Chapter LII (2)

When age hath made me what I am not now, And every wrinkle tells me where the plough Of Time hath furrow'd, when an ice shall flow Through every vein, and all my head be snow; When Death displays his coldness in my cheek, And I, myself, in my own picture seek, Not finding what I am, but what I was, In doubt which to believe, this or my glass; Yet though I alter, this remains the same As it was drawn, retains the primitive frame, And first complexion; here will still be seen, Blood on the cheek, and down upon the chin: Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye, The ruddy lip, and hair of youthful dye. Behold what frailty we in man may see, Whose shadow is less given to change than he.

TO A LADY ADMIRING HERSELF IN A LOOKING-GLASS.

Fair lady, when you see the grace Of beauty in your looking-glass; A stately forehead, smooth and high, And full of princely majesty; A sparkling eye, no gem so fair, Whose lustre dims the Cyprian star; A glorious cheek, divinely sweet, Wherein both roses kindly meet; A cherry lip that would entice Even gods to kiss at any price; You think no beauty is so rare That with your shadow might compare; That your reflection is alone The thing that men must dote upon. Madam, alas! your glass doth lie, And you are much deceived; for I A beauty know of richer grace,-- (Sweet, be not angry,) 'tis your face. Hence, then, oh, learn more mild to be, And leave to lay your blame on me: If me your real substance move, When you so much your shadow love, Wise Nature would not let your eye Look on her own bright majesty; Which, had you once but gazed upon, You could, except yourself, love none: What then you cannot love, let me, That face I can, you cannot see.

'Now you have what to love,' you'll say, 'What then is left for me, I pray?' My face, sweet heart, if it please thee; That which you can, I cannot see: So either love shall gain his due, Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you.

ROBERT BURTON.

The great, though whimsical author of the 'Anatomy of Melancholy' was born at Lindley, in Leicestershire, 1576, and educated at Christ Church, Oxford. He became Rector of Seagrave, in his native shire. He was a man of vast erudition, of integrity and benevolence, but his happiness, like that of Burns, although in a less measure, 'was blasted _ab origine_ by an incurable taint of hypochondria;' and although at times a most delightful companion, at other times he was so miserable, even when a young student at Oxford, that he had no resource but to go down to the river-side, where the coarse jests of the bargemen threw him into fits of laughter. This surely was a violent remedy, and one that must have reacted into deeper depression. In 1621, he wrote and published, as a safety-valve to his morbid feelings, his famous 'Anatomie of Melancholy, by Democritus Junior.' It became instantly popular, and sold so well, that the publisher is said to have made a fortune by it. Nothing more of consequence is recorded of the author, who died in 1640. Although

'Melancholy mark'd him for her own,'

she failed to kill him till he had passed his grand climacteric. He was buried in Christ Church, with the following epitaph, said to have been composed by himself:--

'Paucis notus, paucioribus ignotus.
Hic jacet Democritus Junior,
Cui vitam pariter et mortem
Dedit _Melancholia_!

'Known [by name] to few, unknown [as the author of the "Anatomy"]
to fewer, here lies D. J., who owes his death [as a man] and his
life [as an author] to Melancholy.'

His work is certainly a most curious and bewitching medley of thought, information, wit, learning, personal interest, and poetic fancy. We all know it was the only book which ever drew the lazy Johnson from his bed an hour sooner than he wished to rise. The subject, like the flesh of that 'melancholy' creature the hare, may be dry, but, as with that, an astute cookery prevails to make it exceedingly piquant; the sauce is better than the substance. Burton's melancholy is not, like Johnson's, a deep, hopeless, 'inspissated gloom,' thickened by memories of remorse, and lighted up by the lurid fires of feared perdition; it is not, like Byron's, dashed with the demoniac element, and fretted into universal misanthropy; it is not, like Foster's, the sad, fixed fascination of a pure intelligence contemplating the darker side of things, as by a necessity of nature, and ignoring, without denying, the existence of the bright; nor is it, like that of the 'melancholy Jacques,' in 'As you Like it,' a wild, woodland, fantastical habit of thought, as of one living collaterally and aside to the world, and which often explodes into laughter at itself and at all things else;--Burton's is a wide- spread but tender shade, like twilight, diffused over the whole horizon of his thought, and is nourished at times into a luxury, and at times paraded as a peculiar possession. In his form of melancholy there are pleasures as well as pains. 'Most pleasant it is,' he says, 'to such as are to melancholy given, to lie in bed whole days and keep their chambers; to walk alone in some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by a brook-side, to meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject; and a most incomparable delight it is so to melancholise and build castles in the air.' Religious considerations have little to do with Burton's melancholy, and remorse or fear apparently nothing. Hence his book, although its theme be sadness, never shadows the spirit, but, on the contrary, from his dark, Lethean poppies, his readers are made to extract an element of joyful excitement, and the anatomy, and the cure, of the evil, are one and the same.

As a writer, Burton ranks, in some points, with Montaigne, and in others with Sir Thomas Browne. He resembles the first in simplicity, _bonhommie_, and miscellaneous learning, and the other in rambling manner, quaint phraseology, and fantastic imagination. Neither of the three could be said to write books, but they accumulated vast storehouses, whence thousands of volumes might be, and have been compiled. There is nothing in Burton so low as in many of the 'Essays' of Montaigne, but there is nothing so lofty as in passages of Browne's 'Religio Medici' and 'Urn-Burial.' Burton has been a favourite quarry to literary thieves, among whom Sterne, in his 'Tristram Shandy,' stands pre-eminent. To his 'Anatomy' he prefixes a poem, a few stanzas of which we extract.

ON MELANCHOLY.

1 When I go musing all alone,
Thinking of divers things foreknown,
When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow, void of fear,
Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet
Methinks the time runs very fleet.
All my joys to this are folly;
Nought so sweet as melancholy.

2 When I go walking all alone,
Recounting what I have ill-done,
My thoughts on me then tyrannise,
Fear and sorrow me surprise;
Whether I tarry still, or go,
Methinks the time moves very slow.
All my griefs to this are jolly;
Nought so sad as melancholy.

3 When to myself I act and smile,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,
By a brook-side or wood so green,
Unheard, unsought for, or unseen,
A thousand pleasures do me bless,
And crown my soul with happiness.
All my joys besides are folly;
None so sweet as melancholy.

4 When I lie, sit, or walk alone,
I sigh, I grieve, making great moan;
In a dark grove or irksome den,
With discontents and furies then,
A thousand miseries at once
Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce.
All my griefs to this are jolly;
None so sour as melancholy.

5 Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Sweet music, wondrous melody,
Towns, palaces, and cities, fine;
Here now, then there, the world is mine,
Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,
Whate'er is lovely is divine.
All other joys to this are folly;
None so sweet as melancholy,

6 Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Ghosts, goblins, fiends: my fantasy
Presents a thousand ugly shapes;
Headless bears, black men, and apes;
Doleful outcries and fearful sights
My sad and dismal soul affrights.
All my griefs to this are jolly;
None so damn'd as melancholy.

THOMAS CAREW.

This delectable versifier was born in 1589, in Gloucestershire, from an old family in which he sprung. He was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, but neither matriculated nor took a degree. After finishing his travels, he returned to England, and became soon highly distinguished, in the Court of Charles I., for his manners, accomplishments, and wit. He was appointed Gentleman of the Privy Chamber and Sewer in Ordinary to the King. He spent the rest of his life as a gay and gallant courtier; and in the intervals of pleasure produced some light but exquisite poetry. He is said, ere his death, which took place in 1639, to have become very devout, and bitterly to have deplored the licentiousness of some of his verses.

Indelicate choice of subject is often, in Carew, combined with great delicacy of execution. No one touches dangerous themes with so light and glove-guarded a hand. His pieces are all fugitive, but they suggest great possibilities, which his mode of life and his premature removal did not permit to be realised. Had he, at an earlier period, renounced, like George Herbert, 'the painted pleasures of a court,' and, like Prospero, dedicated himself to 'closeness,' with his marvellous facility of verse, his laboured levity of style, and his nice exuberance of fancy, he might have produced some work of Horatian merit and classic permanence.

PERSUASIONS TO LOVE.

Think not, 'cause men flattering say, Y'are fresh as April, sweet as May, Bright as is the morning-star, That you are so;--or though you are, Be not therefore proud, and deem All men unworthy your esteem:

* * * * *

Starve not yourself, because you may Thereby make me pine away; Nor let brittle beauty make You your wiser thoughts forsake: For that lovely face will fail; Beauty's sweet, but beauty's frail; 'Tis sooner past, 'tis sooner done, Than summer's rain, or winter's sun: Most fleeting, when it is most dear; 'Tis gone, while we but say 'tis here. These curious locks so aptly twined, Whose every hair a soul doth bind, Will change their auburn hue, and grow White and cold as winter's snow. That eye which now is Cupid's nest Will prove his grave, and all the rest Will follow; in the cheek, chin, nose, Nor lily shall be found, nor rose; And what will then become of all Those, whom now you servants call? Like swallows, when your summer's done They'll fly, and seek some warmer sun.

* * * * *

The snake each year fresh skin resumes, And eagles change their aged plumes; The faded rose each spring receives A fresh red tincture on her leaves; But if your beauties once decay, You never know a second May. Oh, then be wise, and whilst your season Affords you days for sport, do reason; Spend not in vain your life's short hour, But crop in time your beauty's flower: Which will away, and doth together Both bud and fade, both blow and wither.

SONG.

Give me more love, or more disdain, The torrid, or the frozen zone Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none; Either extreme, of love or hate, Is sweeter than a calm estate.

Give me a storm; if it be love, Like Danae in a golden shower, I swim in pleasure; if it prove Disdain, that torrent will devour My vulture-hopes; and he's possess'd Of heaven that's but from hell released: Then crown my joys, or cure my pain; Give me more love, or more disdain.

TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVER'S SIDE.

Mark how yon eddy steals away From the rude stream into the bay; There lock'd up safe, she doth divorce Her waters from the channel's course, And scorns the torrent that did bring Her headlong from her native spring. Now doth she with her new love play, Whilst he runs murmuring away. Mark how she courts the banks, whilst they As amorously their arms display, To embrace and clip her silver waves: See how she strokes their sides, and craves An entrance there, which they deny; Whereat she frowns, threatening to fly Home to her stream, and 'gins to swim Backward, but from the channel's brim Smiling returns into the creek, With thousand dimples on her cheek. Be thou this eddy, and I'll make My breast thy shore, where thou shalt take Secure repose, and never dream Of the quite forsaken stream: Let him to the wide ocean haste, There lose his colour, name, and taste; Thou shalt save all, and, safe from him, Within these arms for ever swim.

SONG.

If the quick spirits in your eye Now languish, and anon must die; If every sweet, and every grace, Must fly from that forsaken face: Then, Celia, let us reap our joys, Ere time such goodly fruit destroys.

Or, if that golden fleece must grow For ever, free from aged snow; If those bright suns must know no shade, Nor your fresh beauties ever fade; Then fear not, Celia, to bestow What still being gather'd still must grow. Thus, either Time his sickle brings In vain, or else in vain his wings.

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.

SHEPHERD, NYMPH, CHORUS.

_Shep._ This mossy bank they press'd. _Nym._That aged oak
Did canopy the happy pair
All night from the damp air.
_Cho._ Here let us sit, and sing the words they spoke,
Till the day-breaking their embraces broke.

_Shep._ See, love, the blushes of the morn appear: And now she hangs her pearly store (Robb'd from the eastern shore) I' th' cowslip's bell and rose's ear: Sweet, I must stay no longer here.

_Nym._ Those streaks of doubtful light usher not day, But show my sun must set; no morn Shall shine till thou return: The yellow planets, and the gray Dawn, shall attend thee on thy way.

_Shep._ If thine eyes gild my paths, they may forbear Their useless shine. _Nym._ My tears will quite Extinguish their faint light. _Shep._ Those drops will make their beams more clear, Love's flames will shine in every tear.

_Cho._ They kiss'd, and wept; and from their lips and eyes, In a mix'd dew of briny sweet, Their joys and sorrows meet; But she cries out. _Nym._ Shepherd, arise, The sun betrays us else to spies.

_Shep._ The winged hours fly fast whilst we embrace; But when we want their help to meet, They move with leaden feet. _Nym._ Then let us pinion time, and chase The day for ever from this place.

_Shep._ Hark! _Nym._ Ah me, stay! _Shep._ For ever _Nym._ No, arise; We must be gone. _Shep._ My nest of spice _Nym._ My soul. _Shep._ My paradise. _Cho._ Neither could say farewell, but through their eyes Grief interrupted speech with tears supplies.

SONG.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

This witty baronet was born in 1608. He was the son of the Comptroller of the Household of Charles I. He was uncommonly precocious; at five is said to have spoken Latin, and at sixteen had entered into the service of Gustavus Adolphus, 'the lion of the North, and the bulwark of the Protestant faith.'

On his return to England, he was favoured by Charles, and became, in his turn, a most enthusiastic supporter of the Royal cause; writing plays for the amusement of the Court; and when the Civil War broke out, raising, at his own expense of L1200, a regiment for the King, which is said to have been distinguished only by its 'finery and cowardice.' When the Earl of Strafford came into trouble, Suckling, along with some other cavaliers, intrigued for his deliverance, was impeached by the House of Commons, and had to flee to France. Here an early death awaited him. His servant having robbed him, he drew on, in vehement haste, his boots, to pursue the defaulter, when a rusty nail, or, some say, the blade of a knife, which was concealed in one of them, pierced his heel. A mortification ensued, and he died, in 1641, at thirty-three years of age.

Suckling has written five plays, various poems, besides letters, speeches, and tracts, which have all been collected into one thin volume. They are of various merit; none, in fact, being worthy of print, or at least of preservation, except one or two of his songs, and his 'Ballad upon a Wedding'. This last is an admirable expression of what were his principal qualities--_naivete_, sly humour, gay badinage, and a delicious vein of fancy, coming out occasionally by stealth, even as in his own exquisite lines about the bride,

'Her feet, beneath her petticoat,
Like _little mice, stole in and out_,
As if they fear'd the light.'

SONG.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover!
Prithee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?
Prithee why so mute?

Quit, quit for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her--
The devil take her!

A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.

1 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen:
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.

2 At Charing-Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs:
And there did I see coming down
Such folks as are not in our town,
Vorty at least, in pairs.

3 Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine,
(His beard no bigger though than thine,)
Walk'd on before the rest:
Our landlord looks like nothing to him:
The king (God bless him)'twould undo him,
Should he go still so dress'd.

4 At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' the town:
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the Green,
Or Vincent of the Crown.

5 But wot you what? the youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;
The parson for him staid:
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past
(Perchance) as did the maid.

6 The maid--and thereby hangs a tale--
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale
Could ever yet produce:
No grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

7 Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth (for out it must)
It look'd like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.

8 Her feet, beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.

9 He would have kiss'd her once or twice,
But she would not, she was so nice,
She would not do 't in sight;
And then she look'd as who should say.
I will do what I list to-day;
And you shall do 't at night.

10 Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison,
(Who sees them is undone,)
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Katherine pear,
The side that's next the sun.

11 Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin;
Some bee had stung it newly.
But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on the sun in July.

12 Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,
That they might passage get;
But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

13 If wishing should be any sin,
The parson himself had guilty been,
She look'd that day so purely:
And did the youth so oft the feat
At night, as some did in conceit,
It would have spoil'd him, surely.

14 Passion o'me! how I run on!
There's that that would be thought upon,
I trow, beside the bride:
The business of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat;
Nor was it there denied.

15 Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice
His summons did obey;
Each serving-man with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up, like our train'd band,
Presented and away.

16 When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able
To stay to be entreated?
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company were seated.

17 Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick;
And when 'twas named another's health,
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth,
And who could help it, Dick?

18 O' the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh and glance:
Then dance again and kiss.
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Whil'st every woman wish'd her place,
And every man wish'd his.

19 By this time all were stol'n aside
To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know;
But yet 'twas thought he guess'd her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind
Above an hour or so.

20 When in he came (Dick), there she lay,
Like new-fall'n snow melting away,
'Twas time, I trow, to part.
Kisses were now the only stay,
Which soon she gave, as who would say,
Good-bye, with all my heart.

21 But just as heavens would have to cross it,
In came the bridemaids with the posset;
The bridegroom eat in spite;
For had he left the women to 't
It would have cost two hours to do 't,
Which were too much that night.

22 At length the candle's out, and now
All that they had not done, they do!
What that is, who can tell?
But I believe it was no more
Than thou and I have done before
With Bridget and with Nell!

SONG.

I pray thee send me back my heart,
Since I can not have thine,
For if from yours you will not part,
Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on 't, let it lie,
To find it were in vain;
For thou'st a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?
O love! where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,
I cannot find it out;
For when I think I'm best resolved,
I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine;
For I'll believe I have her heart
As much as she has mine.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

Cartwright was born in 1611, and was the son of an innkeeper--once a gentleman--in Cirencester. He became a King's scholar at Westminster, and afterwards took orders at Oxford, where he distinguished himself, according to Wood, as a 'most florid and seraphic preacher.' One is reminded of the description given of Jeremy Taylor, who, when he first began to preach, by his 'young and florid beauty, and his sublime and raised discourses, made men take him for an angel newly descended from the climes of Paradise.' Cartwright was appointed, through his friend Bishop Duppa, Succentor of the Church of Salisbury in 1642. He was one of a council of war appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops in the King's cause, to protect, or some said to overawe, the Universities. He was imprisoned by the Parliamentary forces on account of his zeal in the Royal cause, but soon liberated on bail. In 1643, he was appointed Junior Proctor of his University, and also Reader in Metaphysics. At this time he is said to have studied sixteen hours a-day. This, however, seems to have weakened his constitution, and rendered him an easy victim to what was called the camp-fever, then prevalent in Oxford. He died December 23, 1643, aged thirty-two. The King, then in Oxford, went into mourning for him. His works were published in 1651, and to them were prefixed fifty copies of encomiastic verses from the wits and poets of the time. They scarcely justify the praises they have received, being somewhat crude and harsh, and all of them occasional. His private character, his eloquence as a preacher, and his zeal as a Royalist, seem to have supplemented his claims as a poet. He enjoyed, too, in his earlier life, the friendship of Ben Jonson, who used to say of him, 'My son Cartwright writes all like a man;' and such a sentence from such an authority was at that time fame.

LOVE'S DARTS.

1 Where is that learned wretch that knows
What are those darts the veil'd god throws?
Oh, let him tell me ere I die
When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;
Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various loves;
And whether gold or lead,
Quicken or dull the head:
I will anoint and keep them warm,
And make the weapons heal the harm.

2 Fond that I am to ask! whoe'er
Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of human eye
These arrows (as their ways are) fly:
The flights of angels part
Not air with so much art;
And snows on streams, we may
Say, louder fall than they.
So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the shaft nor cure.

3 A sudden fire of blushes shed
To dye white paths with hasty red;
A glance's lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;
A subtle taking smile
From passion, or from guile;
The spirit, life, and grace
Of motion, limbs, and face;
These misconceit entitles darts,
And tears the bleedings of our hearts.

4 But as the feathers in the wing
Unblemish'd are, and no wounds bring,
And harmless twigs no bloodshed know,
Till art doth fit them for the bow;
So lights of flowing graces
Sparkling in several places,
Only adorn the parts,
Till that we make them darts;
Themselves are only twigs and quills:
We give them shape and force for ills.

5 Beauty's our grief, but in the ore,
We mint, and stamp, and then adore:
Like heathen we the image crown,
And indiscreetly then fall down:
Those graces all were meant
Our joy, not discontent;
But with untaught desires
We turn those lights to fires,
Thus Nature's healing herbs we take,
And out of cures do poisons make.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE.

Not to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride, To a compliance with the thriving side; Not to take arms for love of change, or spite, But only to maintain afflicted right; Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame, Perversely seeking after voice and name; Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do, And thus did he, soldier and martyr too.

* * * * *

When now the incensed legions proudly came Down like a torrent without bank or dam: When undeserved success urged on their force; That thunder must come down to stop their course, Or Grenville must step in; then Grenville stood, And with himself opposed and check'd the flood. Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire: His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about, Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out; Not any pike on that renowned stand, But took new force from his inspiring hand: Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man, And he urged all; so much example can; Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call, He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all: His soul this while retired from cell to cell, At last flew up from all, and then he fell. But the devoted stand enraged more From that his fate, plied hotter than before, And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield, Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the field. Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew: And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.

This was not nature's courage, not that thing We valour call, which time and reason bring; But a diviner fury, fierce and high, Valour transported into ecstasy, Which angels, looking on us from above, Use to convey into the souls they love. You now that boast the spirit, and its sway, Shew us his second, and we'll give the day: We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly; Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die: And though you thank God that you lost none there, 'Cause they were such who lived not when they were; Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall, As his successes do, whom you dare call, As fame unto you doth reports dispense, Either a -------- or his excellence) Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws, Could wish his fate together with his cause.

And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame, As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name, Whose life affords what doth content both eyes, Glory for people, substance for the wise, Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat: And when thou seest an happy period sent To these distractions, and the storm quite spent, Look down and say, I have my share in all, Much good grew from my life, much from my fall.

A VALEDICTION.

Bid me not go where neither suns nor showers Do make or cherish flowers; Where discontented things in sadness lie, And Nature grieves as I. When I am parted from those eyes, From which my better day doth rise, Though some propitious power Should plant me in a bower, Where amongst happy lovers I might see How showers and sunbeams bring One everlasting spring, Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to me; Nature herself to him is lost, Who loseth her he honours most. Then, fairest, to my parting view display Your graces all in one full day; Whose blessed shapes I'll snatch and keep till when I do return and view again: So by this art fancy shall fortune cross, And lovers live by thinking on their loss.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

This pastoral poet was born, in 1590, at Tavistock, in Devonshire, a lovely part of a lovely county. He was educated at Oxford, and went thence to the Inner Temple. He was at one time tutor to the Earl of Carnarvon, and afterwards, when that nobleman perished in the battle of Newbury, in 1643, he was patronised by the Earl of Pembroke, in whose house he resided, and is even said to have become so rich that he purchased an estate. In 1645 he died, at Ottery St Mary, the parish where, in 1772, Coleridge was born.

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.