, 
 great-niece of Sir Philip, for whom Waller professed 
 a poetical flame. 
 
 P. 81. Melantius and Aspasia are characters in 
 The Maid's Tragedy. 
 
 P. 82. A sort of lusty shepherds, a company. 
 
 P. 82. Prologue. The Maid's Tragedy was 
 revived in Charles II. 's reign; but the catastrophe, 
 turning on the murder of a dissolute king by his 
 paramour, made it unacceptable at Court for obvious 
 
NOTES. 311 
 
 reasons, and the play was prohibited. Waller then 
 supplied a new fifth act, with which it became exceed- 
 ingly popular. 
 
 P. 84. To Sir William D'Avenant. D'Avenant 
 never reached America. In 1650 he was sent by 
 Henrietta Maria from France, on a mission to Virginia, 
 but was captured before he got clear of the French 
 coast, and imprisoned by the Parliamentarians, first 
 in Cowes Castle, and then in the Tower. The two 
 first books of Gondibert were written before he left 
 Paris, and the work was completed and published 
 during the two years of his captivity. 
 
 P. 86. Cartwright was a dramatist and divine of 
 great reputation with his contemporaries. Ben Jonson 
 said of him, "My son Cartwright writes all like a 
 man. " 
 
 P. 90. Time computes Blossoms. The allusion is 
 to Cowley's first volume of poems called Poetic 
 Blossoms, published in 1633, when the author was 
 aged only thirteen. 
 
 P. 92. The poems of John Cleveland, the cavalier 
 poet and satirist, were highly popular in their day. 
 Fuller describes him as "a general artist, pure 
 Latinist, exquisite orator and eminent poet." The 
 first eight lines of this fine and discriminating eulogy 
 are placed by Gifford in the front of his great edition 
 of Ben Jonson's works. 
 
 P. 96. Loretto's shrine. Crashaw, having become 
 a Roman Catholic, was appointed Sub-Canon of the 
 Basilica Church of Our Lady of Loretto, and died 
 there within a few months of his arrival. 
 
 P. 98. These poets near our princes sleep. This 
 of course is a mistake as far as Shakespeare and 
 Fletcher are concerned. Fletcher lies not in West- 
 minster Abbey, but in the Church of St. Saviour's, 
 Southwark. 
 
312 NOTES. 
 
 P. 100. Tales. A legal technical term. When 
 the list of men called to serve on a jury has been 
 exhausted by challenging, either side has a right to 
 demand that more such men (tales] shall be called. 
 The reference to Euripides is obscure. Dr. Garnett 
 writes, " I can only conjecture that Butler is alluding 
 to the contest between ^Eschylus and Euripides for 
 the dramatic crown in the Frogs of Aristophanes, 
 even though the case is not tried before a jury, and 
 to the character for trickery and equivocation which 
 Euripides supports therein. In the Acharnians of 
 Aristophanes is a scene in which Dicaearchus, having 
 himself to make his defence before a jury, applies to 
 Euripides for rags from the wardrobes of some of the 
 distressed heroes of his tragedies, to assist him in 
 exciting compassion. It is possible that some con- 
 fused notion of this scene also may have been in 
 Butler's mind." 
 
 P. 100. Speroni was an Italian scholar of great 
 eminence in the sixteenth century, author of a tragedy 
 called Canace e Maccareo (1546). 
 
 P. 102. Well might thou scorn. Dryden desired 
 Milton's permission to turn Paradise Lost into a 
 rhymed dramatic poem, and is said to have received 
 it in the contemptuous words ' ' Ay, you may tag my 
 verses if you will." This strange experiment was 
 called The State of Innocence, or the Fall of Man. 
 Dryden's view at this time was that ' ' blank verse 
 was too low for a poem, nay more, for a paper of 
 verses." Scott, in his Life of Dryden, observes that 
 " the versification of Milton, according to the taste of 
 the times, was ignoble from its supposed facility." 
 
 P. 103. Voiders. Baskets for broken bread. 
 
 P. 105. Prologue to Aurengzebe. Here Dryden 
 recants his former heresies regarding blank verse. 
 At the beginning of his career as a dramatist he 
 
NOTES. 313 
 
 ardently maintained the efficiency of the rhymed 
 couplet in heroic drama ; but in this prologue to the 
 last and best of his rhymed plays he admits that he 
 found it inadequate when dealing with tragic emotions. 
 Henceforward Dryden's supreme mastery of this form 
 was reserved for satirical, polemical and narrative 
 poetry ; and his next play, All for Love, gave splendid 
 proof of his increased dramatic power when freed 
 from the "shackles of rhyme." 
 
 P. 107. Prologue to the Tempest. It was clearly 
 from no want of perception that Dryden collaborated 
 with D'Avenant (who ought to have known better 
 too), in placing on the stage such a travesty of the 
 Tempest as was perfectly suited to the Court of 
 Charles II. Scott says that this prologue is "one 
 of the most masterly tributes ever paid at the shrine 
 of Shakespeare." It concludes with twelve lines of 
 considerable indelicacy, which are fortunately irrele- 
 vant to our subject. 
 
 P. 108. Prologue to Albumazar. Dryden mistook 
 in claiming Albumazar as the original of the Al- 
 chemist. Jonson's play was acted in 1610, and 
 first printed in 1612. The date of Albumazar's 
 first appearance is 1614, when it was acted at Cam- 
 bridge. 
 
 P. 109. CobVs tankard. Cobb is a tankard-bearer 
 (water-carrier) in Every Man in his Humour. 
 Captain Otter, a character in The Silent Woman, 
 has three tankards which he names Horse, Bull, and 
 Bear. 
 
 P. no. When in the Fox, etc. In allusion to 
 a buffooning scene in The Fox where Sir Politick 
 Would-be seeks to conceal himself under cover of a 
 tortoise-shell, whence he is driven by blows and 
 sword-pricks. 
 
 P. 113. Well had I been deposed. On William 
 
314 NOTES. 
 
 III.'s accession Dryden had been deprived of the 
 laureateship ; he refers to his successors, Thomas 
 Shad well and Tate, in the line below, 
 
 11 For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first." 
 
 P. 114. Be kind to my remains. Congreve was 
 not forgetful of this injunction ; in the dedication 
 of Dryden's Dramatic Works which he edited in 
 1730, he declares himself to have been " most sen- 
 sibly touched with that expression ; " and he pays a 
 feeling tribute to the personal character of the great 
 poet. 
 
 P. 119. Old Spenser next. Johnson observes of 
 this passage : " In this poem is a very confident and 
 discriminate 'character of Spenser, whose work he 
 had then never read. So little sometimes is criticism 
 the effect of judgment." 
 
 P. 123. An equal genius. Prior has been speak- 
 ing of Horace. 
 
 P. 126. Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome. 
 I do not recollect any scene of Shakespeare laid in 
 Persia. 
 
 P. 127. Tickell's verses were addressed to the 
 Earl of Warwick, who did not long survive his step- 
 father, Addison. According to Johnson there is not 
 " a more sublime or more elegant funeral-poem to be 
 found in the whole compass of English literature." 
 
 P. 130. To thee, O Craggs. Atterbury writes to 
 Pope, " I cannot but think it a very odd set of 
 incidents, that the book [Addison's Works] should 
 be dedicated by a dead man to a dead man; and 
 even that the new patron to whom Tickell chose to 
 inscribe his verses, should be dead also before they 
 were published." 
 
 P. 133. At the Devil. The Devil Tavern, other- 
 
NOTES. 315 
 
 wise the Dunstan, where a famous club met, at 
 which Jonson presided as perpetual chairman. 
 
 P. 137. Here lay poor Fletchers half-eat scenes. 
 The scene is Theobald's study. 
 
 P. 137. Though her power retires. The power of 
 Dulness. 
 
 P. 148. Great Faustus. The pantomime of The 
 Necromancer, or Harlequin Dr. Faustus was acted 
 at Lincoln's Inn Fields in 1723; and the name 
 Faustus, says Mr. Austin Dobson, would seem to 
 have become identified with contemptible stage per- 
 formances. 
 
 P. 149. A bard here dwelt. This stanza is said 
 to have been written by Lord Lyttelton. 
 
 P. 160. Stanzas to Mr. Bentley. Mr. Bentley 
 had made a set of designs for Gray's poems. 
 
 P. 161. The Rosciad. The design of The 
 Rosciad is to criticise the actors of the day by 
 passing them in review before an imaginary court of 
 justice. Against the proposal to appoint Sophocles 
 as judge, Lloyd is represented as proposing our 
 greatest native dramatists. 
 
 P. ,163. Not Brent would always please. Char- 
 lotte Brent, afterwards Mrs. Pinto, was a celebrated 
 singer, a pupil of Dr. Arne's; she sang at Covent 
 Garden during the ten years from 1759 to 1770. 
 
 P. 166. So sang, in Roman tone and style. The 
 lines which Cowper has translated above occur 
 towards the end of Milton's verses to Manso, and 
 are as follows : 
 
 " Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus, 
 Necteus aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri 
 Fronde comas, at ego securapace quiescam." 
 
 P. 172. Address to the shade of Thomson. This 
 is the address as Burns first wrote it ; it was subse- 
 
316 NOTES. 
 
 quently altered, and various local allusions inserted 
 which are no improvement on the original poem. 
 
 P. 183. Shakespeare unlocked his heart. Brown- 
 ing's characteristic comment on this is, 
 
 1 ' Did Shakespeare ? If so, the less Shakespeare he ! " 
 
 P. 184. Bard of the Fleece. Akenside said of this 
 poem that ' ' he would regulate his opinion of the 
 reigning taste by the fate of Dyer's Fleece ; for, if 
 that were ill-received, he should not think it any 
 longer reasonable to expect fame from excellence." 
 It is curiously Wordsworthian both in feeling and 
 style. The last line in the sonnet alludes to a short 
 poem of Dyer's called Grongar Hill of which these 
 are the closing lines : 
 
 " And often, by the murmuring rill, 
 Hears the thrush, while all is still, 
 Within the groves of Grongar Hill." 
 
 P. 210. The Leaf and Flower. Scott, in common 
 with the rest of the world in his day, supposed this 
 poem to be the production of Chaucer. It has now 
 been ascertained to be a work of the fifteenth century, 
 and Mr. Skeat has no doubt that it was written, 
 as it purports to be, by a woman. 
 
 P. 251. If it be He. Severn, the artist, who 
 watched by Keats through the months his agony 
 lasted. 
 
 P. 261. My boundly reverence. The reverence 
 which I am bound to pay, according to Mr. Palgrave. 
 
 P. 273. That submarine Gem-lighted city. The 
 city of Baly in the Curse of Kehama, which poem 
 was dedicated to Landor. 
 
 P. 296. Better and truer verse. I have left out a 
 parenthetical line between these two. 
 
INDEX OF POETS. 
 
 ADDISON, 119. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Cowper on, 168. 
 
 Butler on, 100. 
 
 Pope on, 135. 
 
 Herrick on, 69. 
 
 Tickell on, 127. 
 
 Rochester on, 114. 
 
 Akenside, 149. 
 
 Waller on, 82. 
 
 Alabaster. 
 
 Beaumont. Sir John 
 
 Spenser on, 18. 
 
 Drayton on, 41. 
 
 Alexander. 
 
 Breton, 29. 
 
 Drayton on, 40. 
 
 Brian. 
 
 Anonymous, 68. 
 
 Drayton on, 37. 
 
 Aphra Behn. 
 
 Browne, 32. 
 
 Pope on, 137. 
 
 Drayton on, 41. 
 
 Arbuthnot. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 284. 
 
 Swift on, 142. 
 
 Browning, E. B., 283. 
 
 Cowper on, 169. 
 
 Browning, R., on, 298. 
 
 Arnold, 291. 
 
 Browning, R., 296. 
 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 290, 
 
 Barnfield, 31. 
 
 291. 
 
 Basse, 50. 
 
 Landor on, 279. 
 
 Beaumont, Francis, 43. 
 
 Buckhurst. 
 
 Basse on, 51. 
 
 Rochester on, 115. 
 
 Cartwright on, 86. 
 
 Burns, 170. 
 
 Drayton on, 41. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 284. 
 
 Felltham on, 92. 
 
 Burns on, 173. 
 
 Fletcher on, 46. 
 
 Byron on, 216. 
 
 Heywood on, 42. 
 
 Landor on, 278, 279. 
 
 Jonson on, 52, 55. 
 
 Shelley on, 232. 
 
 Pope on, 133. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 186, 189, 
 
 Wordsworth on, 183. 
 
 192. 
 
INDEX OF POETS. 
 
 Butler, loo. 
 
 Chaucer continued. 
 
 Dryden on, in. 
 
 Drayton on, 37. 
 
 Landor on, 268. 
 
 Dryden on, 104, 105. 
 
 Oldhamon, 116. 
 
 Goweron, 3. 
 
 Prior on, 124. 
 
 Jonson on, 55. 
 
 Byron, 208. 
 
 Landor on, 270, 277, 279. 
 
 Arnold on, 292, 294. 
 
 Lydgate on, 5, 6. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 284. 
 
 Milton on, 77. 
 
 Byron on, 222. 
 
 Occleve on, 4. 
 
 Landor on, 269, 273, 275. 
 
 Peele on, 28. 
 
 Moore on, 225. 
 
 Pope on, 132. 
 
 Shelley on, 236, 237, 249. 
 
 Scott on, 204. 
 
 
 Spenser on, 12, 14, 15. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 Surrey on, n. 
 
 Byron on, 215, 219, 221, 223. 
 
 Tennyson on, 300. 
 
 Landor on, 277. 
 
 Thomson on, 149. 
 
 Moore on, 229. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 177, 182. 
 
 Campion. 
 
 Churchill, 161. 
 
 Peele on, 28. 
 
 Byron on, 209. 
 
 Carew, 68. 
 
 Cowper on, 169. 
 
 Pope on, 134. 
 
 Landor on, 275. 
 
 Carolinian Poets, the. 
 
 Churchyard. 
 
 Johnson on, 147. 
 
 Drayton on, 38. 
 
 Cartwright, 86. 
 
 Cibber. 
 
 Chapman, 48. 
 
 Pope on, 133. 
 
 Browne on, 34. 
 
 Cleveland, 92. 
 
 Dray ton on, 40. 
 
 Clough. 
 
 Dryden on, no. 
 
 Arnold on, 295. 
 
 Jonson on, 53. 
 
 Coleridge, 201. 
 
 Keats on, 259. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 284. 
 
 Chatterton. 
 
 Byron on, 215, 216, 218, 220, 
 
 Keats on, 265. 
 
 221, 223 
 
 Shelley on, 255. 
 
 Shelley on, 233, 234. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 186. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 193, 199. 
 
 Chaucer, 3. 
 
 Collins, 150. 
 
 Addison on, 119. 
 
 Scott on, 208. 
 
 Akenside on, 149. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 185. 
 
 Basse on, 50. 
 
 Congreve. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 283. 
 
 Addison on, 123. 
 
 Denham on, 98. 
 
 Byron on, 211. 
 
INDEX OF POETS. 
 
 319 
 
 Congreve continued. 
 
 Dekker. 
 
 Dry den on, in, 112. 
 
 Heywood on, 43. 
 
 Pope on, 136. 
 
 Denham, 97. 
 
 Constable. 
 
 Addison on, 122. 
 
 Jonson on, 52. 
 
 Pope on, 131, 132. 
 
 Cowley, 93. 
 
 Donne. 
 
 Addison on, 120. 
 
 Browning, R., on, 296. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 284. 
 
 Carew on, 68. 
 
 Cowper on, 167. 
 
 Jonson on, 54. 
 
 Crashaw on, 89. 
 
 Landor on, 275. 
 
 Denham on, 98. 
 
 Suckling on, 85. 
 
 Pope on, 131, 133. 
 
 Drayton, 35. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 184. 
 
 Barnfield on, 32. 
 
 Cowper, 165. 
 
 Browne on, 34, 41. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 286. 
 
 Browning, E. B. f on, 284. 
 
 Byron on, 216. 
 
 Jonson on, 58. 
 
 Landor on, 270, 275. 
 
 Southey on, 203. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 Drummond. 
 
 Byron on, 219, 221. 
 
 Collins on, 151. 
 
 Moore on, 227. 
 
 Drayton on, 41. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 200. 
 
 Dryden, 104. 
 
 Crashaw, 89. 
 
 Addison on, 122. 
 
 Cowley on, 94. 
 
 Byron on, 210, 211, 220, 222 
 
 
 Churchill on, 163, 164 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 Gray on, 158, 160. 
 
 Barnfield on, 32. 
 
 Landor on, 274, 276. 
 
 Browne on, 34. 
 
 Marvell on, 102. 
 
 Drayton on, 39. 
 
 Pope on, 132, 135, 136. 
 
 Peele on, 28. 
 
 Rochester on, 114. 
 
 Southey on, 203. 
 
 Scott on, 206. 
 
 Spenser on, 18. 
 
 Dyer. 
 
 D'Avenant. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 184. 
 
 Cowley on, 93. 
 
 
 Dry den on, no. 
 
 Eighteenth Century Poets,the 
 
 Suckling on, 85. 
 
 Keats on, 261. 
 
 Vaughan on, 103. 
 
 Elizabethan Poets, the. 
 
 Waller on, 84. 
 
 Keats on, 260. 
 
 Davies of Hereford, 43. 
 
 Etherege. 
 
 Davies, Sir John. 
 
 Dryden on, 112. 
 
 Browne on, 34. 
 
 Rochester on, 115. 
 
320 
 
 INDEX OF POETS. 
 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Greene. 
 
 Dryden on, no. 
 
 Heywood on, 42. 
 
 Farquhar. 
 
 
 Pope on, 136. 
 
 Harington. 
 
 Felltham, 91. 
 
 Peele on, 28. 
 
 Fletcher, John, 46. 
 
 Hemans, Mrs. 
 
 Beaumont on, 45. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 200. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 284. 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 Cartwright on, 86. 
 
 Crashaw on, 91. 
 
 Chapman on, 48. 
 
 Herrick, 69. 
 
 Collins on, 152. 
 Denham on, 97, 98. 
 
 Heywood, 42. 
 Hodgson, 68. 
 
 Dryden on, 107, 112. 
 
 Hogg. 
 
 Herrick on, 69. 
 Heywood on, 43. 
 
 Shelley on, 235. 
 Wordsworth on, 199. 
 
 Jonson on, 53. 
 
 Howitt. 
 
 Pope on, 133, 137. 
 Waller on, 81. 
 Fletcher, Phineas, 65. 
 Quarles on, 66. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 291. 
 Hunt, Leigh. 
 Byron on, 223. 
 Keats on, 264, 265. 
 
 Ford, 64. 
 Heywood on, 43. 
 
 Shelley on, 234. 
 
 Fraunce. 
 
 
 Peele on, 28. 
 
 James I. 
 
 
 Pope on, 133. 
 
 Gascoigne. 
 
 Johnson, 147. 
 
 Dray ton on, 38. 
 
 Cowper on, 170. 
 
 Gay. 
 
 Landor on, 275. 
 
 Pope on, 138. 
 
 Jonson, 51. 
 
 Swift on, 142. 
 
 Anonymous on, 68. 
 
 Goldsmith, 164. 
 
 Beaumont on, 43, 45. 
 
 Landor on, 269. 
 
 Browne on, 34. 
 
 Gower, 3. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 284. 
 
 Chaucer on, 3. 
 
 Cartwright on, 88. 
 
 Dray ton en, 37. 
 
 Chapman on, 49. 
 
 Peele on, 28. 
 
 Churchill on, 161, 162. 
 
 Gray, 157. 
 
 Cleveland on, 92. 
 
 Burns on, 171. 
 
 Collins on, 151, 152. _ 
 
 Gray on, 158 
 
 Denham on, 97, 98. f& 
 
 Landor on, 269. 
 
 Drayton on, 39. 
 
INDEX OF POETS. 
 
 321 
 
 Jonson continued. 
 
 Macaulay. 
 
 Dryden on, 107, 108, 109, 
 
 Landor on, 278. 
 
 no, 112. 
 
 Marlowe. 
 
 Felltham on, gi. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 284. 
 
 Fletcher on, 47, 48. 
 
 Chapman on, 48. 
 
 Ford on, 64. 
 
 Drayton on, 39. 
 
 Herrick on, 69, 70, 71, 72. 
 
 Heywood on, 42. 
 
 Heywood on, 43. 
 
 Jonson on, 55. 
 
 Hodgson on, 68. 
 
 Peele on, 29. 
 
 Johnson on, 147. 
 
 Marvell, 101. 
 
 Jonson on, 61, 62. 
 
 Churchill on, 163. 
 
 Landor on, 268. 
 
 Mason. 
 
 Milton on, 78. 
 
 Landor on, 275. 
 
 Pope on, 133. 
 
 Milton, 77. 
 
 Rochester on, 114, 115. 
 
 Addison on, 121. 
 
 Shirley on, 67. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 283, 
 
 Southey on, 203. 
 
 285. ^ 
 
 Waller on, 83. 
 
 Browning, R., on, 296, 297. 
 
 
 Byron on, 220, 221. 
 
 Keats, 259. 
 
 Collins on, 155. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 284. 
 
 Cowper on, 165, 166, 167. 
 
 Browning, R., on, 296, 297. 
 
 Dryden on, 105. 
 
 Byron on, 223. 
 
 Gray on, 158, 159, 160. 
 
 Keats on, 263. 
 
 Keats on, 264. 
 
 Landor on, 274, 278. 
 
 Landor on, 267, 268, 270^ 
 
 Shelley on, 237, 238, 240. 
 
 276. 
 
 Kyd. 
 
 Marvell on, 101. 
 
 Heywood on, 42. 
 
 Pope on, 134. 
 
 Jonson on, 55. 
 
 Scott on, 206. 
 
 
 Shelley on, 239. 
 
 Lamb. 
 
 Tennyson on, 300. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 199. 
 
 Thomson on, 149. 
 
 Landor, 266. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 180, 181, 
 
 Byron on, 223. 
 
 182, 183. 
 
 Lilly. 
 
 Moore, 224. 
 
 Drayton on, 38. 
 
 Byron on, 211, 215, 216, 219, 
 
 Jonson on, 55. 
 
 221, 223. 
 
 Lloyd. 
 
 Moore on, 230. 
 
 Cowper on, 167. 
 
 Landor on, 270, 273. 
 
 Lydgate, 5. 
 
 Shelley on, 249. 
 
322 
 
 INDEX OF POETS. 
 
 Nash. 
 
 Rowe. 
 
 Drayton on, 39. 
 
 Pope on, 133. 
 
 Heywood on, 42. 
 
 Roydon, 24. 
 
 Occleve, 4. 
 
 Sands. 
 
 Oldham, 116. 
 
 Drayton on, 40. 
 
 Otway. 
 
 Scott, 204. 
 
 Byron on, 208, 211. 
 
 Byron on, 211, 216, 219, 
 
 Pope on, 136. 
 
 223. 
 
 
 Landor on, 277, 279. 
 
 Parnell, 138. 
 
 Moore on, 224. 
 
 Goldsmith on, 164. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 194, 198, 
 
 Pope on, 137. 
 
 199. 
 
 Peele, 27. 
 
 Sedley. 
 
 Phaer. 
 
 Pope on, 134. 
 
 Peele on, 28. 
 
 Shadwell. 
 
 Pope, 131. 
 
 Pope on, 133. 
 
 Byron on, 210, 211, 220, 222. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Churchill on, 163. 
 
 Arnold on, 291. 
 
 Cowper on, 169. 
 
 Barnfield on, 32. 
 
 Gray on, 160. 
 
 Basse on, 51. 
 
 Landor on, 275. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 283. 
 
 Parnell on, 138. 
 
 Browning, R., on, 296. 
 
 Prior on, 124. 
 
 Byron on, 208. 
 
 Swift on, 142, 144. 
 
 Cartwright on, 88, 89. 
 
 Prior, 123. 
 
 Churchill on, 161, 162. 
 
 Cowper on, 168. 
 
 Collins on, 150, 151, 152. 
 
 
 Davies of Hereford on, 43. 
 
 Quarles, 66. 
 
 Denham on, 97, 98. 
 
 Pope on, 137. 
 
 Drayton on, 39. 
 
 
 Dryden on, 106, 107, 113. 
 
 Raleigh, 27. 
 
 Felltham on, 92. 
 
 Spenser on, 16, 18, 23. 
 
 Gray on, 157, 159, 160. 
 
 Rochester, 114. 
 
 Heywood on, 43. 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 Johnson on, 147. 
 
 Byron on, 215, 219, 221. 
 
 Jonson on, 55, 57. 
 
 Moore on, 229. 
 
 Keats on, 265. 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 Landor on, 266, 267, 268, 
 
 Addison on, 122. 
 
 270, 276, 277, 279. 
 
 Pope on, 135. 
 
 Milton on, 77, 78. 
 
INDEX OF POETS. 
 
 323 
 
 Shakespeare cotttin ued. 
 Pope on, 133, 134, 136, 
 
 137. 
 
 Rochester on, 114, 115. 
 
 Scott on, 205, 207. 
 
 Shelley on, 230, 235, 236. 
 
 Tennyson on, 300. 
 
 Thomson on, 148. 
 
 Unknown on, 78. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 178, 183, 
 
 Young on, 126. 
 Shelley, 230. 
 
 Arnold on, 294. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 284. 
 
 Browning, R., on, 297, 298. 
 
 Landor on, 274. 
 
 Shelley on, 249. 
 Shenstone. 
 
 Burns on, 171. 
 Shirley, 67. 
 Sidney. 
 
 Browne on, 33. 
 
 Browning, R., on, 298. 
 
 Crashaw on, 89. 
 
 Drayton on, 38. 
 
 Jonson on, 51, 52. 
 
 Peele on, 28. 
 
 Pope on, 134. 
 
 Roydon on, 24. 
 
 Shelley on, 230, 255. 
 
 Southey on, 203. 
 
 Spenser on, 19, 20. 
 
 Thomson on, 148. 
 
 Waller on, 8x. 
 Silvester. 
 
 Drayton on, 40. 
 Skelton. 
 
 Pope on, 132. 
 Smart. 
 
 Browning, R., on, 296. 
 
 Southerne. 
 
 Dry den on, 112. 
 
 Pope on, 133. 
 Southey, 202. 
 
 Byron on, 211, 213, 216, 217, 
 220, 223. 
 
 Landor on, 271. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 192. 
 Spenser, 12. 
 
 Addison on, 119. 
 
 Barnfield on, 31, 32. 
 
 Basse on, 50. 
 
 Breton on, 29. 
 
 Browne on, 32, 33. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 283, 
 291. 
 
 Churchill on, 162. 
 
 Denham on, 98. 
 
 Drayton on, 38. 
 
 Dryden on, no. 
 
 Fletcher, P., on, 65. 
 
 Gray on, 159. 
 
 Jonson on, 55. 
 
 Keats on, 259, 263, 264. 
 
 Landor on, 270, 277. 
 
 Peele on, 28. 
 
 Pope on, 133, 134. 
 
 Prior on, 123. 
 
 Raleigh on, 27. 
 
 Scott on, 205, 206. 
 
 Shelley on, 230. 
 
 Southey on, 203. 
 
 Spenser on, 13, 15. 
 
 Thomson on, 149. 
 
 Wordsworth on, 178, 179, 
 
 182, 183. 
 Sprat. 
 
 Pope on, 134. 
 Suckling, 85. 
 Surrey, u. 
 
324 
 
 INDEX OF POETS. 
 
 S urrey continued. 
 
 Drayton on, 37. 
 
 Pope on, 131. 
 Swift, 141. 
 
 Cowper on, 169. 
 
 Landor on, 269. 
 
 Pope on, 135, 137. 
 
 Swift on, 142, 143. 
 
 Tennyson, 299. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 291. 
 Thomson, 148. 
 
 Burns on, 170, 172. 
 
 Collins on, 155. 
 
 Thomson on, 149. 
 Tickell, 127. 
 
 Unknown, 78. 
 
 Vanbrugh. 
 
 Pope on, 136. 
 Vaughan, 103. 
 
 Waller, 81. 
 Addison on, 122. 
 Churchill on, 163. 
 Collins on, 155. 
 Dryden on, in. 
 Landor on, 268. 
 Pope on, 132, 136. 
 Rochester on, 115. 
 
 Warner. 
 
 Drayton on, 38. 
 Watson. 
 
 Heywood on, 42. 
 
 Peele on, 28. 
 Webster. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 284. 
 
 Heywood on, 43. 
 Wither. 
 
 Browne on, 34. 
 Wordsworth, 177. 
 
 Arnold on, 292, 293. 
 
 Browning, E. B., on, 291. 
 
 Byron on, 214, 216, 218, 220, 
 221, 223. 
 
 Coleridge on, 201. 
 
 Keats on, 262, 265. 
 
 Landor on, 270, 276, 278. 
 
 Shelley on, 230, 232, 233. 
 
 Tennyson on, 301. 
 Wyatt. 
 
 Surrey on, n. 
 
 Drayton on, 37. 
 Wycherly. 
 
 Dryden on, 112. 
 
 Pope on, 133. 
 
 Young, 125. 
 Landor on, 268, 275. 
 
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