Chapter XII: Introduction: To the Poem on the Soul of Man (4)

Browne began his poetical career early, and closed it soon. He published the first part of 'Britannia's Pastorals' in 1613, the second in 1616; shortly after, his 'Shepherd's Pipe;' and, in 1620, produced his 'Inner Temple Masque' which was then enacted, but not printed till a hundred and twenty years after the author's death, when Dr Farmer transcribed it from a MS. of the Bodleian Library, and it appeared in Tom Davies' edition of Browne's poems. Browne has no constructive power, and no human interest in his pastorals, but he has an eye for nature, and we quote from him some excellent specimens of descriptive poetry.

SONG.

Gentle nymphs, be not refusing, Love's neglect is Time's abusing, They and beauty are but lent you; Take the one, and keep the other: Love keeps fresh what age doth smother, Beauty gone, you will repent you.

'Twill be said, when ye have proved, Never swains more truly loved: Oh, then, fly all nice behaviour! Pity fain would (as her duty) Be attending still on Beauty, Let her not be out of favour.

SONG.

1 Shall I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then a while to me,
And if such a woman move
As I now shall versify;
Be assured, 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

2 Nature did her so much right,
As she scorns the help of art.
In as many virtues dight
As e'er yet embraced a heart;
So much good so truly tried,
Some for less were deified.

3 Wit she hath, without desire
To make known how much she hath;
And her anger flames no higher
Than may fitly sweeten wrath.
Full of pity as may be,
Though perhaps not so to me.

4 Reason masters every sense,
And her virtues grace her birth:
Lovely as all excellence,
Modest in her most of mirth:
Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.

5 Such she is: and if you know
Such a one as I have sung;
Be she brown, or fair, or so,
That she be but somewhile young;
Be assured, 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.

POWER OF GENIUS OVER ENVY.

'Tis not the rancour of a canker'd heart That can debase the excellence of art, Nor great in titles makes our worth obey, Since we have lines far more esteem'd than they. For there is hidden in a poet's name A spell that can command the wings of Fame, And maugre all oblivion's hated birth Begin their immortality on earth, When he that 'gainst a muse with hate combines May raise his tomb in vain to reach our lines.

EVENING.

As in an evening when the gentle air Breathes to the sullen night a soft repair, I oft have sat on Thames' sweet bank to hear My friend with his sweet touch to charm mine ear, When he hath play'd (as well he can) some strain That likes me, straight I ask the same again, And he, as gladly granting, strikes it o'er With some sweet relish was forgot before: I would have been content, if he would play, In that one strain to pass the night away; But fearing much to do his patience wrong, Unwillingly have ask'd some other song: So in this differing key though I could well A many hours but as few minutes tell, Yet lest mine own delight might injure you (Though both so soon) I take my song anew.

FROM 'BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS.'

Between two rocks (immortal, without mother) That stand as if outfacing one another, There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, As if the waters hid them from the wind, Which never wash'd but at a higher tide The frizzled cotes which do the mountains hide, Where never gale was longer known to stay Than from the smooth wave it had swept away The new divorced leaves, that from each side Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide. At further end the creek, a stately wood Gave a kind shadow (to the brackish flood) Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff Than that sky-scaling peak of Teneriffe, Upon whose tops the hernshew bred her young, And hoary moss upon their branches hung; Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to show, Without their height, what time they 'gan to grow. And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears, None could allot them less than Nestor's years. As under their command the thronged creek Ran lessen'd up. Here did the shepherd seek Where he his little boat might safely hide, Till it was fraught with what the world beside Could not outvalue; nor give equal weight Though in the time when Greece was at her height.

* * * * *

Yet that their happy voyage might not be Without Time's shortener, heaven-taught melody, (Music that lent feet to the stable woods, And in their currents turn'd the mighty floods, Sorrow's sweet nurse, yet keeping Joy alive, Sad Discontent's most welcome corrosive, The soul of art, best loved when love is by, The kind inspirer of sweet poesy, Least thou shouldst wanting be, when swans would fain Have sung one song, and never sung again,) The gentle shepherd, hasting to the shore, Began this lay, and timed it with his oar:

Nevermore let holy Dee O'er other rivers brave, Or boast how (in his jollity) Kings row'd upon his wave. But silent be, and ever know That Neptune for my fare would row.

* * * * *

Swell then, gently swell, ye floods, As proud of what ye bear, And nymphs that in low coral woods String pearls upon your hair, Ascend; and tell if ere this day A fairer prize was seen at sea.

See the salmons leap and bound To please us as we pass, Each mermaid on the rocks around Lets fall her brittle glass, As they their beauties did despise And loved no mirror but your eyes,

Blow, but gently blow, fair wind, From the forsaken shore, And be as to the halcyon kind, Till we have ferried o'er: So mayst thou still have leave to blow, And fan the way where she shall go.

A DESCRIPTIVE SKETCH.

Oh, what a rapture have I gotten now! That age of gold, this of the lovely brow, Have drawn me from my song! I onward run, (Clean from the end to which I first begun,) But ye, the heavenly creatures of the West, In whom the virtues and the graces rest, Pardon! that I have run astray so long, And grow so tedious in so rude a song. If you yourselves should come to add one grace Unto a pleasant grove or such like place, Where, here, the curious cutting of a hedge, There in a pond, the trimming of the sedge; Here the fine setting of well-shaded trees, The walks their mounting up by small degrees, The gravel and the green so equal lie, It, with the rest, draws on your lingering eye: Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air, Arising from the infinite repair Of odoriferous buds, and herbs of price, (As if it were another paradise,) So please the smelling sense, that you are fain Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again. There the small birds with their harmonious notes Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats: For in her face a many dimples show, And often skips as it did dancing go: Here further down an over-arched alley That from a hill goes winding in a valley, You spy at end thereof a standing lake, Where some ingenious artist strives to make The water (brought in turning pipes of lead Through birds of earth most lively fashioned) To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all In singing well their own set madrigal. This with no small delight retains your ear, And makes you think none blest but who live there. Then in another place the fruits that be In gallant clusters decking each good tree Invite your hand to crop them from the stem, And liking one, taste every sort of them: Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers, Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers, Then to the birds, and to the clear spring thence, Now pleasing one, and then another sense: Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th, As if it were some hidden labyrinth.

WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING.

This eminent Scotchman was born in 1580. He travelled on the Continent as tutor to the Duke of Argyle. After his return to Scotland, he fell in love with a lady, whom he calls 'Aurora,' and to whom he addressed some beautiful sonnets. She refused his hand, however, and he married the daughter of Sir William Erskine. He repaired to the Court of James I., and became a distinguished favourite, being appointed Gentleman Usher to Charles I., and created a knight. He concocted a scheme for colonising Nova Scotia, in which he was encouraged by both James and Charles; but the difficulties seemed too formidable, and it was in consequence dropped. Charles appointed him Lord-Lieutenant of Nova Scotia, and, in 1633, he created him Lord Stirling. Fifteen years (from 1626 to 1641) our poet was Secretary of State for Scotland. These were the years during which Laud was foolishly seeking to force his liturgy upon the Presbyterians, but Stirling gained the praise of being moderate in his share of the business. In the course of this time he contrived to amass an ample fortune, and spent part of it in building a fine mansion in Stirling, which is still, we believe, standing. He died in 1641.

Besides his smaller pieces, Stirling wrote several tragedies, including one on Julius Caesar; an heroic poem; a poem addressed to Prince Henry, the son of James I.; another heroic poem, entitled 'Jonathan;' and a poem, in twelve parts, on the 'Day of Judgment.' These are all forgotten, and, notwithstanding vigorous parts, deserve to be forgotten; but his little sonnets, which are, if not brilliant, true things, and inspired by a true passion, may long survive. He was, on the whole, rather a man of great talent than of genius.

SONNET.

I swear, Aurora, by thy starry eyes, And by those golden locks, whose lock none slips, And by the coral of thy rosy lips, And by the naked snows which beauty dyes; I swear by all the jewels of thy mind, Whose like yet never worldly treasure bought, Thy solid judgment, and thy generous thought,

Which in this darken'd age have clearly shined; I swear by those, and by my spotless love, And by my secret, yet most fervent fires, That I have never nursed but chaste desires, And such as modesty might well approve. Then, since I love those virtuous parts in thee, Shouldst thou not love this virtuous mind in me?

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

A man of much finer gifts than Stirling, was the famous Drummond. He was born, December 13, 1585, at Hawthornden, his father's estate, in Mid- Lothian. It is one of the most beautiful spots, along the sides of one of the fairest streams in all Scotland, and well fitted to be the home of genius. He studied civil law for four years in France, but, in 1611, the estate of Hawthornden became his own, and here he fixed his residence, and applied himself to literature. At this time he courted, and was upon the point of marrying, a lady named Cunningham, who died; and the melancholy which preyed on his mind after this event, drove him abroad in search of solace. He visited Italy, Germany, and France; and during his eight years of residence on the Continent, used his time well, conversing with the learned, admiring all that was admirable in the scenery and the life of foreign lands, and collecting rare books and manuscripts. He had, before his departure, published, first, a volume of occasional poems; next, a moral treatise, in prose, entitled, 'The Cypress Grove;' and then another work, in verse, 'The Flowers of Zion.' Returned once more to Scotland, he retired to the seat of his brother- in-law, Sir John Scott of Scotstarvet, and there wrote a 'History of the Five James's of Scotland,' a book abounding in bombast and slavish principles. When he returned to his own lovely Hawthornden, he met a lady named Logan, of the house of Restalrig, whom he fancied to bear a striking resemblance to his dead mistress. On that hint he spake, and she became his wife. He proceeded to repair the house of Hawthornden, and would have spent his days there in great peace, had it not been for the distracted times. His politics were of the Royalist complexion; and the party in power, belonging to the Presbyterians, used every method to annoy him, compelling him, for instance, to furnish his quota of men and arms to support the cause which he opposed. In 1619, Ben Jonson visited him at Hawthornden. The pair were not well assorted. Brawny Ben and dreaming Drummond seem, in the expressive coinage of De Quincey, to have 'interdespised;' and is not their feud, with all its circumstances, recorded in the chronicles of the 'Quarrels of Authors' compiled by the elder Disraeli? The death of a lady sent Drummond travelling over Europe --the death of a King sent him away on a farther and a final journey. His grief for the execution of Charles I. is said to have shortened his days. At all events, in December of the year of the so-called 'Martyrdom,' (1649,) he breathed his last.

He was a genuine poet as well as a brilliant humorist. His 'Polemo Middinia,' a grotesque mixture of bad Latin and semi-Latinised Scotch, has created, among many generations, inextinguishable laughter. His 'Wandering Muses; or, The River of Forth Feasting,' has some gorgeous descriptions, particularly of Scotland's lakes and rivers, at a time when

'She lay, like some unkenn'd of isle,
Ayont New Holland;'

but his sonnets are unquestionably his finest productions. They breathe a spirit of genuine poetry. Each one of them is a rose lightly wet with the dew of tenderness, and one or two suggest irresistibly the recollection of our Great Dramatist's sonnets, although we feel that 'a less than Shakspeare is here.'

THE RIVER OF FORTH FEASTING.

A PANEGYRIC TO THE HIGH AND MIGHTY PRINCE JAMES, KING Or GREAT BRITAIN, FRANCE, AND IRELAND.

_To His Sacred Majesty._

If in this storm of joy and pompous throng, This nymph (great king) doth come to thee so near That thy harmonious ears her accents hear, Give pardon to her hoarse and lowly song: Fain would she trophies to thy virtues rear; But for this stately task she is not strong, And her defects her high attempts do wrong, Yet as she could she makes thy worth appear. So in a map is shown this flowery place; So wrought in arras by a virgin's hand With heaven and blazing stars doth Atlas stand, So drawn by charcoal is Narcissus' face: She like the morn may be to some bright sun, The day to perfect that's by her begun.

* * * * *

What blustering noise now interrupts my sleep? What echoing shouts thus cleave my crystal deep, And seem to call me from my watery court? What melody, what sounds of joy and sport, Are convey'd hither from each neighbouring spring? With what loud rumours do the mountains ring, Which in unusual pomp on tiptoes stand, And (full of wonder) overlook the land? Whence come these glittering throngs, these meteors bright, This golden people glancing in my sight? Whence doth this praise, applause, and love arise, What load-star eastward draweth thus all eyes? Am I awake? or have some dreams conspired To mock my sense with what I most desired? View I that living face, see I those looks, Which with delight were wont t'amaze my brooks? Do I behold that worth, that man divine, This age's glory, by these banks of mine? Then find I true what long I wish'd in vain, My much beloved prince is come again; So unto them whose zenith is the pole, When six black months are past, the sun doth roll: So after tempest to sea-tossed wights Fair Helen's brothers show their cheering lights: So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods, And far, far off is seen by Memphis' floods; The feather'd Sylvans, cloud-like, by her fly, And with triumphing plaudits beat the sky; Nile marvels, Seraph's priests, entranced, rave, And in Mydonian stone her shape engrave; In lasting cedars they do mark the time In which Apollo's bird came to their clime. Let Mother Earth now deck'd with flowers be seen, And sweet-breath'd zephyrs curl the meadows green, Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower, Such as on India's shores they use to pour: Or with that golden storm the fields adorn, Which Jove rain'd when his blue-eyed maid was born. May never hours the web of day outweave, May never night rise from her sable cave. Swell proud, my billows, faint not to declare Your joys as ample as their causes are: For murmurs hoarse sound like Arion's harp, Now delicately flat, now sweetly sharp; And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist repair; Strow all your springs and grots with lilies fair: Some swiftest-footed, get them hence, and pray Our floods and lakes come keep this holiday; Whate'er beneath Albania's hills do run, Which see the rising or the setting sun, Which drink stern Grampius' mists, or Ochil's snows: Stone-rolling Tay, Tyne tortoise-like that flows, The pearly Don, the Dees, the fertile Spey, Wild Neverne, which doth see our longest day; Ness smoking sulphur, Leave with mountains crown'd, Strange Lomond for his floating isles renown'd: The Irish Rian, Ken, the silver Ayr, The snaky Dun, the Ore with rushy hair, The crystal-streaming Nid, loud-bellowing Clyde, Tweed which no more our kingdoms shall divide; Rank-swelling Annan, Lid with curled streams, The Esks, the Solway, where they lose their names, To every one proclaim our joys and feasts, Our triumphs; bid all come and be our guests: And as they meet in Neptune's azure hall, Bid them bid sea-gods keep this festival; This day shall by our currents be renown'd, Our hills about shall still this day resound; Nay, that our love more to this day appear, Let us with it henceforth begin our year. To virgins, flowers; to sunburnt earth, the rain; To mariners, fair winds amidst the main; Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn, Are not so pleasing as thy blest return. That day, dear prince, which robb'd us of thy sight, (Day, no, but darkness and a dusky night,) Did fill our breasts with sighs, our eyes with tears, Turn'd minutes to sad months, sad months to years, Trees left to flourish, meadows to bear flowers, Brooks hid their heads within their sedgy bowers, Fair Ceres cursed our fields with barren frost, As if again she had her daughter lost: The muses left our groves, and for sweet songs Sat sadly silent, or did weep their wrongs. You know it, meads; your murmuring woods it know, Hill, dales, and caves, copartners of their woe; And you it know, my streams, which from their een Oft on your glass received their pearly brine; O Naiads dear, (said they,) Napeas fair, O nymphs of trees, nymphs which on hills repair! Gone are those maiden glories, gone that state, Which made all eyes admire our bliss of late. As looks the heaven when never star appears, But slow and weary shroud them in their spheres, While Titon's wife embosom'd by him lies, And world doth languish in a dreary guise: As looks a garden of its beauty spoil'd, As woods in winter by rough Boreas foil'd, As portraits razed of colours used to be: So look'd these abject bounds deprived of thee.

While as my rills enjoy'd thy royal gleams, They did not envy Tiber's haughty streams, Nor wealthy Tagus with his golden ore, Nor clear Hydaspes which on pearls doth roar, Nor golden Gange that sees the sun new born, Nor Achelous with his flowery horn, Nor floods which near Elysian fields do fall: For why? thy sight did serve to them for all. No place there is so desert, so alone, Even from the frozen to the torrid zone, From flaming Hecla to great Quinsey's lake, Which thy abode could not most happy make; All those perfections which by bounteous Heaven To divers worlds in divers times were given, The starry senate pour'd at once on thee, That thou exemplar mightst to others be. Thy life was kept till the Three Sisters spun Their threads of gold, and then it was begun. With chequer'd clouds when skies do look most fair, And no disordered blasts disturb the air, When lilies do them deck in azure gowns; And new-born roses blush with golden crowns, To prove how calm we under thee should live, What halcyonian days thy reign should give, And to two flowery diadems thy right; The heavens thee made a partner of the light. Scarce wast thou born when, join'd in friendly bands, Two mortal foes with other clasped hands; With Virtue Fortune strove, which most should grace Thy place for thee, thee for so high a place; One vow'd thy sacred breast not to forsake, The other on thee not to turn her back; And that thou more her love's effects mightst feel, For thee she left her globe, and broke her wheel.

When years thee vigour gave, oh, then, how clear Did smother'd sparkles in bright flames appear! Amongst the woods to force the flying hart, To pierce the mountain wolf with feather'd dart; See falcons climb the clouds, the fox ensnare, Outrun the wind-outrunning Doedale hare, To breathe thy fiery steed on every plain, And in meand'ring gyres him bring again, The press thee making place, and vulgar things, In Admiration's air, on Glory's wings; Oh, thou far from the common pitch didst rise, With thy designs to dazzle Envy's eyes: Thou soughtst to know this All's eternal source, Of ever-turning heaven the restless course, Their fixed lamps, their lights which wandering run, Whence moon her silver hath, his gold the sun; If Fate there be or no, if planets can By fierce aspects force the free will of man; The light aspiring fire, the liquid air, The flaming dragons, comets with red hair, Heaven's tilting lances, artillery, and bow, Loud-sounding trumpets, darts of hail and snow, The roaring elements, with people dumb, The earth with what conceived is in her womb. What on her moves were set unto thy sight, Till thou didst find their causes, essence, might. But unto nought thou so thy mind didst strain, As to be read in man, and learn to reign: To know the weight and Atlas of a crown, To spare the humble, proud ones tumble down. When from those piercing cares which thrones invest, As thorns the rose, thou wearied wouldst thee rest, With lute in hand, full of celestial fire, To the Pierian groves thou didst retire: There garlanded with all Urania's flowers, In sweeter lays than builded Thebes' towers, Or them which charm'd the dolphins in the main, Or which did call Eurydice again, Thou sung'st away the hours, till from their sphere Stars seem'd to shoot thy melody to hear. The god with golden hair, the sister maids, Did leave their Helicon, and Tempe's shades, To see thine isle, here lost their native tongue, And in thy world-divided language sung.

Who of thine after age can count the deeds, With all that Fame in Time's huge annals reads? How, by example more than any law, This people fierce thou didst to goodness draw; How, while the neighbour world, toss'd by the Fates, So many Phaetons had in their states, Which turn'd to heedless flames their burnish'd thrones, Thou, as ensphered, kept'st temperate thy zones; In Afric shores the sands that ebb and flow, The shady leaves on Arden's trees that grow, He sure may count, with all the waves that meet To wash the Mauritanian Atlas' feet. Though crown'd thou wert not, nor a king by birth, Thy worth deserves the richest crown on earth. Search this half sphere, and the Antarctic ground, Where is such wit and bounty to be found? As into silent night, when near the Bear, The virgin huntress shines at full most clear, And strives to match her brother's golden light, The host of stars doth vanish in her sight, Arcturus dies; cool'd is the Lion's ire, Po burns no more with Phaetontal fire: Orion faints to see his arms grow black, And that his flaming sword he now doth lack: So Europe's lights, all bright in their degree, Lose all their lustre parallel'd with thee; By just descent thou from more kings dost shine, Than many can name men in all their line: What most they toil to find, and finding hold, Thou scornest--orient gems, and flattering gold; Esteeming treasure surer in men's breasts, Than when immured with marble, closed in chests; No stormy passions do disturb thy mind, No mists of greatness ever could thee blind: Who yet hath been so meek? thou life didst give To them who did repine to see thee live; What prince by goodness hath such kingdoms gain'd? Who hath so long his people's peace maintain'd? Their swords are turn'd to scythes, to coulters spears, Some giant post their antique armour bears: Now, where the wounded knight his life did bleed, The wanton swain sits piping on a reed; And where the cannon did Jove's thunder scorn, The gaudy huntsman winds his shrill-tuned horn: Her green locks Ceres doth to yellow dye, The pilgrim safely in the shade doth lie, Both Pan and Pales careless keep their flocks, Seas have no dangers save the wind and rocks: Thou art this isle's Palladium, neither can (Whiles thou dost live) it be o'erthrown by man.

Let others boast of blood and spoils of foes, Fierce rapines, murders, Iliads of woes, Of hated pomp, and trophies reared fair, Gore-spangled ensigns streaming in the air, Count how they make the Scythian them adore, The Gaditan and soldier of Aurore. Unhappy boasting! to enlarge their bounds, That charge themselves with cares, their friends with wounds; Who have no law to their ambitious will, But, man-plagues, born are human blood to spill! Thou a true victor art, sent from above What others strain by force, to gain by love; World-wandering Fame this praise to thee imparts, To be the only monarch of all hearts. They many fear who are of many fear'd, And kingdoms got by wrongs, by wrongs are tear'd; Such thrones as blood doth raise, blood throweth down, No guard so sure as love unto a crown.

Eye of our western world, Mars-daunting king, With whose renown the earth's seven climates ring, Thy deeds not only claim these diadems, To which Thame, Liftey, Tay, subject their streams; But to thy virtues rare, and gifts, is due All that the planet of the year doth view; Sure if the world above did want a prince, The world above to it would take thee hence.

That Murder, Rapine, Lust, are fled to hell, And in their rooms with us the Graces dwell; That honour more than riches men respect, That worthiness than gold doth more effect, That Piety unmasked shows her face, That Innocency keeps with Power her place, That long-exiled Astrea leaves the heaven, And turneth right her sword, her weights holds even, That the Saturnian world is come again, Are wish'd effects of thy most happy reign. That daily, Peace, Love, Truth, Delights increase, And Discord, Hate, Fraud, with Incumbers, cease; That men use strength not to shed others' blood, But use their strength now to do others good; That Fury is enchain'd, disarmed Wrath, That (save by Nature's hand) there is no death; That late grim foes like brothers other love, That vultures prey not on the harmless dove, That wolves with lambs do friendship entertain, Are wish'd effects of thy most happy reign. That towns increase, that ruin'd temples rise, That their wind-moving vanes do kiss the skies; That Ignorance and Sloth hence run away, That buried Arts now rouse them to the day, That Hyperion far beyond his bed Doth see our lions ramp, our roses spread; That Iber courts us, Tiber not us charms, That Rhine with hence-brought beams his bosom warms; That ill doth fear, and good doth us maintain, Are wish'd effects of thy most happy reign.

O Virtue's pattern, glory of our times, Sent of past days to expiate the crimes, Great king, but better far than thou art great, Whom state not honours, but who honours state, By wonder born, by wonder first install'd, By wonder after to new kingdoms call'd; Young, kept by wonder from home-bred alarms, Old, saved by wonder from pale traitors' harms, To be for this thy reign, which wonders brings, A king of wonder, wonder unto kings. If Pict, Dane, Norman, thy smooth yoke had seen, Pict, Dane, and Norman had thy subjects been; If Brutus knew the bliss thy rule doth give, Even Brutus joy would under thee to live, For thou thy people dost so dearly love, That they a father, more than prince, thee prove.

O days to be desired! Age happy thrice! If you your heaven-sent good could duly prize; But we (half palsy-sick) think never right Of what we hold, till it be from our sight, Prize only summer's sweet and musked breath, When armed winters threaten us with death, In pallid sickness do esteem of health, And by sad poverty discern of wealth: I see an age when, after some few years, And revolutions of the slow-paced spheres, These days shall be 'bove other far esteem'd, And like Augustus' palmy reign be deem'd. The names of Arthur, fabulous Paladines, Graven in Time's surly brows, in wrinkled lines, Of Henrys, Edwards, famous for their fights, Their neighbour conquests, orders new of knights, Shall by this prince's name be pass'd as far As meteors are by the Idalian star. If gray-hair'd Proteus' songs the truth not miss-- And gray-hair'd Proteus oft a prophet is-- There is a land hence distant many miles, Outreaching fiction and Atlantic isles, Which (homelings) from this little world we name, That shall emblazon with strange rites his fame, Shall rear him statues all of purest gold, Such as men gave unto the gods of old, Name by him temples, palaces, and towns, With some great river, which their fields renowns: This is that king who should make right each wrong, Of whom the bards and mystic Sibyls sung, The man long promised, by whose glorious reign This isle should yet her ancient name regain, And more of fortunate deserve the style, Than those whose heavens with double summers smile.

Run on, great prince, thy course in glory's way, The end the life, the evening crowns the day; Heap worth on worth, and strongly soar above Those heights which made the world thee first to love; Surmount thyself, and make thine actions past Be but as gleams or lightnings of thy last, Let them exceed those of thy younger time, As far as autumn; doth the flowery prime. Through this thy empire range, like world's bright eye, That once each year surveys all earth and sky, Now glances on the slow and resty Bears, Then turns to dry the weeping Auster's tears, Hurries to both the poles, and moveth even In the figured circle of the heaven: Oh, long, long haunt these bounds which by thy sight Have now regain'd their former heat and light. Here grow green woods, here silver brooks do glide, Here meadows stretch them out with painted pride, Embroidering all the banks, here hills aspire To crown their heads with the ethereal fire, Hills, bulwarks of our freedom, giant walls, Which never friends did slight, nor sword made thralls: Each circling flood to Thetis tribute pays, Men here in health outlive old Nestor's days: Grim Saturn yet amongst our rocks remains, Bound in our caves, with many metall'd chains, Bulls haunt our shade like Leda's lover white, Which yet might breed Pesiphae delight, Our flocks fair fleeces bear, with which for sport Endymion of old the moon did court, High-palmed harts amidst our forests run, And, not impaled, the deep-mouth'd hounds do shun; The rough-foot hare safe in our bushes shrouds, And long-wing'd hawks do perch amidst our clouds. The wanton wood-nymphs of the verdant spring, Blue, golden, purple flowers shall to thee bring, Pomona's fruits the Panisks, Thetis' girls, The Thule's amber, with the ocean pearls; The Tritons, herdsmen of the glassy field, Shall give thee what far-distant shores can yield, The Serean fleeces, Erythrean gems, Vast Plata's silver, gold of Peru streams, Antarctic parrots, Ethiopian plumes, Sabasan odours, myrrh, and sweet perfumes: And I myself, wrapt in a watchet gown Of reeds and lilies, on mine head a crown, Shall incense to thee burn, green altars raise, And yearly sing due paeans to thy praise.

Ah! why should Isis only see thee shine? Is not thy Forth, as well as Isis, thine? Though Isis vaunt she hath more wealth in store, Let it suffice thy Forth doth love thee more: Though she for beauty may compare with Seine, For swans, and sea-nymphs with imperial Rhine, Yet for the title may be claim'd in thee, Nor she nor all the world can match with me. Now when, by honour drawn, them shalt away To her, already jealous of thy stay, When in her amorous arms she doth thee fold, And dries thy dewy hairs with hers of gold, Much asking of thy fare, much of thy sport, Much of thine absence, long, howe'er so short, And chides, perhaps, thy coming to the north, Loathe not to think on thy much-loving Forth: Oh, love these bounds, where of thy royal stem More than an hundred wore a diadem. So ever gold and bays thy brows adorn, So never time may see thy race outworn, So of thine own still mayst thou be desired, Of strangers fear'd, redoubted, and admired; So Memory thee praise, so precious hours May character thy name in starry flowers; So may thy high exploits at last make even, With earth thy empire, glory with the heaven.

SONNETS.

I.

I know that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought, In Time's great periods shall return to nought; That fairest states have fatal nights and days; I know that all the Muse's heavenly lays, With toil of sp'rit, which are so dearly bought, As idle sounds, of few, or none, are sought, That there is nothing lighter than vain praise; I know frail beauty like the purple flower, To which one morn oft birth and death affords, That love a jarring is of minds' accords, Where sense and will envassal Reason's power; Know what I list, all this can not me move, But that, alas! I both must write and love.

II.

Ah me! and I am now the man whose muse In happier times was wont to laugh at love, And those who suffer'd that blind boy abuse The noble gifts were given them from above. What metamorphose strange is this I prove I Myself now scarce I find myself to be, And think no fable Circe's tyranny, And all the tales are told of changed Jove; Virtue hath taught with her philosophy My mind into a better course to move: Reason may chide her fill, and oft reprove Affection's power, but what is that to me? Who ever think, and never think on ought But that bright cherubim which thralls my thought.

III.

How that vast heaven, entitled first, is roll'd, If any glancing towers beyond it be, And people living in eternity, Or essence pure that doth this all uphold: What motion have those fixed sparks of gold, The wandering carbuncles which shine from high, By sp'rits, or bodies crossways in the sky, If they be turn'd, and mortal things behold; How sun posts heaven about, how night's pale queen With borrow'd beams looks on this hanging round, What cause fair Iris hath, and monsters seen In air's large field of light, and seas profound, Did hold my wandering thoughts, when thy sweet eye Bade me leave all, and only think on thee.

IV.

If cross'd with all mishaps be my poor life, If one short day I never spent in mirth, If my sp'rit with itself holds lasting strife, If sorrow's death is but new sorrow's birth; If this vain world be but a mournful stage, Where slave-born man plays to the scoffing stars, If youth be toss'd with love, with weakness age; If knowledge serves to hold our thoughts in wars, If Time can close the hundred mouths of Fame, And make what's long since past, like that's to be; If virtue only be an idle name, If being born I was but born to die; Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days? The fairest rose in shortest time decays.

V.

Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends, Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light, Such sad, lamenting strains, that night attends, Become all ear; stars stay to hear thy plight, If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends, Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight, May thee importune who like case pretends, And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite. Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains, Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky, Enamour'd, smiles on woods and flowery plains? The bird, as if my questions did her move, With trembling wings sigh'd forth, 'I love, I love.'

VI.

Sweet soul, which, in the April of thy years, For to enrich the heaven mad'st poor this round, And now, with flaming rays of glory crown'd, Most blest abides above the sphere of spheres; If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee bound From looking to this globe that all upbears, If ruth and pity there above be found, Oh, deign to lend a look unto these tears, Do not disdain, dear ghost, this sacrifice, And though I raise not pillars to thy praise, My offerings take, let this for me suffice, My heart a living pyramid I raise: And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green, Thine shall with myrtles and these flowers be seen.

SPIRITUAL POEMS.

I.

Look, how the flower which ling'ringly doth fade, The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green, As high as it did raise, bows low the head: Right so the pleasures of my life being dead, Or in their contraries but only seen, With swifter speed declines than erst it spread, And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been. As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the night By darkness would imprison on his way, Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright, Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day; Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, And twice it is not given thee to be born.

II.

The weary mariner so fast not flies A howling tempest, harbour to attain; Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise, So fast to fold, to save his bleating train, As I, wing'd with contempt and just disdain, Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize, And sanctuary seek, free to remain From wounds of abject times, and Envy's eyes. To me this world did once seem sweet and fair, While senses' light mind's prospective kept blind, Now, like imagined landscape in the air, And weeping rainbows, her best joys I find: Or if aught here is had that praise should have, It is a life obscure, and silent grave.

III.

The last and greatest herald of heaven's King, Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he more harmless found than man, and mild; His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, With honey that from virgin hives distill'd; Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled; There burst he forth; 'All ye whose hopes rely On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn; Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!' Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry? Only the echoes, which he made relent, Rung from their flinty caves, 'Repent, repent!'

IV.

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past or coming, void of care, Well-pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers: To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs, Attired in sweetness, sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

V.

As when it happ'neth that some lovely town Unto a barbarous besieger falls, Who both by sword and flame himself installs, And, shameless, it in tears and blood doth drown Her beauty spoil'd, her citizens made thralls, His spite yet cannot so her all throw down, But that some statue, pillar of renown, Yet lurks unmaim'd within her weeping walls: So, after all the spoil, disgrace, and wreck, That time, the world, and death, could bring combined, Amidst that mass of ruins they did make, Safe and all scarless yet remains my mind: From this so high transcending rapture springs, That I, all else defaced, not envy kings.

PHINEAS FLETCHER

We have already spoken of Giles Fletcher, the brother of Phineas. Of Phineas we know nothing except that he was born in 1584, educated at Eton and Cambridge, became Rector at Hilgay, in Norfolk, where he remained for twenty-nine years, surviving his brother; that he wrote an account of the founders and learned men of his university; that in 1633, he published 'The Purple Island;' and that in 1650 he died.

His 'Purple Island' (with which we first became acquainted in the writings of James Hervey, author of the 'Meditations,' who was its fervent admirer) is a curious, complex, and highly ingenious allegory, forming an elaborate picture of _Man_, in his body and soul; and for subtlety and infinite flexibility, both of fancy and verse, deserves great praise, although it cannot, for a moment, be compared with his brother's 'Christ's Victory and Triumph,' either in interest of subject or in splendour of genius.

DESCRIPTION OF PARTHENIA.

With her, her sister went, a warlike maid,
Parthenia, all in steel and gilded arms;
In needle's stead, a mighty spear she sway'd,
With which in bloody fields and fierce alarms,
The boldest champion she down would bear,
And like a thunderbolt wide passage tear,
Flinging all to the earth with her enchanted spear.

Her goodly armour seem'd a garden green,
Where thousand spotless lilies freshly blew;
And on her shield the lone bird might be seen,
The Arabian bird, shining in colours new;
Itself unto itself was only mate;
Ever the same, but new in newer date:
And underneath was writ, 'Such is chaste single state.'

Thus hid in arms she seem'd a goodly knight,
And fit for any warlike exercise:
But when she list lay down her armour bright,
And back resume her peaceful maiden's guise;
The fairest maid she was, that ever yet
Prison'd her locks within a golden net,
Or let them waving hang, with roses fair beset.

Choice nymph! the crown of chaste Diana's train,
Thou beauty's lily, set in heavenly earth;
Thy fairs, unpattern'd, all perfection stain:
Sure heaven with curious pencil at thy birth
In thy rare face her own full picture drew:
It is a strong verse here to write, but true,
Hyperboles in others are but half thy due.

Upon her forehead Love his trophies fits,
A thousand spoils in silver arch displaying:
And in the midst himself full proudly sits,
Himself in awful majesty arraying:
Upon her brows lies his bent ebon bow,
And ready shafts; deadly those weapons show;
Yet sweet the death appear'd, lovely that deadly blow.

* * * * *

A bed of lilies flower upon her cheek,
And in the midst was set a circling rose;
Whose sweet aspect would force Narcissus seek
New liveries, and fresher colours choose
To deck his beauteous head in snowy 'tire;
But all in vain: for who can hope t' aspire
To such a fair, which none attain, but all admire?

Her ruby lips lock up from gazing sight
A troop of pearls, which march in goodly row:
But when she deigns those precious bones undight,
Soon heavenly notes from those divisions flow,
And with rare music charm the ravish'd ears,
Daunting bold thoughts, but cheering modest fears:
The spheres so only sing, so only charm the spheres.

Yet all these stars which deck this beauteous sky
By force of th'inward sun both shine and move;
Throned in her heart sits love's high majesty;
In highest majesty the highest love.
As when a taper shines in glassy frame,
The sparkling crystal burns in glittering flame,
So does that brightest love brighten this lovely dame.

INSTABILITY OF HUMAN GREATNESS.

Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness,
And here long seeks what here is never found!
For all our good we hold from Heaven by lease,
With many forfeits and conditions bound;
Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due:
Though now but writ and seal'd, and given anew,
Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew.

Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good,
At every loss against Heaven's face repining?
Do but behold where glorious cities stood,
With gilded tops, and silver turrets shining;
Where now the hart fearless of greyhound feeds,
And loving pelican in safety breeds;
Where screeching satyrs fill the people's empty steads.

Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide,
That all the East once grasp'd in lordly paw?
Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride
The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw?
Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard,
Through all the world with nimble pinions fared,
And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shared?

Hardly the place of such antiquity,
Or note of these great monarchies we find:
Only a fading verbal memory,
An empty name in writ is left behind:
But when this second life and glory fades,
And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades,
A second fall succeeds, and double death invades.

That monstrous Beast, which nursed in Tiber's fen,
Did all the world with hideous shape affray;
That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den,
And trod down all the rest to dust and clay:
His battering horns pull'd out by civil hands,
And iron teeth lie scatter'd on the sands;
Backed, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked stands.

And that black Vulture,[1] which with deathful wing
O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight
Frighten'd the Muses from their native spring,
Already stoops, and flags with weary flight:
Who then shall look for happiness beneath?
Where each new day proclaims chance, change, and death,
And life itself's as fleet as is the air we breathe.

[1] 'Black Vulture:' the Turk.

HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!
When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns!
His cottage low and safely humble gate
Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep:
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives; nor silken pride:
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tineture dyed:
No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright,
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite;
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music, and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise,
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes:
In country plays is all the strife he uses,
Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses,
And but in music's sports all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him,
Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content;
The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him
With coolest shades, till noontide rage is spent;
His life is neither toss'd in boisterous seas
Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease;
Pleased, and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps,
While by his side his faithful spouse hath place;
His little son into his bosom creeps,
The lively picture of his father's face:
Never his humble house nor state torment him;
Less he could like, if less his God had sent him;
And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content him.

MARRIAGE OF CHRIST AND THE CHURCH.

'Ah, dearest Lord! does my rapt soul behold thee?
Am I awake, and sure I do not dream?
Do these thrice-blessed arms again enfold thee?
Too much delight makes true things feigned seem.
Thee, thee I see; thou, thou thus folded art:
For deep thy stamp is printed on my heart,
And thousand ne'er-felt joys stream in each melting part.'

Thus with glad sorrow did she sweetly 'plain her,
Upon his neck a welcome load depending;
While he with equal joy did entertain her,
Herself, her champions, highly all commending:
So all in triumph to his palace went;
Whose work in narrow words may not be pent:
For boundless thought is less than is that glorious tent.

There sweet delights, which know nor end nor measure;
No chance is there, nor eating times succeeding:
No wasteful spending can impair their treasure;
Pleasure full grown, yet ever freshly breeding:
Fulness of sweets excludes not more receiving;
The soul still big of joy, yet still conceiving;
Beyond slow tongue's report, beyond quick thought's perceiving.

There are they gone; there will they ever bide;
Swimming in waves of joys and heavenly loves:
He still a bridegroom, she a gladsome bride;
Their hearts in love, like spheres still constant moving;
No change, no grief, no age can them befall;
Their bridal bed is in that heavenly hall,
Where all days are but one, and only one is all.

And as in his state they thus in triumph ride,
The boys and damsels their just praises chant;
The boys the bridegroom sing, the maids the bride,
While all the hills glad hymens loudly vaunt:
Heaven's winged shoals, greeting this glorious spring,
Attune their higher notes, and hymens sing:
Each thought to pass, and each did pass thought's loftiest wing.

Upon his lightning brow love proudly sitting
Flames out in power, shines out in majesty;
There all his lofty spoils and trophies fitting,
Displays the marks of highest Deity:
There full of strength in lordly arms he stands,
And every heart and every soul commands:
No heart, no soul, his strength and lordly force withstands.

Upon her forehead thousand cheerful graces,
Seated on thrones of spotless ivory;
There gentle Love his armed hand unbraces;
His bow unbent disclaims all tyranny;
There by his play a thousand souls beguiles,
Persuading more by simple, modest smiles,
Than ever he could force by arms or crafty wiles.

Upon her cheek doth Beauty's self implant
The freshest garden of her choicest flowers;
On which, if Envy might but glance askant,
Her eyes would swell, and burst, and melt in showers:
Thrice fairer both than ever fairest eyed;
Heaven never such a bridegroom yet descried;
Nor ever earth so fair, so undefiled a bride.

Full of his Father shines his glorious face,
As far the sun surpassing in his light,
As doth the sun the earth with flaming blaze:
Sweet influence streams from his quickening sight:
His beams from nought did all this _All_ display;
And when to less than nought they fell away,
He soon restored again by his new orient ray.

All heaven shines forth in her sweet face's frame:
Her seeing stars (which we miscall bright eyes)
More bright than is the morning's brightest flame,
More fruitful than the May-time Geminies:
These, back restore the timely summer's fire;
Those, springing thoughts in winter hearts inspire,
Inspiriting dead souls, and quickening warm desire.

These two fair suns in heavenly spheres are placed,
Where in the centre joy triumphing sits:
Thus in all high perfections fully graced,
Her mid-day bliss no future night admits;
But in the mirrors of her Spouse's eyes
Her fairest self she dresses; there where lies
All sweets, a glorious beauty to emparadise.

His locks like raven's plumes, or shining jet,
Fall down in curls along his ivory neck;
Within their circlets hundred graces set,
And with love-knots their comely hangings deck:
His mighty shoulders, like that giant swain,
All heaven and earth, and all in both sustain;
Yet knows no weariness, nor feels oppressing pain.