Chapter VI (1)

O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear! I saw thee with full many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did shine. The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Ravish'd, stay'd not, till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison!) twine: And fain those Oeol's youth there would their stay Have made; but, forced by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She, so dishevell'd, blush'd. From window I, With sight thereof, cried out, 'O fair disgrace; Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place.'

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

Robert Southwell was born in 1560, at St. Faith's, Norfolk. His parents were Roman Catholics, and sent him when very young to be educated at the English College of Douay, in Flanders. Thence he went to Borne, and when sixteen years of age he joined the Society of the Jesuits--a strange bed for the rearing of a poet. In 1585, he was appointed Prefect of Studies, and was soon after despatched as a missionary of his order to England. There, notwithstanding a law condemning to death all members of his profession found in this country, he laboured on for eight years, residing chiefly with Anne, Countess of Arundel, who died afterwards in the Tower. In July 1592, Southwell was arrested in a gentleman's house at Uxendon in Middlesex. He was thrust into a dungeon so filthy that when he was brought out to be examined his clothes were covered with vermin. This made his father--a man of good family--petition Queen Elizabeth that if his son was guilty of anything deserving death he might suffer it, but that, meanwhile, being a gentleman, he should be treated as a gentleman. In consequence of this he was somewhat better lodged, but continued for nearly three years strictly confined to prison; and as the Queen's agents imagined that he was in the secret of some conspiracies against the Government, he was put to the torture ten times. In despair, he entreated to be brought to trial, whereupon Cecil coolly remarked, 'that if he was in such haste to be hanged, he should quickly have his desire.' On the 20th of February 1595, he was brought to trial at King's Bench, and having confessed himself a Papist and a Jesuit, he was condemned to death, and executed at Tyburn next day, with all the nameless barbarities enjoined by the treason laws of these unhappy times. He is believed to have borne all his sufferings with unalterable serenity of mind and sweetness of temper. 'It is fitting,' says Burke, 'that those made to suffer should suffer well.' And suffer well throughout all his short life of sorrow, Southwell did.

He was, undoubtedly, although in a false position, a true man, and a true poet. To hope all things and believe all things, in reference to a Jesuit, is a difficult task for Protestant charity. Yet what system so vile but it has sometimes been gloriously misrepresented by its votaries? Who that ever read Edward Irving's 'Preface to Ben Ezra'--that modern Areopagitica--combining the essence of a hundred theological treatises with the spirit and grandeur of a Pindaric or Homeric ode--has forgot the pictures of Ben Ezra, or Lacunza the Jesuit? His work, 'The Coming of the Messiah in Glory and Majesty,' Irving translated from Spanish into his own noble English prose, and he describes the author as a man of primitive manners, ardent piety, and enormous erudition, and expresses a hope, long since we trust fulfilled, of meeting with the 'good old Jesuit' in a better world. To this probably small class of exceptions to a general rule (it surely is no uncharity to say this, since the annals of Jesuitism have confessedly been so stained with falsehood, treachery, every insidious art, and every detestable crime) seems to have belonged our poet. No proof was produced that he had any connexion with the treacherous and bloody designs of his party, although he had plied his priestly labours with unwearied assiduity. He was too sincere-minded a man to have ever been admitted to the darker secrets of the Jesuits.

His verses are ingenious, simpler in style than was common in his time --distinguished here by homely picturesqueness, and there by solemn moralising. A shade of deep but serene and unrepining sadness, connected partly with his position and partly with his foreseen destiny, (his larger works were written in prison,) rests on the most of his poems.

LOOK HOME.

Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights, As beauty doth in self-beholding eye: Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights, A brief wherein all miracles summ'd lie; Of fairest forms, and sweetest shapes the store, Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them more.

The mind a creature is, yet can create, To nature's patterns adding higher skill Of finest works; wit better could the state, If force of wit had equal power of will. Device of man in working hath no end; What thought can think, another thought can mend.

Man's soul of endless beauties image is, Drawn by the work of endless skill and might: This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss, And, to discern this bliss, a native light, To frame God's image as his worth required; His might, his skill, his word and will conspired.

All that he had, his image should present; All that it should present, he could afford; To that he could afford his will was bent; His will was follow'd with performing word. Let this suffice, by this conceive the rest, He should, he could, he would, he did the best.

THE IMAGE OF DEATH.

Before my face the picture hangs, That daily should put me in mind Of those cold names and bitter pangs That shortly I am like to find; But yet, alas! full little I Do think hereon, that I must die.

I often look upon a face Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin; I often view the hollow place Where eyes and nose had sometime been; I see the bones across that lie, Yet little think that I must die.

I read the label underneath, That telleth me whereto I must; I see the sentence too, that saith, 'Remember, man, thou art but dust.' But yet, alas! how seldom I Do think, indeed, that I must die!

Continually at my bed's head A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell That I ere morning may be dead, Though now I feel myself full well; But yet, alas! for all this, I Have little mind that I must die!

The gown which I am used to wear, The knife wherewith I cut my meat; And eke that old and ancient chair, Which is my only usual seat; All these do tell me I must die, And yet my life amend not I.

My ancestors are turn'd to clay, And many of my mates are gone; My youngers daily drop away, And can I think to 'scape alone? No, no; I know that I must die, And yet my life amend not I.

* * * * *

If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart; If rich and poor his beck obey; If strong, if wise, if all do smart, Then I to 'scape shall have no way: Then grant me grace, O God! that I My life may mend, since I must die.

LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.

Love mistress is of many minds,
Yet few know whom they serve;
They reckon least how little hope
Their service doth deserve.

The will she robbeth from the wit,
The sense from reason's lore;
She is delightful in the rind,
Corrupted in the core.

* * * * *

May never was the month of love;
For May is full of flowers:
But rather April, wet by kind;
For love is full of showers.

With soothing words, inthralled souls
She chains in servile bands!
Her eye in silence hath a speech
Which eye best understands.

Her little sweet hath many sours,
Short hap, immortal harms
Her loving looks are murdering darts,
Her songs bewitching charms.

Like winter rose, and summer ice,
Her joys are still untimely;
Before her hope, behind remorse,
Fair first, in fine[1] unseemly.

Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,
Leave off your idle pain;
Seek other mistress for your minds,
Love's service is in vain.

[1] 'Fine:' end.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

The lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; She draws her favours to the lowest ebb: Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web: No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, Not endless night, yet not eternal day: The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.

THOMAS WATSON.

He was born in 1560, and died about 1592. All besides known certainly of him is, that he was a native of London, and studied the common law, but seems to have spent much of his time in the practice of rhyme. His sonnets--one or two of which we subjoin--have considerable merit; but we agree with Campbell in thinking that Stevens has surely overrated them when he prefers them to Shakspeare's.

THE NYMPHS TO THEIR MAY-QUEEN.

With fragrant flowers we strew the way, And make this our chief holiday: For though this clime was blest of yore, Yet was it never proud before. O beauteous queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeigned joy.

Now the air is sweeter than sweet balm, And satyrs dance about the palm; Now earth with verdure newly dight, Gives perfect signs of her delight: O beauteous queen!

Now birds record new harmony, And trees do whistle melody: And everything that nature breeds Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds.

SONNET.

Actaeon lost, in middle of his sport, Both shape and life for looking but awry: Diana was afraid he would report What secrets he had seen in passing by. To tell the truth, the self-same hurt have I, By viewing her for whom I daily die; I lose my wonted shape, in that my mind Doth suffer wreck upon the stony rock Of her disdain, who, contrary to kind, Does bear a breast more hard than any stock; And former form of limbs is changed quite By cares in love, and want of due delight. I leave my life, in that each secret thought Which I conceive through wanton fond regard, Doth make me say that life availeth nought, Where service cannot have a due reward. I dare not name the nymph that works my smart, Though love hath graven her name within my heart.

THOMAS TURBERVILLE.

Of this author--Thomas Turberville--once famous in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, but now almost totally forgotten, and whose works are altogether omitted in most selections, we have preserved a little. He was a voluminous author, having produced, besides many original pieces, a translation of Ovid's Heroical Epistles, from which Warton has selected a short specimen.

IN PRAISE OP THE RENOWNED LADY ANNE, COUNTESS OF WARWICK.

When Nature first in hand did take The clay to frame this Countess' corse, The earth a while she did forsake, And was compell'd of very force, With mould in hand, to flee to skies, To end the work she did devise.

The gods that then in council sate, Were half-amazed, against their kind,[1] To see so near the stool of state Dame Nature stand, that was assign'd Among her worldly imps[2] to wonne,[3] As she until that day had done.

First Jove began: 'What, daughter dear, Hath made thee scorn thy father's will? Why do I see thee, Nature, here, That ought'st of duty to fulfil Thy undertaken charge at home? What makes thee thus abroad to roam?

'Disdainful dame, how didst thou dare, So reckless to depart the ground That is allotted to thy share?' And therewithal his godhead frown'd. 'I will,' quoth Nature, 'out of hand, Declare the cause I fled the land.

'I undertook of late a piece Of clay a featured face to frame, To match the courtly dames of Greece, That for their beauty bear the name; But, O good father, now I see This work of mine it will not be.

'Vicegerent, since you me assign'd Below in earth, and gave me laws On mortal wights, and will'd that kind Should make and mar, as she saw cause: Of right, I think, I may appeal, And crave your help in this to deal.'

When Jove saw how the case did stand, And that the work was well begun, He pray'd to have the helping hand Of other gods till he had done: With willing minds they all agreed, And set upon the clay with speed.

First Jove each limb did well dispose, And makes a creature of the clay; Next, Lady Venus she bestows Her gallant gifts as best she may; From face to foot, from top to toe, She let no whit untouch'd to go.

When Venus had done what she could In making of her carcase brave, Then Pallas thought she might be bold Among the rest a share to have; A passing wit she did convey Into this passing piece of clay.

Of Bacchus she no member had, Save fingers fine and feat[4] to see; Her head with hair Apollo clad, That gods had thought it gold to be: So glist'ring was the tress in sight Of this new form'd and featured wight.

Diana held her peace a space, Until those other gods had done; 'At last,' quoth she, 'in Dian's chase With bow in hand this nymph shall run; And chief of all my noble train I will this virgin entertain.'

Then joyful Juno came and said, 'Since you to her so friendly are, I do appoint this noble maid To match with Mars his peer for war; She shall the Countess Warwick be, And yield Diana's bow to me.'

When to so good effect it came, And every member had his grace, There wanted nothing but a name: By hap was Mercury then in place, That said, 'I pray you all agree, Pandora grant her name to be.

'For since your godheads forged have With one assent this noble dame, And each to her a virtue gave, This term agreeth to the same.' The gods that heard Mercurius tell This tale, did like it passing well.

Report was summon'd then in haste, And will'd to bring his trump in hand, To blow therewith a sounding blast, That might be heard through Brutus' land. Pandora straight the trumpet blew, That each this Countess Warwick knew.

O seely[5] Nature, born to pain, O woful, wretched kind (I say), That to forsake the soil were fain To make this Countess out of clay: But, O most friendly gods, that wold, Vouchsafe to set your hands to mould.

[1] 'Kind:' nature. [2] 'Imps:' children. [3] 'Wonne:' dwell. [4] 'Feat:' neat. [5] 'Seely:' simple.

* * * * *

In reference to the Miscellaneous Pieces which close this period, we need only say that the best of them is 'The Soul's Errand,' and that its authorship is uncertain. It has, with very little evidence in any of the cases, been ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh, to Francis Davison, (author of a compilation entitled 'A Poetical Rhapsody,' published in 1593, and where 'The Soul's Errand' first appeared,) and to Joshua Sylvester, who prints it in his volume of verses, with vile interpolations of his own. Its outspoken energy and pithy language render it worthy of any of our poets.

HARPALUS' COMPLAINT OF PHILLIDA'S LOVE BESTOWED ON CORIN, WHO LOVED HER NOT, AND DENIED HIM THAT LOVED HER.

1 Phillida was a fair maid,
As fresh as any flower;
Whom Harpalus the herdman pray'd
To be his paramour.

2 Harpalus, and eke Corin,
Were herdmen both yfere:[1]
And Phillida would twist and spin,
And thereto sing full clear.

3 But Phillida was all too coy
For Harpalus to win;
For Corin was her only joy,
Who forced[2] her not a pin.

4 How often would she flowers twine,
How often garlands make
Of cowslips and of columbine,
And all for Conn's sake!

5 But Corin he had hawks to lure,
And forced more the field:
Of lovers' law he took no cure;
For once he was beguiled.

6 Harpalus prevailed nought,
His labour all was lost;
For he was furthest from her thought,
And yet he loved her most.

7 Therefore was he both pale and lean,
And dry as clod of clay:
His flesh it was consumed clean;
His colour gone away.

8 His beard it not long be shave;
His hair hung all unkempt:
A man most fit even for the grave,
Whom spiteful love had shent.[3]

9 His eyes were red, and all forwacht;[4]
It seem'd unhap had him long hatcht,
His face besprent with tears:
In midst of his despairs.

10 His clothes were black, and also bare;
As one forlorn was he;
Upon his head always he ware
A wreath of willow tree.

11 His beasts he kept upon the hill,
And he sat in the dale;
And thus with sighs and sorrows shrill
He 'gan to tell his tale.

12 'O Harpalus!' thus would he say;
Unhappiest under sun!
The cause of thine unhappy day
By love was first begun.

13 'For thou went'st first by suit to seek
A tiger to make tame,
That sets not by thy love a leek,
But makes thy grief a game.

14 'As easy it were for to convert
The frost into the flame;
As for to turn a froward hert,
Whom thou so fain wouldst frame.

15 'Cerin he liveth careless:
He leaps among the leaves:
He eats the fruits of thy redress:
Thou reap'st, he takes the sheaves.

16 'My beasts, a while your food refrain,
And hark your herdman's sound;
Whom spiteful love, alas! hath slain,
Through girt with many a wound,

17 'O happy be ye, beastes wild,
That here your pasture takes:
I see that ye be not beguiled
Of these your faithful makes,[5]

18 'The hart he feedeth by the hind:
The buck hard by the doe:
The turtle-dove is not unkind
To him that loves her so.

19 'The ewe she hath by her the ram:
The young cow hath the bull:
The calf with many a lusty lamb
Do feed their hunger full.

20 'But, well-a-way! that nature wrought
Thee, Phillida, so fair:
For I may say that I have bought
Thy beauty all too dear.

21 'What reason is that cruelty
With, beauty should have part?
Or else that such great tyranny
Should dwell in woman's heart?

22 'I see therefore to shape my death
She cruelly is prest,[6]
To the end that I may want my breath:
My days be at the best.

23 'O Cupid, grant this my request,
And do not stop thine ears:
That she may feel within her breast
The pains of my despairs:

24 'Of Corin that is careless,
That she may crave her fee:
As I have done in great distress,
That loved her faithfully.

25 'But since that I shall die her slave,
Her slave, and eke her thrall,
Write you, my friends, upon my grave
This chance that is befall:

26 '"Here lieth unhappy Harpalus,
By cruel love now slain:
Whom Phillida unjustly thus
Hath murder'd with disdain."'

[1] 'Yfere' together. [2] 'Forced' cared for. [3] 'Shent:' spoiled. [4] 'Forwacht:' from much watching. [5] 'Makes:' mates. [6] 'Prest:' ready.

A PRAISE OF HIS LADY.

1 Give place, you ladies, and begone,
Boast not yourselves at all,
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.

2 The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone;
I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.

3 In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy;
It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.

4 I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where she her shape did take;
Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.

5 She may be well compared
Unto the phoenix kind,
Whose like was never seen nor heard,
That any man can find.

6 In life she is Diana chaste,
In truth Penelope;
In word, and eke in deed, steadfast;
What will you more we say?

7 If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.

8 Her rosial colour comes and goes
"With such a comely grace,
More ruddier, too, than doth the rose,
Within her lively face."

9 At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,
Nor at no wanton play,
Nor gazing in an open street,
Nor gadding, as astray.

10 The modest mirth that she doth use,
Is mix'd with shamefastness;
All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth idleness.

11 O Lord, it is a world to see
How virtue can repair,
And deck in her such honesty,
Whom Nature made so fair.

12 Truly she doth as far exceed
Our women now-a-days,
As doth the gilliflower a wreed,
And more a thousand ways.

13 How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?
For all the rest are plain but chaff
Which seem good corn to be.

14 This gift alone I shall her give,
When death doth what he can:
Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.

THAT ALL THINGS SOMETIME FIND EASE OF THEIR PAIN, SAVE ONLY THE LOVER.

1 I see there is no sort
Of things that live in grief,
Which at sometime may not resort
Where as they have relief.

2 The stricken deer by kind
Of death that stands in awe,
For his recure an herb can find
The arrow to withdraw.

3 The chased deer hath soil
To cool him in his heat;
The ass, after his weary toil.
In stable is up set.

4 The coney hath its cave,
The little bird his nest,
From heat and cold themselves to save
At all times as they list.

5 The owl, with feeble sight,
Lies lurking in the leaves,
The sparrow in the frosty night
May shroud her in the eaves.

6 But woe to me, alas!
In sun nor yet in shade,
I cannot find a resting-place,
My burden to unlade.

7 But day by day still bears
The burden on my back,
With weeping eyes and wat'ry tears,
To hold my hope aback.

8 All things I see have place
Wherein they bow or bend,
Save this, alas! my woful case,
Which nowhere findeth end.

FROM 'THE PHOENIX' NEST.'

O Night, O jealous Night, repugnant to my pleasure, O Night so long desired, yet cross to my content, There's none but only thou can guide me to my treasure, Yet none but only thou that hindereth my intent.

Sweet Night, withhold thy beams, withhold them till to-morrow, Whose joy, in lack so long, a hell of torment breeds, Sweet Night, sweet gentle Night, do not prolong my sorrow, Desire is guide to me, and love no loadstar needs.

Let sailors gaze on stars and moon so freshly shining, Let them that miss the way be guided by the light, I know my lady's bower, there needs no more divining, Affection sees in dark, and love hath eyes by night.

Dame Cynthia, couch a while; hold in thy horns for shining, And glad not low'ring Night with thy too glorious rays; But be she dim and dark, tempestuous and repining, That in her spite my sport may work thy endless praise.

And when my will is done, then, Cynthia, shine, good lady, All other nights and days in honour of that night, That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and shady, Wherein my love had eyes that lighted my delight.

FROM THE SAME.

1 The gentle season of the year
Hath made my blooming branch appear,
And beautified the land with flowers;
The air doth savour with delight,
The heavens do smile to see the sight,
And yet mine eyes augment their showers.

2 The meads are mantled all with green,
The trembling leaves have clothed the treen,
The birds with feathers new do sing;
But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack,
Attire myself in mourning black,
Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring.

3 And as you see the scarlet rose
In his sweet prime his buds disclose,
Whose hue is with the sun revived;
So, in the April of mine age,
My lively colours do assuage,
Because my sunshine is deprived.

4 My heart, that wonted was of yore,
Light as the winds, abroad to soar
Amongst the buds, when beauty springs,
Now only hovers over you,
As doth the bird that's taken new,
And mourns when all her neighbours sings.

5 When every man is bent to sport,
Then, pensive, I alone resort
Into some solitary walk,
As doth the doleful turtle-dove,
Who, having lost her faithful love,
Sits mourning on some wither'd stalk.

6 There to myself I do recount
How far my woes my joys surmount,
How love requiteth me with hate,
How all my pleasures end in pain,
How hate doth say my hope is vain,
How fortune frowns upon my state.

7 And in this mood, charged with despair,
With vapour'd sighs I dim the air,
And to the gods make this request,
That by the ending of my life,
I may have truce with this strange strife,
And bring my soul to better rest.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

1 Go, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand,
Fear not to touch the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant;
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

2 Go tell the Court it glows,
And shines like rotten wood;
Go, tell the Church it shows
What's good and doth no good;
If Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

3 Tell potentates they live,
Acting by others' actions,
Not loved, unless they give,
Not strong, but by their factions;
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

4 Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate;
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

5 Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending;
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

6 Tell Zeal it lacks devotion,
Tell Love it is but lust,
Tell Time it is but motion,
Tell Flesh it is but dust;
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

7 Tell Age it daily wasteth,
Tell Honour how it alters,
Tell Beauty how she blasteth,
Tell Favour how she falters;
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

8 Tell Wit how much it wrangles
In treble points of niceness,
Tell Wisdom she entangles
Herself in overwiseness;
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

9 Tell Physic of her boldness,
Tell Skill it is pretension,
Tell Charity of coldness,
Tell Law it is contention;
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

10 Tell Fortune of her blindness,
Tell Nature of decay,
Tell Friendship of unkindness,
Tell Justice of delay;
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

11 Tell Arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming,
Tell Schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming;
If Arts and Schools reply,
Give Arts and Schools the lie.

12 Tell Faith it's fled the city,
Tell how the country erreth,
Tell Manhood shakes off pity,
Tell Virtue least preferreth;
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

13 And when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing,
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing;
Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the Soul can kill.

* * * * *

SECOND PERIOD.

FROM SPENSER TO DRYDEN.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

This remarkable man, from his intimate connexion with Fletcher, is better known as a dramatist than as a poet. He was the son of Judge Beaumont, and descended from an ancient family, which was settled at Grace Dieu in Leicestershire. He was born in 1585-86, and educated at Cambridge. Thence he passed to study in the Inner Temple, but seems to have preferred poetry and the drama to law. He was married to the daughter of Sir Henry Isley of Kent, who bore him two daughters. He died in his 30th year, and was buried March 9, 1615-16, in St Benedict's Chapel, Westminster Abbey. More of his connexion with Fletcher afterwards.

After his death, his brother published a collection of his miscellaneous pieces. We extract a few, of no little merit. His verses to Ben Jonson, written before their author came to London, and first appended to a play entitled 'Nice Valour,' are picturesque and interesting, as illustrating the period.

TO BEN JONSON.

The sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring To absent friends, because the selfsame thing They know, they see, however absent) is Here, our best haymaker (forgive me this, It is our country's style) in this warm shine I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid wine. Oh, we have water mix'd with claret lees, Brink apt to bring in drier heresies Than beer, good only for the sonnet's strain, With fustian metaphors to stuff the brain, So mix'd, that, given to the thirstiest one, 'Twill not prove alms, unless he have the stone. I think, with one draught man's invention fades: Two cups had quite spoil'd Homer's Iliades. 'Tis liquor that will find out Sutcliff's wit, Lie where he will, and make him write worse yet; Fill'd with such moisture in most grievous qualms, Did Robert Wisdom write his singing psalms; And so must I do this: And yet I think It is a potion sent us down to drink, By special Providence, keeps us from fights, Makes us not laugh when we make legs to knights. 'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states, A medicine to obey our magistrates: For we do live more free than you; no hate, No envy at one another's happy state, Moves us; we are all equal: every whit Of land that God gives men here is their wit, If we consider fully, for our best And gravest men will with his main house-jest Scarce please you; we want subtilty to do The city tricks, lie, hate, and flatter too: Here are none that can bear a painted show, Strike when you wink, and then lament the blow; Who, like mills, set the right way for to grind, Can make their gains alike with every wind; Only some fellows with the subtlest pate, Amongst us, may perchance equivocate At selling of a horse, and that's the most. Methinks the little wit I had is lost Since I saw you; for wit is like a rest Held up at tennis, which men do the best, With the best gamesters: what things have we seen Done at the Mermaid; heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that every one from whence they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life: then when there had been thrown Wit able enough to justify the town For three days past; wit that might warrant be For the whole city to talk foolishly Till that were cancell'd; and when that was gone, We left an air behind us, which alone Was able to make the two next companies Eight witty; though but downright fools were wise. When I remember this, * * * I needs must cry I see my days of ballading grow nigh; I can already riddle, and can sing Catches, sell bargains, and I fear shall bring Myself to speak the hardest words I find Over as oft as any with one wind, That takes no medicines, but thought of thee Makes me remember all these things to be The wit of our young men, fellows that show No part of good, yet utter all they know, Who, like trees of the garden, have growing souls. Only strong Destiny, which all controls, I hope hath left a better fate in store For me, thy friend, than to live ever poor. Banish'd unto this home: Fate once again Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and plain The way of knowledge for me; and then I, Who have no good but in thy company, Protest it will my greatest comfort be, To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee, Ben; when these scenes are perfect, we'll taste wine; I'll drink thy muse's health, thou shalt quaff mine.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER.

Mortality, behold and fear, What a charge of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heap of stones: Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands; Where, from their pulpits seal'd with dust, They preach--in greatness is no trust. Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royal'st seed, That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried, Though gods they were, as men they died: Here are wands, ignoble things, Dropp'd from the ruin'd sides of kings. Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

AN EPITAPH.

Here she lies, whose spotless fame Invites a stone to learn her name: The rigid Spartan that denied An epitaph to all that died, Unless for war, in charity Would here vouchsafe an elegy. She died a wife, but yet her mind, Beyond virginity refined, From lawless fire remain'd as free As now from heat her ashes be: Keep well this pawn, thou marble chest; Till it be call'd for, let it rest; For while this jewel here is set, The grave is like a cabinet.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

The verses attributed to this illustrious man are few, and the authenticity of some of them is doubtful. No one, however, who has studied his career, or read his 'History of the World,' can deny him the title of a great poet.

We cannot be expected, in a work of the present kind, to enlarge on a career so well known as that of Sir Walter Kaleigh. He was born in 1552, at Hayes Farm, in Devonshire, and descended from an old family there. He went early to Oxford, but finding its pursuits too tame for his active and enterprising spirit, he left it, and became a soldier at seventeen. For six years he fought on the Protestant side in France, besides serving a campaign in the Netherlands. In 1579, he went a voyage, which proved disastrous, to Newfoundland, in company with his half-brother, Sir Humphrey Gilbert. There can be no doubt that this early apprenticeship to war and navigation was of material service to the future explorer and historian. In 1580, he fought in Ireland against the Earl of Desmond, who had raised a rebellion there, and on one occasion is said to have defended a ford of Shannon against a whole band of wild Irish rebels, till the stream ran purple with their blood and his own. With the Lord- Deputy, Lord Grey de Wilton, he got into a dispute, and to settle it came over to England. Here high favour awaited him. His handsome appearance, his graceful address, his ready wit and chivalric courtesy, dashed with a fine poetic enthusiasm, (see them admirably pictured in 'Kenilworth,') combined to exalt him in the estimation of Queen Elizabeth. On one occasion he flung his rich plush cloak over a miry part of the way, that she might pass on unsoiled. By this delicate piece of enacted flattery he 'spoiled a cloak and made a fortune.' The Queen sent him, along with some other courtiers, to attend the Duke of Anjou, who had in vain solicited her hand, back to the Netherlands. In 1584, he fitted two ships, and sent them out for the discovery and settlement of those parts of North America not already appropriated by Christian states, and the next year there followed a fleet of seven ships under the command of Sir Richard Grenville, Raleigh's kinsman. The attempt to colonise America at that time failed, but two important things were transplanted through means of the expedition from Virginia to Britain, namely, tobacco and the potato, --the former of which has ever since been offered up in smoky sacrifice to Raleigh's memory throughout the whole world, and the latter of which has become the most valuable of all our vegetable esculents. Raleigh first planted the potato in Ireland, a country of which it has long been the principal food. A ludicrous story is told about this. It is said that he had invited a number of his neighbours to an entertainment, in which the new root was to form a prominent part, but when the feast began Raleigh found, to his horror, that the servants had boiled the plums, a most unsavoury mess, and immediately, we suppose, 'tabulae solvuntur risu.' In 1584 the Queen had knighted him, and shortly after she granted him certain lucrative monopolies, and an estate in Ireland, in addition to one he had possessed for some years. In 1588, he was of material service as one of Her Majesty's Council of War, formed to resist the Spanish Armada, and as one of the volunteers who joined the English fleet with ships of their own. Next year he accompanied a number of his countrymen in an expedition, which had it in view to restore Don Antonio to the throne of Portugal, of which the Spaniards had deprived him. On his return he lost caste considerably, both with the Queen and country, by taking bribes, and otherwise abusing the influence he had acquired at Court. Yet, about this time, his active mind was projecting what he called an 'Office of Address,'--a plan for facilitating the designs of literary and scientific men, promoting intercourse between them, gaining, in short, all those objects which are now secured by our literary associations and philosophical societies. Raleigh was eminently a man before his age, but, alas! his age was too far behind him.

While visiting Ireland, after his expedition to Portugal, he contracted an intimacy with Spenser. (See our 'Life of Spenser,' vol. ii.) In 1592, he commanded a large naval expedition, destined to attack Panama and intercept the Spanish Plate-fleet, but was recalled by the Queen, not, however, till he had seized on an important prize, and, in common parlance, had 'feathered his nest.' On his return he excited Her Majesty's wrath, by an intrigue with Elizabeth Throgmorton, one of the maids of honour, and, although Raleigh afterwards married her, the Queen imprisoned both the offending parties for some months in the Tower. Spenser is believed to allude to this in the 4th Book of his great poem. (See vol. in. of our edition, p. 88.) Even after he was released from the Tower, Raleigh had to leave the Court in disgrace; instead, however, of wasting time in vain regrets, he undertook, at his own expense, an expedition against Guiana, where he captured the city of San Joseph, and which he occupied in the Queen's name. After his return he published an account of his expedition, more distinguished by glowing eloquence than by rigid regard to truth. In 1596, having in some measure regained the Queen's favour, he was appointed to a command in the expedition against Cadiz, under the Earl of Essex. In this, as well as in the expedition against the Spanish Plate-fleet the next year, he won laurels, but was unfortunate enough to excite the jealousy of his Commander-in-Chief. When the favourite got into trouble, Raleigh eagerly joined in the hunt, wrote a letter to Cecil urging him to the destruction of Essex, and witnessed his execution from a window in the Armoury. This is undoubtedly a deep blot on the escutcheon of our hero.

Cecil had been glad of Raleigh's aid in ruining Essex, but he bore him no good-will otherwise, and is said to have poisoned James, who now succeeded to the English throne, against him. Assuredly the new King was no friend of Raleigh's. Stimulated by Cecil, after first depriving him of his office of Captain of the Guards, he brought him to trial for high treason. He was accused of conspiring to establish Popery, to dethrone the King, and to put the crown on the head of Arabella Stewart. Sir Edward Coke, the Attorney-General, led the accusation, and disgraced himself by heaping on Raleigh's head every foul epithet, calling him 'viper,' 'damnable atheist,' 'monster,' 'traitor,' 'spider of hell,' &c., and by his violence, although to his own surprise, as he never expected to gain his cause in full, he browbeat the jury to bring in a verdict of high treason.

Raleigh's defence was a masterpiece of temper, dignity, strength of reasoning, and eloquence, and his enemies were ashamed of the decision to which they had driven the jury. He was therefore reprieved, and committed to the Tower, where his wife was allowed to bear him company, and where his youngest son was born. His estates were, in general, preserved to him, but Carr, the infamous minion of the King, under some pretext of a flaw in the conveyance of it by Raleigh to his son, seized upon his manor of Sherborne. In the Tower he continued for twelve years. These years his industry and genius rendered the happiest probably of his life. Immured in the

'towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
By many a foul and midnight murder fed,'

his winged soul soared away, like the dove of the Deluge, over the wild ocean of the past. The Tower confined his body, but this great globe the world seemed too little for the sweep of his spirit. To fill up the vast void which a long imprisonment created around him, and to shew that his powers retained all their elasticity, he projected a work on the largest scale, and with the noblest purpose--'The History of the World.' In this undertaking he found literary men ready to lend him their aid. A hundred hands were generously stretched out to gather materials, and to bring them to the captive in the Tower. Cart-loads of books were sent. One Burrell, formerly his chaplain, assisted him in much of the critical and chronological drudgery. Rugged Ben Jonson sent in a piece of rugged writing on the Punic War, which Raleigh polished and set as a carved stone in his magnificent temple. Some have, on this account, sought to detract from the merit of the author. As if ever an architect could rear a building without hodmen! But in Raleigh's case the hodmen were Titans. 'The best wits in England assisted him in his undertaking;' and what a compliment was this to the strength and stature of the master-builder!

This great work was never finished. The part completed comprehended only the period from the Creation to the Downfall of the Macedonian Empire --one hundred and seventy years before Christ. He tarries too long amidst the misty and mythical ages which precede the dawn of history; his speculations on the site of the original Paradise, on the Flood, &c., are more ingenious than instructive; but his descriptions of the Greek battles--his account of the rise of Rome--the extensive erudition, on all subjects displayed in the book--the many acute, profound, and eloquently-expressed observations which are sprinkled throughout--and the style, massive, dignified, rich, and less involved in structure than that of almost any of his contemporaries--shall always rank it amongst the great literary treasures of the language. It was published in 1614. Besides it, Raleigh was the author of various works, all full of sagacious thought and brilliant imagery, such as 'The Advice to a Son on the Choice of a Wife,' 'The Sceptic,' 'Maxims of State,' &c. At last he was released by the advance of a large sum of money to Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, James's favourite; and, to retrieve his fortunes, projected another expedition to America. James granted him a patent, under the Great Seal, for making a settlement in Guiana, but ungenerously did not grant him a pardon for the sentence which had been passed on him for treason. He set sail, 1617, in a ship built by himself, called the _Destiny_, with eleven other vessels. Having reached the Orinoco, he despatched a portion of his forces to attack the new Spanish settlement of St Thomas. This was captured, with the loss of Raleigh's eldest son. The expected plunder, however, proved of little value; and Sir Walter having in vain attempted to induce his captains to attack other settlements of the Spaniards, was compelled to return home--his golden dreams dissolved, and his prophetic soul forewarning him of the doom that awaited him on his native shores. In July 1618, he landed at Plymouth; 'whence,' says Howell, in his 'Familiar Letters,' 'he thought to make an escape, and some say he tampered with his body by physic to make him look sickly, that he might be the more pitied, and permitted to lie in his own house.' James was at this time seeking the hand of the Infanta for his son Charles, and was naturally disposed to side with the Spanish cause. He was, besides, stirred up by the Spanish ambassador, Count Gondomar, who sent to desire an audience with His Majesty, and said, that he had only one word to say to him. 'The King wondered what could be delivered in one word, whereupon, when he came before him, he said only, "Pirates! pirates! pirates!" and so departed.'

Raleigh consequently was arrested and sent back to his old lodgings in the Tower. He was not tried, as might have been expected, for the new offence of waging war against a power then at amity with England, but James, with consummate meanness and cruelty, determined to revive his former sentence. He was brought before the King's Bench, where his old enemy, Sir Edward Coke, now sat as Chief Justice, and officially condemned him to death. His language, however, was considerably modified to the prisoner. He said, 'I know you have been valiant and wise, and I doubt not but you retain both these virtues, for now you shall have occasion to use them. Your faith hath heretofore been questioned, but I am resolved you are a good Christian; for your book, which is an admirable work, doth testify as much. I would give you counsel, but I know you can apply unto yourself far better than I can give you. Yet will I (with the good neighbour in the Gospel, who, finding one in the way wounded and distressed, poured oil into his wounds and refreshed him) give unto you the oil of comfort, though, in respect that I am a minister of the law, mixed with vinegar.' Such was Coke's comfort to the brave and gifted man who stood untrembling before his bar.

On the 26th of October 1618, the day after his condemnation, Raleigh was beheaded. He met his fate with dignity and composure. Having addressed the multitude in vindication of his conduct, he took up the axe, and said to the sheriff, 'This is a sharp medicine, but a sound cure for all diseases.' He told the executioner that he would give the signal by lifting up his hand, and 'then,' he said, 'fear not, but strike home.' He next laid himself down, but was asked by the executioner to alter the position of the head. 'So the heart be right,' he replied, 'it is no matter which way the head lies.' The headsman became uncertain and tremulous when the signal was given, whereupon Ealeigh exclaimed, 'Why dost thou not strike? Strike, man!' and by two blows that gallant, witty, and richly-stored head was severed from the body. He was in his sixty-fifth year. He had the night before composed the following verse:--

Even such is Time, that takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wander'd all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days.'